Katharine Tynan - The Story of Bawn

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He took it gently and looked at it for a second. Then he kissed it.

"Why, it is warm from its resting-place," he said, "and so the dearer."

And then he took it off from its little chain and placed it in an inner
pocket of his coat, handing me back the chain.

"Maybe you'd like to see what picture it was that made me a trespasser,"
he said, with a suddenly reckless air. "Come, child, and you shall see.
Perhaps it was the discovery that the dead was come alive that sent off
two decent fellows to find a Spanish galleon without me. There are
better things than gold. Aye, faith, the gold on a woman's head, the
light in her eye, may be worth many treasure-ships."

We went back through the baize door through which he had come. There was
a second door within it which being opened disclosed the
picture-gallery; that, being lighted from overhead, had not the gloom of
the rest of the house.

I looked around me at the ruffled and periwigged gentlemen, the smiling
ladies, who were my ancestors and ancestresses, with interest.

"There is a picture of my grandmother here which I am said to resemble,"
I said, as I looked down the line of pictures, "though I am ashamed to
say that I am thought to resemble her, seeing that she is a great
beauty, and is, indeed, beautiful in her old age. Perhaps I resemble her
without possessing any of her beauty."

"Ah, Miss Bawn," he said, looking at me roguishly, "'handsome is as
handsome does.'"

"That is so," I said. "My grandmother has often told me that if I am
good and gentle no one will trouble about my looks."

He turned suddenly then and he said in a singularly sweet voice--

"Dear child! dear child!"

Then he took my hand as though I had been indeed a child and led me up
to the portrait.

"What do you see?" he asked.

"I never could be like anything so beautiful," I said, with indignation.
"If Gran looked like that she must have been beautiful indeed, and she
must have looked like it."

The young girl in the portrait was wearing a white satin gown. She was
painted in the manner of the period, with a lamb beside her which she
had wreathed with roses; and she stood in a flowery meadow. She had an
armful of roses like Flora's self, and as she stood one or two escaped
and fell down her dress. She had the long neck which has come to me, a
beautiful small head, golden hair, warm fair colouring and violet eyes.

"I never could be like it," I said again.

Captain Cardew smiled. I saw him take the miniature from his pocket and
look at it and again at the portrait as though he compared them.

"You see the likeness, do you not?" he asked.

"Yes, there is a likeness," I acknowledged.

"I came here to feast my eyes upon it," he said. "I was frantic at the
loss of the miniature. I had seen this picture before, long ago, when I
was a boy. When I first saw ... the original of the miniature I
remembered this and thought it the strangest coincidence. I wanted to
find out for myself if the likeness was really so strong."

"And it was?" I asked.

"It was. Yet you are more like the miniature than the portrait is."

"Ah, no," I said. "I could not be. The portrait is very beautiful."

"You are more like her," he repeated.

We had left the doors of the gallery ajar, and now we heard plainly a
heavy foot coming up the stairs and puffing and wheezing as of a very
stout, asthmatic person ascending.

"It is Bridget Kelly," he said, turning and smiling at me. "She was much
disturbed that I would not have her as _cicerone_, but she remembered me
from the old days, and, seeing that I would not have her, she left me to
mind the house while she did her marketing."

"I found the door open when I came to it," I said.

"Bridget must have left it so. I dare say the house has a ghostly
reputation and is shunned. And now, do you know why I did not go
treasure-hunting?"

"How should I know?" I answered him.

He caught me suddenly into his arms.

"Because, Bawn, my darling," he said, "the dead has come alive again."

CHAPTER XVII

THE WILL OF OTHERS

He let me go gently just as the old foot touched the top step of the
stairs, and Bridget Kelly, a little, fat, rosy, smiling woman, much
pleasanter of expression than her sister, Maureen, came into the
gallery.

"Why, bless me, Captain Cardew," she said, "who have you found? There is
a cabman at the door who would have it that he was waiting for a young
lady, although I told him no young lady had come in but only a
gentleman."

"Look and see who it is, Bridget," Captain Cardew answered her.

She looked at me in a momentary bewilderment. Then she flung her arms
about me.

"Why, it must be Miss Bawn," she cried. "Miss Bawn, and the image of her
Ladyship, yet more red in the cheeks than her Ladyship had, except maybe
when his Lordship was courting her. And where did you come from at all,
Miss Bawn? or did the sky open to let you fall through?"

