She paused at the stile; she liked the old pier; its partner next the river was in fragments, and the ruin and the survivor had both been clothed by good Mrs. Strafford—who drew a little, and cultivated the picturesque—with the roses I have mentioned, besides woodbine and ivy. She had old Miss Wardle’s letter in her hand, full, of course, of shocking anecdotes about lunatics, and the sufferings of Fleet prisoners, and all the statistics, and enquiries, and dry little commissions, with which that worthy lady’s correspondence abounded. It was open in her hand, and rustled sharp and stiffly in the air, but it was not inviting just then. From that point it was always a pretty look down or up the river; and her eyes followed with the flow of its waters towards Inchicore. She loved the river; and in her thoughts she wondered why she loved it—so cold, so unimpressible—that went shining and rejoicing away into the sea. And just at that moment she heard a sweet tenor, with a gaiety somehow pathetic, sing not far away the words she remembered—
'And she smiled upon the stream,
Like one that smiles at folly,
A dreamer on a dream.'
Devereux was coming—it was his playful salutation. Her large eyes dropped to the ground with the matchless blush of youth. She was strangely glad, but vexed at having changed colour; but when he came up with her, in the deep shadow thrown by the old pier, with its thick festooneries, he could not tell, he only knew she looked beautiful.
'My dreams take wing, but my follies will not leave me. And you have been ill, Miss Lilias?'
'Oh, nothing; only a little cold.'
'And I am going—I only knew last night—really going away.' He paused; but the young lady did not feel called upon to say anything, and only allowed him to go on. In fact, she was piqued, and did not choose to show the least concern about his movements. 'And I’ve a great mind now that I’m departing this little world,' and he glanced, it seemed to her, regretfully towards the village, 'to put you down, Miss Lily, if you will allow it, in my codicil for a legacy——'
She laughed a pleasant little careless laugh. How ill–natured! but, oh! wasn’t it musical.
'Then I suppose, if you were not to see me for some time, or maybe for ever, the village folks won’t break their hearts after Dick Devereux?'
And the gipsy captain smiled, and his eyes threw a soft violet shadow down upon her; and there was that in his tone which for a moment touched her with a strange reproach, like a bar of sweet music.
But little Lily was spirited; and if he, so early a friend, could go away without bidding good–bye, why he should not suppose she cared.
'Break our hearts? Not at all, perhaps; but of course I—the parson’s daughter—I should, and old Moore, the barber, and Pat Moran, the hackney coachman, and Mrs. Irons your fat landlady, you’ve been so very good to all of us, you know.'
'Well,' he interrupted, 'I’ve left my white surtout to Moran: a hat, let me see, and a pair of buckles to Moore; and my glass and china to dear Mrs. Irons.'
'Hat—buckles—surtout—glass—china—gone! Then it seems to me your earthly possessions are pretty nearly disposed of, and your worldly cares at an end.'
'Yes; very nearly, but not quite,' he laughed. 'I have one treasure left—my poor monkey; he’s a wonderful fellow—he has travelled half over the world, and is a perfect fine gentleman—and my true comrade until now. Do you think Dr. Walsingham, of his charity, would give the poor fellow free quarters at the Elms?'
She was going to make answer with a jest, satirically; but her mood changed quickly. It was, she thought, saucy of Captain Devereux to fancy that she should care to have his pet; and she answered a little gravely—
'I can’t say indeed; had you cared to see him, you might have asked him; but, indeed, Captain Devereux, I believe you’re jesting.'
'Faith! Madam, I believe I am; or, it does not much matter—dreaming perhaps. There’s our bugle!' And the sweet sounds quivered and soared through the pleasant air. 'How far away it sounds already; ours are sweet bugles—the sweetest bugles to my ear in the wide world. Yes, dreaming. I said I had but one treasure left,' he continued, with a fierce sort of tenderness that was peculiar to him: 'and I did not mean to tell you, but I will. Look at that, Miss Lily, 'tis the little rose you left on your harpsichord this morning. I stole it: 'tis mine; and Richard Devereux would die rather than lose it to another.'
So then, after all, he had been at the Elms; and she had wronged him.
'Yes, dreaming,' he continued, in his old manner; 'and 'tis time I were awake, awake and on the march.'
