{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_17784/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_17784","id":"gutenberg_17784","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/17784","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Ireland -- Fiction","Young women -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF BAWN\n\nBY\n\nKATHARINE TYNAN\n\n\nAUTHOR OF \"THE DEAR IRISH GIRL,\" \"JULIA,\" \"DICK PENTREATH,\" ETC.\n\n\nCHICAGO\nA.C. McCLURG & CO.\n1907\n\n\nPublished March 2, 1907\n\nPrinted in Great Britain\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nCHAPTER                              PAGE\nI. Myself                               1\nII. The Ghosts                          7\nIII. The Creamery                      16\nIV. Richard Dawson                     24\nV. The Nurse                           33\nVI. One Side of a Story                42\nVII. Old, Unhappy, Far-off Things      50\nVIII. The Stile in the Wood            55\nIX. A Rough Lover                      63\nX. The Trap                            70\nXI. The Friend                         78\nXII. The Enemy                         86\nXIII. Enlightenment                    93\nXIV. The Miniature                    102\nXV. The Empty House                   108\nXVI. The Portrait                     116\nXVII. The Will of Others              122\nXVIII. Flight                         129\nXIX. The Crying in the Night          137\nXX. An Eavesdropper                   144\nXXI. The New Maid                     152\nXXII. The Dinner-party                160\nXXIII. The Bargain                    167\nXXIV. The Blow Falls                  175\nXXV. The Lover                        183\nXXVI. The Tribunal                    191\nXXVII. Brosna                         199\nXXVIII. The Quick and the Dead        207\nXXIX. The Sickness                    215\nXXX. The Dark Days                    223\nXXXI. The Wedding-dress               231\nXXXII. The New Home                   239\nXXXIII. The End of It                 249\nXXXIV. The Knocking at the Door       257\nXXXV. The Messenger                   266\nXXXVI. The Old Lovers                 275\nXXXVII. The Judgment of God           283\nXXXVIII. Confession                   289\nXXXIX. The Bridegroom Comes           299\nXL. King Cophetua                     307\n\n\n\n\n=THE STORY OF BAWN=\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nMYSELF\n\n\nI am Bawn Devereux, and I have lived as long as I remember at Aghadoe\nAbbey with my grandfather and grandmother, the Lord and Lady St. Leger.\n\nAt one time we were a family of five. There was my Uncle Luke, and there\nwas my cousin Theobald.\n\nTheobald was my boy cousin, and we played together up and down the long\ncorridors in winter, and in the darkness of the underground passage, in\nsummer in the woods and shrubberies and gardens, and we were happy\ntogether.\n\nI was eager to please Theobald, and I put away from me my natural\nshrinkings from things he did not mind, lest he should despise me and be\ndissatisfied with me, longing for a boy's company. I would do all he\ndid, and I must have been a famous tomboy. But my reward was that he\nnever seemed to desire other company than mine.\n\nOnce, indeed, I remember that when he handed me live bait to put upon\nthe hook I turned suddenly pale and burst into tears.\n\nWhen I had done it I looked at him apprehensively, dreading to see his\ncontempt written in his face, but there was no such thing. There was\ninstead the dawn of a new feeling. My cousin's face wore such an\nexpression as I had never seen in it before. He was at this time a tall\nboy of fifteen, and Bridget Connor, my grandmother's maid, was making me\nmy first long frock.\n\nHe looked at me with that strange expression, and he said, \"Poor little\nBawn!\"\n\nIt was the beginning of the new order of things in which I fagged for\nhim no more, but was spared the labours and fatigues I had endured\ncheerfully during our early years. Indeed, I often wonder now at the\nthings I did for him, such things as the feminine nature turns from with\nhorror, although they seem to come naturally enough to a boy.\n\nThat day I heard my grandfather and grandmother discussing me.\n\nTheobald was playing in a cricket match in the neighbourhood, and I was\nat home, reading in one of the recesses of the library. The book was\nThackeray's \"Henry Esmond,\" and I was so lost in the romance and\ntenderness of it--I was at that chapter where Harry returns bringing his\nsheaves with him--that I did not notice what they were saying till my\nown name caught my ears.\n\nI remember that the afternoon had come on wet, and that while I read the\nwet branches of the lilac beat against the leaded window. I could see\nthe flowers through an open pane, and smell their delightful perfume.\nThere was an apple tree in view, too, with all its blossoms hanging in\npink limpness.\n\nI had forgotten my grandfather and grandmother sitting by the library\nfire, within the hooded settle that made the fireside like a little\nroom; and they had forgotten my presence, if indeed they had known of\nit.\n\n\"Bawn is the very moral of what I was at her age,\" my grandmother said.\n\"Have you noticed, Toby\"--my grandfather also was a Theobald--\"how tall\nshe grows? And how she sways in walking like a poplar tree? She has my\ncomplexion before it ran in streaks, and my hair before it faded, and\nmy eyes before they were dim. She has the carriage of the head which\nmade them call me the Swan of Dunclody. She will be fifteen come\nMichaelmas, and she shall have my pearls for her neck.\"\n\nI heard her in an excessive surprise. My grandmother had been esteemed a\ngreat beauty in her day and had been sung by the ballad-singers. Was it\npossible that my looks could be like hers? I had not thought about them\nhitherto any more than my cousin had about his. It was with almost a\nsense of relief that I heard my grandfather's reply.\n\n\"The child is well enough,\" he said, \"but as for being so like you, that\nshe is not, nor ever will have your share of beauty. As for your spoilt\nroses I do not see them, nor the dimmed eyes, nor the faded hair. You\nwere lovely when I saw you first, and you are no less lovely in my sight\nto-day.\"\n\n\"In your sight--at seventy!\" my grandmother said; and I could picture to\nmyself the well-pleased expression of her dear face.\n\nAs for my Uncle Luke, of him I have but a dim memory, yet it is of\nsomething bonny. To be sure I have his picture in my grandmother's\nboudoir to remind me of him, a fair, full-lipped, smiling and merry\nface, with dark brown hair which would have curled if it were permitted.\nHis comeliness survived even the hideous fashion of men's dress of his\nday, and my memory of him is of one in riding-breeches and a scarlet\ncoat, for I think that must have been how I saw him oftenest.\n\nHe used to lift me to his shoulders and let me climb upon his head, and\nI remember that it seemed very fine to me to survey the world from that\neminence.\n\nI could have been no more than six years of age when my Uncle Luke\nvanished out of my surroundings.\n\nAt that time Theobald had not come to be an inmate of Aghadoe, and I\nnoticed things as an over-wise child, accustomed to the society of its\nelders, will.\n\nI often wondered about it in later years. I had no memory of a wake and\na funeral, and I think if these things had been I should have known. But\nthere was a period of trouble in which I was packed away to my nursery\nand the companionship of Maureen Kelly, our old nurse.\n\nWhen I emerged from that it was to find my grandfather stern and sad,\nand my grandmother with a scared look and the roses of her cheeks\nfaded.\n\nAnd for long the shadow lay over Aghadoe. But in course of time people\ngrew used to it as they will to all things, and my grandfather took\nsnuff and played whist with his cronies, and drank his French claret,\nand rode to hounds, as he had been used; and my grandmother played on\nthe harp to him of evenings when we were alone, and walked with him and\ntalked to him, and saw to the affairs of her household, as though the\nmachinery of life had not for a period run slow and heavy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTHE GHOSTS\n\n\nWe were very old-fashioned at Aghadoe Abbey and satisfied with\nold-fashioned ways. There was a great deal of talk about opening up the\ncountry, and even the gentry were full of it, but my grandfather would\ntake snuff and look scornful.\n\n\"And when you have opened it up,\" he said, \"you will let in the devil\nand all his angels.\"\n\nIt was certainly true that the people had hitherto been kind and\ninnocent, so that any change might be for the worse, yet I was a little\ncurious about what lay out in the world beyond our hills. And now it was\nno great journey to see, for they had opened a light railway, and from\nthe front of the house we could see beyond the lake and the park,\nthrough the opening where the Purple Hill rises, that weird thing which\nrushes round the base of the hill half a dozen times a day before it\nclimbs with no effort to the gorge between the hills and makes its way\ninto the world. It does not even go by steam, so the thing was a great\nmarvel to us and our people, to whom steam was quite marvel enough.\n\nMy grandfather at first would not even look on it. I have seen him turn\naway sharply from the window to avoid seeing it. When we went out to\ndrive we turned our backs upon it, my grandfather saying that he would\nnot insult his horses by letting them look at it, and indeed I think\nthat, old as they were, yet having blood in them they would curvet a bit\nif they saw anything so strange to them.\n\nThere is one thing the light railway has done, and that is to give the\npeople a market for their goods. We were all much poorer than we once\nwere, except Mr. Dawson, who made his money by money-lending in Dublin\nand London; but even with Mr. Dawson's big house we did not make a\nmarket for the countryside.\n\nBesides, there was a stir among the people there used not to be. They\nwere spinning and weaving in their cottages, and they were rearing fowl\nand growing fruit and flowers.\n\nThe things which before the peasant children did for sport they now did\nfor profit as well. It caused the greatest surprise in the minds of the\npeople when they discovered that anybody could want their blackberries\nand their mushrooms; that money was to be made out of even the gathering\nof shamrocks. They thought that people out in the world who were ready\nto pay money for such things must be very queer people indeed. But since\nthere were \"such quare ould oddities,\" it was just as well, since they\nmade life easier for the poor.\n\nAnother thing was that a creamery had been started at Araglin, only a\nmile or two from us, and the girls went there from the farms to learn\nthe trade of dairying.\n\nIf it were not for the light railway none of these things would have\nbeen possible, and so I forgave it that it flew with a shriek round the\nbase of the Purple Hill, setting all the mountains rattling with echoes,\nand disturbing the water fowl on the lakes and the song-birds in the\nwoods, the eagle in his eyrie, and the wild red deer, to say nothing of\nthe innumerable grouse and partridges and black cock and plover and\nhares and rabbits on the mountain-side.\n\nMy grandmother was not as angry against the light railway as my\ngrandfather; she used to say that we must go with the times, and she was\nglad the people were stirring since it kept their thoughts from turning\nto America. She had been talked over by Miss Champion, my godmother and\nthe greatest friend we have. And Miss Champion was always on the side of\nthe people, and had even persuaded my grandmother to let her have some\nof her famous recipes, such as those for elder and blackberry wine, and\nfor various preserves, and for fine soaps and washes for the skin, so\nthat the people might know them and make more money.\n\n\"Every one makes money except the gentry,\" my grandfather grumbled, \"and\nwe grow poorer year by year.\"\n\nMy grandfather talked freely in my presence; and I knew that Aghadoe\nAbbey was mortgaged to the doors and that the mortgages would be\nforeclosed at my grandfather's death. They kept nothing from me, and my\ngrandmother has said to me with a watery smile: \"If I survive your\ngrandfather, Bawn, my dear, you and I will have to find genteel lodgings\nin Dublin. It would be a strange thing for a Lady St. Leger to come down\nfrom Aghadoe Abbey to that. To be sure there was once a Countess went\nballad-singing in the streets of Cork.\"\n\n\"That day is far away,\" I answered. \"And when it comes there will be no\ngenteel lodgings, but Theobald and I will take care of you somewhere.\nIn a little house it may be, but one with a garden where you can walk in\nthe sun in winter mornings as you do now, and prod at the weeds in the\npath as you do now with your silver-headed cane.\"\n\n\"If I could survive your grandfather,\" she said, turning away her head,\n\"my heart would break to leave Aghadoe. I ask nothing of you and\nTheobald, Bawn, but that you should take care of each other when we are\ngone. It is not right that the old should burden the young.\"\n\nI have always known, or at least since I was capable of entertaining\nsuch things, that our grandparents destined Theobald and me for each\nother. I have no love for Theobald such as I find in my books, but I\nhave a great affection for him as the dearest of brothers.\n\nI have not said before that he is a soldier. What else should he be but\na soldier? Since there have always been soldiers in the family, and my\ngrandfather could not have borne him to be anything else.\n\nDear Theobald, how brave and simple and kind he was!\n\nI have said nothing about the ghosts of Aghadoe Abbey, but it has many\nghosts, or it had.\n\nFirst and foremost there is the Lord St. Leger, who was killed in a\nDublin street brawl a hundred years ago, who will come driving home at\nmidnight headless in his coach, and the coachman driving him also\nheadless, carrying his head under his arm. That is not a very pleasant\nthing to see enter as the gates swing open of themselves to let the\nghost through.\n\nThen there is the ghost of the woman who cries outside in the shrubbery.\nI have seen her myself in a glint of the moonlight, her black hair\ncovering her face as she bends to the earth, incessantly seeking\nsomething among the dead leaves, which she cannot discover, and for\nwhich she cries.\n\nAnd again, there is the lady who goes down the stairs, down, down,\nthrough the underground passage, and yet lower to the well that lies\nunder the house, and is seen no more. A new maid once saw her in broad\ndaylight--or at least in the grey of the morning--and followed her down\nthe stairs, thinking that it was one of the family ill perhaps, who\nneeded some attention. She could tell afterwards the very pattern of the\nlace on the fine nightgown, and describe how the fair curls clustered on\nthe lady's neck. It was only when the lady disappeared before her, a\nwhite shimmer down the darkness of the underground corridor, that the\npoor thing realized she had seen a ghost, and fell fainting, with a\nclatter of her dustpan and brush which brought her help.\n\nI could make a long list of the ghosts, for they are many, but I will\nnot, lest I should be tedious. Only Aghadoe Abbey was eerie at night,\nespecially in winter storms, since my cousin Theobald went away. I have\noften thought that the curious formation of the house, which has as many\nrooms beneath the ground as above it, helped to give it an eerie\nfeeling, for one could not but imagine those downstair rooms filled with\nghosts. I had seen the rooms lit dimly once or twice, but for a long\ntime we had not used them, the expense of lighting them with a thousand\nwax candles glimmering in glittering chandeliers being too great.\n\nBut in the days before Cousin Theobald left us I was not afraid. He\nslept across the corridor from my room, and I had only to cry out and I\nknew he would fly to my assistance.\n\nHis sword was new at that time, and he was very proud of it. He turned\nit about, making it flash in the sunlight, and, said he, \"Cousin Bawn,\nfear nothing; for if anything were to frighten you, either ghost or\nmortal, I would run it through with my sword. At your least cry I\nshould wake, and I have always the sword close to my hand. Very often I\nlie awake when you do not think it to watch over you.\"\n\nIt gave me great comfort at the time, though looking back on it now I\nthink my cousin, being so healthy and in the air all day, must have\nslept very soundly. Yet I am sure he thought he woke.\n\nAnd, indeed, after he left the ghosts were worse than ever. I used to\ntake my little dog into my arms for company, and, hiding my head under\nthe bedclothes, I used to lie quaking because of the crying of the\nghosts. It was a wild winter when Theobald left us, and they cried every\nnight. It is a sound I have never grown used to, though I have heard it\nevery winter I can remember. And also the swish of the satin as it went\nby my door, and the tap of high-heeled shoes. They cried more that\nwinter than I ever heard them, except in the winter after Uncle Luke\nwent away (but then I was little, and had the company of Maureen Kelly,\nmy nurse); and in a winter which was yet to be.\n\nBut at that time I was happy despite the ghosts, and had no idea that\nthe world held any fate for me other than to be always among such\ngentle, high-minded people as were my grandfather and grandmother, my\ncousin Theobald, and my dear godmother. For ghosts, especially of one's\nown blood, are gentle and little likely to harm one, and must be\npermitted by the good God to come back for some good reason.\n\nIt is another matter when it is some one of flesh and blood, who wants\nto take you in his arms and kiss you while your flesh creeps, and your\nwhole soul cries out against it. And it is the worst matter of all when\nthose to whom you have fled all your days for help and protection, to\nwhom you would have looked to save you from such a thing, look on, with\npale faces indeed, yet never interfere.\n\nOften, often in the days that were to come I had rather be of the\ncompany of the ghosts than to endure the things I had to endure.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nTHE CREAMERY\n\n\nIt was through my godmother that I went to learn the butter-making at\nthe Creamery, and since it was strange that my grandparents should have\npermitted me to go, I must explain how it was that Miss Champion came to\nhave so much influence with them and over our affairs generally, and who\nthe lady was.\n\nShe was our nearest neighbour, at Castle Clody, the beautiful old house\nwhich stands on the side of the river Clody, overlooking the falls. She\nhad been an orphan almost from her birth, and had grown up as\nindependent and able to manage her affairs as any man.\n\nShe was a great sportswoman even in our country of such, and being\nexposed to all manner of wind and weathers, her face had come to have a\nweather-beaten look. She had very beautiful grey eyes and a deal of\nblack, silken hair, and she was unusually tall. Even the weather, when\nit had roughened and tanned her complexion, had but given her a new\ncharm to my mind, for she looked as wholesome and sweet and out-of-doors\nas the weather itself. Yet people said she was plain. I could not see\nit, but then she was too good to me and I loved her.\n\nI remember that usually she wore grey tweed tailor-made gowns, in which\nher beautiful figure showed to advantage, unless she happened to be\nriding when she wore a dark grey habit. But I have seen her very\nsplendid when she went out in the evening; and I have never seen a woman\nbetter fitted to grace splendid garments.\n\nShe had taken to herself at Castle Clody, because it was her nature to\nfoster and protect something, a cousin of hers, a peevish, exacting\ninvalid whom we always called Miss Joan, her name being Joan Standish.\n\nIf you spent only ten minutes by Miss Joan's bedside you were sure to\nhear her grumble at her cousin Mary. Since everything was done for her\nthat could possibly be done for an invalid her lot had great\nalleviations, but she seemed to take it as an offence that my godmother\nshould be so strong and free, should walk with such a swinging stride,\nand always enjoy her food, and bring that smell of the open air with her\nwherever she came.\n\nShe had an unpleasant flattering way with her at times.\n\n\"Come, my dear,\" she would say, \"sit down and talk to me. I live in so\ndreary an isolation, and my nerves get into that state that I could\nscream when a harsh voice falls on my ear. Your voice is soft and sweet,\nbut have you ever noticed Mary's? It is as harsh as a crow's, and when\nshe comes in with those strong boots of hers creaking she destroys my\npeace of mind for an hour.\"\n\n\"She has a beautiful voice,\" I answered her once, \"and there is such\nassurance in her tread. I should think it would be more trying to the\nnerves to live where every one went tiptoe.\"\n\nBut no manner of coldness could check Miss Joan's propensity for\nbelittling her benefactress. And I remember that once she had been\ntittle-tattling as usual, and had said something more indefensible than\nusual of her benefactress, when looking up suddenly we found Miss\nChampion in the room.\n\n\"Let the child love me, Joan,\" she said, with the nearest approach to\nsharpness I ever heard in her speech; but when Miss Joan burst into\ntears she stooped and shook up her pillows and soothed her in a way that\nwas tender without being attached, and afterwards she said something to\nme which was a dark saying since I did not know the secret between her\nand Miss Joan.\n\n\"One must needs be good to anything that has hurt one so much,\" she\nsaid.\n\nI had always known vaguely that there was something between Mary\nChampion and my Uncle Luke, and that explained to some extent her\ninfluence with my grandparents. She brought into their shut-up lives,\nindeed, the open air and the ways of other folk, without which I think\nwe should have all grown too strange and odd and a century at least\nbehind our time. Indeed, even with her, I think we were so much out of\ndate.\n\n\"The child grows more and more like a plant which has lived without the\nlight,\" she said one day of me to my grandmother.\n\n\"It is Bawn's nature to look pale,\" my grandmother said, looking at me\nin an alarmed way.\n\n\"It is her nature to look pale perhaps,\" my godmother said, while I\nfidgeted at hearing myself discussed, \"but she ought to look no paler\nthan this apple-blossom I am wearing, which at all events dreams of\nrose-colour. You keep her too much penned. I shall have to carry her\noff to Dublin for some gaiety. If the season were not nearly over----\"\n\n\"We couldn't do without Bawn,\" said my grandmother hastily. \"We are too\nold to live without something young beside us. Besides, she is very\nhappy--aren't you, Bawn?\"\n\n\"Very happy.\" I answered the appeal in her dear voice and eyes. And to\nbe sure I was happy, if it were not for the loneliness and the ghosts at\nnight.\n\n\"She is always reading,\" my godmother went on. \"Young girls should not\nbe always reading. It bends their backs and dims their eyes and makes\nthem forget their walks and rides. I'll tell you what, Lady St. Leger,\nyou had better let Bawn come and learn butter-making with me at the\nCreamery. I am going to take a course of lessons and then I can make my\nown butter. I think Margaret Dwyer is getting past her work. Joan says\nthe butter is rancid, and for once I believe Joan has cause. Every lady\nought to at least superintend her own dairy.\"\n\n\"I used to visit mine often,\" said my grandmother, \"before Lord St.\nLeger needed so much of my time. It was a pretty place, with white walls\nand a fountain bubbling. It is a long time since I have visited it.\"\n\n\"Let Bawn do it. I went to visit Lady Ardaragh the other day, and she\ngave me tea in her dairy. It is coming into fashion to be housekeepers\nand dairymaids once more.\"\n\n\"Would you like to go to the Creamery, Bawn?\" asked my grandmother.\n\n\"I should love to,\" said I. \"And to have a herd of little Kerries like\nLady Ardaragh. The dairy is as pretty as ever, but it wants washing, and\nthe fountain is broken. I believe Michael Friely could mend it.\"\n\nMy grandfather made no objection when he heard of the plan, only saying\nsomething with a laugh about fine ladies liking to play dairymaids. So\nit was settled I should go to the Creamery; and Bridget Connor made\ngowns of cotton for me to wear at the Creamery, and white aprons to go\nwith them.\n\nI think my grandmother looked on it as a child's play for my diversion,\nand she would have Bridget make me as pretty as she could. I dare say I\ndid look as though I played at work, for I caught sight of myself in the\nVenetian mirror on the wall of my grandmother's boudoir as she turned me\nround about, her maid, Bridget Connor, who learnt dressmaking in Paris,\npinching here and letting loose there.\n\nThe walls of my grandmother's boudoir are covered with mother-of-pearl\nwhich glows splendidly when the lamps are lit.\n\nI glanced at the Venetian mirror and saw myself like a rose in my rosy\nfrock, with the apron of spotless muslin and the mushroom hat with a\nwreath of pink roses. My grandmother said something about dairying at\nthe Petit Trianon, but indeed my intentions were of the most\nbusiness-like.\n\nI remember that it was the month of May, and all the pastures were\nrichest gold and snowiest white, drifts of gold and white. The\nthorn-trees were all in bloom, and the banks were covered with the white\nstitchwort and blue speedwell. The birds were in full song, and the\nmornings and evenings were especially delicious.\n\nI was to attend the Creamery for three months, so as to become\nproficient in dairymaid work, and then I thought I could do some good\namong our own people who could not afford to send a girl to the Creamery\nto learn her business. Or it might be where there was no girl, and the\nvanithee-that is to say, the good woman--did her work in her own way,\nnot half pressing the water out of the butter, so that it became rancid\nafter a few hours, or letting the cream become rancid before she churned\nit. I had hopes that I could persuade even the most obstinate of them to\nmend their ways; and that perhaps was an indication of my youth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nRICHARD DAWSON\n\n\nI used to go to Araglin every day, wet or dry. It is about three miles\nfrom the Abbey as one goes to it through our own park, and by Daly's\nWood, which is a little wood, barely more than a coppice; the entrance\nto it faces a gate in our park wall, and when you have traversed its\nshort length you have cut off a mile of the distance to Araglin if you\nwent by road.\n\nI liked the work at the Creamery extremely. The place was so cool and\nsweet with the splashing of falling water and the smell of cream and\nwarm milk, and the fresh-looking, wholesome girls in their print frocks,\nand all the shining, clean utensils.\n\nThe walk to and from the Creamery was most delightful, especially those\nMay days when there were such drifts of flowers and the wood was full of\nbluebells, and little white and blue wild anemones and harebells and\nsweet woodruff.\n\nNothing could well be more fragrant than the wood in those days of early\nsummer.\n\nIt was a place in which the trees were of the light and springing\nvariety with slender, pale trunks, but high overhead a mass of feathery\nleaves made a roof against the sky.\n\nI have often sheltered in the wood from a heavy shower and not received\na drop; yet it was suffused through the sunshiny hours with a soft\ngoldenness. Below the trees was only undergrowth and the grass sown\nthickly with flowers. The path went so straight through it that as you\nentered by the stile at one end you saw far before you the arch of light\nover the stile that took you on to the road at the other end.\n\nOccasionally my godmother was at the Creamery, working away with the\nrest, but she had so much to do of many kinds that she could not be\nlooked for regularly.\n\nIn a little while I was very much at home among the girls, who at first\nwere shy of me. If I could have gone to the Creamery at Araglin without\ntheir knowing that I was Bawn Devereux, the young lady at the big house,\nI would have enjoyed it, but that was not possible.\n\nHowever, they soon forgot to be afraid of me, and laughed and chattered\namong themselves, very little deterred by my presence, except for giving\nme a shy glance now and again. They were most polite and gentle with me,\nand would help me if they saw me lifting a heavy crock of milk, with a\n\"By your leave, Miss Bawn,\" which was very pleasant.\n\nI used to listen to their simple talk after they had forgotten their awe\nof me, and smile and sigh to myself. It was often of lovers, and they\nrallied each other about this or that swain; and sometimes it was of\ntheir fortunes, which were being built up by tiny sums out of much\npoverty, so that their milk and roses, their bright eyes and satin heads\nmight be gilt for their cold lovers. But I never heard anything Lady St.\nLeger would not wish me to hear; indeed, the talk those summer days was\nin keeping with the freshness and sweetness of the world about us.\n\nOne day that we were butter-making a party of visitors came in to see\nthe Creamery, as sometimes happened. I was washing the butter which lay\nbefore me in a pan of water, with the sleeves of my gown pinned above my\nelbow.\n\nWhen the visitors paused to see what we were doing I did not look at\nthem but went on with my work. There was a good deal of whispering and\nlaughing among them, and I felt without looking at them that they were\nnot gentle-folk, at least such gentle-folk as I knew.\n\nBut presently I had the most painful sense of being stared out of\ncountenance, and lifting my eyes I found the eyes of one of the visitors\nfixed upon me with so rude and insolent a gaze that the colour rushed\ninto my cheeks as though some one had struck me.\n\nThe person was a youngish man, dressed in what I took to be the height\nof fashion. We know little enough about fashion, and my grandfather's\nknee-breeches and frilled shirt were very smart in the Forties. The\nyoung man had red hair and very bold blue eyes; his complexion was\nruddy, and his strong white teeth showed under his red moustache.\n\nAt the moment of looking at him I was aware of the greatest aversion and\nfear within myself. I lowered my eyes and devoted myself to what I was\ndoing, painfully conscious all the time of the colour in my cheeks which\nmust make me conspicuous to those who were looking at me. I heard a\nlittle giggle; then the voice of one of the ladies very slightly\nsubdued--\n\n\"Oh, come away, Dick. Don't you see how you are making that poor girl\nblush?\"\n\nTo my relief I heard them go, but it was some time before I could\nrecover myself.\n\nI had no idea at all but that they were chance visitors brought into the\nneighbourhood by the light railway, but I was soon to be disillusioned.\n\nSeveral times that day I caught the eyes of a very pretty and\ninnocent-looking girl, named Nora Brady, fixed on me, and there was\nsomething odd about her look; so much so that later in the day, as I was\nputting on my hat to go home, while Nora was preparing to start without\nany such formality, I suddenly asked her--\n\n\"Why have you been looking at me now and again to-day as though you were\ngoing to say something to me?\"\n\nTo my amazement she blushed hotly and stammered something about not\nhaving known that she was looking at me.\n\n\"Never mind, Nora,\" I said, pitying her confusion; \"a cat may look at a\nking, you know. Not that I'm a king nor a queen either.\"\n\n\"Oh, indeed, Miss Bawn,\" she said, blushing again. \"You're pretty enough\nto be the Queen. Sure that's why poor Master Richard stared at you, not\nmeaning to be impudent at all, let alone that he thought you a poor\ngirl.\"\n\n\"Master Richard?\"\n\n\"Master Richard Dawson. 'Twas him came in to-day with some of the\nquality ladies they have stopping at Damerstown. He didn't mean any\nharm, Miss Bawn.\"\n\nSo it was Richard Dawson, the only son of the rich money-lender, on whom\nwe of the older, more exclusive gentry turn our backs. He had been wild\nin his boyhood, and had quarrelled with his father and flung himself off\nto America. We had not heard of his return.\n\nI noticed half consciously the pleading look of Nora's blue eyes under\ntheir black lashes. Why was the child so much concerned at what had\noffended me? But I hardly thought of her.\n\nI was thinking with an unreasonable wave of repulsion that I should\ndoubtless meet Richard Dawson, if not in the drawing-rooms of our\nfriends at least about our quiet lanes and roads, where hitherto there\nhad been nothing to fear. I wished he had stayed in America; and on one\nsubject I made up my mind. That was that if I must meet Richard Dawson I\nshould certainly be as cold to him as was compatible with civility to\nthose in whose houses I might meet him.\n\nFor we were not all a century behind our times. Some of us had a Dublin\nseason every year and had been presented at Court, and some of us even\nwent to London for the season.\n\nLady Ardaragh was one of those. She used to quiz us openly for our\nold-fashioned ways, but so sweetly that even my grandmother laughed with\nher. And she used to say that if one were too particular about one's\nvisiting-list so as to exclude the newly rich people, one would have to\nmark off half Park Lane and that wonderful district which she would have\nus believe lay all about it. One met the oddest people in her\ndrawing-room, where she fluttered about among them like a gay little\nbutterfly while Sir Arthur, her serious husband, locked himself away\namong his books.\n\n\"If I hadn't such oddities I should bore myself to extinction, dear Lady\nSt. Leger,\" she said to my grandmother once. \"Arthur will keep me here\nnine months of the year. What is one to do?\"\n\n\"Why, I am sure there is plenty to do,\" my grandmother replied simply.\n\"Bawn is busy from morning to night, what with her garden and her birds\nand her dogs and her reading and music, and now with the Creamery. So\nshould I be if Lord St. Leger did not claim so much of my attention. I\nneglect things sadly nowadays because my husband leans on me as a staff,\nalthough I am nearly as old as he. And there is your dear boy.\"\n\nLady Ardaragh frowned.\n\n\"Sir Arthur never knows how I look, what I put on,\" she said. \"He was an\nardent lover enough, but now I do not think I could provoke him if I\ntried. He simply does not think of me. An illuminated manuscript is more\nto him than I am; and he would rather have a black-letter book than my\nyouth. As for my Robin, I adore him; but his fine nurse comes between\nhim and me. And to be sure, even if she didn't I have no time for\nbabies.\"\n\nThat was the way with Lady Ardaragh. Her moods changed from one minute\nto another with incredible swiftness.\n\nI had always had a great admiration for her, the pretty creature, and\nwhen she had spoken of the illuminated manuscript I had a sudden vision\nof her with her head of curls, and her pink, babyish face against a\nbackground of pale gold.\n\nTo be sure her diversions, as even I knew, were something of the talk of\nthe countryside; and I have heard ladies say when they visited my\ngrandmother that it was a wonder Sir Arthur permitted it, but they would\nbe silent when they saw me. Yet my grandmother loved Lady Ardaragh, and\nbefore my presence was noticed I have heard her say in a rebuking way\nthat her ladyship's ways were only the ways of a girl married to an\nelderly, grave scholar.\n\nI was tolerably sure that some time or other we should meet the Dawsons\nin Lady Ardaragh's drawing-room, and I looked forward with horror to\nseeing Richard Dawson again.\n\nBut as it chanced, I was to meet him otherwise, and in no very pleasant\nfashion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTHE NURSE\n\n\nIt was a few days later that, coming in one afternoon, I found Miss\nChampion with my grandmother and noticed that there was something odd in\nthe manner of both of them. Nor was I kept long in suspense about it,\nfor Miss Champion, who was the most candid person alive, could not long\nkeep a secret.\n\n\"Would you like to go to Dublin, Bawn?\" she asked.\n\nTo Dublin! I could hardly have been more bewildered if she had asked me\nwould I like to go to the North Pole. Indeed, I had never contemplated\ngoing so far. It would have been a great adventure to have gone even so\nfar as Quinn, our fair and market town, which lies on the other side of\nthe Purple Hill, seven miles away.\n\nI stammered out that I should like to go to Dublin, looking from Mary\nChampion's face to my grandmother's, for I could hardly believe that\nthe latter would consent to so tremendous an adventure.\n\n\"It is time for her to see and be seen,\" my godmother went on. \"You are\ntwenty years old, are you not, Bawn? Why, at twenty I had seen a deal of\nthe world, had travelled far away from Castle Clody and the valley of\nthe Moy. Next season she ought to be presented, Lady St. Leger. I shall\ntake her up and do it myself, if you will not. She ought not to be\nhidden away.\"\n\nAt this my grandmother looked alarmed, and said something under her\nbreath of which I caught but a name or two, my Uncle Luke's and\nTheobald's.\n\nFrom whatever my grandmother had said Miss Champion seemed to dissent\neven violently.\n\n\"It is all forgotten,\" she said, \"and if any remembered it they would\ntake my view of it and not yours. He should have stayed and faced it\nout. No jury would have brought in a worse verdict than manslaughter,\nand if it had been tried outside Dublin, in Irish Ireland, no jury would\nhave convicted at all. I know the people adore Luke's memory because he\nstruck that blow in defence of a woman. Why will you behave as though\nyou held him guilty, Lady St. Leger?\"\n\nShe gained heat as she proceeded, and although she spoke hastily, and\nhardly above her breath I heard every word.\n\nIt was not the first indication I had had that my Uncle Luke's\ndisappearance was connected somehow with a deed of violence, although\nthe details had never been told to me. Now I spoke up.\n\n\"I am sure that Uncle Luke did nothing we need be ashamed of, Gran,\" I\nsaid. \"I remember him well, and he was very kind. I can see him now\nputting my canary's little leg in splints when it had broken it, and the\ndogs adored him. Old Dido yet listens for his return.\"\n\nMy grandmother began to weep softly.\n\n\"I did not want Bawn to know anything about those dreadful happenings,\nMary,\" she said. \"And whatever I believe or feel about Luke would not\nstand in the eyes of the law, since I am only his mother and why should\nI not believe in my son?\"\n\n\"It is my quarrel with you and Lord St. Leger that you will act as\nthough you believed him guilty,\" my godmother said. \"As for Bawn, Lady\nSt. Leger, you must let me tell her the story. It is time that she\nshould know it. Not now, but another time when it will not grieve you.\nAnd you will let her come with me to Dublin?\"\n\n\"If her grandfather consents, Mary. I have no doubt that he will consent\nif you ask him. But Bawn will need some clothes if she is to see your\nfriends. What are we going to do about her clothes?\"\n\n\"You must leave that to me, Lady St. Leger, as being Bawn's godmother.\nIf I have not done my duty by her hitherto, it does not mean that I\nnever shall.\"\n\nAfter all, I did not hear Uncle Luke's story from my godmother but from\nMaureen Kelly.\n\nMaureen was now getting old, and she had a room allotted to herself at\nthe extreme end of the left wing which looked out on the gable of the\nAbbey and the graves which are all that remain of the old Abbey from\nwhich the house takes its name.\n\nTo be sure the grass grows up to the empty window-sockets of the gable;\nand as for the graves they are clean blotted out in the prairie grass\nthat is like the grey waves of the sea above them.\n\nIt is a narrow slip of a room, and she sits there and sews, mending the\nlinen which is old and thin and darning finely the holes in the damask\ncloth or the rents which time has made in my grandmother's lace; and\nwhen the light fails her knitting those stockings of fine blue-grey wool\nwhich my grandfather always wears.\n\nMaureen, as often happens with old privileged servants, quarrels with\nthe other servants and is not much sought after by them. She lives in a\ngreat independence of her own, and has her own cups and saucers; they\nare fine old china, with brown sea-shells and seaweed upon them, and\nthey belonged to the nursery when I was the one child there.\n\nAnd she has her own tea and bread and butter and sugar; and anything\nelse she requires she fetches from the kitchen, walking about haughtily\namong the other servants, and not staying longer than is necessary to\nget what things she requires.\n\nI went very often to Maureen's room.\n\nFor one thing, it was like looking into my childhood to go there. It is\nso still. The nursery pictures are on the wall, and in a cupboard there\nare my discarded books and toys, with others of an earlier date than\nmine. There is the dolls' house which was given to my great-grandmother\nwhen she was a child by Lord Kilwarden, that just judge who was a great\nfriend of our family. It is not so elaborate as the dolls' houses of\nto-day, but it is big enough for a small child to creep within it, and\nit seemed wonderful to me as it had done to my mother before me, and to\nmy Aunt Eleanor, who was Theobald's mother. I know my grandmother loves\nthe dolls' house, and would not consent to its being put away in the\nlumber-room.