Conyers had scarcely finished his reading when he was startled by the
galloping of horses under his window; so close, indeed, did they come
that they seemed to shake the little cottage with their tramp. He looked
out, but they had already swept past, and were hidden from his view
by the copse that shut out the river. At the same instant he heard the
confused sound of many voices, and what sounded to him like the plash of
horses in the stream.
Urged by a strong curiosity, he hurried downstairs and made straight
for the river by a path that led through the trees; but before he could
emerge from the cover he heard cries of “Not there! not there! Lower
down!” “No, no! up higher! up higher! Head up the stream, or you 'll be
caught in the gash!” “Don't hurry; you've time enough!”
When he gained the bank, it was to see three horsemen, who seemed to
be cheering, or, as it might be, warning a young girl who, mounted on a
powerful black horse, was deep in the stream, and evidently endeavoring
to cross it. Her hat hung on the back of her neck by its ribbon, and her
hair had also fallen down; but one glance was enough to show that she
was a consummate horsewoman, and whose courage was equal to her skill;
for while steadily keeping her horse's head to the swift current, she
was careful not to control him overmuch, or impede the free action of
his powers. Heeding, as it seemed, very little the counsels or warnings
showered on her by the bystanders, not one of whom, to Conyers's intense
amazement, had ventured to accompany her, she urged her horse steadily
forward.
“Don't hurry,--take it easy!” called out one of the horsemen, as he
looked at his watch. “You have fifty-three minutes left, and it's all
turf.”
“She 'll do it,--I know she will!” “She 'll lose,--she must lose!” “It's
ten miles to Foynes Gap!” “It's more!” “It's less!” “There!--see!--she's
in, by Jove! she's in!” These varying comments were now arrested by the
intense interest of the moment, the horse having impatiently plunged
into a deep pool, and struck out to swim with all the violent exertion
of an affrighted animal. “Keep his head up!” “Let him free, quite free!”
“Get your foot clear of the stirrup!” cried out the bystanders, while
in lower tones they muttered, “She would cross here!” “It's all her own
fault!” Just at this instant she turned in her saddle, and called out
something which, drowned in the rush of the river, did not reach them.
“Don't you see,” cried Conyers, passionately, for his temper could no
longer endure the impassive attitude of this on-looking, “one of the
reins is broken, her bridle is smashed?”
And, without another word, he sprang into the river, partly wading,
partly swimming, and soon reached the place where the horse, restrained
by one rein alone, swam in a small circle, fretted by restraint and
maddened by inability to resist.
“Leave him to me,--let go your rein,” said Conyers, as he grasped
the bridle close to the bit; and the animal, accepting the guidance,
suffered himself to be led quietly till he reached the shallow. Once
there, he bounded wildly forward, and, splashing through the current,
leaped up the bank, where he was immediately caught by the others.
By the time Conyers had gained the land, the girl had quitted her saddle
and entered the cottage, never so much as once turning a look on him who
had rescued her. If he could not help feeling mortified at this show of
indifference, he was not less puzzled by the manner of the others,
who, perfectly careless of his dripping condition, discussed amongst
themselves how the bridle broke, and what might have happened if the
leather had proved tougher.
“It's always the way with her,” muttered one, sulkily.
“I told her to ride the match in a ring-snaffle, but she's a mule in
obstinacy! She 'd have won easily--ay, with five minutes to spare--if
she'd have crossed at Nunsford. I passed there last week without wetting
a girth.”
“She 'll not thank _you_ young gentleman, whoever you are,” said the
oldest of the party, turning to Conyers, “for your gallantry. She 'll
only remember you as having helped her to lose a wager!”
“That's true!” cried another. “I never got as much as thank you for
catching her horse one day at Lyrath, though it threw me out of the
whole run afterwards.”
“And this was a wager, then?” said Conyers.
“Yes. An English officer that is stopping at Sir Charles's said
yesterday that nobody could ride from Lowe's Folly to Foynes as the crow
flies; and four of us took him up--twenty-five pounds apiece--that Polly
Dill would do it,--and against time, too,--an hour and forty.”
“On a horse of mine,” chimed in another,--“Bayther-shini”
“I must say it does not tell very well for your chivalry in these
parts,” said Conyers, angrily. “Could no one be found to do the match
without risking a young girl's life on it?”
