Part 71 (1/2)

'Who knows! Have another weed?'

Gorman declined the offered cigar, and again a pause in the conversation followed. At last he suddenly said, 'She told me she thought she would marry Walpole.'

'She told _you_ that? How did it come about to make _you_ such a confidence?'

'Just this way. I was getting a little--not spooney--but attentive, and rather liked hanging after her; and in one of our walks in the wood--and there was no flirting at the time between us--she suddenly said, ”I don't think you are half a bad fellow, lieutenant.” ”Thanks for the compliment,”

said I coldly. She never heeded my remark, but went on, ”I mean, in fact, that if you had something to live for, and somebody to care about, there is just the sort of stuff in you to make you equal to both.” Not exactly knowing what I said, and half, only half in earnest, I answered, ”Why can I not have one to care for?” And I looked tenderly into her eyes as I spoke.

She did not wince under my glance. Her face was calm, and her colour did not change; and she was full a minute before she said, with a faint sigh, ”I suppose I shall marry Cecil Walpole.” ”Do you mean,” said I, ”against your will?” ”Who told you I had a will, sir?” said she haughtily; ”or that if I had, I should now be walking here in this wood alone with you? No, no,” added she hurriedly, ”you cannot understand me. There is nothing to be offended at. Go and gather me some of those wild flowers, and we'll talk of something else.”'

'How like her!--how like her!' said d.i.c.k, and then looked sad and pondered.

'I was very near falling in love with her myself!' said he, after a considerable pause.

'She has a way of curing a man if he should get into such an indiscretion,'

muttered Gorman, and there was bitterness in his voice as he spoke.

'Listen! listen to that!' and from an open window of the house there came the prolonged cadence of a full sweet voice, as Nina was singing an Irish ballad air. 'That's for my father! ”Kathleen Mavourneen” is one of his favourites, and she can make him cry over it.'

'I'm not very soft-hearted,' muttered Gorman, 'but she gave me a sense of fulness in the throat, like choking, the other day, that I vowed to myself I'd never listen to that song again.'

'It is not her voice--it is not the music--there is some witchery in the woman herself that does it,' cried d.i.c.k, almost fiercely. 'Take a walk with her in the wood, saunter down one of these alleys in the garden, and I'll be shot if your heart will not begin to beat in another fas.h.i.+on, and your brain to weave all sorts of bright fancies, in which she will form the chief figure; and though you'll be half inclined to declare your love, and swear that you cannot live without her, some terror will tell you not to break the spell of your delight, but to go on walking there at her side, and hearing her words just as though that ecstasy could last for ever.'

'I suspect you are in love with her,' said O'Shea dryly.

'Not now. Not now; and I'll take care not to have a relapse,' said he gravely.

'How do you mean to manage that?'

'The only one way it is possible--not to see her, nor to hear her--not to live in the same land with her. I have made up my mind to go to Australia.

I don't well know what to do when I get there; but whatever it be, and whatever it cost me to bear, I shall meet it without shrinking, for there will be no old a.s.sociates to look on and remark upon my shabby clothes and broken boots.'

'What will the pa.s.sage cost you?' asked Gorman eagerly.

'I have ascertained that for about fifty pounds I can land myself in Melbourne, and if I have a ten-pound note after, it is as much as I mean to provide.'

'If I can raise the money, I'll go with you,' said O'Shea.

'Will you? is this serious? is it a promise?'

'I pledge my word on it. I'll go over to the Barn to-day and see my aunt. I thought up to this I could not bring myself to go there, but I will now. It is for the last time in my life, and I must say good-bye, whether she helps me or not.'

'You'll scarcely like to ask her for money,' said d.i.c.k.

'Scarcely--at all events, I'll see her, and I'll tell her that I'm going away, with no other thought in my mind than of all the love and affection she had for me, worse luck mine that I have not got them still.'

'Shall I walk over with--? would you rather be alone?'

'I believe so! I think I should like to be alone.'