Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW IN THE MIRROR

“No” is the feminine of “Yes!”

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 grass 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 noble 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 flashing 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 grass-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 gratitude 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 assumed ease, —

“‘Going away!’ sounds to one like me, who have lived a life of wandering, so like pleasure that I always associate 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 class of scenes and objects till they have grown part of our very natures; so that we only know the world as it is associated 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 impassioned 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 passed 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 friendship, was assuredly sincere in it. Were the document in existence, I should probably not have to utter so many apologies; for, on the whole, it was very flattering to you.”

“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 associate 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 passages 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.

“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 pass?”

“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 glass.”

Cashel immediately hurried from the room, and, passing 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 grass, 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, passionately.

“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 coxcomb, 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 passed 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 amusement 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.

“You know my opinion of this man already. He never moves without a plan; and a plan, with him, is ever a treachery.”

“He avoids me strangely; we rarely meet now, – never by any chance alone. And even before others there is a forced gayety in his manner that all his artifice cannot pass off for real.”

“Have you thwarted him in anything?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Have you refused him any favor that he sought for?”

“Never.”

“Is he your debtor for what he ought, but never means, to pay?”

“Not even that. What I may have given him has been always without any reserve or thought of restitution.”

“Are your affections directed towards the same object?”

As she said this, the ease in which she commenced gradually left her, and her cheek grew flushed ere she finished.

“I cannot tell. There are no confidences between us; besides, a very bankrupt in love could not envy my solvency. Mine is a heart that cannot threaten dangerous rivalry!”

“You cannot be certain of that!” said she, as if thinking aloud.

Fortunately, Cashel did not hear the words, but stood in deep revery for some seconds.

“There! the second bell has rung; I must leave you. My Lord comes down to dinner to-day. It is by his orders that I am thus showily dressed. Linton has been filling his mind with stories of some embassy he is to have, and we are already rehearsing ‘our excellencies!’ I have but time to say, Be on your guard; Linton is no common enemy, nor does it need an injury to make him one.”

“It is very rude of me, I know, to interrupt so interesting a tête-à-tête, but Mr. Cashel’s cook has feelings also at stake.”

These words were spoken by Lord Kilgoff, who, in a tone of no small irritation, now joined them.

“I was speaking of your mission, my Lord.”

“Which you forgot, of course, was not to be mentioned, – even to so sincere a well-wisher as Mr. Cashel.”

“In any case, my Lord, it remains safe in my keeping.”