For many hundred yards total silence prevailed among our pedestrians.
Even Kate Mulvey seemed at a loss what first to say, or whether she
ought to be the first to say anything.
Winny, seeing that her poor dog was getting on famously, was rather
pleased, "since the thing did happen," that it had been brought to so
satisfactory an end after all; and by whom? Her poor dog might have
been killed, and would, undoubtedly, but for Emon-a-knock's fortunate
arrival at the last moment, and his prompt and successful assistance.
There was poor Bully-dhu now, walking to all appearances almost as
well as ever, and tied up in _his_ handkerchief. She was glad that the
road had become by this time comparatively deserted, for she was timid
and frightened, she knew not why. Perhaps she was afraid she might
meet her father. She was thinking with herself, too, how far Emon
would come with them, and who they might meet who knew them, before he
turned back. Emon-a-knock's heart was wishing Kate Mulvey at "_Altha
Brashia_," but his head was not sorry that she was one of the party,
for common-sense still kept his heart in subjection.
Thus it was that silence prevailed for some time. Bully-dhu was the
first to break it. Whether it was that the whiskey had got into his
head, or, as the present fashion would say, that he was "screwed," I
know not; but he felt so much better, and had so far recovered his
strength and spirits, that he had almost pulled the handkerchief from
Emon's hand, and cut an awkward sort of a rigadoon round Winny,
barking, and looking up _triumphantly_ in her face. Could it have been
that while the others had been thinking of these other things, he had
been deluding himself with the notion that he had been the victor in
the battle?
"Poor fellow," said Winny, patting him on the head, "I do think
there's nothing very bad the matter with you after all. Emon, I
am beginning to believe you."
"I hope you will always believe me, Winny Cavana," was his reply, and
he again sunk into silence.
She could not think why he called her Cavana, and "yet her color
rose;" I believe that is the way your experienced novelists would
express it in such a case.
A longer silence now ensued. None of the three appeared inclined to
talk--Emon less than either. Kate Mulvey, who had always plenty to
say for herself, seemed completely dumb--foundered, I was going to
add, but I find the word will do as well, perhaps better, in its
purity. But, notwithstanding their silence, they were shortening the
road to Rathcash. Winny was framing some pretty little speech of
thanks to Emon for the _trouble_ he had taken, and for his _kindness_;
but she had so often _botched_ it to her own mind, that she determined
to leave it to chance at the moment of parting. Kate had no such
excuse for her silence, and yet she was not without one, which to
herself quite justified it.
Some few desultory remarks, however, were made from time to time,
followed by the still "awkward pause," until they had now arrived at
the turn in sight of Kate Mulvey's house.
Emon was determined to go the whole way to the end of the lane turning
up to Winny Cavana's. He had not sought this day's happiness; he had
studiously avoided such a chance; but circumstances had so far
controlled him, that he could not accuse himself of wilful imprudence.
Emon knew very well that if a fair opportunity occurred, he would in
all probability betray himself in an unequivocal manner to Winny, and
he dreaded the result. Up to the present he was on friendly and
familiar terms with her; but once the word was spoken, he feared a
barrier would be placed between them, which might put an end to even
this calm source of happiness. That he loved Winny with a
disinterested but devoted love, he knew too well. How far he might
hope that she would ever look upon his love with favor, he had never
yet ventured to feel his way; and yet his heart told him there was
something about herself, which, if unbiassed by circumstances, might
bid him not despair. But her rich old father, who had set his heart
upon a marriage for his daughter with Tom Murdock, and a union of the
farms, he knew would never consent. Neither did he believe that Winny
herself would decline so grand a match when it came to the point.
Emon had argued all these matters over and over again in his mind; and
the fatal certainty of disappointment, added to a prudent
determination to avoid her society as much as possible, had enabled
him hitherto to keep his heart under some control.
Kate Mulvey, though "book-sworn" by Winny, if she did not exactly
repeat any of the confidential chat she had with her friend about Tom
Murdock and himself, felt no hesitation in "letting slip" to Emon, for
whom she had a very great regard, a hint or two just casually, as if
by accident, that Tom Murdock "was no great favorite" of Winny
Cavana's--that the neighbors "were all astray" in "giving them to one
another"--that if she knew what two and two made, it would all "end in
smoke;" and such little gossiping observations. Not by way of
_telling_ Emon, but just as if in the mere exuberance of her own love
of chat. But they had the desired effect, now that Emon was likely to
have an opportunity of a few words with Winny alone, for Kate was
evidently preparing to turn up to her own house when they came to the
little gate.
Emon had heard, even in his rank of life, the aristocratic expression
that "faint heart never won fair lady;" and a secret sort of
self-esteem prompted him to make the most of the fortuitous
circumstances which he had not sought for, and which he therefore
argued Providence might have thrown in his way, "What can she
do," thought he, "but reject my love? I shall know the worst then; and
I can make a start of it. I'm too long hanging about here like a fool;
a dumb priest never got a parish; and barring his acres and his
cash--if he has any--I'm a better man than ever he was, or ever will
be."