"I came by the cab, Bridget. I am in Dublin on a visit with Miss
Champion. You remember Miss Champion?"

"Is it Miss Mary? Aye, troth, I do remember her. 'Tis mistress of this
house she ought to be by rights, leastways when his Lordship and her
Ladyship are gone to their rest; and long may it be before they go! So
you're here with Miss Mary, Miss Bawn, honey? And wasn't it the quarest
thing at all that you should walk into the house and find Captain
Anthony in it?"

"I was nearly running out of it," I said. "I was frightened of all the
empty rooms. The sound of the hall door shutting frightened me most of
all. I was about to run out of the house when I met Captain Cardew."

"Ah, sure, and you weren't frightened then?" the old woman said in a
coaxing way. "You wouldn't be frightened with Captain Anthony to take
care of you?--no lady would. Sure, dear, I've lived in it many a year my
lone self, and worse than myself I've never seen, though they do have
quare ould stories about it. I wouldn't be frightened, itself, if I did
see anything, only spake bouldly to it and ax it what was keepin' it
from its rest."

"My grandmother will be glad to hear you are well, Bridget. She told me
to be sure to see you. She sent you some presents. You will find a
parcel in the cab at the door."

"Her Ladyship is always kind and good, the Lord reward her! I think I'll
be gettin' down to see her and the Abbey and Maureen before the winter
comes. And now, Miss Bawn, you'll be seein' the house?"

I felt that it would be the greatest unkindness to refuse her, so we
made the journey of all the forty-two rooms, and in every one Bridget
had stories to tell, and she pointed to the pictures and the bric-a-brac
and the tapestries, and classified the furniture, like any guide-book.

I was not as excited about them as otherwise I might have been. Indeed,
I could think of nothing but that Anthony Cardew was beside me, and that
he had clasped me in his arms and kissed me and that there was no
gentleman on earth his equal.

I knew now how foolish it was about Theobald, and how impossible it was
that our brotherly and sisterly intimacy could ever have ripened into
love. Indeed, I felt years older than Theobald, and I said to myself
that never in any circumstances could I have cared for a boy like him.
As we went from room to room my heart felt as though it were on wings.
To see Captain Cardew, how polite and kind he was to old Bridget,
opening and closing the shutters for her and helping her up and down
steps, filled me with pride and joy. Was it possible that he could care
for a little ignorant girl like me, this _preux chevalier_, who had been
secretly a hero of romance to me as long as I remembered?

All the time as we went Bridget talked incessantly, although she became
scanter and scanter of breath. She had all sorts of reminiscences of my
grandfather and grandmother and of the great days in the house; but I
noticed that once when she mentioned Uncle Luke's name she coughed to
cover her mistake, and looked oddly from Captain Cardew to me as though
she wondered at finding us together.

And then we were taken down to the drawing-room which opened on the
right-hand side of the hall; and she would take off the covers of the
old French furniture to show us the beautiful old chintzes with which
they were upholstered. Also she would have us admire the Italian
mantelpieces inlaid with coloured marble, and the decoration of the
walls and ceilings which were very fine indeed, and the picture by
Angelica Kauffmann of the Lady St. Leger of that day as St. Cecilia
playing on her organ, and the other beautiful things which the rooms
contained. All the time she sighed over the years during which the house
had been closed up.

"Sure, it's time it was all forgotten," she said, "and that his Lordship
and her Ladyship came back to where many a one would welcome them. It
was fine, Miss Bawn, when the wax lights were lit in all the chandeliers
and the flashing of them was nearly as fine as the ladies' diamonds.
There used to be the height of fashion and beauty here but never one
that I'd compare to her Ladyship. Ah, sure, they were great days!"

"And who knows but they may come again?" said Anthony Cardew.

We were in the inner drawing-room by this time, and as it happened there
was a picture of Theobald as a little boy sitting on his pony, above the
fireplace.

A memory came back to me, out of the mists of childhood, of Theobald
sitting astride the little shaggy pony. I had quite forgotten it, but
now I remembered even the pony's name, which was Orson. And there was a
distracted person in a velvet coat, who must have been the artist; and
he implored Theobald to keep still, for he would touch up Orson and set
him prancing. It was on the lawn near the yew-hedge, and I was standing
by my grandmother, while Theobald on the pony was on the gravel-sweep. I
knew that he made the pony curvet because I liked it; and presently my
grandmother discovered that and took me away.

