Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon Volume Ii Part 19

But one thing now remained,--to make my adieu to the senhora. With this intent, I descended a narrow winding stair which led from my dressing-room, and opened by a little terrace upon the flower-garden beside her apartments.

As I crossed the gravelled alley, I could not but think of the last time I had been there. It was on the eve of departure for the Douro. I recalled the few and fleeting moments of our leave-taking, and a thought flashed upon me,--what if she cared for me! What if, half in coquetry, half in reality, her heart was mixed up in those pa.s.sages which daily a.s.sociation gives rise to?

I could not altogether acquit myself of all desire to make her believe me her admirer; nay, more, with the indolent _abandon_ of my country, I had fallen into a thousand little schemes to cheat the long hours away, which, having no other object than the happiness of the moment, might yet color all her after-life with sorrow.

Let no one rashly p.r.o.nounce me a c.o.xcomb, vain and pretentious, for all this. In my inmost heart I had no feeling of selfishness mingled with the consideration. It was from no sense of my own merits, no calculation of my own chances of success, that I thought thus. Fortunately, at eighteen one's heart is uncontaminated with such an alloy of vanity. The first emotions of youth are pure and holy things, tempering our fiercer pa.s.sions, and calming the rude effervescence of our boyish spirit; and when we strive to please, and hope to win affection, we insensibly fashion ourselves to n.o.bler and higher thoughts, catching from the source of our devotion a portion of that charm that idealizes daily life, and makes our path in it a glorious and a bright one.

Who would not exchange all the triumph of his later days, the proudest moments of successful ambition, the richest trophies of hard-won daring,--for the short and vivid flash that first shot through his heart and told him he was loved. It is the opening consciousness of life, the first sense of power that makes of the mere boy a man,--a man in all his daring and his pride; and hence it is that in early life we feel ever p.r.o.ne to indulge those fancied attachments which elevate and raise us in our own esteem. Such was the frame of my mind when I entered the little boudoir where once before I had ventured on a similar errand.

As I closed the sash-door behind me, the gray dawn of breaking day scarcely permitted my seeing anything around me, and I felt my way towards the door of an adjoining room, where I supposed it was likely I should find the senhora. As I proceeded thus, with cautious step and beating heart, I thought I heard a sound near me. I stopped and listened, and was about again to move on, when a half-stifled sob fell upon my ear. Slowly and silently guiding my steps towards the sounds, I reached a sofa, when, my eyes growing by degrees more accustomed to the faint light, I could detect a figure which, at a glance, I recognized as Donna Inez. A cashmere shawl was loosely thrown around her, and her face was buried in her hands. As she lay, to all seeming, still and insensible before me, her beautiful hair fell heavily upon her back and across her arm, and her whole att.i.tude denoted the very abandonment of grief. A short convulsive shudder which slightly shook her frame alone gave evidence of life, except when a sob, barely audible in the death-like silence, escaped her.

I knelt silently down beside her, and gently withdrawing her hand, placed it within mine. A dreadful feeling of self-condemnation shot through me as I felt the gentle pressure of her taper fingers, which rested without a struggle in my grasp. My tears fell hot and fast upon that pale hand, as I bent in sadness over it, unable to utter a word. A rush of conflicting thoughts pa.s.sed through my brain, and I knew not what to do. I now had no doubt upon my mind that she loved me, and that her present affliction was caused by my approaching departure.

"Dearest Inez!" I stammered out at length, as I pressed her hands to my lips,--"dearest Inez!"--a faint sob, and a slight pressure of her hand, was the only reply. "I have come to say good-by," continued I, gaining a little courage as I spoke; "a long good-by, too, in all likelihood. You have heard that we are ordered away,--there, don't sob, dearest, and, believe me, I had wished ere we parted to have spoken to you calmly and openly; but, alas, I cannot,--I scarcely know what I say."

"You will not forget me?" said she, in a low voice, that sank into my very heart. "You will not forget me?" As she spoke, her hand dropped heavily upon my shoulder, and her rich luxuriant hair fell upon my cheek. What a devil of a thing is proximity to a downy cheek and a black eyelash, more especially when they belong to one whom you are disposed to believe not indifferent to you! What I did at this precise moment there is no necessity for recording, even had not an adage interdicted such confessions, nor can I now remember what I said; but I can well recollect how, gradually warming with my subject, I entered into a kind of half-declaration of attachment, intended most honestly to be a mere _expose_ of my own unworthiness to win her favor, and my resolution to leave Lisbon and its neighborhood forever.

Let not any one blame me rashly if he has not experienced the difficulty of my position. The impetus of love-making is like the ardor of a fox-hunt.

You care little that the six-bar gate before you is the boundary of another gentleman's preserves or the fence of his pleasure-ground. You go slap along at a smashing-pace, with your head up, and your hand low, clearing all before you, the opposing difficulties to your progress giving half the zest, because all the danger to your career. So it is with love; the gambling spirit urges one ever onward, and the chance of failure is a reason for pursuit, where no other argument exists.