These were his thoughts as they approached the gate, and his heart
began to tremble as Kate Mulvey said:
"Winny, dear, I must part with you here. I saw my father at the door.
He came to it two or three times while we were coming up the road; and
he made a sign to me to go in. I'm sure and certain he's half-starved
for his dinner, waiting for me!"
"Well, Kitty, I suppose I can't expect you to starve him out-and-out,
and I'll bid you good-bye. I'm all as one as at home now, I may say.
Emon--I--won't bring you any further."
"You're not bringing me, Winny; I'm going of my own free will."
"Indeed, Emon, you have been very kind, and I'm entirely obliged to
you for all your trouble; but I won't ask you to come any further
now."
Kate's father just then came to the door again; and she, thinking that
matters had gone far enough between Emon and her friend in her
presence, bid them a final good-bye, and turned up to her father, who
still stood at the door, and who really did appear to be starving, if
one could judge by the position of his hands and the face he made.
The moment had now arrived when Emon must meet his fate, or call
himself a coward and a poltroon for the remainder of his natural life,
be it long or short.
He chose the least degrading and the most hopeful alternative--to meet
his fate.
As Winny held out her hand to him, and asked him to let out the dog,
he said:
"No, Winny; I'll give him up to you at the end of the lane; but not
sooner."
Winny saw that remonstrance would be no use. She did not wish to
quarrel with Emon, and she knew that at all events that was no time or
place to do so.
They had not advanced many yards alone, when Winny stopped again, as
if irresolute between her wishes and her fears. She had not yet spoken
unkindly to Emon, and she had tact enough to know that the first
unkind word would bring out the whole matter, which she dreaded, in a
flood from his heart, and which she doubted her own power to
withstand.
"Emon," she said, "indeed I will not let you come any further--don't
be angry."
"Winny, you said first you would not ask me, and now you say you will
not let me. Winny Cavana, are you ashamed of _any_ one about Rathcash,
or Rathcash_more_, seeing you walking with Emon-a-knock?"
"You are very unjust and very unkind, Emon, to say any such thing. I
never was ashamed to be seen walking with you; and I'm certain sure
the day will never come when you will give me reason to be ashamed of
you, Emon-a-knock;--there now, I seldom put the two last words to your
name, except when I wish to be kind. But there is a difference between
shame and fear, Emon."
"Then you are afraid, Winny?"
"Yes, Emon, but it is only of my father--take that with you now, and
be satisfied, but don't fret me by persevering further. Let the dog
go--and good-bye."
All this time she was counting the pebbles on the road with her eyes.
"No, Winny, I'll not fret you willingly; but here or there it is all
the same, and the truth must come out. Winny, you have been the
woodbine that has twined itself and blossomed round my heart for many
a long day. Don't wither it, Winny dear, but say I may water and
nourish it with the dew of your love;" and he would have taken
her hand.
"Not here, Emon," she said, releasing it; "are you mad? Don't you see
we're in sight of the houses? and gracious only knows who may be
watching us! Untie your handkerchief and give be the dog. For goodness
sake, Emon dear, don't come any further."
"No, Winny, I'd die before I'd fret you. Here's the dog, handkerchief
and all: keep it as a token that I may hope."
"Indeed, Emon, I cannot--don't ask me."
Emon's heart fell, and he stooped to untie the handkerchief in
despair, if not in chagrin, at Winny's last words.
But Bully-dhu appeared to know what his mistress ought to have done
better than she did herself. It was either that, or Emon's hand shook
so, that when endeavoring to untie the knot, the dog got loose,
"handkerchief and all," and, turning to his mistress, began to bark
and jump up on her, with joy that he had gained his liberty, and was
so near home. Winny became frightened lest Bully-dhu's barks might
bring notice upon them, and she endeavored to moderate his ecstacy,
yet she felt a sort of secret delight that she was in for the
handkerchief in spite of herself. She was determined, therefore, not
to send poor Emon-a-knock away totally dejected.
"There, Emon dear; for God's sake, I say again, be off home. I'll keep
it in memory of the day that you saved my poor dog from
destruction--there now, will that do?" and she held out her hand.
"It is enough, Winny dear. This has been the happiest day of my life.
May I hope it has only been the first of a long life like it?"
"Now, Emon, don't talk nonsense, but be off home, if you have any wit
--good-bye;" and this time she gave him her hand and let it lie in
his.
"God bless you, Winny dearest, I oughtn't to be too hard on you. Sure
you have raised my heart up into heaven already, and there is
something now worth living for." And he turned away with a quick and
steady step.
"She called me 'dear' twice," he soliloquized, after he thought she
had fairly turned round. But Winny had heard him, and as she took the
handkerchief from Bully-dhu's neck, she patted him upon the head,
saying, "And you _are_ a dear good fellow, and I'm very fond of you."
