We shall not attempt to describe the feelings with which O’Connor received this somewhat eccentric communication. He folded his arms upon the table, and for many minutes leaned his head upon them, without motion, and without uttering one word. At length he said, —
“After all, I ought to have expected this. Sir Richard is a bigoted man in his own faith — an ambitious and a worldly man, too. It was folly, mere folly, knowing all this, to look for any other answer from him. He may indeed delay our union for a little, but he cannot bar it — he shall not bar it. I could more easily doubt myself than Mary’s constancy; and if she be but firm and true — and she is all loyalty and all truth — the world cannot part us two. Our separation cannot outlast his life; nor shall it last so long. I will overcome her scruples, combat all her doubts, satisfy her reason. She will consent — she will be mine — my own — through life and until death. No hand shall sunder us for ever,” — he turned to the old man, and grasped his hand— “My dear, kind, true friend, how can I ever thank you for all your generous acts of kindness. I cannot.”
“Never mind, never mind, my dear boy,” said the old gentleman, blubbering in spite of himself— “never mind — what a d —— d old fool I am, to be sure. Come, come, you, shall take a turn with me towards the country, and get an appetite for dinner. You’ll be as well as ever in half an hour. When all’s done, you stand no worse than you did yesterday; and if the girl’s a good girl, as I make no doubt she is, why, you are sure of her constancy — and the devil himself shall not part you. Confound me if I don’t run away with the girl for you myself if you make a pother about the matter. Come along, you dog — come along, I say.”
“Nay, sir,” replied O’Connor, “forgive me. I am keenly pained. I am agitated — confounded at the suddenness of this — this dreadful blow. I will go alone, pardon me, my kind and dear friend, I must go alone. I may chance to see the lady. I am sure she will not fail me — she will meet me. Oh! heart and brain, be still — be steady — I need your best counsels now. Farewell, sir — for a little time, farewell.”
“Well, be it so — since so it must be,” said Mr. Audley, who did not care to combat a resolution, announced with all the wild energy of despairing passion, “by all means, my dear boy, alone it shall be, though I scarce think you would be the worse of a staid old fellow’s company in your ramble — but no matter, boys will be boys while the world goes round.”
The conclusion of this sentence was a soliloquy, for O’Connor had already descended to the inn yard, where he procured a horse, and was soon, with troubled mind and swelling heart, making rapid way toward Morley Court. It was now the afternoon — the sun had made nearly half his downward course — the air was soft and fresh, and the birds sang sweetly in the dark nooks and bowers of the tall trees: it seemed almost as if summer had turned like a departing beauty, with one last look of loveliness to gladden the scene which she was regretfully leaving. So sweet and still the air — so full and mellow the thrilling chorus of merry birds among the rustling leaves, flitting from bough to bough in the clear and lofty shadow — so cloudless the golden flood of sunlight. Such was the day — so gladsome the sounds — so serene the aspect of all nature — as O’Connor, dismounting under the shadow of a tall, straggling hawthorn hedge, and knotting the bridle in one of its twisted branches, crossed a low stile, and thus entered the grounds of Morley Court. He threaded a winding path which led through a neglected wood of thorn and oak, and found himself after a few minutes in the spot he sought. The old beech walk had been once the main avenue to the house. Huge beech-trees flung their mighty boughs high in air across its long perspective — and bright as was the day, the long lane lay in shadow deep and solemn as that of some old Gothic aisle. Down this dim vista did O’Connor pace with hurried steps toward the spot where, about midway in its length, there stood the half-ruined piers and low walls of what had once been a gateway.
“Can it be that she shrinks from this meeting?” thought O’Connor, as his eye in vain sought the wished-for form of Mary Ashwoode, “will she disappoint me? — surely she who has walked with me so many lonely hours in guileless trust need not have feared to meet me here. It was not generous to deny me this boon — to her so easy — to me so rich — yet perchance she judges wisely. What boots it that I should see her? Why see again that matchless beauty — that touching smile — those eyes that looked so fondly on me? Why see her more — since mayhap we shall never meet again? She means it kindly. Her nature is all nobleness — all generosity; and yet — and yet to see her no more — to hear her voice no more — have we — have we then parted at last for ever? But no — by heavens— ’tis she — Mary!”
