How Monica studies the landscape.
How Monica studies the landscape.
"Is it thrue, ma'am, what I hear, that ye'll be wantin' a maid for Miss Monica?" asks Mrs. Reilly, the cook at Moyne, dropping a respectful courtesy just inside the drawing-room door. "Ryan let dhrop a word to me about it, so I made so bould, ma'am, as to come upstairs an' tell ye I think I know a girl as will come in handy to ye."
"And who is she, Reilly?" asks Miss Priscilla anxiously.
"She's a very good girl, ma'am, an' smart, an' nate, an' I think ye'll like her," replies cook, who, like all Irish people, finds a difficulty in giving a direct answer to a direct question. Perhaps, too, there is a little wiliness in her determination not to name the new servant's parentage just at present.
"I daresay; I place great reliance upon your opinion, Reilly. But who is she? Does she come from the village, or from one of the farms? I should prefer the farms."
"She's as tidy as she can be," says Mrs. Reilly, amiably but still evasively, "an' a bit of a scholard into the bargain, an' a very civil tongue in her head. She's seventeen all out, ma'am, and never yet gave her mother a saucy word."
"That is as it should be," says Miss Priscilla, commendingly."You feel a great interest in this girl, I can see. You know her well?"
"Yes, miss. She is me uncle's wife's sisther's child, an' as good a girl as ever stepped in shoe leather."
"She is then?" asks Miss Priscilla, faintly, puzzled by this startling relationship.
"She's that girl of the Cantys', ma'am, and as likely a colleen as ever ye met, though I say it as shouldn't, she being kin-like," says Mrs. Reilly, boldly, seeing her time is come.
"What! that pretty, blue-eyed child that called to see you yesterday? Sheisfrom the village, then?" with manifest distaste.
"An' what's the matther wid the village, ma'am?" By this time Mrs. Reilly has her arms akimbo, and has an evident thirst for knowledge full upon her.
"But I fear she is flighty and wild, and not at all domesticated in any way."
"An' who has the face to say that, ma'am? Give me the names of her dethractors," says Mrs. Reilly, in an awful tone, that seemed to demand the blood of the "dethractors."
"I feel sure, Reilly," says Miss Priscilla, slowly, "that you are not aware of the position your arms have taken. It is most unbecoming." Mrs. Reilly's arms dropped to her sides. "And as for this girl you speak of, I hear she is, as I say, very flighty."
"Don't believe a word of it, ma'am," says cook, with virtuous indignation. "Just because she holds up her head a bit, an' likes a ribbon or two, there's no holdin' the gossips down below," indicating the village by a backward jerk of her thumb. "She's as dacent a little sowl as you'd wish to see, an' has as nate a foot as there is in the county. The Cantys has all a character for purty feet."
"Pretty feet are all very well in their way," says Miss Priscilla, nodding her head. "But can she sew? and is she quiet and tractable, and——"
"Divil a thing she can't do, ma'am, axin' yer pardon," says Mrs. Reilly, rather losing herself in the excitement of the moment. "Just thry her, ma'am, an' if ye don't like her, an' if Miss Monica finds even one fault in her, just send her back to her mother. I can't say fairer nor that."
"No, indeed. Very well, Reilly, let her come up to me to-morrow; and see that her inside clothes are all right, and let her know she mustneverbe out after dark."
"Yes, ma'am," says the triumphant Reilly, beating a hasty retreat.
Half an hour afterwards she encounters Monica upon the avenue.
"Why, where are you going, Mrs. Reilly?" asks Monica, seeing that cook is got up in all her war-paint, regardless of expense.
"To mass first, miss," says Mrs. Reilly.
"Where's that?" asks Monica, with foreign ignorance.
"Law! to the chapel, miss," says Reilly, with an amused smile.
"But it isn't Sunday?"
"No, miss. It's a saint's day—may they be good to us!" crossing herself. "It's different with you, miss, you see; but we poor folks, we must say our prayers when we can, or the Virgin will dhrop us out of her mind."
