Roland Cashel Volume Ii Part 17

"And ye variete, bounde upon a carte, Was draggede to ye gallows high, While ye knighte that stole ye ladye's hearte (And was not his ye gravere parte!) Rode onte to see him die."

"A sad moral indeed," said Cashel, in a low, soft voice.

"Oh, dear! oh, Mr. Cashel!" cried she, starting, and letting fall the book, "how you have terrified me!"

"Pray forgive me," said he, drawing his chair near, "but when I entered the room I saw no one. I had come thus far ere I discovered that I was so fortunate."

"Shall I ring for mamma and Cary? they are dressing, I know, but will be quite annoyed if you go before they come down."

"You must not inconvenience them on my account," said Roland, eagerly.

"I'm certain," added he, smiling, "you are not afraid to receive me alone."

She hung down her head, and partly averting it, murmured a scarcely audible "No."

Cashel, who had evidently never calculated on his careless remark being taken thus seriously, looked silly and uncomfortable for a few seconds.

There is a terrible perversity sometimes in our natures; we are disposed to laugh occasionally at times when nothing could be more ill-timed or unsuitable; and so, at moments when we would give anything in the world for some commonplace theme to hang phrases on, we cannot, for the life of us, originate one.

"You've not ridden out, I think, since we came?" said Roland, at last, but with an air of sudden despair at his own stupidity.

"No. We have driven out once or twice; but--but--"

"Pray finish," said he, with a persuasive look as he spoke.

"I was going to say that your horses are so spirited, that I was really afraid to trust myself, and the more so as Miss Meek is so wild and so reckless."

"Never think of riding with _her_, Let me be your _chaperon_,--shall we say to-morrow? I 've got the gentlest creature that was ever mounted."

"Oh, I know her; that sweet white Arab I saw the groom exercising yesterday?"

"No; not she," said Roland, blus.h.i.+ng and confused, "a spotted barb, fully as handsome--some say handsomer. Will you do me the favor to ride her to-morrow, and, if she be fortunate enough to please you, to accept her?"

Olivia hung down her head for a second, and a deep scarlet covered her cheek, and rose even to her temples, and it was with a voice broken and interrupted she said, "Oh, I cannot--I must not." Then, turning on him a look, where the tearful eyes, swimming in a softened l.u.s.tre, conveyed a whole story of deep suffering, she said rapidly, "You are too kind and too good ever to give pain; you are too generous to believe others capable of it; but were I to accept your beautiful gift--were I even to ride out with you _alone_--there is nothing that would not be said of me."

It was Cashel's turn for a slight blush now; and, to do him justice, he felt the sensation a most disagreeable one. It had not indeed occurred to him to make the proposal as the young lady took it, but he was far too long schooled in gallantry to undeceive her, and so he said, "I really cannot see this in the light you do. It is a very natural wish on my part, that I should show my guests whatever my poor grounds afford of the picturesque; and remember, we are not friends of yesterday." This he said in his very kindest tone.

"I _do_ remember it," said she, with a slow but most meaning sigh.

"That memory is, I trust, not so a.s.sociated with sorrow," added he, leaning down, and speaking in a deep, earnest voice, "that you recall it with a sigh?"

"Oh, no; but I was thinking--I must not say of what I was thinking."

"Nay, but you must," said he, gently, and drawing his chair closer.

"I dare not--I cannot--besides, you "--and there was on the p.r.o.noun the very softest of all-dwelling intonation--"_you_ might be angry--might never forgive me."

"Now I must insist on your telling me," said Roland, pa.s.sionately, "if but to show how unfairly you judge me."

"Well," said she, drawing a long breath--"but shall I trust you?"

There was a most winning archness in the way she said this, that thrilled through Cashel as he listened. "No, I will not," added she, suddenly, and as if carried away by a pa.s.sionate impulse; "you are too--"

"Too what?" cried he, impatiently.

"Too fickle," said she; and then, as if terrified at her own boldness, she added, in a tremulous voice, "Oh, do forgive me!"

"There is really nothing to forgive," said Roland, "unless you persist in keeping from me an avowal that I almost fancy I have a right to ask for. And now, of what were you thinking?"

