“Think of me how you will, so that you know I love you,” cried he, pressing his lips to her hand; and then, half-maddened by the conflict in his mind, he hastened out, and, mounting his horse, rode off, not, indeed, at the mad speed of his coming, but slowly, and with bent-down head.
Let a man be ever so little of a coxcomb, the chances are that he will always explain a refusal of this kind on any ground rather than upon that of his own unworthiness. It is either a case “of pre-engaged affection” or some secret influence on the score of family and fortune; and even this sophistry lends its balm to wounded self-love. Cashel, unhappily for his peace of mind, had not studied in this school, and went his way in deep despondency. Like many men who indulge but seldom in self-examination, he never knew how much his affections were involved till his proffer of them was refused. Now, for the first time, he felt that; now recognized what store he placed on her esteem, and how naturally he had turned from the wearisome dissipations of his own house to the cheerful happiness of “the cottage.” Neither could he divest himself of the thought that had Mary known him in his early and his only true character, she might not have refused him, and that he owed his failure to that mongrel thing which wealth had made him.
“I never was intended for this kind of life,” thought he. “I am driven to absurdities and extravagances to give it any character of interest in my eyes, and then I feel ashamed of such triviality. To live among the rich, a man should be born among them,—should have the habits, the tastes, and the traditions. These are to be imbibed from infancy, but not acquired in manhood,—at least, I will not begin the study.”
He turned homeward, still slowly. The bell was ringing which called the guests to dress for dinner, as he reached a large open lawn before the house, and for a moment he halted, muttering to himself, “How would it be, now, were I to turn my horse's head, and never re-enter that house? How many are there, of all my 'dear friends,' who would ever ask what befell me?”
Arrived at the door, he passed upstairs to his dressing-room, upon a table of which he perceived a very small note, sealed with Lady Kilgoff's initials. It was written in pencil, and merely contained one line: “Come over to me, before dinner, for one minute.—L. K.”
He had not seen her since the day before, when he had in vain sought to overtake her in the wood; and her absence from the dinner-table had seemed to him in pique at his breach of engagement. Was this an endeavor, then, to revive that strange relationship between them, which took every form save love-making, but was all the more dangerous on that account? Or was it merely to take up some commonplace plan of amusement and pleasure,—that mock importance given to trifles which as frequently makes them cease to be trifles?
Half careless as to what the invitation portended, and still pondering over his failure, he reached her door and knocked.
“Come in,” said she; and he entered.
Dressed for dinner with unusual taste and splendor, he had never seen her look so beautiful. For some time back she had observed an almost studied simplicity of dress, rarely wearing an ornament, and distinguishing herself rather by a half Puritanism of style. The sudden change to all the blaze of diamonds, and the softening influence of deep folds of lace, gave a brilliancy to her appearance quite magicial; nor was Cashel's breeding proof against a stare of amazement and admiration.
A deeper flush on her cheek acknowledged how she felt his confusion, and, hastening to relieve it, she said,—