"Is your chapel pretty?" asks Monica, who has now been a week in the country, and through very weariness feels a mad desire to talk to somebody or anybody.
"Faix, it's lovely, miss, since Father Jerry took it in hand! There's the finest pictures ye ever saw on the walls, an' an altar it 'ud do ye good to look at."
"Would it? Then I'll go some day to see it," says Monica, smiling, not knowing that her aunts would as soon let her enter a pandemonium as a Roman Catholic chapel.
Dear old ladies! frightened by shadows, they have been bred in the belief that the Evil One dwells beneath the shade of the Romish Church, and will therefore surely die in it.
"Do, then, agra!" said Mrs. Reilly, who has, of course, like all the other servants, gone down before Monica: "it's proud we'd be to see ye there."
There is no thought of conversion in the woman's mind, you must remember,—merely a hospitable desire to let her know she will be welcome anywhere.
"By the same token, Miss Monica," says she, "there's something I was near forgettin' to tell ye."
"Yes!" says Monica.
"Ye're goin' to have me uncle's wife's niece for yer own maid, miss."
"Am I? I'm glad of that," says Monica, with a native courtesy. "Is she"—with some hesitation and a faint blush—"is she pretty,Reilly?"
"She's the purtiest girl ye ever set eyes on," says Mrs. Reilly, with enthusiasm.
"I'm glad ofthat; I can't bear ugly people," says Monica.
"Faix, then, there's a bad time before ye wid the ould ladies," mutters Mrs. Reilly,sotto voce, gathering up her cloak and stepping onwards. She is a remarkably handsome woman herself, and so may safely deplore the want of beauty in her betters.
Monica, turning aside, steps on a high bank and looks down towards the village. Through the trees she can see the spire of the old cathedral rising heavenwards. Though Rossmoyne is but a village, it still can boast its cathedral, an ancient edifice, uncouth and unlovely, but yet one of the oldest places of worship in Ireland.
Most of my readers would no doubt laugh it to scorn, but we who belong to it reverence it, and point out with pride to passers by the few quaint marks and tokens that link it to a bygone age.
There is a nave, broad and deep, comprising more than a third of the whole building, with its old broken stone pavement, and high up, carven upon one of its walls the head of St. Faughnan, its patron saint,—a hideous saint, indeed, if he resembled that ancient carving. How often have I gazed upon his unlovely visage, and wondered in my childish fashion why the grace that comes from so divine an origin had not the power to render his servant's face more beautiful!
In these later years they have improved (?) and modernized the old structure. A stone pulpit, huge and clumsy, erected by subscription to the memory of some elderly inhabitant, stands like a misshapen blot before the altar rails; a window, too broad for its length, and generally out of proportion, throws too much light upon the dinginess within; the general character of the ugly old place has lost something, but assuredly gained nothing, by these innovations. It is hard to put "a piece of new cloth on an old garment" successfully.
The village itself stands upon a high hill; the ocean lies at its feet. From Moyne House one can see the shimmer of the great Atlantic as it dances beneath the sunbeams or lashes itself into furious foam under the touch of the north wind. The coastguard station, too, stands out, brilliant in its whitewash, a gleaming spot upon the landscape.
To the left of the station lies Ounahincha,—a long, deep line of sea-beach that would make its fortune as a bathing place under happier auspices and in some more appreciated clime.
Monica, looking down from her height, takes in all thebeauties of the landscape that surround her, and lets the music of the melancholy ocean sink into her very soul.
Then she lets her eyes wander to the right, and rest with pardonable curiosity upon Coole Castle, where dwells the ogre of her house. Above Coole, and about two miles farther on, lies Aghyohillbeg, the residence of Madam O'Connor, that terrible descendant of one of Ireland's kings; whilst below, nestling among its firs and beeches, is Kilmore, where the Halfords—a merry tangle of boys and girls—may be seen at all hours.
