A SCARLET HOOD AMONG THE OLD TREES--THE MANOR OF MORLEY COURT--AND A
PEEP INTO AN ANTIQUE CHAMBER.
The path which O'Connor followed was one of those quiet and pleasant
by-roads which, in defiance of what are called improvements, are still
to be discovered throughout Ireland here and there, in some unsuspected
region, winding their green and sequestered ways through many a varied
scene of rural beauty; and, unless when explored by some chance
fisherman or tourist, unknown to all except the poor peasant to whose
simple conveniences they minister.
Low and uneven embankments, overgrown by a thousand kinds of weeds and
wild flowers and brushwood, marked the boundaries of this rustic
pathway, but in so friendly a sort, and with so little jealousy or
exclusion, that they seemed designed rather to lend a soft and
sheltered resting-place to the tired traveller than to check the
wayward excursions of the idle rambler into the merry fields and
woodlands through which it wound. On either side the tall, hoary trees,
like time-worn pillars, reared their grey, moss-grown trunks and
arching branches, now but thinly clothed with the discoloured foliage
of autumn, and casting their long shadows in the evening sun far over
the sloping and unequal sward. The scene, the hour, and the loneliness
of the place, would of themselves have been enough to induce a pensive
train of thought; but, beyond the silence and seclusion, and the
falling of the leaves in their eternal farewell, and all the other
touching signs of nature's beautiful decay, there were deep in
O'Connor's breast recollections and passions with which the scene
before him was more nearly associated, than with the ordinary
suggestions of fantastic melancholy.
At some distance from this road, and half hidden among the trees, there
stood an old and extensive building, chiefly of deep red brick,
presenting many and varied fronts and quaint gables, antique-fashioned
casements, and whole groups of fantastic chimneys, sending up their
thin curl of smoke into the still air, and glinting tall and red in the
declining sun; while the dusky hue of the old bricks was every here and
there concealed under rich mantles of dark, luxuriant ivy, which, in
some parts of the structure, had not only mounted to the summits of the
wall, but clambered, in rich profusion, over the steep roof, and even
to the very chimney tops. This antique building--rambling, massive, and
picturesque in no ordinary degree--might well have attracted the
observation of the passer-by, as it presented in succession, through
the irregular vistas of the rich old timber, now one front, now
another, alternately hidden and revealed as the point of observation
was removed. But the eyes of O'Connor sought this ancient mansion, and
dwelt upon its ever-varying aspects, as he pursued his way, with an
interest more deep and absorbing than that of mere curiosity or
admiration; and as he slowly followed the grass-grown road, a thousand
emotions and remembrances came crowding upon his mind, impetuous,
passionate, and wild, but all tinged with a melancholy which even the
strong and sanguine heart of early manhood could not overcome. As the
path proceeded, it became more closely sheltered by the wild bushes and
trees, and its windings grew more wayward and frequent, when on a
sudden, from behind a screen of old thorns which lay a little in
advance, a noble dog, of the true old Irish wolf breed, came bounding
towards him, with every token of joy and welcome.
"Rover, Rover--down, boy, down," said the stranger, as the huge animal,
in his boisterous greeting, leaped upon him again and again, flinging
his massive paws upon his shoulders, and thrusting his cold nose into
his bosom--"down, Rover, down."
The first transport of welcome past, the noble dog waited to receive
from his old friend some marks of recognition in return, and then,
swinging his long tail from side to side, away he sprang, as if to
carry the joyful tidings to the companion of his evening ramble.
O'Connor knew that some of those whom he should not have chosen to meet
just then or there were probably within a stone's throw of the spot
where he now stood, and for a moment he was strongly tempted to turn,
and, if so it might be, unobserved to retrace his steps. The close
screen of wild trees which overshadowed the road would have rendered
this design easy of achievement; but while he was upon the point of
turning to depart, a few notes of some wild and simple Irish melody,
carelessly lilted by a voice of silvery sweetness, floated to his ear.
Every cadence and vibration of _that_ voice was to him enchantment--he
could not choose but pause. The sweet sounds were interrupted by a
rustling among the withered leaves which strewed the ground. Again the
fine old dog made his appearance, dashing joyously along the path
towards him, and following in his wake, with slow and gentle steps,
came a light and graceful female form. On her shoulders rested a short
mantle of scarlet cloth; the hood was thrown partially backward, so as
to leave the rich dark ringlets to float freely in the light breeze of
evening; the faintest flush imaginable tinged the clear paleness of her
cheek, giving to her exquisitely beautiful features a lustre, whose
richness did not, however, subdue their habitual and tender melancholy.
