Part 8 (2/2)
”Faith, I neither know nor care what he is! He is not a gentleman!
Anyone could see that with half an eye!”
She turns from him with a little pa.s.sionate gesture, and her face--though he cannot see it--looks for an instant almost cruel in its anger.
”You are so fastidious, dear. We cannot all be Blakes of Donaghmore, you know.”
”We can all speak the truth, I hope, and the fellow doesn't even do that.”
”Ah!” she says coldly. ”Then it would be useless to ask you to stay to dinner and spend the evening in such company?”
It is what he has been longing to do; but something in her voice or her face as she turns aside jars upon him. As they stand there they can hear the thud of horses' hoofs coming at a rapid pace down the Boyne road--it is Mrs. Dundas's guests returning. It is getting dark fast now, and the wind is already furious in its strength as it sweeps down from the mountains.
”Do shut that window, Launce, or we shall have all the lamps blown out!”
He does her bidding mechanically; then he turns and looks at her standing beside him in her pretty gown, the one woman, so he tells himself, who is all in all to him.
Nearer and nearer come the hoof-beats; the precious moments are flying fast; and if they are to make up their little quarrel to-night there is no time to lose.
”I am going now, Kate. Am I to go like this?”
”You are so cross, Launce,” she murmurs.
”Nay, give things their right names! Say I am jealous--madly jealous, because I am in love!”
”Oh, if you are only jealous, dear----”
”You know I am as jealous as ever poor Oth.e.l.lo was.”
”And with as little cause,” she whispered softly, nestling her cheek against his shoulder.
The riders are at the gate now; in another minute they will be in the house; taking her in his arms, Launce kisses her and lets her go.
”My darling, how could I live till to-morrow if we had parted in anger now?” he whispers, looking at her with eager impa.s.sioned eyes.
Is it fancy, or does the face raised to his suddenly become harsh and wan? He looks down at her, startled; but there is no time for questions--the gentlemen are in the hall now, all talking and laughing at once, it would appear, by the noise they make, and he must go.
A light rain is falling as he pa.s.ses out at the gate; he will have to walk home, for he sent his horse back by the groom more than an hour ago. The road is intensely dark; but that is nothing to him--he knows every inch of the way, just as he knows every inch of the dangerous path across the bog which he will have to take to reach Donaghmore. In spite of the wind there is a mist--a low clinging gray mist which hides the fields, nay, the very hedgerows between which he walks, and carries sounds--the bark of a dog, the shout of some lad out after his cattle[,] even the echoes of steps far ahead of him on the road--in the most marvelous manner. He is just turning aside to step down into the bog path when a dim shape flits out, like a ghost, from the midst and bars his way.
”Who is there?” he says gruffly. ”What do you want?”
”Thank goodness, it's your honor's self!” a woman's voice answers timidly. ”I am Patsy McCann, Mr. Launce. Ye mind me?”
”To be sure, Patsy! But what on earth brings you here at this hour, and in such a storm too? I hope you don't come so far from home to do your courting, Patsy?”
”Troth, an coorting's not in my head, yer honor! I've other and blacker thoughts to trouble me!”
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