THE OLD BEECH-TREE WALK AND THE IVY-GROWN GATEWAY--THE TRYSTE AND TUE
CRUTCH-HANDLED CANE.
In the snug old "Cock and Anchor," the morning after the exciting
scenes in which O'Connor had taken so active a part, that gentleman was
pacing the floor of his sitting-room in no small agitation. On the
result of that interview, which he had resolved no longer to postpone,
depended his happiness for years--it might be for life. Again and again
he applied himself to the task of arranging clearly and concisely, and
withal adroitly and with tact, the substance of what he had to say to
Sir Richard Ashwoode. But, spite of all, his mind would wander to the
pleasant hours he had passed with Mary Ashwoode in the quiet green wood
and by the dark well's side, and through the moss-grown rocks, and by
the chiming current of the wayward brook, long before the cold and
worldly had suspected and repulsed that love which he knew could never
die but when his heart had ceased to beat for ever. Again would he,
banishing with a stoical effort these unbidden visions of memory, seek
to accomplish the important task which he had proposed to himself; but
still all in vain. There was she once more--there was the pale,
pensive, lovely face--there the long, dark, silken tresses--there the
deep, beautiful eyes--and there the smile--the artless, melancholy,
enchanting smile.
"It boots not trying," exclaimed O'Connor. "I cannot collect my
thoughts; and yet what use in conning over the order and the words of
what, after all, will be judged merely by its meaning? Perhaps it is
better that I should yield myself wholly up to the impulse of the
moment, and so speak but the more directly and the more boldly. No;
even in such a cause I will not accommodate myself to his cramp and
crooked habits of thought and feeling. If I let him know all, it
matters little how he learns it."
As O'Connor finished this sentence, his meditations were dispelled by
certain sounds, which issued from the passage leading to his room.
"A young man," exclaimed a voice, interrupted by a good deal of puffing
and blowing, probably caused by the steep ascent, "and a good-looking,
eh?--(puff)--dark eyes, eh?--(puff, puff)--black hair and straight
nose, eh?--(puff, puff)--long-limbed, tall, eh?--(puff)."
The answers to these interrogatories, whatever they may have been,
were, where O'Connor stood, wholly inaudible; but the cross-examination
was accompanied throughout by a stout, firm, stumping tread upon the
old floor, which, along with the increasing clearness with which the
noise made its way to O'Connor's door, sufficiently indicated that the
speaker was approaching. The accents were familiar to him. He ran to
his door, opened it; and in an instant Hugh Audley, Esquire, very hot
and very much out of breath, pitched himself, with a good deal of
precision, shoulders foremost, against the pit of the young man's
stomach, and, embracing him a little above the hips, hugged him for
some time in silence, swaying him to and fro with extraordinary energy,
as if preparatory to tripping him up, and taking him off his feet
altogether--then giving him a shove straight from him, and holding him
at arm's length, he looked with brimful eyes, and a countenance beaming
with delight, full in O'Connor's face.
"Confound the dog, how well he looks," exclaimed the old gentleman,
vehemently--"devilish well, curse him!" and he gave O'Connor a shove
with his knuckles, and succeeded in staggering himself--"never saw you
look better in my life, nor anyone else for that matter; and how is
every inch of you, and what have you been doing with yourself? Come,
you young dog, account for yourself."
O'Connor had now, for the first time, an opportunity of bidding the
kind old gentleman welcome, which he did to the full as cordially, if
not so boisterously.
"Let me sit down and rest myself: I must take breath for a minute,"
exclaimed the old gentleman. "Give me a chair, you undutiful rascal.
What a devil of a staircase that is, to be sure. Well, and what do you
intend doing with yourself to-day?"
"To say the truth," said the young man, while a swarthier glow crossed
his dark features. "I was just about to start for Morley Court, to see
Sir Richard Ashwoode."
"About his daughter, I take it?" inquired the old gentleman.
"Just so, sir," replied the younger man.
"Then you may spare yourself the pains," rejoined the old gentleman,
briskly. "You are better at home. You have been forestalled."
"What--how, sir? What do you mean?" asked O'Connor, in great perplexity
and alarm.
"Just what I say, my boy. You have been forestalled."
"By whom, sir?"
"By me."
"By you?"
"Ay."
