Say what you will, good friend, I do persist,
I had him “covered” when you shook my wrist.
The Duel.
In a handsome drawing-room, where the light was judiciously tempered by
the slight folds of rose-colored curtains, while the air breathed the
faint delicious perfume of some hot-house flowers, sat Olivia Kennyfeck
alone. She was most simply but becomingly dressed, and in her hair, worn
in smooth bands on either cheek, a little sprig of Greek myrtle, with
its bright red berries, was interwoven, which served to show to even
greater advantage the delicate fairness of a skin tinged with the very
faintest blush. There was a soft pensive character in her beauty which
seemed to harmonize perfectly with the silent room and its scattered
objects of art. The very exclusion of all view appeared to add to the
effect; as though suggesting how much of in-door happiness was contained
within those four walls\ neither asking for, nor wanting, the “wide cold
world” without. She was reading--at least she held a book in her hand--a
gorgeously bound little volume it was--nor did the dark ribbon of velvet
fringed with gold that marked her place fail to contrast well with the
snowy whiteness of the wrist it fell upon.
Her attitude, as she lay, rather than sat, in a deep armchair, was
faultless in its grace; and even the tiny foot, which rested on a little
Blenheim spaniel as he lay sleeping on the hearth-rug, had a certain air
of homelike ease that made the scene a picture, and to a suggestive mind
might have given it a story. And yet, for all the sleepy softness of
those half-drooped lids, for all that voluptuous ease of every lineament
and limb, the heart within was watchful and waking. Not a sound upon the
stairs, not a voice, not a footstep, that did not make its pulses beat
faster and fuller.
Two o'clock struck, and the great bell rang out which called the guests
to luncheon, a meal at which Cashel never appeared; and now Olivia
listened to the sounds of merry laughter that floated along the
corridors, and faded away in the distance, as group after group passed
downstairs, and at last, all was silent again. Where was he? Why did he
not come? she asked herself again and again. Her mamma and sister
had purposely stayed away from luncheon to receive him; for so it was
arranged, that she herself should first see Cashel alone, and afterwards
be joined by the others--and yet he came not!
The half-hour chimed, and Olivia looked up at the French clock upon
the mantelpiece with amazement. Surely there had been more than thirty
minutes since she heard it last; and the little Cupid on the top, who,
with full-stretched bow and fixed eye, seemed bent on mischief--silly
fool! like herself, there was no mark to shoot at! She sighed; it was
not a deep sigh, nor a sad one; nor was it the wearisome expression of
listlessness; nor was it the tribute paid to some half-called up
memory. It was none of these; though perhaps each entered into it as an
ingredient. But what right have we to analyze its meaning, or ask how
much of hope or fear it contained?--what portion of regret for one she
was about to desert?--what shame for the faithlessness? Ay, what shame!
Coquetry is no virtue; but most certainly it is not the wholesale
corrupter some moralists would make it. Miss Olivia Kennyfeck had been
taught it from her earliest years,--from those pleasant days, when,
dressed like some fairy queen, she descended from the nursery to stand
beside pa's chair on company days, at dessert, and be stared at, and
kissed, and “dear-loved” by some scores of people, whose enthusiasm
for childish beauty had all the warmth that springs from turtle and
truffles, iced punch and Lafitte. She had been taught it by the French
governess, who told her to be _aimable_. The very dancing-master cried
out, “Grace,--more grace, if you please, Miss Olivia,” at every step of
her minuet; and the riding-master's eternal exhortation was, “Sit as if
the whole world was watching you, miss.”
These teachings go further and deeper into the heart than we suspect.
“The wish to please”--pure and amiable as the feeling can be--lies on
the frontier of a dangerous land,--the “wish to conquer.” That passion
once engendered in the heart, no room remains for any other.
To return to Miss Olivia Kennyfeck,--for most ungallantly we are
forgetting she is alone all this while. Her education had but one end
and object,--to obtain a good position by marriage. The precept had
been instilled into her mind in a thousand different ways, and not only
self-interest, but pride, emulation, and vanity had been enlisted in its
support. So constantly was the theme presented to her, such day-by-day
discussion of the prizes and blanks drawn by others in the wheel
connubial, that she really felt little or no interest in any other
topic.
And yet, with all that misdirection of mind, that perverse insistence on
wrong, there was still in her heart a void, a want, that neither vanity
nor selfishness could fill. It might be, perhaps, to be found out by
one who should make it the storehouse of high and generous impulses,
of ennobling duties and tender affections; or, just as likely, lie like
some fruitful but unknown tract,--barren, waste, and profitless!
Three o'clock came! And now the house resounded with the buzz of voices
and the hurried movement of feet. Carriages and horses, too, assembled
before the door, and all the pleasant bustle of those bent on pleasure
filled the air. Olivia arose, and, screened by the curtain, watched the
scene beneath. For the first time she perceived that Lady Kilgoff was in
a riding-dress. She stood in the midst of a group before the door, amid
which Olivia's eyes peered with restless activity.