\n\nIn winter Maureen's room is the warmest spot of the house, which is old\nand draughty, and I have always gone there when I have wanted to get the\nchill out of my bones. Maureen will sit by the window sewing, while I\nget down on to the little stool which used to be mine in my childhood\nand look into the heart of the flame and imagine things there.\n\nThere is a photograph of my Uncle Luke on the chimney-piece, an artless\nthing of a country photographer. He is wearing his militia uniform, and\neven the country photographer had no power to destroy the bonny charm\nwhich sat on his eyes and his lips.\n\nNow Maureen had, whether from increasing years or from the lonely life\nshe led, come to have delusions at times, to mix up me with my mother or\nmy Aunt Eleanor, to talk of Uncle Luke as though he were yet with us or\nmight be expected at any moment home from college, or from a hunting\nday or a fair or market, or his training with his regiment on the\nCurragh of Kildare.\n\nBut on this day she was clear enough in her mind.\n\nUncle Luke's old setter, Dido, that was a young thing when he went away,\nhad followed me upstairs and lay along the rug with her head on my lap.\nNow and again she pricked her ears as though she heard something or\nthought she did. It was Dido who led us on to talk of Uncle Luke.\nMaureen is no more tolerant of dogs about her than others of her class,\nbut she tolerates Dido because she belonged to Uncle Luke.\n\n\"If his Lordship had a real kindness for that old dog,\" she began, \"he'd\npoison her and put her out of her trouble.\"\n\nDido looked back over her ears at her as a dog will, knowing itself\ndiscussed.\n\n\"I don't think Dido would call it a kindness, Maureen,\" said I. \"Let me\nsee--how old is she?\"\n\n\"She must be nigh on fifteen years old. I remember well the day Master\nLuke brought her home. I wonder his Lordship can bear to have her about,\nseeing who it was that gave her to him.\"\n\n\"And who was it, Maureen?\" I asked.\n\nHer old eyes narrowed themselves cunningly.\n\n\"No one could ever say, Miss Bawn, that I talked about the family.\"\n\n\"Very well, Maureen,\" I said. \"But I am to hear it, all the same. Miss\nChampion is going to tell me. She said so to my grandmother yesterday,\nand would have done it then only that she feared to disturb Gran. I am\ngoing to her this afternoon to talk about our trip to Dublin, and then\nshe will tell me.\"\n\n\"That is the way,\" said Maureen, with great bitterness. \"People will\ntell you not to tell things: and when you've held yourself in till\nyou're fit to burst after all those years they'll tell themselves. Why\nshouldn't you know, Miss Bawn, my lamb? There's some for Master Luke and\nthere's some against him, but I'm for him whatever story was the true\none.\"\n\n\"So should I be, Maureen,\" said I. \"I remember how he carried me round\nthe stables and to the kennels on his shoulder, and how he brought me in\nto see Bridget Kinsella, the huntsman's wife, and she gave me bread and\nbrown sugar with cream over it. And when we were coming back it was\ncold, and Uncle Luke carried me inside his coat.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said Maureen, \"he was ever softhearted. A bit wild, but not more\nso than became his station. And if Miss Champion had been kinder with\nhim the trouble need never have happened.\"\n\nI had often noticed a curious hostility in Maureen towards Miss\nChampion, and had wondered at it, since she was so devoted to us all.\n\n\"She tell the story, indeed!\" she went on with bitterness. \"If she tells\nit she'd better keep back nothing. Why did she send him to get\nconsolation from other ladies? He was always true-hearted from a child.\nAnd if Miss Cardew had a fancy for him, who should blame her?\"\n\nNow, I had heard dimly of Miss Cardew who was an heiress, and of how Sir\nJasper Tuite had tried to abduct her, but somehow I had never heard the\nwhole of the story. People had dropped talking about it as soon as they\nhad discovered my presence. And I had had no idea at all that it had to\ndo with Uncle Luke.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nONE SIDE OF A STORY\n\n\n\"Tell me now, Maureen,\" I said, \"since you have told me so much. It was\nSir Jasper Tuite, was it not, that waylaid Miss Cardew on her way from\nKilmany Church, and was killed in the struggle? And what had Uncle Luke\nto do with it?\"\n\n\"Ah, that is what only he himself could tell. For the poor young lady,\nwho was never over-strong, went clean out of her wits afterwards: and to\nbe sure Sir Jasper Tuite was dead and cold when they found him. The\nhorses that drew the carriage had taken flight and galloped off home\nwith Miss Cardew, and her cowardly coachman had run away and never came\nback till the whole thing was over. Miss Cardew, poor thing, never could\ntell what happened, rightly. And Sir Jasper, if he _was_ dead, he hadn't\ndied of the pistol-shot, but of an old trouble of the heart. The bullet\nwas in the fleshy part of his shoulder, and the doctors would have got\nit out as easy as possible. And, sure, if he'd lived he'd have been sent\nto prison. It used to be life for runnin' away with a lady against her\nwill in the old days. Master Luke's pistol was found just as he'd thrown\nit down, and his name on it. He must have thought he'd killed Sir\nJasper. Small wrong, some people say, if he had, for Sir Jasper was bad\nas many a poor girl knew to her cost.\"\n\n\"Uncle Luke should not have gone away,\" I said.\n\n\"Well, you see, dearie, he thought it the kindest thing to do. And\nthen--there were stories. I never believed them myself. People asked how\nit was that Master Luke came to be armed. There was reason enough, for\nthe country was disturbed at the time.\"\n\n\"Stories,\" I repeated after her--\"what stories?\"\n\n\"Why, there were some bad enough to say that it was Master Luke was\ntryin' to abduct the lady, and that it was Sir Jasper was hinderin' him.\nI couldn't believe it myself. He cared for none but Miss Mary, although\nshe'd been hard to him. And Miss Irene Cardew would have gone with\nMaster Luke willin' enough. A pretty delicate little lady she was, and\n'ud jump if she caught sight of her own shadow. Sure, Master Luke could\nhave nothing but pity for her.\"\n\n\"There seem to have been a great many stories,\" I said.\n\n\"Aye, indeed, so there were, my jewel. There isn't two you'd meet in the\ncounty this minute 'ud hold the same opinion about it. Not but that any\nway the country people are on the side of Master Luke.\"\n\nI was silent for a few minutes, stroking Dido's silky head, letting her\nrippled ears fall through my fingers. Her dim eyes were fixed on me with\na terrible wistfulness, as though she longed to speak and could not. I\nfelt a great pity for the old dog. What a sad lot is theirs, depending\non our presence as they do for the light in their sky, to whom our\nslightest absence is the absence of death.\n\n\"Was nothing ever heard of him?\" I asked after that silence.\n\n\"Nothing. Some said that he got on board a hooker and was carried to\nLiverpool and got off to America. Others said the same hooker--she was a\nstranger in these parts--was swept out to sea and, in the big storm that\nbroke that very week, foundered.\"\n\n\"It is most likely,\" said I, \"for if he were living he would never have\nleft them in suspense all these years.\"\n\n\"There, you're wrong, Miss Bawn. Master Luke is not dead.\"\n\nDido stirred uneasily and whimpered.\n\n\"He's not dead, Miss Bawn, for if he was dead the banshee would have\ncried. And the dead coach would have driven up with a rattle and stopped\nat our door. It never has, Miss Bawn. What you've heard has never\nstopped at our doors. To hear wheels in the distance is nothing. As for\nthe cryin' in the shrubbery, that is another story. Some day I may tell\nit to you, child.\"\n\n\"You have not told me yet,\" I said, \"why you blame my godmother.\"\n\nI had it in my mind that Lord and Lady St. Leger did not blame her, so\nthere could be nothing to blame. It was some stupid and ignorant\nprejudice of old Maureen's. I knew she had fostered my Uncle Luke, and\nthat she loved him, as the foster-mother does, with an unreasoning and\njealous passion.\n\nHer old lips met tightly.\n\n\"Ask Miss Mary herself about that, Miss Bawn,\" she said. \"No one can say\nthat I am one to talk. After all those years, it would be a pity to\nspoil all the tellin' for Miss Mary.\"\n\nShe sat smiling to herself, a bitter and mocking smile, when she had\nfinished the sentence. I knew Maureen better than to try to win talk\nfrom her when she had once made up her mind to silence, so I let her be,\nonly changing the conversation to another subject.\n\n\"What will it be like, Maureen, when I am gone?\" I asked.\n\n\"It will be lonely, Miss Bawn,\" she answered; and then, as I had\nexpected, she added, with a little sourness, \"Not that you are a patch\non Master Luke and Miss Eleanor and your own mother for cheerfulness in\nthe house. Och, the days I could tell of when there was the fine\ncompany-keepin', and the divarsion, and the carriages of the quality\ndrivin' up to the doors, and the music and the dancin'! Them were the\ndays that were worth havin', an' not these days when every one is\nold--every one but yourself, Miss Bawn; and you're that quiet that I\nwouldn't know you were in the house. Och, the good days! the good days!\"\n\n\"They were good when Theobald was here,\" I said. \"He made enough noise,\nMaureen; didn't he? You used to scold then because he made so much.\"\n\n\"I always thought more of a boy than a girl,\" she answered. \"You're\nbonny enough, Miss Bawn, but you're not to be compared with Master\nTheobald, let alone them I nursed at my breast--Master Luke and your\nmother and your Aunt Eleanor.\"\n\n\"Mary Cashel thinks the world of me,\" I said, with enjoyment. Mary\nCashel is my foster-mother, and lives at the head of the Glen.\n\n\"She's a poor, foolish, talkative creature,\" Maureen said. \"If her\nLadyship had listened to me she'd never have had Mary Cashel in the\nhouse.\"\n\nJust then the setting sun glinted on the windows of Brosna, the great\nhouse that neighbours ours, which belongs to the Cardews, and has been\nempty, as its owner, Anthony Cardew, has been away from it many years.\nThe sun was going down in a great glory, and window after window in the\nlong house-front took fire and flamed like a torch.\n\n\"You would think,\" said I, \"that they were lighting fires over there\nagainst Captain Cardew's return.\"\n\nMaureen rose from her place and peered curiously in the direction of my\ngaze.\n\n\"I wonder he doesn't be selling it,\" she said, \"and not be letting it go\nto rack and ruin and him never comin' home. 'Tis an unlucky country so\nit is where the houses of the gentry must be all stannin' empty or\ntumblin' to ruins, or bein' turned into asylums or the like.\"\n\n\"I should like to see the inside of Brosna,\" I said. \"Is it as fine as\nthey say?\"\n\n\"It is the finest house in this country, Miss Bawn--finer even than the\nAbbey. But all goin' to rack and ruin for want of an owner to look after\nit. But as for seein' it, I wouldn't be talkin' about such a thing. It\nis a long time since his Lordship and her Ladyship could bear to hear\nthe name of Cardew.\"\n\n\"I have heard you say, Maureen,\" I went on, \"that Anthony Cardew was the\nhandsomest young man ever seen in this country, that he had a leg and\nfoot as elegant even as Uncle Luke's, and that to see him dance was the\nfinest sight you could wish for, and that all the ladies were in love\nwith him.\"\n\n\"I never put him before Master Luke. No, no, Miss Bawn, I never put him\nbefore my own boy. There, don't be talkin' about the Cardews, child.\nWhat are they to you?\"\n\nI got up and went out; and while my thoughts were busy with my visit to\nDublin there would flash through them like warp and woof the thought of\nAnthony Cardew, who had gone away before I was born and of whom so many\nromantic stories were told. I felt that I must hear some of them, even\nthough the name of Cardew was not to be mentioned in our hearing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nOLD, UNHAPPY, FAR-OFF THINGS\n\n\nI found my godmother watering her rose trees on the eastward side of the\nhouse from which the sun had now departed. The grassy terraces before\nthe house smelt deliciously, for a water-sprinkler in the grass sent out\nfine spray like a fountain. It was very hot weather, and I had walked\nacross; it had been cool enough in the shelter of the wood but the roads\nhad been blinding hot.\n\n\"Sit down, Bawn,\" she said, coming towards me, having left her hose to\nrun at the foot of a rose tree. \"See how busy I am! Of course, a\ngardener's boy would do it but I love to give drink to the thirsty.\"\n\nShe was wearing a cool muslin dress transparent at the neck. Round her\nthroat she had a slender chain with a locket to it. She was brown as a\nberry, but she looked as though the hot weather dealt gently with her.\nAs she sat down by me and took Dido's head into her lap, to the great\ndiscomfort of a rabble of jealous dogs who sat round watching her and\nwhining, it struck me that her eyes were the very colour of the dog's\nand as faithful.\n\n\"You look cool,\" I said.\n\n\"And you; you have no idea how pink print becomes you. But first we will\nhave tea. Joan has a sick headache and will have none of me to-day. So\nwe shall be just our two selves.\"\n\nAs she said it I noticed a line of pain and weariness deepen in her\nforehead, and her lips droop ever so slightly. It was something I had\nnoticed before when Miss Standish had been more than commonly trying. I\nlooked at my godmother with new interest, having learnt what had\nbefallen Uncle Luke. She wore her hair in an old-fashioned way which\nbecame her. It was in loops each side of her forehead, displaying her\nears, and was then taken up and plaited at the back of her head. The\nfashion was a quarter of a century old but nothing could have been\nprettier.\n\nShe took Dido's head between her hands and looked down into her eyes.\n\n\"She is growing very old, Bawn,\" she said sadly.\n\nIt reminded me of something Maureen had said and had not explained.\n\n\"Who gave Dido to Uncle Luke?\" I asked.\n\nShe turned red and pale.\n\n\"What have you been hearing, Bawn?\" she asked.\n\n\"Maureen has been talking to me about Uncle Luke. I did not think it\nwrong to listen to her, since I knew that I was to hear the story from\nyou.\"\n\n\"Maureen did not spare me,\" she said in a low voice.\n\n\"For the matter of that she said nothing. She hinted that you had been\nhard on Uncle Luke, but she bid me ask yourself.\"\n\n\"Do you think it likely I was hard to him, Bawn?\"\n\nShe was looking into the dog's eyes now and the dog into hers. The two\nhearts that were always faithful to Uncle Luke understood each other.\nDeep answered deep.\n\n\"I am sure you were not,\" I said.\n\n\"Maureen did not know,\" she went on gently.\n\n    \"Sure your dog for you could die\n       With no truer heart than I,\"\n\nshe murmured, with a fervour that startled me. Then her eyes grew misty.\n\n\"Dido and I are always listening for the same foot,\" she said. \"If Luke\nL'Estrange were to come back now, perhaps we should both die of joy.\nWhat was it you were asking me, Bawn? Who was it gave Luke the dog. It\nwas Irene Cardew, poor girl. All the tragedy is over and done. I don't\nmind telling you, Bawn--Irene is beyond being hurt by it--that she was\nfond of Luke. Perhaps it was my fault. Luke had hurt me and I was angry,\nsaying to myself that I did well to be angry. We never do well to be\nangry, little Bawn, with those we love. I thought there was plenty of\ntime for Luke to come back and be forgiven. But there is never plenty of\ntime in this world. I am sure of one thing, that he loved only me.\"\n\n\"And that is a great thing to be sure of,\" I said.\n\nA servant brought out the tea-table and set it before us. We were silent\nwhile he went to and fro bringing us the tea equipage, the bread and\nbutter and sandwiches and hot tea-cakes. When we were again alone my\ngodmother poured out the tea, smiling at me across the cups.\n\n\"We must not talk any more of the old, unhappy, far-off things,\" she\nsaid. \"You have heard enough, little Bawn; only take warning by the sins\nand follies of your elders. Do not quarrel with Theobald, thinking\nthere is time to make up.\"\n\n\"For the matter of that,\" I said, \"I never feel inclined to quarrel with\nTheobald. And, dear godmother, I am sure you were not hard with Uncle\nLuke.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Bawn. He was foolish like other young men of his class. I\nhad better tell you, lest you should wrong Luke in your thoughts. He\ncame to me when he had drunk too much. I thought I did well for his own\nsake to be angry and I sent him away unforgiven. There were many ready\nto comfort him, and it was not in him to rebuff a woman, especially a\nwoman who let him see that she was in love with him. He was often with\nIrene Cardew while I was angry with him. It gave colour to the stories\nafterwards.\"\n\n\"I know; Maureen told me.\"\n\n\"No one that knew him could believe it. It was like Jasper Tuite that he\ncould not even die without wronging another.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nTHE STILE IN THE WOOD\n\n\nAfter that she changed the conversation to other things; and when I had\ndrunk my tea and eaten with an appetite I went upstairs with her to see\nthings she had promised to show me.\n\nI had had no idea that they were for me. I knew that she had a great\nmany old and beautiful things, and from my childhood I had delighted in\nthem. I could remember her calling for me in her pony phaeton before\nUncle Luke had left us, and she would carry me all over Castle Clody for\nshe was a tall, strong young woman; and while she changed her dress I\nused to sit in the middle of her bed with the curtains of blue and\nsilver damask falling to either side of me, and she would give me boxes\nof pretty things to play with. To this day I like better than any of her\nvaluable jewels her pretty trinkets of garnet and amethyst and topaz, of\nwhich she has a great many. They lay in trays in glass-lidded boxes and\nI delighted to look at them. Many of them have come to me as Christmas\nand birthday gifts since then, and Miss Standish had many of them, for\nalthough she was an invalid she delighted in pretty things and was\ngreedy for them. My dear godmother is one to give with both hands;\nindeed, to value things chiefly for the pleasure of giving them.\n\nLying on her bed now were a number of garments so pretty that I cried\nout in delight. They were all white, yellowed a little with age, and in\nsome instances with a pattern in colours.\n\nThere was a scarf of China crepe, powdered as thickly as possible with\nroses and golden bees. There was an opera cloak made of a beautiful old\nIndian shawl. There were several frocks of silk and lace and muslin and\nfine woollen. There were finely laced and frilled petticoats and silk\nstockings and shoes with paste buckles and a feather fan. Also there\nwere fichus and lace-edged handkerchiefs and such things, to strike a\nyoung girl dumb with delight.\n\n\"They are all for you, Bawn,\" she said, smiling at me. \"They were my\nwedding clothes, and they have lain packed away in silver paper all\nthese years. I have brought them into the light of day for you. They\nought to have been kept for your wedding perhaps, but as there is\nnothing definite----\"\n\n\"Theobald and I shall be quite old before we need think of marriage, if\nwe ever do,\" I said. \"I don't want to be married. It is nicer when\npeople will be satisfied with being just dear brothers. And are they\nreally for me, god-mamma? Why should you not wear them yourself? They\nare so beautiful!\"\n\n\"Let me have the pleasure of seeing you wear them, Bawn. We shall depend\nless on the Dublin shops during our visit. Louise will fit the things on\nyou. They will have to be taken in for you. They will not look\nold-fashioned. The fashion has come back to them.\"\n\nI stood an hour or more while Louise pinned the things on me, kneeling\nby my side and turning me this way and that way to look at myself in the\nlong glass of the wardrobe.\n\nShe kept up a running conversation on the things while she fitted me;\necstatic little cries of admiration; deep sighs of satisfaction; with\nall the animation of the Frenchwoman.\n\n\"I believe you get at least as much pleasure out of them as I do,\nLouise,\" I said.\n\n\"Ah, heaven, more!\" she answered. \"Mademoiselle is but a child; she does\nnot know the delight of the feel, the soft lovely feel, of this that\ndrapes so perfectly. Fortunately Mademoiselle lends herself to the\nlovely things. They become her. They cling to her figure as though they\nloved it. The result will be charming. M. le Capitaine Theobald he\nshould be here to see the result. How his eyes would sparkle!\"\n\n\"M. le Capitaine Theobald, as you call him, Louise,\" I said, \"would not\nknow one stuff from another. It is quite possible that he would like me\nbetter in the pink print yonder. The beautiful things will be quite\nwasted on him. He thinks a white muslin frock with a blue sash the\nfinest thing a girl can wear.\"\n\n\"It is not bad, for an _ingenue_,\" said Louise, thoughtfully. \"But I do\nnot agree with you, Mademoiselle, that he would not admire these lovely\nthings. He might not know, but he would admire all the same.\"\n\n\"Possibly,\" I said, with patience. I was not greatly interested in\nTheobald's point of view. I might have altered in my cousin's eyes; but\nhe had hardly altered to me from the boy with whom I went climbing and\nskating in the old days. I could not imagine myself having any\nsentimentality about Theobald.\n\n\"Mademoiselle is too sensible for her years,\" said Louise; and I was\nconscious of a subtle disparagement in the speech.\n\n\"I am not sensible at all, Louise,\" I answered, with some indignation.\n\"I am not sensible where grandpapa is concerned, nor grandmamma, I\ntremble if grandpapa is a little later on a hunting day than we expect\nhim, or on Wednesday when the petty sessions are on at Quinn. I am\nterrified about grandmamma if her finger aches; and I lie awake at night\nimagining all the terrible things that could befall them.\"\n\n\"Ah, that is affectionateness. I never said you were not affectionate,\nMademoiselle.\"\n\nBut there was some meaning in Louise's accusation, although she would\nsay no more, pretending that she was always one to let her tongue run\naway with her. Louise had been with Miss Champion these twenty years,\nand was a privileged person as old servants are amongst us.\n\nWhen she had finished I went to look for my godmother, and found her\nwith Miss Standish, bathing her forehead with eau-de-Cologne.\n\n\"Poor little Bawn,\" she said, \"you look tired. Louise has kept you\nstanding too long. Once set Louise to fitting clothes and she forgets\neverything. Could you not sit down here and rest a while before starting\nfor home?\"\n\n\"Yes, why not sit with me for a while?\" Miss Standish put in eagerly. \"I\nalways find your voice restful, Bawn.\"\n\nBut I would not stay. I had promised my grandmother to be home by\nhalf-past six at latest, and I was not going to have her fretting about\nmy absence. It was six o'clock now and the shadows were growing longer;\nthe coolness of evening was coming. The birds were singing their\neven-song. As I went down the marble steps in the grassy terraces from\nthe house I saw the peacock and his lady already at roost in a low tree,\nalthough the darkness would not come for some hours yet, and indeed\nwould be then only a green twilight.\n\nThere was never anything to be afraid of on our roads. Our valley was in\nsuch a quiet isolation, so far away from the main roads, that even a\ntramp or an importunate beggar were not to be feared. The labourers\ngoing home from the fields touched their caps with a friendly \"God save\nyou kindly, Miss Bawn.\" The children by the cottage doors smiled at me\nshyly. Even the dogs knew me. It was the road I had taken to the\nCreamery and back every day; and I had been familiar with it from my\nchildhood.\n\nThe sun was yet so hot on the exposed road that Dido and I were glad to\nget within the shelter of Daly's Wood. Though the sun poured upon the\nwood it was cool within it and steeped in a golden haze. The pale stems\nof the springing trees looked like so many great candles in a golden\nhouse; there was a sweet sound of falling waters, for a little mountain\nstream ran through the wood, and in its neighbourhood the air was damp\nand deliciously sweet. Where the water tumbled over broken boulders and\nformed a little pool Dido stood to drink, and I stood, too, a minute\nlistening to the bird-songs of which the wood was full.\n\nWhen we had turned round and gone on our way I observed that there was\nsome one sitting on the stile which led out on the road nearly opposite\nthe postern gate in our park wall and supposed it to be some one resting\nthere who would rise up to let me pass.\n\nI could not imagine myself being afraid of these quiet places, where, no\nmatter what happened elsewhere, the people were always friendly and\nrespectful. But as I came close up to the man who sat on the stile and\nwho had not turned his head at the sound of my foot on the path, all of\na sudden I became filled with a nameless terror.\n\nThe wide shoulders, the rather massive head with the closely curling red\nhair; I seemed to recognize them all at once for Richard Dawson's, and I\nwas as frightened as ever was a hare of the dogs; nay, more frightened,\nfor the hare has at least her speed. My feet seemed clogged by leaden\nweights as they might be in the terror of a dream. Then the man turned\nabout with a smile which showed all his white teeth and I was sick with\nfear.\n\n\"It is the third day I have been waiting for you, you pretty creature,\"\nhe said. \"I am going to lift you over the stile, and then you shall give\nme a kiss for it.\"\n\nHe flung his arms about me and I closed my eyes while I tried to push\nhim away. I felt his breath on my face, and my loathing of him was so\ngreat that it made me physically incapable of resistance. I uttered one\ncry, but I felt that there was no body of sound in it to carry it even\nif anybody had been near. But suddenly I heard a furious growl, and I\nfelt myself released.\n\n\"Damn the brute! She has bitten me,\" he said furiously.\n\nAnd there he was with the blood running down his hand, while my brave\nold dog stood by ready to defend me against all the world.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nA ROUGH LOVER\n\n\nFor a second or two we stood staring at each other while Richard Dawson\nmopped the blood from his hand.\n\n\"Don't you see that your damned dog has bitten me?\" he shouted, as\nthough my silence infuriated him.\n\n\"I see,\" I said with my hand on Dido's collar to restrain her. \"You\nshouldn't have been rude to me, sir.\"\n\nHe stopped staunching his wound and burst into a great roar of laughter\nwhich had no good humour in it.\n\n\"Lord, lord!\" he said. \"That's the best thing I've heard of this many a\nday. Why a little country hussy like you ought to be honoured by\nreceiving a gentleman's kisses. There, my dear, get rid of your dog. I\ndon't want to kick her brains out as I could easily do, and as she\ndeserves to have done for having bitten me. Send her home with a stone\nat her heels and come and sit by me on the stile. You shall see how\nprettily a gentleman makes love.\"\n\nI suppose I must have looked at him with the horror I felt for him, for\nhe laughed again.\n\n\"What,\" he said, \"am I so ugly as all that? I can tell you, my dear,\nthat a good many of your sex, both small and great, regard me as a very\npretty fellow. In fact, I'm pestered with the women. I assure you I\nreally am, my dear. And so you won't give me a kiss of your own free\nwill? Why, I could take it if I liked; but I'm not sure that I want to\ntake it till you come and offer it to me of your own free will.\"\n\n\"That I shall never do,\" I said.\n\n\"I'm not so sure of that,\" he replied. \"There aren't many ladies in this\ncounty wouldn't give me a kiss if I wanted it, much less a little\ndairymaid like you.\"\n\nI thought at the time that it was his egregious vanity and conceit, but\nin this I was wrong, as events afterwards proved. Indeed, it was a very\nstrange thing how women, both gentle and simple, were in many cases\nattracted by the coarse good looks and insolent, swaggering way of\nRichard Dawson--an inconceivable thing to me in the case of a lady,\nalthough more easily understood in the case of a poor peasant girl like\nNora Brady.\n\nHis mood had apparently changed, and I was less afraid of him, although\nmy detestation of him had been deepened by his conduct to me.\n\nHe still sat on the stile so that I could not pass him; but all the\nanger had gone out of his face, although the blood still trickled a\nlittle from the back of his hand where Dido had planted her teeth.\n\n\"Will you let me pass, please?\" said I.\n\n\"Presently, my dear.\" How I hated him for his easy insolence! \"I want to\nhear first what it is you dislike in me.\"\n\n\"Everything,\" I answered.\n\n\"Why,\" he said mockingly, \"it is a thing of spirit, and it will be the\nmore pleasure to tame it. I am tired of birds that come fluttering into\nmy hands and cling to me when I no longer desire them. Upon my word, I\nlike you the better for it. Come, I'm sorry I frightened you. I can say\nno more than that; it is the fault of your sex, which is so\ncomplaisant.\"\n\nHe put his hand into his pocket and drew out a handful of coins.\n\n\"Here's a sovereign,\" he said, \"to buy a ribbon. It can't make you\nprettier, but may it make you kinder when next we meet!\"\n\nHe flung the coin as though he expected me to catch it, but, of course,\nI made no effort to do so and it fell on the ground and rolled away into\na heap of dead leaves. No matter what happened I could not have kept\nmyself from kicking at it contemptuously with my foot where it lay.\n\n\"Not enough, eh?\" he asked, his eyebrows raised in amusement. \"Would\nfive do?\"\n\nI stared at him and the colour flamed in my cheeks.\n\n\"Why, you are prettier than ever,\" he said. \"If you look at me like that\nmuch longer I shall be obliged to kiss you, although I would rather wait\ntill you came offering me a kiss. Pretty spitfire! Where have they been\nhiding you? I had no idea, till I saw you the other day at the Creamery,\nthat there was anything so pretty hereabouts. I generally find out what\nthere is delectable in the way of femininity before I am forty-eight\nhours in a place. You have no idea of what an adorable little modesty\nyou looked with your white arms plunged in the milk. You took the shine\nout of the ladies, my dear.\"\n\nI could only look at him with steady animosity, while my hand on her\ncollar kept poor Dido in check. I saw that he took me for a peasant girl\nand I was not minded to enlighten him. I was going away; and perhaps\nbefore I came back he would be gone again on his travels, for I had\nalways heard that he was wild and a rover and could not be persuaded to\nsettle down and live at Damerstown although his father and mother were\nmost anxious that he should. My heartfelt desire at the moment was that\nI should never again see Richard Dawson's face, with its insolent and\ncoarse good looks, as long as I lived.\n\n\"Yes, you took the shine out of the fine ladies that were with me that\nday,\" he went on, \"fine a conceit as they have of themselves. They were\nfine London ladies, my dear, the sort that play cards all night, and\nmotor all day, and have no time to be God-fearing and loving like the\nwomen that went before them. You didn't look at them?\"\n\nThe speech struck me as oddly incongruous in parts of it, yet we had\nheard--about the one thing we had heard in his favour--that he was fond\nof his old mother, a good-natured, homely, kindly body, people said, who\nwas rather unhappy among the Dawson riches, rather afraid of her\ngranite-faced, beetling-browed husband.\n\n\"No, I didn't look at them,\" I said.\n\n\"And why not, pray?\"\n\n\"I took no interest in them. I did not like their way of speaking. They\nseemed vulgar to me.\"\n\nI hardly knew why I answered him. Perhaps he compelled me. When I had\nanswered he turned round and looked at me with an uproarious delight in\nhis face.\n\n\"If Lady Meg could only hear you! Lord! lord!\" he said, with infinite\ngusto. \"The daughter of a hundred earls! And Miss Moxon, just as high\nborn and just as fast! How amazed they would be. They would box your\npretty ears, my dear; at least Lady Meg would.\"\n\n\"That they would not,\" I answered him. \"And now, please let me pass.\"\n\n\"Without a kiss?\" he said mockingly. \"Very well, then, I shall let you\ngo. But I feel myself a poor-spirited fellow for it. Do you know that\nyour eyes are like wet violets? And when do we meet again, my dear?\"\n\nHowever, though he mocked he stood aside to let me pass, which at first\nI hesitated to do, fearing that he might perhaps seize me in his arms as\nI passed him.\n\nTo my great vexation he seemed to guess at this feeling of mine, for he\nlaughed again and said--\n\n\"Don't be afraid, pretty one. I promised to let you pass and I shall.\nNo one shall say that Dick Dawson's word isn't as good as his bond; and\nhis bond is worth a good deal. He ought to know something of bonds too,\nseeing the way the money was made.\"\n\nSo he mocked at himself when he was not mocking at me. I did not\naltogether trust him, but I made up my mind that if he was rude to me\nagain my poor dog should protect me as she had done before. But after\nall there was no necessity, for with a sudden movement my enemy lifted\nhis hat, turned away and walked down the road, smiling at me, as he\nwent, over his shoulder.\n\nNever was any one so glad of a place of refuge as I was when I went in\nat the postern gate in the wall and was within our own woods. I tried to\nshoot the rusty bolt into its place, but it had been unused for years\nand I could not move it, so I let it be. And now it was twilight in the\ndark woods but I felt at home, and letting Dido go, she bounded on\nbefore me as though she were young again, and I followed more sedately,\nwith an occasional glance back to see I was not followed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTHE TRAP\n\n\nThe sight of the red sun sinking down a long, green avenue turned my\nthoughts for a moment from the painful memory of Richard Dawson's\nrudeness, which, now that I had escaped from him, made me feel sick and\nashamed.\n\nIt was something I could never tell to anybody, and I felt as though I\nmust carry some shameful secret all my days and that it must appear in\nmy face, and I was glad that I need not meet the eyes of my grandparents\nby daylight, but could deceive their dear, dim sight in the shaded\ncandle-light and afterwards have the night to recover myself.\n\nWith a young girl's extremity of virginal pride and modesty, I hated\neven myself because he had touched me and could have disfigured the face\nhe had praised.\n\nBut the red sun glinting down the long arcades, promising another fine\nday to-morrow, gave my thoughts a welcome turn. I remembered how it had\nshone yesterday in the long line of windows at Brosna; and that led me\nto think of Anthony Cardew.\n\nHe had the most romantic stories attaching to him, such stories as were\nsure to please a young girl's fancy. It was to be sure not a name we\nmentioned at Aghadoe. Indeed, even before I knew about Uncle Luke there\nwas something that forbade my talking of the Cardews before Lord and\nLady St. Leger or before my godmother.\n\nOnly old Maureen, who so often mixed up the present and the past, would\ntalk of the Cardews as though their name had never been banned, as\nthough they still came and went as friends and intimates at Aghadoe\nAbbey as in the days before the trouble came about Uncle Luke.\n\nI knew that Captain Cardew had long since retired from the army, and\nthat one never knew in what corner of the world he might not be, since\nwherever adventures were to be found he was.\n\nI knew that he had spent many years of his life--he must be now nearly\nforty, which was a great age to me--in the service of an unhappy great\nlady whose little kingdom had been unjustly taken from her, and in her\ncause he had spent his patrimony which had once been great. And now\nsince she no longer lived, having given up her gentle soul some two\nyears after she had sought the shelter of the convent against a rough\nworld, he was free once more to devote his sword of Don Quixote to some\nother lost cause.\n\nI knew, furthermore, that he was reported to have raised money from Mr.\nDawson of Damerstown at ruinous interest to spend it in the service of\nthe Princess Pauline, and that he was now very poor, too poor to keep\nhis old home from going to pieces and being consumed by the damp and by\nrats and mice and general decay.\n\nPeople used to wonder he did not try to sell it. Indeed, it was common\ntalk that before Mr. Dawson had bought Damerstown he had tried to obtain\npossession of Brosna, and that his offer had been refused by Anthony\nCardew with contempt. The common talk even found words for the refusal.\n\n\"What?\" Captain Cardew was reported to have said. \"You have plucked me\nclean enough, God knows, but I keep my honour intact, and that forbids\nthat I should see Dawsons in the house where Cardews lived honourably\nand wronged none but themselves.\"\n\nThe low sun going down in a blaze behind the trees brought these things\ninto my mind. I remember that the wood was as sweet from the scent of\nthe white-thorn and the lilacs and a thousand other sweet and fresh\nthings as though some heavenly censer swung there. The thrushes and the\nblackbirds were singing their wildest as is their custom about sunset;\nand below their triumphant songs you could hear the whole chorus of the\nlittle birds' voices as well as the fiddling and harping of the myriad\nfield-crickets and grasshoppers. Then from the field beyond the wood I\ncould hear the corncrakes sawing away in the yet unmown grass, and there\nwere a great many wood-doves uttering their soft laments.\n\nI have always loved the things of nature; but on this evening they had\nless power than usual to soothe me. The shame of my recent encounter\nwith Richard Dawson kept sending the colour to my cheeks and the little\nshocks of repulsion through my blood. I felt that if he had really\nkissed me I must have killed him or myself. My fingers twitched as I\nthought on a certain dagger, little but deadly, which lay in a glass\ncase in the picture-gallery, and I resolved that I would carry it in my\nbreast for the future on my country rambles lest I should meet again\nwith such rudeness as I had met to-day and have nothing with which to\ndefend myself.\n\nI was so engaged in my thoughts as I walked along that I had not noticed\nhow far ahead of me Dido had run. But suddenly she was brought to my\nmind by the most horrible yelping which made me run as fast as ever I\nran in my life.\n\nI came up with her in a little glade away from the main path, a mere\ngamekeepers' passage, now much overgrown and choked up, for it was long\nsince we had kept gamekeepers. I had to creep on my hands and knees\nthrough the briars and undergrowth to reach the place where she was,\nwhich was a clear space in the midst of the tangle.\n\nAs soon as she saw me she left off yelping and waited for me with an air\nof expectancy, as though she knew that I would soon put an end to her\ndiscomfort.\n\nBut alas for the poor thing's faith in me, I saw when I came up to her\nthat her foot was caught in a trap, a horrible iron-toothed thing, the\nlike of which I had never seen before. It must have rusted there from\nthe old days till my poor dog by some accident had released it. I saw\nthat there were bones by it--the bones of some poor wild creature,\ndoubtless, who had perished in it, and the bones had no doubt acted as\na warning to the others.\n\nAs I knelt down Dido licked my face frantically, being quite sure I was\ngoing to release her. But that was not so easy. Pull as I would I could\nnot bring the teeth of the trap apart.\n\n\"I shall have to go for help, Dido,\" I said, after a few minutes,\ntrusting to her sense to understand. But as I rose to go and she saw\nthat I was leaving her, she began immediately a loud, almost hysterical\nbarking, interspersed with little piteous moans and whimpers which were\nmost painful to hear.\n\nI did not know what to do, so I began to cry myself, and then I knelt\ndown beside her and began again my useless effort to release her.\n\nThe sun by now was sinking low, although there would be light for an\nhour or two yet. I guessed that it must be seven o'clock, and I knew\nthat my grandmother would be uneasy about me, and that presently my\ngrandfather would have to be told, and the whole household would be\nanxious. What was I to do? I could not even think that they would come\nthis way looking for me, since they had not known of my intention of\ncoming home by Daly's Wood and the postern.\n\nI was in the greatest perplexity and distress, and I never was so glad\nin my life as when I heard a shout close at hand. I believe that if it\nhad been Richard Dawson himself I should have welcomed him at that\nmoment.\n\n\"Come this way, please,\" I called out. \"My dog is caught in a trap and I\ncannot leave her.\"\n\nI heard some one come as I had come, on hands and knees, through the\nundergrowth; then he emerged into the little glade and stood upright,\nthe grass and the leaves about his clothing.