“Aunt Fanny's blessing indeed!” said she, for her temper knew no bounds when she saw the enemy silenced. “'T is little harm that would have done, if ye did n't take to screaming about it; as if any man could bear that! You drove him away, my dear, just the way your own mother did poor Major Cohlhayne,—with hard crying,—till he said, 'he 'd as soon go to a wake as take tay in the house.' And sure enough, she had to take up with your poor father, after! Just so. I never knew luck come of signals and signs. When the good thing 's before you, help yourself. My poor father used to say, 'Don't pass “the spirits” because there 's claret at the head of the table; who knows if it 'll ever come down to you?' And there you are, now! and glad enough you 'd be to take that curate I saw in Dublin, with the smooth face, this minute. I don't blame you as much as your poor foolish mother; she has you as she reared you. Bad luck to you for a plant!” cried she, as the ingenious creeper insinuated itself among the meshes of her Limerick lace collar. “Cary, just take this out for me;” but Cary was gone, and her sister with her. Nor did Aunt Fanny know how long her eloquence had been purely soliloquy.
She looked around her for a moment at the deserted battle-field, and then slowly retired.
CHAPTER XVII. THE SHADOW IN THE MIRROR
“No” is the feminine of “Yes!”
Hungarian Proverb.
Bad as the weather is,—and certainly even in Ireland a more drenching, driving-down, pouring rain never fell,—we must ask of our readers to follow Cashel, who at a slapping gallop rode on, over grass and tillage, now careering lightly over the smooth sward, now sweltering along heavily through deep ground, regardless of the pelting storm, and scarcely noticing the strong fences which at every instant tried the stride and strength of his noble horse.
If his speed was headlong, his seat was easy, and his hand as steady as if lounging along some public promenade; his features, however, were flushed, partly from the beating rain, but more from a feverish excitement that showed itself in his flashing eye and closely compressed lip. More than once, in crossing a difficult leap, his horse nearly fell, and although half on the ground, and only recovering by a scramble, he seemed not to heed the accident. At last he arrived at the tall oak paling which fenced the grounds of the cottage, and where it was his wont to halt and fasten his horse. Now, however, he rode fiercely at it, clearing the high leap with a tremendous spring, and alighting on the trimly kept grass-plat before the door.
A slight faint shriek was heard as the horse dashed past the window, and, pale with terror, Mary Leicester stood in the porch.
Cashel had meanwhile dismounted, and given his horse to the old gardener.
“Not hurt, Mr. Cashel?” said she, trying to seem composed, while she trembled in every limb.