Katharine Tynan - The Story of Bawn

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"For a moment I forgot my white head and my years, and for that
foolish presumption you must pardon me and never think less kindly
of me. From your old servant's lips I learned the truth: that you
had a lover of your own age, whom I pray God may be worthy of you.
After all, since my dream of treasure here was but a dream, I have
reconsidered my refusal, and shall join the expedition in search of
mere earthly treasure. If we never meet again, think kindly of him
who would die for you.

"Your faithful friend and servant,
"Anthony Cardew."

I was like one who has had a blow and a bad one, and I felt a curious
quietness steal upon me and numb me. Despite the sweet, warm air of the
summer night I was cold. In the quietness I heard the Abbey clock strike
twelve; I heard soft stirrings in the leaves outside; a thousand little
sounds which I would not have noticed at another time, that were
distinct in the stillness that had come upon me.

I went on making my preparations for bed as though nothing had happened.
I omitted nothing, but all the time I felt as though I were somehow
outside my body and knew the dull numbness of it as a thing apart.

When I was ready at last I unlocked the door so that the maid who came
with my morning tea and my bath-water should not find it locked. Then I
blew out the candles, and, taking the letter in my hand, I crept into
bed.

That night I was awakened by the crying in the shrubbery outside which I
had not heard for a long time, and I listened to it, cold in the
darkness, till the cocks began crowing and then it ceased. I knew that
the ghosts always came for trouble at Aghadoe, and I prayed hard that
the trouble might be only mine and might spare the two dear old people.
The thought of Theobald, and that I had not even noticed the absence of
his letters, stung me sharply. What if harm should come to Theobald? As
the cocks crew and the grey turned to blue and then to gold in the room,
I lay staring up at the ceiling, praying that harm had not come to
Theobald, that he might be well and happy although I must be miserable
for ever.

CHAPTER XX

AN EAVESDROPPER

The morning sun was in my room when I awoke and my godmother was by my
bed.

"You have been crying in your sleep, Bawn," she said. "I thought I heard
you several times during the night, but was not sure. Are you anxious
about Theobald, child?"

"There is some trouble in the air," I said, turning away my head. "But I
don't think it was I who cried."

"I would not say that to Lady St. Leger, Bawn," she said, lifting my
face and making me look at her.

"It is not for a death," I said, "or we should have heard the coach."

"God forbid!" I noticed that her face had a new look of care since
yesterday, that there were rings round her fine eyes as though she had
not slept. "Yet it may be bad enough, although not for a death."

"What is it?"

"Why, Bawn, child, that is the strangest thing of all. You are no longer
a child, Bawn, and I bring my burden to you to lighten it by sharing.
They will not tell me what the trouble is."

"Not tell _you!_"

I was amazed. For so long I had known Mary Champion as the stay and
support of my grandparents that I could hardly believe there was
anything they would keep from her.

"They will not tell me," she repeated. "Your grandmother says that it is
Lord St. Leger's will that I am not to be told. It is something they
must endure together. I know it is something about Luke. If they will
not tell me I shall go and ask Garret Dawson why he is frightening them
and with what."

"Grandpapa would never forgive you," I said.

The shadow fell deeper on her face.

"I know he would not," she said. "Must I wait for them to speak, then,
lest I should do harm?"

"I think you must wait for them to speak."

"If it was a mere matter of money"--she wrung her hands together in a
way which in a person of her calm, benignant temperament suggested great
distress--"if it were a mere matter of money, I would sell Castle
Clody--yes, every stick and stone of it. But I think it is more than
money. I shall ask Lord St. Leger to tell me. It is not fair that I, who
ought to have been Luke's wife and their daughter, should be kept in the
dark."

She went away and left me then, and I got up and dressed with a heavy
heart, which all the chorus of the birds and the sweet green of the
trees and grass and the delicious scents and sounds outside could not
charm from its heaviness.

At breakfast, although my godmother did her best, talking about old
friends we had met in Dublin and delivering their messages to Lord and
Lady St. Leger, and although I tried to do my part, the gloom was as
marked as the gloom last night. My grandfather and grandmother sat side
by side at the round table, and now and again they looked at each other
like people who were absorbed in grave anxieties to the exclusion of
what went on about them.

