Part 25 (1/2)

She paused at the stile which went over the hedge just beside an old fluted pier, with a gra.s.s-grown urn at top, and overgrown with a climbing rose-tree, just such a study as a young lady might put in her alb.u.m; and then she recollected the long letter from old Miss Wardle that Aunt Becky had sent her to read, with a request, which from that quarter was a command, that she should return it by six o'clock, for Aunt Becky, even in matters indifferent, liked to name hours, and nail people sharp and hard to futile appointments and barren punctualities.

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 s.h.i.+ning 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 d.i.c.k 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 gla.s.s and china to dear Mrs. Irons.'

'Hat--buckles--surtout--gla.s.s--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 G.o.d speed.'

'I do, indeed.'