\n\nHe did not look at me at first, but came, with that clucking of the\ntongue against the palate which we use in Ireland as a sound of pity and\nconcern, to the rescue of the dog. His hands, fine and long and slender,\ntore the trap apart as though it had been paper.\n\n\"Poor beast!\" he said, \"she is very little the worse. The teeth of the\ntrap had grown blunt, although they were strong enough to hold her.\"\n\nI thought him the very finest gentleman I had ever seen or ever hoped to\nsee, and that is to say a good deal, since it would not be easy to find\na finer gentleman than my grandfather. And I had the portrait of Uncle\nLuke and my childish memory of him. And Theobald is as fine and gallant\na young gentleman as you would wish to see.\n\nBut this stranger was finer than any of them.\n\nSuddenly he looked at me for the first time, and I saw his face change.\nSome wave of emotion passed over it, troubling its gay serenity. His\nlips trembled. And then he was himself again.\n\n\"Pardon me,\" he said. \"For the moment I thought I had seen a ghost--as\nthough ghosts apparelled themselves like the rose! You are very like\nsome one I once knew who is now dead. I am so glad I have been able to\nhelp your poor dog.\"\n\nI stammered like the rustic Richard Dawson had taken me for. Who could\nthis finest of fine gentlemen be?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nTHE FRIEND\n\n\nHe was tall and slim, and had an elegance of air which really does not\nseem to belong to our age. His face was bronzed and his eyes were of so\ndark a grey--I know since that they are grey--that I thought them black\nthat evening in the shadow of the woods.\n\nHe had a little black moustache, and, in odd contrast to it and his look\nof youth, his hair was quite white. It was perhaps that which gave him\nhis air of elegance. He was really like a powdered gallant of the last\ncentury rather than a gentleman of this. But his speech was of this, and\nvery Irish as well.\n\n\"I am so glad I was able to assist you,\" he said. \"There, good dog, good\ndog!\" to Dido, who was fawning upon him. \"Let me see! She goes a little\nlame, but there is no harm done. She will be quite well in a day or two.\nAnd this shall do no further damage.\"\n\nI suppose it was no great thing, seeing that the trap was old and\nrusty, but it seemed to me a great feat of strength when his long\nfingers tore it apart and flung the two halves into the bushes.\n\n\"They are murderous things,\" he said. \"Every man who laid one should\nhimself be caught in it.\"\n\n\"I am grateful to you for ever,\" I said. \"What would I have done if you\nhad not been at hand? I could not leave Dido. If I had she would have\nbroken her leg in the effort to escape. And try as I would, I could not\nforce the trap apart.\"\n\n\"To be sure not,\" he said, glancing at my hands; \"and I'm very glad I\ncame by. By the way, I was trespassing, I'm afraid. If Lord St. Leger or\nany of his family had come upon me I should have been ordered out of the\nwoods.\"\n\n\"Oh no,\" I said, with some indignation. \"That you would not have been. I\nam Bawn Devereux, Lord St. Leger's granddaughter. We are not so\nchurlish.\"\n\nHe lifted his hat again.\n\n\"Lord St. Leger's popularity is well known,\" he said. \"It has always\nbeen a friendly and generous race. Yet I think I should have been turned\nout of the woods.\"\n\n\"Do not say so,\" I implored him, in a passion of vexation. \"My\ngrandfather would love you because of what you have done for the dog. He\nis devoted to dumb animals. In any case, he would not have objected to a\ngentleman walking in his woods. That the postern gate is left open is a\nproof that people come and go as they will.\"\n\n\"That may be,\" he said. \"The St. Legers have always been at peace with\ntheir fellow-men, yet I would not be caught a trespasser.\"\n\nThere was a sudden darkness by which I conjectured that the sun had sunk\nbelow the horizon.\n\n\"I must be going,\" I said in a great hurry. \"They will be anxious about\nme at home. For the rest, _I_ give you the freedom of the woods. Come\nand go when you will. You are welcome to Aghadoe.\"\n\nHis face lit up.\n\n\"Faith, it's pleasant to a homeless man like myself to be assured of a\nwelcome,\" he said. \"And now, Miss Bawn, let me see you to the confines\nof the wood, within sight of the Abbey. Out on the hills and plains it\nis yet day, but in the woods night comes early, to give a chance perhaps\nto the birds who have been awake since cock-crow.\"\n\nI crept out of the glade as I had entered it and he followed me. When we\nboth stood upright in the wood-path we laughed together.\n\n\"I believe I knew the place of old,\" he said, \"when I was a little\nurchin. Sure there's no place like home, after all.\"\n\nI had been wondering who he might be, and had fancied he was a visitor\nat one of the houses of the neighbourhood, perhaps at the Ardaraghs',\nbut his speech showed me that he must belong to the county.\n\n\"My grandfather would like to thank you,\" I said, as we walked along the\nwood-path, where I was glad of his company. Now that the shades closed\nin, and with the postern gate open, how could I tell that Richard Dawson\nmight not lie in wait for me? He had thought me a peasant girl, the\nwretch, and offered me money for my kisses. The wave of resentment and\ndisgust in my mind swelled to the full. This gentleman who walked beside\nme had known me for a lady despite my print frock. I was furious for the\nmoment with Lady Ardaragh and the others who would admit such people as\nthe Dawsons to their drawing-rooms, and I was proud to think that\nAghadoe Abbey shut its doors against mere money. There were few things\nwe thought less of than money at Aghadoe.\n\n\"Lord St. Leger would like to thank you,\" I said. \"Will you not come in\nand see him?\"\n\n\"Why, no,\" he answered, \"although I am loth to say no to so gracious an\ninvitation. Believe me, I am not insensible of the graciousness that\nprompts it. Ah, here we are in sight of the Abbey. I shall stand and\nwatch till I see you safe within its doors.\"\n\nWhile we were yet in the obscurity of the wood he lifted my hand to his\nlips.\n\n\"I am eternally grateful to the good fortune that gave me the chance of\nserving you,\" he said.\n\n\"I wish you would come and be thanked,\" I answered in a low voice. I had\nthe oddest reluctance to leave him, with no prospect of ever seeing him\nagain.\n\n\"Who knows but we may meet again?\" he answered, yet did not offer to\ntell his name, and I felt shy of asking it.\n\nI turned back on the doorstep when I had come to it, and saw across the\nlawn and shrubbery his shadowy shape standing at the edge of the wood. I\nwaved my hand to him and he lifted his hat. The sun looked out for the\nlast time from under a purple cloud and I saw him plainly. While I\ngazed towards him the darkness came again and I lost him; and there was\nNeil Doherty, our butler, opening the door to me and upbraiding me as he\nhad done when I was a small child.\n\n\"Musha, where have you been stravaigin' to, Miss Bawn? and her Ladyship\nin and out like a dog at a fair, axin', 'Is Miss Bawn in yet, Neil?' His\nLordship doesn't know, glory be, or maybe 'tis havin' a bad attack of\nthe gout he'd be. If I was you, Miss Bawn, I'd give up the Creamery, so\nI would, or lave it to the commonalty! Sure 'twould be fitter for the\nlike o' you to be sittin' at home in the drawing-room, playin' the\npiano-forty. Yes, your Ladyship, here she is at last. I was just\ntellin' her that your Ladyship was like a hen on a hot griddle waitin'\nfor her.\"\n\n\"Dear child, you are late,\" my grandmother said, breaking in on Neil's\neloquence, which indeed generally had to be interrupted, for once Neil\nstarted there was no knowing when he would leave off.\n\n\"It was Dido,\" I said, telling half the truth. Not for worlds could I\nhave told my grandmother of how Richard Dawson had insulted me. \"It was\nDido, who caught her foot in a trap. It was an old rusty trap. I do not\nknow how long it can have been there. But it held Dido fast, and she\nwould not let me leave her. I should have been there still if it had not\nbeen for the timely help of a gentleman who was passing through the wood\nand heard her yelping. She made enough noise to wake the dead.\"\n\n\"Ah, poor Dido!\"\n\nMy grandmother's attention was diverted to the dog, who was especially\ndear to her for Uncle Luke's sake. She sat down now in the great hooded\nchair which was supposed to belong to Neil Doherty, only that he did so\nmany things in the house that he never had much time for sitting in\nstate in the hall. She took Dido's paws in her lap and began anxiously\nto examine them for any injury, while the dog moaned with self-pity.\n\n\"I don't think she has any hurt,\" I assured her. \"The trap did not\naltogether meet on her paw, although it held her a prisoner.\"\n\nNeil Doherty looked on with an interested face.\n\n\"Twould be a kindness to the poor baste,\" he said, \"to drown her, not to\nbe keepin' her alive. Sure, what has she to live for?\"\n\nMy grandmother looked up at him with a sudden illumination of her face.\n\n\"Who knows, Neil,\" she said, \"but Dido may have something to live for\nyet? And that the thing others of us are living for?\"\n\n\"Ah, sure you're right, your Ladyship,\" Neil returned. \"Sure God send\nit! Wouldn't we be all young again if that was to happen?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nTHE ENEMY\n\n\nMy grandmother asked me no more of the gentleman who had come to my help\nin the wood. Being old she forgot easily, and, besides, she was absorbed\nin these days in the preparations for my going to Dublin.\n\nFor the moment my own interest in the great matter had waned. I used to\nlike to slip away from the perpetual fitting on of garments to ride or\ndrive about the roads outside the Abbey. I was afraid now to walk in\nunfrequented places, lest I should meet with Richard Dawson; and there\nare few places in the neighbourhood of Aghadoe which are frequented. I\ngrew quite zealous about afternoon calls, and would remind my\ngrandmother of her neglect of her social duties, a matter which had\nnever troubled me before.\n\n\"Why, what has come to you, Bawn?\" she asked at length. \"You have always\nbeen unwilling to make calls before, from the time you were a little\ngirl of six, and I thought it would be a fine thing to take you and\nTheobald in the barouche to call on Mrs. Langdale, but when I looked for\nyou I could find you nowhere and afterwards I discovered that you had\nboth hidden in the loft in the stable-yard. Well, I suppose you are\ngrowing up and this is a sign of it.\"\n\nI did not undeceive her. I had always abhorred the afternoon calls and\nthe dinner-parties, and most of the other social functions to which I\nhad gone; but now it was another matter. To be sure, when I made my\ncalls I had always the dread of meeting Richard Dawson; but then on the\nother hand there was always the chance that I might meet that other.\n\nAlthough he had told me nothing it was certain that he must be staying\nat some of the houses of the neighbourhood. All I wonder at was that I\nheard nothing of him when I made my various calls, for even very slight\nmatters, very unimportant and uninteresting persons, are the subject of\nmuch discussion in our drawing-rooms, since we see so little of the\noutside world. And _he_ was not unimportant, not uninteresting. I should\nhave thought they would have talked of nothing else.\n\nMy grandmother was very busy in these days. All the old friendships\nwhich she had let slip were to be taken up again for me. She spent much\ntime at her desk, and the postbag for the Abbey began to contain many\ndelicate, fragrant epistles.\n\n\"I am only sorry, Bawn,\" she said, looking up at me over her shoulder as\nI stood behind her chair, \"that we cannot open the town-house for you\nand give a ball for you there. It is what ought to be done, but, of\ncourse, it is out of the question. But you must go and see the house,\nchild. It has glorious memories. It is very much impoverished now, and\nit will be all in dust and darkness; but there the best blood and\nbrains, aye, and hearts of Ireland, used to come. There came Grattan,\nand Burke, and Flood, and Lord Charlemont. And there came poor Pamela\nFitzgerald and her Edward. All that was beautiful and witty in the\nIreland of those days moved through the rooms which you will find dark\nand dusty.\"\n\nShe broke off for a moment and looked straight before her, as though she\nsaw visions, and when she looked up at me again her dear eyes were dim.\n\n\"If things had been otherwise,\" she went on, \"we need not have shut up\nthe house, with only Maureen's sister, Bridget, to look after it.\nStill, Mary Champion will see to your enjoyment, Bawn; and I am\nsurprised to find how many people yet remember me in Dublin. You are\nsure of a hearty welcome for your grandfather's sake and mine from the\nold friends. You will make your own way with the young. But now, since I\nhave letters to write, Bawn, and they must be long ones, supposing you\ngo yourself this afternoon and call on Lady Ardaragh and the Chenevixes.\nYou can have the phaeton and drive yourself. And you can leave cards for\nme. My card-case is on the table.\"\n\nNow, I thought it quite possible that _he_ might be a guest of the\nArdaraghs, who had always people staying with them. On the other hand,\nit was a house where I always dreaded to meet Richard Dawson, for I had\nheard Lady Ardaragh say, when the Dawsons were coming to Damerstown and\nwe were all full of indignation against them, that she for her part was\ndelighted to hear of somebody who had money and that she for one would\nwelcome the Dawsons.\n\n\"I think money the one good and desirable thing of all the world,\" she\nhad said.\n\nI remember that Sir Arthur, who was present, looked at her in some\nsurprise, and that she repeated the speech with greater emphasis and a\nheightened colour. And afterwards my grandmother spoke of her with a\ncertain pitying tenderness, saying to Mary Champion that she was too\npretty and too young to be left so much to her own devices. I overheard\nthe speech by accident, being in the oriel of the library where long ago\nI had heard my grandmother's speech to my grandfather concerning me. My\ngrandmother was fond of Lady Ardaragh and so was I.\n\nI had taken Mickey, my foster-brother who is devoted to me, to hold the\npony when I should alight. Perhaps, also, out of fear that I might meet\nwith Richard Dawson, alone and unprotected.\n\nWhen we drove up in front of the Ardaraghs' house the hall door stood\nopen. There was not a soul in sight; not even a friendly dog came down\nthe steps to greet us, though usually there were half a dozen of them.\n\nI rang and knocked but no one came. It was five in the afternoon, and I\nguessed that Lady Ardaragh might be out and the servants at tea\nsomewhere in the back premises.\n\nHowever, I was not to be put off by an unanswered bell since the door\nstood open. I knew my way about the house well, and was on terms of\nsufficient intimacy to announce myself.\n\nI guessed that the most likely place to find Lady Ardaragh would be the\nlittle inner drawing-room of which she had made a boudoir, to which were\nadmitted only her favoured and intimate visitors.\n\nI went through the house without meeting any one. There was not a sound.\nOften at this hour Lady Ardaragh had the boy with her; but if he had\nbeen there now I should have heard his shouts and laughter as I had\nheard them before. However cold and strange she might be to her serious\nhusband Lady Ardaragh was a lovely mother, and she never looked to\ngreater advantage than when she was romping with her boy down on the\nfloor, her beautiful hair pulled about her, flushed, happy, smiling, as\nI have seen her.\n\nNo, certainly the child was not there now. As I crossed the large\ndrawing-room I began to think there was no one there. The pale yellow\nsilk curtains that screened the arch by which one entered the inner room\nwere drawn close. Just outside them I paused for a second; I had almost\nturned back; then I heard a low laugh and there was the pleasant tinkle\nof teacups.\n\nI raised the curtain to pass through, and found beyond it a French\nscreen. I was about to pass around it into the room when I glanced up at\nthe wall, on which hung an old-fashioned convex mirror. It reflected the\nroom and its occupants with a minute delicacy. Her Ladyship, more like a\nDresden-china figure than ever in a teagown of flowered silk, lolled in\na low chair. She was holding a teacup in her pretty beringed hands. In\nthe mirror her colour seemed more than usually high. She was very gay,\nanimated and smiling.\n\nThere was a man with her. His back was to the mirror and at first I did\nnot notice him. He was sitting on a tabouret, which must have been an\nuncomfortable seat for one of his height and length of limb. He had an\nair of sitting at Lady Ardaragh's feet.\n\nI had an idea that my presence would be an intrusion, even before the\nman in the mirror turned his head and I recognized him.\n\nMy heart gave a great leap. Fortunately they were talking and had not\nheard me. Once beyond the curtain I fled as fast as my two feet would\ncarry me back to Mickey and the phaeton.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nENLIGHTENMENT\n\n\nThe man I had seen was Richard Dawson, and I had not even known that\nLady Ardaragh knew him, although I had suspected that she would know him\nin time. And here he was on terms of such easy intimacy as the scene I\nhad come upon implied. I had been fond of Sybil Ardaragh, but for the\nmoment I felt cold and angry towards her. It was a degradation that she\nshould be friends, should flirt, with a man like Richard Dawson. What\nwas she thinking of, the mother of Robin, the wife of Sir Arthur\nArdaragh, who was a person of great wisdom and dignity, with a fame\nbeyond our quiet circles? It was not worthy of her.\n\nWe went on and called at Rosebower, the little house of the two Miss\nChenevixes, elderly ladies who had been great beauties in their youth. I\nused to think they were beauties still, with their fine, delicate\nfeatures and skin no more withered than a rose of yesterday.\n\nMiss Bride was classical, like a Muse, with her dark silky hair just\nstreaked with grey, looped away behind her ears; while Miss Henrietta,\nthe younger, had ringlets and large eyes and a languishing air.\n\nIt was enough for them to hear that I was going to Dublin for there to\nbe quite a commotion. The one little maid brought in the tea, which Miss\nBride poured out of a china pot into little teacups which were all of\ndifferent colours, although of the same design. The tea was fragrant and\nstrong, with thick cream in it; and when I begged for a little water to\nbe added the two sisters broke out in protestations. That would be a\nreal slur on their hospitality, and, seeing how they took it to heart, I\nwas obliged to set my own liking aside and drink the tea as it was.\n\nThere were slices of thin bread and butter and sandwiches and toast\nunder a silver cover, all of which I could have eaten myself, for I had\nan excellent appetite. But I denied myself again, and was rewarded by\nhearing Miss Henrietta declare, on her second scrap of bread and butter,\nthat she had a most indelicate appetite, and she hoped her dear young\nfriend, meaning me, would not be shocked at her.\n\nI could always spend an hour or two happily in the little low-browed\ncottage drawing-room, with even the strong May light coming in greenly,\nhaving been filtered through the new leaves. It was a room that always\npleased my imagination, for it was so full of bits of china and\npictures, of old silver and ivory curios and nicknacks, that you could\nspend a day looking at them. On the low walls were several portraits of\npretty ladies, to whom the Misses Chenevix bore the strongest\nresemblance. Because there had been rain earlier in the day there was a\nfire in the grate and the firelight sparkled prettily on the glass of\nthe pictures, on the china and silver, and in the brooches and rings of\nthe ladies.\n\nA half-glass door led from the drawing-room into an old-fashioned garden\nwhich was now nearing the last of its bloom, and presently would show a\nmost wonderful profusion of fruit; giant strawberries, currants like\nstrings of carbuncles and rubies, raspberries larger and juicier than\nmulberries, with a great quantity of apples and pears and plums and\napricots to follow.\n\nThe sun had come out after the rain, and I could see from where I sat\nthe garden sparkling; and the box borders smelt very sweet.\n\nBoth the ladies were eager to know what clothes I was to have and to\nlearn what friends I was going to see and what festivities I should\nattend; and Miss Bride took care to impress upon me that my visit was to\nbe paid at a hopelessly unfashionable time of year.\n\n\"There'll be nothing doing at the Castle,\" she said. \"I wouldn't be\nbothered going to Dublin unless I was to dine at the Castle.\"\n\n\"I dare say Bawn will find plenty of other entertainment, sister, even\nthough she does not visit at the Castle,\" Miss Henrietta put in; she was\nalways the conciliatory one. \"There will be plenty of people in Dublin,\"\nshe went on, \"who will be very glad to see Bawn--old friends of Lady St.\nLeger and of Mary Champion.\"\n\n\"Did I say it was quite empty?\" Miss Bride asked, with some asperity.\n\"To be sure, there are always people. But she'll miss the best of it.\nShe ought to be there for the Patrick's Ball and the command nights at\nthe theatre. The last time I was at the Theatre Royal I was in the\nViceregal box. She was a sweet, pretty creature, and His Excellency had\na beautifully turned leg. We drove to Punchestown with them the\nfollowing day. I remember the hundreds and hundreds of jaunting-cars\ntearing like mad along the road. To be sure we had outriders, but it was\nnearly as much as your life was worth, and coming out at the Gap\nafterwards we had a horse's hind legs in our carriage, and every one\nscreaming like mad, and the dust fit to choke you. Even motors couldn't\nrival that.\"\n\nShe spoke with an air of grave exhilaration. They knew everybody and\neverything that was fine and gay in the social life of their day.\nPerhaps they would know about my fine gentleman. I only hesitated to ask\nbecause in her latter years Miss Bride had adopted a manner of hostility\ntowards the male sex generally, and was apt to snap at any one who\nshowed an interest in it even of the slightest. However, I screwed up my\ncourage.\n\n\"Miss Chenevix,\" I began, \"I met a gentleman the other day in our wood\nand I wondered who he might be. I can't imagine where he was staying.\nAnd I thought I would ask you if you knew who he was.\"\n\n\"We could do very well without men,\" Miss Bride said sharply. \"In fact,\nthe world could have got on very well without them. There is nothing a\nman can do that a woman can not do better. What was your gentleman like,\nBawn?\"\n\nDespite her hostility to the male sex Miss Bride was very curious.\n\n\"He was very slim and elegant,\" I began--\"not very young.\"\n\n\"Now what do you mean by not very young, Bawn? Be precise in your\nstatements,\" Miss Bride said, with some asperity.\n\n\"I should say he was quite forty,\" I said, blushing, and wishing I had\nnot mentioned the matter of age.\n\n\"Fiddlesticks, child! Forty is young. And so you met this young\ngentleman in the wood. And what happened?\"\n\n\"He took Dido's paw out of a trap. He was very kind about it,\" I\nreturned, conscious of Miss Bride's severe eye.\n\n\"There was no philandering, child, now was there? You're not long out of\nshort frocks. I can't imagine how the young gentleman came to be in your\nwoods. You'd better forget all about him, but first tell me what he was\nlike and all that happened.\"\n\n\"Bride! The poor child!\" said Miss Henrietta, compassionately.\n\n\"There was no philandering,\" I said composedly. I am used to Miss\nChenevix's ways. \"How could there be? He rendered me such a service as\nany gentleman might have done, and went on his way. It was only seeing\nthat we have so few strangers--\"\n\n\"He might be staying at Damerstown. They have a houseful.\"\n\n\"I am sure he was not.\"\n\n\"Hoity-toity! how can you know if you know nothing about him? Tell me\nagain what he was like. I know every one who goes in and out of every\nhouse in the county except Damerstown, and there are too many of them\nfor me, besides which old Dawson ruined my uncle Hercules. Was he tall?\nYou say he was tall.\"\n\n\"Tall and slight.\"\n\n\"Regular features?\"\n\n\"A straight nose; his face clean shaven except for a small dark\nmoustache; a good deal of colour in his face and great vivacity.\"\n\n\"And his eyes? There, you needn't tell me. I ought to know. The eyes are\ngrey with dark lashes. You might take them for black. It is Anthony\nCardew to the life.\"\n\n\"Snow-white hair,\" I added.\n\n\"Snow-white hair,\" Miss Bride repeated. \"No, no. It can't be Anthony\nCardew, unless there are white blackbirds. Hair black as jet.\"\n\n\"Perhaps Captain Cardew may have become white, sister,\" Miss Henrietta\nput in humbly.\n\n\"White! What would make him white?\" Miss Bride asked angrily. \"He can't\nbe forty. I remember him the very day his sister was run away with--\"\n\nShe pulled herself up suddenly, and turned to me with an air of great\nkindness.\n\n\"'Tis my tongue is running away with me,\" she said. \"Excuse me, Bawn, my\ndear. Your stranger sounds like Anthony Cardew, but I don't see that it\ncan be he. He was raven-black. Better think no more of him. I wouldn't\nwaste a thought on any man. I wonder why the Lord made them.\"\n\nI had stood up to go. I think I had known all the time that my fine\ngentleman and Anthony Cardew were one and the same, had understood all\nthe time why he was so certain that his presence in our woods would be\nunwelcome to my grandparents.\n\n\"You never know where he might be, Anthony Cardew,\" Miss Bride went on,\nholding my hand. \"One day at one end of Europe, the next at the other.\nDon't think of him, child. He is better worth thinking of than most men,\nbut none of them are worth it. Good-bye, Bawn; be sure and write us\nword of all your fine doings.\"\n\nMiss Henrietta came with me to the phaeton to whisper in my ear that I\nwas not to mind her sister's odd views about gentlemen, because poor\nBride lived in perpetual fear that she, Miss Henrietta, might marry and\nleave her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nTHE MINIATURE\n\n\nAs we jogged along in the evening coolness and sweetness, we came upon\nSir Arthur Ardaragh with little Robin on his shoulder. The boy shouted\nwith joy when he saw me; and when I had stopped the phaeton he called\ndown from his height about the picnic tea father and he had had in the\nfields, his little fat hand upon his father's neck while he told it.\n\n\"Robin often won't eat a good tea in the nursery,\" his father explained.\n\"I think he wants other little boys to make him eat; he eats a famous\ntea when we have it together out-of-doors and travel a distance before\nwe have it.\"\n\n\"I never want other boys, dada,\" Robin said, \"when I have you. You are\nbetter than a brother even.\"\n\n\"Have you been to see Sybil?\" Sir Arthur asked, recapturing the young\ngentleman and lifting him again to his shoulder.\n\nTo my annoyance, I felt my cheeks grow red, but his kind, serious eyes\nshowed no knowledge of it. I wished they were not so far away, those\neyes, so absorbed with books and dead and gone people and dead\nlanguages. I wished they were nearer home, took more obvious thought for\nthe pretty young wife whom I had sometimes imagined to be jealous of her\nhusband's absorption in his studies.\n\n\"I called, but I did not see Lady Ardaragh,\" I said.\n\n\"Ah, I suppose she had gone out. Well, good-bye, Miss Devereux. Remember\nme kindly to Lord and Lady St. Leger.\"\n\nA day or two later I heard my godmother mention to Lady St. Leger, when\nI was not supposed to be listening, that some one had seen Anthony\nCardew. He had passed a night at Brosna, and he was off somewhere to the\nSouth Seas--on some romantic, treasure-hunting expedition which he had\nbeen asked to join.\n\n\"Will he never settle down?\" my grandmother asked in a whisper. I\nnoticed that they always whispered when they mentioned the name of\nCardew, on account of my grandfather, no doubt, for he would always have\nit that Irene Cardew had been the cause of the tragedy which had\nresulted in Jasper Tuite's death and Uncle Luke's exile, and he hated\nher and Brosna and all the Cardews on her account.\n\n\"He shows no sign of it,\" my godmother answered. \"I have little cause to\nlove the Cardews, but Anthony is a fine fellow. It is a thousand pities\nthat his life must be sacrificed to the memory of a woman who was always\nbeyond his reach, even while she lived.\"\n\nPerhaps if they had talked more openly I should have been less\ninterested in the Cardews; but the mystery which hung about Brosna and\nits owners for me had had the effect as I grew up of stimulating my\ncuriosity about them. And now that I knew I did not feel called upon to\nhate them. Even if Irene Cardew had played fast and loose between Jasper\nTuite and Uncle Luke there was no reason for hating her brother, who\nmust have been but a boy at the time. I wondered if Irene had been like\nher brother Anthony, had worn in her delicacy the look of a rapier, a\nflame, of something bright and upstanding and alive with energy.\n\nSince I might meet Richard Dawson and had no hope of meeting Anthony\nCardew, I walked much those days within our own walls, which gave me\nspace enough for Aghadoe park-walls are four miles in length.\n\nBut most often I found myself taking the path that led to the postern\ngate as though the place had some pleasant, dreamy association for me.\n\nOne day I had the whim to creep again within the little glade where\nAnthony Cardew had come to my help. It was now all hung about with wild\nroses and woodbine and was very sweet, and far overhead the trees met in\na light, springing roof of green, more beautiful than any cathedral.\n\nIt had grown dark, and as I stood in the glade the rain pattered on the\nleaves overhead, but not a drop reached me. There were harebells and\nsaxifrage in the moss, and underneath the bushes there was scented\nwoodruff, and there was also sweet wild thyme. I thought I would make a\nsummer drawing-room of the place, which none should know of beside\nmyself, and should bring my books there and my needlework and\nembroidery, and spend long hours there alone or with a dog's\ncompanionship which is better than solitude.\n\nThe shower passed away over the hills, and the sun shone out. It\nsparkled here and there where a raindrop hung on a leaf and it suffused\nthe glade with a warm, golden glow.\n\nSuddenly something sparkled that was not a raindrop, something in the\nmoss and undergrowth at the entrance to the glade. I wondered I had not\nseen it before, but it was the first time I had entered the glade since\nAnthony Cardew had been there.\n\nI picked up the shining thing with great eagerness and found it to be a\nminiature set about with brilliants. My foot struck against something\nwhich proved to be a leather case in which the miniature, no doubt, had\nlain. As it fell the case must have opened, and that was a lucky thing,\nfor if the miniature had remained in the case it might have lain there\ntill the day of judgment. It was the mere accident of the stones\nsparkling that had caught my eye.\n\nI stood with the miniature in my hand and stared at it, and it began to\ndawn upon me why Anthony Cardew had thought me a ghost. The face was\nfar, far more beautiful than mine could ever be, yet it was strangely\nlike the face that looked at me from the glass every morning when I did\nmy hair.\n\nTo be sure, mine, I thought, was a poor simple, common face beside the\nface in the miniature with its wonderful expression. I have heard my\ngrandmother say that the fair beauties of the South are the most\nbeautiful of all, as beautiful as they are rare; and the original of the\nminiature had an opulent, golden beauty which we of the cold North\ncould never attain. Perhaps the beauty might even have been over-opulent\nif sorrow and sadness had not given the face an air like a crowned\nmartyr in heaven. So sweet it was, so gentle, so full of spiritual\nlight, that I felt I could worship the owner of such a face.\n\nThen I noticed the grand-ducal crown in diamonds at the top of the\nminiature, and it came to me that this was the portrait of the lady\nAnthony Cardew had served with a passionate devotion. No wonder I felt\naflame for her, although I was only a girl; and I thought that so Mary\nStuart must have looked to have left love of her alive in the world to\nthis day.\n\nI thought of how much the loss must have meant to Anthony Cardew, and\ncast wildly about in my mind for any means of letting him know that it\nwas safe. But I could find none; and I could only hope that presently I\nshould learn his whereabouts. I put the miniature into my breast for\ngreater safety, and felt it warm there, as though a heart had been alive\nin it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nTHE EMPTY HOUSE\n\n\nWe had rooms on the sunny side of St. Stephen's Green, not far from the\nShelbourne Hotel and the Clubs, and, what interested me more, the\nGrafton Street shops. I was nineteen years old, and I had never seen any\nshops but those of Quinn, our country town, and these very seldom; so it\nmay be imagined what wonderful places the Dublin shops appeared to me,\nalthough my godmother assured me they were not a patch on those of\nLondon and Paris. In fact, the town seemed quite strange and wonderful\naltogether, with the people hurrying hither and thither and the traffic\nin the streets and the fine stir of life. I thought I never could be\ntired of it all; and I was quite sure I should never be tired of the\nshops.\n\nMy godmother was well pleased at my delight, while she laughed at me,\nassuring me that Dublin was a dead city as compared with others.\n\n\"It is a Sleeping Beauty which wakes once a year,\" she said, \"and that\nis in Horse-Show Week. Time was when I came up every year for the show.\nNow I think I shall revive the custom for your sake, Bawn. We can\nbespeak these rooms if they are not already bespoken. I assure you, in\nHorse-Show Week, Bawn, people are glad to sleep anywhere. Even the\nbathrooms of houses and hotels are turned into bedrooms.\"\n\n\"I could not imagine a greater crowd than this,\" said I, for which she\nlaughed at me, again calling me a country mouse.\n\nAlthough the Castle season was over there was still a good deal going\non, dinners and dances and many outdoor amusements, such as races and\nregattas and flower-shows, to many of which we went. And it was only\nwhen I saw how she enjoyed it all and how glad her old friends were to\nsee her that I realized what a dull life she spent with us, always\nlooking after that selfish invalid, her cousin, when she was not with\nold people like Lord and Lady St. Leger.\n\nAlso I realized, when I saw her in her fine gowns, what a stately,\nhandsome woman she was still, and with an air of youth, although she had\nput away the things of youth from her.\n\nIndeed, after the first, our lives seemed to me a whirl of gaiety, and\nalthough I went to no big balls, not having been presented, there were\na good many young girls' dances and garden-parties and such things open\nto me, all of which I enjoyed greatly.\n\nBut one day, as it happened, my godmother was not very well, and our\nengagement for the afternoon had to be abandoned.\n\nI remembered then that half our visit was over and I had not yet been to\nsee Bridget Kelly, Maureen's sister, nor our old house which was in a\nsad and forsaken part of the city that hitherto we had not visited. I\nhad had a great desire to see the old house all the time, but we had so\nmany engagements. Now, when my godmother wanted sleep and darkness but\nwas loth to leave me alone seemed to me an excellent moment.\n\n\"I shall go and see Bridget Kelly,\" I said, \"while you rest. And when I\ncome back you will be better.\"\n\n\"Not alone, Bawn?\"\n\n\"You seem to forget I am twenty.\"\n\n\"But--a country mouse--and other things. I went about freely when I was\nyour age, though the time was far more strict. But I could not let you\nwalk about the city alone, child. Your grandmother would have a fit if\nshe heard of such a thing.\"\n\nAt last I prevailed on her to let me go, on the understanding that I\nshould take a cab which should wait to bring me back. I had a thousand\ntimes rather have had one of the outside cars, but I knew she would not\nhear of it unless she was with me, so I resigned myself to the\nstuffiness and rattling of a Dublin cab.\n\nWe crossed the city and climbed a steep hill and came presently to a\nregion of darkness and desolation as it seemed to me, in which the\nhouses were intolerably dreary--high, black houses that shut out the\nsky, fallen on evil days, since they were all sooty and grimy, with\nwindows which had not been cleaned for years, many of them broken, and\ntwisted and rusty railings guarding the areas.\n\nI shuddered at the thought of the people who lived in such places.\n\nI could see that they had once been places of consideration but now they\nwere slums. Here and there a mean shop stood out, or the old house had\nbeen turned into a pawn office, or a builder's or baker's. Dirty\nchildren sat on the pavements or played in the gutters, while their\ndirty mothers gossiped in groups; and the men lounged to and from the\npublic-houses, which were, indeed, the only bright spots in those\ndreadful streets.\n\nI was relieved, when at last the cab stopped, that I had come to the end\nof my journey.\n\nThe last street down which we had driven was drearier than the rest, in\na sense, but more respectable. There were wire blinds to all the lower\nwindows, and there was no sign of life in the short street from end to\nend.\n\nOur house crossed the end of the street, which was in a way an approach\nto it. It stood within stone walls, and was a great square building with\nwings thrown out, the style of it the pseudo-classical which was so much\nin favour in Ireland in the eighteenth century.\n\nThere was a great gate in the middle of the long wall; at one side of it\na postern, which I pushed and found to be open. Bidding the driver wait\nfor me I passed within.\n\nI went up a flight of steps, under Ionic pillars, to the double hall\ndoor. I found that that, too, stood open, and I went into the hall,\nwhich was very dark despite the June sunshine without. It was an\nimposing hall paved with black and white marble, and the stairs\nascending from it were of the same material. I was struck by the\nbeautiful stucco work of the walls and ceiling. But dust and grime lay\non everything and the air of the place struck cold.\n\nI went back to the hall door and rang the bell, which echoed somewhere\ndown in the lower regions of the house; but there was not a sound except\nthat.\n\nI rang again, and still no result, and the influence of the shut-up and\nabandoned house with all its shadows and memories began to chill me. I\nset the hall door open wide, and then I found the door at the back of\nthe hall that led to the servants' quarters and opened that.\n\nA rush of cold, damp air came up in my face with a mouldering smell.\n\n\"Bridget Kelly!\" I called. \"Bridget Kelly!\"\n\nThe sound echoed as though through many vaults of stone and there was no\nanswer.\n\nThe place and the silence began to get on my nerves. I remembered its\nforty-six rooms, all shut up and the furniture swathed in holland where\nthe rooms were not empty. I have always had a dread of an empty house,\nand now it seized upon me. I could have run away out into the sunshine\nto the cabman whom I had left feeding his horse. When I had looked back\nbefore entering he and his horse had been the only living things in the\nblack street.\n\nBut I would not run away. It would be a pretty thing to go home to my\ngrandmother and tell her that I was afraid of the house because I could\nnot make Bridget Kelly hear me and had run away in the full sunshine of\na June day.\n\nProbably Bridget was upstairs in some one of the forty-six rooms.\n\nFrom the hall itself four doors of very fine wine-red mahogany opened. I\nlooked into one after the other. They were reception-rooms of great\nsize, so far as I could judge; but the sun was the other side of the\nhouse, and only an eastern light came in through the chinks of the\nwindow shutters. The rooms were full of sheeted shapes in the dimness. I\ndon't think I could have brought myself to go into them. I know I closed\neach door with a hasty bang, as though it had been a Blue Beard's\nChamber.\n\nAs I went upstairs my heels made a great noise on the marble steps. At\nthe head of the stairs I came upon a door which had once been of red\nbaize, although now the baize was in tatters. Beyond it was a long\ncorridor, shuttered like the rest of the house.\n\nI left the baize door open behind me while I peeped fearfully into one\nroom after another whose doors led off from the corridor. These were\nbedrooms, and it was worse than downstairs. I could see the great\nfour-posters glimmering in the darkness. The smell of mildew was\neverywhere.\n\nSuddenly my courage gave out. I had an idea. Supposing that Bridget\nKelly was lying dead in one of these rooms or the great stone kitchens\nbelow!\n\nI turned about hastily, dreading what lay behind me. I would come\nanother time with my godmother. How could one tell who was skulking in\nthe house? The door had been open when I came to it.