"Sure, the fine days will come back," the old woman assented hopefully,
"and there's the bonny boy'll bring them. Miss Bawn, dear, when is
Master Theobald coming home from the wars to marry you? Weren't you
promised from the cradle? Sure, old as I am, I'll dance at the wedding."

To my vexation I felt the colour rush to my face and I was conscious
that Captain Cardew was looking at me in a startled way.

I tried to say something to the effect that it was an arrangement which
we should probably never desire to carry out, but, forcing myself to
look at Captain Cardew, I was silenced by the cold and stern expression
of his face.

I saw him go up and examine the portrait, and then turn away. I looked
at him piteously. In spite of old Bridget's presence I had almost
courage to put my hand in his and say to him that he was the only man on
earth for me.

But he was holding the door open now for Bridget and me to pass through
and he would not meet my eyes. And the old woman was begging me to be
seated awhile till she made me a cup of tea and was inviting him
similarly. He refused, saying he had business elsewhere. And then he
took my hand and lifted it coldly to his lips; and shaking old Bridget
by the hand he was gone.

As the door slammed behind him, again the cold chill of the house struck
me for the sunshine had gone with him. I realized my own unreadiness too
late, and I could have followed him, calling out to him till he should
turn round and come back and hear me tell him that it was all
foolishness about Theobald and I loved only him. Indeed, I got so far as
to run out to the postern gate and look down the street.

But it was as lifeless as when I had come in. There was only my cab, and
the driver dozing on the box and the patient horse standing quietly
between the shafts to break the dead monotony of the lines of black
houses.

CHAPTER XVIII.

FLIGHT

I drank Bridget's strong, sweet tea without protest, and ate the thin
bread and butter, feeling it taste like sawdust in my mouth.

Meanwhile, the good old soul sat and looked at me with a beaming
expression.

"I little thought," she said, "when I rose up this morning, honey-jewel,
of who'd be here before the day was over. Sure, you're pale, love! Maybe
'twas tiring you I was, trapesin' through the house. Maureen 'ud have
something to say to me. She was always terrible jealous of her babies."

I assured her I was not tired. I tried to talk to her about Maureen and
the Abbey and my grandparents, and all the time I felt that she watched
me with an anxious and fond gaze.

"I wouldn't be telling her Ladyship, if I was you, Miss Bawn," she said
suddenly, "about meeting Captain Anthony Cardew here. 'Twould vex her,
so it would. I was surprised to find you talking together. 'Twas the
unluckiest thing in the world that you and him should meet."

"I had met Captain Cardew before, Bridget," I said coldly. "He had
rendered me a service. I'm sure all that old trouble ought to be
forgotten, and I think my grandmother is too good a Christian, and too
reasonable to bear Captain Cardew enmity for something which was no
fault of his."

"That may be, dearie," old Bridget said, with the fond, coaxing way of
our people towards us. "That may be. Still, if I was you, Miss Bawn, I
wouldn't think of Captain Anthony, even if he did do you a service. He's
a beautiful gentleman, and many a lady was mad for him, I know well, and
not his fault either; and many a poor girl, too, because he was so
pleasant. And no woman had ever cause to blame him or do anything but
love him. Still, dear, Master Theobald's the husband for you. Isn't he
young and bonny, like yourself? And Captain Cardew has a white head.
He's old by you, Miss Bawn."

I remembered the old, childish days when she had been tenderer to me
than Maureen, and she looked at me so wistfully that I could not be
angry with her. Indeed, I could have almost wept, like the child of long
ago, on her comfortable breast. And I was hardly vexed that she called
Anthony Cardew old. What did it matter, since I loved him, and he would
always, always be the finest gentleman in the world to me?

I kissed her and left her, promising to come again and to bring Miss
Champion with me, and I drove back in the cab to St. Stephen's Green. At
one moment my heart was heavy because Captain Cardew was angry with me;
and at another it was irrationally light, because he loved me and
breathed the same air with me. Was it only a few hours ago since we had
been almost strangers and I had believed him far away at the ends of the
earth? And how the world had changed for him and for me since! To be
sure, I had been unready, and I realized now that I had no address which
should find him. But I could find out where he was. Why, any second I
might meet him in these streets! And the mere possibility made them
blossom like the rose. Men like Anthony Cardew did not easily hide
themselves. I would find him, and the foolish misunderstanding would be
cleared up. As for the other difficulties--what did they matter since
we loved each other? I had that happy confidence in him that he would
sweep through obstacles as a bright sword through a maze of thorns.