The moment the full dark eyes of the girl encountered O'Connor, the
song died away upon her lips--the colour fled from her cheeks, and as
instantaneously the sudden paleness was succeeded by a blush of such
depth and brilliancy as threw far into shade even the brightest imagery
of poetic fancy.
"Edmond!" she exclaimed, in a tone so faint and low as scarcely to
reach his ear, and which yet thrilled to his very heart.
"Yes, Mary--it is, indeed, Edmond O'Connor," answered he, passionately
and mournfully--"come, after long years of separation, over many a mile
of sea and land--unlooked-for, and, mayhap, unwished-for--come once
more to see you, and, in seeing you, to be happy, were it but for a
moment--come to tell you that he loves you fondly, passionately as
ever--come to ask you, dear, dear Mary, if you, too, are unchanged?"
As he thus spoke, standing by her side, O'Connor gazed on the sad,
sweet face of her he loved so well, and held that little hand, which he
would have given worlds to call his own. The beautiful girl was too
artless to disguise her agitation. She would have spoken, but the
effort was vain--the tears gathered in her dark eyes, and fell faster
and faster, till at length the fruitless struggle ceased, and she wept
long and bitterly.
"Oh! Edmond," said she, at length, raising her eyes sorrowfully and
fondly to O'Connor's face--"what has called you hither? We two should
hardly have met now or thus."
"Dear Mary," answered he, with melancholy fervour, "since last I held
this loved hand, years have passed away--three long years and more--in
which we two have never met--in which you scarce have even heard of me.
Mary, three years bring many changes--changes irreparable. Time--which
has, if it were possible, made you more beautiful even than when I saw
you last--may yet have altered earlier feelings, and turned your heart
from me. Were it so, Mary, I would not seek to blame you. I am not so
vain--your rank--your great attractions--your surpassing beauty, must
have won many admirers--drawn many suitors round you; and I--I, among
all these, may well have been forgotten--I, whose best merit is but in
loving you beyond my life. I will not, then--I will not, Mary, ask if
you love me still: but coming thus unbidden and unlooked-for, am I
forgiven--am I welcome, Mary?"
The artless girl looked up in his face with such a beautiful smile of
trust and love as told more in one brief moment than language could in
volumes.
"Yes, Mary," said O'Connor, reading that smile aright, with swelling
heart and proud devotion; "yes, Mary. I am remembered--you are still my
own--my own: true, faithful, unchanged, in spite of years of time and
leagues of separation; in spite of all!--my true-hearted, my adored, my
own!"
He spoke; and in the fulness of their hearts they were both for a while
silent, each gazing on the other in the rapt tenderness of long-tried
love--in the deep, guileless joy of this chance meeting.
"Hear me," he whispered, lower almost than the murmur of the breeze
through the arching boughs above them, as if fearful that even a breath
would trouble the still enchantment that held them spell-bound: "hear
me, for I have much to tell. The years that have passed since I spoke
to you before have brought to me their store of good and ill, of sorrow
and of hope. I have many things to tell you, Mary; much that gives me
hope--the cheeriest hope--even that of overcoming Sir Richard's
opposition! Ay, Mary, reasonable hope; and why? Because I am no longer
poor: an old friend of my father's, Mr. Audley, has taken me by the
hand, adopted me, made me his heir--the heir to riches and possessions
which even your father will allow to be considerable--which he well may
think enough to engage his prudence in favour of our union. In this
hope, dearest, I am here. I daily expect the arrival of my generous
friend and benefactor; and with him I will go to your father and urge
my suit once more, and with God's blessing at last prevail--but hark!
some one comes."
Even while he spoke, the lovers were startled by the sound of voices in
gay colloquy, approaching along the quiet by-road on which they stood.
"Leave me, Edmond, leave me," said the beautiful girl, with earnest
entreaty; "they must not see you with me now."
"Farewell then, dearest, since it must be so," replied O'Connor, as he
pressed her hand closely in his own; "but meet me to-morrow
evening--meet me by the old gate in the beech-tree walk, at the hour
when you used to walk there. Nay, refuse me not, Mary. Farewell,
farewell till then!" and so saying, before she had time to frame an
answer, he turned from her, and was quickly lost among the trees and
underwood which skirted the pathway.
In the speakers who approached, the young lady at once recognized her
brother, Henry Ashwoode, and Emily Copland, her pretty cousin. The
young man was handsome alike in face and figure, slightly made, and
bearing in his carriage that indescribable air of aristocratic birth
and pretension which sits not ungracefully upon a handsome person; his
countenance, too, bore a striking resemblance to that of his sister,
and, allowing for the difference of sex, resembled it as nearly as any
countenance which had never expressed a passion but such as had its aim
and origin alike in _self_, could do. He was dressed in the extreme of
the prevailing fashion; and altogether his outward man was in all
respects such as to justify his acknowledged pretensions to be
considered one of the prettiest men in the then gay city of Dublin. The
young lady who accompanied him was, in all points except in that of
years, as unlike her cousin, Mary Ashwoode, as one pretty girl could
well be to another. She was very fair; had a quick, clear eye, which
carried in its glance something more than mere mirth or vivacity; an
animated face, with, however, something of a bold, and at times even of
a haughty expression. Laughing and chatting in light, careless gaiety,
the youthful pair approached the spot where Mary Ashwoode stood.
