OLD MEMORIES
Though both Kate Kearney and young O’Shea had greatly outgrown each other’s recollection, there were still traits of feature remaining, and certain tones of voice, by which they were carried back to old times and old associations.
Amongst the strange situations in life, there are few stranger, or, in certain respects, more painful, than the meeting after long absence of those who, when they had parted years before, were on terms of closest intimacy, and who now see each other changed by time, with altered habits and manners, and impressed in a variety of ways with influences and associations which impart their own stamp on character.
It is very difficult at such moments to remember how far we ourselves have changed in the interval, and how much of what we regard as altered in another may not simply be the new standpoint from which we are looking, and thus our friend may be graver, or sadder, or more thoughtful, or, as it may happen, seem less reflective and less considerative than we have thought him, all because the world has been meantime dealing with ourselves in such wise that qualities we once cared for have lost much of their value, and others that we had deemed of slight account have grown into importance with us.
Most of us know the painful disappointment of revisiting scenes which had impressed us strongly in early life: how the mountain we regarded with a wondering admiration had become a mere hill, and the romantic tarn a pool of sluggish water; and some of this same awakening pursues us in our renewal of old intimacies, and we find ourselves continually warring with our recollections.
Besides this, there is another source of uneasiness that presses unceasingly. It is in imputing every change we discover, or think we discover in our friend, to some unknown influences that have asserted their power over him in our absence, and thus when we find that our arguments have lost their old force, and our persuasions can be stoutly resisted, we begin to think that some other must have usurped our place, and that there is treason in the heart we had deemed to be loyally our own.
How far Kate and Gorman suffered under these irritations, I do not stop to inquire, but certain it is, that all their renewed intercourse was little other than snappish reminders of unfavourable change in each, and assurances more frank than flattering that they had not improved in the interval.
‘How well I know every tree and alley of this old garden!’ said he, as they strolled along one of the walks in advance of the others. ‘Nothing is changed here but the people.’
‘And do you think we are?’ asked she quietly.
‘I should think I do! Not so much for your father, perhaps. I suppose men of his time of life change little, if at all; but you are as ceremonious as if I had been introduced to you this morning.’
‘You addressed me so deferentially as Miss Kearney, and with such an assuring little intimation that you were not either very certain of that, that I should have been very courageous indeed to remind you that I once was Kate.’
‘No, not Kate—Kitty,’ rejoined he quickly.
‘Oh yes, perhaps, when you were young, but we grew out of that.’
‘Did we? And when?’
‘When we gave up climbing cherry-trees, and ceased to pull each other’s hair when we were angry.’
‘Oh dear!’ said he drearily, as his head sank heavily.
‘You seem to sigh over those blissful times, Mr. O’Shea,’ said she, ‘as if they were terribly to be regretted.’
‘So they are. So I feel them.’
‘I never knew before that quarrelling left such pleasant associations.’
‘My memory is good enough to remember times when we were not quarrelling—when I used to think you were nearer an angel than a human creature—ay, when I have had the boldness to tell you so.’
‘You don’t mean that?’
‘I do mean it, and I should like to know why I should not mean it?’
‘For a great many reasons—one amongst the number, that it would have been highly indiscreet to turn a poor child’s head with a stupid flattery.’
‘But were you a child? If I’m right, you were not very far from fifteen at the time I speak of.’
‘How shocking that you should remember a young lady’s age!’
‘That is not the point at all,’ said he, as though she had been endeavouring to introduce another issue.
‘And what is the point, pray?’ asked she haughtily.
‘Well, it is this—how many have uttered what you call stupid flatteries since that time, and how have they been taken.’
‘Is this a question?’ asked she. ‘I mean a question seeking to be answered?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Assuredly, then, Mr. O’Shea, however time has been dealing with me, it has contrived to take marvellous liberties with you since we met. Do you know, sir, that this is a speech you would not have uttered long ago for worlds?’
‘If I have forgotten myself as well as you,’ said he, with deep humility, ‘I very humbly crave pardon. Not but there were days, ‘added he, ‘when my mistake, if I made one, would have been forgiven without my asking.’
‘There’s a slight touch of presumption, sir, in telling me what a wonderful person I used to think you long ago.’
‘So you did,’ cried he eagerly. ‘In return for the homage I laid at your feet—as honest an adoration as ever a heart beat with—you condescended to let me build my ambitions before you, and I must own you made the edifice very dear to me.’
‘To be sure, I do remember it all, and I used to play or sing, “Mein Schatz ist ein Reiter,” and take your word that you were going to be a Lancer—
“In file arrayed,
With helm and blade,
And plume in the gay wind dancing.”
I’m certain my cousin would be charmed to see you in all your bravery.’
‘Your cousin will not speak to me for being an Austrian.’
‘Has she told you so?’
‘Yes, she said it at breakfast.’
‘That denunciation does not sound very dangerously; is it not worth your while to struggle against a misconception?’
‘I have had such luck in my present attempt as should scarcely raise my courage.’
‘You are too ingenious by far for me, Mr. O’Shea,’ said she carelessly. ‘I neither remember so well as you, nor have I that nice subtlety in detecting all the lapses each of us has made since long ago. Try, however, if you cannot get on better with Mademoiselle Kostalergi, where there are no antecedents to disturb you.’
‘I will; that is if she let me.’
‘I trust she may, and not the less willingly, perhaps, as she evidently will not speak to Mr. Walpole.’
‘Ah, indeed, and is he here?’ he stopped and hesitated; and the full bold look she gave him did not lessen his embarrassment.
‘Well, sir,’ asked she, ‘go on: is this another reminiscence?’
‘No, Miss Kearney; I was only thinking of asking you who this Mr. Walpole was.’
‘Mr. Cecil Walpole is a nephew or a something to the Lord-Lieutenant, whose private secretary he is. He is very clever, very amusing—sings, draws, rides, and laughs at the Irish to perfection. I hope you mean to like him.’
‘Do you?’
‘Of course, or I should not have bespoken your sympathy. My cousin used to like him, but somehow he has fallen out of favour with her.’
‘Was he absent some time?’ asked he, with a half-cunning manner.
‘Yes, I believe there was something of that in it. He was not here for a considerable time, and when we saw him again, we almost owned we were disappointed. Papa is calling me from the window, pray excuse me for a moment.’ She left him as she spoke, and ran rapidly back to the house, whence she returned almost immediately. ‘It was to ask you to stop and dine here, Mr. O’Shea,’ said she. ‘There will be ample time to send back to Miss O’Shea, and if you care to have your dinner-dress, they can send it.’
‘This is Mr. Kearney’s invitation?’ asked he.
‘Of course; papa is the master at Kilgobbin.’
‘But will Miss Kearney condescend to say that it is hers also.’
‘Certainly, though I’m not aware what solemnity the engagement gains by my co-operation.’
‘I accept at once, and if you allow me, I’ll go back and send a line to my aunt to say so.’
‘Don’t you remember Mr. O’Shea, Dick?’ asked she, as her brother lounged up, making his first appearance that day.
‘I’d never have known you,’ said he, surveying him from head to foot, without, however, any mark of cordiality in the recognition.
‘All find me a good deal changed!’ said the young fellow, drawing himself to his full height, and with an air that seemed to say—‘and none the worse for it.’
‘I used to fancy I was more than your match,’ rejoined Dick, smiling; ‘I suspect it’s a mistake I am little likely to incur again.’
‘Don’t, Dick, for he has got a very ugly way of ridding people of their illusions,’ said Kate, as she turned once more and walked rapidly towards the house.