A very hearty burst of merriment met this speech, and the elder of the
party rejoined,--
“You must be very new to this country, or you'd not have said that, sir.
There's not a man in the hunt could get as much out of a horse as that
girl.”
“Not to say,” added another, with a sly laugh, “that the Englishman gave
five to one against her when he heard she was going to ride.”
Disgusted by what he could not but regard as a most disgraceful wager,
Conyers turned away, and walked into the house.
“Go and change your clothes as fast as you can,” said Miss Barrington,
as she met him in the porch. “I am quite provoked you should have wetted
your feet in such a cause.”
It was no time to ask for explanations; and Conyers hurried away to his
room, marvelling much at what he had heard, but even more astonished
by the attitude of cool and easy indifference as to what might have
imperilled a human life. He had often heard of the reckless habits and
absurd extravagances of Irish life, but he fancied that they appertained
to a time long past, and that society had gradually assumed the tone and
the temper of the English. Then he began to wonder to what class in life
these persons belonged. The girl, so well as he could see, was certainly
handsome, and appeared ladylike; and yet, why had she not even by a word
acknowledged the service he rendered her? And lastly, what could old
Miss Barrington mean by that scornful speech? These were all great
puzzles to him, and like many great puzzles only the more embarrassing
the more they were thought over.
The sound of voices drew him now to the window, and he saw one of the
riding-party in converse with Darby at the door. They talked in a low
tone together, and laughed; and then the horseman, chucking a half-crown
towards Darby, said aloud,--
“And tell her that we 'll send the boat down for her as soon as we get
back.”
Darby touched his hat gratefully, and was about to retire within the
house when he caught sight of Conyers at the window. He waited till the
rider had turned the angle of the road, and then said,--
“That's Mr. St. George. They used to call him the Slasher, he killed so
many in duels long ago; but he 's like a lamb now.”
“And the young lady?”
“The young lady is it!” said Darby, with the air of one not exactly
concurring in the designation. “She's old Dill's daughter, the doctor
that attends you.”
“What was it all about?”
“It was a bet they made with an English captain this morning that she
'd ride from Lowe's Folly to the Gap in an hour and a half. The Captain
took a hundred on it, because he thought she 'd have to go round by
the bridge; and they pretinded the same, for they gave all kinds of
directions about clearing the carts out of the road, for it's market-day
at Thomastown; and away went the Captain as hard as he could, to be at
the bridge first, to 'time her,' as she passed. But he has won the
money!” sighed he, for the thought of so much Irish coin going into a
Saxon pocket completely overcame him; “and what's more,” added he, “the
gentleman says it was all your fault!”
“All my fault!” cried Conyers, indignantly. “All my fault! Do they
imagine that I either knew or cared for their trumpery wager! I saw a
girl struggling in a danger from which not one of them had the manliness
to rescue her!”
“Oh, take my word for it,” burst in Darby, “it's not courage they want!”
“Then it is something far better than even courage, and I'd like to tell
them so.”
And he turned away as much disgusted with Darby as with the rest of his
countrymen. Now, all the anger that filled his breast was not in reality
provoked by the want of gallantry that he condemned; a portion, at
least, was owing to the marvellous indifference the young lady had
manifested to her preserver. Was peril such an every-day incident of
Irish life that no one cared for it, or was gratitude a quality not
cultivated in this strange land? Such were the puzzles that tormented
him as he descended to the drawing-room.
As he opened the door, he heard Miss Barrington's voice, in a tone which
he rightly guessed to be reproof, and caught the words, “Just as unwise
as it is unbecoming,” when he entered.
“Mr. Conyers, Miss Dill,” said the old lady, stiffly; “the young
gentleman who saved you, the heroine you rescued!” The two allocutions
were delivered with a gesture towards each. To cover a moment of extreme
awkwardness, Conyers blundered out something about being too happy, and
a slight service, and a hope of no ill consequences to herself.
“Have no fears on that score, sir,” broke in Miss Dinah. “Manly young
ladies are the hardiest things in nature. They are as insensible to
danger as they are to--” She stopped, and grew crimson, partly from
anger and partly from the unspoken word that had almost escaped her.
“Nay, madam,” said Polly, quietly, “I am really very much 'ashamed.'”
And, simple as the words were, Miss Barrington felt the poignancy of
their application to herself, and her hand trembled over the embroidery
she was working.