"So, so, fair sister," cried the young man, gaily, "alone and musing,
and doubtless melancholy. Shall we venture to approach her, Emily?"
Women have keener eyes in small matters than men; and Miss Copland at a
glance perceived her fair cousin's flushed cheek and embarrassed
manner.
"Angels and ministers of grace defend us!" cried she; "the girl has
certainly seen a ghost or a dragoon officer."
"Neither, I assure you, cousin," replied Miss Ashwoode, with an effort;
"my evening's ramble has not extended beyond this spot; and as yet I've
seen no monster more alarming than my brother's new periwig."
The young man bowed.
"Nay, nay," cried Miss Copland, "but I must hear it. There certainly is
some awful mystery at the bottom of all these conscious looks; but
_apropos_ of awful mysteries," continued she, turning to young
Ashwoode, half in pity for Mary's increasing embarrassment; "where _is_
Major O'Leary? What has become of your amusing old uncle?"
"That's more than _I_ can tell," replied the young man; "I wash my
hands of the scapegrace. I know nothing of him. I saw him for a moment
in town this morning, and he promised, with a round dozen of oaths, to
be out to dine with us to-day. Thus much _you_ know, and thus much _I_
know; for the rest, having sins enough of my own to carry, as I said
before, I wash my hands of him and his."
"Well, now remember, Henry," continued she, "I make it a point with you
to bring him out here to-morrow. In sober seriousness I can't get on
without him. It is a melancholy and a terrible truth, but still one
which I feel it my duty to speak boldly, that Major O'Leary is the only
gallant and susceptible man in the family."
"Monstrous assertion?" exclaimed the young man; "why, not to mention
myself, the acknowledged pink and perfection of everything that is
irresistible, have you not the perfect command of my worthy cousin,
Arthur Blake?"
"Now don't put me in a passion, Henry," exclaimed the girl. "How dare
you mention that wretch--that irreclaimable, unredeemed fox-hunter. He
never talks, nor thinks, nor dreams of anything but dogs and badgers,
foxes and other vermin. I verily believe he never yet was seen off a
horse's back, except sometimes in a stable--he is an absolute Irish
centaur! And then his odious attempts at finery--his elaborate,
perverse vulgarity--the perpetual pinching and mincing of his words! An
off-hand, shameless brogue I can endure--a brogue that revels and
riots, and defies the world like your uncle O'Leary's, I can respect
and even admire--but a brogue in a strait waistcoat----"
"Well, well," rejoined the young man, laughing, "though you may not
find any sprout of the _family_ tree, excepting Major O'Leary, worthy
to contribute to your laudable requirements; yet surely you have a very
fair catalogue of young and able-bodied gentlemen among our neighbours.
What say you to young Lloyd--he lives within a stone's throw. He is a
most proper, pious, and punctual young gentleman; and would make, I
doubt not, a most devout and exemplary _'Cavalier servente_.'"
"Worse and worse," cried the young lady despondingly; "the most
domestic, stupid, affectionate, invulnerable wretch. He never flirts
out of his own family, and then, for charity I believe, with the oldest
and ugliest. He is the very person for whose special case the rubric
provided that no man shall marry his grandmother."
"My fair cousin," replied the young man, laughing, "I see you are hard
to please. Meanwhile, sweet ladies both, let me remind you that the sun
has just set; we must make our way homeward--at least _I_ must. By the
way, can I do anything in town for you this evening, beyond a tender
message to my reverend uncle?"
"Dear me," exclaimed Miss Copland, "you have not passed an evening at
home this age. What _can_ you want, morning, noon, and night in that
smoky, dirty town?"
"Why, the fact is," replied the young man, "business must be done; I
positively must attend two routs to-night."
"Whose routs--what are they?" inquired the young lady.
"One is Mrs. Tresham's, the other Lady Stukely's."
"I _guessed_ that ugly old kinswoman of mine was at the bottom of it,"
exclaimed the young lady with great vivacity. "Lady Stukely--that
pompous, old, frightful goose!--she has laid herself out to seduce you,
Harry; but don't let that dismay you, for ten to one if you fall,
she'll make an honest man of you in the end and marry you. Only think,
Mary, what a sister you shall have," and the young lady laughed
heartily, and then added, "There are some excellent, worthy, abominable
people, who seem made expressly to put one in a passion--perpetual
appeals to one's virtuous indignation. Now do, Henry, for goodness
sake, if a matrimonial catastrophe must come, choose at least some
nymph with less rouge and wrinkles than poor dear Lady Stukely."