No, Cashel was not there! She almost said the comforting words aloud,
but at the same instant a cry of, “Here he is,--here he comes!” broke
from those beneath, and every head was turned towards the road to the
stables, along which Cashel was seen cantering a snow-white Arab of
great beauty. As he came nearer it could be seen that he was seated on
a side-saddle, while he managed the well-trained creature with the most
graceful address.
“Are you quite certain I may venture, Mr. Cashel?” said Lady Kilgoff, as
he pulled up in front of her; “remember, that I am neither so fearless
nor so skilful as our fair queen beside me, who, I must own, is far more
worthy of 'Hassan Bey' than I am.”
“I'll pledge my life on his good conduct,” said Roland, springing from
his back; “I've ridden him for an hour, and he is gentleness itself.”
“He's over-trained for my fancy,” said Miss Meek. “He's like one of
the creatures you see in Franconi's, walking up a ladder to catch a
handkerchief.”
Lady Janet whispered something in her ear, at which she started and
smiled, but evidently in ignorance of its meaning.
“What is that very wicked thing that Lady Janet has just told you?” said
Lady Kilgoff, as she advanced to mount her horse.
“It was _à propos_ of the handkerchief. She said 'Probably you were
going to throw yours at Mr. Cashel,'--I'm sure I don't know why.”
Fortunately none but Lady Kilgoff and Cashel heard this speech, but both
blushed deeply.
While this was enacting below, Olivia, who marked every gesture and
every look eagerly, could not hear what passed. She could only see the
respectful attention bestowed by Cashel on every wish of his fair guest;
how, having seated her, he draped in graceful folds the long velvet
habit, in which, and with a white hat and drooping feather, she
resembled one of the court of Louis Quinze.
At last she turned her horse's head, and rode him slowly along before
the house, evidently timid and afraid of the high-mettled animal.
Cashel, however, walked at his head, and so they stood, while he
arranged the curb-chain, exactly beneath the window where Olivia was
standing.
She opened the sash noiselessly, and, bending down, listened.
“I assure you,” said Lady Kilgoff, “I 'll not continue my ride if you
don't come. I have no confidence in these fine gentlemen cavaliers; and
as for Miss Meek, she 'd risk her life to see me run away with.”
“I pledge myself to follow in ten minutes,--nay, in five, if possible. I
told Mr. Kennyfeck I should make my obeisances to the ladies to-day.”
“Would to-morrow not serve?” said she, smiling.
“I believe it might--but a promise! Besides, I have been sadly deficient
in attentions there.”
“Sir Harvey and his brother hussar have made the _amende_ for your
shortcomings, but go, make haste and overtake us. I see 'my Lord' trying
to understand Lady Janet, and I must not delay longer.”
“Ride slowly,” cried Roland, “and don't get run away with till I 'm of
the party.”
She nodded archly in reply to this speech, and joining the group, who
were all awaiting her, rode off, while Cashel entered the house, and
soon was heard ascending the stairs at a hurried pace.
Olivia could only close the window and resume her place, when a tap
was given at the door, and the same instant Cashel entered the room. He
stopped suddenly, and looked around, for at first he did not perceive
Olivia, who, deep in her book, affected not to hear the noise of his
approach.
The rich coronet of brown hair, on which an evening sun was throwing one
brilliant gleam, caught his eye, and he advanced near enough to see
and be struck by that graceful attitude of which we gave our reader a
glimpse at the opening of this chapter.
She was reading some old English ballad; and, as she closed the volume,
murmured, half aloud, the lines of the concluding verse:--
“And ye variété, bounde upon a carte, Was draggede to ye gallows high,
While ye knighte that stole ye ladye's hearte (And was not his ye
gravere parte!) Rode onte to see him die.”
“A sad moral indeed,” said Cashel, in a low, soft voice.
“Oh, dear! oh, Mr. Cashel!” cried she, starting, and letting fall the
book, “how you have terrified me!”
“Pray forgive me,” said he, drawing his chair near, “but when I entered
the room I saw no one. I had come thus far ere I discovered that I was
so fortunate.”
“Shall I ring for mamma and Cary? they are dressing, I know, but will be
quite annoyed if you go before they come down.”
“You must not inconvenience them on my account,” said Roland, eagerly.
“I'm certain,” added he, smiling, “you are not afraid to receive me
alone.”
She hung down her head, and partly averting it, murmured a scarcely
audible “No.”
Cashel, who had evidently never calculated on his careless remark being
taken thus seriously, looked silly and uncomfortable for a few seconds.