She tried to appear calm, but in vain; her color came and went, and the
stitches, in spite of her, grew irregular; so that, after a moment's
struggle, she pushed the frame away, and left the room. While this very
brief and painful incident was passing, Conyers was wondering to himself
how the dashing horsewoman, with flushed cheek, flashing eye, and
dishevelled hair, could possibly be the quiet, demure girl, with a
downcast look, and almost Quaker-like simplicity of demeanor. It is
but fair to add, though he himself did not discover it, that the
contributions of Miss Dinah's wardrobe, to which poor Polly was reduced
for dress, were not exactly of a nature to heighten her personal
attractions; nor did a sort of short jacket, and a very much beflounced
petticoat, set off the girl's figure to advantage. Polly never raised
her eyes from the work she was sewing as Miss Barrington withdrew, but,
in a low, gentle voice, said, “It was very good of you, sir, to come
to my rescue, but you mustn't think ill of my countrymen for not having
done so; they had given their word of honor not to lead a fence, nor
open a gate, nor, in fact, aid me in any way.”
“So that, if they could win their wager, your peril was of little
matter,” broke he in.
She gave a little low, quiet laugh, perhaps as much at the energy as at
the words of his speech. “After all,” said she, “a wetting is no great
misfortune; the worst punishment of my offence was one that I never
contemplated.”
“What do you mean?” asked he.
“Doing penance for it in this costume,” said she, drawing out the stiff
folds of an old brocaded silk, and displaying a splendor of flowers
that might have graced a peacock's tail; “I never so much as dreamed of
this!”
There was something so comic in the way she conveyed her distress that
he laughed outright. She joined him; and they were at once at their ease
together.
“I think Miss Barrington called you Mr. Conyers,” said she; “and if
so, I have the happiness of feeling that my gratitude is bestowed where
already there has been a large instalment of the sentiment. It is you
who have been so generous and so kind to my poor brother.”
“Has he told you, then, what we have been planning together?”
“He has told me all that _you_ had planned out for him,” said she, with
a very gracious smile, which very slightly colored her cheek, and gave
great softness to her expression. “My only fear was that the poor boy
should have lost his head completely, and perhaps exaggerated to himself
your intentions towards him; for, after all, I can scarcely think--”
“What is it that you can scarcely think?” asked he, after a long pause.
“Not to say,” resumed she, unheeding his question, “that I cannot
imagine how this came about. What could have led him to tell _you_--a
perfect stranger to him--his hopes and fears, his struggles and his
sorrows? How could you--by what magic did you inspire him with that
trustful confidence which made him open his whole heart before you? Poor
Tom, who never before had any confessor than myself!”
“Shall I tell you how it came about? It was talking of _you!_”
“Of me! talking of me!” and her cheek now flushed more deeply.
“Yes, we had rambled on over fifty themes, not one of which seemed to
attach him strongly, till, in some passing allusion to his own cares and
difficulties, he mentioned one who has never ceased to guide and comfort
him; who shared not alone his sorrows, but his hard hours of labor, and
turned away from her own pleasant paths to tread the dreary road of toil
beside him.”
“I think he might have kept all this to himself,” said she, with a tone
of almost severity.
“How could he? How was it possible to tell me his story, and not touch
upon what imparted the few tints of better fortune that lighted it? I'm
certain, besides, that there is a sort of pride in revealing how much of
sympathy and affection we have derived from those better than ourselves,
and I could see that he was actually vain of what you had done for him.”
“I repeat, he might have kept this to himself. But let us leave this
matter; and now tell me,--for I own I can hardly trust my poor brother's
triumphant tale,--tell me seriously what the plan is?”
Conyers hesitated for a few seconds, embarrassed how to avoid mention of
himself, or to allude but passingly to his own share in the project. At
last, as though deciding to dash boldly into the question, he said, “I
told him, if he 'd go out to India, I 'd give him such a letter to my
father that his fortune would be secure. My governor is something of a
swell out there,”--and he reddened, partly in shame, partly in pride, as
he tried to disguise his feeling by an affectation of ease,--“and that
with _him_ for a friend, Tom would be certain of success. You smile at
my confidence, but you don't know India, and what scores of fine things
are--so to say--to be had for asking; and although doctoring is all very
well, there are fifty other ways to make a fortune faster. Tom could be
a Receiver of Revenue; he might be a Political Resident. You don't know
what they get. There's a fellow at Baroda has four thousand rupees a
month, and I don't know how much more for dâk-money.”