I thought that my grandfather had, all of a sudden, begun to show his
age. He was not so far from eighty, but hitherto he had been hale and
active, so that one would have credited him with many years less. But
now he seemed shaky and tremulous, as my grandmother had been last
night. His blue eyes had a film of trouble over them, as I remembered to
have seen them when I was a child and there was the trouble about Uncle
Luke. I had noticed it then with a childish wonder, although I had
forgotten about it till now.

After breakfast he went out to the garden with my grandmother and walked
up and down with her on the terrace in the sun.

"I am going to see if they will not tell me, Bawn," my godmother said
presently, standing up. "And I shall not rest till I have found out.
Garret Dawson will find it a very different thing to frighten me. Your
grandfather is very old, Bawn, or this would not have happened."

She went after them, and I saw her take an arm of each and go down the
garden with them, they leaning on her.

When they were out of sight I went into the library to write my letter
to Theobald, taking the blotting-pad and pen and ink and paper to my
favourite seat in the oriel. There presently my godmother found me. I
was getting on but slowly with the letter, for my unhappy thoughts were
grinding upon each other like the stones of a quern, trying to find a
solution of something that could not be solved.

"Lord St. Leger would do everything but tell me the whole truth," she
said. "Poor souls! They think I ought not to be told evil of Luke, as
though I were not the one to say that I did not believe it. There is
something of money in it, but there is worse than money. What is one to
do in this darkness? They don't see how cruel it is to me, to keep me in
the dark. I have to be patient with them because they are so old."

Then she stooped and kissed me.

"I must go back to Castle Clody now," she said. "I wonder how my baby
has done without me? She does worse without me than she thinks."

I had heard her before call her cousin her baby, and indeed it was true
that Miss Joan depended on her for everything.

Then her eye fell on my letter, and she asked me if I were writing to
Theobald; and when I answered her that I was she put her hand on my head
and told me not to be anxious about Theobald, because she was sure he
was all right and that a letter was only delayed.

"Don't lose your beauty-sleep any more, Bawn," she said, "for I am sure
there is a letter on its way. All this has spoilt your looks since
yesterday."

As the day went on it grew very hot. All the windows were open, without
making the room cooler; there was a sleepy sound of insects in the grass
outside. Bees droned in and out of the window. White clouds sailed
across the sky; and a soft, warm wind rustled the leaves with a sound
like rain upon them.

I remember closing my eyes and leaning my head against the
window-shutter. I suppose I was tired after the wakefulness of the
night. Anyhow, I must have fallen asleep and slept a couple of hours.

When I began to wake the sky had become gloomy and overcast, but it was
as hot as ever, and there was some one talking close at hand, a low,
quiet talking which at first mixed with my dreams and was a part of
them.

Presently I recognized the fact that I must have fallen asleep over the
letter to Theobald, and also that the voice, the voices, near me were
those of my grandfather and grandmother.

I had no intention to eavesdrop, but I was drowsy and for a moment or
two I nodded again.

"But why should Luke have borrowed money from Jasper Tuite?" my
grandmother said. "He could have had what he liked from us."

"He had as handsome an allowance as I could afford to give him," my
grandfather said, "and he knew that he could have come to me in a
difficulty."

"And why should Garret Dawson spring it on us at this time of day?" my
grandmother went on. "Why should he frighten us with it now that we are
old, and have no son to lean upon?"

"Because he wants the money, and I wonder he has gone without it so
long. And also because we have not opened our doors to him nor accepted
his invitations. He is determined that we shall assist at his triumph."

"And we must do it?"

"We must do it, else he will publish the boy's disgrace."

"And must Bawn go with us, Toby?"

"Yes; we have to do it thoroughly. The invitation included Bawn. She
will not feel it as we shall; and she knows nothing of our cause for
unhappiness."

"She does not look over-happy," my grandmother said, and sighed. "I wish
Theobald were home and that they were married."

"Poor Theobald! poor boy! We have placed him in Garret Dawson's power.
When you and I are gone, Theobald and Bawn will be homeless, unless we
can propitiate this man to spare them; and I have heard it said that
Garret Dawson has as much mercy in his heart as a tiger. But I had to
sign, dear; you know I had to sign."

"My poor Toby, I know!"

A silence followed; I did not dare to stir, to betray my presence. But
presently they got up and went away, and when I heard the slow steps die
away in the distance I went out by the open window to ponder over what I
had heard.

