Part 19 (2/2)

'I do not trust your promise, I will not be betrayed; For your faith is light, And your cold wit bright, Like the white plume in your hat, And your s.h.i.+ning blade.'

The river ran between them, And he rode beside the stream, And he turned away and parted, As a dreamer from his dream.

And his comrade brought his message, From the field where he was laid-- Just his name to repeat, And to lay at her feet The white plume from his hat And his s.h.i.+ning blade.[1]

And he sang it in a tuneful and plaintive tenor, that had power to make rude and ridiculous things pathetic; and Aunt Rebecca thought he was altogether very agreeable. But it was time she should see what Miss Gertrude was about; and Devereux and Lily were such very old friends that she left them to their devices.

'I like the river,' says he; 'it has a soul, Miss Lily, and a character.

There are no river _G.o.ds_, but nymphs. Look at that river, Miss Lilias; what a girlish spirit. I wish she would reveal herself; I could lose my heart to her, I believe--if, indeed, I could be in love with anything, you know. Look at the river--is not it feminine? it's sad and it's merry, musical and sparkling--and oh, so deep! Always changing, yet still the same. 'Twill show you the trees, or the clouds, or yourself, or the stars; and it's so clear and so dark, and so sunny, and--so cold. It tells everything, and yet nothing. It's so pure, and so playful, and so tuneful, and so coy, yet so mysterious and _fatal_.

I sometimes think, Miss Lilias, I've seen this river spirit; and she's like--very like you!'

And so he went on; and she was more silent and more a listener than usual. I don't know all that was pa.s.sing in pretty Lilias's fancy--in her heart--near the hum of the waters and the spell of that musical voice. Love speaks in allegories and a language of signs; looks and tones tell his tale most truly. So Devereux's talk held her for a while in a sort of trance, melancholy and delightful. There must be, of course, the affinity--the rapport--the what you please to call it--to begin with--it matters not how faint and slender; and then the spell steals on and grows. See how the poor little woodbine, or the jessamine, or the vine, will lean towards the rugged elm, appointed by Virgil, in his epic of husbandry (I mean no pun) for their natural support--the elm, you know it hath been said, is the gentleman of the forest:--see all the little tendrils turn his way silently, and cling, and long years after, maybe, clothe the broken and blighted tree with a fragrance and beauty not its own. Those feeble feminine plants, are, it sometimes seems to me, the strength and perfection of creation--strength perfected in weakness; the ivy, green among the snows of winter, and clasping together in its true embrace the loveless ruin; and the vine that maketh glad the heart of man amidst the miseries of life. I must not be mistaken, though, for Devereux's talk was only a tender sort of trifling, and Lilias had said nothing to encourage him to risk more; but she now felt sure that Devereux liked her--that, indeed, he took a deep interest in her--and somehow she was happy.

And little Lily drew towards the dancers, and Devereux by her side--not to join in the frolic; it was much pleasanter talking. But the merry thrum and jingle of the tambourine, and vivacious squeak of the fiddles, and the incessant laughter and prattle of the gay company were a sort of protection. And perhaps she fancied that within that pleasant and bustling circle, the discourse, which was to her so charming, might be longer maintained. It was music heard in a dream--strange and sweet--and might never come again.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 1: These little verses have been several times set to music, and last and very sweetly, by Miss Elizabeth Philp.]

CHAPTER XXV.

IN WHICH THE SUN SETS, AND THE MERRY-MAKING IS KEPT UP BY CANDLE-LIGHT IN THE KING'S HOUSE, AND LILY RECEIVES A WARNING WHICH SHE DOES NOT COMPREHEND.

Dr. Toole, without whom no jollification of any sort could occur satisfactorily in Chapelizod or the country round, was this evening at the 'King's House,' of course, as usual, with his eyes about him and his tongue busy; and at this moment he was setting Cluffe right about Devereux's relation to the t.i.tle and estates of Athenry. His uncle Roland Lord Athenry was, as everybody knew, a lunatic--Toole used to call him Orlando Furioso: and Lewis, his first cousin by his father's elder brother--the heir presumptive--was very little better, and reported every winter to be dying. He spends all his time--his spine being made, it is popularly believed, of gristle--stretched on his back upon a deal board, cutting out paper figures with a pair of scissors.

