We naturally know less of the life of the students; but it was probably moulded upon that of their elders and superiors. Even Moliere's pompous Thomas Diafoirus, with whose rejection by Angelique for the handsome, rich, and agreeable Cleante the reader of course heartily sympathizes, is by no means a contemptible personage; and when divested of his priggish solemnity, and of all those ludicrous accidental qualities which go to make up the caricature, it cannot be denied that he is a well-principled, sober, and industrious youth. It is, therefore, no unreasonable conclusion to draw, that such was the general character of the body of aspirants to the honors of the venerable doctorate.

From The Lamp.

ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.

BY ROBERT CURTIS.

CHAPTER XX.

For many hundred yards total silence prevailed among our pedestrians.

Even Kate Mulvey seemed at a loss what first to say, or whether she ought to be the first to say anything.

Winny, seeing that her poor dog was getting on famously, was rather pleased, "since the thing did happen," that it had been brought to so satisfactory an end after all; and by whom? Her poor dog might have been killed, and would, undoubtedly, but for Emon-a-knock's fortunate arrival at the last moment, and his prompt and successful a.s.sistance.

There was poor Bully-dhu now, walking to all appearances almost as well as ever, and tied up in _his_ handkerchief. She was glad that the road had become by this time comparatively deserted, for she was timid and frightened, she knew not why. Perhaps she was afraid she might meet her father. She was thinking with herself, too, how far Emon would come with them, and who they might meet who knew them, before he turned back. Emon-a-knock's heart was wishing Kate Mulvey at "_Altha Brashia_," but his head was not sorry that she was one of the party, for common-sense still kept his heart in subjection.

Thus it was that silence prevailed for some time. Bully-dhu was the first to break it. Whether it was that the whiskey had got into his head, or, as the present fashion would say, that he was "screwed," I know not; but he felt so much better, and had so far recovered his strength and spirits, that he had almost pulled the handkerchief from Emon's hand, and cut an awkward sort of a rigadoon round Winny, barking, and looking up _triumphantly_ in her face. Could it have been that while the others had been thinking of these other things, he had been deluding himself with the notion that he had been the victor in the battle?

"Poor fellow," said Winny, patting him on the head, "I do think there's nothing very bad the matter with you {508} after all. Emon, I am beginning to believe you."

"I hope you will always believe me, Winny Cavana," was his reply, and he again sunk into silence.

She could not think why he called her Cavana, and "yet her color rose;" I believe that is the way your experienced novelists would express it in such a case.

A longer silence now ensued. None of the three appeared inclined to talk--Emon less than either. Kate Mulvey, who had always plenty to say for herself, seemed completely dumb--foundered, I was going to add, but I find the word will do as well, perhaps better, in its purity. But, notwithstanding their silence, they were shortening the road to Rathcash. Winny was framing some pretty little speech of thanks to Emon for the _trouble_ he had taken, and for his _kindness_; but she had so often _botched_ it to her own mind, that she determined to leave it to chance at the moment of parting. Kate had no such excuse for her silence, and yet she was not without one, which to herself quite justified it.

Some few desultory remarks, however, were made from time to time, followed by the still "awkward pause," until they had now arrived at the turn in sight of Kate Mulvey's house.

Emon was determined to go the whole way to the end of the lane turning up to Winny Cavana's. He had not sought this day's happiness; he had studiously avoided such a chance; but circ.u.mstances had so far controlled him, that he could not accuse himself of wilful imprudence.

Emon knew very well that if a fair opportunity occurred, he would in all probability betray himself in an unequivocal manner to Winny, and he dreaded the result. Up to the present he was on friendly and familiar terms with her; but once the word was spoken, he feared a barrier would be placed between them, which might put an end to even this calm source of happiness. That he loved Winny with a disinterested but devoted love, he knew too well. How far he might hope that she would ever look upon his love with favor, he had never yet ventured to feel his way; and yet his heart told him there was something about herself, which, if unbia.s.sed by circ.u.mstances, might bid him not despair. But her rich old father, who had set his heart upon a marriage for his daughter with Tom Murdock, and a union of the farms, he knew would never consent. Neither did he believe that Winny herself would decline so grand a match when it came to the point.

Emon had argued all these matters over and over again in his mind; and the fatal certainty of disappointment, added to a prudent determination to avoid her society as much as possible, had enabled him hitherto to keep his heart under some control.

Kate Mulvey, though "book-sworn" by Winny, if she did not exactly repeat any of the confidential chat she had with her friend about Tom Murdock and himself, felt no hesitation in "letting slip" to Emon, for whom she had a very great regard, a hint or two just casually, as if by accident, that Tom Murdock "was no great favorite" of Winny Cavana's--that the neighbors "were all astray" in "giving them to one another"--that if she knew what two and two made, it would all "end in smoke;" and such little gossiping observations. Not by way of _telling_ Emon, but just as if in the mere exuberance of her own love of chat. But they had the desired effect, now that Emon was likely to have an opportunity of a few words with Winny alone, for Kate was evidently preparing to turn up to her own house when they came to the little gate.