There is a terrible perversity sometimes in our natures; we are disposed
to laugh occasionally at times when nothing could be more ill-timed or
unsuitable; and so, at moments when we would give anything in the world
for some commonplace theme to hang phrases on, we cannot, for the life
of us, originate one.
“You've not ridden out, I think, since we came?” said Roland, at last,
but with an air of sudden despair at his own stupidity.
“No. We have driven out once or twice; but--but--”
“Pray finish,” said he, with a persuasive look as he spoke.
“I was going to say that your horses are so spirited, that I was really
afraid to trust myself, and the more so as Miss Meek is so wild and so
reckless.”
“Never think of riding with _her_, Let me be your _chaperon_,--shall we
say to-morrow? I 've got the gentlest creature that was ever mounted.”
“Oh, I know her; that sweet white Arab I saw the groom exercising
yesterday?”
“No; not she,” said Roland, blushing and confused, “a spotted barb,
fully as handsome--some say handsomer. Will you do me the favor to ride
her to-morrow, and, if she be fortunate enough to please you, to accept
her?”
Olivia hung down her head for a second, and a deep scarlet covered her
cheek, and rose even to her temples, and it was with a voice broken and
interrupted she said, “Oh, I cannot--I must not.” Then, turning on him a
look, where the tearful eyes, swimming in a softened lustre, conveyed a
whole story of deep suffering, she said rapidly, “You are too kind
and too good ever to give pain; you are too generous to believe others
capable of it; but were I to accept your beautiful gift--were I even to
ride out with you _alone_--there is nothing that would not be said of
me.”
It was Cashel's turn for a slight blush now; and, to do him justice, he
felt the sensation a most disagreeable one. It had not indeed occurred
to him to make the proposal as the young lady took it, but he was far
too long schooled in gallantry to undeceive her, and so he said, “I
really cannot see this in the light you do. It is a very natural wish on
my part, that I should show my guests whatever my poor grounds afford of
the picturesque; and remember, we are not friends of yesterday.” This he
said in his very kindest tone.
“I _do_ remember it,” said she, with a slow but most meaning sigh.
“That memory is, I trust, not so associated with sorrow,” added he,
leaning down, and speaking in a deep, earnest voice, “that you recall it
with a sigh?”
“Oh, no; but I was thinking--I must not say of what I was thinking.”
“Nay, but you must,” said he, gently, and drawing his chair closer.
“I dare not--I cannot--besides, you “--and there was on the pronoun the
very softest of all-dwelling intonation--“_you_ might be angry--might
never forgive me.”
“Now I must insist on your telling me,” said Roland, passionately, “if
but to show how unfairly you judge me.”
“Well,” said she, drawing a long breath--“but shall I trust you?”
There was a most winning archness in the way she said this, that
thrilled through Cashel as he listened. “No, I will not,” added she,
suddenly, and as if carried away by a passionate impulse; “you are
too--”
“Too what?” cried he, impatiently.
“Too fickle,” said she; and then, as if terrified at her own boldness,
she added, in a tremulous voice, “Oh, do forgive me!”
“There is really nothing to forgive,” said Roland, “unless you persist
in keeping from me an avowal that I almost fancy I have a right to ask
for. And now, of what were you thinking?”
“I 'll tell you,” said she, in a low, earnest accent, “though it may
lose me your esteem. I was thinking”--her voice here fell so low that
Cashel, to hear her words, was obliged to draw his chair closer, and
bend down his head till it actually brushed against the leaves she wore
in her hair--“I was thinking that, when we knew you first, before you
had made acquaintance with others, when you sat and read to us, when we
walked and rode together,--when, in short, the day was one bright dream
of pleasure to us, who had never known a brother--”
Pardon us, dear reader, if, at so critical a moment, we occupy the
pause which here ensued--and there was a pause--by referring to our
Aunt Fanny, only premising that we do so advisedly. It was one of
that excellent lady's firmest convictions that every one in the world
required some discreet friend, who should, at eventful passages in life,
be ready to aid, by presence of mind, a wavering resolve, or confirm a
half-formed determination. Now, she had waited for two mortal hours on
that day for Cashel's coming, in a state of impatience little short of
fever. She opened and shut her window, looked up one avenue and down
another; she had watched on the landing, and stood sentinel on the
stairs; she had seen Mrs. Kenny-feck and her elder daughter pass
out into the garden, weary of long waiting; when, at last, she heard
Roland's hasty step as he traversed the hall, and, hurrying upstairs,
entered the drawing-room.
Drawn by an attraction there is no explaining, she left her room, and
took up her position in a small boudoir which adjoined the drawing-room.
Here she sat, persuading herself she was at her work; but, in reality,
in a state of suspense not very inferior to some prisoner while a jury
is deliberating on his fate.
The conversation, at first conducted in an ordinary tone, had gradually
subsided, till it dropped into the low, undistinguishable manner we
have mentioned.