\n\nAnd then--I heard the hall door shut with a great bang. There was no\nwind to shut it. It was the last straw. I fled precipitately through the\nbaize door and on to the staircase, which was lit by a skylight\noverhead. Even though I met the person who had shut the door I must make\ntowards the sunlight and the world outside.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nTHE PORTRAIT\n\n\nAs I came out on to the great landing which had a recess supported by\npillars, I saw that a baize door on the other side, corresponding to the\none by which I had come was slowly opening. To my excited fancy it\nopened stealthily, and I stood staring at it, not knowing what might\nissue from it.\n\nImagine, then, my joy and surprise when I saw for the second time\nAnthony Cardew's face. At first I could hardly believe it; and he, on\nhis part, looked equally amazed, and very pleasurably so, I must say.\n\n\"Why, where have you dropped from, Miss Bawn?\" he asked. \"A minute ago I\ncould have sworn I was alone in the house, unless, perhaps, the good old\ncreature who looks after it had come back from her marketing.\"\n\n\"And where have you dropped from?\" I asked, suddenly light-hearted. \"I\nthought you were on your way to the South Seas.\"\n\n\"Why so I should have been,\" he answered, \"only for sudden happenings.\nAnd how do you come here? To be sure, it is your own house, and I am a\ntrespasser. I little thought when I came who I should find.\"\n\n\"I am in town for a short visit,\" I said, \"with Miss Champion. She was\nnot well to-day so I came to see the house alone.\"\n\n\"And, as luck would have it, I had a fancy on the same day to see a\nportrait in the picture-gallery here. It is something better than\nchance, Miss Bawn.\"\n\nWe stood looking at each other with a happy intimacy. And then his\nmention of the portrait recalled the miniature I had found in the wood.\nI had had a foolish girl's fancy to hang it about my neck under my\ndress, and it lay there now, suspended by a slender gold chain which was\none of my godmother's gifts to me. I had a shy reluctance to let him\nknow I carried it there.\n\n\"By the way,\" I said, \"I believe I have a jewel of yours. I found it in\nthe wood.\"\n\nHis eyes lightened and darkened in a way that was peculiar to him and\nhis cheek flushed.\n\n\"You have found the miniature?\" he said, in great excitement. \"I was\nheartbroken for the loss of it. Have you got it with you?\"\n\nHe had stretched out his hand as though he expected his recovered\ntreasure to be handed to him at once, and I could not deny that I had\nit, so I took it from about my neck, murmuring something about having\ncarried it for safety and that the case was at Aghadoe and should be\nreturned to him.\n\n\"I thought you were gone to the ends of the earth,\" I said lamely; \"and\nI was so afraid that I might lose it before I should have a chance of\nreturning it.\"\n\nHe took it gently and looked at it for a second. Then he kissed it.\n\n\"Why, it is warm from its resting-place,\" he said, \"and so the dearer.\"\n\nAnd then he took it off from its little chain and placed it in an inner\npocket of his coat, handing me back the chain.\n\n\"Maybe you'd like to see what picture it was that made me a trespasser,\"\nhe said, with a suddenly reckless air. \"Come, child, and you shall see.\nPerhaps it was the discovery that the dead was come alive that sent off\ntwo decent fellows to find a Spanish galleon without me. There are\nbetter things than gold. Aye, faith, the gold on a woman's head, the\nlight in her eye, may be worth many treasure-ships.\"\n\nWe went back through the baize door through which he had come. There was\na second door within it which being opened disclosed the\npicture-gallery; that, being lighted from overhead, had not the gloom of\nthe rest of the house.\n\nI looked around me at the ruffled and periwigged gentlemen, the smiling\nladies, who were my ancestors and ancestresses, with interest.\n\n\"There is a picture of my grandmother here which I am said to resemble,\"\nI said, as I looked down the line of pictures, \"though I am ashamed to\nsay that I am thought to resemble her, seeing that she is a great\nbeauty, and is, indeed, beautiful in her old age. Perhaps I resemble her\nwithout possessing any of her beauty.\"\n\n\"Ah, Miss Bawn,\" he said, looking at me roguishly, \"'handsome is as\nhandsome does.'\"\n\n\"That is so,\" I said. \"My grandmother has often told me that if I am\ngood and gentle no one will trouble about my looks.\"\n\nHe turned suddenly then and he said in a singularly sweet voice--\n\n\"Dear child! dear child!\"\n\nThen he took my hand as though I had been indeed a child and led me up\nto the portrait.\n\n\"What do you see?\" he asked.\n\n\"I never could be like anything so beautiful,\" I said, with indignation.\n\"If Gran looked like that she must have been beautiful indeed, and she\nmust have looked like it.\"\n\nThe young girl in the portrait was wearing a white satin gown. She was\npainted in the manner of the period, with a lamb beside her which she\nhad wreathed with roses; and she stood in a flowery meadow. She had an\narmful of roses like Flora's self, and as she stood one or two escaped\nand fell down her dress. She had the long neck which has come to me, a\nbeautiful small head, golden hair, warm fair colouring and violet eyes.\n\n\"I never could be like it,\" I said again.\n\nCaptain Cardew smiled. I saw him take the miniature from his pocket and\nlook at it and again at the portrait as though he compared them.\n\n\"You see the likeness, do you not?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, there is a likeness,\" I acknowledged.\n\n\"I came here to feast my eyes upon it,\" he said. \"I was frantic at the\nloss of the miniature. I had seen this picture before, long ago, when I\nwas a boy. When I first saw ... the original of the miniature I\nremembered this and thought it the strangest coincidence. I wanted to\nfind out for myself if the likeness was really so strong.\"\n\n\"And it was?\" I asked.\n\n\"It was. Yet you are more like the miniature than the portrait is.\"\n\n\"Ah, no,\" I said. \"I could not be. The portrait is very beautiful.\"\n\n\"You are more like her,\" he repeated.\n\nWe had left the doors of the gallery ajar, and now we heard plainly a\nheavy foot coming up the stairs and puffing and wheezing as of a very\nstout, asthmatic person ascending.\n\n\"It is Bridget Kelly,\" he said, turning and smiling at me. \"She was much\ndisturbed that I would not have her as _cicerone_, but she remembered me\nfrom the old days, and, seeing that I would not have her, she left me to\nmind the house while she did her marketing.\"\n\n\"I found the door open when I came to it,\" I said.\n\n\"Bridget must have left it so. I dare say the house has a ghostly\nreputation and is shunned. And now, do you know why I did not go\ntreasure-hunting?\"\n\n\"How should I know?\" I answered him.\n\nHe caught me suddenly into his arms.\n\n\"Because, Bawn, my darling,\" he said, \"the dead has come alive again.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nTHE WILL OF OTHERS\n\n\nHe let me go gently just as the old foot touched the top step of the\nstairs, and Bridget Kelly, a little, fat, rosy, smiling woman, much\npleasanter of expression than her sister, Maureen, came into the\ngallery.\n\n\"Why, bless me, Captain Cardew,\" she said, \"who have you found? There is\na cabman at the door who would have it that he was waiting for a young\nlady, although I told him no young lady had come in but only a\ngentleman.\"\n\n\"Look and see who it is, Bridget,\" Captain Cardew answered her.\n\nShe looked at me in a momentary bewilderment. Then she flung her arms\nabout me.\n\n\"Why, it must be Miss Bawn,\" she cried. \"Miss Bawn, and the image of her\nLadyship, yet more red in the cheeks than her Ladyship had, except maybe\nwhen his Lordship was courting her. And where did you come from at all,\nMiss Bawn? or did the sky open to let you fall through?\"\n\n\"I came by the cab, Bridget. I am in Dublin on a visit with Miss\nChampion. You remember Miss Champion?\"\n\n\"Is it Miss Mary? Aye, troth, I do remember her. 'Tis mistress of this\nhouse she ought to be by rights, leastways when his Lordship and her\nLadyship are gone to their rest; and long may it be before they go! So\nyou're here with Miss Mary, Miss Bawn, honey? And wasn't it the quarest\nthing at all that you should walk into the house and find Captain\nAnthony in it?\"\n\n\"I was nearly running out of it,\" I said. \"I was frightened of all the\nempty rooms. The sound of the hall door shutting frightened me most of\nall. I was about to run out of the house when I met Captain Cardew.\"\n\n\"Ah, sure, and you weren't frightened then?\" the old woman said in a\ncoaxing way. \"You wouldn't be frightened with Captain Anthony to take\ncare of you?--no lady would. Sure, dear, I've lived in it many a year my\nlone self, and worse than myself I've never seen, though they do have\nquare ould stories about it. I wouldn't be frightened, itself, if I did\nsee anything, only spake bouldly to it and ax it what was keepin' it\nfrom its rest.\"\n\n\"My grandmother will be glad to hear you are well, Bridget. She told me\nto be sure to see you. She sent you some presents. You will find a\nparcel in the cab at the door.\"\n\n\"Her Ladyship is always kind and good, the Lord reward her! I think I'll\nbe gettin' down to see her and the Abbey and Maureen before the winter\ncomes. And now, Miss Bawn, you'll be seein' the house?\"\n\nI felt that it would be the greatest unkindness to refuse her, so we\nmade the journey of all the forty-two rooms, and in every one Bridget\nhad stories to tell, and she pointed to the pictures and the bric-a-brac\nand the tapestries, and classified the furniture, like any guide-book.\n\nI was not as excited about them as otherwise I might have been. Indeed,\nI could think of nothing but that Anthony Cardew was beside me, and that\nhe had clasped me in his arms and kissed me and that there was no\ngentleman on earth his equal.\n\nI knew now how foolish it was about Theobald, and how impossible it was\nthat our brotherly and sisterly intimacy could ever have ripened into\nlove. Indeed, I felt years older than Theobald, and I said to myself\nthat never in any circumstances could I have cared for a boy like him.\nAs we went from room to room my heart felt as though it were on wings.\nTo see Captain Cardew, how polite and kind he was to old Bridget,\nopening and closing the shutters for her and helping her up and down\nsteps, filled me with pride and joy. Was it possible that he could care\nfor a little ignorant girl like me, this _preux chevalier_, who had been\nsecretly a hero of romance to me as long as I remembered?\n\nAll the time as we went Bridget talked incessantly, although she became\nscanter and scanter of breath. She had all sorts of reminiscences of my\ngrandfather and grandmother and of the great days in the house; but I\nnoticed that once when she mentioned Uncle Luke's name she coughed to\ncover her mistake, and looked oddly from Captain Cardew to me as though\nshe wondered at finding us together.\n\nAnd then we were taken down to the drawing-room which opened on the\nright-hand side of the hall; and she would take off the covers of the\nold French furniture to show us the beautiful old chintzes with which\nthey were upholstered. Also she would have us admire the Italian\nmantelpieces inlaid with coloured marble, and the decoration of the\nwalls and ceilings which were very fine indeed, and the picture by\nAngelica Kauffmann of the Lady St. Leger of that day as St. Cecilia\nplaying on her organ, and the other beautiful things which the rooms\ncontained. All the time she sighed over the years during which the house\nhad been closed up.\n\n\"Sure, it's time it was all forgotten,\" she said, \"and that his Lordship\nand her Ladyship came back to where many a one would welcome them. It\nwas fine, Miss Bawn, when the wax lights were lit in all the chandeliers\nand the flashing of them was nearly as fine as the ladies' diamonds.\nThere used to be the height of fashion and beauty here but never one\nthat I'd compare to her Ladyship. Ah, sure, they were great days!\"\n\n\"And who knows but they may come again?\" said Anthony Cardew.\n\nWe were in the inner drawing-room by this time, and as it happened there\nwas a picture of Theobald as a little boy sitting on his pony, above the\nfireplace.\n\nA memory came back to me, out of the mists of childhood, of Theobald\nsitting astride the little shaggy pony. I had quite forgotten it, but\nnow I remembered even the pony's name, which was Orson. And there was a\ndistracted person in a velvet coat, who must have been the artist; and\nhe implored Theobald to keep still, for he would touch up Orson and set\nhim prancing. It was on the lawn near the yew-hedge, and I was standing\nby my grandmother, while Theobald on the pony was on the gravel-sweep. I\nknew that he made the pony curvet because I liked it; and presently my\ngrandmother discovered that and took me away.\n\n\"Sure, the fine days will come back,\" the old woman assented hopefully,\n\"and there's the bonny boy'll bring them. Miss Bawn, dear, when is\nMaster Theobald coming home from the wars to marry you? Weren't you\npromised from the cradle? Sure, old as I am, I'll dance at the wedding.\"\n\nTo my vexation I felt the colour rush to my face and I was conscious\nthat Captain Cardew was looking at me in a startled way.\n\nI tried to say something to the effect that it was an arrangement which\nwe should probably never desire to carry out, but, forcing myself to\nlook at Captain Cardew, I was silenced by the cold and stern expression\nof his face.\n\nI saw him go up and examine the portrait, and then turn away. I looked\nat him piteously. In spite of old Bridget's presence I had almost\ncourage to put my hand in his and say to him that he was the only man on\nearth for me.\n\nBut he was holding the door open now for Bridget and me to pass through\nand he would not meet my eyes. And the old woman was begging me to be\nseated awhile till she made me a cup of tea and was inviting him\nsimilarly. He refused, saying he had business elsewhere. And then he\ntook my hand and lifted it coldly to his lips; and shaking old Bridget\nby the hand he was gone.\n\nAs the door slammed behind him, again the cold chill of the house struck\nme for the sunshine had gone with him. I realized my own unreadiness too\nlate, and I could have followed him, calling out to him till he should\nturn round and come back and hear me tell him that it was all\nfoolishness about Theobald and I loved only him. Indeed, I got so far as\nto run out to the postern gate and look down the street.\n\nBut it was as lifeless as when I had come in. There was only my cab, and\nthe driver dozing on the box and the patient horse standing quietly\nbetween the shafts to break the dead monotony of the lines of black\nhouses.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nFLIGHT\n\n\nI drank Bridget's strong, sweet tea without protest, and ate the thin\nbread and butter, feeling it taste like sawdust in my mouth.\n\nMeanwhile, the good old soul sat and looked at me with a beaming\nexpression.\n\n\"I little thought,\" she said, \"when I rose up this morning, honey-jewel,\nof who'd be here before the day was over. Sure, you're pale, love! Maybe\n'twas tiring you I was, trapesin' through the house. Maureen 'ud have\nsomething to say to me. She was always terrible jealous of her babies.\"\n\nI assured her I was not tired. I tried to talk to her about Maureen and\nthe Abbey and my grandparents, and all the time I felt that she watched\nme with an anxious and fond gaze.\n\n\"I wouldn't be telling her Ladyship, if I was you, Miss Bawn,\" she said\nsuddenly, \"about meeting Captain Anthony Cardew here. 'Twould vex her,\nso it would. I was surprised to find you talking together. 'Twas the\nunluckiest thing in the world that you and him should meet.\"\n\n\"I had met Captain Cardew before, Bridget,\" I said coldly. \"He had\nrendered me a service. I'm sure all that old trouble ought to be\nforgotten, and I think my grandmother is too good a Christian, and too\nreasonable to bear Captain Cardew enmity for something which was no\nfault of his.\"\n\n\"That may be, dearie,\" old Bridget said, with the fond, coaxing way of\nour people towards us. \"That may be. Still, if I was you, Miss Bawn, I\nwouldn't think of Captain Anthony, even if he did do you a service. He's\na beautiful gentleman, and many a lady was mad for him, I know well, and\nnot his fault either; and many a poor girl, too, because he was so\npleasant. And no woman had ever cause to blame him or do anything but\nlove him. Still, dear, Master Theobald's the husband for you. Isn't he\nyoung and bonny, like yourself? And Captain Cardew has a white head.\nHe's old by you, Miss Bawn.\"\n\nI remembered the old, childish days when she had been tenderer to me\nthan Maureen, and she looked at me so wistfully that I could not be\nangry with her. Indeed, I could have almost wept, like the child of long\nago, on her comfortable breast. And I was hardly vexed that she called\nAnthony Cardew old. What did it matter, since I loved him, and he would\nalways, always be the finest gentleman in the world to me?\n\nI kissed her and left her, promising to come again and to bring Miss\nChampion with me, and I drove back in the cab to St. Stephen's Green. At\none moment my heart was heavy because Captain Cardew was angry with me;\nand at another it was irrationally light, because he loved me and\nbreathed the same air with me. Was it only a few hours ago since we had\nbeen almost strangers and I had believed him far away at the ends of the\nearth? And how the world had changed for him and for me since! To be\nsure, I had been unready, and I realized now that I had no address which\nshould find him. But I could find out where he was. Why, any second I\nmight meet him in these streets! And the mere possibility made them\nblossom like the rose. Men like Anthony Cardew did not easily hide\nthemselves. I would find him, and the foolish misunderstanding would be\ncleared up. As for the other difficulties--what did they matter since\nwe loved each other? I had that happy confidence in him that he would\nsweep through obstacles as a bright sword through a maze of thorns.\n\nWhen I arrived at St. Stephen's Green, expecting to find my godmother\nsleeping or at least resting, I found her, to my amazement, up and\nbustling about, and her maid packing our trunks.\n\n\"Why, how long you have been, Bawn!\" she said; \"and I wanted you, child.\nWe are going home this evening. There will be just time to catch the six\no'clock express. Louise has packed for you, and we can dine in the\ntrain.\"\n\n\"But why, why?\" I asked, cold dismay seizing on my heart.\n\n\"I will tell you presently. Poor Bawn--what a shame that your gaieties\nshould be interrupted! I would leave you behind me, if I could. But\nperhaps we shall return.\"\n\nShe drew me to her and kissed me. Of course she could say no more, since\nLouise was in the room; but glancing at the dressing-table, which was\nnow stripped of its pretty things in silver and tortoise-shell, a letter\naddressed in my grandmother's handwriting caught my eye. It must have\ncome since I went out; and there must be something in it to explain our\nsudden departure.\n\n\"There is nothing wrong at Aghadoe, is there?\" I asked, in sharp fear.\n\n\"I should have told you, Bawn, if there was. They are quite well.\"\n\nI went out of the room into my own little room, where my trunks stood in\nthe middle, locked and labelled. The letter must have come immediately\nafter I had gone out. What could it contain that necessitated this\nhurried flight? I looked around the little room where I had been happy\nfor a fortnight, and my eyes filled with tears. I had a feeling that I\nshould not come back to it.\n\nWhile I stood there, miserably, I heard a knock at the hall door,\nwithout attaching any significance to it. There was nothing left for me\nto do--everything had been done for me; so I sat down in my hat and\njacket as I was, and gave myself up to a bitter regret. At the moment it\nseemed the hardest and cruellest thing in the world that I should be\ntaken away from the place which held Anthony Cardew--where I might meet\nhim at any moment--and, so far as I could see, since my grandparents\nwere well, without adequate cause.\n\nI had a sudden feeling as though they, as though my godmother, must know\nthat I loved Anthony Cardew and that he loved me in return. Of course,\nit was impossible; but it seemed to be a foretaste of the opposition I\nshould have to face; and, although I could face it for his sake, yet it\nstruck me coldly that I should ever be in opposition to the will of\nthose who loved me so tenderly.\n\nThere was a tap at the door, and the little maid of the house came in,\nwith a sad face, to say that the cab was come.\n\n\"And, Miss Bawn,\" she added, \"I found this in the letter-box for you,\nwhen I went to call the cab.\"\n\nI took the letter from her hand and my heart gave a great leap. I had\nnever seen my beloved's handwriting, but I had not a doubt that it was\nhis. Ah, so he had not left me in suspense! He had written to me to tell\nme, surely, that he understood. He was not one to let a misunderstanding\ncome between us. How fortunate it was that I had told him where we were!\nHe must have left the letter himself. He had been so near me, and I had\nnot known.\n\nI put down the letter with an indifferent air till the little maid had\nleft the room. When she had gone I snatched it up and was about to read\nit, when my godmother called me, and then I thrust it into my bosom\nunread. I placed it over my heart and it felt warm there. It brought me\ninto touch with him, so that, after all, it was not so bitter to be\ngoing since I could write. And the very keeping back the reading of the\nletter was sweet.\n\nI was able to face my godmother with a smiling face, although I've no\ndoubt my eyes still bore the traces of tears.\n\n\"You are a dear child, Bawn,\" she said, lifting my face by the chin, and\nlooking down into my eyes, \"a dear child!\"\n\nI felt a hypocrite at her praises, for I had been in flat rebellion a\nlittle while before, and it was only the letter that had enabled me to\nlift up my heart; but her mind was too occupied for her to notice how my\neyes fell and the guilty expression I must have worn.\n\nA minute later we were in the cab, and I was watching the stream of\npeople in the street eagerly to see if I might see Anthony Cardew's face\namong them. But I did not see any one at all resembling him.\n\nAnd presently we were in the train and had a carriage to our two selves;\nand when the train had started my godmother took out of her handbag my\ngrandmother's letter.\n\n\"I am going to let you read this, Bawn,\" she said, \"for I think you are\nof an age now to be taken into our difficulties. I confess it puzzles\nme.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nTHE CRYING IN THE NIGHT\n\n\n\"My dearest daughter,\" the letter began; it was so my grandmother always\naddressed Mary Champion. \"We are pleased with the fine accounts of how\nBawn is enjoying herself and your gaieties and the old friends you have\nmet. The house is very lonely without Bawn, and I miss your coming, and\nthere has been no letter from Theobald since you went. Perhaps Bawn has\nhad one. We seem to realize that we are old and our children dead and\ntheir children away from us, all at once.\"\n\nThe letter went on to talk of trivial and ordinary things, but my\ngrandmother was bad at deception, and one felt that her thoughts were\nnot in the things she told, but that they were written with an intention\nto conceal something. And at last the thin deception gave way.\n\n\"Mr. Dawson has been to see Lord St. Leger,\" ran the last paragraph. \"He\nhad some astounding news. And Mrs. Dawson has driven over to call, and\nwe are to dine with them next week. I wish you were home, Mary. I want\nyou to lean upon.\"\n\nWhen I had read I turned amazed eyes on my godmother.\n\n\"The Dawsons!\" I said. \"And we used always to say that though every\nother house in the county were opened to the Dawsons, Aghadoe Abbey\nwould shut its door in their faces.\"\n\n\"It shall shut its door,\" Mary Champion said indignantly. \"He is\nfrightening them because they are old and have no son to lean upon.\nGarret Dawson is an evil plotter and schemer, and there is blood and\ntears on his money. Aghadoe shall be safe from him.\"\n\n\"How can he have frightened them?\" I asked. \"They have never borrowed\nmoney from him.\"\n\nThe cloud deepened on my godmother's face.\n\n\"It must be something about Luke,\" she said. \"But whatever it is, I will\nswear it is not true. Luke never did anything that would put his old\nfather and mother in the power of Garret Dawson. He has frightened them\nbecause I was not there to protect them. I shall tear through his web of\nlies.\"\n\nAs she said it the light came to her eyes and the colour to her lips,\nand I wondered that any one could ever have thought her plain.\n\n\"So you see, Bawn,\" she said, as she took the letter from me and folded\nit up, \"there was cause for our return. You know I would not take you\naway from your enjoyment without cause.\"\n\n\"Yes, I knew that,\" I said.\n\nIndeed, when we reached Aghadoe my grandmother was so tremulous in her\njoy at seeing us, and she clung so to Mary Champion, that we might have\nbeen away two years instead of two weeks.\n\nIt was late when we arrived, and there was supper prepared for us; and\nwhile we ate it my grandfather sat in his chair by the window, where we\ncould not see his face, and was silent. There was a gloom over the meal,\na sense of trouble impending. It was not at all a joyful occasion as it\nought to have been, since we had come back. My grandmother hovered about\nus uneasily, pressing this and that thing upon us, for she had bidden\nNeil Doherty to lock up and go to bed, saying that we could wait on\nourselves, to his manifest indignation. And presently my grandfather got\nup, excused himself for being tired, and, having kissed my godmother and\nme on our cheeks, went away with a tired and uncertain step.\n\nSomething had happened. It was obvious that there was a sense of it in\nthe faces of the old servants. Even Dido whimpered uneasily under my\ncaressing hand.\n\nMy grandmother remembered to ask me if I had heard from Theobald, and it\nwas only then, with a sense of shame, that I realized the absence of\nTheobald's letters and the fact that I had not noticed their absence.\nWhy, I had not written to Theobald for several weeks past; but I did not\ndare to tell my grandmother so. Of course there were many reasons why\nTheobald should not have written. He was very gay in India, much in\ndemand in his spare time for all sorts of entertainments.\n\n\"If there had been any serious reason for his not writing we should have\nheard fast enough, Gran,\" I said.\n\n\"Why, that is true, Bawn,\" she replied. \"Still, where one loves one is\nunnecessarily anxious.\"\n\nI felt the rebuke of her words, though I knew she had intended no\nrebuke, and made up my mind with a rush of compunction to write a long\nletter to Theobald in the morning.\n\nMiss Champion was staying the night at Aghadoe; and I thought it would\nbe well to leave her and my grandmother together that they might talk\nover things. Besides that, I had not yet read my letter and the moment\nwas approaching when I might do so. And all at once my patience seemed\nto have given out, to be quite exhausted. So I took my bedroom candle\nand went.\n\nWhen I had reached my own room I locked the door lest by any chance I\nshould be disturbed; although that did not seem likely. I lit four\ncandles and made quite an illumination in the great, dim room. Then I\ntook the letter from where it had lain all day over my heart, and I set\nit on the table in the candle-light. I got into a loose gown and\nslippers with a kind of painful, yet sweet deliberation. Now that the\nmoment had come for my joy I dallied with it.\n\nMy first love-letter! I realized all at once that Theobald's fond,\nboyish epistles had no real, man's love in them. I was only the dear\ncompanion, the sister, to him. I was sure of it, else I had been very\nunhappy.\n\nThen I took the letter and held it to the candle-light with a throbbing\nheart. And this is what I read:\n\n     \"My dear Miss Bawn,\n\n     \"For a moment I forgot my white head and my years, and for that\n     foolish presumption you must pardon me and never think less kindly\n     of me. From your old servant's lips I learned the truth: that you\n     had a lover of your own age, whom I pray God may be worthy of you.\n     After all, since my dream of treasure here was but a dream, I have\n     reconsidered my refusal, and shall join the expedition in search of\n     mere earthly treasure. If we never meet again, think kindly of him\n     who would die for you.\n\n                                      \"Your faithful friend and servant,\n                                      \"Anthony Cardew.\"\n\nI was like one who has had a blow and a bad one, and I felt a curious\nquietness steal upon me and numb me. Despite the sweet, warm air of the\nsummer night I was cold. In the quietness I heard the Abbey clock strike\ntwelve; I heard soft stirrings in the leaves outside; a thousand little\nsounds which I would not have noticed at another time, that were\ndistinct in the stillness that had come upon me.\n\nI went on making my preparations for bed as though nothing had happened.\nI omitted nothing, but all the time I felt as though I were somehow\noutside my body and knew the dull numbness of it as a thing apart.\n\nWhen I was ready at last I unlocked the door so that the maid who came\nwith my morning tea and my bath-water should not find it locked. Then I\nblew out the candles, and, taking the letter in my hand, I crept into\nbed.\n\nThat night I was awakened by the crying in the shrubbery outside which I\nhad not heard for a long time, and I listened to it, cold in the\ndarkness, till the cocks began crowing and then it ceased. I knew that\nthe ghosts always came for trouble at Aghadoe, and I prayed hard that\nthe trouble might be only mine and might spare the two dear old people.\nThe thought of Theobald, and that I had not even noticed the absence of\nhis letters, stung me sharply. What if harm should come to Theobald? As\nthe cocks crew and the grey turned to blue and then to gold in the room,\nI lay staring up at the ceiling, praying that harm had not come to\nTheobald, that he might be well and happy although I must be miserable\nfor ever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nAN EAVESDROPPER\n\n\nThe morning sun was in my room when I awoke and my godmother was by my\nbed.\n\n\"You have been crying in your sleep, Bawn,\" she said. \"I thought I heard\nyou several times during the night, but was not sure. Are you anxious\nabout Theobald, child?\"\n\n\"There is some trouble in the air,\" I said, turning away my head. \"But I\ndon't think it was I who cried.\"\n\n\"I would not say that to Lady St. Leger, Bawn,\" she said, lifting my\nface and making me look at her.\n\n\"It is not for a death,\" I said, \"or we should have heard the coach.\"\n\n\"God forbid!\" I noticed that her face had a new look of care since\nyesterday, that there were rings round her fine eyes as though she had\nnot slept. \"Yet it may be bad enough, although not for a death.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"Why, Bawn, child, that is the strangest thing of all. You are no longer\na child, Bawn, and I bring my burden to you to lighten it by sharing.\nThey will not tell me what the trouble is.\"\n\n\"Not tell _you!_\"\n\nI was amazed. For so long I had known Mary Champion as the stay and\nsupport of my grandparents that I could hardly believe there was\nanything they would keep from her.\n\n\"They will not tell me,\" she repeated. \"Your grandmother says that it is\nLord St. Leger's will that I am not to be told. It is something they\nmust endure together. I know it is something about Luke. If they will\nnot tell me I shall go and ask Garret Dawson why he is frightening them\nand with what.\"\n\n\"Grandpapa would never forgive you,\" I said.\n\nThe shadow fell deeper on her face.\n\n\"I know he would not,\" she said. \"Must I wait for them to speak, then,\nlest I should do harm?\"\n\n\"I think you must wait for them to speak.\"\n\n\"If it was a mere matter of money\"--she wrung her hands together in a\nway which in a person of her calm, benignant temperament suggested great\ndistress--\"if it were a mere matter of money, I would sell Castle\nClody--yes, every stick and stone of it. But I think it is more than\nmoney. I shall ask Lord St. Leger to tell me. It is not fair that I, who\nought to have been Luke's wife and their daughter, should be kept in the\ndark.\"\n\nShe went away and left me then, and I got up and dressed with a heavy\nheart, which all the chorus of the birds and the sweet green of the\ntrees and grass and the delicious scents and sounds outside could not\ncharm from its heaviness.\n\nAt breakfast, although my godmother did her best, talking about old\nfriends we had met in Dublin and delivering their messages to Lord and\nLady St. Leger, and although I tried to do my part, the gloom was as\nmarked as the gloom last night. My grandfather and grandmother sat side\nby side at the round table, and now and again they looked at each other\nlike people who were absorbed in grave anxieties to the exclusion of\nwhat went on about them.\n\nI thought that my grandfather had, all of a sudden, begun to show his\nage. He was not so far from eighty, but hitherto he had been hale and\nactive, so that one would have credited him with many years less. But\nnow he seemed shaky and tremulous, as my grandmother had been last\nnight. His blue eyes had a film of trouble over them, as I remembered to\nhave seen them when I was a child and there was the trouble about Uncle\nLuke. I had noticed it then with a childish wonder, although I had\nforgotten about it till now.\n\nAfter breakfast he went out to the garden with my grandmother and walked\nup and down with her on the terrace in the sun.\n\n\"I am going to see if they will not tell me, Bawn,\" my godmother said\npresently, standing up. \"And I shall not rest till I have found out.\nGarret Dawson will find it a very different thing to frighten me. Your\ngrandfather is very old, Bawn, or this would not have happened.\"\n\nShe went after them, and I saw her take an arm of each and go down the\ngarden with them, they leaning on her.\n\nWhen they were out of sight I went into the library to write my letter\nto Theobald, taking the blotting-pad and pen and ink and paper to my\nfavourite seat in the oriel. There presently my godmother found me. I\nwas getting on but slowly with the letter, for my unhappy thoughts were\ngrinding upon each other like the stones of a quern, trying to find a\nsolution of something that could not be solved.\n\n\"Lord St. Leger would do everything but tell me the whole truth,\" she\nsaid. \"Poor souls! They think I ought not to be told evil of Luke, as\nthough I were not the one to say that I did not believe it. There is\nsomething of money in it, but there is worse than money. What is one to\ndo in this darkness? They don't see how cruel it is to me, to keep me in\nthe dark. I have to be patient with them because they are so old.\"\n\nThen she stooped and kissed me.\n\n\"I must go back to Castle Clody now,\" she said. \"I wonder how my baby\nhas done without me? She does worse without me than she thinks.\"\n\nI had heard her before call her cousin her baby, and indeed it was true\nthat Miss Joan depended on her for everything.\n\nThen her eye fell on my letter, and she asked me if I were writing to\nTheobald; and when I answered her that I was she put her hand on my head\nand told me not to be anxious about Theobald, because she was sure he\nwas all right and that a letter was only delayed.\n\n\"Don't lose your beauty-sleep any more, Bawn,\" she said, \"for I am sure\nthere is a letter on its way. All this has spoilt your looks since\nyesterday.\"\n\nAs the day went on it grew very hot. All the windows were open, without\nmaking the room cooler; there was a sleepy sound of insects in the grass\noutside. Bees droned in and out of the window. White clouds sailed\nacross the sky; and a soft, warm wind rustled the leaves with a sound\nlike rain upon them.\n\nI remember closing my eyes and leaning my head against the\nwindow-shutter. I suppose I was tired after the wakefulness of the\nnight. Anyhow, I must have fallen asleep and slept a couple of hours.\n\nWhen I began to wake the sky had become gloomy and overcast, but it was\nas hot as ever, and there was some one talking close at hand, a low,\nquiet talking which at first mixed with my dreams and was a part of\nthem.\n\nPresently I recognized the fact that I must have fallen asleep over the\nletter to Theobald, and also that the voice, the voices, near me were\nthose of my grandfather and grandmother.\n\nI had no intention to eavesdrop, but I was drowsy and for a moment or\ntwo I nodded again.\n\n\"But why should Luke have borrowed money from Jasper Tuite?\" my\ngrandmother said. \"He could have had what he liked from us.\"\n\n\"He had as handsome an allowance as I could afford to give him,\" my\ngrandfather said, \"and he knew that he could have come to me in a\ndifficulty.\"\n\n\"And why should Garret Dawson spring it on us at this time of day?\" my\ngrandmother went on. \"Why should he frighten us with it now that we are\nold, and have no son to lean upon?\"\n\n\"Because he wants the money, and I wonder he has gone without it so\nlong. And also because we have not opened our doors to him nor accepted\nhis invitations. He is determined that we shall assist at his triumph.\"\n\n\"And we must do it?\"\n\n\"We must do it, else he will publish the boy's disgrace.\"\n\n\"And must Bawn go with us, Toby?\"\n\n\"Yes; we have to do it thoroughly. The invitation included Bawn. She\nwill not feel it as we shall; and she knows nothing of our cause for\nunhappiness.\"\n\n\"She does not look over-happy,\" my grandmother said, and sighed. \"I wish\nTheobald were home and that they were married.\"\n\n\"Poor Theobald! poor boy! We have placed him in Garret Dawson's power.\nWhen you and I are gone, Theobald and Bawn will be homeless, unless we\ncan propitiate this man to spare them; and I have heard it said that\nGarret Dawson has as much mercy in his heart as a tiger. But I had to\nsign, dear; you know I had to sign.\"\n\n\"My poor Toby, I know!\"\n\nA silence followed; I did not dare to stir, to betray my presence. But\npresently they got up and went away, and when I heard the slow steps die\naway in the distance I went out by the open window to ponder over what I\nhad heard.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nTHE NEW MAID\n\n\nI went away to that glade in the wood of happy memories to think things\nout, and dropped down there amid the flowers of which it was full, with\nmy eyes fixed on the wood-anemones and violets without seeing them.\n\nTroubles were coming, indeed, so thick and fast that my mind was in a\nconfusion. I did not know whether to tell my godmother or not what I had\noverheard. She had a straight way of going to the root of things.\nSupposing that she did as she had threatened, and went to Dawson himself\nfor the truth, might she not exasperate him into making public the thing\nwhich had so much power to frighten Lord and Lady St. Leger? I had\ngathered that there was disgrace hanging over us, disgrace, and\nhomelessness for Theobald and me. Aghadoe Abbey was dear to us as flesh\nand blood. Was it possible that it could pass away from us into the\npossession of the Dawsons? Why, I would a thousand times rather that\nfire had it and that it should be consumed to ashes.\n\nIt should have been a small thing by comparison that my grandfather had\nsaid I was to go to the Dawsons' dinner-party, but I had so violent an\naversion to going that the matter really bulked large in the list of\ntroubles. I should not mind so much if Richard Dawson were not present,\nand of course it might be that already he had found us too dull and had\ngone away on his wanderings.\n\nBut this little hope of mine was destined very soon to be extinguished.\n\nI have not said that old Dido was with me, but, since she was my\nconstant companion this was to be expected. She had followed me to the\nglade, and was lying with her head on the end of my skirt, at peace,\nsince she was with me. Away from me or my grandmother or Miss Champion\nshe would whimper and shiver like a lonely old ghost in a world of\nliving things.\n\nSuddenly as I sat there, thinking, she crept close to me with a low\ngrowl. I had not heard a sound except the songs of the birds and the\nstir of the south wind in the leaves that was like the placid flowing of\nwaters. I put my hand on her head and she bristled under my hand, but\nshe was quiet. She would always be quiet with my hand upon her head.\n\nI wondered if it were a wild cat or a weazel or a stoat that had so\nexcited her. But I was not long in suspense. There came a murmur of\nvoices and a man's laugh. Then there were footsteps. I had a vague\nalarm. Who could it be that walked in our woods and set Dido bristling?\nShe was a gentle creature and knew her friends; and the people about\nwere all kind and friendly to \"Master Luke's\" old dog.\n\nI threw a fold of my skirt over her head to keep her from hearing, and,\nwith my hand on her collar, I moved as close as I could to the leafy\nscreen that separated the glade from the wood-path.