Emon had heard, even in his rank of life, the aristocratic expression that "faint heart never won fair lady;" and a secret sort of self-esteem prompted him to make the most of the fortuitous circ.u.mstances which he had not sought for, and which he therefore argued Providence might have thrown {509} in his way, "What can she do," thought he, "but reject my love? I shall know the worst then; and I can make a start of it. I'm too long hanging about here like a fool; a dumb priest never got a parish; and barring his acres and his cash--if he has any--I'm a better man than ever he was, or ever will be."

These were his thoughts as they approached the gate, and his heart began to tremble as Kate Mulvey said:

"Winny, dear, I must part with you here. I saw my father at the door.

He came to it two or three times while we were coming up the road; and he made a sign to me to go in. I'm sure and certain he's half-starved for his dinner, waiting for me!"

"Well, Kitty, I suppose I can't expect you to starve him out-and-out, and I'll bid you good-bye. I'm all as one as at home now, I may say.

Emon--I--won't bring you any further."

"You're not bringing me, Winny; I'm going of my own free will."

"Indeed, Emon, you have been very kind, and I'm entirely obliged to you for all your trouble; but I won't ask you to come any further now."

Kate's father just then came to the door again; and she, thinking that matters had gone far enough between Emon and her friend in her presence, bid them a final good-bye, and turned up to her father, who still stood at the door, and who really did appear to be starving, if one could judge by the position of his hands and the face he made.

The moment had now arrived when Emon must meet his fate, or call himself a coward and a poltroon for the remainder of his natural life, be it long or short.

He chose the least degrading and the most hopeful alternative--to meet his fate.

As Winny held out her hand to him, and asked him to let out the dog, he said:

"No, Winny; I'll give him up to you at the end of the lane; but not sooner."

Winny saw that remonstrance would be no use. She did not wish to quarrel with Emon, and she knew that at all events that was no time or place to do so.

They had not advanced many yards alone, when Winny stopped again, as if irresolute between her wishes and her fears. She had not yet spoken unkindly to Emon, and she had tact enough to know that the first unkind word would bring out the whole matter, which she dreaded, in a flood from his heart, and which she doubted her own power to withstand.

"Emon," she said, "indeed I will not let you come any further--don't be angry."

"Winny, you said first you would not ask me, and now you say you will not let me. Winny Cavana, are you ashamed of _any_ one about Rathcash, or Rathcash_more_, seeing you walking with Emon-a-knock?"

"You are very unjust and very unkind, Emon, to say any such thing. I never was ashamed to be seen walking with you; and I'm certain sure the day will never come when you will give me reason to be ashamed of you, Emon-a-knock;--there now, I seldom put the two last words to your name, except when I wish to be kind. But there is a difference between shame and fear, Emon."

"Then you are afraid, Winny?"

"Yes, Emon, but it is only of my father--take that with you now, and be satisfied, but don't fret me by persevering further. Let the dog go--and good-bye."

All this time she was counting the pebbles on the road with her eyes.

"No, Winny, I'll not fret you willingly; but here or there it is all the same, and the truth must come out. Winny, you have been the woodbine that has twined itself and blossomed round my heart for many a long day. Don't wither it, Winny dear, but say I may water and nourish it with the dew {510} of your love;" and he would have taken her hand.

"Not here, Emon," she said, releasing it; "are you mad? Don't you see we're in sight of the houses? and gracious only knows who may be watching us! Untie your handkerchief and give be the dog. For goodness sake, Emon dear, don't come any further."

"No, Winny, I'd die before I'd fret you. Here's the dog, handkerchief and all: keep it as a token that I may hope."

"Indeed, Emon, I cannot--don't ask me."

Emon's heart fell, and he stooped to untie the handkerchief in despair, if not in chagrin, at Winny's last words.

But Bully-dhu appeared to know what his mistress ought to have done better than she did herself. It was either that, or Emon's hand shook so, that when endeavoring to untie the knot, the dog got loose, "handkerchief and all," and, turning to his mistress, began to bark and jump up on her, with joy that he had gained his liberty, and was so near home. Winny became frightened lest Bully-dhu's barks might bring notice upon them, and she endeavored to moderate his ecstacy, yet she felt a sort of secret delight that she was in for the handkerchief in spite of herself. She was determined, therefore, not to send poor Emon-a-knock away totally dejected.

"There, Emon dear; for G.o.d's sake, I say again, be off home. I'll keep it in memory of the day that you saved my poor dog from destruction--there now, will that do?" and she held out her hand.

"It is enough, Winny dear. This has been the happiest day of my life.

May I hope it has only been the first of a long life like it?"

"Now, Emon, don't talk nonsense, but be off home, if you have any wit --good-bye;" and this time she gave him her hand and let it lie in his.

"G.o.d bless you, Winny dearest, I oughtn't to be too hard on you. Sure you have raised my heart up into heaven already, and there is something now worth living for." And he turned away with a quick and steady step.