"I 'll tell you," said she, in a low, earnest accent, "though it may lose me your esteem. I was thinking"--her voice here fell so low that Cashel, to hear her words, was obliged to draw his chair closer, and bend down his head till it actually brushed against the leaves she wore in her hair--"I was thinking that, when we knew you first, before you had made acquaintance with others, when you sat and read to us, when we walked and rode together,--when, in short, the day was one bright dream of pleasure to us, who had never known a brother--"

Pardon us, dear reader, if, at so critical a moment, we occupy the pause which here ensued--and there was a pause--by referring to our Aunt f.a.n.n.y, only premising that we do so advisedly. It was one of that excellent lady's firmest convictions that every one in the world required some discreet friend, who should, at eventful pa.s.sages in life, be ready to aid, by presence of mind, a wavering resolve, or confirm a half-formed determination. Now, she had waited for two mortal hours on that day for Cashel's coming, in a state of impatience little short of fever. She opened and shut her window, looked up one avenue and down another; she had watched on the landing, and stood sentinel on the stairs; she had seen Mrs. Kenny-f.e.c.k and her elder daughter pa.s.s out into the garden, weary of long waiting; when, at last, she heard Roland's hasty step as he traversed the hall, and, hurrying upstairs, entered the drawing-room.

Drawn by an attraction there is no explaining, she left her room, and took up her position in a small boudoir which adjoined the drawing-room.

Here she sat, persuading herself she was at her work; but, in reality, in a state of suspense not very inferior to some prisoner while a jury is deliberating on his fate.

The conversation, at first conducted in an ordinary tone, had gradually subsided, till it dropped into the low, undistinguishable manner we have mentioned.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 114]

Aunt f.a.n.n.y's inventive mind had suggested every step of the interview.

She kept muttering to herself: "He is explaining himself--she is incredulous--and he tries to rea.s.sure her--she believes that his heart was given to another--he vows and swears it was always hers--she cannot credit the happiness--she is too unworthy."

It was just as our aunt had got thus far in her running commentary that both voices ceased, and a stillness, unbroken by a murmur, succeeded.

"What could it mean?" was the sudden question that flashed across her mind; and Napoleon's own dread anxiety, as he gazed on the wood, and hesitated whether the dark ma.s.ses emerging from the shade were his own legions or the Prussians, was not much more intense than hers. At last--we are sorry to record it--but, alas! Aunt f.a.n.n.y was only mortal, and an old maid to boot--she approached the door and peeped through the keyhole. The sight which met her eyes needed no second glance; she saw both heads bent down together, the dark waving hair of Cashel close to the nut-brown silky braids of Olivia. Neither spoke. "It was then concluded."

This was the moment in which mutual avowals, meeting like two rivers, form one broad and sweeping flood; it was the moment, too, in which, according to her theory; a friend was all essential. According to her phrase, the "nail should be clinched."

Now, Aunt f.a.n.n.y had been cruelly handled by the family for all the blunders she had committed. Her skill had been impugned; her shrewdness sneered at; her prognostications derided. Here was an opportunity to refute all at once; and, in the language of the conqueror, "to cover herself with glory."

Gently opening the door she entered the room, and stealing tiptoe over, till she stood behind their chairs, she placed, with all the solemnity of an archbishop, a hand on either head, and, in a voice of touching fervor, said,--

"Bless ye both, my darlings; may ye be as happy as--"

As what? The history is unable to record; for a shrill cry from her niece, and an exclamation nearly as loud, and we fear far less polite, from Roland, cut short the speech.

Shriek followed shriek from Olivia, who, partly from the shock, and still more from shame, was thrown into an attack of hysterics.

"What the--" he was very nigh saying something else--"what have you done, madam?" said Roland, in a state of mingled anger and terror.

"It's only your Aunt f.a.n.n.y; it's me, my pet. Livy, darling, don't be frightened; and here, too, is Mr. Cashel."

In this, however, the good lady was mistaken; for Roland had hastened upstairs to Mrs. Kennyf.e.c.k's room, which finding locked, he flew down to the great drawing-room, thence to the library, and was making for the garden, when he saw that lady and her daughter crossing the hall.

"I 'm afraid, madam," said he, with all the composure he could summon, "Miss Olivia Kennyf.e.c.k is not well; nothing serious, I trust; but a sudden fright--a shock--Miss O'Hara somewhat imprudently--"

"Oh, f.a.n.n.y again!" screamed Mrs. Kennyf.e.c.k; and without waiting for more, rushed upstairs, followed by her daughter, while Roland, in a state of mind we dare not dwell upon, hastened from the house, and mounting his horse, galloped off into the wood.

There were times when Cashel would have laughed, and laughed heartily, at the absurdity of this adventure. He would have even treasured up the "tableau" as a thing for future ridicule among his friends; but his better feelings, born of a more manly pride, rejected this now; he was sorry, deeply, sincerely sorry that one with so much to fascinate and charm about her, could lend herself to a mere game like this. "Where are these deceptions to end?" said he, in pa.s.sionate warmth. "Have candor, good faith, and honesty fled the world? or, are they only to be found among those whose vices make the foil to such humble virtues?"