It was indeed Mary Ashwoode, blushing and beautiful as ever. In an instant O’Connor stood by her side.
“My own — my true-hearted Mary.”
“Oh! Edmond,” said she, after a brief silence, “I fear I have done wrong — have I? — in meeting you thus. I ought not — indeed I know I ought not to have come.”
“Nay, Mary, do not speak thus. Dear Mary, have we not been companions in many a pleasant ramble: in those times — the times, Mary, that will never come again? Why, then, should you deny me a few minutes’ mournful converse, where in other days we two have passed so many pleasant hours?”
There was in the tone in which he spoke something so unutterably melancholy — and in the recollections which his few simple words called crowding to her mind, something at once so touching, so dearly cherished, and so bitterly regretted — that the tears gathered in her full dark eyes, and fell one by one fast and unheeded.
“You do not grieve, then, Mary,” said he, “that you have come here — that we have met once more: do you, Mary?”
“No, no, Edmond — no, indeed,” answered she, sobbing. “God knows I do not, Edmond — no, no.”
“Well, Mary,” said he, “I am happy in the belief that you feel toward me just as you used to do — as happy as one so wretched can hope to be.”
“Edmond, your words affright me,” said she, fixing her eyes full upon him with imploring earnestness: “you look sadder — paler than you did yesterday; something has happened since then. What — what is it, Edmond? tell me — ah, tell me!”
“Yes, Mary, much has happened,” answered he, taking her hand between both of his, and meeting her gaze with a look of passionate sorrow and tenderness— “yes, Mary, without my knowledge, the friend of whom I told you had arrived, and this morning saw your father, told him all, and was repulsed with sternness — almost with insult. Sir Richard has resolved that it shall never be; there is no more hope of bending him — none — none — none.”
While O’Connor spoke, the colour in Mary’s cheeks came and fled in turn with quick alternations, in answer to every throb and flutter of the poor heart within.
“See him — speak to him — yourself, Edmond, yourself. Oh! do not despair — see him — speak to him,” she almost whispered, for agitation had wellnigh deprived her of voice— “see him, Edmond — yourself — for God’s sake, dear Edmond — yourself — yourself” — and she grasped his arm in her tiny hand, and gazed in his pale face with such a look of agonized entreaty as cut him to the very heart.
“Yes, Mary, if it seems good to you, I will speak to him myself,” said O’Connor, with deep melancholy. “I will, Mary, though my own heart — my reason — tells me it is all — all utterly in vain; but, Mary,” continued he, suddenly changing his tone to one of more alacrity, “if he should still reject me — if he shall forbid our ever meeting more — if he shall declare himself unalterably resolved against our union — Mary, in such a case, would you, too, tell me to see you no more — would you, too, tell me to depart without hope, and never come again? or would you, Mary — could you — dare you — dear, dear Mary, for once — once only — disobey your stern and haughty father — dare you trust yourself with me — fly with me to France, and be at last, and after all, my own — my bride?”
“No, Edmond,” said she, solemn
ly and sadly, while her eyes again filled with tears; and though she trembled like the leaf on the tree, yet he knew by the sound of her sad voice that her purpose could not alter— “that can never be — never, Edmond — no — no.”
“Then, Mary, can it be,” he answered, with an accent so desolate that despair itself seemed breathing in its tone— “can it be, after all — all we have passed and proved — all our love and constancy, and all our bright hopes, so long and fondly cherished — cherished in the midst of grief and difficulty — when we had no other stay but hope alone — are we, after all — at last, to part for ever? — is it, indeed, Mary, all — all over?”