\n\nThere was a couple coming up the path; presently they were in my view,\nand I saw to my grief and amazement that the man was Richard Dawson--I\nhad known it, indeed, from the first--and the girl who walked with him\nwas Nora Brady, the pretty little girl who had interested me at Araglin\nCreamery. Richard Dawson walked with his arm about her. She was looking\nup at him as though she adored him. Just as they passed he bent his head\nand kissed her and again I heard him laugh. The laugh made me hate him,\nif possible, more than ever.\n\nI guessed that they had come in by the postern gate and would return\nthat way, and I did not dare to stir till they had come back again. They\ndid not, however, take so long. They came back again very soon,\nwhispering as they had gone; and as soon as I judged it safe I left the\nglade and hurried home as fast as ever I could resolving to have the\npostern gate bolted so that Richard Dawson should not dare to come into\nour woods, and resolving also to see and speak with Nora Brady as soon\nas ever I had a chance. Perhaps, indeed, she would not listen to me, but\nI could only do my best.\n\nAs it happened, my opportunity came sooner than I had expected; for it\nwas only next day that I met her coming with a basket of eggs to the\nAbbey.\n\nShe dropped me a curtsey and would have passed on, but I stopped her. We\nwere all alone in the wide avenue, as much alone to all intents and\npurposes as we could have been anywhere. I went straight to the point,\nfeeling the painfulness of having to speak and doing it as directly as\npossible.\n\n\"Nora,\" I said, \"I am only a girl like yourself, so don't be frightened\nof me. I always thought you a good girl, Nora, but I saw you walking\nyesterday in the wood with Mr. Dawson of Damerstown, and you were like\nlovers, and that ought not to be so unless you are going to marry him.\"\n\n\"Oh, Miss Bawn!\"\n\nPoor Nora's face was covered with confusion, and I am sure I blushed as\nhotly as she did, yet I was conscious of a cold, shrinking feeling from\nthis courtship between her and Richard Dawson which I was sure could\nlead to no good.\n\n\"It isn't right, Nora,\" I said.\n\n\"God help me! I know that, Miss Bawn,\" she said, looking at me with\nfrightened eyes. \"I've tried to give it up; I've tried to resist him,\nbut I can't. There's something stronger than myself that drives me to\nhim. I love him, Miss Bawn, so I do; and I can't help it that he's a\nrich gentleman and I'm only a poor girl. If you ever loved any one\nyourself, Miss Bawn, you'd know.\"\n\n\"I do know, Nora,\" I said. I knew that if Anthony Cardew lifted his\nfinger to me I would follow him over the world. \"I do know. But it can\nonly end in misery, unless Mr. Dawson were willing to marry you.\"\n\n\"He has never said a word about marriage. But you mustn't think he's\nbad, Miss Bawn. 'Tis my own fault, for I love him so much, and he can't\nhelp seeing it. But he's never said a word he mightn't say to a lady.\nThere's the kissing----\"\n\n\"Yes, there's the kissing. It oughtn't to be, Nora.\" As I said it I felt\nwhat a poor hypocrite I was, for I could never have resisted Anthony\nCardew if he had wished to kiss me, never, never, no matter what trouble\nor misery it involved. \"You ought to go away, Nora, out of the reach of\ntemptation. There is no one dependent on you; no one for whose sake you\nneed dread to go. The only thing would be to go away.\"\n\n\"I've thought of it, Miss Bawn, but sure, if he wanted me I'd only have\nto come back.\"\n\nThere was something in her voice that frightened me; it sounded so\nhopeless, so without any capacity for resistance.\n\n\"My aunt is own maid to Lady Garmoy,\" she went on. \"She could get me a\nplace in her ladyship's household, under herself. I might go, but, Miss\nBawn, I'd never know the day nor the hour he mightn't draw me back to\nhim. All the same, you mustn't think me a bad girl, Miss Bawn. It isn't\nright for him or for me; sure, I know it isn't. I can't say my prayers\nas I used to. But if I went among strangers I couldn't tell the day or\nthe hour it 'ud be too much for me, and I'd be stealing out of the house\nand taking the train back. It isn't as if there was some one I could\ntell, some one that would hold me, that I could run to when the fit was\non me.\"\n\n\"Nora,\" I said, with a sudden thought, \"how would it be if you were to\ncome to me? My grandmother will let me have a maid of my own when I want\none. Come to me, and Bridget Connor will teach you your duties, and you\nwill have the little room off mine to sit and sew in. You need never go\noutside the Abbey gates if you do not care to. The place is big enough\nto walk about in. And if you are hard pressed you can run to me, Nora.\nYou will feel that I am just a girl like yourself, and will not be\nafraid. And I shall hold your hands till the danger is past.\"\n\n\"May the Lord reward you, Miss Bawn!\"\n\n\"Then I may speak to Lady St. Leger?\"\n\n\"I shall love to be with you, Miss Bawn. Sure, there isn't anything I\nwouldn't do for you. He'll never know where I am, no more than if I'd\nslipped off to my aunt at Lady Garmoy's. I need never be leaving the\nAbbey unless to go to Mass on a Sunday, and he'll never know anything\nabout that. 'Tis for his sake as much as my own. 'Tisn't right that he\nshould be making love to a poor girl.\"\n\nI stooped down and kissed Nora on the cheek. It seemed incredible that\nRichard Dawson should have filled Nora's innocent heart with much the\nsame feeling that I had for Anthony Cardew, but I said nothing. Who is\nto answer for such things?\n\n\"I will come back with you now and speak to Lady St. Leger,\" I said.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nTHE DINNER-PARTY\n\n\nThe day following that Nora became an inmate of Aghadoe. She had no\nrelative nearer than an uncle, who had a houseful of children of his\nown, so that Nora's absence must be a relief in a manner of speaking;\nand my grandmother never refused me anything in reason. Nora was modest\nand dainty in her ways, and having been brought up by the nuns she was\nan excellent needlewoman, so that she had so much equipment for the post\nof my maid.\n\nThe day came round on which we were to dine at Damerstown. I had not\nmeant to tell Nora that we were going there, but she discovered it from\nsomething my grandmother said when she came to my room, and I noticed\nthat she sat with tightly compressed lips over her sewing that\nafternoon.\n\nShe had put out my dress for me by my orders. I had chosen the least\nbecoming garment in my wardrobe, a black grenadine, very simply made,\nwhich belonged to my schoolgirl days. It was high to the neck and had\nelbow sleeves, and the cut was old-fashioned. I wished to look my worst\nat Damerstown, although I was forced to go there by my grandfather's\nwill.\n\nIt was nearly time for me to dress when my grandmother came into the\nlittle room, where I was sitting watching Nora as she sewed a little\ntucker of old lace into the neck of the garment.\n\n\"What are you going to wear, Bawn?\" she asked.\n\n\"This.\" I indicated the grenadine.\n\n\"It will never do, Bawn,\" my grandmother said, shaking her head. \"We are\nto do honour to our hosts. I am wearing my moire and my diamonds. If you\nwere to appear in this your grandfather would send you back to change.\"\n\n\"I should have thought it good enough for the Dawsons,\" I said, with a\nlittle heat; and then I remembered Nora's presence, and also that my\ngrandparents were frightened of the Dawsons and anxious to propitiate\nthem, and I was sorry.\n\n\"What would you like me to wear, Gran?\" I asked.\n\n\"Your white silk with the Limerick lace.\"\n\n\"Why, I shall be like a bride,\" I said aghast, for the white silk was\none of my godmother's gifts to me, and the finest gown I possessed.\nWhen she had given it to me she had said that I should dance in it at a\nCastle ball.\n\n\"Never mind,\" my grandmother said. \"Your grandfather wishes it, child.\nAnd you are to wear the pearls. I am going to send Bridget Connor to\ndress your hair. Nora can do the rest.\" She turned to smile kindly at\nNora. \"See you look your best, child. It is your grandfather's will.\"\n\nBridget Connor piled my hair in soft, cloudy masses on the top of my\nhead. In and out through the coils she wound a string of my\ngrandmother's pearls. Then she went away, and Nora took her place and\nhelped to dress me.\n\nThe white silk had lain by for many a year and was somewhat yellowed,\nbut the richer for that. Louise in adapting it had altered its character\nbut little. It was short in the waist and somewhat narrowly cut,\nstraight and demure all round till it ended in a little train at the\nback. It was almost swathed in the most beautiful old Limerick lace,\nthrough which the rich ivory tints of the silk showed. My grandmother's\npearls went three times round my neck before they fell loosely on my\nbodice.\n\nWhen I looked at my reflection in the long mirror I confess my\nsplendour rather dazzled me. If only it had been for Anthony Cardew's\neyes! But I hated that I should appear so fine to do honour to the\nDawsons, and I dreaded more than ever meeting Richard Dawson's insolent\ngaze.\n\nI wondered how he would take it when he saw me and recognized me for the\npeasant girl he had insulted. Would he be abashed, confused? I thought\nhe must be; and the one pleasant thing in what was going to befall me\nwas that I should see his discomfiture.\n\n\"Miss Bawn, you look as if you'd just come out of heaven,\" Nora said\nfervently, as she watched me drawing on my lace mittens.\n\n\"I don't feel like it, Nora,\" I replied, \"nor as if I were going there\neither.\"\n\nAt the last moment something of my grandmother's could not be found, so\nthat we were delayed and arrived at Damerstown on the stroke of eight.\n\nMy neighbour at the dinner-table told me afterwards that Mr. Dawson had\nfidgeted over our late arrival. I thought I could see it in the look of\nrelief with which he came to meet us, and the evident flurry of poor\nMrs. Dawson, who was looking fatter than ever in a very tight-fitting,\nplum-coloured satin, and hotter than ever, despite the incessant waving\nof her fan.\n\nThe long, splendid drawing-room was full of very gaily-dressed ladies,\nmuch bejewelled, and many men whose looks did not prepossess me. When I\nhad sat down, under cover of my grandmother, in a chair a little retired\nbehind hers, I looked about me with some dread, and I was glad to\nrecognize the friendly face of Sir Arthur Ardaragh, who came up to us\nwith a cordial greeting. He did not look at all at home among the\nDawsons' friends, and I wondered how Lady Ardaragh had persuaded him to\ncome.\n\nFor a moment I did not see Lady Ardaragh anywhere, but presently her\nuplifted voice told me where she was, and looking down I caught a\nglimpse of her pretty shoulders showing rosily out of a pale green\nfrock. She was talking to some one; I could not see who it was for the\nmoment.\n\nI had not yet seen Richard Dawson; and as my eye went from one to the\nother of the gentlemen without seeing him, I began to be almost hopeful\nthat he was not there.\n\nSir Arthur Ardaragh was talking to my grandmother and to Mrs. Dawson,\nwho plainly was too much absorbed by the anxieties of the occasion to\nhear much of what he was saying. She kept looking with an air of\ntrepidation at her husband who was being effusively polite to my\ngrandfather.\n\nThere were only ourselves and the Ardaraghs present of the\ncounty-people. The other guests were staying at Damerstown or had come\nfrom a distance; they were very fashionable, but I did not like the very\nlow dresses and the loud talk of the ladies, nor the tired,\ncynical-looking men. Every one of the men, old and young, wore the same\nexpression. I have seen its like since at a foreign Casino, where I\nwatched the baccarat.\n\nThe groups broke up as dinner was announced. Mr. Dawson gave his arm to\nmy grandmother. I waited, wondering who might fall to my lot. Then from\nthe group which had been about Lady Ardaragh's chair came--Richard\nDawson. He had an air as though he came but half willingly.\n\nMrs. Dawson, who was going in with my grandfather, turned to me in a\ngreat flurry.\n\n\"My son will have the honour to take you in, Miss Devereux,\" she said.\nThe words sounded as though they had been learnt off by heart.\n\nThen Richard Dawson looked at me; and I saw the stupefaction in his\neyes. I looked back at him, a direct glance of hatred, as I put my\nfinger-tips gingerly on his sleeve.\n\n\"So!\" he said in a whisper--\"so! What a trick for Fate to play me! And I\nhave been wondering where on earth you had disappeared to. Can you ever\nforgive me?\"\n\n\"Never!\" I answered, as I went down the marble staircase side by side\nwith him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nTHE BARGAIN\n\n\nThe memory of that long, dragging, magnificent meal is like a nightmare\nto me. I loathed it all, the vulgar display of gold plate--I heard\nafterwards who it was that Garret Dawson had cheated out of it--the\nnumber of men-servants, the exotic flowers that made the room sickly,\nthe fruits out of their season.\n\nWe are simple people and not accustomed to such banquets; but I was\nsurprised to see how greedy some of the ladies were over the turtle\nsoup, the ortolans and truffles, all the fine things which must have\nbeen brought from far off for the dinner. There was an incessant popping\nof champagne corks, and I wondered at the frequent refilling of the\nglasses. I did not drink wine--my grandmother did not consider it\nbecoming in a girl--and it seemed the hardest thing in the world to\nprocure a glass of water, judging by the delay in bringing it when I\nasked for it.\n\nLady Ardaragh sat nearly opposite to us. I noticed that she was very\nflushed and her eyes bright, and that she chattered and laughed a great\ndeal.\n\nI had made up my mind that I would not speak to Richard Dawson, although\nI was forced to sit by him, and that was a contact which I found most\ndetestable. But he would talk to me and sit close to me, and once when I\nhad turned away from him and addressed Sir Arthur Ardaragh, who was on\nthe other side of me, I caught my grandmother's eye on me with a look of\nappeal.\n\nI wished my godmother had been there. She had been invited to the\ndinner, but she would not go nor consent to be civil to the Dawsons. Nor\nwould she believe that there was anything about Uncle Luke which might\nnot come into the light of day.\n\n\"And if there could be,\" she said proudly, \"I would rather it was told\nthan go in terror of the Dawsons. I had as lief trust the world as them\nany day.\"\n\nAfter that glance of my grandmother I did not turn away again from\nRichard Dawson, much as I detested his closeness and his breath upon my\ncheek. I thought the dinner would never be over. As it went on I could\nnot but feel that he was making himself and me conspicuous. He drank a\ngood deal of wine, and the more he drank the more he leant to me and\ntried to look into my eyes, so that I felt thoroughly sick and ashamed.\nI could have pushed him away with both hands, but that was not possible\nin the publicity of a dinner-table. He whispered in my ear, he leant to\nme, he behaved as an infatuated lover, and presently it seemed to me\nthat my fellow-guests smiled here and there and looked significant. Lady\nArdaragh talked more than ever to the blase-looking young lord who was\nher neighbour and her colour was heightened. Her witticisms came to me\nacross the table, or a portion of them, and I thought she was saying\nwild, unbecoming things. I was sure I saw Sir Arthur wince when I turned\nto him. But it was all too much of a nightmare to myself to be greatly\nconcerned about the feelings of others, even those I liked very much.\n\nAt last the welcome signal was given for the ladies to leave the table.\n\nWhen we had returned to the drawing-room the smart London ladies flocked\ntogether in a bevy and began chattering like a field of starlings. Their\ntalk seemed to be altogether of their male acquaintances, whom they\ncalled by their names--Jack and Tom and Reggie and Algy, and so on.\n\nLady Ardaragh sat down by my grandmother and talked to her in a low\nvoice. After the excitement of the dinner she seemed to have become pale\nand quiet. I could hear that she was talking about her boy, who was a\ngreat pet with Gran. I heard her say that he was growing too fast and\nhad been languid of late.\n\nMrs. Dawson came and sat by me. She sighed with quiet satisfaction as\nshe subsided into her chair.\n\n\"It all went off very well, dear,\" she said, \"didn't it? Dawson was very\nanxious that it should; and I couldn't eat a bit for thinking of what\nwould happen if it didn't go off well.\"\n\nI answered her that it had gone off very well. It was impossible to\ndislike her, poor soul; and it was easy to see that she had a wretched\nlife between her husband who was an intolerant tyrant to her and the\nfine folk he liked to see about him now that his money was made, who\nwere rude and neglectful to her.\n\n\"I'm glad you think that, my dear,\" she said. \"Indeed, I think Dawson\nlooked quite cheerful. And I was very glad to see that you and Rick were\nmaking friends. He's a very good boy, my dear, although he's a bit\nwild, having plenty of money and nothing to do but spend it. But he's a\nvery kind boy to his mother. I assure you, dear, there have been times\nwhen I wouldn't have cared much to live if it hadn't been for my Rick.\"\n\nIt was a pitiful confession for the mistress of all this splendour; and\nnow that the anxiety and excitement were to some extent over she looked\npale and old and tired.\n\n\"I'm very glad you liked Rick,\" she said, \"very glad. It isn't like\nthose who would care for him for his money.\" She nodded her head in the\ndirection of the chattering group. \"I should be so glad to see my Rick\nmarried to a nice, innocent, good girl. I haven't been so happy this\nmany a day as I've been since I've seen you and him making friends.\"\n\nI could not bear to tell her that I did not like her son and that\nnothing on earth would induce me to make friends with him, so I sat\nsilent and said nothing; and I think it did her good to talk, for she\nprattled on in a gentle, monotonous way about her son's childhood and\nschool-days and of the kindnesses he had done her. Apparently she\nthought him the finest, handsomest, best person in the world, and\napparently his father thought likewise, which was a much stranger thing.\nShe seemed to have no reticence at all, or I had unlocked her heart.\n\n\"When Rick is at home,\" she said, \"Dawson is good-tempered, and is often\neven kind to me. And Rick knows that, and has promised me not to go away\nany more. I should be so glad if he would marry and settle down, and so\nwould Dawson. There's nothing Dawson wouldn't give him if he'd marry\naccording to his wishes.\"\n\nAt this moment some of the gentlemen arrived, and the group of ladies\nbroke up to admit the black coats. One man passed by and came on towards\nthe end of the room where we were. It was Richard Dawson.\n\nI saw Lady Ardaragh suddenly move her skirt so as to leave a vacant\nplace on the sofa upon which she was sitting; but he disregarded the\ninvitation, if such it were, and came on towards us.\n\nI saw him stoop to kiss his mother and the lighting up of the plain,\nelderly face, and it came into my mind that however intolerable he was\nto me, there must be another side of him for her.\n\nFor the remainder of that evening he never left my side, and no one\ncould dislodge him, to my great vexation. I thought he was doing it only\nto annoy me. But I kept close to his mother, so that there was less\nchance of his making me conspicuous, none at all of his whispering and\nlanguishing as he had done at the dinner-table.\n\nI could not see how my grandmother was taking it, since she sat at the\nsame side of the room as I did; but I was glad that Mr. Dawson kept my\ngrandfather in conversation so that he could not see what was going on,\nfor I felt sure that however much he might wish to be civil to the\nDawsons, he could not have endured Richard Dawson's attentions to me,\nsince he was very proud.\n\nI have always been one to act on impulse, and of a sudden it occurred to\nme that it might be possible to make Richard Dawson let poor Nora alone.\nI suppose it must have been because his mother praised him so much that\nI should have thought such a thing possible, for up to this I would have\nbelieved nothing good of him.\n\nAnd presently we were alone to all intents, for Mrs. Dawson dropped off\nto sleep, and the party at the end of the room was playing some noisy\nround game in which Lady Ardaragh had joined, and Sir Arthur had taken\nher place beside Gran and they were talking together.\n\n\"Mr. Dawson,\" I said suddenly, \"there is something I should like to say\nto you.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"Something I should like to ask you.\"\n\n\"Will you come out here on the balcony and ask me what it is? I promise\nyou I shall do it if it be within my power.\"\n\nThe promise determined me. All the windows were wide open, so that to go\non the balcony was not to be solitary. As I went out with him I noticed\nthat my grandmother looked after me with an amazed air. Well, I might be\nmad to believe good of Richard Dawson on his mother's report, but it was\nworth a trial. I went out on the balcony with him; and noticed that he\ndrew the curtains to after us. It was a thing a gentleman would not have\ndone and I detested him for it. But there was my poor Nora to be thought\nof, so I endured it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nTHE BLOW FALLS\n\n\n\"Now, what is it?\" he asked. \"Half of my fortune if you will, fair lady,\nso that you forgive that blunder of mine and look kindly on me.\"\n\n\"It is about a girl in whom I am interested--Nora Brady.\" I felt him\nstart at my side. \"I saw you together in our woods the other day. She is\na good girl. Mr. Dawson, will you let her be and not make her unhappy?\"\n\n\"Why,\" he said, \"I have never meant to make her unhappy. I'm sorry for\nwhat I did. It was only idle love-making. But she's fond of me, poor\nchild. And she'd be just as fond of me if I wore a ragged coat and\nearned a shilling a day. I've always pleased myself, and I don't like\ngiving up Nora. By the way, she has rather given up me. She is keeping\nout of my way. Her keeping out of my way has been more likely to inflame\nme than the other thing. But, if you'll forgive me and be a little kind\nto me, I promise you that I won't seek her out.\"\n\n\"What do you want me to do?\" I asked.\n\n\"More than I dare tell you at present. But for the present--shake hands\nand say you forgive my rudeness in the wood.\"\n\nI put my hand in his, and felt his lips upon it, but I bore it.\n\n\"Then it is a bargain,\" he said. \"We are enemies no longer, and I\npromise to let Nora alone. If only the women would always let me alone!\nWhat, are you going back to that hot room? And the May moon in the sky,\nthe lovers' moon! Stay with me a little while, because I've been a good\nboy and promised you what you asked. You could wind me round your little\nfinger. There's nothing I wouldn't do to please you.\"\n\nThe end of his protestations fell on empty air, for I had lifted the\ncurtain and re-entered the drawing-room.\n\nWhen I came in, with Richard Dawson following me, I was annoyed to find\nthat my grandfather and Mr. Dawson had come into the drawing-room, and\nwere standing near the fireplace. Both looked round, and I thought my\ngrandfather's face wore a startled look, while Mr. Dawson's for an\ninstant beamed excessive gratification.\n\nI hoped that Lord and Lady St. Leger could not think that I tolerated\nwith any patience the attentions of Richard Dawson. Seeing that they\nbelieved me bound by some childish promise to my cousin Theobald that\nwas not very likely. And I could not explain to them why I had gone out\non the balcony alone with Richard Dawson.\n\nMy memory of the time after that seems to consist of nothing but a\nstring of Dawsons coming and going. I did not know what to make of it.\nSurely the propitiation of the Dawsons did not mean that we should see\nso very much of them. They were alone now, their fine friends having\ngone back to London, and their being alone involved an intimacy which\nneed not have been if there were a crowd.\n\nMy godmother at this time was much occupied, her cousin, Miss Joan,\nhaving developed a disease which in time was to prove mortal, so she\nknew less of how much the Dawsons came and went, though she must have\nknown it, for I've no doubt the county talked of it. We had been so sure\nthat we would never admit the Dawsons no matter what any one else did,\nnor any persons who were merely rich. We had always been very proud and\nexclusive at Aghadoe.\n\nA little while after that dinner at Damerstown Nora confessed to me with\ntears that she had stolen out in my absence and had lain in wait for\nRichard Dawson.\n\n\"And after all, Miss Bawn,\" she said, \"I was punished, for he only\nlifted his hat to me and rode away; and I felt as if I must fall in the\ntrack of his horse's feet and implore him to kiss me as he used to. And\nhe never looked back, Miss Bawn.\"\n\n\"I am glad to hear it,\" I said, feeling that the words were hard and\ncold.\n\n\"I don't know what's come over him,\" poor Nora said miserably, \"unless\nthat, maybe, a good love has come to him at last. I'd just as soon be\ndead, Miss Bawn.\"\n\nSoon after that she began talking of going to America, and I used to\nnotice that she looked strangely at me. But I never saw what every one\nelse must have seen; partly, no doubt, because of that old troth between\nTheobald and me which I thought my grandparents held to be binding. I\nought to have mentioned in its proper place that there had been no cause\nfor Theobald's weeks of silence, or but a trifling one, and that his\nletters came as of old and were very full of gay doings. I noticed that\nhe did not talk now so much of coming back as he had done at first; but\nat first he had been very lonely for Aghadoe and all of us.\n\nDay by day during that summer the shadow seemed to darken on Lord St.\nLeger's face, and my grandmother looked no less harassed. It was,\nindeed, cruel to see the faces which had been placid enough, despite the\nlines of sorrow, becoming so haggard and careworn. I used to hate to see\nthem so anxiously polite to Garret Dawson, so willing to sit at his\ntable and have him at theirs. I noticed, too, that they looked strangely\nat me at times; and I found my grandmother in tears more than once. It\nhurt me that she should weep at her age.\n\nAnother thing I noticed was that they ceased to talk of Theobald; and\nwhen his letters came they would read them without comment, or they\nwould take my news of him without an eager stretching forth of their\nhands for the letter as of old. In those days mysteries seemed to gather\nthick and fast about me. And I had my own trouble to bear as well. I\nused to think that Captain Cardew would have made short work of it all.\nHe would have swept away the shadowy terrors. He would have lifted us\nall into the daylight. But, alas, he was I knew not where; and his name\nwas never mentioned in the hearing of Lord and Lady St. Leger.\n\nThen the blow fell. One afternoon Garret Dawson had been to see my\ngrandfather and talked with him alone; and at dinner my grandmother's\nface bore traces of tears, and I noticed that my grandfather's hand\nshook so that he spilt his wine. There was not a word spoken, and after\na time the silence got on my nerves, so that I began to dread I knew not\nwhat, and could almost have burst into tears from the tension.\n\nWe had dined where we often dined when we were alone, in a little room,\npanelled with black oak, which opens off the hall. It is bright enough\nwhen a fire leaps and sparkles in the grate, but it was then too warm\nfor fires, and the room seemed cheerless even while the white cloth was\non the table and the lit candles made the silver and glass sparkle.\n\nAnd presently, when Neil Doherty had taken away the cloth and we sat\naround the polished black table with nothing on it but a couple of\ncandles and a decanter of port wine and glasses, the room looked very\nsad.\n\nMy grandfather tapped with his hand on the table, a thing I have known\nhim to do when in trouble, and again the tears overflowed my\ngrandmother's eyes and ran down her cheeks. And I felt that something\nwas coming.\n\nThen my grandfather cleared his throat, and leaning his face in his hand\nso that I should not see it, he said--\n\n\"There is something that concerns you, Bawn, which I wish to lay before\nyou. You have been a good child always, kind and obedient to us. And now\nit is in your power to do more for us than ever you have done before.\"\n\nHe paused, and in the silence I heard the rain falling on the gravel\npath. It had been threatening all the afternoon. The wind soughed; it\nwas going to be a wild night.\n\n\"Mr. Dawson has been with me this afternoon,\" he went on. \"We talked of\nyou, Bawn. Bawn, child, Richard Dawson wishes to marry you. Can you\nmarry him, Bawn? If you can do it Garret Dawson gives up to me on your\nwedding-day certain documents which hold in them the disgrace of our\nfamily. We are old, Bawn, and we have loved you and been good to you.\nThere are some things we could not bear. Child, can you say 'Yes?'\"\n\nI felt now as though I had known it all the time. I had a queer memory\nof a room in which a man lay imprisoned, the walls of which came closer\nand closer every day till they should press him to death. It was a tale\nI had read somewhere. So this had been closing in on me all those\nmonths. I was to marry Richard Dawson, I who loved Anthony Cardew with\nall my heart and soul.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nTHE LOVER\n\n\n\"And Theobald,\" I asked, after that pause--\"what about Theobald?\"\n\n\"Theobald is young. He has a thousand chances of happiness,\" answered my\ngrandfather, somewhat eagerly. \"If he could know he would be the first\nto sacrifice himself to prevent the disgrace. I tell you, Bawn, that if\nGarret Dawson publishes the secret he holds it will kill your\ngrandmother and me as surely as though he had shot us through the heart.\nChild, child, we would have given you the world if we could! Can you do\nthis much for us?\"\n\nI looked at his poor old, twitching, grey face, at his hands that worked\npitifully. I saw my grandmother lift her streaming eyes to Heaven as\nthough to ask for help. They had been very tender to me, and they were\nold. God knows no woman ever shrank more from a lover than I from\nRichard Dawson. But, perhaps, if I sacrificed myself, following the\nexample of our Lord himself, He would take me away from the intolerable\nmarriage. He would let me save them, and then He would take me to\nhimself.\n\n\"I will marry Richard Dawson,\" I said quietly.\n\nI saw an immense relief in the poor old faces, although their cloud\nbarely lifted. They did not thank me. Perhaps they knew I could not have\nborne it. I saw them creep closer together as though for comfort, as I\ngot up and went away to my own room.\n\nI was as glad as I could be of anything that Nora had gone a day or two\nearlier to nurse one of her uncle's children who was sick. How could I\nhave borne her presence about me? To think I had saved her and had\nmyself fallen into the net! And at least she had loved the man,\nincredible as it seemed, while I recoiled from him with loathing,\nbecause I loved another man with my whole heart and soul.\n\nSomething within me cried out that it would be a wicked marriage. I fell\non my knees by my bed, but I could not pray. I felt numb and sick. I\nstretched my arms out across the little white bed where I had slept so\nhappily, despite the ghosts. I laid my face upon them and stayed there\nin a trance of misery.\n\nI heard my grandmother pause at the door and listen as she went down the\ncorridor to her bedroom, and I dreaded that she should come in; but,\nperhaps, thinking from the silence that I was asleep she went on after\nthe pause.\n\nI must have fallen asleep in that comfortless position for when I awoke\nI was chilled and stiff. There was white moonlight in the room, and I\nheard, with a sinking of my heart, the crying of the woman in the\nshrubbery. She always came when there was trouble. Well, God knows,\nthere was trouble enough now, such a coil of trouble for me that death\nhad been an easy way out of it.\n\nI crept into bed and thought miserably of what Anthony Cardew would\nthink of me when he should hear of my disgrace. Of course he would not\nknow why I had married Richard Dawson. He had yielded me up to poor\nTheobald as he thought, and instead of Theobald, whom I might have loved\nif I had never seen Anthony Cardew--handsome, generous, of honourable\nlineage, he would know that I had married Richard Dawson, with his bad\ntraditions behind him, and himself a wild, careless liver, with many\nsins to his account. He would never know how I loathed it. Perhaps he\nwould even think that I married for money. Even if I were dead, and I\nfelt I must die of marrying Richard Dawson, he could never think of me\nexcept with contempt and loathing.\n\nThe next morning Maureen came with my tea.\n\n\"Why are you looking like alabaster on your pillow?\" she asked, with\nsome indignation. \"There's good news coming, I tell you. There's good\nnews coming. See how fine the morning is! I never slept a sweeter sleep,\nand it was in my sleep I had word.\"\n\nI shrank even from Maureen's half-mad eyes. What would she say when she\nknew that I was to marry Richard Dawson? She had always loved Theobald\nand had looked forward to our marriage. I was afraid of Maureen's eyes.\n\n\"I'll toss the cup for you,\" she said when I had drunk my tea. \"There's\na beautiful fortune in it for you, Miss Bawn. I see a wedding-coach and\nfour horses----\"\n\n\"Are there plumes on the coach, Maureen?\" I asked.\n\n\"I'm surprised at you, Miss Bawn.\" Maureen looked startled and angry.\n\"Why should there be plumes on the wedding-coach that'll bring yourself\nand the fine husband home? I won't be asking who _he'll_ be. And\nby-and-by there'll be babies in the nurseries again, and old Maureen'll\nbe as young as ever she was.\"\n\nThe afternoon of that day I was called down to Richard Dawson, and when\nI went to the drawing-room I found him alone.\n\nHe took me in his arms and kissed me, and when I shivered under his kiss\nit only seemed to make him more ardent. It was a terrible thing to\naccept his kisses feeling that cold repulsion; and my whole heart and\nsoul another man's. If he had been less ardent it might have been more\ntolerable. As it was I let him have his will of kissing me till he\nsuddenly put me away from him.\n\n\"You do not return my kisses,\" he said. \"Are you afraid of me, Bawn?\"\n\n\"I am not used to lovers,\" I said, turning away my head.\n\n\"Ah, I frightened you that day in the wood, my bird,\" he said, \"and I\nsuffer for it now. What a brute I was! But you can make me different if\nyou will, Bawn. If you will but love me, my beauty, you can do what you\nwill with me--make a decent fellow of me. I am not such a bad fellow at\nheart. Come, give me a kiss of your own free will. You would not when I\nasked you before, but you will now because I am your affianced husband.\nCome, kiss me, Bawn.\"\n\nI kissed him, shrinking all the time, and with a dreary wonder as to\nwhether it was always going to be like this, and if so, how I was to\nendure it.\n\n\"Your kiss is as cold as a frog,\" he said. \"But never mind, I wouldn't\ngive a fig for a woman who was too easily won. The time will come when\nyou will beg me for kisses. Till then, why, I shall do the love-making\nmyself.\"\n\nBut presently, seeing I could not endure it, he let me go. It never\nseemed to occur to him that my aversion could be for him. He took my\nshrinking as maiden modesty, and vowed that he delighted in it, that I\nshould have been far less desirable if I had not been so coy, and that\nhe would be happier breaking down my barriers than if there had been\nnone to break.\n\nFinally he took a little case from his pocket, and out of it he produced\na ring, the beauty of which would have delighted any happy girl. It was\nset with an emerald of great size and beauty, of a heart-shape,\nsurrounded by diamonds, and at the top a true-lovers' knot in diamonds.\nHe put it on my finger, saying that he had carried it about with him for\na month or more, and that he had paid a pretty price for it. It was an\nantique ring and the workmanship very beautiful, not like those made\nnowadays.\n\nIt occurred to me that he had been very sure of me. But I said nothing\nwhile he put on the ring.\n\n\"And how soon will you marry me, Bawn?\" he asked. \"There is nothing I\nwill not give you when we are married. I am going to take you away and\nshow you the beautiful world. There will be nothing you can desire that\nwill not be yours. Oh, you shall see what a lover I will make! Bawn,\nBawn, you will adore me.\"\n\n\"It is too soon to talk of wedding-days,\" I said.\n\n\"Not too soon for me,\" he answered. \"I can hardly bear to wait. I would\nmarry you this instant if I could. Will it be in a month's time, Bawn?\"\n\n\"I could never be ready,\" I said.\n\n\"Not in a month's time! And how do you suppose I am going to endure even\nthat! I shall talk to Lady St. Leger about it. She will be merciful to\nme.\"\n\n\"I could not be ready,\" I said. \"Not under two months. People are not\nmarried in such a hurry. There are so many things to see to.\"\n\nIt was only now that he began to talk of the wedding that I realized\nhow, somewhere at the back of all the misery and shame, I had had a wild\nhope that Heaven might intervene and save me from the marriage. I had\nnot thought he would be in such a hurry, that he would give me no\nloophole of escape. I could have cried out for a long day like any poor\nwretch condemned to the gallows.\n\n\"Don't you see that I am not ready? I am not used to lovers,\" I cried,\nbursting into a paroxysm of tears, when he went on urging a speedy\nmarriage.\n\nAt the sight of my tears he seemed dismayed and tried to comfort me,\nsaying that I should have my own time and that I was the more desirable\nto him because I was not ready to fall into his arms.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nTHE TRIBUNAL\n\n\nAfter that day there was not a day but rich presents were showered on me\nby the Dawsons, which reminded me of the decking of a victim led to the\nsacrifice.\n\nWhat did I care about the jewels and furs and laces that my bridegroom\nbrought me? About his promise of what he should give me when I was his?\n\nGarret Dawson used to eye me with a grim approval: and I heard him say\nto my grandfather once that he could have had rank and wealth and beauty\nfor his son, and that I would bring him nothing; but that he and Rick\nknew a unique thing when they saw it and were prepared to pay any price\nfor it. At which speech my poor grandfather bowed with a look as though\nhe felt it hard to endure.\n\nMrs. Dawson took me in her kind, old, motherly arms when she came to see\nme, and said humbly that she could never be grateful enough to me for\nconsenting to marry her son; and what she said afterwards had something\nsignificant in it if I had not been too miserable to notice it.\n\n\"He'll make you a good husband, dear,\" she said. \"He's a good boy at\nheart, although he has been a bit wild. And, listen, dear, you may have\nyour feelings about the way Dawson made his money and I'm not saying you\nwouldn't be right. But, my dear, there's many a thing Dawson did--hard\nand cruel things, you understand, dear--that Rick never knew of. The\nlove of money's not in him any more than it's in me; and he has done\nmany a kind thing.\"\n\nI was able to return the poor soul's kiss because I liked her, and\nalways shall, and was sorry for her.\n\nIndeed, I wanted new friends, for the old were angry with me or held\naloof from me.\n\nWhen my engagement was announced my godmother had come in hot haste from\nher cousin's dying bed, which now she hardly left, to remonstrate with\nmy grandfather and grandmother. She had urged and pleaded with them, had\ndone all she could, seeing that she was, as she said to me, desperately\nsorry for them, and had finally left them in a coldness.\n\n\"You poor child!\" she said to me when I met her in the avenue, she\ndriving her fast mare in the smart dog-cart which was her favourite\nequipage, I on foot. She jumped down and held the reins over her arm\nwhile she talked. \"What a face for a bride! Why, Bawn, you are older by\nten years than the child I used to know. They are mad, mad, poor dear\nsouls, to let Garret Dawson frighten them; and I am helpless, because\nthey will tell me nothing. Couldn't you stand out, Bawn?\"\n\nI shook my head.\n\n\"If only Theobald were here!\" she said, in a helpless passion. \"If only\nTheobald were here! To think that they should rob him of his sweetheart\nbecause they are caught in Dawson's spider's web. Their own grandchild!\nIt seems unnatural. And you two lovers from your cradles!\"\n\nI don't know what impelled me to tell her the truth, but the words came\nto my lips and I spoke them.\n\n\"I never loved Theobald and he never loved me,\" I said. \"They have not\nthat at their doors. I should not have married Theobald.\"\n\n\"Why, God bless me, child!\" she said, staring at me. \"You will be\ntelling me next that you are in love with Richard Dawson. But I shall\nnot believe it, not with that face.\"\n\nShe went away with a look of hopeless bewilderment.\n\nI fared less well with Maureen, who was bitterly angry with me and said\nthings to me that I could not have borne if she had been always\nresponsible for what she said.