Then there is the vicarage, where the rector lives with his family, which is large; and nearer to the village, the house that holds the curate and his family, which, of course, is larger. Besides which, Monica can just see from her vantage-ground the wooded slopes of Durrusbeg that have lately called young Ronayne master,—a distant cousin having died most unexpectedly and left him all his property.
Six months ago, Ulic Ronayne was spoken of by anxious matrons as a wild lad, with nothing to recommend him save his handsome face and some naughty stories attached to his name. Now he is pronounced charming, and the naughty stories, which indeed never had any foundation, are discovered to have been disgraceful fabrications. Marriageable daughters are kinder to him than words can say, and are allowed by the most cautious mothers to dance with him as often as they choose, and even to sit unlimited hours with him in secluded corners of conservatories unrebuked.
Truly, O Plutus! thou art a god indeed. Thou hast outlived thy greater brethren. Thy shrine is honored as of old!
After a last lingering glance at the distant ocean and the swelling woods that now in Merry June are making their grandest show, Monica jumps down from her bank again and goes slowly—singing as she goes—towards the river that runs at the end of Moyne.
Down by its banks Moyne actually touches the hated lands of Cooles, a slight boundary fence being all that divides one place from the other. The river rushes eagerly past both, on its way to the sea, murmuring merrily on its happy voyage, as though mocking at human weals and woes and petty quarrels.
Through the waving meadows, over the little brook, past the stile, Monica makes her way, plucking here and there the scarlet poppies, and the blue cornflowers and daisies, "thosepearled Arcturi of the earth, the constellated flower that never sets."
The sun is tinting all things with its yellow haze, and is burning to brightest gold the reddish tinge in the girl's hair as she moves with dallying steps through the green fields. She is dressed in a white gown, decked with ribbons of sombre tint, and wears upon her head a huge poky bonnet, from which her face peeps out, half earnest, half coquettish, wholly pure.
Her hands are bare and shapely, but a little brown; some old-fashioned rings glisten on them. She has the tail of her gown thrown negligently over her arm, and with her happy lips parted in song, and her eyes serene as early dawn, she looks like that fair thing of Chaucer's, whose
"Berthe was of the womb of morning dew,And her conception of the joyous prime."
"Berthe was of the womb of morning dew,And her conception of the joyous prime."
And now the sparkling river comes in sight. Near its brink an old boat-house may be seen fast crumbling to decay; and on the river itself lies, swaying to and fro, a small punt in the very last stages of decline. It is a very terrible little boat, quite at death's door, and might have had those lines of Dante's painted upon it without libel:
"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."
"Abandon hope, all ye who enter here."
But Monica, in happy ignorance of rotting timbers, thinks only of the joy she felt last evening when the discovery of this demoralized treasure was made. In the mouldering boat-house she had found it, and so had claimed it for her own.
She had told no one of her secret, not even Kit, who is, as a rule, her prime minister, her confidante, and her shadow. She has, indeed, had great difficulty in escaping from "her shadow" just now, but after much diplomatic toil had managed it. To find herself upon the calm and gentle river, to dream there her own sweet thoughts beneath the kindly shade of the pollard willows, to glide with the stream and bask in the sunlightall alone, has been her desire since yester-eve.
To-morrow, if to-day proves successful and her rowing does not fail her, of which she has had some practice during the last two years of her life, she will tell Kit and Terry all about it, and let them share her pleasure. But to-day is her own.
The boat is connected with the shore by a rope tied round the stump of a tree by most unskilful hands. Flinging her flowers into the punt, she strives diligently to undo the knotthat she herself had made the night before, but strives in vain.The hard rope wounds her tender hands and vexes her gentle soul.
She is still struggling with it, and already a little pained frown has made a wrinkle on her smooth brow, when another boat shoots from under the willows and gains the little landing-place, with its pebbly beach, that belongs equally to Coole Castle and to Moyne.
This new boat is a tremendous improvement on our heroine's. It is the smartest little affair possible, and as safe as a church,—safer, indeed, as times go now. Not that there is anything very elaborate about it, but it is freshly painted, and there are cushions in it, and all over it a suppressed air of luxury.
