“No” is the feminine of “Yes!”
Hungarian Proverb.
Bad as the weather is,--and certainly even in Ireland a more drenching,
driving-down, pouring rain never fell,--we must ask of our readers to
follow Cashel, who at a slapping gallop rode on, over grass and tillage,
now careering lightly over the smooth sward, now sweltering along
heavily through deep ground, regardless of the pelting storm, and
scarcely noticing the strong fences which at every instant tried the
stride and strength of his noble horse.
If his speed was headlong, his seat was easy, and his hand as steady
as if lounging along some public promenade; his features, however,
were flushed, partly from the beating rain, but more from a feverish
excitement that showed itself in his flashing eye and closely compressed
lip. More than once, in crossing a difficult leap, his horse nearly
fell, and although half on the ground, and only recovering by a
scramble, he seemed not to heed the accident. At last he arrived at the
tall oak paling which fenced the grounds of the cottage, and where
it was his wont to halt and fasten his horse. Now, however, he rode
fiercely at it, clearing the high leap with a tremendous spring, and
alighting on the trimly kept grass-plat before the door.
A slight faint shriek was heard as the horse dashed past the window,
and, pale with terror, Mary Leicester stood in the porch.
Cashel had meanwhile dismounted, and given his horse to the old
gardener.
“Not hurt, Mr. Cashel?” said she, trying to seem composed, while she
trembled in every limb.
“Not in the least. I never intended to have alarmed you, however.”
“Then it was no runaway?” said she, essaying a smile.
“I 'm ashamed to say I have not that excuse for so rudely trampling over
your neat sward. Will Mr. Corrigan forgive me?”
“Of course he will, if he even ever knows that he has anything to
forgive; but it so happens that he has gone into the village to-day,--an
excursion he has not made for nigh a year. He wished to consult our
friend the doctor on some matter of importance, and I half suspect he
may have stayed to share his dinner.”
As Miss Leicester continued to make this explanation, they had reached
the drawing-room, which, to Cashel's amazement, exhibited tokens of
intended departure. Patches here and there on the walls showed where
pictures had stood. The bookshelves were empty, the tables displayed
none of those little trifling objects which denote daily life and its
occupations, and his eye wandered over the sad-looking scene till it
came back to her, as she stood reading his glances, and seeming to
re-echo the sentiment they conveyed. “All this would seem to speak of
leave-taking,” said Cashel, in a voice that agitation made thick and
guttural.
“It is so,” said she, with a sigh; “we are going away.”
“Going away!” Simple as the words are, we have no sadder sounds in our
language; they have the sorrowful cadence that bespeaks desertion; they
ring through the heart like a knell over long-past happiness; they are
the requiem over “friends no more,” and of times that never can come
back again.
“Going away!” How dreary does it sound,--as if life had no fixed
destination in future, but that we were to drift over its bleak ocean,
the “waifs” of what we once had been!
“Going away!” cried Cashel. “But surely you have not heard--” He stopped
himself; another word, and his secret had been revealed,--the secret he
had so imperatively enjoined Tiernay to keep; for it was his intention
to have left Ireland forever ere Mr. Corrigan should have learned the
debt of gratitude he owed him. It is true, indeed, that one night of
sleepless reflection had suggested another counsel, but had altered not
his desire that the mystery should be preserved.
He was confused, therefore, at the peril he had so narrowly escaped,
and for a moment was silent; at length he resumed, in a tone of assumed
ease,--
“'Going away!' sounds to one like me, who have lived a life of
wandering, so like pleasure that I always associate it with new scenes
of enjoyment; I think all the sorrow is reserved for those who remain
behind,--the deserted.”
“So it may,” said she, “with those who, like yourself, have roamed
the world in the excitement of ardent youth, glorying in enterprise,
thirsting for adventure; but there are others--ourselves, for
instance--whose humble fortunes have linked them with one class of
scenes and objects till they have grown part of our very natures; so
that we only know the world as it is associated with things familiar
to daily use. There are, doubtless, plants of more gorgeous foliage and
fairer flowers in other countries, but _we_ shall never learn to look at
them as we do upon these that speak to us of home, of spring and summer,
when they gladdened _us_, of autumn and winter, when our culture cared
for _them_. There are sunsets more rich and glowing, but if we see them,
it will be to think of that sinking orb which sent its last rays over
that wide river, and lit up in a golden glory this little chamber. There
's not a charm the fairest clime can own but will have its highest merit
in recalling some humble scene that tells of 'home.'”
