Part 8 (1/2)
”Confound the fellow!” he says to himself, as he lifts her gently in his arms, as if she had been a child. ”If he had not held out, like the fool he is, she need never have known a word about it.”
CHAPTER VI.
Kate Dundas's most bitter enemies cannot deny that she is a beautiful woman. Dangerous she may be--a modern Circe, many of whose admirers find their way to Kilmainham, but, above and before everything else, the woman is beautiful. But it is not her face nor her figure, lithe and lissom for all its ripe maturity, that so holds men's hearts in thrall. There is a charm about her, a curious magnetic power that is even more dangerous than her beauty.
”I would not care to see much of your Mrs. Dundas,” an old squire once said, talking of her. ”I never knew but one woman who had the same coaxing, fooling ways with her, and, begorra, sir, she was a demon in petticoats!”
But that was only the opinion of a blunt old farmer; Launce Blake knows her a great deal better, or thinks he does. In his own way he is almost as handsome as she is; a tall fair man, with eyes so dark a gray that they look black under their thick lashes and a smile as sweet as a woman's. But, as he sits in Mrs. Dundas's pretty room to-night, he is not smiling--he has come here from Colonel Frenche's, as his father guessed he would--he is looking very stern indeed, and ”altogether unmanageable,” as Kate Dundas says to herself. It is not the first time by many that she has seen him in this mood. Launce is not one of her humble adorers, and perhaps she likes him all the better on that account.
”I am sure I don't know why you should be so angry,” she is saying, in her pretty soft voice, which has just a touch of the Devons.h.i.+re accent in it. ”The man is nothing to me; but since he brought a letter from the poor major's old friend, Major Cregan, I had to be civil to him. I couldn't--could I, now”--coaxingly--”send him back again?”
Launce listens gravely; it is quite a long speech for her to make--as a rule, her eyes, her slow sweet smiles, speak for her.
”That sounds very well--and it may be true, as far as it goes--but it is not all the truth.”
”Oh, Launce, how unkind you are!” She is lying back in her chair, the lamplight falling upon her bare arms, her round white throat, and the diamond cross that sparkles on her bosom.
Her dress of some soft yellow stuff that s.h.i.+nes like silk and drapes like velvet. She wears no flowers or ornaments of any kind, except the cross on her breast and some old-fas.h.i.+oned gold pins in her hair.
Launce Blake, as he looks at her, feels the glamour of her beauty stealing over him like a spell.
His heart is beating furiously; his jealousy and distrust are waning fast before the pa.s.sion of his love that is grown to be a part of his life.
”Is it any wonder that I am racked with fear? You are so beautiful, any man must love you! And this Hunter--who is he, that he should take his place in the house more like the master of it than a mere guest? And what right has he to keep every one away from you?”
”Dear”--she laughs softly; she has such an exquisite laugh--liquid, entrancing--”the man is ridiculous, I grant you. But then--so many men are ridiculous!”
Is she laughing at him? The eyes raised to his have just a touch of mockery in their l.u.s.trous depths, or he fancies they have. He is never quite sure of her--this woman who holds him by so strong a tie. There are times when he is driven half frantic by her ”humor,” just as there are times when he thinks himself the happiest man on earth because she loves him.
”We are all fools where a woman is concerned!” he says bluntly, and walks to one of the windows, setting it wide open, and letting the wind rush in with a shriek that makes Mrs. Dundas start in her chair.
”Oh, what a terrible night!” she says s.h.i.+vering. ”I do not envy you your ride over the bog, if you take that road.”
”Of course I shall take it, as usual! Why not?”
She is looking at him, a curious anxiety in her drooping eyes.
”But Launce, is it safe as things are now?”
”Safe or not, I choose to take it,” he says coldly.
”But Mr. Hunter was saying only to-day that you are too venturesome.”
”Mr. Hunter is an Englishman and, if he is not misjudged, a spy; it is only natural he should think so.”
”A spy?” she repeats, paling a little and looking at him--she has risen, and is standing with him before the open window--with eager, questioning eyes. ”Who says he is a spy?”
”More people than I could name are of that opinion.”
”But do you think he is a spy, Launce?”