CHAPTER XXI

THE NEW MAID

I went away to that glade in the wood of happy memories to think things
out, and dropped down there amid the flowers of which it was full, with
my eyes fixed on the wood-anemones and violets without seeing them.

Troubles were coming, indeed, so thick and fast that my mind was in a
confusion. I did not know whether to tell my godmother or not what I had
overheard. She had a straight way of going to the root of things.
Supposing that she did as she had threatened, and went to Dawson himself
for the truth, might she not exasperate him into making public the thing
which had so much power to frighten Lord and Lady St. Leger? I had
gathered that there was disgrace hanging over us, disgrace, and
homelessness for Theobald and me. Aghadoe Abbey was dear to us as flesh
and blood. Was it possible that it could pass away from us into the
possession of the Dawsons? Why, I would a thousand times rather that
fire had it and that it should be consumed to ashes.

It should have been a small thing by comparison that my grandfather had
said I was to go to the Dawsons' dinner-party, but I had so violent an
aversion to going that the matter really bulked large in the list of
troubles. I should not mind so much if Richard Dawson were not present,
and of course it might be that already he had found us too dull and had
gone away on his wanderings.

But this little hope of mine was destined very soon to be extinguished.

I have not said that old Dido was with me, but, since she was my
constant companion this was to be expected. She had followed me to the
glade, and was lying with her head on the end of my skirt, at peace,
since she was with me. Away from me or my grandmother or Miss Champion
she would whimper and shiver like a lonely old ghost in a world of
living things.

Suddenly as I sat there, thinking, she crept close to me with a low
growl. I had not heard a sound except the songs of the birds and the
stir of the south wind in the leaves that was like the placid flowing of
waters. I put my hand on her head and she bristled under my hand, but
she was quiet. She would always be quiet with my hand upon her head.

I wondered if it were a wild cat or a weazel or a stoat that had so
excited her. But I was not long in suspense. There came a murmur of
voices and a man's laugh. Then there were footsteps. I had a vague
alarm. Who could it be that walked in our woods and set Dido bristling?
She was a gentle creature and knew her friends; and the people about
were all kind and friendly to "Master Luke's" old dog.

I threw a fold of my skirt over her head to keep her from hearing, and,
with my hand on her collar, I moved as close as I could to the leafy
screen that separated the glade from the wood-path.

There was a couple coming up the path; presently they were in my view,
and I saw to my grief and amazement that the man was Richard Dawson--I
had known it, indeed, from the first--and the girl who walked with him
was Nora Brady, the pretty little girl who had interested me at Araglin
Creamery. Richard Dawson walked with his arm about her. She was looking
up at him as though she adored him. Just as they passed he bent his head
and kissed her and again I heard him laugh. The laugh made me hate him,
if possible, more than ever.

I guessed that they had come in by the postern gate and would return
that way, and I did not dare to stir till they had come back again. They
did not, however, take so long. They came back again very soon,
whispering as they had gone; and as soon as I judged it safe I left the
glade and hurried home as fast as ever I could resolving to have the
postern gate bolted so that Richard Dawson should not dare to come into
our woods, and resolving also to see and speak with Nora Brady as soon
as ever I had a chance. Perhaps, indeed, she would not listen to me, but
I could only do my best.

As it happened, my opportunity came sooner than I had expected; for it
was only next day that I met her coming with a basket of eggs to the
Abbey.

She dropped me a curtsey and would have passed on, but I stopped her. We
were all alone in the wide avenue, as much alone to all intents and
purposes as we could have been anywhere. I went straight to the point,
feeling the painfulness of having to speak and doing it as directly as
possible.

"Nora," I said, "I am only a girl like yourself, so don't be frightened
of me. I always thought you a good girl, Nora, but I saw you walking
yesterday in the wood with Mr. Dawson of Damerstown, and you were like
lovers, and that ought not to be so unless you are going to marry him."

"Oh, Miss Bawn!"

Poor Nora's face was covered with confusion, and I am sure I blushed as
hotly as she did, yet I was conscious of a cold, shrinking feeling from
this courtship between her and Richard Dawson which I was sure could
lead to no good.

"It isn't right, Nora," I said.

"God help me! I know that, Miss Bawn," she said, looking at me with
frightened eyes. "I've tried to give it up; I've tried to resist him,
but I can't. There's something stronger than myself that drives me to
him. I love him, Miss Bawn, so I do; and I can't help it that he's a
rich gentleman and I'm only a poor girl. If you ever loved any one
yourself, Miss Bawn, you'd know."