“I never could leave a spot so dear to me as this were!” cried Cashel,
who watched with ecstasy the impassioned beauty of her features.
“Do not say _that_,” said she, seriously. “We can all of us do what we
ought, however it may try our courage. Yes, I say courage,” said she,
smiling, “since I fancy it is a property you have a due respect for. If
we leave scenes so dear to us as these, it is because we feel it a
duty; and a duty fulfilled is a buckler against most sorrows. But we
are wandering into a very sad theme,--at least, to judge from your grave
looks. What news have you of your gay company?”
“I see but little of them,” said Cashel, abruptly.
“What a strange host!--and how do they amuse themselves?”
“As they fancy, I believe. I only know I never interfere with them,
and they are kind enough to reciprocate the civility; and so we get on
admirably.”
“I must say this scarcely speaks well for either party,” said she,
laughing.
“I fear not; but it is true, notwithstanding.”
“You have a most accomplished friend, I believe?”
“Linton. Do you mean Linton?”
“Yes. He must be an excellent counsellor in all difficulties.”
Cashel did not look as if he concurred in the sentiment, but he said
nothing; and Mary, half fearing that she had unwittingly given pain, was
silent also. She was the first to speak.
“Do you know, Mr. Cashel, how I passed the morning? You 'd scarcely
guess. It was in writing a long letter,--so long, indeed, that I began
to fear, like many efforts of over-zeal, it might defeat itself, and
never get read; and that letter was--to _you_.”
“To _me!_ where is it, then?”
“There!” said she, pointing to some charred leaves beneath the grate. “I
see your curiosity, and I have no pretension to trifle with it. But
last night, late, papa dictated to me a long sermon on your account,
premising that the impertinence was from one you should never see again,
and one who, however indiscreet in his friendship, was assuredly sincere
in it. Were the document in existence, I should probably not have to
utter so many apologies; for, on the whole, it was very flattering to
you.”
“And why is it not so?” cried Cashel, eagerly.
“I cannot tell you why.”
“Do you mean that you do not wish to tell, or do not know the reason?”
“I do not know the reason,” said she, firmly. “I was ill, slightly ill,
this morning, and could not breakfast with papa. It was late when I
arose, and he was on the very brink of starting for Dunkeeran; he seemed
agitated and excited, and, after a few words of inquiry about my health,
he said,--
“'That letter, Mary, have you written it? Well, burn it Throw it into
the fire at once.'
“I did so; but I cannot conceal from you the deep interest he has taken
in your fortunes,--a feeling which the dread of offending has possibly
sentenced him to cherish in secret. At least, so I read his change of
intention.”
“I had hoped he knew me better,” said Cashel, in whose voice a feeling
of disappointment might be traced. “It is the misfortune of men like
myself to make the most unfavorable impression, where alone they are
anxious for the opposite. Now, it may seem very uncourteous, but I am
less than indifferent what the fair company yonder think of me; and yet
I would give much to stand high in Mr. Corrigan's esteem.”
“And you do so, believe me,” cried she, her eagerness moved by the
evident despondency of his manner; “he speaks of you with all the
interest of a father.”
“Do not say so,” cried Cashel, in a voice tremulous with anxiety;
“do not say so, if you mean not to encourage hopes I scarcely dare to
cherish.”
His look and manner, even more than his words, startled her, and she
stared at him, uncertain what reply to make.
“I never knew a father, nor have I ever tasted a mother's affection. I
have been one of whom fortune makes a plaything, as if to show how much
worldly prosperity can consort with a desolate condition, and a heart
for which none have sympathy. I had hoped, however, to attach others to
me. I had joined in pursuits that were not mine, to endeavor to render
myself companionable. I fell in with habits that were uncongenial, and
tastes that I ever disliked; but without success. I might be 'the dupe.'
but never 'the friend.' I could have borne much--I did bear much--to win
something that resembled cordiality and esteem; but all in vain! When I
lived the wild life of a Columbian sailor, I deemed that such men as I
now associate with must be the very types of chivalry, and I longed to
be of them, and among them. Still, the reproach lies not at their door.