\n\n\"A fine husband you'll be getting, Miss Bawn,\" she said. \"There's no\naccounting for ladies' tastes, and by all accounts there are a good many\nladies who are fond of Master Richard. Ask Lady Ardaragh. There isn't\nmuch she wouldn't give him, they say. If half the stories are true,\nthere are many that have a better right to him than you, Miss Bawn. And\nto think you've thrown over my darling boy for Garret Dawson's son!\"\n\nI must have looked frightened, for she became suddenly contrite, and,\nthrowing her arms about me, rated herself for the things she had said,\nsaying that she knew I wasn't to blame, and that it was only her love\nfor me and Theobald which made her so bitter.\n\nThen her mood changed; and snatching up my hand with Richard Dawson's\nring on it she burst into a harsh laugh.\n\n\"What was over him at all,\" she said, \"to give you the like o' that?\nDidn't he know the green was unlucky? Sure, 'tis unlucky for him it'll\nbe, and you'll never marry him. My dream'll come true, and you'll be\nsaved in time, Miss Bawn. The ill luck is for him, not for you.\"\n\nIndeed, I found it hard in those days to meet the eyes of the\nneighbours, gentle and simple, who could not know why I had consented to\nmarry Richard Dawson. I felt that the county buzzed with it, castle and\ncabin alike, and it made me shrink away from those who had always been\nkind to me. I was ashamed to go down the village street, for I knew the\npeople would come to their doors and look after me, and say, \"Isn't it a\nwonder for Miss Bawn that she'd marry a Dawson? and the family always so\nproud, too.\"\n\nI noticed that none of the people who came to call were effusive in\ntheir congratulations except Lady Ardaragh, and she congratulated me\nwith a high colour and an exaggeration of speech which did not ring\ntrue.\n\nThe Misses Chenevix called one day, and, while Miss Henrietta sat\nunhappily looking down at her lap, Miss Bride congratulated me in a\nvoice which had no congratulation in it.\n\n\"I wish you happiness, Bawn,\" she said. \"Not that I ever think marriage\na subject for congratulation, but rather for condolence.\"\n\nA somewhat dreary sense of the humour of the speech made me answer that\nI thought I agreed with her, whereupon she snapped me up and said that,\nto be sure, some people must be married, though she for her part thought\nthe world would get on very well without marriage; but then, of course,\nshe was old-fashioned.\n\n\"And if you had to marry, Bawn,\" she went on, \"why didn't you wait for\nyour cousin? The county always expected you to marry your cousin; and,\nif you must be married, Theobald would have suited you better than Mr.\nDawson. You're not the girl I thought you, Bawn.\"\n\nI wondered what Theobald would think of me. I had left it to my\ngrandparents to explain to Theobald, and his letters to me had gone\nunanswered now for three weeks or more.\n\nBut, after all, it was not Theobald who was my tribunal; it was not from\nTheobald's judgment I shrank.\n\nIt was Anthony Cardew I feared most. When I endured the ignominy of\nRichard Dawson's kisses, when he would hold me in his arms with his\nface against mine and I felt that nothing worse could happen to me, I\nused to keep wondering all the time what Anthony Cardew would think of\nme when he knew.\n\nThe thought made me desperate. I could have slit my nose and chin,\ndefaced myself like St. Ursula and her maidens, so that I should cease\nto be desirable to Richard Dawson. But there were my grandparents, and\nthe disgrace which I must buy back for them by giving myself.\n\nThen one day, being in great misery, it occurred to me that I would\nwrite a letter to Anthony Cardew. I was quite sure that I should be dead\nbefore he received it, for I knew I should not live long with Richard\nDawson as his wife, if indeed I were not saved before that. I was glad\nto think that I was growing thin; that I was languid on the least\nexertion, and had no appetite for my food. I hoped that God would be\nmerciful to me, and that I should just save them and die. And presently\nTheobald would come home to them and they would be happy.\n\nAnd so I thought that I would write a letter to Anthony Cardew, so that\nwhen I was dead he would understand and be sorry for me. And I sat down\nand wrote it. For I could not bear that he should think me unworthy and\nshameful, seeing that I loved him with all my heart and soul.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nBROSNA\n\n\nI made several attempts at the letter, and discarded them all. And at\nlast, lest I should be interrupted and the letter never be written, I\nwrote in a great hurry.\n\n     \"Dear Captain Cardew,\n\n     \"I hope this letter will reach you safely, so that in the days to\n     come you will not misjudge me. You wrote to me that you were giving\n     me up to my cousin. That you could not do, for I loved only you,\n     and did from the hour I first laid eyes on you, and shall for ever.\n     But, loving you, I am going to marry Richard Dawson, the\n     money-lender's son. And I must tell you, lest you should misjudge\n     me, and all women for my sake, that I shall marry him most\n     unwillingly. I do it because Garret Dawson holds a secret of ours\n     which only the sacrifice of myself can buy back. I owe so much to\n     the kind love which has never let me miss the love of father and\n     mother. But I am sure I shall not live long. You should not have\n     gone away and left me.\n\n\n                                                     \"Yours always,\n                                                     \"BAWN.\"\n\nWhen I had written it I did not read it over, lest I should destroy it\nwith the others, but, having found a very strong envelope, I put it\nwithin it and sealed it with the impression of my father's ring.\n\nThe only way I could hope for it to reach him was by leaving it at his\nold home, which I knew he loved despite its state of ruin--or perhaps\nthe more because of that--and he was sure to return there some time. So\nI addressed it to Captain Cardew, Brosna; and then, because I could\ntrust no one but myself to deliver it I stole out of the house.\n\nI was free for a few hours, for my lover was gone to Dublin. He had\ntaken a cottage in the neighbourhood, because he had once heard me\nexpress a liking for it. It was a pretty little place, enclosed by high\nwalls which held within them many beauties. It would have been an\nexquisite place for a pair of happy lovers; and he was making it very\nfine and dainty for me. It had been unoccupied for some years; and he\nwas having it newly decorated and furnishing it with the prettiest\nthings money could buy. He had said that I was not to see it till it was\nready for me; and it occupied as much of his time as he could spare from\nme. In Dublin he was picking up all manner of pretty things in the way\nof antique furniture and china and glass and silver and pictures. We\nwere to stay at the cottage a few days after our marriage, before we\nwent abroad; and afterwards it was to be our home till such time as I\ndesired a finer one.\n\nHe was so generous that at times I felt ashamed that he should do so\nmuch for an unwilling bride; and if I could have felt less aversion for\nhim I would gladly have done so. I used to feel that if I could watch\nhim lavishing everything on another woman--for he squandered his love as\nwell as his money on me--I could have liked and admired him.\n\nThe woods were full of the yellow leaves of autumn and the wind sighed\nmournfully in the bare branches as I went on my way to the postern in\nthe wall. Outside it I turned to the left, and walked for half a mile or\nso along a grassy road, overhung with trees, till I came to the entrance\ngates of Brosna.\n\nThe lodge was empty, and the gate yielded to a push. There was an air of\nneglect about everything that was very sad. Part of one of the pillars\nwhich supported the entrance gate was down. In the avenue some trees\nthat had fallen last winter lay across the way; no one had troubled to\nremove them.\n\nI knew there was no one in the house but Captain Cardew's\nsoldier-servant, Terence Murphy, whose old mother lived in Araglin\nvillage. I did not want to meet Terence; and I had an idea, having heard\nof the great extent of Brosna--indeed, it was easy to judge of it from\nthe aspect of the place outside--that I might slip in somewhere and\nleave my letter without meeting with him.\n\nSo, without going near the hall door, I passed through a little iron\ngate in the wall at one end of the house, which I found led to an\novergrown garden.\n\nThe grass in the garden was as high as my waist, and here and there a\nrose tree, standing up above the tangle, showed a pale autumn rose; and\nlittle old-fashioned chrysanthemum bushes bore their clusters of tawny\nand lilac flowers. Beyond, I could see a kitchen garden with the apples\nin the boughs, and, standing up in the midst of it, a projecting part\nof the house which, to my amazement, was covered with thatch.\n\nI was reassured at the moment by hearing Terence Murphy's voice shouting\nat a distance. It must have been at the other side of the house, in the\nstable-yard, I judged, and I thought I should be able to deliver my\nletter before he could by any possibility reach where I was.\n\nThere was a glass door leading from the thatched room into the garden,\nand I found that it stood open. I noticed that in front of it the grass\nplot had been cleared and there were flowers in the borders. Within I\nfound a very pretty and comfortable room arranged with unexpected\ntidiness. As I looked about me I remembered having heard that Terence\nalways kept a place in readiness for the return of his master. All the\nrest of the place might be in ruin, but this room was pleasant and\nhome-like.\n\nIt had once been a woman's room, I thought, from certain prettinesses,\nthe blue, rose-wreathed carpet on the floor, the ceiling groined under\nits thatch and painted in blue with a crescent moon and stars in gold,\nthe walls covered with silk set in panels.\n\nBut now it was a man's room, with the pleasant litter of a man's\nbelongings. There was a square writing-table in the window, with a\nwooden chair drawn up in front of it. There were many pipes, old and\nnew, and whips and hunting-crops; and a gun-case standing by the wall\nand some crossed weapons on the wall. I saw a pair of spurs in one\ncorner, and, flung carelessly on the writing-table, as though the owner\nmight return at any moment, there was a glove.\n\nI took up the glove and kissed it furtively. I wished I might have taken\nit to comfort me, for a sense of the hand it had held seemed to linger\nabout it. As I stood pressing it to my breast my eye fell on a picture\nthat stood on the writing-table--a picture that was like yet unlike\nmyself. It was a reproduction of the miniature I remembered.\n\nThere were other pictures and photographs about--men in uniform, women\nof many ages, horses and dogs: one of Anthony Cardew himself, which made\nmy heart beat to look at it. I wished I might have taken it also, and\nhad the will to do it but I dared not. Besides, what right had I to such\nthings? Already I was trying to steel myself to destroy the one letter\nhe had written me. I should have no right to it when I was Richard\nDawson's wife.\n\nA shout somewhere near at hand alarmed me. I slipped my letter under the\nglove on the writing-table and fled out precipitately. Only in time, as\nit proved, for Terence Murphy came round the house chasing a refractory\nhen, which, as luck would have it, flew through the door I had left open\nbehind me.\n\n\"I could have sworn I shut that door,\" I heard Terence shout at the top\nof his voice. \"Bad luck to ye, ye divil\"--to the hen--\"God forgive me\nfor swearing. Will nothin' contint ye but the master's own room?\"\n\nWhile he dived within the room I got out through the little gate and\nback into the avenue, where the briars and undergrowth had made hedges\nbehind which one could easily find cover.\n\nOnce in safety I stopped to gaze back at the long front of Brosna,\nlooking so sad. It is one of the white stuccoed houses so common in\nIreland in the eighteenth century, although much finer and more\nmagnificent than most. At the roof there was a balustrading, and below\nwere long lines of windows of a uniform oblong shape, each with an\narchitrave above it. The rains of our moist climate had wept upon it and\nthere were long green streaks extending down the walls. I saw now that\nthere was a sunken storey with a sort of area that ran all round the\nhouse, so that Brosna, except for its thatched summer-room, was a house\nof three storeys, not of two, as it appeared at first.\n\nWhile I looked at it the evening shadows crept down upon it and seemed\nto enfold it in a greater loneliness. But it was dearer to me than the\ngreat houses of the neighbourhood which were comfortable and well kept\nand inhabited. And I was glad to think of the ordered room, with its\ngrass plot before the window, and the fire set in the grate, ready to be\nlit when the master should come home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nTHE QUICK AND THE DEAD\n\n\nWhen I reached home I found that my grandmother had been looking for me,\nand Neil Doherty told me the reason. Word had come from Castle Clody\nthat Miss Champion's cousin was dead.\n\n\"You must go to her, Bawn,\" said my grandmother, sadly. \"We must not\nleave her alone, and she will not want me. You will spend the night with\nher?\"\n\nYes, I would do that, although I shrank from the prospect of death like\nany other sensitive girl. It was not likely I would refuse to go to my\ndear godmother in her hour of need; and I had an unacknowledged hope\nthat she might keep me with her, perhaps, so that I would be free of my\nlover for a few days.\n\nWhen she heard that I had come she came down to me where I was standing\nby the fire in the morning-room warming my hands, for the first frost\nof the season had come and the night was cold.\n\n\"Ah, good child,\" she said, \"to come so quickly! Everything is done,\nBawn, and she is at rest. I shall miss her dreadfully. I don't know what\nI shall do with my empty hands. I am too old to begin to love again.\"\n\nEvery one knew that Miss Joan had been querulous and bitter with her,\nand it made me love and reverence her more than ever to hear the way she\nspoke.\n\n\"Sit down, Bawn,\" she said, \"sit down. You are going to stay with me,\nkind child. I shall have the little room off my own prepared for you;\nand we shall have our dinner here. It will be more cheerful than in the\ndining-room.\"\n\nI could not help noticing that though her eyes showed traces of much\nweeping she yet wore a singularly tranquil and even radiant look, as\nthough good news had come to her. Indeed, the whole atmosphere of the\nhouse seemed strangely peaceful.\n\nA servant came in to set the table, and we went upstairs to the little\nroom within her own room where I was to sleep. A bright fire already\nblazed in the grate, and Louise was busy putting out my things. The room\nlooked so cheerful with its chintz--a green trellis hung with roses on\na white ground--that one could not be gloomy and fearful in it, even if\nI did not know that my dear godmother would leave the door between our\nrooms open at night and would wake if I but stirred.\n\nLouise helped me to put on the one black gown I possessed, which, as it\nhappened, was patterned with roses, a crepe de Chine fichu about the\nneck, and I asked Louise to take it off and find me something more\nbecoming; but my godmother would have it so, saying that poor Joan would\nnot grudge me a few roses, having herself found the roses of Paradise.\n\nThat quiet radiancy of my godmother seemed to diffuse itself over\neverything. I know I felt happier than I had felt for a long time, and I\ntried to put all the trouble, and the thought that I was to marry\nRichard Dawson the week before Christmas, out of my mind.\n\nEverything about the dinner-table was so pretty. I could not help\nfeeling that my godmother had told them it was to be so; and the wax\ncandles shone on the scarlet berries and russet and orange and crimson\nleaves, on the delicate napery and glass and silver; and the fire leaped\nand sparkled in the grate. I had a feeling that I and my godmother were\nshut in together from the world's trouble, although it waited for us\noutside the gate.\n\nAfter dinner we sat by the fire and talked in a low voice, and I could\nnot help commenting on the new serene happiness of my godmother's face.\nI had always thought it a cheerful face before, although the face of one\nwho had suffered; but now I wondered that I had thought it anything but\nsad.\n\n\"You look happy!\" I said.\n\n\"And I am happy, Bawn, although I shall miss Joan. But she is at rest\nwith God, and before she died she told me something which set my heart\nat rest.\"\n\n\"Ah, I am glad of that,\" I said.\n\nShe leant forward and took my hands in hers, making me turn round so as\nto face her.\n\n\"Bawn,\" she said, \"there is nothing worth having in the world but love,\nnothing but love, nothing but love. I tell it to you, although some\npeople would think that love had wrecked my life. But I have loved\ngreatly, and I have been loved greatly, and I would not change places\nwith any of your wives and mothers of families.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know,\" I said.\n\n\"And if you do, Bawn, why don't you save yourself from this marriage?\nThe money doesn't tempt you, nor Richard Dawson's coarse comeliness. Why\ndon't you save yourself, child?\"\n\nI shook my head helplessly.\n\n\"If it were anything in which money could help I would sell all I have\nrather than see you marry without love.\"\n\n\"Money has nothing to do with it. And--it is too late to do anything.\"\n\n\"It would never be too late so long as you were not his wife. They are\ndeceived. Luke L'Estrange was the truest and most candid soul alive. Yet\nwhat a web of lies has grown up about him. Shall I tell you, Bawn, what\nJoan told me before she died?\"\n\n\"If it eases you.\"\n\n\"I have to share it with some one, and I can trust you not to think\nhardly of my poor Joan.\"\n\nI wondered what was coming, but I had not long to wait. My godmother\nlooked at me again, straight into my eyes, as though she would see to\nthe depths of my soul.\n\n\"I have forgiven her, poor dear soul, with all my heart,\" she said. \"If\nI thought you could judge her hardly I would not tell you; but I think\nyou will not judge her hardly. You see, she loved Luke. He had a way\nwith women. She was always delicate and sickly, and he was sorry for\nher. He used to sit by her and talk to her. She loved him and she\nthought that he loved her, or would love her if I were out of the way. I\nhad everything, she thought--health and wealth and the world before me,\nand Luke's love. She thought it unfair that I should have so much. No\nwonder she wanted Luke for herself.\"\n\nAgain her eyes looked into mine, asking a question. Whatever she saw\nsatisfied her, for she went on again with dreamy tenderness--\n\n\"I see you can pity her, Bawn. Child, how do you know it if you never\nloved? He came to this house when he was flying from justice, as he\nthought, expecting to find me and found her instead. He gave her such\nmessages for me as might make any woman proud. He would release me, but\nhe knew I was too great-hearted to accept the release; he had killed\nJasper Tuite in the struggle when he tried to save Irene Cardew from\nhim. He had seen Jasper Tuite strike poor Irene when he was trying to\ndrag her from her carriage to ride with him on his horse. She was\nscreaming, poor girl, and Jasper Tuite struck her on the mouth. And what\nwould my Luke do save spring on to Jasper Tuite and close with him? And\nJasper Tuite would have shot him if Luke had not fired in self-defence.\nNo jury would have convicted Luke, for Jasper Tuite died from\nheart-failure, not from the flesh-wound of Luke's pistol. But if I had\nonly been here when he stole here under cover of the darkness I would\nhave made him hold his ground.\"\n\n\"And he saw Miss Standish instead?\"\n\n\"Yes, he saw Joan. And she kept his messages all these years. There was\nmore than that. I was to send him a message to where he was in hiding,\nwaiting for a passage to America. I sent him none, but Joan sent him one\ninstead. She was jealous, terribly jealous, or she could not have done\nit, poor girl. She sent him word that he was not to return, that Jasper\nTuite was dead of his wound. Also she sent him word from me that I\nwanted no more of him. How could he have believed it? Well, the remorse\nof it has gone far to kill her. If she was ever trying, it was because\nshe had to take benefits from the woman she had wronged. Poor unhappy\nJoan! She died in great love and peace with me.\"\n\nFortunately, this time she did not look me in the eyes. Such magnanimity\nwas beyond me.\n\n\"It is very sweet to know,\" she went on dreamily, \"that poor Luke came\nto me in his need. He knew he could trust my love. But he ought to have\nknown me better than to believe I could send that message. He ought to\nhave known me better.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"he ought to have known you better.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nTHE SICKNESS\n\n\nIt was while I was still at Castle Clody that a message came to me one\nmorning saying that some one desired to speak with me; and when I went\nout into the hall I found it was Nora Brady. She had a little crimson\nshawl over her head, and as she lifted her eyes to me her beauty came to\nme like a new thing. There was dry snow in the wind, and a few flakes of\nit showed on her dark curls, which lay ring on ring under the shawl. Her\nface was round and soft as a child's, and the innocence of her blue,\nblack-lashed eyes as she lifted them to me was as unsullied as though\nshe were three years old. She had lost her pretty colour, but the\ngentleness which made her beauty appealing was, if possible, greater\nthan of old.\n\n\"You wanted to speak to me, Nora,\" I said.\n\nI know I turned red and pale when her eyes met mine; for the moment all\nsocial differences and distinctions ceased to be. I was going to marry\nthe man Nora loved, the man I loathed. I had a feeling that it was an\nintolerable wrong.\n\n\"If you please, Miss Bawn,\" she said.\n\nThe servants were passing up and down the staircase. I did not want any\nwitnesses to our interview, nor any eavesdroppers.\n\n\"Come in here, Nora,\" I said, opening the door of the morning-room which\nI usually had to myself for an hour or so after breakfast. \"And how is\nthe child? Better, I hope.\"\n\n\"Little Katty is quite well again, Miss Bawn, and I've come to tell you,\nplease Miss Bawn, that I'd rather not come back. 'Tisn't that I'm\nungrateful, Miss. No young lady could be kinder and better than you. But\nmy uncle is going to marry again, and if you please, Miss Bawn, I think\nI should like to go to America.\"\n\n\"Don't go to America, Nora,\" I said; \"it's a terrible place. I'll look\nafter you. I'll speak to Miss Champion, and we'll see what we can do.\nMiss Champion has so many friends. She'll easily get you another place,\naway from this, in Dublin.\"\n\nSuddenly the large tears filled Nora's eyes and trickled down her\ncheeks. She wept in rivers as a child does, and as painlessly.\n\n\"Don't ask me to stay, Miss Bawn,\" she said brokenly. \"I want to put\nthe ocean between me and him. I've done my best to pull him up out of my\nheart, and I've prayed my best, but I go on caring for him still. I'd\nbetter be away, Miss Bawn.\"\n\n\"Very well, Nora,\" I said, in a miserable perplexity. If she cared for\nRichard Dawson so much it was she who ought to marry him, peasant girl\nas she was. It was a shame that I should step into her place, loathing\nit. \"Very well,\" I said. \"I will do what I can to help you. When do you\ngo, Nora?\"\n\n\"Not till after Christmas, Miss. There won't be any emigration till the\nworst of the winter storms are over. Thank you kindly, Miss Bawn, but I\ndon't think there's anything you can do for me. The nuns'll find me an\nemployment while I stay. You're not vexed with me for leaving, Miss\nBawn?\"\n\n\"No, Nora, I quite understand,\" I said. And then on an impulse I kissed\nher.\n\nI knew she was fond of me, almost as fond as my old dog; and she did not\nhate me, although I was going to marry the man she loved. She flushed\nwhen I kissed her, and the tears came again to her eyes.\n\n\"You are very good to me, Miss Bawn,\" she said. \"Not many ladies would\nbe so good to a poor girl. I hope you'll be happy, Miss Bawn. And I hope\nyou'll make _him_ happy. Don't believe anything the people say about\nhim. He has a good heart, like his mother. He's been good to me. Sure,\nif he wasn't strong for the two of us, I'd have had no stren'th at all,\nthough I promised you, Miss Bawn. Many a day when I sat by little Katty,\nand the other children were at school and the place quiet I thought I'd\nhave to run out of it to him. Maybe I'd have done it too, only I knew it\nwas no use, because you had his heart.\"\n\nShe went a little way towards the door. Then she came back again.\n\n\"I wouldn't be goin' too much to Araglin, Miss Bawn, if I was you,\" she\nsaid. \"There's a deal of sickness there. You wouldn't know what it might\nbe going to be.\"\n\nSomehow this thought of hers for me touched me more than anything else.\n\n\"I'll keep away, Nora,\" I said, \"unless it might be that I ought to go.\nWe weren't afraid of the famine fever in the old times. If there were to\nbe such a thing again we might have to do what we did then.\"\n\n\"Ye died with the people then,\" she said, pausing with her hand on the\ndoor-handle. \"But sure, why would there be the fever? Isn't there as\nfine a crop as ever was seen of potatoes? And Master Richard wouldn't\nlet you put a hair of your head in danger. I'm not sayin' there's\nanything in the sickness. It's a sick time o' year. But if there was\nanything you should keep away, Miss Bawn. There's lots to do it without\nyou. You're not looking too well now. Master Richard should be uneasy\nfor you.\"\n\nI spoke to my godmother about Nora later in the day, keeping back her\nsecret, but only telling her that there were reasons which made her feel\nshe must go. She knew the girl, was interested in her, and as it\nhappened, one of her many friends had written to her that she wanted a\nyoung maid to be with two little girls. The situation was in England.\nPerhaps Nora would be satisfied if the Irish Sea lay between her and\nRichard Dawson.\n\nI was returning home in the afternoon of the next day. My lover was\nrestive over the loss of so much of my society. But the morning was\nbright and cheerful, and I thought I would walk over to Araglin and lay\nthe matter before Nora.\n\nIt was a most delightful autumn day. There had been a hoar-frost in the\nnight and the dead leaves and twigs had a tracery of silver and\ncrackled under one's foot as one walked. It was a day for exhilaration\nif one were happy, and, despite the load of care which hung heavy upon\nme, I found myself walking less languidly than I had done of late. The\nboughs were now all bare; and where one had only seen leaves one saw a\nnetwork of trees and branches against a blue sky, and beyond the trees\nthe Purple Hill, which is hidden from one on our tree-hung road so long\nas the trees are in leaf. The little robins sang cheerfully in many\ntrees, and the air was so still that a beech-nut falling from the tree\nmade quite a great noise.\n\nAs I came down the hilly road to where the village smoked in its hollow,\nI had an idea that a stillness lay upon it like the blue mists of autumn\nthat were over all the countryside. Araglin is usually the noisiest of\nvillages--cocks crowing, hens cackling, dogs barking, children shouting\nat their play. But this morning it was silent.\n\nNora's uncle's house lay almost outside the village, quite at its\nbeginning. I thought I should find her there alone, but, as it happened,\nwhen I was close to it, she came out carrying a pail, evidently on her\nway to fetch water from a stream which flowed by the roadside and here\nand there widened into a little well.\n\nShe was close to me before she saw me. When she did at last catch sight\nof me I was amazed at the swift change in the expression of her face. It\nhad been moody enough when I had had time to observe it in repose. Now\nsomething of fear, of horror, leaped into it.\n\n\"Go back at once, Miss Bawn, for God's sake!\" she cried. \"Go back, and\ndon't be coming near me. There's small-pox in the village and I've been\nin and out with them. Half the village is sickening for it; the doctor's\ndistracted. He's sent word up to Dublin to send nurses and doctors.\nThank God, I was able to turn you back. Go home, Miss Bawn, and come\nhere no more.\"\n\n\"And what are you going to do, Nora?\" I asked.\n\n\"Is it me, Miss Bawn? Sure, I'll stay where I am. I've been in and out\nwith them; and if I'm to get it, I'll get it. Ask some one to take the\nchildren away. Then I'll be able to help with the nursing. Maybe 'tis\nwhat God meant for me.\"\n\nWe stood and looked at each other across the space. Why, it was what I\nhad desired, that my face should be marred, so that Richard Dawson would\nturn away from me in disgust. For a moment I had an impulse to cross the\nline she had set for me, to go as she had gone into infected places.\nPerhaps she read the thought in my face, for she cried out to me to go\naway, to remember those who depended on me for happiness and go. She\nwrung her hands when I did not go.\n\n\"Go away, for God's sake,\" she cried again, \"and don't have the face\n_he_ cares about destroyed with the small-pox! See now, Miss Bawn,\ndarling, what would his Lordship and her Ladyship do without you?\"\n\nBut while she coaxed me with their names I could see that she dreaded\nthe small-pox for me lest my face should be spoilt for Richard Dawson,\nand I thought it one of the greatest things I had known in the heart of\na woman.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nTHE DARK DAYS\n\n\nI remember the weeks after that like a bad dream. The small-pox had\nspread from Araglin to other villages and to the isolated cabins. No one\nknew where it had come from, or where it would go next, for it spread\nlike wildfire. And the doctors and nurses had come down from Dublin in a\ncheerful little band and were fighting it heroically. For some weeks\nthere were only new outbreaks to tell of. For some weeks there were\npanic and terror everywhere.\n\nMy lover wanted to marry me and carry me away out of the danger; but\nthat I would not hear of. It was enough that to please him I must shut\nmyself away in a selfish isolation. If I had been a free woman I would\nhave insisted on going, as my godmother had gone, while yet the help was\nwanted. During those weeks I was cut off from the comfort of her\npresence, for even when she was no longer needed she was in quarantine\nlest she should have taken the infection.\n\nI will say that the Dawsons gave generously of their money for the aid\nof the people.\n\nWhen we knew first of the outbreak and heard that Mary Champion was in\nthe thick of it, my lover was moody and silent for a while even when he\nwas with me.\n\nI remember once that he kicked at a coal which had fallen from the fire\nand lay on the hearth, and he frowned heavily.\n\n\"I ought to have been there, Bawn,\" he said, \"and it isn't that I was\nafraid. Good Lord! I should think not. You would like me just as well\nwith my beauty spoilt in such a cause. But it is that you make a coward\nof me, little girl. When I think that anything might happen now to\nprevent our marriage it makes me sweat with fear. Else I would have\nrisked my life over and over again, and not have cared two straws about\nit.\"\n\n\"I know you are brave,\" I said, at which he looked pleased and said that\nit was the first kind word I had given him.\n\nIn these days he did not force his caresses upon me as much as he did at\nfirst, but used to call me his little nun, and say in his usual\nboastful way that he would make me in time eager for that from which I\nturned away now. Every day as our marriage came nearer I dreaded it\nmore, and felt as if I must run away to the ends of the earth rather\nthan endure it; but when I looked at my grandfather's face I knew there\nwas no help for me.\n\nThe marriage was fixed for the 20th of December, and I could see that he\nwas nearly as impatient for it as my bridegroom. I could see that on\nthis side of my wedding-day there lay for him the chance that the\ndisgrace might come at any moment. On the other side was peace and\nsafety.\n\nThe fear of the secret the Dawsons held possessed him so much that he\nhad no thought for me, as he had had none for Theobald while he still\nbelieved that there was some sort of engagement between Theobald and me.\n\nI confessed I had dreaded what Theobald would think of my marriage, not\nknowing the reason of it. But my anxieties on that score were set at\nrest, for, as soon as possible after he had heard of the engagement, he\nwrote a most affectionate letter to me. I could read in its effusiveness\nthat he was so relieved to know of my marriage that he was not disposed\nto be critical over my bridegroom. He sent me a present of a rug of\nleopard skins and some fine pieces of wrought silver work, and in a\npostscript he mentioned that there was some one he wanted us to welcome\npresently, a Miss Travers, a beauty--young, good, gifted, an heiress.\n\n\"She would be the same to me,\" he added in his round, schoolboy\nhandwriting, \"if she hadn't a penny; but I am glad for the sake of\nAghadoe that she has money. Dear Bawn, I adore her.\"\n\nI had guessed it all the time, and remembered that he had mentioned Miss\nTravers before, and that the manner of it was significant. Dear\nTheobald, it was easy enough to see through his simple guile!\n\nMy grandparents, having ascertained that Miss Travers was a quite\nunexceptional person, had an access of cheerfulness. I could see that\nonce I was married and the paper in their hands, whatever it was, they\nwould begin to look forward to Theobald's return and his marriage. There\nwould be great days at Aghadoe yet; but I should not be there to see\nthem.\n\nWhen I came to be measured for my wedding-dress my grandmother\ndiscovered how thin I had become.\n\n\"You will be all right,\" she said, \"when Richard carries you away from\nthis sad and troubled country to the south and to the sun.\"\n\nLong before this my lover had taken the alarm and fretted over me with\nanxious tenderness, saying that they had not known how to take care of\nme, and that once I was his I should be taken care of as no other woman\never was before.\n\nFortunately for him he was much at the Cottage in those days,\nsuperintending the last arrangements, else I think, ardent as he was, he\ncould hardly have borne with me, for I was alternately listless and\nbitter, so that I have seen my dear old grandmother look at me in sad\nwonder; and that always reduced me to repentance.\n\nAs the time of my marriage came nearer I felt the ignominy the more. I\nused to think that the very portraits on the walls looked at me askance\nbecause I was going to marry the usurer's son. I was sure the old\nservants were not the same, any more than the old friends; but, oddly\nenough, Maureen had forgiven me, had held me to her breast and cried\nover me. I felt that she knew the marriage would kill me, she only of\nthem all. Every night now the ghosts cried as they had cried when I was\na child, when Uncle Luke went away.\n\nIt might have been a week from my wedding-day when there lay one morning\nbeside my plate a letter, the handwriting on which made my heart leap\nup.\n\nFortunately I was first at the table and I was able to hide the letter.\nI could not have read it under the eyes of my grandparents, and they\nmust have noticed if I had taken it away unopened, because I had so few\ncorrespondents, apart from the wedding-presents and congratulations.\n\nI had barely hidden it when my grandparents took their places, and Neil\nDoherty set the big Crown Derby teapot before my grandmother and then\nwent round and removed the cover of the silver dish that was in front of\nmy grandfather. I believe the three of us between us did not eat the\nfood of one healthy appetite in those days; but the things appeared all\nthe same, and hot dishes were flanked by cold meats on the side-board\nas though we had the appetites of hunters.\n\nI heard Neil say as he stood by my grandfather that, glory be to God,\nthe sickness was disappearing, that there hadn't been a new case in\nAraglin village for more than a fortnight, and the doctors thought that\nthe worst was over. Our servants were on the usual terms of Irish\nservants with their employers--that is to say, they treated us with a\nrespectful familiarity; and now that owing to the sickness there was\nlittle visiting we had to depend upon Neil mostly for our news.\n\n\"It will not be the same at Miss Bawn's wedding, Neil,\" I heard my\ngrandfather say, \"as though there had not been the sickness. When I\nmarried her Ladyship the whole county came to see it.\"\n\n\"True for you,\" said Neil. \"There's many a one under the sod that looked\nto dance at Miss Bawn's wedding, and there's many another that their own\nmothers won't know when they see them.\"\n\n\"The great thing is,\" said my grandmother, \"that the sickness is coming\nto an end. Please God, we can lift up our hearts towards the New Year.\"\n\n\"And thank God for that,\" said my grandfather; and I felt that it was\nnot only for cessation of the sickness he gave thanks.\n\nThere were, indeed, many new graves, and many, too, whose living or\ndying yet hung in the balance; and if I had been a happy woman I would\nhave felt it ominous to be married at such a time. But as it was,\nnothing mattered.\n\n\"You are sure Nora Brady has not taken the sickness, Neil?\" I asked.\n\n\"No, Miss Bawn; she's safe so far. To be sure, she might be inkybatin'\nit\"--Neil, like all our people, loves a long word--\"and she'll have to\nput up a month's quarentine when the last o' the sickness is over. I\nhear she's been everywhere it was.\"\n\nAfter breakfast I escaped to the summer-house in the shrubbery with my\nletter. The first snow lay on the ground and was white on the dark,\nshining leaves of the laurels and laurestinus, but my hands trembled and\nburned as I opened the letter. Why did he write to me now when I had\nbecome used to my misery? As the sheet rustled in my hands I felt such a\nlonging and a desire for him that if he called me across the world I\nmust go.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nTHE WEDDING-DRESS\n\n\n     \"My dear,\" the letter began, \"I have your letter. Most happily my\n     rascal, Terence, forwarded it; most happily, and by the grace of\n     God, as I think, I thought to leave him the name of a halting-place\n     where I might pick up letters, yet I expected none. What a dullard\n     I was, Bawn, not to have known! I compared my years and sorrows and\n     my white hairs with your youth and beauty, and I thought you must\n     love that golden lad, your cousin. Heart's delight, it will take\n     all the years that are left to me to tell you my gratitude. There\n     will be no sacrifice, child, and I do certainly believe there is no\n     secret that Lord and Lady St. Leger need fear. I should come to you\n     on the wings of the wind if there was not a reason that I must stay\n     a little while, and if it were not that some one is hurrying to\n     Aghadoe whom I can trust to tear the web of lies to pieces. He will\n     come in time, and I shall not long delay to follow. And you are\n     mine and I am yours for ever and ever.\n\n                                                      \"Your devoted\n                                                      \"Anthony Cardew.\"\n\nThe letter at once delighted and bewildered me. For a while I gave\nmyself up to the delight, kissing it and crying over it like a mad\ncreature. Then I came back to the cold light of facts. Just four days\nnow to elapse before my wedding-day. What could happen in those four\ndays to save me? Anthony's messenger, nay, Anthony himself, could do\nnothing. There was always my grandfather's face of suspense, by which I\nknew he counted the hours, always my grandmother's piteous air of asking\nfor forgiveness. Not even Anthony Cardew could absolve me from what they\nbound me to.\n\nI tried to be sorry for having written him that letter. Nothing, indeed,\nhad been farther from my thoughts than that it should be forwarded to\nhim. He wrote from Assumption, an island in the South Seas. If he was by\nmy side he could hardly save me, unless he could prove that Uncle Luke\nwas innocent of the things Garret Dawson attributed to him and could\nprove it to the world. And how could he do that?\n\nI had never asked what the secret was, feeling that it must be something\nvery terrible indeed when my grandfather would not tell it to Miss\nChampion. I never meant to ask. Let the proof of it be given up and\nforgotten. There was even a certain dreary pleasure in feeling that I\nwas going to save the Lord and Lady St. Leger from that disgrace. It was\nnot right the old should suffer and be afraid.\n\nAt last I put the letter inside my bodice and returned to the house. I\ngot upstairs unobserved and put it away in the tall, spindle-legged\nSheraton desk which has held all my girlish treasures. I was going to\ndestroy the two letters from Anthony Cardew presently. Then the old life\nwould be done with indeed.\n\n\"Bless me, child,\" said my grandmother, coming in on me as I closed the\ndesk, \"what a colour you have! I have not seen you look so well this\nmany a day. What have you been doing to yourself?