Besides the cushions, there is something else in it, too,—a young man of about six and twenty, who steps lightly on to the bank, though it is a miracle he doesn't lose his footing and come ignominiously to the ground, so bent is his gaze on the gracious little figure at the other side of the boundary-fence struggling with the refractory rope.
It doesn't take any time to cross the boundary.
"Will you allow me to do that for you?" says the strange young man, raising his hat politely, and taking the rope out of Monica's hand without waiting for permission.
How Monica makes a most important discovery and, changing suddenly from "lively to severe," is reprehensibly cruel to a most unoffending young man.
How Monica makes a most important discovery and, changing suddenly from "lively to severe," is reprehensibly cruel to a most unoffending young man.
"You are very kind," says Monica slowly, feeling not so much embarrassment as surprise at this sudden advent.
Then the young man looses the rope, and, having done so, casts a cursory glance at the boat to which it is attached. As he does so, he lifts his brows.
"Surely you are not dreaming of going on the river inthat!" he says, indicating the wretched punt by a contemptuous wave of his hand.
"Yes. Why not?" returns she.
"There isn't a sound bit of timber in her. Whatcanyour people be thinking of, to let you trust yourself in such a miserable affair?"
"My people have nothing to do with it," says Monica, somewhat grandly. "I ammy own mistress."
She has picked up her flowers again out of the despised punt, and now stands before him with her hands filled with the June blossoms, blue, and white, and red. They show bravely against the pallor of her gown, and seem, indeed, to harmonize altogether with her excessive fairness, for her lips are as red as her poppies, and her cornflowers as blue as her eyes, and her skin puts her drooping daisies all to shame.
"As youareyour own mistress," says the young man, with a suspicion of a smile, as he takes in the baby sweetness of her mouth, and each detail of her slight girlish figure, that bespeaks the child rather than the woman, "I entreat you to have mercy uponyourself."
"But what is the matter with it?" asks Monica, peering into the boat. "Itlooksall right; I can't see a hole in it."
"It's nothingbutholes, in my opinion," says the strange young man, peering in his turn. "It's a regularcoffin. You will be committing nothing less than suicide if you put your foot in it."
"Dear me," says Monica, blankly, feeling impressed in spite of herself, "I do think I am the most unfortunate person alive. Do you know," lifting her eyes to his, "I didn't sleep a wink last night, thinking of this row on the river to-day, and now it comes to nothing! That is just like my luck always. I was so bent on it; I wanted to get round that corner over there," pointing to it, "to see what was at the other side, and now I can't do it." It seems to the young man looking at her, as though her glance is reproachful, and as if she connects him, innocent as he is, with her disappointment.
"There is no reason why you shouldn't," he is beginning, anxiously, when she contradicts him.
"After all," she says, doubtfully, bending over to look into the clear bed of the river, "I don't believe, if things came to the worst, and Ididget swamped, I should be drowned."
"Certainly not, if you could swim, or if there was any one watching over your welfare from the banks that could."
"Well, I can't," confesses Monica, with a sigh; "and unlessyou," with an irrepressible laugh that shows all her white and even teeth, "will promise to run along the banks of theriver all the afternoon to watch over me, I don't think there is much chance of my escaping death."
"I shouldn't mind in the least being on guard in such a cause," says the stranger, politely, with the same carefully suppressed smile upon his lips (which are very handsome) as had moved them a while ago. "Command me if you will; but I would have you remember that, even though I should come to the rescue, it would not save you an unpleasant ducking, and—and your pretty gown," with a glance that is almost affectionate at the white Indian cotton, "would be completely ruined."
"Even that dire idea doesn't daunt me," says Monica, gayly: "you forgot that the more limp I am the more æsthetic I shall look. Well," with a sudden relapse into melancholy, "I suppose I must give it up, and not go round the corner to-day."
"Butwhynot?" exclaims he, eagerly. "My boat is at your service.Dotake it. I have quite done with it, I have indeed, and it is lighter than it looks."
