WHO APPEARED TO MARY ASHWOODE AS SHE SATE UNDER THE TREES--THE
CHAMPION.
With flashing eyes and a swelling heart, struck dumb with unutterable
indignation, the beautiful girl stood fixed in the attitude in which
his last words had reached her, while the enraged and unmanly old fop
hobbled away, with the ease and grace with which a crippled ape might
move over a hot griddle. He had disappeared for some minutes before she
had recovered herself sufficiently to think or speak.
"If _he_ were by my side," she said, "this noble lord dared not have
used me thus. Edmond would have died a thousand deaths first. But oh!
God look upon me, for _his_ love is gone from me, and I am now a poor,
grieved, desolate creature, with none to help me."
Thus saying, she sate herself down upon the grass bank, beneath the
tall and antique trees, and wept with all the bitter and devoted
abandonment of hopeless sorrow. From this unrestrained transport of
grief she was at length aroused by the pressure of a hand, gently and
kindly laid upon her shoulder.
"What vexes you, Mary, my little girl?" inquired Major O'Leary, for he
it was that stood by her. "Come, darling, don't fret, but tell your old
uncle the whole business, and twenty to one, he has wit enough in his
old noddle yet to set matters to rights. So, so, my darling, dry your
pretty eyes--wipe the tears away; why should they wet your young
cheeks, my poor little doat, that you always were. It is too early yet
for sorrow to come on you. Wouldn't I throw myself between my little
pet and all grief and danger? Then trust to me, darling; wipe away the
tears, or by ---- I'll begin to cry myself. Dry your eyes, and see if I
can't help you one way or another."
The mellow brogue of the old major had never fallen before with such a
tender pathos upon the ear of his beautiful niece, as now that its rich
current bore full upon her heart the unlooked-for words of kindness and
comfort.
"Were not you always _my_ pet," continued he, with the same tenderness
and pity in his tone, "from the time I first took you upon my knee, my
poor little Mary? And were not you fond of your old rascally uncle
O'Leary? Usedn't I always to take your part, right or wrong; and do you
think I'll desert you now? Then tell it all to me--ain't I your poor
old uncle, the same as ever? Come, then, dry the tears--there's a
darling--wipe them away."
While thus speaking, the warm-hearted old man took her hand, with a
touching mixture of gallantry, pity, and affection, and kissed it again
and again, with a thousand accompanying expressions of endearment, such
as in the days of her childhood he had been wont to lavish upon his
little favourite. The poor girl, touched by the kindness of her early
friend, whose good-natured sympathy was not to be mistaken, gradually
recovered her composure, and yielding to the urgencies of the major,
who clearly perceived that something extraordinarily distressing must
have occurred to account for her extreme agitation, she at length told
him the immediate cause of her grief and excitement. The major listened
to the narrative with growing indignation, and when it had ended, he
inquired, in a tone, about whose unnatural calmness there was something
infinitely more formidable than in the noisiest clamour of fury,--
"Which way, darling, did his lordship go when he left you?"
The girl looked in his face, and saw his deadly purpose there.
"Uncle, my own dear uncle," she cried distractedly, "for God's sake do
not follow him--for God's sake--I conjure you, I implore--" She would
have cast herself at his feet, but the major caught her in his arms.
"Well, well, my darling." he exclaimed, "I'll not _kill_ him, well as
he deserves it--I'll not: you have saved his life. I pledge you my
honour, as a gentleman and a soldier, I'll not harm him for what he has
said or done this day--are you satisfied?"
"I am, I am! Thank God, thank God!" exclaimed the poor girl, eagerly.
"But, Mary, I must see him," rejoined the major; "he has threatened to
set Sir Richard upon you--I must see him; you don't object to that,
under the promise I have made? I want to--to _reason_ with him. He
shall not get you into trouble with the baronet; for though Richard and
I came of the same mother, we are not of the same marriage, nor of the
same mould--I would not for a cool hundred that he told his story to
your father."
"Indeed, indeed, dear uncle," replied the girl, "I fear me there is
little hope of escape or ease for me. My father must know what has
passed; he will learn it inevitably, and then it needs no colouring or
misrepresentation to call down upon me his heaviest displeasure; his
anger I must endure as best I may. God help me. But neither threats nor
violence shall make me retract the answer I have given to Lord Aspenly,
nor ever yield consent to marry _him_--nor any other now."
"Well, well, little Mary," rejoined the major, "I like your spirit.
Stand to that, and you'll never be sorry for it. In the meantime, I'll
venture to exercise his lordship's conversational powers in a brief
conference of a few minutes, and if I find him as reasonable as I
expect, you'll have no cause to regret my interposition. Don't look so
frightened--haven't I promised, on the honour of a gentleman, that I
will _not_ pink him for anything said or done in his conference with
you? To send a small sword through a bolster or a bailiff," he
continued, meditatively, "is an _indifferent_ action; but to spit such
a poisonous, crawling toad as the respectable old gentleman in
question, would be nothing short of _meritorious_--it is an act that
'ud tickle the fancy of every saint in heaven, and, if there's justice
on earth, would canonize myself. But never mind, I'll let it alone--the
little thing shall escape, since _you_ wish it--Major O'Leary has said
it, so let no doubt disturb you. Good-bye, my little darling, dry your
eyes, and let me see you, before an hour, as merry as in the merriest
days that are gone."
So saying, Major O'Leary patted her cheek, and taking her hand
affectionately in both his, he added,--
"Sure I am, that there is more in all this than you care to tell me, my
little pet. I am sorely afraid there is something beyond my power to
remedy, to change your light-hearted nature so mournfully. What it is,
I will not inquire, but remember, darling, whenever you want a friend,
you'll find a sure one in me."
Thus having spoken, he turned from her, and strode rapidly down the
walk, until the thick, formal hedges concealed his retreating form
behind their impenetrable screens of darksome verdure.
Odd as were the manner and style of the major's professions, there was
something tender, something of heartiness, in his speech, which assured
her that she had indeed found a friend in him--rash, volatile, and
violent it might be, but still one on whose truth and energy she might
calculate. That there was one being who felt with her and for her, was
a discovery which touched her heart and moved her generous spirit, and
she now regarded the old major, whose spoiled favourite in childhood
she had been, but whom, before, she had never known capable of a
serious feeling, with emotions of affection and gratitude, stronger and
more ardent than he had ever earned from any other being. Agitated,
grieved, and excited, she hurriedly left the scene of this interview,
and sought relief for her overcharged feelings in the quiet and
seclusion of her chamber.