_They_ stepped not out of their sphere to act a part,--_I_ did; mine was
all the sycophancy of imitation. The miserable cant of fashion formed
all my code. But for this, I might have won good men's esteem; but for
this, I might have learned what duties attach to fortune and station
such as mine; and now I see the only one, from whom I hoped to gain the
knowledge, about to leave me!”
“This despondency is ill-judging and unfair,” said Mary, in a kind tone.
“You did, perhaps, choose your friends unwisely, but you judge them
unjustly too. _They_ never dreamed of friendship in their intercourse
with you; _they_ only thought of that companionship which men of the
same age and fortune expect to meet in each other. If less worldly wise,
or more generous than themselves, they deemed that they once had paid
for their skill and cleverness; and so should _you_. Remember, that you
put a value upon their intimacy which it never laid claim to, and that
_they_ were less false than were _you_ self-deceived.”
“Be it so,” said Cashel, hastily. “I care little where the delusion
began. I meant honestly, and if they played not on the square with me,
the fault be theirs; but that is not what I would speak of, nor what
brought me here to-day. I came to throw my last stake for happiness.”
He paused, and took her hand in his. “I came,” said he,--and his lips
trembled as he spoke,--“I came to ask you to be my wife!”
Mary withdrew her hand, which he had scarcely dared to press, and leaned
upon the chimney-piece without speaking. It rarely happens that such
an announcement is made to a young lady quite unexpectedly; such was,
however, the case here: for nothing was she less prepared! Cashel, it
is true, had long ceased to be indifferent to her; the evenings of his
visits at the cottage were sure to be her very happiest; his absences
made dreary blanks. The inartificial traits of his character had at
first inspired interest; his generous nature, and his manly leaning
to right, had created esteem of him. There were passages of romantic
interest in his former life which seemed so well to suit his bold and
dashing independence; and there was also an implicit deference, an
almost humility, in the obedience he tendered to her grandfather which
spoke much for one whom sudden wealth and prosperity might be supposed
to have corrupted. Yet, all this while, had she never thought of what
impression she herself was making.
“I have but one duty,” said she at last, in a faint whisper.
[Illustration: 188]
“Might I not share it with you, Mary?” said he, again taking her hand
between his own; “you would not grudge me some part of his affection?”
“Who crossed the window there?” cried she, starting; “did you not see a
figure pass?”
“No, I saw no one,--I thought of none, save you.”
“I am too much frightened to speak. I saw someone stop before the window
and make a gesture, as if threatening,--I saw it in the glass.”
Cashel immediately hurried from the room, and, passing out, searched
through the shrubberies on either side of the cottage, but without
success. On examining closely, however, he could detect the trace
of recent footsteps on the wet grass, but lost the direction on the
gravel-walk; and it was in a frame of mind far from tranquil that be
reentered the room.
“You saw no one?” said she, eagerly.
“Not one.”
“Nor any appearance of footsteps?”
“Yes, I did, or fancied I did, detect such before the window; but why
should this alarm you, or turn your mind from what we spoke of? Let me
once more--”
“Not now--not now, I beg of you; a secret misgiving is over me, and I am
not generally a coward; but I have not the collectedness to speak to you
as I ought. I would not wish to be unkind, nor would I yet deceive you.
This cannot be.”
“Cannot be, Mary?”
“Do not ask me more now. You are too generous to give pain: spare me,
then, the suffering of inflicting it on you. I will tell you my reasons,
you shall own them to be sufficient.”
“When are we to meet again?” said Roland, as he moved slowly towards the
door.
“There it is again!” cried she, in a voice of actual terror; and
Cashel opened the window and sprang out; but even the slight delay in
unfastening the sash prevented his overtaking the intruder, whoever
he might be, while, in the abundance of evergreens about, search was
certain to prove fruitless.
“Good-bye,” said she, endeavoring to smile; “you are too proud and high
of spirit, if I read you aright, to return to a theme like this.”
“I am humble enough to sue it out,--a very suppliant,” said he,
passionately.
“I thought otherwise of you,” said she, affecting a look of
disappointment.
“Think of me how you will, so that you know I love you,” cried he,
pressing his lips to her hand; and then, half-maddened by the conflict
in his mind, he hastened out, and, mounting his horse, rode off, not,
indeed, at the mad speed of his coming, but slowly, and with bent-down
head.