"Too heavy for me, I am afraid," says Monica with a sigh.
"Is it? Then," with desperate boldness, "letmerow you."
"Oh,no!" returns she, blushing warmly. "You forget," with a swift glance at him, "you are quite a stranger to me."
Yet he is not quite such a stranger as she thinks. She is not such a stranger to him at least, because her face, seen for a minute about a week a go, has haunted him persistently ever since.
"As we live in the same neighborhood, we cannot long continue strangers," he says, gently;"and, in the mean time, why lose this lovely afternoon, and that corner you werespeaking of? The view of the sea, when you get round it, is really worth seeing."
"Yes, yes, I daresay," reluctantly turning to leave him. "I shall see it some day."
"Look here," says the young man, very earnestly, following her as she moves. "If you will come with me you will see itnow. I will only be your oarsman; I won't say a word to you unless you wish it; I won't evenlookat you. Think of me as a common boatman you have hired by the hour; or, better still, don't think of me at all. With a little care you might bring yourself to imagine I wasn't there."
"But if we met any one?" says Miss Beresford, visibly relenting.
"Impossible! There is never a soul on this stream save myself. I have been here now every day for ten days, and never yet came upon even the ghost of anything human."
"Very well," says Monica, though still with palpable hesitation. "Now, remember, you have pledged yourself not to speak to me, or to look at me." At this he fixes on her so prolonged a gaze that one may readily understand he means it to be a last one for some time.
Then he turns aside, and, having brought his boat to her side of the fence, holds out to her his hand. As he does this he keeps his eyes bent upon the ground, as though determined to let her know his penance has already begun.
"I am not in the boat yet," says Monica, with a quaint little smile, laying her palm on his. Whereupon he looks at her again; and then, as their eyes meet, they both laugh joyously, as youth will when it meets youth.
Lightly she steps into his boat, and slowly, lazily, he rows her down the little river,—flower-clad on either bank,—letting the boat drift almost at its own sweet will.
The willows, drooping towards the water's edge, woo them as they pass; the foolish weeds would hold them in embrace; the broad flag-flowers would fain entwine them. But they, though loving them, go by them, thinking their own thoughts, and wondering vaguely at the beauty of the
"Starry river-buds among the sedge,And floating water-lilies broad and bright,*****And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep greenAs soothes the dazzled eye with sober sheen."
"Starry river-buds among the sedge,And floating water-lilies broad and bright,*****And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep greenAs soothes the dazzled eye with sober sheen."
So far silence has been scrupulously kept. Not a word has been spoken since they left the bank, not a look exchanged. Monica is letting her little slender fingers trail through the water and the flat leaves of the lilies. He, with his coat off, is pretending to row, but in reality is letting his body grow subservient to his mind. He has even adhered honorably to his promise not to look at her, and is still mentally ambitious about being true to his word in this respect, when an exclamation from her puts an end to all things.
"Oh! look atthatlily!" she says, excitedly. "Was thereever such a beauty? If you will row a little more to the right, I am sure I shall be able to get it."
"Don't stir. I'll get it," returns he, grateful to the lily for this break in their programme; and presently the floating prize is secured, and he lays it, wet and dripping, in her outstretched hands.
"After all, you see, you broke your promise," she says, a moment later, most ungratefully, glancing up at him coquettishly from under her long lashes.
"But who made me do it?" asks he, reproachfully, whereupon she laughs and reddens.
"I never confess," she says, shaking her pretty head; "and after all—do you know?—I am rather glad you spoke to me, because, though I like being quite by myself at times, still Ihatesilence when any one is with me."
"So do I," says her companion, with the utmost cheerfulness.
"I think," leaning towards him with a friendly smile, "I cannot do better than begin our acquaintance by telling you my name. It is Monica Beresford."
"Monica," lingering over it lovingly; "a beautiful name, I think. I think, too, it suits you. Mine is not to be compared to yours; but, such as it is, I give it you!"
He throws a card into her lap.