'You are then really going?' she said, so that no one would have guessed how strangely she felt at that moment.
'Yes, really going,' he said, quite in his own way; 'Over the hills and far away; and so, I know, you’ll first wish your old friend God speed.'
'I do, indeed.'
'And then you’ll shake hands, Miss Lily, as in old times.'
And out came the frank little hand, and he looked on it, with a darkling smile, as it lay in his own sinewy but slender grasp; and she said with a smile—'Good–bye.'
She was frightened lest he should possibly say more than she knew how to answer.
'And somehow it seems to me, I have a great deal to say.'
'And I’ve a great deal to read, you see;' and she just stirred old Miss Wardle’s letter, that lay open in her hand, with a smile just the least in the world of comic distress.
'A great deal,' he said.
'And farewell, again,' said Lilias.
'Farewell! dear Miss Lily.'
And then, he just looked his old strange look upon her; and he went: and she dropped her eyes upon the letter. He had got into the far meadow, where the path makes a little turn round the clump of poplars, and hides itself. Just there he looked over his shoulder, a last look it might be, the handsome strange creature that had made so many of her hours pass so pleasantly; he that was so saucy with everyone else, and so gentle with her; of whom, she believed, she might make anything, a hero or a demigod! She knew a look would call him back—back, maybe, to her feet; but she could not give that little sign. There she stood, affecting to read that letter, one word of which she did not see. 'She does not care; but—but there’s no one like her. No—she does not care,' he thought; and she let him think it: but her heart swelled to her throat, and she felt as if she could have screamed, 'Come back—my only love—my darling—without you I must die!' But she did not raise her head. She only read on, steadily, old Miss Wardle’s letter—over and over—the same half–dozen lines. And when, after five minutes more, she lifted up her eyes, the hoary poplars were ruffling their thick leaves in the breeze—and he gone; and the plaintive music came mellowed from the village, and the village and the world seemed all on a sudden empty for her.
CHAPTER XXXV.
IN WHICH AUNT BECKY AND DOCTOR TOOLE, IN FULL BLOW, WITH DOMINICK, THE FOOTMAN, BEHIND THEM, VISIT MISS LILY AT THE ELMS.
After such leave–takings, especially where something like a revelation takes place, there sometimes supervenes, I’m told, a sort of excitement before the chill and ache of separation sets in. So, Lily, when she went home, found that her music failed her, all but the one strange little air, 'The river ran between them;' and then she left the harpsichord and went into the garden through the glass door, but the flowers had only half their interest, and the garden was solitary, and she felt restless, as if she were going to make a journey, or looking for strange news; and then she bethought her again of Mrs. Colonel Stafford, that she might have by this time returned from Dublin, and there was some little interest about the good old lady, even in this, that she had just returned by the same road that he had gone away by, that she might have chanced to see him as he passed; that at least she might happen to speak of him, and to know something of the likelihood of his return, or even to speculate about him; for now any talk in which his name occurred was interesting, though she did not know it quite herself. So she went down to the King’s House, and did find old Mrs. Stafford at hom
e: and after an entertaining gossip about some 'rich Nassau damask,' at Haughton’s in the Coombe, that had taken her fancy mightily, and how she had chosen a set of new Nankeen plates and fine oblong dishes at the Music Hall, and how Peter Raby, the watchman, was executed yesterday morning, in web worsted breeches, for the murder of Mr. Thomas Fleming, of Thomas–street, she did come at last to mention Devereux: and she said that the colonel had received a letter from General Chattesworth, 'who by–the–bye,' and then came a long parenthesis, very pleasant, you may be sure, for Lily to listen to; and the general, it appeared, thought it most likely that Devereux would not return to Chapelizod, and the Royal Irish Artillery; and then she went on to other subjects, and Lily staid a long time, thinking she might return to Devereux, but she did not mention him again. So home went little Lily more pensive than she came.
It was near eight o’clock, when who should arrive at the door, and flutter the crows in the old elms with an energetic double knock, but Aunt Rebecca, accompanied by no less a personage than Dr. Toole in full costume, and attended by old Dominick, the footman.