When I arrived at St. Stephen's Green, expecting to find my godmother
sleeping or at least resting, I found her, to my amazement, up and
bustling about, and her maid packing our trunks.

"Why, how long you have been, Bawn!" she said; "and I wanted you, child.
We are going home this evening. There will be just time to catch the six
o'clock express. Louise has packed for you, and we can dine in the
train."

"But why, why?" I asked, cold dismay seizing on my heart.

"I will tell you presently. Poor Bawn--what a shame that your gaieties
should be interrupted! I would leave you behind me, if I could. But
perhaps we shall return."

She drew me to her and kissed me. Of course she could say no more, since
Louise was in the room; but glancing at the dressing-table, which was
now stripped of its pretty things in silver and tortoise-shell, a letter
addressed in my grandmother's handwriting caught my eye. It must have
come since I went out; and there must be something in it to explain our
sudden departure.

"There is nothing wrong at Aghadoe, is there?" I asked, in sharp fear.

"I should have told you, Bawn, if there was. They are quite well."

I went out of the room into my own little room, where my trunks stood in
the middle, locked and labelled. The letter must have come immediately
after I had gone out. What could it contain that necessitated this
hurried flight? I looked around the little room where I had been happy
for a fortnight, and my eyes filled with tears. I had a feeling that I
should not come back to it.

While I stood there, miserably, I heard a knock at the hall door,
without attaching any significance to it. There was nothing left for me
to do--everything had been done for me; so I sat down in my hat and
jacket as I was, and gave myself up to a bitter regret. At the moment it
seemed the hardest and cruellest thing in the world that I should be
taken away from the place which held Anthony Cardew--where I might meet
him at any moment--and, so far as I could see, since my grandparents
were well, without adequate cause.

I had a sudden feeling as though they, as though my godmother, must know
that I loved Anthony Cardew and that he loved me in return. Of course,
it was impossible; but it seemed to be a foretaste of the opposition I
should have to face; and, although I could face it for his sake, yet it
struck me coldly that I should ever be in opposition to the will of
those who loved me so tenderly.

There was a tap at the door, and the little maid of the house came in,
with a sad face, to say that the cab was come.

"And, Miss Bawn," she added, "I found this in the letter-box for you,
when I went to call the cab."

I took the letter from her hand and my heart gave a great leap. I had
never seen my beloved's handwriting, but I had not a doubt that it was
his. Ah, so he had not left me in suspense! He had written to me to tell
me, surely, that he understood. He was not one to let a misunderstanding
come between us. How fortunate it was that I had told him where we were!
He must have left the letter himself. He had been so near me, and I had
not known.

I put down the letter with an indifferent air till the little maid had
left the room. When she had gone I snatched it up and was about to read
it, when my godmother called me, and then I thrust it into my bosom
unread. I placed it over my heart and it felt warm there. It brought me
into touch with him, so that, after all, it was not so bitter to be
going since I could write. And the very keeping back the reading of the
letter was sweet.

I was able to face my godmother with a smiling face, although I've no
doubt my eyes still bore the traces of tears.

"You are a dear child, Bawn," she said, lifting my face by the chin, and
looking down into my eyes, "a dear child!"

I felt a hypocrite at her praises, for I had been in flat rebellion a
little while before, and it was only the letter that had enabled me to
lift up my heart; but her mind was too occupied for her to notice how my
eyes fell and the guilty expression I must have worn.

A minute later we were in the cab, and I was watching the stream of
people in the street eagerly to see if I might see Anthony Cardew's face
among them. But I did not see any one at all resembling him.

And presently we were in the train and had a carriage to our two selves;
and when the train had started my godmother took out of her handbag my
grandmother's letter.

"I am going to let you read this, Bawn," she said, "for I think you are
of an age now to be taken into our difficulties. I confess it puzzles
me."