"I do know, Nora," I said. I knew that if Anthony Cardew lifted his
finger to me I would follow him over the world. "I do know. But it can
only end in misery, unless Mr. Dawson were willing to marry you."

"He has never said a word about marriage. But you mustn't think he's
bad, Miss Bawn. 'Tis my own fault, for I love him so much, and he can't
help seeing it. But he's never said a word he mightn't say to a lady.
There's the kissing----"

"Yes, there's the kissing. It oughtn't to be, Nora." As I said it I felt
what a poor hypocrite I was, for I could never have resisted Anthony
Cardew if he had wished to kiss me, never, never, no matter what trouble
or misery it involved. "You ought to go away, Nora, out of the reach of
temptation. There is no one dependent on you; no one for whose sake you
need dread to go. The only thing would be to go away."

"I've thought of it, Miss Bawn, but sure, if he wanted me I'd only have
to come back."

There was something in her voice that frightened me; it sounded so
hopeless, so without any capacity for resistance.

"My aunt is own maid to Lady Garmoy," she went on. "She could get me a
place in her ladyship's household, under herself. I might go, but, Miss
Bawn, I'd never know the day nor the hour he mightn't draw me back to
him. All the same, you mustn't think me a bad girl, Miss Bawn. It isn't
right for him or for me; sure, I know it isn't. I can't say my prayers
as I used to. But if I went among strangers I couldn't tell the day or
the hour it 'ud be too much for me, and I'd be stealing out of the house
and taking the train back. It isn't as if there was some one I could
tell, some one that would hold me, that I could run to when the fit was
on me."

"Nora," I said, with a sudden thought, "how would it be if you were to
come to me? My grandmother will let me have a maid of my own when I want
one. Come to me, and Bridget Connor will teach you your duties, and you
will have the little room off mine to sit and sew in. You need never go
outside the Abbey gates if you do not care to. The place is big enough
to walk about in. And if you are hard pressed you can run to me, Nora.
You will feel that I am just a girl like yourself, and will not be
afraid. And I shall hold your hands till the danger is past."

"May the Lord reward you, Miss Bawn!"

"Then I may speak to Lady St. Leger?"

"I shall love to be with you, Miss Bawn. Sure, there isn't anything I
wouldn't do for you. He'll never know where I am, no more than if I'd
slipped off to my aunt at Lady Garmoy's. I need never be leaving the
Abbey unless to go to Mass on a Sunday, and he'll never know anything
about that. 'Tis for his sake as much as my own. 'Tisn't right that he
should be making love to a poor girl."

I stooped down and kissed Nora on the cheek. It seemed incredible that
Richard Dawson should have filled Nora's innocent heart with much the
same feeling that I had for Anthony Cardew, but I said nothing. Who is
to answer for such things?

"I will come back with you now and speak to Lady St. Leger," I said.

CHAPTER XXII

THE DINNER-PARTY

The day following that Nora became an inmate of Aghadoe. She had no
relative nearer than an uncle, who had a houseful of children of his
own, so that Nora's absence must be a relief in a manner of speaking;
and my grandmother never refused me anything in reason. Nora was modest
and dainty in her ways, and having been brought up by the nuns she was
an excellent needlewoman, so that she had so much equipment for the post
of my maid.

The day came round on which we were to dine at Damerstown. I had not
meant to tell Nora that we were going there, but she discovered it from
something my grandmother said when she came to my room, and I noticed
that she sat with tightly compressed lips over her sewing that
afternoon.

She had put out my dress for me by my orders. I had chosen the least
becoming garment in my wardrobe, a black grenadine, very simply made,
which belonged to my schoolgirl days. It was high to the neck and had
elbow sleeves, and the cut was old-fashioned. I wished to look my worst
at Damerstown, although I was forced to go there by my grandfather's
will.

It was nearly time for me to dress when my grandmother came into the
little room, where I was sitting watching Nora as she sewed a little
tucker of old lace into the neck of the garment.

"What are you going to wear, Bawn?" she asked.

"This." I indicated the grenadine.

"It will never do, Bawn," my grandmother said, shaking her head. "We are
to do honour to our hosts. I am wearing my moire and my diamonds. If you
were to appear in this your grandfather would send you back to change."