The doctor was a little bit ruffled and testy, for having received a summons from Belmont, he had attended in full blow, expecting to prescribe for Aunt Rebecca or Miss Gertrude, and found, instead, that he was in for a barren and benevolent walk of half a mile on the Inchicore road, with the energetic Miss Rebecca, to visit one of her felonious pensioners who lay sick in his rascally crib. It was not the first time that the jolly little doctor had been entrapped by the good lady into a purely philanthropic excursion of this kind. But he could not afford to mutiny, and vented his disgust in blisters and otherwise drastic treatment of the malingering scoundrels whom he served out after his kind for the trouble and indignity they cost him.
'And here we are, Lily dear, on our way to see poor dear Pat Doolan, who, I fear, is not very long for this world. Dominick!—he’s got a brain fever, my dear.'
The doctor said 'pish!' inaudibly, and Aunt Becky went on.
'You know the unhappy creature is only just out of prison, and if ever mortal suffered unjustly, he’s the man. Poor Doolan’s as innocent as you or I, my dear, or sweet little Spot, there;' pointing her fan like a pistol at that interesting quadruped’s head. 'The disgrace has broken his heart, and that’s at the bottom of his sickness. I wish you could hear him speak, poor dear wretch—Dominick!' and she had a word for that domestic in the hall.
'Hear him speak, indeed!' said Toole, taking advantage of her momentary absence. 'I wish you could, the drunken blackguard. King Solomon could not make sense of it. She gave that burglar, would you believe it, Ma’am? two guineas, by Jupiter: the first of this month—and whiskey only sixpence a pint—and he was drunk without intermission of course, day and night for a week after. Brain fever, indeed, 'tis just as sweet a little fit of delirium tremens, my dear Madam, as ever sent an innocent burglar slap into bliss;' and the word popped out with a venomous hiss and an angry chuckle.
'And so, my dear,' resumed Aunt Becky, marching in again; 'good Doctor Toole—our good Samaritan, here—has taken him up, just for love, and the poor man’s fee—his blessing.'
The doctor muttered something about 'taking him up,' but inarticulately, for it was only for the relief of his own feelings.
'And now, dear Lilias, we want your good father to come with us, just to pray by the poor fellow’s bedside: he’s in the study, is he?'
'No, he was not to be home until to–morrow morning.'
'Bless me!' cried Aunt Becky, with as much asperity as if she had said something different; 'and not a soul to be had to comfort a dying wretch in your father’s parish—yes, he’s dying; we want a minister to pray with him, and here we’ve a Flemish account of the rector. This tells prettily for Dr. Walsingham!'
'Dr. Walsingham’s the best rector in the whole world, and the holiest man and the noblest,' cried brave little Lily, standing like a deer at bay, with her wild shy eyes looking full in Aunt Becky’s, and a flush in her cheeks, and the beautiful light of truth beaming like a star from her forehead. And for a moment it looked like battle; but the old lady smiled a kind of droll little smile, and gave her a little pat on the cheek, saying with a shake of her head, 'saucy girl!'
'And you,' said Lily, throwing her arms about her neck, 'are my own Aunt Becky, the greatest darling in the world!' And so, as John Bunyan says, 'the water stood in their eyes,' and they both laughed, and then they kissed, and loved one another the better. That was the way their little quarrels used always to end.
'Well, doctor, we must only do what we can,' said Aunt Becky, looking gravely on the physician: 'and I don’t see why you should not read—you can lend us a prayer–book, darling—just a collect or two, and the Lord’s Prayer—eh?'
'Why, my dear Ma’am, the fellow’s howling about King Lewis and the American Indians, Dominick says, and ghosts and constables, and devils, and worse things, Madam, and—pooh—punch and laudanum’s his only chance; don’t mind the prayer–book, Miss Lily—there’s no use in it, Mistress Chattesworth! I give you my honour, Ma’am, he could not make head or tale of it.'
In fact, the doctor was terrified lest Aunt Rebecca should compel him to officiate, and he was thinking how the fellows at the club, and the Aldermen of Skinner’s–alley, would get hold of the story, and treat the subject less gravely than was desirable.
So Aunt Becky, with Lily’s leave, called in Dominick, to examine him touching the soundness of Pat Doolan’s mind, and the honest footman had no hesitation in pronouncing him wholly non compos.
