The mellow brogue of the old major had never fallen before with such a tender pathos upon the ear of his beautiful niece, as now that its rich current bore full upon her heart the unlooked-for words of kindness and comfort.
"Were not you always my pet," continued he, with the same tenderness and pity in his tone, "from the time I first took you upon my knee, my poor little Mary? And were not you fond of your old rascally uncle O'Leary? Usedn't I always to take your part, right or wrong; and do you think I'll desert you now? Then tell it all to me—ain't I your poor old uncle, the same as ever? Come, then, dry the tears—there's a darling—wipe them away."
While thus speaking, the warm-hearted old man took her hand, with a touching mixture of gallantry, pity, and affection, and kissed it again and again, with a thousand accompanying expressions of endearment, such as in the days of her childhood he had been wont to lavish upon his little favourite. The poor girl, touched by the kindness of her early friend, whose good-natured sympathy was not to be mistaken, gradually recovered her composure, and yielding to the urgencies of the major, who clearly perceived that something extraordinarily distressing must have occurred to account for her extreme agitation, she at length told him the immediate cause of her grief and excitement. The major listened to the narrative with growing indignation, and when it had ended, he inquired, in a tone, about whose unnatural calmness there was something infinitely more formidable than in the noisiest clamour of fury,—
"Which way, darling, did his lordship go when he left you?"
The girl looked in his face, and saw his deadly purpose there.
"Uncle, my own dear uncle," she cried distractedly, "for God's sake do not follow him—for God's sake—I conjure you, I implore—" She would have cast herself at his feet, but the major caught her in his arms.
"Well, well, my darling." he exclaimed, "I'll not kill him, well as he deserves it—I'll not: you have saved his life. I pledge you my honour, as a gentleman and a soldier, I'll not harm him for what he has said or done this day—are you satisfied?"
"I am, I am! Thank God, thank God!" exclaimed the poor girl, eagerly.
"But, Mary, I must see him," rejoined the major; "he has threatened to set Sir Richard upon you—I must see him; you don't object to that, under the promise I have made? I want to—to reason with him. He shall not get you into trouble with the baronet; for though Richard and I came of the same mother, we are not of the same marriage, nor of the same mould—I would not for a cool hundred that he told his story to your father."
"Indeed, indeed, dear uncle," replied the girl, "I fear me there is little hope of escape or ease for me. My father must know what has passed; he will learn it inevitably, and then it needs no colouring or misrepresentation to call down upon me his heaviest displeasure; his anger I must endure as best I may. God help me. But neither threats nor violence shall make me retract the answer I have given to Lord Aspenly, nor ever yield consent to marry him—nor any other now."