\"\n\n\"Not rouging, Gran, I assure you,\" I said lightly. \"I have been out in\nthe frosty air and it has made my cheeks tingle.\"\n\n\"Your wedding-dress has come home,\" she said, \"and Richard is here. He\nwants to see you in it, Bawn.\"\n\nI remembered the superstition and wondered that she should have\nsuggested such a thing. If I had been going to marry Anthony Cardew I\nshould have refused, but since I was going to marry Richard Dawson I was\nnot fearful of omens.\n\n\"Very well,\" I said; \"I shall put it on and come downstairs.\"\n\nI had a young maid from Dublin, newly come to me, and she had not our\nsuperstitions, or she was too respectful to oppose her will to mine.\nAnyhow, she dressed me in my wedding-dress, the fine thing of white\nsilk, veiled with my grandmother's old Limerick lace and hung with\npearls. She had dressed my hair high, quickly and deftly, and when I had\non my wedding-dress she threw my wedding-veil over my head and fastened\nit with the diamond stars which were among my lover's gifts to me. When\nshe had dressed me she wheeled the long mirror in front of me that I\nmight look at myself.\n\nI was not the same girl to look on that I had been. There was a bright\ncolour in my cheeks and my eyes were bright; but I had a swimming in my\nhead and I felt hot and cold by turns. I saw that I was splendid, for\nMargaret had put on me as many as she could of the jewels with which my\nlover loaded me, which used to lie about so carelessly that my\ngrandmother had rebuked me saying I should be robbed of them one of\nthese days. I hated them as though they had been my purchase-money; and\nI had scandalized Margaret only the night before by letting my necklace\nof emeralds and diamonds fall to the floor and lie there.\n\nAs I went down the stairs I met one or two of the servants, who drew to\none side to let me pass and lifted their hands in admiration. Margaret\nwalked behind me, being fearful, I think, that in my present mood I\nmight let the long train sweep the stairs and corridors instead of\ncarrying it demurely over my arm.\n\nI paused for a moment outside the drawing-room door which stood ajar,\nand I could hear my lover's deep voice within. Margaret let down my\ntrain for me and I went in, up the long drawing-room to where my\ngrandmother sat in her easy-chair by the fire and Richard Dawson stood\non the hearthrug with his back to it.\n\nAs I came up the room I felt again the swimming of my head and things\nswayed about me for an instant. Then I recovered myself.\n\nBetween the painted panels of the drawing-room at Aghadoe there are long\nmirrors, in the taste of the time which could imagine nothing so\ndecorative as a mirror. In every one of them I saw myself repeated, a\nslight, white figure scintillating with gems.\n\nI had thrown back my veil and I saw the proud delight in my lover's\nface. He advanced a step or two to meet me and I heard my grandmother\nsay--\n\n\"What a colour you have, child, and how bright your eyes are!\"\n\nHe took up my hands and lifted them to his lips. Then he cried out, and\nI heard his voice as though it was at a great distance.\n\n\"She is not well, Lady St. Leger,\" he said, and there was a sharp note\nof anxiety in his tone. \"Her hands were icy cold and now they are hot.\"\n\nAt the same moment some one came into the room and to my side. It was\nMaureen, and I saw that she was very angry.\n\n\"I didn't believe it when that fool of a Katty told me,\" she said.\n\"Whoever heard of luck comin' to a bride who wore her wedding-dress\nbefore the day? It only needs now for Miss Bawn to go runnin' back for\nsomething after she leaves the house a bride. Sure, isn't there\nmisfortune enough without bringin' it on us? Come along with me, my\ndarlin' lamb, and let me get it off you. 'Tis in a fever you are this\nminute.\"\n\nThen suddenly I lost consciousness of everything, and would have fallen\non the floor in a faint if my lover had not caught me in his arms.\n\nThe next thing I knew was that the window-panes were showing themselves\nas lighted squares in a grey, misty world, and I could hear that\nsomebody was speaking and what was said, even before I was awake.\n\n\"I've seen it comin' this long time,\" said a bitter, querulous voice\nthat was Maureen's. \"She'll go through with it, but it'll be the death\nof her, my darling jewel. If she's married before Master Luke comes,\nthen he'll come too late, after all.\"\n\n\"Haven't I suffered enough, Maureen?\" my grandmother asked\npitifully--\"having lost my one boy, and now to see this child slipping\naway from me! And there's a change in Lord St. Leger; there is, indeed,\nMaureen. Am I to lose them all, all?\"\n\n\"Whisht, honey, whisht!\" Maureen said, with sudden relenting in her\nvoice. \"God's good. Sure, He wouldn't be so hard on you as to take his\nLordship, not at least till Master Luke comes home.\"\n\n\"And that will never be,\" my grandmother went on. \"I've given up hope,\nMaureen. Luke is dead and gone, and my husband is slipping out of life,\nand this child is breaking her heart.\"\n\nAnd then I opened my eyes, and they saw I was awake.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nTHE NEW HOME\n\n\nI had frightened them all by my fainting-fit, but after all it was\nnothing. The doctor who had been fetched hastily by my frightened lover\nreassured them.\n\n\"Did you think she was sickening for the small-pox?\" he asked, looking\nfrom one face to the other with bright intelligence. He was a young\ndoctor not long settled in our neighbourhood, and we used to say among\nourselves that he was too clever to stay long with us. \"Well, then, she\nisn't doing anything of the sort. I expect she's been taking the\ntroubles too much to heart. A bit run down and nervous. The honeymoon\njourney will be the best prescription for that. I should like to see\nmore flesh on her bones.\"\n\nHe patted my hand as he spoke; and I could see the relief in the faces\nabout me. In those days any feverish attack suggested the small-pox.\n\n\"Dr. Molyneux should see grandpapa,\" I said. \"Grandpapa is not well.\"\n\n\"You've seen it, Bawn?\" my grandmother said. \"I thought no one saw it\nbut myself. But it is no use. He refuses to see a doctor. He says he\nwill be all right in a few days.\"\n\nI knew she had pulled herself up on the point of saying, \"after your\nwedding.\"\n\nDr. Molyneux smiled humorously.\n\n\"Sure, the world's divided into two classes,\" he said--\"the people who\nare always wanting to see the doctor, and the people who won't see him\nat all. Supposing I were to pay my respects to Lord St. Leger--it would\nbe hardly polite to go away without doing it.\"\n\n\"You might be able to judge, perhaps----\" began my grandmother.\n\n\"Or I might be able to get over his prejudices, Lady St. Leger. He isn't\nthe first that wouldn't see me; and some of them couldn't see enough of\nme at the end,\" he said, getting up with that cheery confidence in his\nface and manner that must have put many a sick man on the road to\nrecovery.\n\nWhen my grandfather came into the drawing-room before dinner he came and\nkissed me, and said, \"Poor little Bawn!\" with an almost excessive\ntenderness. Afterwards he mentioned that Dr. Molyneux had said that they\nwere not to be anxious about me.\n\n\"I didn't think one of the tribe could be so pleasant,\" he went on. \"He\nis greatly interested in my swords, and knows as much of the history of\nweapons as I do and more, for he told me where some of them came from\nabout which I was uncertain.\"\n\nMy grandmother told me afterwards with awe that Dr. Molyneux had talked\nabout everything but health, and had had all grandpapa's collection of\nweapons down from the walls and out of their cases, and had not seemed\nto look at grandpapa except in the most casual way; but afterwards had\nstartled her by asking, \"What's on his mind, Lady St. Leger, when he\nisn't talking of the swords? Till that is removed I can do little for\nhis body.\" I saw it was a ray of light to her through the troubles that\nmy grandfather had taken kindly to the doctor, and I was very glad.\n\nThe next day was the last but one before my wedding, and at last the\nCottage was ready for occupation. So great was my lover's desire to\ninhabit it that he had already moved his belongings over there from\nDamerstown and was sleeping there. On the afternoon of that day he came\nfor me to go with him to see and approve of what he had done.\n\nHe was so greatly excited about it that he did not notice my reluctance\nto go, or perhaps he was used to my way with him, which was surely the\nmost grudging that ever lover had to endure.\n\nI rather thought my grandmother might have forbidden it. She had always\nbeen so particular about what a girl might not do and had not moved at\nall with the times in that respect. But of course everything had been\naltered since Richard Dawson's coming; and she only said to him not to\nkeep me out too late as I was not over-strong.\n\nI had thought we were going to walk, but when we had gone a little way\ndown the avenue I saw drawn up to one side a very smart motor-brougham\nwith a smart chauffeur on the box, and I wondered whose it might be.\n\n\"It is for you, darling,\" my lover replied. \"Do you not like it, Bawn?\nIt is a surprise for you.\"\n\nI wished I could have thanked him better; but nothing gave me any\npleasure. He put me in and tucked me up in a warm rug. It was, indeed, a\nmost luxurious carriage, and it went like the wind.\n\n\"You give me too much,\" I said for the thousandth time.\n\n\"And you give me too little,\" he answered. \"I suppose you think that is\nhow to keep me. But I should love you just as much--I could not love you\nmore--if you would be warmer to me.\"\n\nAs we went along at a speed which made the familiar roads oddly strange,\nall the landmarks being slurred by the speed, I looked from one side of\nthe road to the other.\n\nMy mind was full of Anthony Cardew's messenger, the one he was so sure\nwould break the web of lies in pieces. I said to myself that of course\nhe could not come in time and that if he could come it would be useless.\nEven Anthony himself could have done nothing, since the secret was not\none that we could bring into the open. Still, the air seemed full of\nexpectation. We met very few vehicles, very few foot passengers, but at\nthose we did meet I looked eagerly. He had been very sure that his\nmessenger would arrive in time. And while I thrilled to that sense of\nexpectation I felt guilty towards the man at my side, who was so\ngenerous a lover. Even now his nearness to me in the carriage that was\nhis gift filled me with repulsion and a forlorn, shameful sense, as\nthough I had been the wife of one man and had been given to another.\n\nThe Cottage and its grounds were enclosed within a high wall. There was\na little gravel sweep running round in front of the hall door; but we\nleft the carriage outside the green gates. Within, it was the completest\nthing, and I had delighted in it when old Miss Verschoyle had lived\nthere with a companion and a cat, a dog, and a cageful of canaries. The\nCottage was covered by a trellis. There were half a dozen steps to the\nhall door, and a window at each side. At one side of the little\nenclosure there was a trellis concealing, as I knew, a range of\nout-offices. At the other side was a stable and coach-house.\n\nIt was growing dusk now, but the Cottage was lit up. Through the\nunshuttered windows I could see the light of a fire and the glow of a\npink-shaded lamp in the room that used to be the drawing-room. The\nopposite room was also fire-lit and lamp-lit.\n\nThe hall door stood wide open, and Sheila, my lover's spaniel, stood\nwagging her tail in the doorway.\n\n\"Your cook is already installed, darling,\" my lover said in the low\nvoice which I feared in him \"I told her to make herself scarce. It was\nnot likely we should want her at such a time.\"\n\nHe took me in his arms and lifted me across the threshold. The little\nhouse glowed warmly, and seemed to invite us to a home. How holy, how\nbeautiful, it would have been if the man by my side had been Anthony\nCardew instead of Richard Dawson! He still held me in his arms when he\nhad set me down and pressed me to him. I trembled with repulsion and he\nfelt that I trembled, without understanding. He let me go almost\nroughly.\n\n\"Did I frighten you?\" he asked, roughly tender. \"You shivered,\nsweetheart. Oh, to think that in three days more we shall come home here\nnever to be parted any more!\"\n\nHe was eager as a boy. In the little drawing-room a tea-table was set\nand a silver kettle sang above a spirit-lamp. Everything was ready for\ntea. There were little silver-covered dishes with spirit-lamps burning\nunder them, and even at such a moment I could not help noticing the\nbeauty of the Worcester cups and saucers, with pansies and tulips and\nroses and forget-me-nots in tiny bunches on the white.\n\n\"Let us see the rest of the house while the kettle is boiling,\" he said,\nand caught at my hand to make me go with him. But I dreaded it, this\nvisiting which ought to have been so tender and holy. I said that I\nwanted some tea, that I was cold.\n\nHe put me in a deep chair and kneeling before me he chafed my hands, now\nand again stopping to kiss them. I was grateful when the kettle suddenly\nhissed and he stood up and said that for this once he was going to make\nthe tea. So many days and years I should make it for him, sitting\nopposite to him and making the place where we were together Heaven by my\nface.\n\nWhen it was ready he poured it out and brought it to me. He fed me with\nlittle pieces of hot teacake and other dainties. I took as long in\ndrinking the tea as possible, but it could not last for ever, and\nfinally he took the cup from me, put it down, and kneeling before me\nagain he put his arms about me.\n\nSomething in my being there alone with him, in his growing excitement,\nsuddenly frightened me out of my wits. With a cry I pushed him away from\nme with both hands.\n\n\"Oh, don't!\" I said; \"don't you see I can't bear it? I hate it. Let me\ngo, please.\" And I struggled to be free of him.\n\nHe looked up at me with a dazed expression.\n\n\"But you are going to marry me in three days,\" he said. \"I shall be your\nhusband. What was it you said? That you hated my caresses? You don't\nmean it, Bawn?\"\n\n\"I do mean it,\" I cried, with a frantic repulsion. \"I wish you had not\nbrought me here. Please get up and let me go. I tell you I am frightened\nof you.\"\n\nHe got up and stood a little bit away from me, looking at me in a\nshocked bewilderment.\n\n\"But you are going to marry me?\" he said. \"And this is to be our home\ntogether. And you accepted me of your own free will. Do girls in love\nbehave like this to their lovers?\"\n\n\"You should not have frightened me,\" I cried, bursting into tears. \"You\nshould not have brought me here. How can you say I accepted you of my\nown free will when it is killing me? You know that I accepted you\nbecause your father holds a disgraceful secret and has frightened the\nlife out of my grandfather and grandmother. I had to do it for them\nbecause they were old and it would kill them if the disgrace were\npublished.\"\n\nIt had never entered into my mind that he could be in ignorance of how\nhis father had constrained us, but now it flashed on my amazed mind\nthat he had not known at all.\n\n\"Good God!\" he said. \"Good God!\" and stood staring at me with a grey\nface.\n\nI was frightened then of the mischief I had done, and sorry for him too.\n\n\"I thought you knew,\" I stammered.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nTHE END OF IT\n\n\nI saw in the momentary pause that his dog came up beside him and licked\nhis hand and he did not seem to notice her.\n\n\"You thought I knew,\" he repeated, his colour becoming a dull purple.\n\"You thought I knew. And I thought your shrinking from me was but maiden\nmodesty, and that if you did not love me you were going to love me. Why,\nwhen you trembled in my arms as I lifted you through the door I thought\nit was love; and all the time it was horror and repulsion. What a fool I\nhave been! But, by Heaven--I have been fooled too!\"\n\nHis expression became so wild and furious that I shrank back in my chair\nand covered my face with my hands.\n\n\"You needn't be afraid of me,\" he said; \"that is all over. Come: there\nis nothing more to see. You had better go home.\"\n\nHe had regained control over himself, although his features still\nworked and his eyes were bloodshot. Indeed, he had such a look of\nsuffering that I should have been sorry for him no matter how much I\nhated him, and now, curiously enough, my hatred seemed to have passed\naway.\n\n\"What are you going to do?\" I asked.\n\n\"Send you home,\" he replied.\n\n\"But you are coming with me?\"\n\n\"No. I shall not trouble Aghadoe any more by my presence. You will be\nquite safe with the Chauffeur.\"\n\n\"But what are you going to do?\"\n\n\"I am not going to cut my throat, if that's what you are afraid of. I am\ngoing to--console myself as soon as I can.\"\n\nI did not dare ask him how. He held his arm to me ceremoniously, and I\ncould not help thinking that he could play the fine gentleman after all.\nMy thoughts were so bewildered that I could not take in yet all that\nthis involved, but seeing that he held his arm to me I took it and went\nout with him.\n\nThe night had come on dark outside. Looking back from the gate, I\nthought that the little house glowed like a ruby in the darkness.\n\nHe put me into the carriage with a careful politeness. As he wrapped the\nrug about me I had a sudden sense of the finality of it and the trouble\nthat lay before me and the others, and a pity for his disappointment as\nwell that was so poignant as to be almost unbearable.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" I whispered in the darkness. \"I would have loved you if I\ncould.\"\n\n\"Was there some one else, Bawn?\" he whispered back.\n\n\"Yes, there was some one else.\" I felt he had a right to that truth.\n\n\"You ought to have told me,\" he said. \"And you should not have believed\nthat I would win you by blackmail, even though I am Garret Dawson's\nson.\"\n\n\"I am sorry. Indeed I am sorry.\"\n\nI clutched at his sleeve as he was stepping out of the carriage.\n\n\"What are you going to do?\" I asked again.\n\n\"Find consolation where I can. There are some ready to offer it, Bawn.\"\n\nHe closed the door, and I heard him telling the chauffeur to drive me to\nAghadoe. I put my head out to see the last of him as we drove away, and\nhe was standing in the darkness still looking after me.\n\nMy thoughts were in a whirl of confusion. At first I could think of\nnothing except that Richard Dawson himself had set me free and that his\nmanner showed it was irrevocable. But I could not look beyond that to my\nAnthony's return, because how was I to tell the old people who looked to\nme for deliverance that I had failed them? I knew something of Garret\nDawson, and that he had never in all his life been known to show mercy.\nHis old granite face with the tight mouth and beetling eyebrows was\nenough. I quailed in the darkness as a vision of his face rose before\nme. I had no doubt that, as soon as he knew I was not going to marry his\nson, he would do his worst. He had been known, people said, to sacrifice\nbusiness advantages even to obtain revenge.\n\nAt the thought of that I stretched out my arms as though I would take\nthe two helpless old heads to my bosom to shelter them from the storm.\nHow was I going to tell them? The carriage went like the wind, and I\ncould hear the clashing of the boughs under which we passed. The\nstillness of the afternoon had been but the prelude to a storm.\n\nAlso the memory of Richard Dawson's face remained with me like a sore.\nNow that I was free of him and need dread him no more, I remembered that\nhe had been generous and patient, and I was grieved for him. And I was\ntroubled about that consolation which he was on the way to seek. But my\nown troubles were so imminent and pressing as almost to push that out.\nHow was I going to tell them--at the last hour, too--with my\nwedding-dress home, and the wedding-breakfast cooking in the big\nkitchens, with a stir of life we had not had in Aghadoe for many a day?\n\nIt was well the journey did not take very long, or I don't know how I\nshould have endured the strain on my nerves.\n\nWhile my mind was still in confusion the carriage drew up at the front\ndoor of the Abbey. I alighted and went up the steps. The hall door stood\nopen, and as I entered Neil Doherty came from the back. I thought he\nlooked pale.\n\n\"Miss Bawn,\" he began; but I could not wait to hear him. I ran up the\nstairs to the drawing-room. There was no one there. I went back to the\nlibrary. As I went in my grandmother came to meet me.\n\n\"I thought I heard a carriage,\" she said in a trembling voice. \"Did\nRichard bring you home? What is the matter, Bawn?\"\n\n\"The matter!\" I repeated, \"the matter! Why, the matter is that Richard\nDawson will have none of me. He knew nothing of his father's bargain.\nWhen he found that I had been bought and sold for that he would have\nnone of me. I would have gone through with it, Gran. You must forgive me\nand ask grandpapa to forgive me.\"\n\nShe stared at me with a pale face. In the pause there was a sound like a\nheavy sigh; then the falling of a body.\n\n\"Bawn, Bawn, what have you done?\" she cried, hurrying away from me to\nthe recess by the fireplace. \"It is your grandfather. He has fainted\nonce before this afternoon, and the doctor says it is his heart. Oh, my\ndear, my Toby, you have had too much to bear and it has killed you!\"\n\nShe was kneeling by my grandfather and had taken his head into her lap.\nHe had struck the fender as he fell, and the blood was flowing from a\nwound on his head, staining his silver hair.\n\nNeil Doherty came rushing in. He must have been at the door to have\nheard the fall. He took my grandfather in his arms like a baby--it\nstruck me sharply that he must have grown thin and light for Neil to\nlift him so easily--and put him on the couch.\n\n\"Whisht, your Ladyship, whisht!\" he said to my grandmother. \"Fetch me a\ndrop o' water and a sponge, Miss Bawn. The cut's not a deep one. There's\nnothin' wrong with his Lordship, and we needn't frighten the life out o'\nhim, wirrasthruin', when he comes back to himself. Don't tell any of the\nwomen, Miss Bawn.\"\n\nI got him the water as quickly and quietly as I could, and Neil washed\nthe blood away. The cut proved, indeed, not to be serious; but it seemed\nan age before my grandfather's eyes opened and he looked from Neil's\nface to my grandmother's.\n\n\"Have I been ill?\" he asked.\n\n\"Just a bit of a wakeness, your Lordship,\" Neil said. \"But sure, you're\nfinely now.\"\n\nI did not dare come near, but waited out of sight, dreading the time\nwhen my grandfather should remember. Presently I heard him ask for me.\n\n\"Is Bawn there?\" he asked. \"Where are you, child?\"\n\nI came forward and Neil withdrew. I heard the library door close behind\nhim.\n\n\"Poor little Bawn!\" my grandfather said tenderly, \"poor little Bawn! We\nmust bear whatever there is to come together, we three. God would not\nhave this child sacrificed. I see now what a coward I was.\"\n\n\"Never a coward, Toby, never a coward,\" my grandmother cried out\npiteously, kissing his hand.\n\nMy grandfather put out his arm and drew me close to him.\n\n\"We must bear it together, we three,\" he said.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nTHE KNOCKING AT THE DOOR\n\n\nWe had dinner in the little black-panelled room off the hall, Neil\nwaiting on us with a great assiduity. Now that the worst had happened\nand my grandfather's pride and courage had risen to meet it, it seemed\nto me that he looked better than he had looked for many months. To be\nsure he was very pale, but he had a look of resolution which became him,\ninstead of the cowed and burdened look he had worn of late.\n\nI remember that there were pheasants on the table and my grandfather\nasked where they had come from. There had been a constant shower of\ndelicacies rained on us from Damerstown, and we should have grown\nsybarites if we had cared about such things. Neil, as though he\nunderstood, answered him that they had been shot in our own woods, and\nadded that the fine peaches and grapes which were in a dish on the table\nwere from our own houses. I was not sure it was true. We didn't grow\npeaches even in a hothouse in December; but I let it pass, and my elders\nwere too engrossed in their thoughts to notice.\n\nOnce or twice I saw that the old couple held each other's hands below\nthe table-cloth, and I felt that as long as they were together they\ncould bear anything.\n\nMy grandfather ate a little of a pheasant's breast, and my grandmother\nfollowed his example; but though we made a show of eating it did not\namount to very much. As for me, a curious sense of expectancy seemed to\nhave taken possession of my mind, to the exclusion of other things. I\ncould hardly say at what moment it had begun; but it grew till I was, in\na manner of speaking, heady with it. We sat there very quiet, but all\nthe time I was listening, not only with the ears of my body but with the\nears of my heart.\n\nAfter dinner Neil cleared away the dinner-things and removed the cloth.\nMy grandmother bade him replenish the fire, and he went away and\nreturned with a great armful of logs.\n\nI guessed that my grandmother felt that in here we were out of sight of\nthe preparations for the wedding which were going on everywhere else in\nthe house.\n\nNeil left the wine and the fruit on the table, stirred up the fire, and\nwent away.\n\nMy grandparents sat in their chairs either side of the fireplace, I in\nthe middle at first; but presently I changed places with my grandmother,\nand she sat holding Lord St. Leger's hand in hers while the firelight\nleaped up showing their old, careworn, troubled faces, which yet had a\nlook of love and new peace in them.\n\nPresently my grandfather fell asleep, and we talked in whispers, my\ngrandmother and I. She still held his hand, and her eyes kept watching\nwith a tender anxiety his pale face, almost as pale as a dead face,\nagainst the green velvet of the chair.\n\n\"He sleeps quietly, Bawn,\" she said. \"He has not slept well of late.\"\n\n\"None of us has slept well,\" I said.\n\n\"It has almost broken our hearts, child, to be so cruel to you. I don't\nbelieve we have had a happy hour since it was settled. We have lain\nawake till cock-crow, night after night.\"\n\nI had it in my mind to ask her if she had heard the ghosts, but she had\nnever liked the talk about the ghosts, and, remembering that, I was\nsilent.\n\n\"We ought to have faced it out,\" she went on. \"As I said to Lord St.\nLeger, if the disgrace was there, there was no doing away with it, even\nthough only Garret Dawson knew it. Mary always said she would not\nbelieve dishonour and deliberate misdoing on Luke's part. I ought to\nhave had her faith.\"\n\n\"It is not too late,\" I said. \"Let Garret Dawson publish his news! We\nshall see what he has to tell.\"\n\n\"But there is no disproving it, for Luke is dead and gone.\"\n\n\"On your own reasoning, dearest Gran,\" I said. \"If we will not believe\nin Uncle Luke's disgrace then there is no disgrace for us. We shall only\ntake it that Garret Dawson bears false witness. Who would believe Garret\nDawson against Luke L'Estrange?\"\n\n\"Ah, but you have lost your lover, my poor Bawn,\" she said tenderly.\n\"You have lost Theobald, and this old house will pass away from you and\nhim. It is all mortgaged and there is Luke's debt.\"\n\n\"Let it go,\" I said, wincing. \"But as for Theobald, never fret about\nthat, Gran. We were only brother and sister, too close to become\ncloser.\"\n\n\"I think the wedding has turned Maureen's head,\" my grandmother went on\nfretfully. \"I found her setting Luke's room in order. She would have it\nthat he was coming home from school by the hooker from Galway. She has\nmade his bed and put his room in order and she asked me at what hour she\nshould light his fire.\"\n\n\"She is always madder at the full moon,\" I said.\n\n\"To-morrow morning we will send for Mary. She will help us to bear it.\nWhen I think of her faith I wonder that I should have had so little.\"\n\n\"I believe you are happier,\" I said wonderingly.\n\n\"I feel as though I had passed out of the hands of men into the hands of\nGod,\" she replied, caressing my hair with her disengaged hand, for I had\nleft my chair to sit down on the hearthrug by her.\n\nAgain I had that strange, acute sense of listening; but there was a\nstorm outside, and the wind cried in the chimney and rattled the\nwindows, and a branch of a tree tapped against the shutters--that was\nall.\n\n\"While your grandfather lives you will not be homeless,\" she said: \"and\nwho knows but that Theobald may be able to clear off the mortgages?\"\n\nMy grandfather slept peacefully, as though he needed sleep; and now we\ntalked and now we were silent, and the night wore on.\n\nWe could not move for fear of disturbing him. Dido came and lay on the\nrug beside me, and slept with her chin resting on my foot. I think my\ngrandmother dozed a little and the fire went low for I was afraid to\nstir to replenish it. The old dog moaned and whimpered in her sleep, and\nmy grandmother came out of her doze to say that she had been dreaming of\nLuke; and nodded off again.\n\nI heard Neil Doherty bolt and bar the hall door on his way to bed and I\nknew then that it must be eleven. There were many things to think of.\nTo-morrow the preparations for the wedding must all be put a stop to.\nThe presents must be returned. There was so much to be done, so many\nthings to be cancelled. I wondered when and how Garret Dawson's blow\nwould fall. He was one to seek an opportunity of doing it publicly. That\nit would fall I had no doubt. There was no relenting behind that face of\ngranite.\n\nWell, for to-night the old souls might sleep. To-morrow there would be\nMary Champion to stand by them. I did not yet dare to think of the joy\nthat was coming to me from over the world. It would be another blow to\nthem that I loved Anthony Cardew.\n\nAlso through my thoughts there came the face of Richard Dawson, and I\nwondered if he was somewhere out in the night. I did not feel that the\nhouse to which he was to have brought me a bride could contain him that\nnight. What was he doing? Where had he gone for consolation? My pity for\nhim and my remorse were great.\n\nA coal fell out of the fire with a sudden noise, and the displaced coals\nfell in, sending up a big shower of sparks. The storm was at its height.\nIt seemed to shake the solid house. And suddenly my grandmother awoke.\n\n\"Bawn, Bawn,\" she said, \"I dreamt that your grandfather was dead and it\nwas terrible.\"\n\nAt the moment my grandfather opened his eyes.\n\n\"I am very tired,\" he said--\"very, very tired and old. If Luke is coming\nhe ought to be here soon. Why is he not here to protect us?\"\n\nThere came a sound above the crying of the wind. My grandmother had\nbeen leaning tenderly over her husband who seemed to have sunk back into\nhis sleep; now she looked at me with a piteous terror. The wind soughed\nand died away, and in the pause we heard them plainly, wheels on the\ngravel outside that stopped at the door.\n\n\"It is the death-coach,\" my grandmother said. I rather saw than heard\nher say it, for her pale lips seemed incapable of speech.\n\n\"No, no,\" I cried. \"It is nothing of the sort. It is the messenger I am\nexpecting. I have been listening for him all the evening. Be quiet! He\nis coming for good: to help us.\"\n\nBut she did not seem to hear me. She had thrown both her arms about my\ngrandfather, as though to ward off what was coming. The action awoke\nhim, and he stood up tall and commanding as I remembered him of old, as\nI had not seen him for many a day.\n\n\"What is the matter, Maeve?\" he asked. \"You are with me. There is\nnothing to fear.\"\n\nI noticed that the wound had opened, and his white hair was stained with\nblood.\n\n\"It is the death-coach,\" cried my grandmother.\n\n\"What matter, if it comes for both of us?\" he said.\n\n\"It is not the death-coach,\" I cried. \"It is a friend, some one come to\nour help. Look at Dido! She would be frightened if it were the\ndeath-coach. See how she listens!\"\n\nAbove the crying of the storm there came a tremendous rat-tat on the\nknocker of the hall door.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nTHE MESSENGER\n\n\nMy grandfather made a step or two towards the door, but my grandmother,\nwho seemed distraught with terror, would not let him go, but clung to\nhim the closer. Dido had gone to the door of the room and was barking to\nget out. She was running up and down in a frenzy of impatience. The\ntremendous knocking still went on above the noise of the wind.\n\n\"It is absurd,\" I cried, trying to make my grandmother hear; \"did any\none ever know the death-coach to come knocking at the door?\"\n\nBut she was too terrified to hear me. So I let her be, and, snatching\none of the candles from the table, I went out into the hall. I knew\nquite well that I should not be able to draw back the heavy bolts, but,\nwhile I looked at them helplessly, half-deafened by the incessant\nknocking of the great iron knocker on the oak door, old Neil came down\nthe stairs muttering, as was his way.\n\n\"First I thought it was a ghost,\" he said, \"but no ghost ever knocked\nlike that. God send he brings good news, whoever he is! Glory be to God,\nhe's in a divil of a hurry to get in.\"\n\nI held my candle for him to see, and the knocking ceased while he undid\nthe bolts. Dido was whining and running up and down impeding him, and I\nheard him say that he'd kick her if it wasn't that she was already\nafflicted with blindness, the creature, and was Master Luke's dog. Now\nthat the silence had come we heard the rain driven in torrents against\nthe fanlight above the hall door.\n\nAt the moment the bolt fell I glanced behind me. My grandfather and\ngrandmother had come out into the hall: his arm was about her with a\nprotecting tenderness. There was a huddle of women-servants in all sorts\nof undress, peeping from the back hall. In front of them, pushing them\nback, was Maureen, her shoulders covered with a shawl upon which her\ngrey hair fell loosely.\n\nThe door burst open as soon as the bolt fell, and there was a rush of\nwind and rain, and my candle went out. I saw a tall figure against the\nstormy sky where the moon looked through the fast-driven clouds.\n\n\"God save us, what a night!\" the new-comer said, entering and closing\nthe door behind him; and it took all his strength to close it.\n\n\"Bring lights, bring lights,\" I cried; and ran to my grandfather to\nwhisper to him to take my grandmother back into the room lest the sudden\njoy should be too much for her. For I had seen old Dido leap on to the\nstranger with a frantic joy, licking his face and hands; or I had known\nthat it was so without seeing it, for the hall was in darkness.\n\nSome one brought a light, and I saw old Maureen leap at the tall\nstranger as Dido had done and fling her arms about him, crying out for\nher Ladyship, where was her Ladyship, for Master Luke had come home.\n\nAnd after that everything was confusion for a few minutes, and I can\nscarcely remember what happened in the babel of voices all crying out\nand rejoicing at once.\n\n\"See that the horse is put up for the night and that the man has food\nand shelter,\" I heard Uncle Luke say to Neil.\n\nThen he, Uncle Luke, passed through the affectionate crowd that seemed\nas if it would eat him with joy. I saw him go to his father and mother,\nput an arm about each and pass within the little room, and there after\na moment I followed them.\n\nThey were all three standing on the hearthrug when I came in, and Uncle\nLuke had one arm about his mother and the other thrown across his\nfather's neck.\n\n\"So this is little Bawn,\" he said, letting them go, and coming forward\nto meet me. \"So this is little Bawn.\"\n\nI should have known his blue eyes and smile anywhere, I thought,\nalthough his hair was as if dust had been sprinkled over it, and there\nwere deep lines in the face I remembered as being very merry. I had a\npassing wonder that in this moment he remembered my existence or\nrecognized me, for Lord and Lady St. Leger were still dumb or\ninarticulate with joy, and could not have spoken of me.\n\n\"Yes, I am Bawn,\" I said, lifting my face to kiss him. \"I am so glad you\nhave come home, Uncle Luke.\"\n\n\"I should have come long ago,\" he said. \"Yet, thank God, I come in time.\nI have messages for you, little Bawn, to be delivered later.\"\n\nSo he, he of all people, was Anthony's messenger!\n\nHe put his arm about me and we returned to the old couple by the fire.\n\n\"We were kept back by the storm,\" he said. \"Oh, how I fretted and fumed\nlest I should arrive too late! And Mary Champion, how is she? Is she\nmaid or wife or widow?\"\n\n\"She never married, for your sake, Uncle Luke,\" I said, speaking up\nboldly. \"You will see her to-morrow morning.\"\n\nThen I saw that he still wore his heavy cloak, and I made him take it\noff; and he put his mother in one chair and his father in another and\nsat down between them, and I came and sat on the rug at their feet.\n\n\"We thought you were dead,\" his father said, looking at him with an air\nof beatitude.\n\n\"_I_ never did,\" said the mother. \"And Maureen did not. Nor did Mary\nChampion. Luke, Luke, why did you stay away so long?\"\n\n\"Because I thought I was best dead, little mother. Because I thought I\nshould have to stand my trial for murder if I came back. I have lived in\nthe waste places of the world since I left you, or I must have known. I\nsay waste places, yet they are beautiful, fruitful places of the earth;\nonly there are few white men there and those adventurers. For beauty and\nkindliness it was the Garden of Eden; but there has never been a day\nwhen I was not sick for Aghadoe.\"\n\n\"And how did you know at last?\" his father asked. His mother could only\nlook at him with shining eyes.\n\n\"Why, some one came from these parts to enlighten my blindness. He was\nhunting for treasure. I knew where the treasure lay, twenty fathoms\ndeep, in a little bay of an island in the South Seas. What use was\ntreasure to me since I could not come home? I have known murder and\nworse done over treasure. I knew it was there, and I let it be. The\ngentle, brown people of the islands had no use for it. It would only\nhave brought in lawless and desperate men to disturb the peace of that\nGarden of Eden. Now it makes me a rich man. It makes him in whose charge\nI have left it a rich man. He will bring home the treasure. Like me, he\nthinks of it only as a means to an end.\"\n\n\"You will be able to pay the mortgage,\" my grandfather said, with an air\nof immense relief.\n\nThen he seemed to remember something; and he cried out suddenly that\nGarret Dawson held an I.O.U. which Uncle Luke had given to Sir Jasper\nTuite for five thousand guineas.\n\n\"He said it would hang you,\" the poor old man went on, sobbing and\nstumbling in his speech, \"because, of course, it would prove that you\nhad a motive for shooting Jasper Tuite. He said other things, dreadful\nfor a father and mother to hear.\"\n\n\"But you did not believe them!\" Uncle Luke said. \"You did not believe\nthem! I did owe Jasper Tuite five thousand guineas. It was a card debt.\nI should have known better than to play with a man of his reputation;\nbut I repaid it, every penny. I have his receipt for it. What else,\nfather?\"\n\n\"That there was a girl, a girl whom--I should not speak of such things\nin Bawn's presence and your mother's--whom you had wronged. She had been\non the stage in Dublin, and she accounted for your extravagance at that\ntime. He said that Jasper Tuite came between you, tried to save the girl\nfrom you. He said it would be a pretty case to go before a jury, that\nyou had cause, even more than the money, to hate Jasper Tuite and wish\nhim out of the way.\"\n\n\"And you believed it?\"\n\nI saw Lord St. Leger cower, and I said out of my pity and love for him--\n\n\"Uncle Luke, he is old, and you had left him He could not disprove the\nthings even if he did not believe them.\"\n\nUncle Luke's face changed. He looked down at his father.\n\n\"We will give him the lie together,\" he said; and then he noticed the\nblood on the white hair and was terrified, till we assured him it was\nnothing. \"So little Bawn was the price of Garret Dawson's silence,\" he\nsaid; and then added solemnly that he could never have forgiven himself\nif the price had been paid.\n\nAt this point the door of the room was opened, and Neil Doherty, bowing\non the threshold, announced that supper was served. And we remembered\nthat Uncle Luke must be hungry, and his mother reproached herself, while\nhe remembered for the first time that he had not eaten for many hours.\n\nI don't know how Neil had managed it in the time, but the house was lit\nfrom top to bottom and the servants were standing in a line for us to\npass through, all with happy faces. And Maureen stood at the head of\nthem, as though she only had the right.\n\nUncle Luke gave his arm to my grandmother and I took my grandfather's,\nand we went up in state, with old Dido following us, to the\ndining-room, where supper was spread and all the silver plate was set\nout. There was a roaring fire in the grate and every candle in the big\nchandelier had been lit, and all was as though the coming of the heir\nhad been long foreseen.\n\nI do not think that in any house in the kingdom there was that night\nsuch joy and thanksgiving as in Aghadoe Abbey.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\nTHE OLD LOVERS\n\n\nAfter a little while I went away and left them together.