Roland Cashel Volume Ii Part 32

"And why is it not so?" cried Cashel, eagerly.

"I cannot tell you why."

"Do you mean that you do not wish to tell, or do not know the reason?"

"I do not know the reason," said she, firmly. "I was ill, slightly ill, this morning, and could not breakfast with papa. It was late when I arose, and he was on the very brink of starting for Dunkeeran; he seemed agitated and excited, and, after a few words of inquiry about my health, he said,--

"'That letter, Mary, have you written it? Well, burn it Throw it into the fire at once.'

"I did so; but I cannot conceal from you the deep interest he has taken in your fortunes,--a feeling which the dread of offending has possibly sentenced him to cherish in secret. At least, so I read his change of intention."

"I had hoped he knew me better," said Cashel, in whose voice a feeling of disappointment might be traced. "It is the misfortune of men like myself to make the most unfavorable impression, where alone they are anxious for the opposite. Now, it may seem very uncourteous, but I am less than indifferent what the fair company yonder think of me; and yet I would give much to stand high in Mr. Corrigan's esteem."

"And you do so, believe me," cried she, her eagerness moved by the evident despondency of his manner; "he speaks of you with all the interest of a father."

"Do not say so," cried Cashel, in a voice tremulous with anxiety; "do not say so, if you mean not to encourage hopes I scarcely dare to cherish."

His look and manner, even more than his words, startled her, and she stared at him, uncertain what reply to make.

"I never knew a father, nor have I ever tasted a mother's affection. I have been one of whom fortune makes a plaything, as if to show how much worldly prosperity can consort with a desolate condition, and a heart for which none have sympathy. I had hoped, however, to attach others to me. I had joined in pursuits that were not mine, to endeavor to render myself companionable. I fell in with habits that were uncongenial, and tastes that I ever disliked; but without success. I might be 'the dupe.'

but never 'the friend.' I could have borne much--I did bear much--to win something that resembled cordiality and esteem; but all in vain! When I lived the wild life of a Columbian sailor, I deemed that such men as I now a.s.sociate with must be the very types of chivalry, and I longed to be of them, and among them. Still, the reproach lies not at their door.

_They_ stepped not out of their sphere to act a part,--_I_ did; mine was all the sycophancy of imitation. The miserable cant of fashion formed all my code. But for this, I might have won good men's esteem; but for this, I might have learned what duties attach to fortune and station such as mine; and now I see the only one, from whom I hoped to gain the knowledge, about to leave me!"

"This despondency is ill-judging and unfair," said Mary, in a kind tone.

"You did, perhaps, choose your friends unwisely, but you judge them unjustly too. _They_ never dreamed of friendship in their intercourse with you; _they_ only thought of that companionship which men of the same age and fortune expect to meet in each other. If less worldly wise, or more generous than themselves, they deemed that they once had paid for their skill and cleverness; and so should _you_. Remember, that you put a value upon their intimacy which it never laid claim to, and that _they_ were less false than were _you_ self-deceived."

"Be it so," said Cashel, hastily. "I care little where the delusion began. I meant honestly, and if they played not on the square with me, the fault be theirs; but that is not what I would speak of, nor what brought me here to-day. I came to throw my last stake for happiness."

He paused, and took her hand in his. "I came," said he,--and his lips trembled as he spoke,--"I came to ask you to be my wife!"

Mary withdrew her hand, which he had scarcely dared to press, and leaned upon the chimney-piece without speaking. It rarely happens that such an announcement is made to a young lady quite unexpectedly; such was, however, the case here: for nothing was she less prepared! Cashel, it is true, had long ceased to be indifferent to her; the evenings of his visits at the cottage were sure to be her very happiest; his absences made dreary blanks. The inartificial traits of his character had at first inspired interest; his generous nature, and his manly leaning to right, had created esteem of him. There were pa.s.sages of romantic interest in his former life which seemed so well to suit his bold and dashing independence; and there was also an implicit deference, an almost humility, in the obedience he tendered to her grandfather which spoke much for one whom sudden wealth and prosperity might be supposed to have corrupted. Yet, all this while, had she never thought of what impression she herself was making.

"I have but one duty," said she at last, in a faint whisper.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 188]

"Might I not share it with you, Mary?" said he, again taking her hand between his own; "you would not grudge me some part of his affection?"

"Who crossed the window there?" cried she, starting; "did you not see a figure pa.s.s?"

"No, I saw no one,--I thought of none, save you."

"I am too much frightened to speak. I saw someone stop before the window and make a gesture, as if threatening,--I saw it in the gla.s.s."

Cashel immediately hurried from the room, and, pa.s.sing out, searched through the shrubberies on either side of the cottage, but without success. On examining closely, however, he could detect the trace of recent footsteps on the wet gra.s.s, but lost the direction on the gravel-walk; and it was in a frame of mind far from tranquil that be reentered the room.