"I hope it isn't John Smith," says Monica, smiling and picking up the card. But, as she reads what is printed thereon, the smile fades, and an expression of utter dismay overspreads her face.
"'Desmond'—Oh!notDesmond!" she says, imploringly, her lips growing quite pale.
"Yes, itisDesmond," says the young man, half amused, half puzzled. "You really think it ugly, then! Do you know I rather fancy my surname, although my Chris——"
"You are not—you cannot betheDesmond," interrupts she, hastily.
"No; that's my uncle," says the young man, innocently.
"Oh! then you acknowledge the crime?" in deep distress.
"I didn't know that an old Irish title must necessarily be connected with guilt," says her companion, fairly puzzled.
"Eh?" says Monica, puzzled in her turn. "I don't understand you: I only want to know if you are one of theparticularDesmonds?"
"I suppose not," he replies, now openly amused, "becauseI regret to say we have never yet done anything worthy of note, or likely to distinguish us from all the other Desmonds, whose name is legion."
"If you are going to tell me you live at Coole," says Miss Beresford, in a tone that is almost tragic, "I warn you it will be the last straw, and that I shan't be able to bear it."
"I am not going to tell you anything," protests he.
"But you must," declares she, illogically. "I may as well hear the worst at once. Go on," heroically; "tell me the truth.Doyou live there?"
"I'm awfully afraid I do," says Mr. Desmond, feeling somehow, without knowing why, distinctly ashamed of his name and residence.
"I knew it! Ifeltit!" says Monica, with the calmness of despair. "Take me back to the bank at once,—this very instant, please. Oh, what arowI should get into if they only knew!"
Very justly offended at the turn affairs have taken, Mr. Desmond rows her in silence to the landing-place, in silence gives her his hand to alight, in silence makes his boat safe, without so much as a glance at her, although heknowsshe is standing a little way from him, irresolute, remorseful, and uncertain.
He might, perhaps, have maintained this dignified indifference to the end, but that, unfortunately lifting his eyes, he catches sight of her in this repentant attitude, with her head bent down, and her slim fingers toying nervously with the lilies of his own gathering.
This picture flings dignity to the winds. Going up to her, he says, in a would-be careless but unmistakably offended voice, "May I ask what I have done, that 'they,' whoever they are, should consider you had disgraced yourself by being with me for half an hour?"
"Youhave done nothing," says Monica, faintly. "It was your uncle."
"Myuncle!—George Desmond! Why, what on earth canhehave done?" demands he, bewildered.
"I don't know." Feeling this is indeed a lame answer to a most natural question, she goes on hurriedly, "It all happened twenty years ago, and——"
"But what happened?" asks he, with pardonable impatience.
"Something dreadfully wicked," says Monica, solemnly."Something really very,verybad, because Aunt Priscilla can't hear you spoken of with common patience."
"Me!"
"Not so much you, perhaps, as your name. She hates the very sound of it. There isn't a doubt aboutthat; because, though I have not heard the exact story yet, I know both my aunts grow actually faint with horror when your uncle's name is mentioned."
"Good gracious!" says the horrified nephew of this apparently disreputable old man. He is staring at Monica, but in reality he does not even see her. Before his mind's eye is a picture of a stout old gentleman, irascible, but kindly, with a countenance innocent of guile. Yet how can he doubt this girl's story? Twenty years ago, as it seems, George Desmond had done something too bad to be discussed. After all, how impossible it is to trust to appearances! As a rule, the most seemingly harmless people are those who are guilty of the vilest misdemeanors. And, yet, what on earthcouldGeorge have done twenty years ago? Visions of forgery, murder, homicide, rise up before him, but, try as he will, he cannot connect Mr. Desmond's face with any of them.
"You don't exactly know yourself what the crime is with which he is charged?" he asks her, with growing diffidence.
"No. But I shall find out, and tell——But that will be impossible!"—with a glance full of liveliest regret. "Icannottell you, because after to-day I shall never see or speak to you again."
"That is the most insane nonsense I ever heard in my life," says Mr. Desmond.