CHAPTER XIX

THE CRYING IN THE NIGHT

"My dearest daughter," the letter began; it was so my grandmother always
addressed Mary Champion. "We are pleased with the fine accounts of how
Bawn is enjoying herself and your gaieties and the old friends you have
met. The house is very lonely without Bawn, and I miss your coming, and
there has been no letter from Theobald since you went. Perhaps Bawn has
had one. We seem to realize that we are old and our children dead and
their children away from us, all at once."

The letter went on to talk of trivial and ordinary things, but my
grandmother was bad at deception, and one felt that her thoughts were
not in the things she told, but that they were written with an intention
to conceal something. And at last the thin deception gave way.

"Mr. Dawson has been to see Lord St. Leger," ran the last paragraph. "He
had some astounding news. And Mrs. Dawson has driven over to call, and
we are to dine with them next week. I wish you were home, Mary. I want
you to lean upon."

When I had read I turned amazed eyes on my godmother.

"The Dawsons!" I said. "And we used always to say that though every
other house in the county were opened to the Dawsons, Aghadoe Abbey
would shut its door in their faces."

"It shall shut its door," Mary Champion said indignantly. "He is
frightening them because they are old and have no son to lean upon.
Garret Dawson is an evil plotter and schemer, and there is blood and
tears on his money. Aghadoe shall be safe from him."

"How can he have frightened them?" I asked. "They have never borrowed
money from him."

The cloud deepened on my godmother's face.

"It must be something about Luke," she said. "But whatever it is, I will
swear it is not true. Luke never did anything that would put his old
father and mother in the power of Garret Dawson. He has frightened them
because I was not there to protect them. I shall tear through his web of
lies."

As she said it the light came to her eyes and the colour to her lips,
and I wondered that any one could ever have thought her plain.

"So you see, Bawn," she said, as she took the letter from me and folded
it up, "there was cause for our return. You know I would not take you
away from your enjoyment without cause."

"Yes, I knew that," I said.

Indeed, when we reached Aghadoe my grandmother was so tremulous in her
joy at seeing us, and she clung so to Mary Champion, that we might have
been away two years instead of two weeks.

It was late when we arrived, and there was supper prepared for us; and
while we ate it my grandfather sat in his chair by the window, where we
could not see his face, and was silent. There was a gloom over the meal,
a sense of trouble impending. It was not at all a joyful occasion as it
ought to have been, since we had come back. My grandmother hovered about
us uneasily, pressing this and that thing upon us, for she had bidden
Neil Doherty to lock up and go to bed, saying that we could wait on
ourselves, to his manifest indignation. And presently my grandfather got
up, excused himself for being tired, and, having kissed my godmother and
me on our cheeks, went away with a tired and uncertain step.

Something had happened. It was obvious that there was a sense of it in
the faces of the old servants. Even Dido whimpered uneasily under my
caressing hand.

My grandmother remembered to ask me if I had heard from Theobald, and it
was only then, with a sense of shame, that I realized the absence of
Theobald's letters and the fact that I had not noticed their absence.
Why, I had not written to Theobald for several weeks past; but I did not
dare to tell my grandmother so. Of course there were many reasons why
Theobald should not have written. He was very gay in India, much in
demand in his spare time for all sorts of entertainments.

"If there had been any serious reason for his not writing we should have
heard fast enough, Gran," I said.

"Why, that is true, Bawn," she replied. "Still, where one loves one is
unnecessarily anxious."

I felt the rebuke of her words, though I knew she had intended no
rebuke, and made up my mind with a rush of compunction to write a long
letter to Theobald in the morning.

Miss Champion was staying the night at Aghadoe; and I thought it would
be well to leave her and my grandmother together that they might talk
over things. Besides that, I had not yet read my letter and the moment
was approaching when I might do so. And all at once my patience seemed
to have given out, to be quite exhausted. So I took my bedroom candle
and went.

When I had reached my own room I locked the door lest by any chance I
should be disturbed; although that did not seem likely. I lit four
candles and made quite an illumination in the great, dim room. Then I
took the letter from where it had lain all day over my heart, and I set
it on the table in the candle-light. I got into a loose gown and
slippers with a kind of painful, yet sweet deliberation. Now that the
moment had come for my joy I dallied with it.

My first love-letter! I realized all at once that Theobald's fond,
boyish epistles had no real, man's love in them. I was only the dear
companion, the sister, to him. I was sure of it, else I had been very
unhappy.

Then I took the letter and held it to the candle-light with a throbbing
heart. And this is what I read:

"My dear Miss Bawn,

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