[Illustration: 114]
Aunt Fanny's inventive mind had suggested every step of the interview.
She kept muttering to herself: “He is explaining himself--she is
incredulous--and he tries to reassure her--she believes that his heart
was given to another--he vows and swears it was always hers--she cannot
credit the happiness--she is too unworthy.”
It was just as our aunt had got thus far in her running commentary that
both voices ceased, and a stillness, unbroken by a murmur, succeeded.
“What could it mean?” was the sudden question that flashed across her
mind; and Napoleon's own dread anxiety, as he gazed on the wood, and
hesitated whether the dark masses emerging from the shade were his
own legions or the Prussians, was not much more intense than hers. At
last--we are sorry to record it--but, alas! Aunt Fanny was only mortal,
and an old maid to boot--she approached the door and peeped through the
keyhole. The sight which met her eyes needed no second glance; she saw
both heads bent down together, the dark waving hair of Cashel close
to the nut-brown silky braids of Olivia. Neither spoke. “It was then
concluded.”
This was the moment in which mutual avowals, meeting like two rivers,
form one broad and sweeping flood; it was the moment, too, in which,
according to her theory; a friend was all essential. According to her
phrase, the “nail should be clinched.”
Now, Aunt Fanny had been cruelly handled by the family for all the
blunders she had committed. Her skill had been impugned; her shrewdness
sneered at; her prognostications derided. Here was an opportunity to
refute all at once; and, in the language of the conqueror, “to cover
herself with glory.”
Gently opening the door she entered the room, and stealing tiptoe over,
till she stood behind their chairs, she placed, with all the solemnity
of an archbishop, a hand on either head, and, in a voice of touching
fervor, said,--
“Bless ye both, my darlings; may ye be as happy as--”
As what? The history is unable to record; for a shrill cry from her
niece, and an exclamation nearly as loud, and we fear far less polite,
from Roland, cut short the speech.
Shriek followed shriek from Olivia, who, partly from the shock, and
still more from shame, was thrown into an attack of hysterics.
“What the--” he was very nigh saying something else--“what have you
done, madam?” said Roland, in a state of mingled anger and terror.
“It's only your Aunt Fanny; it's me, my pet. Livy, darling, don't be
frightened; and here, too, is Mr. Cashel.”
In this, however, the good lady was mistaken; for Roland had hastened
upstairs to Mrs. Kennyfeck's room, which finding locked, he flew down
to the great drawing-room, thence to the library, and was making for the
garden, when he saw that lady and her daughter crossing the hall.
“I 'm afraid, madam,” said he, with all the composure he could summon,
“Miss Olivia Kennyfeck is not well; nothing serious, I trust; but a
sudden fright--a shock--Miss O'Hara somewhat imprudently--”
“Oh, Fanny again!” screamed Mrs. Kennyfeck; and without waiting for
more, rushed upstairs, followed by her daughter, while Roland, in a
state of mind we dare not dwell upon, hastened from the house, and
mounting his horse, galloped off into the wood.
There were times when Cashel would have laughed, and laughed heartily,
at the absurdity of this adventure. He would have even treasured up
the “tableau” as a thing for future ridicule among his friends; but his
better feelings, born of a more manly pride, rejected this now; he was
sorry, deeply, sincerely sorry that one with so much to fascinate and
charm about her, could lend herself to a mere game like this. “Where are
these deceptions to end?” said he, in passionate warmth. “Have candor,
good faith, and honesty fled the world? or, are they only to be found
among those whose vices make the foil to such humble virtues?”
Nor were these his only painful reflections. He was obliged to see
himself--the thing of all others he despised--“a dupe;” the mark for
every mean artifice and every ignoble scheme. The gambler, the flirt,
the adventurer in every walk, regarded him as a prey. Wealth had done
this for him--and it had done no more! None cared for him as a friend or
companion. Even as a lover, his addresses were heralded by his gold, not
enhanced by qualities of his own. What humiliation!
Mary Leicester alone seemed unimpressed by his great fortune, and
regardless of his wealth; she alone had never evinced towards him any
show of preference above others less endowed by Fate. Nay, he fancied
he could trace something of reserve in her manner whenever he stepped by
chance out of his character of careless, buoyant youth, and dwelt upon
the plans mere money accomplishes. In these she showed no interest,
and took no pleasure; while, to the adventures of his former life, she
listened with eager attention. It was easy to see she thought more of
the _caballero_ than the _millionnaire_.
What a happiness had it been to have befriended her grandfather and
herself; how different had been his reflections at this hour; what
lessons in the true wisdom of life might he not have learned from one
who had seen the world, not as the play-table for the rolling dice
of fortune, but as the battle-ground where good and evil strive for
victory, where a higher philosophy is taught than the lifeless, soulless
dictates of mere fashionable existence!