Roland Cashel Volume Ii Part 31

"This was a mistake, Livy," said she, in a voice barely above a whisper; "I was trying on some costumes below stairs, and they tied this round my neck, where I utterly forgot it."

"And there is nothing--" She could not go on, but, hanging her head, burst into tears.

"My poor dear Livy, don't give way so; the fault, I know, was all mine.

Let me try if I cannot repair it Have you positively refused him?"

She nodded, but could not speak.

"Did you say that there was no hope,--that your sentiments could never change?"

"I did."

"Come, that's not so bad; men never believe that. You did n't say that your affections were engaged?"

"No!"

"There 's a dear child," said she, kissing her neck; "I knew you 'd not be guilty of such folly. And how did you part, Livy,--coldly, or in affectionate sorrow?"

"Coldly; we did not shake hands."

"That's right; all as it ought to be. It is a sad blunder, but I hope not irreparable. Cheer up, child; depend upon it, _my_ scarf is not so fatal as Aunt f.a.n.n.y's blessing."

"Ah, then, my dear, I don't see much difference in the end," said that redoubtable lady herself, who issued from a small conservatory off the drawing-room, where she had lain in wait for the last half hour. "I heard it, my dears, and a nice hash you made of it between you, with your signals and telescopes,"--we believe she meant telegraphs; "you threw out the dirty water, now, in earnest!" And so saying, she proceeded to disentangle herself from a p.r.i.c.kly creeper which had a most pertinacious hold of what Linton called her "scalp-lock."

"Aunt f.a.n.n.y's blessing indeed!" said she, for her temper knew no bounds when she saw the enemy silenced. "'T is little harm that would have done, if ye did n't take to screaming about it; as if any man could bear that! You drove him away, my dear, just the way your own mother did poor Major Cohlhayne,--with hard crying,--till he said, 'he 'd as soon go to a wake as take tay in the house.' And sure enough, she had to take up with your poor father, after! Just so. I never knew luck come of signals and signs. When the good thing 's before you, help yourself. My poor father used to say, 'Don't pa.s.s "the spirits" because there 's claret at the head of the table; who knows if it 'll ever come down to you?' And there you are, now! and glad enough you 'd be to take that curate I saw in Dublin, with the smooth face, this minute. I don't blame you as much as your poor foolish mother; she has you as she reared you. Bad luck to you for a plant!" cried she, as the ingenious creeper insinuated itself among the meshes of her Limerick lace collar. "Cary, just take this out for me;" but Cary was gone, and her sister with her. Nor did Aunt f.a.n.n.y know how long her eloquence had been purely soliloquy.

She looked around her for a moment at the deserted battle-field, and then slowly retired.

CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW IN THE MIRROR

"No" is the feminine of "Yes!"

Hungarian Proverb.

Bad as the weather is,--and certainly even in Ireland a more drenching, driving-down, pouring rain never fell,--we must ask of our readers to follow Cashel, who at a slapping gallop rode on, over gra.s.s and tillage, now careering lightly over the smooth sward, now sweltering along heavily through deep ground, regardless of the pelting storm, and scarcely noticing the strong fences which at every instant tried the stride and strength of his n.o.ble horse.

If his speed was headlong, his seat was easy, and his hand as steady as if lounging along some public promenade; his features, however, were flushed, partly from the beating rain, but more from a feverish excitement that showed itself in his flas.h.i.+ng eye and closely compressed lip. More than once, in crossing a difficult leap, his horse nearly fell, and although half on the ground, and only recovering by a scramble, he seemed not to heed the accident. At last he arrived at the tall oak paling which fenced the grounds of the cottage, and where it was his wont to halt and fasten his horse. Now, however, he rode fiercely at it, clearing the high leap with a tremendous spring, and alighting on the trimly kept gra.s.s-plat before the door.

A slight faint shriek was heard as the horse dashed past the window, and, pale with terror, Mary Leicester stood in the porch.

Cashel had meanwhile dismounted, and given his horse to the old gardener.

"Not hurt, Mr. Cashel?" said she, trying to seem composed, while she trembled in every limb.

"Not in the least. I never intended to have alarmed you, however."

"Then it was no runaway?" said she, essaying a smile.

"I 'm ashamed to say I have not that excuse for so rudely trampling over your neat sward. Will Mr. Corrigan forgive me?"

"Of course he will, if he even ever knows that he has anything to forgive; but it so happens that he has gone into the village to-day,--an excursion he has not made for nigh a year. He wished to consult our friend the doctor on some matter of importance, and I half suspect he may have stayed to share his dinner."