"I should have thought it good enough for the Dawsons," I said, with a
little heat; and then I remembered Nora's presence, and also that my
grandparents were frightened of the Dawsons and anxious to propitiate
them, and I was sorry.

"What would you like me to wear, Gran?" I asked.

"Your white silk with the Limerick lace."

"Why, I shall be like a bride," I said aghast, for the white silk was
one of my godmother's gifts to me, and the finest gown I possessed.
When she had given it to me she had said that I should dance in it at a
Castle ball.

"Never mind," my grandmother said. "Your grandfather wishes it, child.
And you are to wear the pearls. I am going to send Bridget Connor to
dress your hair. Nora can do the rest." She turned to smile kindly at
Nora. "See you look your best, child. It is your grandfather's will."

Bridget Connor piled my hair in soft, cloudy masses on the top of my
head. In and out through the coils she wound a string of my
grandmother's pearls. Then she went away, and Nora took her place and
helped to dress me.

The white silk had lain by for many a year and was somewhat yellowed,
but the richer for that. Louise in adapting it had altered its character
but little. It was short in the waist and somewhat narrowly cut,
straight and demure all round till it ended in a little train at the
back. It was almost swathed in the most beautiful old Limerick lace,
through which the rich ivory tints of the silk showed. My grandmother's
pearls went three times round my neck before they fell loosely on my
bodice.

When I looked at my reflection in the long mirror I confess my
splendour rather dazzled me. If only it had been for Anthony Cardew's
eyes! But I hated that I should appear so fine to do honour to the
Dawsons, and I dreaded more than ever meeting Richard Dawson's insolent
gaze.

I wondered how he would take it when he saw me and recognized me for the
peasant girl he had insulted. Would he be abashed, confused? I thought
he must be; and the one pleasant thing in what was going to befall me
was that I should see his discomfiture.

"Miss Bawn, you look as if you'd just come out of heaven," Nora said
fervently, as she watched me drawing on my lace mittens.

"I don't feel like it, Nora," I replied, "nor as if I were going there
either."

At the last moment something of my grandmother's could not be found, so
that we were delayed and arrived at Damerstown on the stroke of eight.

My neighbour at the dinner-table told me afterwards that Mr. Dawson had
fidgeted over our late arrival. I thought I could see it in the look of
relief with which he came to meet us, and the evident flurry of poor
Mrs. Dawson, who was looking fatter than ever in a very tight-fitting,
plum-coloured satin, and hotter than ever, despite the incessant waving
of her fan.

The long, splendid drawing-room was full of very gaily-dressed ladies,
much bejewelled, and many men whose looks did not prepossess me. When I
had sat down, under cover of my grandmother, in a chair a little retired
behind hers, I looked about me with some dread, and I was glad to
recognize the friendly face of Sir Arthur Ardaragh, who came up to us
with a cordial greeting. He did not look at all at home among the
Dawsons' friends, and I wondered how Lady Ardaragh had persuaded him to
come.

For a moment I did not see Lady Ardaragh anywhere, but presently her
uplifted voice told me where she was, and looking down I caught a
glimpse of her pretty shoulders showing rosily out of a pale green
frock. She was talking to some one; I could not see who it was for the
moment.

I had not yet seen Richard Dawson; and as my eye went from one to the
other of the gentlemen without seeing him, I began to be almost hopeful
that he was not there.

Sir Arthur Ardaragh was talking to my grandmother and to Mrs. Dawson,
who plainly was too much absorbed by the anxieties of the occasion to
hear much of what he was saying. She kept looking with an air of
trepidation at her husband who was being effusively polite to my
grandfather.

There were only ourselves and the Ardaraghs present of the
county-people. The other guests were staying at Damerstown or had come
from a distance; they were very fashionable, but I did not like the very
low dresses and the loud talk of the ladies, nor the tired,
cynical-looking men. Every one of the men, old and young, wore the same
expression. I have seen its like since at a foreign Casino, where I
watched the baccarat.

The groups broke up as dinner was announced. Mr. Dawson gave his arm to
my grandmother. I waited, wondering who might fall to my lot. Then from
the group which had been about Lady Ardaragh's chair came--Richard
Dawson. He had an air as though he came but half willingly.

Mrs. Dawson, who was going in with my grandfather, turned to me in a
great flurry.

"My son will have the honour to take you in, Miss Devereux," she said.
The words sounded as though they had been learnt off by heart.

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