“I can't help smiling,” said she, “at the notion of poor Tom in a
palanquin. But, seriously, sir, is all this possible? or might it not be
feared that your father, when he came to see my brother--who, with many
a worthy quality, has not much to prepossess in his favor,--when, I
say, he came to see your _protégé_ is it not likely that he
might--might--hold him more cheaply than you do?”
“Not when he presents a letter from me; not when it's I that have taken
him up. You 'll believe me, perhaps, when I tell you what happened when
I was but ten years old. We were up at Rangoon, in the Hills, when a
dreadful hurricane swept over the country, destroying everything before
it; rice, paddy, the indigo-crop, all were carried away, and the poor
people left totally destitute. A subscription-list was handed about
amongst the British residents, to afford some aid in the calamity, and
it was my tutor, a native Moonshee, who went about to collect the sums.
One morning he came back somewhat disconsolate at his want of success.
A payment of eight thousand rupees had to be made for grain on that day,
and he had not, as he hoped and expected, the money ready. He talked
freely to me of his disappointment, so that, at last, my feelings being
worked upon, I took up my pen and wrote down my name on the list, with
the sum of eight thousand rupees to it Shocked at what he regarded as
an act of levity, he carried the paper to my father, who at once said,
'Fred wrote it; his name shall not be dishonored;' and the money was
paid. I ask you, now, am I reckoning too much on one who could do that,
and for a mere child too?”
“That was nobly done,” said she, with enthusiasm; and though Conyers
went on, with warmth, to tell more of his father's generous nature,
she seemed less to listen than to follow out some thread of her own
reflections. Was it some speculation as to the temperament the son of
such a father might possess? or was it some pleasurable revery regarding
one who might do any extravagance and yet be forgiven? My reader may
guess this, perhaps,--I cannot. Whatever her speculation, it lent a
very charming expression to her features,--that air of gentle, tranquil
happiness we like to believe the lot of guileless, simple natures.
Conyers, like many young men of his order, was very fond of talking of
himself, of his ways, his habits, and his temper, and she listened to
him very prettily,--so prettily, indeed, that when Darby, slyly peeping
in at the half-opened door, announced that the boat had come, he felt
well inclined to pitch the messenger into the stream.
“I must go and say good-bye to Miss Barrington,” said Polly, rising. “I
hope that this rustling finery will impart some dignity to my demeanor.”
And drawing wide the massive folds, she made a very deep courtesy,
throwing back her head haughtily as she resumed her height in admirable
imitation of a bygone school of manners.
[Illustration: 166]
“Very well,--very well, indeed! Quite as like what it is meant for as is
Miss Polly Dill for the station she counterfeits!” said Miss Dinah, as,
throwing wide the door, she stood before them.
“I am overwhelmed by your flattery, madam,” said Polly, who, though
very red, lost none of her self-possession; “but I feel that, like
the traveller who tried on Charlemagne's armor, I am far more equal to
combat in my every-day clothes.”
[Illustration: 166]
“Do not enter the lists with me in either,” said Miss Dinah, with a look
of the haughtiest insolence. “Mr. Conyers, will you let me show you my
flower-garden?”
“Delighted! But I will first see Miss Dill to her boat.” “As you please,
sir,” said the old lady; and she withdrew with a proud toss of her head
that was very unmistakable in its import.
“What a severe correction that was!” said Polly, half gayly, as she went
along, leaning on his arm. “And _you_ know that, whatever my
offending, there was no mimicry in it. I was simply thinking of some
great-grandmother who had, perhaps, captivated the heroes of Dettingen;
and, talking of heroes, how courageous of you to come to my rescue!”
Was it that her arm only trembled slightly, or did it really press
gently on his own as she said this? Certainly Conyers inclined to the
latter hypothesis, for he drew her more closely to his side, and said,
“Of course I stood by you. She was all in the wrong, and I mean to tell
her so.”
“Not if you would serve me,” said she, eagerly. “I have paid the
penalty, and I strongly object to be sentenced again. Oh, here's the
boat!”