"You saw no one?" said she, eagerly.

"Not one."

"Nor any appearance of footsteps?"

"Yes, I did, or fancied I did, detect such before the window; but why should this alarm you, or turn your mind from what we spoke of? Let me once more--"

"Not now--not now, I beg of you; a secret misgiving is over me, and I am not generally a coward; but I have not the collectedness to speak to you as I ought. I would not wish to be unkind, nor would I yet deceive you.

This cannot be."

"Cannot be, Mary?"

"Do not ask me more now. You are too generous to give pain: spare me, then, the suffering of inflicting it on you. I will tell you my reasons, you shall own them to be sufficient."

"When are we to meet again?" said Roland, as he moved slowly towards the door.

"There it is again!" cried she, in a voice of actual terror; and Cashel opened the window and sprang out; but even the slight delay in unfastening the sash prevented his overtaking the intruder, whoever he might be, while, in the abundance of evergreens about, search was certain to prove fruitless.

"Good-bye," said she, endeavoring to smile; "you are too proud and high of spirit, if I read you aright, to return to a theme like this."

"I am humble enough to sue it out,--a very suppliant," said he, pa.s.sionately.

"I thought otherwise of you," said she, affecting a look of disappointment.

"Think of me how you will, so that you know I love you," cried he, pressing his lips to her hand; and then, half-maddened by the conflict in his mind, he hastened out, and, mounting his horse, rode off, not, indeed, at the mad speed of his coming, but slowly, and with bent-down head.

Let a man be ever so little of a c.o.xcomb, the chances are that he will always explain a refusal of this kind on any ground rather than upon that of his own unworthiness. It is either a case "of pre-engaged affection" or some secret influence on the score of family and fortune; and even this sophistry lends its balm to wounded self-love. Cashel, unhappily for his peace of mind, had not studied in this school, and went his way in deep despondency. Like many men who indulge but seldom in self-examination, he never knew how much his affections were involved till his proffer of them was refused. Now, for the first time, he felt that; now recognized what store he placed on her esteem, and how naturally he had turned from the wearisome dissipations of his own house to the cheerful happiness of "the cottage." Neither could he divest himself of the thought that had Mary known him in his early and his only true character, she might not have refused him, and that he owed his failure to that mongrel thing which wealth had made him.

"I never was intended for this kind of life," thought he. "I am driven to absurdities and extravagances to give it any character of interest in my eyes, and then I feel ashamed of such triviality. To live among the rich, a man should be born among them,--should have the habits, the tastes, and the traditions. These are to be imbibed from infancy, but not acquired in manhood,--at least, I will not begin the study."

He turned homeward, still slowly. The bell was ringing which called the guests to dress for dinner, as he reached a large open lawn before the house, and for a moment he halted, muttering to himself, "How would it be, now, were I to turn my horse's head, and never re-enter that house?

How many are there, of all my 'dear friends,' who would ever ask what befell me?"

Arrived at the door, he pa.s.sed upstairs to his dressing-room, upon a table of which he perceived a very small note, sealed with Lady Kilgoff's initials. It was written in pencil, and merely contained one line: "Come over to me, before dinner, for one minute.--L. K."

He had not seen her since the day before, when he had in vain sought to overtake her in the wood; and her absence from the dinner-table had seemed to him in pique at his breach of engagement. Was this an endeavor, then, to revive that strange relationship between them, which took every form save love-making, but was all the more dangerous on that account? Or was it merely to take up some commonplace plan of amus.e.m.e.nt and pleasure,--that mock importance given to trifles which as frequently makes them cease to be trifles?

Half careless as to what the invitation portended, and still pondering over his failure, he reached her door and knocked.

"Come in," said she; and he entered.

Dressed for dinner with unusual taste and splendor, he had never seen her look so beautiful. For some time back she had observed an almost studied simplicity of dress, rarely wearing an ornament, and distinguishing herself rather by a half Puritanism of style. The sudden change to all the blaze of diamonds, and the softening influence of deep folds of lace, gave a brilliancy to her appearance quite magicial; nor was Cashel's breeding proof against a stare of amazement and admiration.

A deeper flush on her cheek acknowledged how she felt his confusion, and, hastening to relieve it, she said,--

"I have but a moment to speak to you. It is almost seven o'clock. You were at 'the cottage' to-day?"

"Yes," said Roland, his cheek growing scarlet as he spoke.

"And, doubtless, your visit had some object of importance. Nay, no confessions. This is not curiosity on my part, but to let you know that you were followed. Scarcely had you left this, when Linton set out also, making a circuit by the wood, but at a speed which must have soon overtaken you. He returned some time before you, at the same speed, and entered by the back gate of the stables. From this window I could see him each time."

"Indeed," said Roland, remembering the figure Mary had seen before the window.