“An accident?” replied Mowbray – “Ah, Lady Binks! accidents happen as frequently when ladies have attendants as when they are without them.”
Lady Binks, who, in her maiden state, had cantered a good deal about these woods under Sir Bingo's escort, coloured, looked spiteful, and was silent.
“Besides,” said John Mowbray, more lightly, “where is the risk, after all? There are no wolves in our woods to eat up our pretty Red-Riding Hoods; and no lions either – except those of Lady Penelope's train.”
“Who draw the car of Cybele,” said Mr. Chatterly.
Lady Penelope luckily did not understand the allusion, which was indeed better intended than imagined.
“Apropos!” she said; “what have you done with the great lion of the day? I see Mr. Tyrrel nowhere – Is he finishing an additional bottle with Sir Bingo?”
“Mr. Tyrrel, madam,” said Mowbray, “has acted successively the lion rampant, and the lion passant: he has been quarrelsome, and he has run away – fled from the ire of your doughty knight, Lady Binks.”
“I am sure I hope not,” said Lady Binks; “my Chevalier's unsuccessful campaigns have been unable to overcome his taste for quarrels – a victory would make a fighting-man of him for life.”
“That inconvenience might bring its own consolations,” said Winterblossom, apart to Mowbray; “quarrellers do not usually live long.”
“No, no,” replied Mowbray, “the lady's despair, which broke out just now, even in her own despite, is quite natural – absolutely legitimate. Sir Bingo will give her no chance that way.”
Mowbray then made his bow to Lady Penelope, and in answer to her request that he would join the ball or the card-table, observed, that he had no time to lose; that the heads of the old domestics at Shaws-Castle would be by this time absolutely turned, by the apprehensions of what Thursday was to bring forth; and that as Clara would certainly give no directions for the proper arrangements, it was necessary that he should take that trouble himself.
“If you ride smartly,” said Lady Penelope, “you may save even a temporary alarm, by overtaking Clara, dear creature, ere she gets home – She sometimes suffers her pony to go at will along the lane, as slow as Betty Foy's.”
“Ah, but then,” said little Miss Digges, “Miss Mowbray sometimes gallops as if the lark was a snail to her pony – and it quite frights one to see her.”
The Doctor touched Mrs. Blower, who had approached so as to be on the verge of the genteel circle, though she did not venture within it – they exchanged sagacious looks, and a most pitiful shake of the head. Mowbray's eye happened at that moment to glance on them; and doubtless, notwithstanding their hasting to compose their countenances to a different expression, he comprehended what was passing through their minds; – and perhaps it awoke a corresponding note in his own. He took his hat, and with a cast of thought upon his countenance which it seldom wore, left the apartment. A moment afterwards his horse's feet were heard spurning the pavement, as he started off at a sharp pace.
“There is something singular about these Mowbrays to-night,” said Lady Penelope. – “Clara, poor dear angel, is always particular; but I should have thought Mowbray had too much worldly wisdom to be fanciful. – What are you consulting your souvenir for with such attention, my dear Lady Binks?”
“Only for the age of the moon,” said her ladyship, putting the little tortoise-shell-bound calendar into her reticule; and having done so, she proceeded to assist Lady Penelope in the arrangements for the evening.
CHAPTER IX.
THE MEETING
We meet as shadows in the land of dreams,
Which speak not but in signs.
Behind one of the old oaks which we have described in the preceding chapter, shrouding himself from observation like a hunter watching for his game, or an Indian for his enemy, but with different, very different purpose, Tyrrel lay on his breast near the Buck-stane, his eye on the horse-road which winded down the valley, and his ear alertly awake to every sound which mingled with the passing breeze, or with the ripple of the brook.
“To have met her in yonder congregated assembly of brutes and fools” – such was a part of his internal reflections, – “had been little less than an act of madness – madness almost equal in its degree to that cowardice which has hitherto prevented my approaching her, when our eventful meeting might have taken place unobserved. – But now – now – my resolution is as fixed as the place is itself favourable. I will not wait till some chance again shall throw us together, with an hundred malignant eyes to watch, and wonder, and stare, and try in vain to account for the expression of feelings which I might find it impossible to suppress. – Hark – hark! – I hear the tread of a horse – No – it was the changeful sound of the water rushing over the pebbles. Surely she cannot have taken the other road to Shaws-Castle! – No – the sounds become distinct – her figure is visible on the path, coming swiftly forward. – Have I the courage to show myself? – I have – the hour is come, and what must be shall be.”
Yet this resolution was scarcely formed ere it began to fluctuate, when he reflected upon the fittest manner of carrying it into execution. To show himself at a distance, might give the lady an opportunity of turning back and avoiding the interview which he had determined upon – to hide himself till the moment when her horse, in rapid motion, should pass his lurking-place, might be attended with danger to the rider – and while he hesitated which course to pursue, there was some chance of his missing the opportunity of presenting himself to Miss Mowbray at all. He was himself sensible of this, formed a hasty and desperate resolution not to suffer the present moment to escape, and, just as the ascent induced the pony to slacken its pace, Tyrrel stood in the middle of the defile, about six yards distant from the young lady.
She pulled up the reins, and stopped as if arrested by a thunderbolt. – “Clara!” – “Tyrrel!” These were the only words which were exchanged between them, until Tyrrel, moving his feet as slowly as if they had been of lead, began gradually to diminish the distance which lay betwixt them. It was then that, observing his closer approach, Miss Mowbray called out with great eagerness, – “No nearer – no nearer! – So long have I endured your presence, but if you approach me more closely, I shall be mad indeed!”
“What do you fear?” said Tyrrel, in a hollow voice – “What can you fear?” and he continued to draw nearer, until they were within a pace of each other.
Clara, meanwhile, dropping her bridle, clasped her hands together, and held them up towards Heaven, muttering, in a voice scarcely audible, “Great God! – If this apparition be formed by my heated fancy, let it pass away; if it be real, enable me to bear its presence! – Tell me, I conjure you, are you Francis Tyrrel in blood and body, or is this but one of those wandering visions, that have crossed my path and glared on me, but without daring to abide my steadfast glance?”
“I am Francis Tyrrel,” answered he, “in blood and body, as much as she to whom I speak is Clara Mowbray.”
“Then God have mercy on us both!” said Clara, in a tone of deep feeling.
“Amen!” said Tyrrel. – “But what avails this excess of agitation? – You saw me but now, Miss Mowbray – Your voice still rings in my ears – You saw me but now – you spoke to me – and that when I was among strangers – Why not preserve your composure, when we are where no human eye can see – no human ear can hear?”
“Is it so?” said Clara; “and was it indeed yourself whom I saw even now? – I thought so, and something I said at the time – but my brain has been but ill settled since we last met – But I am well now – quite well – I have invited all the people yonder to come to Shaws-Castle – my brother desired me to do it –