\n\nUncle Luke came with me to the dining-room door and lit my candle for me\nas though he had never gone away. When he had lit it he went with me\noutside the door, and, partly closing it, he said to me--\n\n\"Tell me, Bawn dear, did Mary Champion believe those lies?\"\n\n\"She knew nothing of them,\" I answered. \"They would not tell her the\nthings Garret Dawson had said. But she would not have believed them. She\nwas vexed with them for being afraid, because she said she never would\nbelieve that you had done anything which could bring disgrace on any one\nwho loved you.\"\n\n\"My brave girl!\" he said softly; and then he said to me with a smile\nthat I had the handsomest and noblest gentleman in the world for a\nlover, and that my Anthony was coming to me as fast as he could and\nthat they two were sworn brothers.\n\nI ought to have slept the soundest and sweetest sleep in the world,\nespecially as the storm had died down and the ghosts cried no longer and\nthere seemed an atmosphere of peace and happiness over all the house.\nBut I was disturbed in my dreams by the face of Richard Dawson, who had\nloved me so much to his own hurt and in my dream I was weeping.\n\nThe household was barely astir when I awoke next morning and there was a\nfrosty air. I lay watching the window awhile as the dark gave place to\ndusk. It would be an hour yet before the sun should rise; and a maid\ncame to light my fire and bring me my tea and my bath-water. But I was\ntoo excited to sleep, so I got up and dressed myself in the half light,\nand when I was ready I put on my outdoor things and went down the\nstairs. I met only a young maid sweeping the stairs with her brush and\ndustpan, and she looked at me as though she thought the joy had driven\nme mad.\n\n\"I shall be back to breakfast, Katty,\" I said. \"It is a beautiful frosty\nmorning for a walk.\"\n\n\"You're not going to walk in the dark, Miss Bawn?\" she said, and stood\nstaring after me over the banisters when I answered her that the sun\nwould soon be up.\n\nI liked the frosty keenness of the air, and this morning my heart was\nvery light. Although it had rained so heavily in the night the frost had\nturned everything hard and stiff; but as I ran on my way down the long\navenue, and heard the sleepy twittering of the birds, I could have sung\nfor the new, healthy life that was in my veins. I had not gone far\nbefore the sun sent his golden rays above the horizon, and the blue came\nout in the sky overhead and it was day, and all at once the robins began\nto sing.\n\nThe early walk gave me a pleasant sense of adventure. I was on my way to\nCastle Clody, and was wondering if I should find my godmother up and how\nI would tell her the good news.\n\nBy the time I arrived there the whole lawn and the hedges were shining\nwith the diamonds of the frost in the good golden light, and glancing up\nat my godmother's window I saw that her blind was up, and said to myself\nthat she must be awake and about. Of course she was always an early\nriser, though she would have me lie late a-bed when I stayed with her,\nsaying it was good for young people to sleep.\n\nThe doors and windows of Castle Clody were always open to the fresh air;\nand as I went in by the open hall door I saw my godmother coming down\nthe stairs.\n\n\"Why, bless me, it is Bawn!\" she said. \"What brings you so early, child?\nThere is no bad news, I trust. Your grandmother?\"\n\n\"Was never better in her life. Godmother dear, so many things have\nhappened that I do not know where to begin.\"\n\n\"Begin somewhere,\" she said, after one quick look at me, and led the way\ninto the little room where we usually had our meals together. The fire\nwas lit and the table set for breakfast, and the room looked very\npleasant. \"Dido is not with you,\" she said, closing the door behind us.\n\n\"No,\" I returned.\n\n\"And how is that, Bawn? How did she let you come alone?\"\n\n\"As I came down the stairs in the dusk of the morning she lay on the mat\noutside Uncle Luke's door, and when I called to her to come she wagged\nher old tail and would not come. For the first time she would not follow\nme. Godmother dear, isn't it a strange thing that Maureen should have\nprepared his room yesterday, saying that he would be with us before\nnight?\"\n\n\"Bawn, Bawn,\" cried my godmother, very pale, \"if you do not mean that\nLuke L'Estrange has come home I can never forgive you.\"\n\n\"And I should deserve not to be forgiven,\" I said. \"He has come home.\"\n\n\"I knew he was not dead.\"\n\n\"He is alive and well, and one of the first inquiries he made was for\nyou.\"\n\n\"Now they shall see,\" she said exultantly, and her lips curled, \"how\nmuch truth there was in those slanders of Garret Dawson's. Dear old\nsouls! why were they afraid? Why would they not let me challenge him?\"\n\n\"They were not so foolish,\" I said. \"He held papers. If Uncle Luke had\nnot come home we could not have disproved them.\"\n\n\"And there is an end to your marriage?\" she asked breathlessly.\n\nI held out my hand to her. It no longer carried Richard Dawson's ring.\n\n\"He set me free last night,\" I said, \"before we knew who was coming\nhome. You must clear him in your thoughts, godmother. He never knew how\nhis father had obtained our consent to the marriage. He was furious when\nhe knew and he set me free. I wish I knew what had become of him.\"\n\n\"Don't trouble about him, child. Presently you will find a lover worthy\nof you.\"\n\nI said nothing, but my heart leaped. I was a proud woman to think that\nAnthony Cardew loved me, and still I was grieved for the others.\n\n\"You will breakfast with me, child?\" she went on.\n\n\"I am furiously hungry,\" I replied. \"And afterwards--will you come back\nwith me to Aghadoe?\"\n\n\"I think not. If your uncle wants me he will find me here.\"\n\n\"I think he will see Garret Dawson first. He will not come to you till\nall that is cleared up.\"\n\n\"It need never be cleared for me. Whatever the story was, it is for me\nas though it never existed.\"\n\nI made a most prodigious breakfast. I had no anxiety as to what they\nmight think about my absence at Aghadoe; I felt they would know where I\nwas.\n\nI said no more to my godmother about returning with me. I felt she was\nright in waiting for Uncle Luke where she was, and I was sure he would\ngo to her when he had confronted Garret Dawson and wrung the truth from\nhim. But after breakfast, lest they should be waiting for me at\nAghadoe, I returned home the way I had come, feeling as though I walked\non air. I could have run and leaped, except when a thought came to me of\nRichard Dawson, and then my heart was suddenly heavy.\n\nI entered the woods by the postern gate, and hurried along with a heart\nfull of gratitude to the kind God who had brought good out of evil and\nhad delivered us from our troubles.\n\nJust at the edge of the wood some one stepped from one of the side paths\nfull in my way. It was Richard Dawson, and I was amazed at the havoc the\nsufferings of one night had wrought in him.\n\n\"Don't be afraid of me, Bawn,\" he said. \"I'm not here to trouble you,\nonly there is something I want to give you. Here are those precious\npapers my father held. I have been waiting here for some chance\nmessenger to take them. They are my gift to you. Let Lord St. Leger see\nthat he has everything and then destroy them.\"\n\nHe held out a sealed packet to me and I took it.\n\n\"Everything is there,\" he said. \"Henceforth we are as harmless as a\nsnake that has had its poison-bag out. Think kindly of me, Bawn. I am\ngoing a long journey. I have had a scene with my father. He swears that\nnot a penny of his money shall come to me. What matter? I shall do\nwithout it very well. Good-bye, Bawn.\"\n\n\"God-speed,\" I said, altering the word of farewell.\n\nHe turned round and came back to me.\n\n\"Nay, not God-speed,\" he said harshly. \"God has little to do with such\nas I am.\"\n\nAnd then he was gone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\nTHE JUDGMENT OF GOD\n\n\nI walked into the dining-room and found Uncle Luke at breakfast, with\nLord and Lady St. Leger on each side of him, eating little themselves,\nbut pressing one thing after another on him.\n\nI felt a sense of a new alertness about the house. Although the old\nservants were faithful they had grown a little slipshod in their ways,\nseeing that it mattered little to their employers. Now things had\nsuddenly assumed a swept and garnished air. One felt that the master had\ncome home.\n\nThey all looked up at me with some expectation when I came in.\n\n\"Where have you been so early, Bawn?\" my grandmother asked, while Uncle\nLuke came and set a chair for me and stood smiling at me; I was glad\nthat in those waste places of the earth he had not forgotten those fine\ndebonair ways which of old had made the women fall in love with him.\n\n\"I have been to Castle Clody,\" I answered.\n\n\"I thought as much. Why did not Mary come back with you? Was she\ntransported at the good news?\"\n\n\"She thought perhaps that Uncle Luke would----\"\n\nI paused for words. I had a feeling that even in this case, where I was\nsure that Uncle Luke cared for his old love, I should respect my\ngodmother's dignity. Even Luke L'Estrange ought not to be sure that she\nexpected him.\n\n\"I thought she would have come to rejoice with us,\" my grandmother said\ndisappointedly; and my grandfather's face showed that he, too, did not\nunderstand the constant friend's absence in the hour of great joy.\n\n\"Is it that she cannot forgive us?\" he muttered.\n\nBut the lover knew better than that.\n\n\"To be sure I must go to her,\" he said. \"It would not be fitting that\nshe should come to me. I would have been earlier astir than Bawn; I\nwould have been waiting for her doors to open, only that--there is\nsomething that must be done first.\"\n\n\"I don't think there is anything you need wait for, Uncle Luke,\" I said,\nhanding the sealed packet to my grandfather. \"I met Richard Dawson on\nmy way back. He was waiting for some one to carry his message. He told\nme that my grandfather was to examine these papers, to see that\neverything was there, and afterwards to burn them.\"\n\nMy grandfather seized the papers eagerly. His hand shook so that he\ncould not open them, and he fumbled for his glasses.\n\n\"You have a son now, sir,\" said Uncle Luke, putting an arm about his\nshoulder.\n\nThey went away to the window to examine the papers, and for some time\nthere was silence in the room. At last my uncle gathered the lot\ntogether and going to the fire placed them on top of it. They caught;\nand in a few seconds there was no trace of them.\n\n\"How little or how much of this Garret Dawson believed to be true I\nleave to his Maker,\" he said, turning about as the last ash went up the\nchimney. \"For his son's sake I shall not try to punish him. I believe\nsome of these letters were forged. I will show you one of these days\nletters from the girl I saved from Jasper Tuite. For that is how it was.\nShe is an honoured wife and mother of children. It is one of the few\nthings in my life of which I may be proud.\"\n\nAfterwards he went away and we knew that he was gone to Castle Clody.\n\nThere was so much to be done and I had to do it all; Lord and Lady St.\nLeger could only be silent together, gazing into each other's eyes,\npraising God humbly for their son given back from the dead. I left them\nin the sunshine on the terrace creeping up and down, and as I looked\nback before I entered the house by the French windows of the\nmorning-room, I recognized all at once that my grandmother had put off\nher black, and was wearing grey, with some of her old lace trimming it.\nIt was a tabinet which I must have seen in my childhood. The memory of\nit was so remote that I felt as if I must have read about it; but I had\nan exact memory of the way it was made, which was billowing about the\nfeet, and with a very straight bodice. While I looked at them she picked\na rose from the wall and fastened it into her husband's coat.\n\nI was busy till lunch-time, putting up packets and addressing them. When\nat last I went downstairs I found Uncle Luke and my godmother in the\ndrawing-room. The years seemed to have slipped away from her. Her dear\nbrown face was as shy and rapturous as the face of any young girl in\nlove who knows she is beloved. They were standing by the fire when I\nwent in.\n\nMy godmother had one foot on the fender and her hand supported her\ncheek. As I went up to her, I saw in the mirror that she was wearing a\nvery beautiful ring of sapphires which I had noticed on Uncle Luke's\nhand.\n\nShe kissed me almost timidly, with her eyes down.\n\n\"She has taken me back again, Bawn,\" said Uncle Luke.\n\n\"He would not listen to me when I said I was too old,\" said my dear\ngodmother.\n\nIn the dining-room Neil Doherty was bustling about with an air of great\nimportance. Lord and Lady St. Leger had not yet come in.\n\n\"Sure, it never rains but it pours,\" Neil said, lifting a bottle of wine\nfrom the hearth where he had put it to take the chill off. \"There's a\ngreat stir in the country. 'Tisn't enough to have Master Luke walking in\nto us safe and sound last night, but Garret Dawson's been found dead in\nhis study. They didn't dare disturb him when he was busy. At last when\nMrs. Dawson herself sent he was dead. A good riddance to bad rubbish,\nsay I.\"\n\nIt was no use rebuking Neil for his want of charity to the dead. I knew\nthere were worse things being said of Garret Dawson by every peasant. We\nwere silent, awed, by this sudden and awful happening. I thought of\npoor comfortable Mrs. Dawson, and felt that, tyrant as he had been to\nher, she would grieve for him as though he had been a pattern of all the\nvirtues. Yet she had her son. A thought came to me that Garret Dawson\nhad not had time to disinherit his son after all.\n\n\"Poor Master Richard!\" Neil went on, averting his eyes on me. \"'Tis all\nover the country that last night Tom Jordan of Clonmany escaped from his\nbed in the small-pox hospital. About three o'clock this morning Master\nRichard Dawson brought him back in that quare carriage of his that\nbrought you home last night, Miss Bawn. Tom's mortal bad this mornin'.\n'Tis pretty sure Master Richard'll get the disease for he lifted Tom in\nhis arms. I wonder what for at all was he driving round the country that\nhour of the night?\"\n\n\"No matter what he was driving for, he was there to good purpose,\" said\nmy godmother.\n\n\"True for you, Miss Mary,\" Neil responded placidly.\n\nAnd I, too, I wondered how it was that Richard Dawson had been abroad at\nsuch an hour of the night. But I did not wait to think of that. I was\nproud and glad of the thing he had done, and I remembered how I had said\nto him that he was brave and how pleased he had been.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\nCONFESSION\n\n\nChristmas passed and the dark days turned round to New Year, and New\nYear came and there were great clumps of snowdrops pushing up their\ndelicate, drooping heads in all the shrubberies, neighbouring the\npatches of snow, for we had had a white Christmas and a white New Year.\n\nWe had settled down to the new ways of life as though the old had not\nbeen. There was perfect peace and happiness at Aghadoe. In the spring\nthe workmen were to set to work at the task of renovating the Abbey.\nUncle Luke and my godmother were to be married before Lent, quietly. As\nfor me, I waited, till my whole life had become one expectation.\n\nAfter the funeral at Damerstown was over I had gone to see Mrs. Dawson,\nhaving ascertained first that her son was absent for a few days. The\npoor woman had wept over me and forgiven me.\n\n\"Rick told me all,\" she said. \"Sure, I wish you could have cared for him\nfor himself. Only his mother knows how much good there is in him. And,\ndear, you must try to forgive him that's gone.\"\n\n\"We have forgiven him,\" I said, \"as we hope for forgiveness.\"\n\nThen she wept again softly, and poured out to me her hopes and fears for\nher boy.\n\n\"It's gone deep with him, dear,\" she said: \"it's gone very deep with\nhim. But, sure, we must trust to God to bring good out of the trouble.\nHe'd never have done you that wrong to marry you and you fond of some\none else. You don't mind my knowing, dear? My boy tells me everything.\nSure, I'd have known it, for if there was no one else you must have\ncared for Rick.\"\n\n\"Some one else will care for him,\" I said.\n\n\"Indeed, I wouldn't mind who he married if she was good and fond of him\nand would keep him at home. He won't leave me now, not for a bit--till\nI'm happier; but he says it's best he should go, that he has a reason\nfor going. Ah, well; he'll settle down some time, when he's got over\nthis.\"\n\nIt might have been three weeks later when we heard that Richard Dawson\nhad taken the small-pox and was lying ill at the Cottage. The illness\nwas complicated, it was feared, by his having driven in the night to the\nsmall-pox hospital and asked to be taken in there, but there had been a\nrecrudescence of the plague, and the place was crowded to the doors. Dr.\nMolyneux was working there like ten men, and it was his idea to have\nRichard Dawson taken to the Cottage, which was much nearer than\nDamerstown. We heard that the night journey, which was like to cost him\nhis life, had been undertaken when he found the illness coming on, to\nprevent as much as might be the danger of infection to the large\nhousehold at Damerstown. He was very ill indeed, and the doctors hardly\nthought he could live.\n\nI was so sorry for him that I felt that if he died even the happiness of\nmy meeting with my lover would be clouded over. I longed for news of\nhim, but it was not very easy to obtain it, since the infection kept\nevery one away.\n\nBut one day I was walking when I met Lady Ardaragh driving in her little\nphaeton. I had not seen her for some time and I was amazed at the change\nin her appearance. She looked terribly ill. All her butterfly\nprettiness was gone, and there was something to make the heart ache to\nsee such evident suffering in one who had had the round softness of a\nchild.\n\nShe pulled up her ponies as soon as she saw me.\n\n\"Bawn, Bawn,\" she said, \"there is nothing but trouble in the world--at\nleast in my world. Stay where you are, child; don't come too near me. Do\nyou know that he is dying over there?\"\n\nShe pointed with her whip in the direction of the Cottage.\n\n\"I think I am mad to-day, Bawn,\" she went on: \"and if I do not speak to\nsome one I shall surely go mad. I wish I were a Roman Catholic and could\nconfess to a priest. How much wiser they are than those who deny the\nnecessity of confession! I have always been fond of you, Bawn. I believe\nyou are as true as steel. Let me confess to you and save my reason.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" I said; \"you are not yourself to-day. You will be sorry\nafterwards. There is Sir Arthur.\"\n\n\"If you will not listen to me I shall go to him, and there will be an\nend to everything. Perhaps I am mad. It's enough to drive any woman mad.\nRichard Dawson is dying; and my little Robin is sickening. They will\nnot let me be with him till they know if it is the small-pox. Isn't it\nenough to drive a woman mad?\"\n\n\"Tell me, you poor soul,\" I said--\"tell me everything. Afterwards it\nwill be buried at the bottom of the sea.\"\n\nShe turned to me with a sick look of gratitude.\n\n\"You don't know how it will ease me,\" she said. \"I had a thought of\ngoing to Quinn by the light railway and going into the Catholic Chapel\nthere and finding a priest who would listen to me and absolve me. But I\nwas afraid I should be seen and recognized. When they told me Robin was\nsickening I knew it was a judgment of God.\"\n\n\"God doesn't judge in that way,\" I said. \"Perhaps it is in that way He\ncalls you back. I have no belief in an angry God!\"\n\n\"You have not, Bawn? I was brought up on it. It turned me away from\nreligion. You think God will not take the child away from me because of\nmy sin?\"\n\nThe anguished soul in her eyes implored me. God forgive me if it was\npresumptuous, but I said--\n\n\"I am so sure of His mercy that I am sure He will not.\"\n\n\"If He will spare me Robin, I will be a good woman for the future.\nArthur has been very tender to me over the child. It was he who banished\nme from Robin's room, although he is there himself. He says that I am so\nprecious to him that the world would fall in ruins without me. Why\ndidn't he say it to me before, and not live always in a world which I\ncould not enter? Bawn, I have never really loved any one but my\nhusband.\"\n\n\"I am sure of it,\" I said, \"as he never loved any one but you.\"\n\n\"Oh, the folly of it all!\" she moaned, sitting huddled up in her little\nphaeton, with her eyes looking miserably before her.\n\nThen she turned her gaze on me, and I felt as though her unhappy eyes\nscorched and burned me.\n\n\"Yet I very nearly ran away with Richard Dawson,\" she said. \"In fact, I\ndid run away with him that night after you had broken with him. He\nconcealed nothing from me. He did not even pretend to love me. And I\nwent with him on those terms. As the mercy of God would have it, we\nfound that poor wretch in the road not twenty yards from my own gates.\nIt seemed to sober us. We were both mad. He would not let me touch him.\nHe told me to go back; that it was all over. I crept back. By the mercy\nof God I had left a door ajar. I crept back to my room, and none knows\nthat I ever left it except he and I and you. Bawn, am I not mad to tell\nyou such a story? You, an innocent girl! I must be mad to tell my shame\nto any one when it might die with him and be buried with me.\"\n\n\"The mercy of God met you at every step and saved you,\" I said, feeling\nhow little equal I was to the task of comforting her.\n\n\"Of course you despise me,\" she said: and the hard misery was gone out\nof her eyes and voice; \"but I have confessed. You will never look at me\nagain, but you have taken the weight off my life that was crushing it.\"\n\nI could only answer her in one way. I crossed the distance she had set\nbetween us, and took her in my arms and kissed her.\n\n\"I shall be your loving friend for ever,\" I said, while she pushed me\naway and cried out that I must not touch her, lest she should have the\ninfection about her.\n\n\"Although I never touched him, Bawn, I never touched him,\" she kept on\nassuring me. \"_He_ would not permit it. Bawn, if he is to die, don't you\nthink God will forgive him his sins because of that great act of\ncharity? The poor creature was horrible, horrible. I ran away from him\nwhen the lamps were turned on his face. But Richard Dawson was not\nafraid.\"\n\n\"It was splendid of him,\" I said. \"I am sure God has forgiven him.\"\n\n\"And I need not tell my husband? I have felt ever since that I must\nconfess to him. If I did he might forgive me, but it would never be the\nsame again. Now I have slaked my thirst for confession by telling you.\nBawn, do you think I must tell him?\"\n\nI felt as though I answered her with a voice and an authority not my\nown.\n\n\"You must never tell him,\" I said. \"You owe it to him not to destroy his\nhappiness. If you have ever the need for confession again, come to me.\"\n\n\"I will, Bawn dear, and God bless you,\" she said, her face lighting.\n\"You have helped me so much. Perhaps, after all, Robin may not be\nsickening for the small-pox. What a thing that would be!\"\n\n\"If he is he will still be in the hands of God,\" I said.\n\nFor many days after that I waited for news of Richard Dawson so eagerly\nthat it seemed to break in upon my expectation.\n\nOne thing I knew at least, and that was that love was nursing him. The\ninformation came to me through Maureen, in a characteristic manner. Even\nthe happiness of these days did not make Maureen gentle.\n\n\"You've heard about Nora Brady, Miss Bawn?\" she said.\n\n\"No?\"\n\nMy heart sank, apprehending some new calamity; while Maureen went on in\nbitter tones--\n\n\"I never thought well of her and now I'm proved right. The minute she\nheard that Master Richard was took with the small-pox she ran off to him\nlike a mad thing. And there she is ever since. Not a womankind in the\nhouse but herself. Her mother was a decent woman; I'm glad she didn't\nlive to see it.\"\n\n\"And if she did, Maureen,\" I said sternly, \"she might be proud of her\ngirl. It isn't possible that you are making scandal out of Nora's mercy\nto the sick? I think it most noble, most Christian of her. I honour her\nfor it.\"\n\n\"Whisht, child!\" said Maureen, scornfully. I shall never inspire respect\nin Maureen's breast. \"I know what I know. To be sure, you'd be the last\nto know of it, of the walks and the talks with Master Richard. Every one\nknew except yourself.\"\n\n\"Be silent, Maureen,\" I said, asserting myself for once. \"I know\neverything, everything. And I know that Nora is a good, innocent girl.\nDon't dare to speak to others as you have spoken to me.\"\n\nAnd then I was contrite, seeing my old nurse quail before me, for I had\nnever shown her that I could be angry.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\nTHE BRIDEGROOM COMES\n\n\nAbout the last week of February my joy came home. I remember that it was\nexquisite weather, the blackbird singing his passionate song in the bare\nboughs fit to break your heart with its beauty. There were high, white,\nshining clouds on the blue, and the mountains were grey-lavender. The\nwall-flower clumps were in bloom in the courtyard of the Abbey, and\nthere were many primroses and delicate primulas in the garden; and all\nthe hyacinths were out withindoors, making a delicious smell.\n\nI went to meet my joy with a heart in which there was no sorrow. Richard\nDawson was out of danger, and little Robin Ardaragh's case had proved to\nbe merely chicken-pox. I met them out driving, and Robin was on his\nmother's knee, and his father was looking at the pair as though the\nworld contained nothing else. They pulled up when they saw me; and Lady\nArdaragh cried out to me--\n\n\"Bawn, Bawn, I am the happiest woman alive.\"\n\n\"And I the happiest man,\" said Sir Arthur, seriously. \"Would you believe\nit, Miss Devereux, that she thought I cared more for my books than for\nher? As though anything could give me consolation without her!\"\n\nThen Lady Ardaragh cried out that they were a pair of egotists and\npulled me down to kiss her, saying that she wished me joy, for every one\nknew by this time that Anthony Cardew was my lover and was coming home\nto me.\n\nWe were very quiet at the Abbey. A fortnight earlier Uncle Luke and my\ngodmother had been married, and were now spending a quiet honeymoon at\nKillarney. They were going to live at Castle Clody when they returned;\nand there was a great ado making preparations for them, and every day I\nwas over there, sometimes with my grandmother, to see that things were\ngoing on as they should.\n\nBy this time, long before this indeed, my grandparents knew all about\nAnthony, and were reconciled to the idea of my marrying a Cardew.\nIndeed, there had never been anything against my Anthony, for he was one\nof those whom everybody loved and admired. But the shadowy barrier was\ndown, and they had rejoiced that I was to marry the man who had been\ninstrumental in bringing Luke home after all those years. My grandmother\nsaid even that she was glad there had been no attachment of the sort\nbetween me and Theobald, since she had no liking for a marriage of first\ncousins.\n\nBy this time also we had Miss Travers' portrait, and she and Theobald\nwere engaged. She was a very sweet-looking girl, and so much prettier\nthan I, having delicate little features and beautiful brown eyes and red\nlips, that I was not surprised Theobald had forgotten his old fancy for\nme.\n\nShe was coming home in the summer and was to stay at Aghadoe, and\nTheobald was to follow her in the autumn and they were to be married. My\ngrandmother was rather nervous about the prospect of receiving her\nalone.\n\n\"For, of course, you will be on your travels, Bawn,\" she said; \"and\nalthough Luke and Mary will be at Castle Clody, it will not be the same\nthing as if they were here. But I must love her, seeing that she will be\nTheobald's wife, and, please God, the mother of the heir--that is, after\nLuke and Theobald, of course.\"\n\nI was glad my godmother was not there to hear, lest it should hurt her,\nfor she loved children and ought to have been the mother of a houseful\nof them.\n\nNow that my expectation was to be fulfilled within a few days I became\noddly frightened of it. Supposing he found that he did not love me after\nall, that he had been misled by a fancied resemblance in me to the\nminiature! Supposing, supposing ... I put away thoughts of calamity from\nme with both hands. God was too good to let anything happen to him now.\n\nI was so fidgety and restless that I felt I worried the old couple. I\ncould settle to nothing. I could not read, although I had always been a\ngreedy reader. I was living my own love-story too keenly to be put off\nwith imaginary ones. Music held me for a little while; but through it I\nwas listening--listening for his coming, or for the telegram that should\nannounce the arrival of his boat at Southampton. I used to look across\nat the lighted table by the fire where my grandparents played cribbage\nnight after night, and wonder at the quiet old faces. Would Anthony and\nI come to be like that? So interested in the chance of a card, so\ncontent to sit quietly in a chimney-corner? I could not believe it of\nAnthony. He would be always like a sword, like a flame.\n\nI went and came now to Brosna as one who had a right. I would come in\nupon Terence Murphy scrubbing a floor or polishing silver or some such\nthing, and he would look up as my shadow fell on him.\n\n\"Any news, Miss Bawn?\"\n\n\"None, Terence, not yet.\"\n\n\"Ah, well; sure, it's on its way. There's nothing like being ready in\ntime.\"\n\nDay after day now he lit the fires in Anthony's rooms. Day after day I\nwent across and gathered the little lavender primulas, the faint, garden\nprimroses, the crocuses and violets and wall-flowers, and filled bowls\nand vases with them. I believe Terence Murphy used to wait up till the\nsmall hours, lest by chance his master should come unannounced. Always\nthe house stood ready for him, like our hearts. I knew Anthony's\nfaithful servant loved him like a dog, and it endeared him to me.\nThrough February our waiting prolonged itself.\n\nThe 28th of February was a day of balmy airs. There was a light mist on\nthe grass, and as you walked it was through a silver web of gossamers.\nGossamers hung on every briarbush and floated about the fields. The\nraindrops of last night jewelled them in the rays of the sun. Dido and I\nbroke whole silver forests on our morning walk to Brosna.\n\nI remember that the blackbird was singing deliciously, yet less\npoignantly sweet than he should sing at dusk. There was a mysterious\nstir and flutter of spring in all the coppices. A quiet south wind\nmarshalled the pearly clouds before it as though it were a shepherd\ndriving a flock to the fold.\n\nAs I entered Brosna by the garden-way I noticed that Terence had run up\nthe Irish flag on the flagstaff which he had placed on the little lawn\noutside Anthony's rooms, and I remembered that it was the anniversary of\na battle in which my Anthony had covered himself with glory.\n\nIn the sheltered garden it was very warm. The sun drew out the aromatic\nodours from the hedges and borders of box. Terence had been polishing up\nthe dial. It winked in the sun, and as I passed I stopped to read the\ninscription--\n\n        \"I count only the golden hours.\"\n\nThere was no stir of Terence about. Usually one heard him singing or\nwhistling or shouting half a mile away. I saw to my vases. I looked into\nthe room which Anthony used as a dining-room when he was at home, and\nsaw the table set, the old damask table-cloth, patched and darned by\nTerence himself, warmly white, the silver and glass shining. I smiled as\nI noticed that two places had been set. It was as though Terence\nanticipated the wonderful days to come.\n\nAnthony's chair was drawn in front of the fire, which had been lately\nattended to, for the hearth was clean, and a log of cherry-wood burning\non the coals sent out a delicious fragrance. Presently Terence would\ncome bustling in to ask, \"What news, Miss Bawn?\" Sitting in the chair in\nfront of the warm fire, full of beatific dreams, I somehow fell asleep.\n\nI had been dreaming the most wonderful things, and when I started out of\nmy sleep I thought I was still dreaming. Anthony was kneeling by me. His\narms were about me.\n\n\"I've been watching you for the last half-hour,\" he said; \"and, faith, I\ncouldn't wait any longer for a kiss. Did I frighten you, darling? You\nlooked so much like an angel that you half-frightened me. What have you\nbeen doing to yourself? You were round and soft the last time I held\nyou. There is some change.\"\n\n\"You should have seen me two months ago,\" I said, \"when I was going to\ndie of marrying any man but you.\"\n\n\"Ah, Bawn, darling, is it only that you are taking pity on my white\nhead? What is it that you see in me? I am twice your age, child.\"\n\n\"And the finest gentleman in the three kingdoms,\" I said, stroking his\nhair. \"So fine a gentleman that you are out of date. The commonplace\nworld doesn't grow fine gentlemen like you nowadays.\"\n\nAfterwards we had our first meal together. They would not expect me back\nyet to lunch, and Anthony had arrived hungry as a hunter, while he\nprotested that a man as much in love as he had no right to be hungry.\n\nHe had walked in unexpectedly, but Terence had not been taken by\nsurprise. Terence had things ready as though he had known the day and\nhour of his coming. He served us as excellent a meal, according to my\nAnthony, as had ever been eaten. As for me, I did not know what it\nconsisted of, but only that Anthony and I sat opposite to each other and\nthat Anthony's eyes upon me made me sometimes fain to cover my own with\nmy hands, and that when Terence Murphy went out of the room Anthony\nwould come round the table to kiss me. He said that the meal together\nwas a stolen joy; something he had no right to till after we were\nmarried. He said a great many happy, foolish things. As for me, it was a\nmeal in Elysium.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\nKING COPHETUA\n\n\nAll that is long ago, and I am Bawn Cardew, who was Bawn Devereux. We\nhave a boy, dark and fine, like Anthony, and a girl who resembles me. I\nam still in a bewilderment as to why Anthony should have chosen me. I\nbelieve there is no woman, gentle or simple, who comes in contact with\nhim, from my grandmother down to Katty McCann, the beggar-woman, who is\nnot in love with him. His way with women is always beautiful. I have\nseen him carry a tramp's squalling child up a steep hill and hand it to\nthe mother at the top with the courtesy he would show to a duchess.\nElderly and plain women love him especially, because he is not aware\nthat they are elderly and plain. And men look up to him and admire him\njust as much after their fashion.\n\nAs I write I am in my own little morning-room at Brosna, which love has\nmade beautiful for me. Outside I see velvet lawns and bright\nflower-beds, and beyond the lawns and the ha-ha I can see in the park a\nherd of deer feeding. At the moment it is quiet. Then I hear the\nthud-thud of hoofs. Our boy comes riding by on a little rough mountain\npony. Terence Murphy is giving him his riding lesson. He sits in the\nsaddle as straight as his father, although he is little more than a\nbaby. He will have Anthony's straight, strenuous, clean look, like a\nblade or a flame.\n\nAnd there comes Anthony himself with little Bawn on his shoulder. Her\ngolden hair falls about his white head. There is not a grey hair in his\nblack moustache, nor in his fine, even, black eyebrows. They go on after\nthe pony. Presently they will come shouting for me. They are my world;\nbut I have room for affections outside.\n\nBrosna is now what it was meant to be, a stately, beautiful, well-kept\nhouse. We are rich: the treasure made us all rich; and that is a strange\nthing enough in our country, where there is no money to spare among the\ngentle-folk.\n\nAnd talking of wealth reminds me of Richard Dawson.\n\nIt was the week before my marriage--that was Holy Week, and I was\nmarried on the Easter Tuesday--when I received a letter from Mrs. Dawson\nof Damerstown, asking me to come and see her. The letter accompanied a\ngift so beautiful and costly that if I had liked her less I should have\nbeen inclined to return it.\n\nAs it was, I let Anthony do without me for once. To be sure, he was\ntremendously busy getting Brosna in order for me. I had Zoe brought\nround, the beautiful mare who was his latest gift to me, and rode over\nto Damerstown.\n\nMrs. Dawson received me in the drawing-room, affectionate as of old, but\nwith the air which asked forgiveness for the wrong her husband had done\nus. It was an air that grieved me, and as I kissed her I passed my hand\nover her forehead as though I would brush it away like a palpable thing.\n\n\"I thought, dearie,\" she said, \"being what you are, that you'd be\nhappier in your own happiness if you knew things were well with my poor\nRick. He never did you any harm except to love you too much.\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" I said hastily, \"and I should be so glad to know that he\nhas forgiven and forgotten me. I've heard, of course, that he has quite\nrecovered and is going abroad. I shall always feel very kindly towards\nhim and very sorry because of any wrong I did him.\"\n\n\"You never did him any,\" the mother said.\n\nIt was on the tip of my tongue to ask her where Nora Brady was, for\nthat was a trouble to me, too, despite my happiness. The poor people\nround about had, I was told, taken the same view of poor Nora's devotion\nto her sick man as Maureen. She had slipped away from those who, like\nmyself, would have stood her friends. But before I could ask the\nquestion Richard Dawson himself came into the room.\n\nI was startled and a little embarrassed at first sight of him. I had had\nno idea that he was at Damerstown. And his face was sadly marked and\npitted with the small-pox.\n\n\"Miss Devereux, you must forgive my presenting myself before you with\nthis hideous face, but there are some things I want to tell you. There,\ndon't look at me! Take this.\"\n\nHe picked up a Japanese fan and handed it to me and the action hurt me.\nI compelled myself to look at him without flinching.\n\n\"You are not at all hideous,\" I said. \"No one who cared for you would\nthink you hideous.\"\n\n\"Why, no,\" he said. \"My mother looks at me as though I had the skin of a\nyoung child--and there is another---- Miss Bawn, I wish you happiness. I\nam very glad the better man has won.\"\n\n\"You are very generous.\"\n\nWhile we talked Mrs. Dawson got up and left us. She was one of those\npeople who are always forgetting things and going in search of them, so\nthe action had no special significance.\n\n\"You are very generous,\" I said. And then I asked him the question which\nwas in my mind. \"Mr. Dawson,\" I said, \"can you tell me where Nora is? I\nwant to write to her, to bring her back.\"\n\n\"I know,\" he answered, \"but she will not come back yet awhile. She has,\nby her own wish and desire, gone to school, to a convent. She had\nschooling enough for me, God knows, in her tender and faithful heart;\nbut she is as obstinate as any creature ever was when she thinks a thing\nis right. So I have to wait, very much against my will, while the nuns\nmake a lady of Nora. It is her own phrase. I have assured her that she\nis a better lady than most ladies I have known, and that I am not a\ngentleman. But she would banish me and try my patience.\"\n\n\"Meaning----?\"\n\n\"Meaning--that she will marry me when she has acquired the thing she\ndesires. Meaning--I would have married her, Bawn, without love, because\nthey blackened her, the innocent soul, for her mercy to me. But I have\nlearned to love her. She holds my heart against all women. I am not\nhideous to her.\"\n\n\"And your mother?\"\n\n\"Is enchanted. We are going to sell Damerstown and live in England. It\nwill give us all a better chance. Good-bye, Miss Bawn, for we shall not\nmeet again.\"\n\nIt made a nine days' wonder when the people heard that Richard Dawson\nhad married Nora Brady; but that was a year later, and Damerstown was\nshut up and to be let.\n\nLord and Lady St. Leger still rule at the Abbey, and seem likely to rule\nfor many years, to the joy of their children.\n\nTheobald's wife is keen about her husband's profession, and will not let\nhim leave the army yet, so that we see them only at intervals.\n\nBut the old couple are not lonely. My godmother and Uncle Luke have\ntheir full measure of happiness. They have, what my dear godmother\nconfessed to me she had not dared to hope for--a child, a boy--brave and\nbeautiful, worthy to succeed his father in time as the Lord St. Leger.\nThere is no bonnier boy in all the countryside except my own, and he is\nthe image of his father, so it is not likely that any child could be\njust like him. But the young heir fills Aghadoe Abbey with joy and\npeace. My grandmother told me the other day that the ghosts have not\nbeen heard since the child came to banish them.\n\n\n===================\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\n\nPunctuation normalized.\n\n\nPage 225, \"that\" changed to \"than\" (rather than endure)\n\n\n===================","title":"The Story of Bawn","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":62580}