Let a man be ever so little of a coxcomb, the chances are that he will
always explain a refusal of this kind on any ground rather than upon
that of his own unworthiness. It is either a case “of pre-engaged
affection” or some secret influence on the score of family and fortune;
and even this sophistry lends its balm to wounded self-love. Cashel,
unhappily for his peace of mind, had not studied in this school, and
went his way in deep despondency. Like many men who indulge but seldom
in self-examination, he never knew how much his affections were involved
till his proffer of them was refused. Now, for the first time, he
felt that; now recognized what store he placed on her esteem, and how
naturally he had turned from the wearisome dissipations of his own house
to the cheerful happiness of “the cottage.” Neither could he divest
himself of the thought that had Mary known him in his early and his only
true character, she might not have refused him, and that he owed his
failure to that mongrel thing which wealth had made him.
“I never was intended for this kind of life,” thought he. “I am driven
to absurdities and extravagances to give it any character of interest in
my eyes, and then I feel ashamed of such triviality. To live among the
rich, a man should be born among them,--should have the habits, the
tastes, and the traditions. These are to be imbibed from infancy, but
not acquired in manhood,--at least, I will not begin the study.”
He turned homeward, still slowly. The bell was ringing which called the
guests to dress for dinner, as he reached a large open lawn before the
house, and for a moment he halted, muttering to himself, “How would it
be, now, were I to turn my horse's head, and never re-enter that house?
How many are there, of all my 'dear friends,' who would ever ask what
befell me?”
Arrived at the door, he passed upstairs to his dressing-room, upon
a table of which he perceived a very small note, sealed with Lady
Kilgoff's initials. It was written in pencil, and merely contained one
line: “Come over to me, before dinner, for one minute.--L. K.”
He had not seen her since the day before, when he had in vain sought
to overtake her in the wood; and her absence from the dinner-table
had seemed to him in pique at his breach of engagement. Was this an
endeavor, then, to revive that strange relationship between them, which
took every form save love-making, but was all the more dangerous on that
account? Or was it merely to take up some commonplace plan of amusement
and pleasure,--that mock importance given to trifles which as frequently
makes them cease to be trifles?
Half careless as to what the invitation portended, and still pondering
over his failure, he reached her door and knocked.
“Come in,” said she; and he entered.
Dressed for dinner with unusual taste and splendor, he had never seen
her look so beautiful. For some time back she had observed an
almost studied simplicity of dress, rarely wearing an ornament, and
distinguishing herself rather by a half Puritanism of style. The sudden
change to all the blaze of diamonds, and the softening influence of deep
folds of lace, gave a brilliancy to her appearance quite magicial; nor
was Cashel's breeding proof against a stare of amazement and admiration.
A deeper flush on her cheek acknowledged how she felt his confusion,
and, hastening to relieve it, she said,--
“I have but a moment to speak to you. It is almost seven o'clock. You
were at 'the cottage' to-day?”
“Yes,” said Roland, his cheek growing scarlet as he spoke.
“And, doubtless, your visit had some object of importance. Nay, no
confessions. This is not curiosity on my part, but to let you know that
you were followed. Scarcely had you left this, when Linton set out
also, making a circuit by the wood, but at a speed which must have soon
overtaken you. He returned some time before you, at the same speed, and
entered by the back gate of the stables. From this window I could see
him each time.”
“Indeed,” said Roland, remembering the figure Mary had seen before the
window.
“You know my opinion of this man already. He never moves without a plan;
and a plan, with him, is ever a treachery.”
“He avoids me strangely; we rarely meet now,--never by any chance alone.
And even before others there is a forced gayety in his manner that all
his artifice cannot pass off for real.”
“Have you thwarted him in anything?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Have you refused him any favor that he sought for?”
“Never.”
“Is he your debtor for what he ought, but never means, to pay?”
“Not even that. What I may have given him has been always without any
reserve or thought of restitution.”
“Are your affections directed towards the same object?”
As she said this, the ease in which she commenced gradually left her,
and her cheek grew flushed ere she finished.
“I cannot tell. There are no confidences between us; besides, a very
bankrupt in love could not envy my solvency. Mine is a heart that cannot
threaten dangerous rivalry!”
“You cannot be certain of that!” said she, as if thinking aloud.
Fortunately, Cashel did not hear the words, but stood in deep revery for
some seconds.
“There! the second bell has rung; I must leave you. My Lord comes down
to dinner to-day. It is by his orders that I am thus showily dressed.