The old gentleman screwed his brows and pursed up his mouth until it
became a Gordian involution of knots and wrinkles, threw a fierce and
determined expression into his eyes, and wagged his head slightly from
side to side--looking altogether very like a "Cromwell guiltless of his
country's blood." At length he said,--
"I'm an old fellow, and ought to know something by this time--think I
_do_, for that matter; and I say deliberately--cut the whole concern
and blow them all."
Having thus delivered himself, the old gentleman resumed his sternest
expression of countenance, and continued in silence to wag his head
from time to time with an air of infinite defiance, leaving his young
companion, if possible, more perplexed and bewildered than ever.
"And have you, then, seen Sir Richard Ashwoode?" inquired O'Connor.
"Have I seen him?" rejoined the old gentleman. "To be sure I have. The
moment the boat touched the quay, and I fairly felt _terra firma_, I
drove to the 'Fox in Breeches,' and donned a handsome suit"--(here the
gentleman glanced cursorily at his bottle-green habiliments)--"I
ordered a hack-coach--got safely to Morley Court--saw Sir Richard, laid
up with the gout, looking just like an old, dried-up, cross-grained
monkey. There was, of course, a long explanation, and all that sort of
thing--a good deal of tact and diplomacy on my side, doubling about,
neat fencing, and circumbendibus; but all would not do--an infernal
_smash_. Sir Richard was all but downright uncivil--would not hear of
it--said plump and plain he would never consent. The fact is, he's a
sour, hard, insolent old scoundrel, and a bitter pill; and I
congratulate you heartily on having escaped all connection with him and
his. Don't look so down in the mouth about the matter; there's as good
fish in the sea as ever was caught; and if the young woman is half such
a shrew as her father is a tartar, you have had an escape to be
thankful for the longest day you live."
We shall not attempt to describe the feelings with which O'Connor
received this somewhat eccentric communication. He folded his arms upon
the table, and for many minutes leaned his head upon them, without
motion, and without uttering one word. At length he said,--
"After all, I ought to have expected this. Sir Richard is a bigoted man
in his own faith--an ambitious and a worldly man, too. It was folly,
mere folly, knowing all this, to look for any other answer from him. He
may indeed delay our union for a little, but he cannot bar it--he
_shall_ not bar it. I could more easily doubt myself than Mary's
constancy; and if she be but firm and true--and she is all loyalty and
all truth--the world cannot part us two. Our separation cannot outlast
his life; nor shall it last so long. I will overcome her scruples,
combat all her doubts, satisfy her reason. She will consent--she will
be mine--my own--through life and until death. No hand shall sunder us
for ever,"--he turned to the old man, and grasped his hand--"My dear,
kind, true friend, how can I ever thank you for all your generous acts
of kindness. I cannot."
"Never mind, never mind, my dear boy," said the old gentleman,
blubbering in spite of himself--"never mind--what a d----d old fool I
am, to be sure. Come, come, you, shall take a turn with me towards the
country, and get an appetite for dinner. You'll be as well as ever in
half an hour. When all's done, you stand no worse than you did
yesterday; and if the girl's a good girl, as I make no doubt she is,
why, you are sure of her constancy--and the devil himself shall not
part you. Confound me if I don't run away with the girl for you myself
if you make a pother about the matter. Come along, you dog--come along,
I say."
"Nay, sir," replied O'Connor, "forgive me. I am keenly pained. I am
agitated--confounded at the suddenness of this--this dreadful blow. I
will go alone, pardon me, my kind and dear friend, I must go _alone_. I
may chance to see the lady. I am sure she will not fail me--she will
meet me. Oh! heart and brain, be still--be steady--I need your best
counsels now. Farewell, sir--for a little time, farewell."
"Well, be it so--since so it _must_ be," said Mr. Audley, who did not
care to combat a resolution, announced with all the wild energy of
despairing passion, "by all means, my dear boy, _alone_ it shall be,
though I scarce think you would be the worse of a staid old fellow's
company in your ramble--but no matter, boys will be boys while the
world goes round."