As Miss Leicester continued to make this explanation, they had reached the drawing-room, which, to Cashel's amazement, exhibited tokens of intended departure. Patches here and there on the walls showed where pictures had stood. The bookshelves were empty, the tables displayed none of those little trifling objects which denote daily life and its occupations, and his eye wandered over the sad-looking scene till it came back to her, as she stood reading his glances, and seeming to re-echo the sentiment they conveyed. "All this would seem to speak of leave-taking," said Cashel, in a voice that agitation made thick and guttural.

"It is so," said she, with a sigh; "we are going away."

"Going away!" Simple as the words are, we have no sadder sounds in our language; they have the sorrowful cadence that bespeaks desertion; they ring through the heart like a knell over long-past happiness; they are the requiem over "friends no more," and of times that never can come back again.

"Going away!" How dreary does it sound,--as if life had no fixed destination in future, but that we were to drift over its bleak ocean, the "waifs" of what we once had been!

"Going away!" cried Cashel. "But surely you have not heard--" He stopped himself; another word, and his secret had been revealed,--the secret he had so imperatively enjoined Tiernay to keep; for it was his intention to have left Ireland forever ere Mr. Corrigan should have learned the debt of grat.i.tude he owed him. It is true, indeed, that one night of sleepless reflection had suggested another counsel, but had altered not his desire that the mystery should be preserved.

He was confused, therefore, at the peril he had so narrowly escaped, and for a moment was silent; at length he resumed, in a tone of a.s.sumed ease,--

"'Going away!' sounds to one like me, who have lived a life of wandering, so like pleasure that I always a.s.sociate it with new scenes of enjoyment; I think all the sorrow is reserved for those who remain behind,--the deserted."

"So it may," said she, "with those who, like yourself, have roamed the world in the excitement of ardent youth, glorying in enterprise, thirsting for adventure; but there are others--ourselves, for instance--whose humble fortunes have linked them with one cla.s.s of scenes and objects till they have grown part of our very natures; so that we only know the world as it is a.s.sociated with things familiar to daily use. There are, doubtless, plants of more gorgeous foliage and fairer flowers in other countries, but _we_ shall never learn to look at them as we do upon these that speak to us of home, of spring and summer, when they gladdened _us_, of autumn and winter, when our culture cared for _them_. There are sunsets more rich and glowing, but if we see them, it will be to think of that sinking orb which sent its last rays over that wide river, and lit up in a golden glory this little chamber. There 's not a charm the fairest clime can own but will have its highest merit in recalling some humble scene that tells of 'home.'"

"I never could leave a spot so dear to me as this were!" cried Cashel, who watched with ecstasy the impa.s.sioned beauty of her features.

"Do not say _that_," said she, seriously. "We can all of us do what we ought, however it may try our courage. Yes, I say courage," said she, smiling, "since I fancy it is a property you have a due respect for. If we leave scenes so dear to us as these, it is because we feel it a duty; and a duty fulfilled is a buckler against most sorrows. But we are wandering into a very sad theme,--at least, to judge from your grave looks. What news have you of your gay company?"

"I see but little of them," said Cashel, abruptly.

"What a strange host!--and how do they amuse themselves?"

"As they fancy, I believe. I only know I never interfere with them, and they are kind enough to reciprocate the civility; and so we get on admirably."

"I must say this scarcely speaks well for either party," said she, laughing.

"I fear not; but it is true, notwithstanding."

"You have a most accomplished friend, I believe?"

"Linton. Do you mean Linton?"

"Yes. He must be an excellent counsellor in all difficulties."

Cashel did not look as if he concurred in the sentiment, but he said nothing; and Mary, half fearing that she had unwittingly given pain, was silent also. She was the first to speak.

"Do you know, Mr. Cashel, how I pa.s.sed the morning? You 'd scarcely guess. It was in writing a long letter,--so long, indeed, that I began to fear, like many efforts of over-zeal, it might defeat itself, and never get read; and that letter was--to _you_."

"To _me!_ where is it, then?"

"There!" said she, pointing to some charred leaves beneath the grate. "I see your curiosity, and I have no pretension to trifle with it. But last night, late, papa dictated to me a long sermon on your account, premising that the impertinence was from one you should never see again, and one who, however indiscreet in his friends.h.i.+p, was a.s.suredly sincere in it. Were the doc.u.ment in existence, I should probably not have to utter so many apologies; for, on the whole, it was very flattering to you."