Part 9 (1/2)

As O'Connor finished this sentence, his meditations were dispelled by certain sounds, which issued from the pa.s.sage leading to his room.

”A young man,” exclaimed a voice, interrupted by a good deal of puffing and blowing, probably caused by the steep ascent, ”and a good-looking, eh?--(puff)--dark eyes, eh?--(puff, puff)--black hair and straight nose, eh?--(puff, puff)--long-limbed, tall, eh?--(puff).”

The answers to these interrogatories, whatever they may have been, were, where O'Connor stood, wholly inaudible; but the cross-examination was accompanied throughout by a stout, firm, stumping tread upon the old floor, which, along with the increasing clearness with which the noise made its way to O'Connor's door, sufficiently indicated that the speaker was approaching. The accents were familiar to him. He ran to his door, opened it; and in an instant Hugh Audley, Esquire, very hot and very much out of breath, pitched himself, with a good deal of precision, shoulders foremost, against the pit of the young man's stomach, and, embracing him a little above the hips, hugged him for some time in silence, swaying him to and fro with extraordinary energy, as if preparatory to tripping him up, and taking him off his feet altogether--then giving him a shove straight from him, and holding him at arm's length, he looked with brimful eyes, and a countenance beaming with delight, full in O'Connor's face.

”Confound the dog, how well he looks,” exclaimed the old gentleman, vehemently--”devilish well, curse him!” and he gave O'Connor a shove with his knuckles, and succeeded in staggering himself--”never saw you look better in my life, nor anyone else for that matter; and how is every inch of you, and what have you been doing with yourself? Come, you young dog, account for yourself.”

O'Connor had now, for the first time, an opportunity of bidding the kind old gentleman welcome, which he did to the full as cordially, if not so boisterously.

”Let me sit down and rest myself: I must take breath for a minute,”

exclaimed the old gentleman. ”Give me a chair, you undutiful rascal.

What a devil of a staircase that is, to be sure. Well, and what do you intend doing with yourself to-day?”

”To say the truth,” said the young man, while a swarthier glow crossed his dark features. ”I was just about to start for Morley Court, to see Sir Richard Ashwoode.”

”About his daughter, I take it?” inquired the old gentleman.

”Just so, sir,” replied the younger man.

”Then you may spare yourself the pains,” rejoined the old gentleman, briskly. ”You are better at home. You have been forestalled.”

”What--how, sir? What do you mean?” asked O'Connor, in great perplexity and alarm.

”Just what I say, my boy. You have been forestalled.”

”By whom, sir?”

”By me.”

”By you?”

”Ay.”

The old gentleman screwed his brows and pursed up his mouth until it became a Gordian involution of knots and wrinkles, threw a fierce and determined expression into his eyes, and wagged his head slightly from side to side--looking altogether very like a ”Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.” At length he said,--

”I'm an old fellow, and ought to know something by this time--think I _do_, for that matter; and I say deliberately--cut the whole concern and blow them all.”

Having thus delivered himself, the old gentleman resumed his sternest expression of countenance, and continued in silence to wag his head from time to time with an air of infinite defiance, leaving his young companion, if possible, more perplexed and bewildered than ever.

”And have you, then, seen Sir Richard Ashwoode?” inquired O'Connor.

”Have I seen him?” rejoined the old gentleman. ”To be sure I have. The moment the boat touched the quay, and I fairly felt _terra firma_, I drove to the 'Fox in Breeches,' and donned a handsome suit”--(here the gentleman glanced cursorily at his bottle-green habiliments)--”I ordered a hack-coach--got safely to Morley Court--saw Sir Richard, laid up with the gout, looking just like an old, dried-up, cross-grained monkey. There was, of course, a long explanation, and all that sort of thing--a good deal of tact and diplomacy on my side, doubling about, neat fencing, and circ.u.mbendibus; but all would not do--an infernal _smash_. Sir Richard was all but downright uncivil--would not hear of it--said plump and plain he would never consent. The fact is, he's a sour, hard, insolent old scoundrel, and a bitter pill; and I congratulate you heartily on having escaped all connection with him and his. Don't look so down in the mouth about the matter; there's as good fish in the sea as ever was caught; and if the young woman is half such a shrew as her father is a tartar, you have had an escape to be thankful for the longest day you live.”

We shall not attempt to describe the feelings with which O'Connor received this somewhat eccentric communication. He folded his arms upon the table, and for many minutes leaned his head upon them, without motion, and without uttering one word. At length he said,--

”After all, I ought to have expected this. Sir Richard is a bigoted man in his own faith--an ambitious and a worldly man, too. It was folly, mere folly, knowing all this, to look for any other answer from him. He may indeed delay our union for a little, but he cannot bar it--he _shall_ not bar it. I could more easily doubt myself than Mary's constancy; and if she be but firm and true--and she is all loyalty and all truth--the world cannot part us two. Our separation cannot outlast his life; nor shall it last so long. I will overcome her scruples, combat all her doubts, satisfy her reason. She will consent--she will be mine--my own--through life and until death. No hand shall sunder us for ever,”--he turned to the old man, and grasped his hand--”My dear, kind, true friend, how can I ever thank you for all your generous acts of kindness. I cannot.”

”Never mind, never mind, my dear boy,” said the old gentleman, blubbering in spite of himself--”never mind--what a d----d old fool I am, to be sure. Come, come, you, shall take a turn with me towards the country, and get an appet.i.te for dinner. You'll be as well as ever in half an hour. When all's done, you stand no worse than you did yesterday; and if the girl's a good girl, as I make no doubt she is, why, you are sure of her constancy--and the devil himself shall not part you. Confound me if I don't run away with the girl for you myself if you make a pother about the matter. Come along, you dog--come along, I say.”

”Nay, sir,” replied O'Connor, ”forgive me. I am keenly pained. I am agitated--confounded at the suddenness of this--this dreadful blow. I will go alone, pardon me, my kind and dear friend, I must go _alone_. I may chance to see the lady. I am sure she will not fail me--she will meet me. Oh! heart and brain, be still--be steady--I need your best counsels now. Farewell, sir--for a little time, farewell.”