Toole used to tell them at the club, when alarming letters arrived about the health of the n.o.ble uncle and his hopeful nephew--the heir apparent--'That's the gentleman who's back-bone's made of jelly--eh, Puddock? Two letters come, by Jove, announcing that d.i.c.k Devereux's benefit is actually fixed for the Christmas holidays, when his cousin undertakes to die for positively the last time, and his uncle will play in the most natural manner conceivable, the last act of ”King Lear.”' In fact, this family calamity was rather a cheerful subject among Devereux's friends; and certainly Devereux had no reason to love that vicious, selfish old lunatic, Lord Athenry, who in his prodigal and heartless reign, before straw and darkness swallowed him, never gave the boy a kind word or gentle look, and owed him a mortal grudge because he stood near the kingdom, and wrote most damaging reports of him at the end of the holidays, and despatched those letters of Bellerophon by the boy's own hand to the schoolmaster, with the natural results.

When Aunt Rebecca rustled into the ring that was gathered round about the fiddles and tambourine, she pa.s.sed Miss Magnolia very near, with a high countenance, and looking straight before her, and with no more recognition than the tragedy queen bestows upon the painted statue on the wing by which she enters. And Miss Mag followed her with a t.i.tter and an angry flash of her eyes. So Aunt Rebecca made up to the little hillock--little bigger than a good tea-cake--on which the dowager was perched in a high-backed chair, smiling over the dancers with a splendid benignity, and beating time with her fat short foot. And Aunt Becky told Mrs. Colonel Stafford, standing by, she had extemporised a living Watteau, and indeed it _was_ a very pretty picture, or Aunt Becky would not have said so; and 'craning' from this eminence she saw her niece coming leisurely round, not in company of Mervyn.

That interesting stranger, on the contrary, had by this time joined Lilias and Devereux, who had returned toward the dancers, and was talking again with Miss Walsingham. Gertrude's beau was little Puddock, who was all radiant and supremely blest. But encountering rather a black look from Aunt Becky as they drew near, he deferentially surrendered the young lady to the care of her natural guardian, who forthwith presented her to the dowager; and Puddock, warned off by another glance, backed away, and fell, unawares, helplessly into the possession of Miss Magnolia, a lady whom he never quite understood, and whom he regarded with a very kind and polite sort of horror.

So the athletic Magnolia instantly impounded the little lieutenant, and began to rally him, in the sort of slang she delighted in, with plenty of merriment and malice upon his _tendre_ for Miss Chattesworth, and made the gallant young gentleman blush and occasionally smile, and bow a great deal, and take some snuff.

'And here comes the d.u.c.h.ess of Belmont again,' said the saucy Miss Magnolia, seeing the stately approach of Aunt Becky, as it seemed to Puddock, through the back of her head. I think the exertion and frolic of the dance had got her high blood up into a sparkling state, and her scorn and hate of Aunt Rebecca was more demonstrative than usual. 'Now you'll see how she'll run against poor little simple me, just because I'm small. And _this_ is the way they dance it,' cried she, in a louder tone; and capering backward with a bounce, and an air, and a grace, she came with a sort of a courtesy, and a smart b.u.mp, and a shock against the stately Miss Rebecca; and whisking round with a little scream and a look of terrified innocence, and with her fingers to her heart, to suppress an imaginary palpitation, dropped a low courtesy, crying--

'I'm blest but I thought 'twas tall Burke, the gunner.'

'You might look behind before you spring backward, young gentlewoman,'

said Aunt Becky, with a very bright colour.

'And you might look before you before you spring forward, old gentlewoman,' replied Miss Mag, just as angry.

'Young ladies used to have a respect to decorum,' Aunt Becky went on.

'So they prayed me to tell you, Madam,' replied the young lady, with a very meek courtesy, and a very crimson face.

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