The girl shakes her head sadly.
"If you won't speak to me I shall speak to you, whether you like it or not," says Desmond, with decision.
"That will be out of your power, as you will never see me."
"Do you mean to tell me I may not call at Moyne?"
"Certainly I do. They wouldn't hear of it. They wouldn't, in fact, receive you."
"But why must they visit my uncle's sins upon my shoulders? I have heard of a father's sins being entailed upon his heir, but never an uncle's."
"It is your name," says Monica. Then she laughs a little, in spite of herself, and quotes, in a low tone, "Oh! Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?"
But he takes no heed of this frivolous quotation.
"You mean me to understand, then, that I am never to speak to you again?"
"I do, indeed."
"What! Do you know we are to be close neighbors for the future, you and I? This is to be your home. Coole is to be mine. At the most, only a mile of road lies between us, andherenot quite a yard. And yet you calmly tell me I am from this day forth to be only a common stranger to you."
"You look as if you were angry withme," says Monica, with sudden tears in her eyes at his injustice. "It isn't my fault;I haven't done anything wicked. Blame your uncle for it all."
"The whole thing is simply absurd," says the young man, taking now the superior tone that is meant to crush the situation by holding it up to ridicule. "You forget, perhaps, that we shallhaveto meet sometimes. I suppose the people down here give balls occasionally, and tennis-parties, and that; and when I meet you at them, is it your wish that I shall pretend never to have seen you before,—never to have known you?"
"Yes," says Monica, with as much hesitation as lets him know how she hates saying it. "When next you meet me, you are to look right over my head, and pass on!"
"I couldn't do it," returns he, gazing at her steadily. "I couldn't indeed. In fact, I feel it is just the last thing in the world Icoulddo."
"But you must," says Monica, imperiously, terrified to death as she conjures up before her Aunt Priscilla's face as it will surely be if this Philistine dares to address her: "I tell you my aunts would never forgive me if they knew I had interchanged even one syllable with you. From this moment you must forget me. There will really be no difficulty about it, as our acquaintance is but of an hour's growth. You have seen me for the first time to-day, and a chance meeting such as this is easily driven from the mind."
"That is your opinion," says the young man, moodily. "It is not mine. I dare sayyouwill find it very easy to forget. I shan't! And this isn't the first time I have seen you, either. It seems to me as if years have rolled by since last I looked upon your face. I was standing at the gate of Coole, and saw you pass by, the day of your arrival in Rossmoyne. So, you see, we are—in spite of you—almost old friends."
A bombshell flung at her feet could hardly have produced a greater sensation than this apparently harmless speech. All at once there rushes back upon her the recollection of that fatal day when she lay upon a cart-load of hay and (accordingto Terence) kicked up her heels in the exuberance of her joy. Oh, horror! she grows crimson from her soft throat to her forehead! even her little ears do not escape the tint, but turn a warm and guilty pink.
Never until this unlucky instant did it occur to her that this strange young man must be the detested one who had stood in the gateway and laughed at her undignified position and taken the clocks of her stockings into careful remembrance.
The one absorbing thought that he was nephew to Aunt Priscilla's bugbear has swallowed up all others; but now, as he himself reveals this other truth to her, she feels that her cup is indeed full.
Deeper and deeper grows the crimson tint that dyes her pale, shy face, until her cheeks are all aflame. Something like anger, too, is rendering her sweet eyes brilliant beyond their wont. Delicately but haughtily she gathers up the train of her white gown and casts one expressive glance upon the way she came. This glance says much. Somehow it tells him as distinctly as though she said it aloud that she is sorry she ever came down to this river, and that her sorrow arises from the fact that it was here she encountered him.
While he is still sore perplexed by her sudden change of demeanor, she turns away from him. Then, pausing, she turns again, and bestows upon him so indignant a look as completely finishes this ill used young man.
"I object to hasty friendships," she says, icily. "And," pausing as if to make the effect greater, "if I wereyou, I think I should seek some better employment than standingidling all day longat your uncle's gate."