'Pleasant praying with a chap like that, by Jove, as drunk as an owl, and as mad as a March hare! my dear Ma’am,' whispered Toole to Lilias.
'And, Lily dear', there’s poor Gertrude all alone—'twould be good natured in you to go up and drink a dish of tea with her; but, then, you’re cold—you’re afraid?'
She was not afraid—she had been out to–day—and it had done her all the good in the world, and it was very good of Aunt Becky to think of it, for she was lonely too: and so off went the elder Miss Chattesworth, with her doctor and Dominick, in their various moods, on their mission of mercy; and Lily sent into the town for the two chairmen, Peter Brian and Larry Foy, the two–legged ponies, as Toole called them.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
NARRATING HOW MISS LILIAS VISITED BELMONT, AND SAW A STRANGE COCKED–HAT IN THE SHADOW BY THE WINDOW.
At that time, in every hall of gentility, there stood a sedan–chair, the property of the lady of the house; and by the time the chairmen had arrived and got the poles into their places, and trusty John Tracy had got himself into his brown surtout, trimmed with white lace, and his cane in his hand—(there was no need of a lantern, for the moon shone softly and pleasantly down)—Miss Lilias Walsingham drew her red riding hood about her pretty face, and stepped into the chair; and so the door shut, the roof closed in, and the young lady was fairly under weigh. She had so much to think of, so much to tell about her day’s adventure, that before she thought she had come half the way, they were flitting under the shadows of the poplars that grew beside the avenue; and, through the window, she saw the hospitable house spreading out its white front as they drew near, and opening its wings to embrace her.
The hall–door stood half open, though it had been dark some time; and the dogs came down with a low growl, and plenty of sniffing, which forthwith turned into a solemn wagging of tails, for they were intimate with the chairmen, and with John Tracy, and loved Lilias too. So she got out in the hall, and went into the little room at the right, and opening the door of the inner and larger one—there was no candle there, and 'twas nearly dark—saw Gertrude standing by the window which looked out on the lawn toward the river. That side of the house was in shade, but she saw that the window was thrown up, and Gertrude, she thought, was looking toward her, though she did not move, until she drew nearer, wondering why she did not approach, and then, pausing in a kind of unpleasant doubt, she heard a murmured talking, and plainly saw the figure of a man, wit
h a cloak, it seemed, wrapped about him, and leaning from outside, against the window–sill, and, as she believed, holding Gertrude’s hand.
The thing that impressed her most was the sharp outline of the cocked–hat, with the corners so peculiarly pinched in, and the feeling that she had never seen that particular hat before in the parish of Chapelizod.
Lily made a step backward, and Gertrude instantly turned round, and seeing her, uttered a little scream.
''Tis I, Gertrude, darling—Lily—Lily Walsingham,' she said, perhaps as much dismayed as Gertrude herself; 'I’ll return in a moment.'
She saw the figure, outside, glide hurriedly away by the side of the wall.
'Lily—Lily, darling; no, don’t go—I did not expect you;' and Gertrude stopped suddenly, and then as suddenly said—
'You are very welcome, Lily;' and she drew the window down, and there was another pause before she said—'Had not we better go up to the drawing–room, and—and—Lily darling, you’re very welcome. Are you better?'
And she took little Lily’s hand, and kissed her.
Little Lilias all this time had said nothing, so entirely was she disconcerted. And her heart beat fast with a kind of fear: and she felt Gertrude’s cold hand tremble she fancied in hers.
'Yes, darling, the drawing–room, certainly,' answered Lily. And the two young ladies went up stairs holding hands, and without exchanging another word.
'Aunt Becky has gone some distance to see a sick pensioner; I don’t expect her return before an hour.'
'Yes—I know—and she came, dear Gertrude, to see me; and I should not have come, but that she asked me, and—and——'
She stopped, for she was speaking apologetically, like an intruder, and she was shocked to feel what a chasm on a sudden separated them, and oppressed with the consciousness that their old mutual girlish confidence was dead and gone; and the incident of the evening, and Gertrude’s changed aspect, and their changed relations, seemed a dreadful dream.