Part 1 (2/2)
”Goodness! A masher!” the girl cries in dismay. ”How will such a creature live at Donaghmore? He should have gone to Aunt Julia's in Dublin--he would have felt at home there.”
Whereat they both laugh, natural hearty laughter that dies away in musical echoes.
Aunt Julia is one of the bugbears of the Blake family, her gentility and general fineness being altogether too much for them.
”Oh, hang it, the fellow's man enough to prefer Donaghmore and you to Merrion Square!”
”And Aunt Julia,” the girl finishes slyly.
”Yes,” he says. And then, with sudden pa.s.sion--”Is this man to come between us, Honor? To-day as I looked at him I felt, if it was so, I could find it in my heart to shoot him dead!”
It is getting dusk here on the lower quarry road, which leads them by a short cut to Donaghmore. On one side stretches the bog, on the other the grim gray rocks shut out the sky. To Honor's nervous fancy it almost seems as if the rocks catch up his vengeful words, and echo them mockingly. More than one ghastly story is connected with this lonely spot; and, spoken here, the cruel words have double meaning.
”You are changed already,” the man says more calmly, seeing the expression of horror on her face. ”You and Launce have never been the same to me since that affair at Boyne. It is only Horace who remains my friend.”
”And am I not your friend, Power?”
”There can be no friends.h.i.+p between you and me, Honor. There can be but one of two things--love or hatred. I love you as better men would tell you they love their own souls. I want you for my wife--no friend, but my very own, until death us do part! Honor, my darling--Honor, my own love, will you come to me?”
His arms close round her in the darkness, and with a low sob she yields to their masterful pressure, while his words--half fierce in their pa.s.sion--seem to reach her like words heard in a dream.
Suddenly, out from the middle of the bog, comes a plaintive cry like the call of some night-bird. It is answered half a mile away, in the direction of Donaghmore, and then again there is silence. But it is no bird-call, Honor knows; and she raises her face from her lover's breast with a little sigh of fear.
”Don't sigh, my darling! Sure no harm could touch you with me,” the man says tenderly.
But a chill has fallen upon the girl; her brief thrill of happiness has left a vague unrest behind it.
”I must go in now, Power. What will they say to me? I have never been out so late before!”
”And I have never kissed you before, nor held you in my arms,” he answers almost incoherently. ”Sure love like ours takes no heed of the clock!”
”My father will take heed of it, though,” the girl rejoins, smiling, and hurrying, fast as the uneven path will let her, toward the lights that are gleaming now from all the lower windows of her home.
Donaghmore stands on a slight hill overlooking the river on one side and the woods of Colonel Frenche's estate on the other. It is a stone house, with deep-set windows and stout doors, that have withstood hard blows in their day. Save for Glen Doyle, Colonel Frenche's place, there is no house of equal size for miles around, and several visitors have remarked the loneliness of the situation; but to that the Blakes never give a thought. The solid old house, which faces all the winds that blow, is very dear to them. In its very isolation there is a charm that any other dwelling would lack.
”Honor,” the young fellow says, as they reach the house, ”will you speak a word of warning to your father and Launce? They won't listen to me, I know. But it is not safe to speak as they have been doing lately.
This affair of poor Rooney's may show you the temper of the people. No man was better liked, but he couldn't keep a still tongue in his head, and he lies at death's door this night.”
”And are we not to speak, Power? Have we not as much right to our opinion as other people? There never yet was a Blake who was a rebel or a coward!”
”There is a time to speak and a time to keep silent,” he answers, taking her face between his hands, and looking down, his dark eyes softening, at the pretty flushed cheeks and lips just curved into a pout. ”My own love, trust me! I would not have you or yours bring a stain upon the old name--but silence can hurt no one.”
From where they stand they can hear the sounds of voices and men's laughter and the c.h.i.n.k of gla.s.s, which come through the open windows of the dining-room.
”Those windows ought to be securely fastened before the dusk falls, Honor. Your father is really too--too confident.”
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