Linton has been filling his mind with stories of some embassy he is to
have, and we are already rehearsing 'our excellencies!' I have but time
to say, Be on your guard; Linton is no common enemy, nor does it need an
injury to make him one.”
“It is very rude of me, I know, to interrupt so interesting a
_tête-à-tête_, but Mr. Cashel's cook has feelings also at stake.”
These words were spoken by Lord Kilgoff, who, in a tone of no small
irritation, now joined them.
“I was speaking of your mission, my Lord.”
“Which you forgot, of course, was not to be mentioned,--even to so
sincere a well-wisher as Mr. Cashel.”
“In any case, my Lord, it remains safe in my keeping.”
“Very possibly, sir; but it is a poor earnest Lady Kilgoff gives of her
fitness as the wife of a 'diplomatist.'”
Cashel gave his arm to Lady Kilgoff, without speaking, and sis Lordship
followed them slowly towards the dining-room. Linton stood at the door
as they entered, and his wan features grew flushed as the haughty beauty
moved past him with the very coldest of recognitions.
“What an admirable taste is your Lordship's!” said he to the old peer;
“Lady Kilgoff's diamonds are disposed with an elegance that bespeaks the
guiding skill of a consummate artist.”
“Ha! you perceive it, then!” said he, smiling. “I own to you, the
festooning the robe with bouquets of brilliants was a fancy of mine, and
has, I think, a very pretty effect.”
“Storr told me that he had not one person in his employment could equal
your Lordship in the harmonious arrangement of gems. He mentioned a
bracelet, if I remember aright, made from your own designs, as the most
beautifully chaste ornament he had ever seen.”
“You must pronounce for yourself, sir,” said the old lord, with a smile
of elated vanity; and so, taking Linton's arm, he approached where Lady
Kilgoff was seated in a group of ladies.
“Will you oblige me, madam,” said he, with a courteous bow, “by showing
Mr. Linton your ruby and opal bracelet, which I had the poor merit of
designing?”
“I am unfortunate enough not to have it here,” replied she, with a
confusion which made the blood mount to her temples.
“I am grieved, madam, it should not enjoy the honor of your preference,”
said Lord Kilgoff, with an air of pique. “Will you order your maid to
fetch it?”
“I 've not got it, my Lord,” said she, coloring still deeper.
“Not got it, madam! You do not mean to imply--”
“Only that it is slightly broken,--a few stones have fallen out, and I
have sent it to be repaired.”
“To be repaired, madam; and without my knowledge I To whom, pray?”
“That man in Dublin; I forget his name.”
“Your Ladyship means Leonard, I presume,” interposed Linton, with an air
of courtesy, while, plainer than any words, his glance said, “My revenge
is coming!”
“Leonard!” exclaimed Lord Kilgoff, with a look of horror. “Give
Leonard that bracelet! the mould of which I refused to the Princess of
Hohenhoffingen, and which I made Storr destroy in my own presence!”
“You perceive, my Lord,” cried Lady Janet, “her Ladyship is less
exclusive than you are.”
“And generous enough to admire what may belong to another,” added
Linton, but in a tone only audible by Lady Kilgoff.
“We have got a few minutes before dinner, madam. I must beg you will
employ them in writing to Mr. Leonard to return the bracelet at once.
Say it was a mistake on your part,--an inadvertence,--and done without
my knowledge. Caution the man, too, about appropriating any portion of
the design, and remind him that articles of _virtu_ are protected by the
Act of copyright.”
“We had better delay the postboy, my Lord,” said Linton; “he starts at
seven precisely.”
“Do so, sir.”
“Dinner!” cried the butler, flinging wide the folding-doors.
“Could we delay that pleasant summons a few minutes, Mr. Cashel?” said
Lord Kilgoff.
“It will not be necessary on my account, sir; I 'll write to-morrow.”
And this she said with an air of haughty defiance that never failed to
subdue the old peer's petulance; and then, accepting Cashel's arm, moved
on without a word.
“Where is it? that's the question!” whispered Mrs. White to Lady Janet.
“Take you two to one it's not at Leonard's,” said Frobisher.
“Give you an even fifty, Linton knows all about it,” replied Upton.
“And ten to two that he 'll never tell!” chimed in Miss Meek; and so
they took their places at the table.