Emon heard every part of this little speech except the first word, and
Winny managed it to perfection; for though she had used the word "and"
in connection with what she had heard Emon say, she was too cunning to
let him hear that one small word, which would have calmed his beating
heart; and the rest she would fain have it appear had been said to the
dog, for which purpose she accompanied the words with those pats upon
his head. She spoke somewhat louder, however, than was necessary, if
Bully-dhu was alone intended to hear her.
Emon saw the transaction, and heard some of the words--only some. But
they were sufficient to make him envy the dog, as he watched them
going up the lane, and into the house.
It might be a nice point, in the higher ranks of life, to determine
whether, in a "breach of promise" case, the above passages could be
relied on as unequivocal evidence on either side of a promise; or
whether a young lover would be justified in believing that his suit
had been successful upon no other foundation than what had then taken
place. But in the rank of life in which Winny Cavana and Edward Lennon
moved, it was as good between them as if they had been
"book-sworn"--and they both knew it.
Before Winny went to her bed that night she had washed and ironed the
handkerchief, and she kept it ever after in her pocket, folded up in a
piece of newspaper. It had no mark upon it when she got it, but
she was not afraid, after some time, to work the letters E. A. K. in
the comer, as no one was ever to see it but herself, not even Kate
Mulvey.
Old Ned Cavana, after returning from prayers, determined to rest
himself for some time before taking a tour of the farm, and lay down
upon an old black sofa in the parlor. There is no shame in the truth
that an old man of his age soon fell fast asleep. The servant-girl
looked in once or twice to tell him that the spotted heifer had cut
her leg jumping over a wall, as Jamesy Doyle was turning her out of
the wheat; but she knew it would not signify; and not wishing, or
perhaps not venturing, to disturb him, she quietly shut the door
again. He slept so long, that he was only just getting the spotted
heifer's leg stuped in the farm-yard while the scene already described
was passing between Winny and young Lennon upon the road. Were it not
for that same heifer's leg he would doubtless have been standing at
the window watching his daughter's return. Upon such fortuitous
accidents do lovers' chances sometimes hang! This was what Winny in
her ignorance of her father's employment had dreaded; and hence alone
her anxiety that Emon should "be off home, if he had any wit."
On this point she found, however, that all was right when she entered.
Her father was just coming in from the farm-yard, "very thankful that
it was no worse;" a frame of mind which we would recommend all persons
to cultivate under untoward circumstances of any kind.
Of course Winny told her father of the mishap about poor Bully-dhu's
battle; she "nothing extenuated, nor set down aught in malice," but
told the thing accurately as it had occurred; and did not even hide
that young Lennon--she did not call him Emon-a-knock--had ultimately
rescued the poor dog from destruction. She did not think it necessary
to say how far he had accompanied them on their way home.
"He's a smart young fellow, that Lennon is, an' I'm for ever obliged
to him, Winny, for that same turn. There would be no livin' here but
for Bully-dhu. I believe it was Emon himself gev him to us, when he
was a pup."
"It was, father; and a very fine dog he turned out."
"The sorra-betther, Winny. If it wasn't for him, as I say, betune the
fox an' the rogues, we wouldn't have a goose or a turkey, or a duck,
or a cock, or a hen, or so much as a chikin, in the place, nor so
much, iv coorse, as a fresh egg for our breakfast. Poor Bully, I hope
he's not hurt, Winny;" and he stooped down to examine him. "No, no,"
he cried, "not much; but I'm sure he's thirsty. Here, Biddy, get Bully
a dish of _bonnia-rommer_, and be sure you make him up a good mess
afther dinner. That Emon-a-knock, as they call him, is a thundering
fine young man; it's a pity the poor fellow is a pauper, I may say."
"No, father, he's _not_ a pauper, and never will be; he's well able to
earn his living."
"I know that, Winny, for he often worked here; an' there's not a man
in the three parishes laves an honester day's work behind him."
"And does not spend it foolishly, father. If you were to see how
nicely he was dressed to-day; and--beside all the help he gives his
father and mother."
She was about to add a remark that work was just then very slack, as
it was the dead time of the year, but that there was always something
to be done about the farm; but second thoughts checked the words as
they were rising to her lips; and second thoughts, they say, are best.
Old Ned here turned the conversation by "wondering was the dinner near
ready."
Winny was not a little surprised, and a good deal delighted, to hear
her father talk so familiarly and so kindly of Emon. There never
was a time when her father's kind word of him was of more value to her
heart. Perhaps it would be an unjust implication of hypocrisy on the
old man's part to suggest that he might have only been "pumping" Winny
on the subject. She felt, however, that she had gone far enough for
the present in the expression of her opinion, and was not sorry when a
touch of the _faire gurtha_ put her father in mind of "the dinner."
We, who, of course, can see much further than any of our _dramatis
personae,_ and who are privileged to be behind the scenes, could tell
Winny Cavana--but that we would not wish to fret her--that Tom Murdock
was looking on from his own window at the whole scene between her and
young Lennon on the road; and that from that moment, although he could
not hear a word that was said, he understood the whole thing, and was
generating plans of vengeance and destruction against _one_ or both.