As the two lovers stood thus in deep and melancholy converse by the ivy-grown and ruined gateway, beneath the airy shadow of the old beech-trees, they were recalled to other thoughts by the hurried patter of footsteps, and the rustling of the branches among the underwood which skirted the avenue. As fortune willed it, however, the intruder was no other than the honest dog, Rover, Mary’s companion in many a silent and melancholy ramble; he came sniffing and bounding with boisterous greeting to hail his young mistress and her companion. The interruption, harmless as it was, startled Mary Ashwoode.
“Were my father to find us here, Edmond,” said she, “it were fatal to all our hopes. You know his temper well. Let us then part here. Follow the by-path leading to the house. Go and see him — speak with him for my sake — for my sake, Edmond — and so — and so — farewell.”
“And farewell, Mary, since it must be,” said O’Connor, with a bitter struggle. “Farewell, but only for a time — only for a little time, Mary; and whatever befalls, remember — remember me. Farewell, Mary.”
As he thus spoke, he raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it for the first time, it might be for the last, in his life. For a moment he stood, and gazed with sad devotion upon the loved face. Then, with an effort, he turned abruptly away, and strode rapidly in the direction she had indicated; and when he turned to look again, she was gone.
O’Connor followed the narrow path, which, diverging a little from the broad grass lane, led with many a wayward turn among the tall trees toward the house. As he thus pursued his way, a few moments of reflection satisfied him of the desperate nature of the enterprise which he had undertaken. But if lovers are often upon unreal grounds desponding, it is likewise true that they are sometimes sanguine when others would despair; and, spite of all his misgivings — of all the irresistible conclusions of stern reason — hope still beckoned him on. Thus agitated, he pursued his way, until, on turning an abrupt angle, he beheld, scarcely more than a dozen paces in advance, and moving slowly toward him in the shadowy pathway, a figure, at sight of which, thus suddenly presented, he recoiled, and stood for a moment fixed as a statue. He had encountered the object of his search. The form was that of Sir Richard Ashwoode himself, who, wrapped in his scarlet roquelaure, and leaning upon the shoulder of his Italian valet, while he limped forward slowly and painfully, appeared full before him.
“So, so, so, so,” repeated the baronet, at first with unaffected astonishment, which speedily, however, deepened into intense but constrained anger — his dark, prominent eyes peering fiercely upon the young man, while, stooping forward, and clutching his crutch-handled cane hard in his lean fingers, he limped first one and then another step nearer.
“Mr. O’Connor! or my eyes deceive me.”
“Yes, Sir Richard,” replied O’Connor, with a haughty bow, and advancing a little toward him in turn. “I am that Edmond O’Connor whom you once knew well, and whom it would seem you still know. I ought, doubtless — — “
“Nay, sir, no flowers of rhetoric, if you please,” interrupted Sir Richard, bitterly— “no fustian speeches — to the point — to the point, sir. If you have ought to say to me, deliver it in six words. Your business, sir. Be brief.”
“I will not indeed waste words, Sir Richard Ashwoode,” replied O’Connor, firmly. “There is but one subject on which I would seek a conference with you, and that subject you well may guess.”
“I do guess it,” retorted Sir Richard. “You would renew an absurd proposal — one opened three years since, and repeated this morning by the old booby, your elected spokesman. To that proposal I have ever given one answer — no. I have not changed my mind, nor ever shall. Am I understood, sir? And least of all should I think of changing my purpose now,” continued he, more pointedly, as a suspicion crossed his mind— “now, sir, that you have forfeited by your own act whatever regard you once seemed to me to merit. You did not seek me here, sir. I’m not to be fooled, sir. You did not seek me — don’t assert it. I understand your purpose. You came here clandestinely to tamper like a schemer with my child. Yes, sir, a schemer!” repeated Sir Richard, with bitter emphasis, while his sharp sallow features grew sharper and more sallow still; and he struck the point of his cane at every emphatic word deep into the sod— “a mean, interested, cowardly schemer. How dare you steal into my place, you thrice-rejected, dishonourable, spiritless adventurer?”
