Volume I Part 19 (2/2)
”That's Mr. St. George. They used to call him the Slasher, he killed so many in duels long ago; but he 's like a lamb now.”
”And the young lady?”
”The young lady is it!” said Darby, with the air of one not exactly concurring in the designation. ”She's old Dill's daughter, the doctor that attends you.”
”What was it all about?”
”It was a bet they made with an English captain this morning that she 'd ride from Lowe's Folly to the Gap in an hour and a half. The Captain took a hundred on it, because he thought she 'd have to go round by the bridge; and they pretinded the same, for they gave all kinds of directions about clearing the carts out of the road, for it's market-day at Thomastown; and away went the Captain as hard as he could, to be at the bridge first, to 'time her,' as she pa.s.sed. But he has won the money!” sighed he, for the thought of so much Irish coin going into a Saxon pocket completely overcame him; ”and what's more,” added he, ”the gentleman says it was all your fault!”
”All my fault!” cried Conyers, indignantly. ”All my fault! Do they imagine that I either knew or cared for their trumpery wager! I saw a girl struggling in a danger from which not one of them had the manliness to rescue her!”
”Oh, take my word for it,” burst in Darby, ”it's not courage they want!”
”Then it is something far better than even courage, and I'd like to tell them so.”
And he turned away as much disgusted with Darby as with the rest of his countrymen. Now, all the anger that filled his breast was not in reality provoked by the want of gallantry that he condemned; a portion, at least, was owing to the marvellous indifference the young lady had manifested to her preserver. Was peril such an every-day incident of Irish life that no one cared for it, or was grat.i.tude a quality not cultivated in this strange land? Such were the puzzles that tormented him as he descended to the drawing-room.
As he opened the door, he heard Miss Barrington's voice, in a tone which he rightly guessed to be reproof, and caught the words, ”Just as unwise as it is unbecoming,” when he entered.
”Mr. Conyers, Miss Dill,” said the old lady, stiffly; ”the young gentleman who saved you, the heroine you rescued!” The two allocutions were delivered with a gesture towards each. To cover a moment of extreme awkwardness, Conyers blundered out something about being too happy, and a slight service, and a hope of no ill consequences to herself.
”Have no fears on that score, sir,” broke in Miss Dinah. ”Manly young ladies are the hardiest things in nature. They are as insensible to danger as they are to--” She stopped, and grew crimson, partly from anger and partly from the unspoken word that had almost escaped her.
”Nay, madam,” said Polly, quietly, ”I am really very much 'ashamed.'”
And, simple as the words were, Miss Barrington felt the poignancy of their application to herself, and her hand trembled over the embroidery she was working.
She tried to appear calm, but in vain; her color came and went, and the st.i.tches, in spite of her, grew irregular; so that, after a moment's struggle, she pushed the frame away, and left the room. While this very brief and painful incident was pa.s.sing, Conyers was wondering to himself how the das.h.i.+ng horsewoman, with flushed cheek, flas.h.i.+ng eye, and dishevelled hair, could possibly be the quiet, demure girl, with a downcast look, and almost Quaker-like simplicity of demeanor. It is but fair to add, though he himself did not discover it, that the contributions of Miss Dinah's wardrobe, to which poor Polly was reduced for dress, were not exactly of a nature to heighten her personal attractions; nor did a sort of short jacket, and a very much beflounced petticoat, set off the girl's figure to advantage. Polly never raised her eyes from the work she was sewing as Miss Barrington withdrew, but, in a low, gentle voice, said, ”It was very good of you, sir, to come to my rescue, but you mustn't think ill of my countrymen for not having done so; they had given their word of honor not to lead a fence, nor open a gate, nor, in fact, aid me in any way.”
”So that, if they could win their wager, your peril was of little matter,” broke he in.
She gave a little low, quiet laugh, perhaps as much at the energy as at the words of his speech. ”After all,” said she, ”a wetting is no great misfortune; the worst punishment of my offence was one that I never contemplated.”
”What do you mean?” asked he.
”Doing penance for it in this costume,” said she, drawing out the stiff folds of an old brocaded silk, and displaying a splendor of flowers that might have graced a peac.o.c.k's tail; ”I never so much as dreamed of this!”
There was something so comic in the way she conveyed her distress that he laughed outright. She joined him; and they were at once at their ease together.
”I think Miss Barrington called you Mr. Conyers,” said she; ”and if so, I have the happiness of feeling that my grat.i.tude is bestowed where already there has been a large instalment of the sentiment. It is you who have been so generous and so kind to my poor brother.”
”Has he told you, then, what we have been planning together?”
”He has told me all that _you_ had planned out for him,” said she, with a very gracious smile, which very slightly colored her cheek, and gave great softness to her expression. ”My only fear was that the poor boy should have lost his head completely, and perhaps exaggerated to himself your intentions towards him; for, after all, I can scarcely think--”
”What is it that you can scarcely think?” asked he, after a long pause.
”Not to say,” resumed she, unheeding his question, ”that I cannot imagine how this came about. What could have led him to tell _you_--a perfect stranger to him--his hopes and fears, his struggles and his sorrows? How could you--by what magic did you inspire him with that trustful confidence which made him open his whole heart before you? Poor Tom, who never before had any confessor than myself!”
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