"Kind cousin, thyself shalt choose for me," answered the young man;
"but pray, suffer me to be at large for a year or two more. I would
fain live and breathe a little, before I go down into the matrimonial
pit and be no more seen. But let us mend our pace, the evening turns
chill."
Thus chatting carelessly, they moved towards the large brick building
which we have already described, embowered among the trees; where
arrived, the young man forthwith applied himself to prepare for a night
of dissipation, and the young ladies to get through a dull evening as
best they might.
The two fair cousins sate in a large, old-fashioned drawing-room; the
walls were covered with elaborately-wrought tapestry representing, in a
manner sufficiently grim and alarming, certain scenes from Ovid's
Metamorphoses; a cheerful fire blazed in the capacious hearth; and the
cumbrous mantelpiece was covered with those grotesque and monstrous
china figures, misnamed ornaments, which were then beginning to find
favour in the eyes of fashion. Abundance of richly carved furniture was
disposed variously throughout the room. The young ladies sate by a
small table on which lay some books and materials for work, placed near
the fire. They occupied each one of those huge, high-backed, and
well-stuffed chairs in which it is a mystery how our ancestors could
sit and remain awake. Both were silently occupied with their own busy
reflections; and it was not until the rapid clank of the horse's hoofs
upon the pavement underneath the windows, as young Ashwoode started
upon his night ride to the city, rose sharp and clear, that Miss
Copland, waking from her reverie, exclaimed,--
"Well, sweet coz, were ever so woebegone and desolate a pair of
damsels. The only available male creature in the establishment, with
the exception of Sir Richard, who has actually gone to bed, has fairly
turned his back upon us."
"Dear Emily," replied her cousin, "pray be serious. I wish to tell you
what has passed this evening. You observed my confusion and agitation
when you and Henry overtook me."
"Why, to be sure I did," replied the young lady; "and now, like an
honest coz, you are going to tell me all about it." She drew her chair
nearer as she spoke. "Come, my dear, tell me everything--what was your
discovery? Come, now, there's a good girl, do confess." So saying she
threw one arm round her cousin's neck and laid the other in her lap,
looking curiously into her face the while.
"Oh! Emily, I have seen him!" exclaimed Miss Ashwoode, with an effort.
"Seen _him_!--seen whom?--old Nick, if I may judge from your looks.
Whom _have_ you seen, dear?" eagerly inquired Miss Copland.
"I have seen Edmond O'Connor," answered she.
"Edmond O'Connor!" repeated the girl in unfeigned surprise, "why, I
thought he was in France, eating frogs and dancing cotillons. What has
brought him here?--why, he'll be taken for a spy and executed on the
spot. But seriously, can you conceive anything more rash and ill-judged
than his coming over just now?"
"It is indeed, I greatly fear, very rash," replied the young lady; "he
is resolved to speak with my father once more."
"And your father in such a precious ill-humour just at this precise
moment," exclaimed Miss Copland. "I never _was_ so much afraid of Sir
Richard as I have been for the last two days; he has been a perfect
bruin--begging your pardon, my dear girl--but even _you_ must admit,
let filial piety and all the cardinal virtues say what they will, that
whenever Sir Richard is recovering from a fit of the gout he is nothing
short of a perfect monster. I wager my diamond cross to a thimble, that
he breaks the poor young man's head the moment he comes within reach of
him. But jesting apart, I fear, my dear cousin, that my uncle is in no
mood just now to listen to heroics."
A sharp knocking upon the floor immediately above the chamber in which
the young ladies sate, interrupted the conference at this juncture.
"There is my father's signal--he wants me," exclaimed Miss Ashwoode,
and rising as she spoke, without more ado she ran to render the
required attendance.
"Strange girl," exclaimed Miss Copland, as her cousin's step was heard
ascending the stairs, "strange girl!--she is the veriest simpleton I
ever yet encountered. All this fuss to marry a fellow who is, in plain
words, little better than a beggarman--a good-looking beggarman, to be
sure, but still a beggar. Oh, Mary, simple Mary! I am very much tempted
to despise you--there is certainly something _wrong_ about you! I hate
to see people without ambition enough even to wish to keep their own
natural position. The girl is full of nonsense; but what's that to me?
she'll _un_learn it all one day; but I'm much afraid, simple cousin, a
little too late."
Having thus soliloquized, she called her maid, and retired for the
night to her chamber.