The conclusion of this sentence was a soliloquy, for O'Connor had
already descended to the inn yard, where he procured a horse, and was
soon, with troubled mind and swelling heart, making rapid way toward
Morley Court. It was now the afternoon--the sun had made nearly half
his downward course--the air was soft and fresh, and the birds sang
sweetly in the dark nooks and bowers of the tall trees: it seemed
almost as if summer had turned like a departing beauty, with one last
look of loveliness to gladden the scene which she was regretfully
leaving. So sweet and still the air--so full and mellow the thrilling
chorus of merry birds among the rustling leaves, flitting from bough to
bough in the clear and lofty shadow--so cloudless the golden flood of
sunlight. Such was the day--so gladsome the sounds--so serene the
aspect of all nature--as O'Connor, dismounting under the shadow of a
tall, straggling hawthorn hedge, and knotting the bridle in one of its
twisted branches, crossed a low stile, and thus entered the grounds of
Morley Court. He threaded a winding path which led through a neglected
wood of thorn and oak, and found himself after a few minutes in the
spot he sought. The old beech walk had been once the main avenue to the
house. Huge beech-trees flung their mighty boughs high in air across
its long perspective--and bright as was the day, the long lane lay in
shadow deep and solemn as that of some old Gothic aisle. Down this dim
vista did O'Connor pace with hurried steps toward the spot where, about
midway in its length, there stood the half-ruined piers and low walls
of what had once been a gateway.
"Can it be that she shrinks from this meeting?" thought O'Connor, as
his eye in vain sought the wished-for form of Mary Ashwoode, "will she
disappoint me?--surely she who has walked with me so many lonely hours
in guileless trust need not have feared to meet me here. It was not
generous to deny me this boon--to her so easy--to me so rich--yet
perchance she judges wisely. What boots it that I should see her? Why
see again that matchless beauty--that touching smile--those eyes that
looked so fondly on me? Why see her more--since mayhap we shall never
meet again? She means it kindly. Her nature is all nobleness--all
generosity; and yet--and yet to see her no more--to hear her voice no
more--have we--have we then parted at last for ever? But no--by
heavens--'tis she--Mary!"
It was indeed Mary Ashwoode, blushing and beautiful as ever. In an
instant O'Connor stood by her side.
"My own--my true-hearted Mary."
"Oh! Edmond," said she, after a brief silence, "I fear I have done
wrong--have I?--in meeting you thus. I ought not--indeed I know I ought
not to have come."
"Nay, Mary, do not speak thus. Dear Mary, have we not been companions
in many a pleasant ramble: in those times--the times, Mary, that will
never come again? Why, then, should you deny me a few minutes' mournful
converse, where in other days we two have passed so many pleasant
hours?"
There was in the tone in which he spoke something so unutterably
melancholy--and in the recollections which his few simple words called
crowding to her mind, something at once so touching, so dearly
cherished, and so bitterly regretted--that the tears gathered in her
full dark eyes, and fell one by one fast and unheeded.
"You do not grieve, then, Mary," said he, "that you have come
here--that we have met once more: do you, Mary?"
"No, no, Edmond--no, indeed," answered she, sobbing. "God knows I do
not, Edmond--no, no."
"Well, Mary," said he, "I am happy in the belief that you feel toward
me just as you used to do--as happy as one so wretched can hope to be."
"Edmond, your words affright me," said she, fixing her eyes full upon
him with imploring earnestness: "you look sadder--paler than you did
yesterday; something has happened since then. What--what is it, Edmond?
tell me--ah, tell me!"
"Yes, Mary, much has happened," answered he, taking her hand between
both of his, and meeting her gaze with a look of passionate sorrow and
tenderness--"yes, Mary, without my knowledge, the friend of whom I told
you had arrived, and this morning saw your father, told him _all_, and
was repulsed with sternness--almost with insult. Sir Richard has
resolved that it shall never be; there is no more hope of bending
him--none--none--none."
While O'Connor spoke, the colour in Mary's cheeks came and fled in turn
with quick alternations, in answer to every throb and flutter of the
poor heart within.
"See him--speak to him--yourself, Edmond, yourself. Oh! do not
despair--see him--speak to him," she almost whispered, for agitation
had well-nigh deprived her of voice--"see him, Edmond--yourself--for
God's sake, dear Edmond--yourself--yourself"--and she grasped his arm
in her tiny hand, and gazed in his pale face with such a look of
agonized entreaty as cut him to the very heart.
