Part 10 (1/2)
”So, so, so, so,” repeated the baronet, at first with unaffected astonishment, which speedily, however, deepened into intense but constrained anger--his dark, prominent eyes peering fiercely upon the young man, while, stooping forward, and clutching his crutch-handled cane hard in his lean fingers, he limped first one and then another step nearer.
”Mr. O'Connor! or my eyes deceive me.”
”Yes, Sir Richard,” replied O'Connor, with a haughty bow, and advancing a little toward him in turn. ”I am that Edmond O'Connor whom you once knew well, and whom it would seem you still know. I ought, doubtless----”
”Nay, sir, no flowers of rhetoric, if you please,” interrupted Sir Richard, bitterly--”no fustian speeches--to the point--to the point, sir. If you have ought to say to me, deliver it in six words. Your business, sir. Be brief.”
”I will not indeed waste words, Sir Richard Ashwoode,” replied O'Connor, firmly. ”There is but one subject on which I would seek a conference with you, and that subject you well may guess.”
”I _do_ guess it,” retorted Sir Richard. ”You would renew an absurd proposal--one opened three years since, and repeated this morning by the old b.o.o.by, your elected spokesman. To that proposal I have ever given one answer--no. I have not changed my mind, nor ever shall. Am I understood, sir? And least of all should I think of changing my purpose now,” continued he, more pointedly, as a suspicion crossed his mind--”_now_, sir, that you have forfeited by your own act whatever regard you once seemed to me to merit. You did not seek _me_ here, sir.
I'm not to be fooled, sir. You did not seek me--don't a.s.sert it. I understand your purpose. You came here clandestinely to tamper like a schemer with my child. Yes, sir, a schemer!” repeated Sir Richard, with bitter emphasis, while his sharp sallow features grew sharper and more sallow still; and he struck the point of his cane at every emphatic word deep into the sod--”a mean, interested, cowardly schemer. How dare you steal into my place, you thrice-rejected, dishonourable, spiritless adventurer?”
The blood rushed to O'Connor's brow as the old man uttered this insulting invective. The fiery impulse which under other circ.u.mstances would have been uncontrollable, was, however, speedily, though with difficulty, mastered; and O'Connor replied bitterly,--
”You are an old man, Sir Richard, and _her_ father--you are safe, sir.
How much of chivalry or courage is shown in heaping insult upon one who _will_ not retort upon you, judge for yourself. Alter what has pa.s.sed, I feel that I were, indeed, the vile thing you have described, if I were again to subject myself to your unprovoked insolence: be a.s.sured, I shall never place foot of mine within your boundaries again: relieve yourself, sir, of all fears upon that score; and for your language, you know you can appreciate the respect that makes me leave you thus unanswered and unpunished.”
So saying, he turned, and with long and rapid strides retraced his steps, his heart swelling with a thousand struggling emotions. Scarce knowing what he did, O'Connor rode rapidly to the ”c.o.c.k and Anchor,”
and too much stunned and confounded by the scenes in which he had just borne a part to exchange a word with Mr. Audley, whom he found still established in his chamber, he threw himself dejectedly into a chair, and sank into gloomy and obstinate abstraction. The good-natured old gentleman did not care to interrupt his young friend's ruminations, and hours might have pa.s.sed away and found them still undisturbed, were it not that the door was suddenly thrown open, and the waiter announced Mr. Ashwoode. There was a spell in the name which instantly recalled O'Connor to the scene before him. Had a viper sprung up at his feet, he could not have recoiled with a stronger antipathy. With a mixture of feelings scarcely tolerable, he awaited his arrival, and after a moment or two of suspense, Henry Ashwoode entered the room.
Mr. Audley, having heard the name, scowled fearfully from the centre of the room upon the young gentleman as he entered, stuffed his hands half-way to the elbows in his breeches pockets, and turning briskly upon his heel, marched emphatically to the window, and gazed out into the inn yard with remarkable perseverance. The obvious coldness with which he was received did not embarra.s.s young Ashwoode in the least.
With perfect ease and a graceful frankness of demeanour, he advanced to O'Connor, and after a greeting of extraordinary warmth, inquired how he had gotten home, and whether he had suffered since any inconvenience from the fall which he had. He then went on to renew his protestations of grat.i.tude for O'Connor's services, with so much ardour and apparent heartiness, that spite of his prejudices, the old man was moved in his favour; and when Ashwoode expressed in a low voice to O'Connor his wish to be introduced to his friend, honest Mr. Audley felt his heart quite softened, and instead of merely bowing to him, absolutely shook him by the hand. The young man then, spite of O'Connor's evident reluctance, proceeded to relate to his new acquaintance the details of the adventures of the preceding night, in doing which, he took occasion to dwell, in the most glowing terms, upon his obligations to O'Connor.
After sitting with them for nearly half an hour, young Ashwoode took his leave in the most affectionate manner possible, and withdrew.
”Well, that _is_ a good-looking young fellow, and a warm-hearted,”
exclaimed the old gentleman, as soon as the visitor had disappeared--”what a pity he should be cursed with such a confounded old father.”
CHAPTER XII.
THE APPOINTED HOUR--THE SCHEMERS AND THE PLOT.
”And here comes my dear brother,” exclaimed Mary Ashwoode, joyously, as she ran to welcome the young man, now entering her father's room, in which, for more than an hour previously, she had been sitting. Throwing her arm round his neck, and looking sweetly in his face, she continued--”You _will_ stay with us this evening, dear Harry--do, for my sake--you won't refuse--it is so long since we have had you;” and though she spoke with a gay look and a gladsome voice, a sense of real solitariness called a tear to her dark eye.
”No, Mary--not this evening,” said the young man coldly; ”I must be in town again to-night, and before I go must have some conversation upon business with my father, so that I may not see you again till morning.”
”But, dear Henry,” said she, still clinging affectionately to his arm, ”you have been in such danger, and I knew nothing of it until after you went out this morning: are you quite well, Henry?--you were not hurt--were you?”
”No, no--nothing--nothing--I never was better,” said he, impatiently.
”Well, brother--_dear_ brother,” she continued imploringly, ”come early home to-night--do not be upon the road late--won't you promise?”
”There, there, there,” said he rudely, ”run away--take your work, or your book, or whatever it may be, down stairs; your father wants to speak with me alone,” and so saying, he turned pettishly from her.
His habitual coldness and carelessness of manner had never before seemed so ungracious. The poor girl felt her heart swell within her, as though it would burst. She had never felt so keenly that in all this world there lived but one being upon whose love she might rely, and he separated, it might be for ever, from her: she gathered up her work, and ran quickly from the room, to hide the tears which she could not restrain.