The blood rushed to O’Connor’s brow as the old man uttered this insulting invective. The fiery impulse which under other circumstances would have been uncontrollable, was, however, speedily, though with difficulty, mastered; and O’Connor replied bitterly, —
“You are an old man, Sir Richard, and her father — you are safe, sir. How much of chivalry or courage is shown in heaping insult upon one who will not retort upon you, judge for yourself. Alter what has passed, I feel that I were, indeed, the vile thing you have described, if I were again to subject myself to your unprovoked insolence: be assured, I shall never place foot of mine within your boundaries again: relieve yourself, sir, of all fears upon that score; and for your language, you know you can appreciate the respect that makes me leave you thus unanswered and unpunished.”
So saying, he turned, and with long and rapid strides retraced his steps, his heart swelling with a thousand struggling emotions. Scarce knowing what he did, O’Connor rode rapidly to the “Cock and Anchor,” and too much stunned and confounded by the scenes in which he had just borne a part to exchange a word with Mr. Audley, whom he found still established in his chamber, he threw himself dejectedly into a chair, and sank into gloomy and obstinate abstraction. The goodnatured old gentleman did not care to interrupt his young friend’s ruminations, and hours might have passed away and found them still undisturbed, were it not that the door was suddenly thrown open, and the waiter announced Mr. Ashwoode. There was a spell in the name which instantly recalled O’Connor to the scene before him. Had a viper sprung up at his feet, he could not have recoiled with a stronger antipathy. With a mixture of feelings scarcely tolerable, he awaited his arrival, and after a moment or two of suspense, Henry Ashwoode entered the room.
Mr. Audley, having heard the name, scowled fearfully from the centre of the room upon the young gentleman as he entered, stuffed his hands halfway to the elbows in his breeches pockets, and turning briskly upon his heel, marched emphatically to the window, and gazed out into the inn yard with remarkable perseverance. The obvious coldness with which he was received did not embarrass young Ashwoode in the least. With perfect ease and a graceful frankness of demeanour, he advanced to O’Connor, and after a greeting of extraordinary warmth, inquired how he had gotten home, and whether he had suffered since any inconvenience from the fall which he had. He then went on to renew his protestations of gratitude for O’Connor’s services, with so much ardour and apparent heartiness, that spite of his prejudices, the old man was moved in his favour; and when Ashwoode expressed in a low voice to O’Connor his wish to be introduced to his friend, honest Mr. Audley felt his heart quite softened, and instead of merely bowing to him, absolutely shook him by the hand. The young man then, spite of O’Connor’s evident reluctance, proceeded to relate to his new acquaintance the details of the adventures of the preceding night, in doing which, he took occasion to dwell, in the most glowing terms, upon his obligations to O’Connor. After sitting with them for nearly
half an hour, young Ashwoode took his leave in the most affectionate manner possible, and withdrew.
“Well, that is a good-looking young fellow, and a warm-hearted,” exclaimed the old gentleman, as soon as the visitor had disappeared— “what a pity he should be cursed with such a confounded old father.”
CHAPTER XII.
THE APPOINTED HOUR — THE SCHEMERS AND THE PLOT.
“And here comes my dear brother,” exclaimed Mary Ashwoode, joyously, as she ran to welcome the young man, now entering her father’s room, in which, for more than an hour previously, she had been sitting. Throwing her arm round his neck, and looking sweetly in his face, she continued— “You will stay with us this evening, dear Harry — do, for my sake — you won’t refuse — it is so long since we have had you;” and though she spoke with a gay look and a gladsome voice, a sense of real solitariness called a tear to her dark eye.
“No, Mary — not this evening,” said the young man coldly; “I must be in town again tonight, and before I go must have some conversation upon business with my father, so that I may not see you again till morning.”
“But, dear Henry,” said she, still clinging affectionately to his arm, “you have been in such danger, and I knew nothing of it until after you went out this morning: are you quite well, Henry? — you were not hurt — were you?”
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 10