"And you do love me?" said the senhora, with a soft, low whisper that most unaccountably suggested anything but comfort to me.

"Love you, Inez? By this kiss--I'm in an infernal sc.r.a.pe!" said I, muttering this last half of my sentence to myself.

"And you'll never be jealous again?"

"Never, by all that's lovely!--your own sweet lips. That's the very last thing to reproach me with."

"And you promise me not to mind that foolish boy? For, after all, you know, it was mere flirtation,--if even that."

"I'll never think of him again," said I, while my brain was burning to make out her meaning. "But, dearest, there goes the trumpet-call--"

"And, as for Pedro Mascarenhas, I never liked him."

"Are you quite sure, Inez?"

"I swear it!--so no more of him. Gonzales Cordenza--I've broke with him long since. So that you see, dearest Frederic--"

"Frederic!" said I, starting almost to my feet with, amazement, while she continued:--

"I'm your own,--all your own!"

"Oh, the coquette, the heartless jilt!" groaned I, half-aloud.

"And O'Malley, Inez, poor Charley!--what of him?"

"Poor thing! I can't help him. But he's such a puppy, the lesson may do him good."

"But perhaps he loved you, Inez?"

"To be sure he did; I wished him to do so,--I can't bear not to be loved.

But, Frederic, tell me, may I trust you,--will you keep faithful to me?"

"Sweetest Inez! by this last kiss I swear that such as I kneel before you now, you'll ever find me."

A foot upon the gravel-walk without now called me to my feet; I sprang towards the door, and before Inez had lifted her head from the sofa, I had reached the garden. A figure m.u.f.fled in a cavalry cloak pa.s.sed near me, but without noticing me, and the next moment I had cleared the paling, and was hurrying towards the stable, where I had ordered Mike to be in waiting.

The faint streak of dull pink which announces the coming day stretched beneath the dark clouds of the night, and the chill air of the morning was already stirring in the leaves.

As I pa.s.sed along by a low beech hedge which skirted the avenue, I was struck by the sound of voices near me. I stopped to listen, and soon detected in one of the speakers my friend Mickey Free; of the other I was not long in ignorance.

"Love you, is it, bathershin? It's worship you, adore you, my darling,--that's the word! There, acushla, don't cry; dry your eyes--Oh, murther, it's a cruel thing to tear one's self away from the best of living, with the run of the house in drink and kissing! Bad luck to it for campaigning, any way, I never liked it!"

Catrina's reply,--for it was she,--I could not gather; but Mike resumed:--

"Ay, just so, sore bones and wet gra.s.s, _accadente_, and half-rations. Oh, that I ever saw the day when I took to it! Listen to me now, honey; here it is, on my knees I am before you, and throth it's not more nor three, may be four, young women I'd say the like to; bad scran to me if I wouldn't marry you out of a face this blessed morning just as soon as I'd look at ye.

Arrah, there now, don't be screeching and bawling; what'll the neighbors think of us, and my own heart's destroyed with grief entirely."

Poor Catrina's voice returned an inaudible answer, and not wishing any longer to play the eavesdropper, I continued my path towards the stable.

The distant noises from the city announced a state of movement and preparation, and more than one orderly pa.s.sed the road near me at a gallop.

As I turned into the wide courtyard, Mike, breathless and flurried with running, overtook me.

"Are the horses ready, Mike?" said I; "we must start this instant?"

"They've just finished a peck of oats apiece, and faix, that same may be a stranger to them this day six months."

"And the baggage, too?"

"On the cars, with the staff and the light brigade. It was down there I was now, to see all was right."

"Oh, I'm quite aware; and now bring out the cattle. I hope Catrina received your little consolations well. That seems a very sad affair."

"Murder, real murder, devil a less! It's no matter where you go, from Clonmel to Chayney, it's all one; they've a way of getting round you. Upon my soul, it's like the pigs they are."

"Like pigs, Mike? That appears a strange compliment you've selected to pay them."

"Ay, just like the pigs, no less. May be you've heard what happened to myself up at Moronha?"

"Look to that girth there. Well, go on."

"I was coming along one morning, just as day was beginning to break, when I sees a slip of a pig trotting before me, with n.o.body near him; but as the road was lonely, and myself rather down in heart, I thought, Musha! but yer fine company, anyhow, av a body could only keep you with him. But, ye see, a pig--saving your presence--is a baste not easily flattered, so I didn't waste time and blarney upon him, but I took off my belt, and put it round its neck as neat as need be; but, as the devil's luck would have it, I didn't go half an hour when a horse came galloping up behind me. I turned round, and, by the blessed light, it was Sir Dinny himself was on it!"

"Sir Dennis Pack?"

"Yes, bad luck to his hook nose. 'What are you doing there, my fine fellow?' says he. 'What's that you have dragging there behind you?'

"'A boneen, sir,' says I. 'Isn't he a fine crayture?--av he wasn't so troublesome.'