"Yes, Mary, if it seems good to you, I will speak to him myself," said
O'Connor, with deep melancholy. "I will, Mary, though my own heart--my
reason--tells me it is all--all utterly in vain; but, Mary," continued
he, suddenly changing his tone to one of more alacrity, "if he should
still reject me--if he shall forbid our ever meeting more--if he shall
declare himself unalterably resolved against our union--Mary, in such a
case, would you, too, tell me to see you no more--would you, too, tell
me to depart without hope, and never come again? or would you,
Mary--could you--dare you--dear, dear Mary, for once--once
only--disobey your stern and haughty father--dare you trust yourself
with me--fly with me to France, and be at last, and after all, my
own--my bride?"
"No, Edmond," said she, solemnly and sadly, while her eyes again filled
with tears; and though she trembled like the leaf on the tree, yet he
knew by the sound of her sad voice that her purpose could not
alter--"that can never be--never, Edmond--no--no."
"Then, Mary, can it be," he answered, with an accent so desolate that
despair itself seemed breathing in its tone--"can it be, after all--all
we have passed and proved--all our love and constancy, and all our
bright hopes, so long and fondly cherished--cherished in the midst of
grief and difficulty--when we had no other stay but hope alone--are we,
after all--at last, to part for ever?--is it, indeed, Mary, all--all
over?"
As the two lovers stood thus in deep and melancholy converse by the
ivy-grown and ruined gateway, beneath the airy shadow of the old
beech-trees, they were recalled to other thoughts by the hurried patter
of footsteps, and the rustling of the branches among the underwood
which skirted the avenue. As fortune willed it, however, the intruder
was no other than the honest dog, Rover, Mary's companion in many a
silent and melancholy ramble; he came sniffing and bounding with
boisterous greeting to hail his young mistress and her companion. The
interruption, harmless as it was, startled Mary Ashwoode.
"Were my father to find us here, Edmond," said she, "it were fatal to
all our hopes. You know his temper well. Let us then part here. Follow
the by-path leading to the house. Go and see him--speak with him for my
sake--for my sake, Edmond--and so--and so--farewell."
"And farewell, Mary, since it must be," said O'Connor, with a bitter
struggle. "Farewell, but only for a time--only for a little time, Mary;
and whatever befalls, remember--remember me. Farewell, Mary."
As he thus spoke, he raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it for the
first time, it might be for the last, in his life. For a moment he
stood, and gazed with sad devotion upon the loved face. Then, with an
effort, he turned abruptly away, and strode rapidly in the direction
she had indicated; and when he turned to look again, she was gone.
O'Connor followed the narrow path, which, diverging a little from the
broad grass lane, led with many a wayward turn among the tall trees
toward the house. As he thus pursued his way, a few moments of
reflection satisfied him of the desperate nature of the enterprise
which he had undertaken. But if lovers are often upon unreal grounds
desponding, it is likewise true that they are sometimes sanguine when
others would despair; and, spite of all his misgivings--of all the
irresistible conclusions of stern reason--hope still beckoned him on.
Thus agitated, he pursued his way, until, on turning an abrupt angle,
he beheld, scarcely more than a dozen paces in advance, and moving
slowly toward him in the shadowy pathway, a figure, at sight of which,
thus suddenly presented, he recoiled, and stood for a moment fixed as a
statue. He had encountered the object of his search. The form was that
of Sir Richard Ashwoode himself, who, wrapped in his scarlet
roquelaure, and leaning upon the shoulder of his Italian valet, while
he limped forward slowly and painfully, appeared full before him.
"So, so, so, so," repeated the baronet, at first with unaffected
astonishment, which speedily, however, deepened into intense but
constrained anger--his dark, prominent eyes peering fiercely upon the
young man, while, stooping forward, and clutching his crutch-handled
cane hard in his lean fingers, he limped first one and then another
step nearer.
"Mr. O'Connor! or my eyes deceive me."
"Yes, Sir Richard," replied O'Connor, with a haughty bow, and advancing
a little toward him in turn. "I am that Edmond O'Connor whom you once
knew well, and whom it would seem you still know. I ought, doubtless----"
"Nay, sir, no flowers of rhetoric, if you please," interrupted Sir
Richard, bitterly--"no fustian speeches--to the point--to the point,
sir. If you have ought to say to me, deliver it in six words. Your
business, sir. Be brief."