“Why it's a mere skiff. Are you safe to trust yourself in such a thing?”
asked he, for the canoe-shaped “cot” was new to him.
“Of course!” said she, lightly stepping in. “There is even room for
another.” Then, hastily changing her theme, she asked, “May I tell poor
Tom what you have said to me, or is it just possible that you will come
up one of these days and see us?”
“If I might be permitted--”
“Too much honor for us!” said she, with such a capital imitation of his
voice and manner that he burst into a laugh in spite of himself.
“Mayhap Miss Bamngton was not so far wrong: after all, you _are_ a
terrible mimic.”
“Is it a promise, then? Am I to say to my brother you will come?” said
she, seriously.
“Faithfully!” said he, waving his hand, for the boatmen had already got
the skiff under weigh, and were sending her along like an arrow from a
bow.
Polly turned and kissed her hand to him, and Conyers muttered something
over his own stupidity for not being beside her, and then turned sulkily
back towards the cottage. A few hours ago and he had thought he
could have passed his life here; there was a charm in the unbroken
tranquillity that seemed to satisfy the longings of his heart, and
now, all of a sudden, the place appeared desolate. Have you never, dear
reader, felt, in gazing on some fair landscape, with mountain and stream
and forest before you, that the scene was perfect, wanting nothing in
form or tone or color, till suddenly a flash of strong sunlight from
behind a cloud lit up some spot with a glorious lustre, to fade away as
quickly into the cold tint it had worn before? Have you not felt then,
I say, that the picture had lost its marvellous attraction, and that the
very soul of its beauty had departed? In vain you try to recall the
past impression; your memory will mourn over the lost, and refuse to
be comforted. And so it is often in life: the momentary charm that
came unexpectedly can become all in all to our imaginations, and its
departure leave a blank, like a death, behind it.
Nor was he altogether satisfied with Miss Barrington. The “old
woman”--alas! for his gallantry, it was so that he called her to
himself--was needlessly severe. Why should a mere piece of harmless
levity be so visited? At all events, he felt certain that he himself
would have shown a more generous spirit. Indeed, when Polly had quizzed
him, he took it all good-naturedly, and by thus turning his thoughts to
his natural goodness and the merits of his character, he at length
grew somewhat more well-disposed to the world at large. He knew he
was naturally forgiving, and he felt he was very generous. Scores of
fellows, bred up as he was, would have been perfectly unendurable;
they would have presumed on their position, and done this, that, and t'
other. Not one of them would have dreamed of taking up a poor ungainly
bumpkin, a country doctor's cub, and making a man of him; not one of
them would have had the heart to conceive or the energy to carry out
such a project. And yet this he would do. Polly herself, sceptical as
she was, should be brought to admit that he had kept his word. Selfish
fellows would limit their plans to their own engagements, and weak
fellows could be laughed out of their intentions; but _he_ flattered
himself that he was neither of these, and it was really fortunate that
the world should see how little spoiled a fine nature could be, though
surrounded with all the temptations that are supposed to be dangerous.
In this happy frame--for he was now happy--he reentered the cottage.
“What a coxcomb!” will say my reader. Be it so. But it was a coxcomb who
wanted to be something better.
Miss Barrington met him in the porch, not a trace of her late
displeasure on her face, but with a pleasant smile she said, “I have
just got a few lines from my brother. He writes in excellent spirits,
for he has gained a lawsuit; not a very important case, but it puts us
in a position to carry out a little project we are full of. He will be
here by Saturday, and hopes to bring with him an old and valued friend,
the Attorney-General, to spend a few days with us. I am, therefore,
able to promise you an ample recompense for all the loneliness of your
present life. I have cautiously abstained from telling my brother who
you are; I keep the delightful surprise for the moment of your meeting.
Your name, though associated with some sad memories, will bring him back
to the happiest period of his life.”
Conyers made some not very intelligible reply about his reluctance
to impose himself on them at such a time, but she stopped him with a
good-humored smile, and said,--
“Your father's son should know that where a Barrington lived he had
a home,--not to say you have already paid some of the tribute of this
homeliness, and seen me very cross and ill-tempered. Well, let us not
speak of that now. I have your word to remain here.” And she left him to
attend to her household cares, while he strolled into the garden, half
amused, half embarrassed by all the strange and new interests that had
grown up so suddenly around him.