THE BLOW FALLS
"Now, what is it?" he asked. "Half of my fortune if you will, fair lady,
so that you forgive that blunder of mine and look kindly on me."
"It is about a girl in whom I am interested--Nora Brady." I felt him
start at my side. "I saw you together in our woods the other day. She is
a good girl. Mr. Dawson, will you let her be and not make her unhappy?"
"Why," he said, "I have never meant to make her unhappy. I'm sorry for
what I did. It was only idle love-making. But she's fond of me, poor
child. And she'd be just as fond of me if I wore a ragged coat and
earned a shilling a day. I've always pleased myself, and I don't like
giving up Nora. By the way, she has rather given up me. She is keeping
out of my way. Her keeping out of my way has been more likely to inflame
me than the other thing. But, if you'll forgive me and be a little kind
to me, I promise you that I won't seek her out."
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
"More than I dare tell you at present. But for the present--shake hands
and say you forgive my rudeness in the wood."
I put my hand in his, and felt his lips upon it, but I bore it.
"Then it is a bargain," he said. "We are enemies no longer, and I
promise to let Nora alone. If only the women would always let me alone!
What, are you going back to that hot room? And the May moon in the sky,
the lovers' moon! Stay with me a little while, because I've been a good
boy and promised you what you asked. You could wind me round your little
finger. There's nothing I wouldn't do to please you."
The end of his protestations fell on empty air, for I had lifted the
curtain and re-entered the drawing-room.
When I came in, with Richard Dawson following me, I was annoyed to find
that my grandfather and Mr. Dawson had come into the drawing-room, and
were standing near the fireplace. Both looked round, and I thought my
grandfather's face wore a startled look, while Mr. Dawson's for an
instant beamed excessive gratification.
I hoped that Lord and Lady St. Leger could not think that I tolerated
with any patience the attentions of Richard Dawson. Seeing that they
believed me bound by some childish promise to my cousin Theobald that
was not very likely. And I could not explain to them why I had gone out
on the balcony alone with Richard Dawson.
My memory of the time after that seems to consist of nothing but a
string of Dawsons coming and going. I did not know what to make of it.
Surely the propitiation of the Dawsons did not mean that we should see
so very much of them. They were alone now, their fine friends having
gone back to London, and their being alone involved an intimacy which
need not have been if there were a crowd.
My godmother at this time was much occupied, her cousin, Miss Joan,
having developed a disease which in time was to prove mortal, so she
knew less of how much the Dawsons came and went, though she must have
known it, for I've no doubt the county talked of it. We had been so sure
that we would never admit the Dawsons no matter what any one else did,
nor any persons who were merely rich. We had always been very proud and
exclusive at Aghadoe.
A little while after that dinner at Damerstown Nora confessed to me with
tears that she had stolen out in my absence and had lain in wait for
Richard Dawson.
"And after all, Miss Bawn," she said, "I was punished, for he only
lifted his hat to me and rode away; and I felt as if I must fall in the
track of his horse's feet and implore him to kiss me as he used to. And
he never looked back, Miss Bawn."
"I am glad to hear it," I said, feeling that the words were hard and
cold.
"I don't know what's come over him," poor Nora said miserably, "unless
that, maybe, a good love has come to him at last. I'd just as soon be
dead, Miss Bawn."
Soon after that she began talking of going to America, and I used to
notice that she looked strangely at me. But I never saw what every one
else must have seen; partly, no doubt, because of that old troth between
Theobald and me which I thought my grandparents held to be binding. I
ought to have mentioned in its proper place that there had been no cause
for Theobald's weeks of silence, or but a trifling one, and that his
letters came as of old and were very full of gay doings. I noticed that
he did not talk now so much of coming back as he had done at first; but
at first he had been very lonely for Aghadoe and all of us.
Day by day during that summer the shadow seemed to darken on Lord St.
Leger's face, and my grandmother looked no less harassed. It was,
indeed, cruel to see the faces which had been placid enough, despite the
lines of sorrow, becoming so haggard and careworn. I used to hate to see
them so anxiously polite to Garret Dawson, so willing to sit at his
table and have him at theirs. I noticed, too, that they looked strangely
at me at times; and I found my grandmother in tears more than once. It
hurt me that she should weep at her age.
Another thing I noticed was that they ceased to talk of Theobald; and
when his letters came they would read them without comment, or they
would take my news of him without an eager stretching forth of their
hands for the letter as of old. In those days mysteries seemed to gather
thick and fast about me. And I had my own trouble to bear as well. I
used to think that Captain Cardew would have made short work of it all.
He would have swept away the shadowy terrors. He would have lifted us
all into the daylight. But, alas, he was I knew not where; and his name
was never mentioned in the hearing of Lord and Lady St. Leger.
Then the blow fell. One afternoon Garret Dawson had been to see my
grandfather and talked with him alone; and at dinner my grandmother's
face bore traces of tears, and I noticed that my grandfather's hand
shook so that he spilt his wine. There was not a word spoken, and after
a time the silence got on my nerves, so that I began to dread I knew not
what, and could almost have burst into tears from the tension.
We had dined where we often dined when we were alone, in a little room,
panelled with black oak, which opens off the hall. It is bright enough
when a fire leaps and sparkles in the grate, but it was then too warm
for fires, and the room seemed cheerless even while the white cloth was
on the table and the lit candles made the silver and glass sparkle.
And presently, when Neil Doherty had taken away the cloth and we sat
around the polished black table with nothing on it but a couple of
candles and a decanter of port wine and glasses, the room looked very
sad.
My grandfather tapped with his hand on the table, a thing I have known
him to do when in trouble, and again the tears overflowed my
grandmother's eyes and ran down her cheeks. And I felt that something
was coming.
Then my grandfather cleared his throat, and leaning his face in his hand
so that I should not see it, he said--
"There is something that concerns you, Bawn, which I wish to lay before
you. You have been a good child always, kind and obedient to us. And now
it is in your power to do more for us than ever you have done before."
He paused, and in the silence I heard the rain falling on the gravel
path. It had been threatening all the afternoon. The wind soughed; it
was going to be a wild night.
"Mr. Dawson has been with me this afternoon," he went on. "We talked of
you, Bawn. Bawn, child, Richard Dawson wishes to marry you. Can you
marry him, Bawn? If you can do it Garret Dawson gives up to me on your
wedding-day certain documents which hold in them the disgrace of our
family. We are old, Bawn, and we have loved you and been good to you.
There are some things we could not bear. Child, can you say 'Yes?'"
I felt now as though I had known it all the time. I had a queer memory
of a room in which a man lay imprisoned, the walls of which came closer
and closer every day till they should press him to death. It was a tale
I had read somewhere. So this had been closing in on me all those
months. I was to marry Richard Dawson, I who loved Anthony Cardew with
all my heart and soul.