"I will not indeed waste words, Sir Richard Ashwoode," replied
O'Connor, firmly. "There is but one subject on which I would seek a
conference with you, and that subject you well may guess."
"I _do_ guess it," retorted Sir Richard. "You would renew an absurd
proposal--one opened three years since, and repeated this morning by
the old booby, your elected spokesman. To that proposal I have ever
given one answer--no. I have not changed my mind, nor ever shall. Am I
understood, sir? And least of all should I think of changing my purpose
now," continued he, more pointedly, as a suspicion crossed his
mind--"_now_, sir, that you have forfeited by your own act whatever
regard you once seemed to me to merit. You did not seek _me_ here, sir.
I'm not to be fooled, sir. You did not seek me--don't assert it. I
understand your purpose. You came here clandestinely to tamper like a
schemer with my child. Yes, sir, a schemer!" repeated Sir Richard, with
bitter emphasis, while his sharp sallow features grew sharper and more
sallow still; and he struck the point of his cane at every emphatic
word deep into the sod--"a mean, interested, cowardly schemer. How dare
you steal into my place, you thrice-rejected, dishonourable, spiritless
adventurer?"
The blood rushed to O'Connor's brow as the old man uttered this
insulting invective. The fiery impulse which under other circumstances
would have been uncontrollable, was, however, speedily, though with
difficulty, mastered; and O'Connor replied bitterly,--
"You are an old man, Sir Richard, and _her_ father--you are safe, sir.
How much of chivalry or courage is shown in heaping insult upon one who
_will_ not retort upon you, judge for yourself. Alter what has passed,
I feel that I were, indeed, the vile thing you have described, if I
were again to subject myself to your unprovoked insolence: be assured,
I shall never place foot of mine within your boundaries again: relieve
yourself, sir, of all fears upon that score; and for your language, you
know you can appreciate the respect that makes me leave you thus
unanswered and unpunished."
So saying, he turned, and with long and rapid strides retraced his
steps, his heart swelling with a thousand struggling emotions. Scarce
knowing what he did, O'Connor rode rapidly to the "Cock and Anchor,"
and too much stunned and confounded by the scenes in which he had just
borne a part to exchange a word with Mr. Audley, whom he found still
established in his chamber, he threw himself dejectedly into a chair,
and sank into gloomy and obstinate abstraction. The good-natured old
gentleman did not care to interrupt his young friend's ruminations, and
hours might have passed away and found them still undisturbed, were it
not that the door was suddenly thrown open, and the waiter announced
Mr. Ashwoode. There was a spell in the name which instantly recalled
O'Connor to the scene before him. Had a viper sprung up at his feet, he
could not have recoiled with a stronger antipathy. With a mixture of
feelings scarcely tolerable, he awaited his arrival, and after a moment
or two of suspense, Henry Ashwoode entered the room.
Mr. Audley, having heard the name, scowled fearfully from the centre of
the room upon the young gentleman as he entered, stuffed his hands
half-way to the elbows in his breeches pockets, and turning briskly
upon his heel, marched emphatically to the window, and gazed out into
the inn yard with remarkable perseverance. The obvious coldness with
which he was received did not embarrass young Ashwoode in the least.
With perfect ease and a graceful frankness of demeanour, he advanced to
O'Connor, and after a greeting of extraordinary warmth, inquired how he
had gotten home, and whether he had suffered since any inconvenience
from the fall which he had. He then went on to renew his protestations
of gratitude for O'Connor's services, with so much ardour and apparent
heartiness, that spite of his prejudices, the old man was moved in his
favour; and when Ashwoode expressed in a low voice to O'Connor his wish
to be introduced to his friend, honest Mr. Audley felt his heart quite
softened, and instead of merely bowing to him, absolutely shook him by
the hand. The young man then, spite of O'Connor's evident reluctance,
proceeded to relate to his new acquaintance the details of the
adventures of the preceding night, in doing which, he took occasion to
dwell, in the most glowing terms, upon his obligations to O'Connor.
After sitting with them for nearly half an hour, young Ashwoode took
his leave in the most affectionate manner possible, and withdrew.
"Well, that _is_ a good-looking young fellow, and a warm-hearted,"
exclaimed the old gentleman, as soon as the visitor had
disappeared--"what a pity he should be cursed with such a confounded
old father."