With this parting shaft, and before he can recover from his consternation, she goes swiftly away from him, up through the meadows, home.
How Monica is put in possession of a dreadful secret—And how Kit protests against the injustice of the world.
How Monica is put in possession of a dreadful secret—And how Kit protests against the injustice of the world.
"An invitation from Madam O'Connor," says Miss Priscilla in a pleased tone, glancing at them all, over the top of her spectacles. She has the card in her hand, and slowly reads aloud the information printed upon it, to the effect thatMadam O'Connor will be at home on Friday the 15th, from four to six o'clock, etc.
"I am very glad she has asked Terence and Monica," says Miss Penelope. "Excessively attentive I call it."
"Will you go, Aunt Priscilla?" asks Monica, in a sneaky sort of tone. Her young soul hankers after the world, and will not be subdued. Upon Miss Priscilla's "yes" or "no" she waits with an anxiety that surprises even herself.
"Certainly, my dear," says Miss Blake, drawing herself up. "I shall feel it my duty to take you to all such places as will enable you to mix with people in your own rank of life. I am not one of those who think it well for young girls to lead the life of nuns. No, indeed!"
"I quite agree with you, my dear Priscilla," says Miss Penelope, who is an echo of her elder sister. "Yes, we will rouse ourselves, and once more seek the world."
"But I would not have you make yourselves unhappy," says Monica, falteringly.
"Nay, my dear, it will be a pleasure, foryoursake."
Not for worlds, even to themselves, would these two old ladies acknowledge that they are right glad of the chance that has come to them of introducing so beautiful a niece to the gay world around them, and of mingling, even in a subdued and decorous fashion, with the amusements that for the last five years they have (most unwillingly, be it said, but on the score of age) declined.
"I wonder who will be there," says Monica, in a fresher tone, striving vainly to drown the hope that is taking possession of her, a hope that connects itself with a certain blue-eyed, dark-haired young man, last seen in boating flannels.
"Everybody," says Miss Priscilla,—"the entire country. MadamO'Connor may not be—is not—there may be certain points about her—that"—floundering hopelessly—"I mean"—with a rush—"there are a few who object to hermannerbut her birth is undeniable, and she has a large fortune; you must know, my dear, her father was a direct descendant of KingO'Toole,and herhusband the head of one of the oldest families in Ireland."
"Is that the old woman who called here the day before yesterday?" asked Terence, irreverently. They are all sitting in the drawing-room, Terence being rather on the balcony perhaps.
"Yes—I regret you were not in to receive her. I shouldhave liked you to make her acquaintance, Monica,before going to Aghyohillbeg."
"Oh I saw her," says Terence, contemptuously,"she's got an eye like a lance, and a man's figure. She drove herself, and held the reins like this," throwing himself into position.
"If you are going out, Terence, you may as well go at once," says Miss Priscilla, with dignity, pretending neither to hear nor see him. Whereupon Terence gladly departs.
"Go on, auntie," says Monica, slipping down on a footstool close to Aunt Penelope, and leaning both her arms across the old lady's knee. "Who else will be there?"
"Yes, tell her everything, Priscilla," says Miss Penelope, smoothing the girl's hair softly, and feeling a strange thrill of pleasure in her heart as she notices the little confident gesture with which the girl nestles close to her.
"Well, there will be her own guests, of course, I mean those staying with her, for she always has her house full," says Miss Priscilla, after a slight pause, being still somewhat ruffled by Terry's remarks. "The Fitzgeralds will be there, of course. Bella is considered a very handsome girl, but I don't think you will like her much."
"No, no, she is not at all our Monica's style," says Miss Penelope, stroking the pretty cheek near her with her mittened hand. "Yet she has a fine skin."
"Ay, and a fine temper under it, or I'm a Dutchman," says Miss Priscilla. "And she is more peculiar than handsome; but men admire her, sowesay nothing."
"Is she tall?" asks Monica, anxiously, who is a little thing herself, and looks even smaller than she really is because of her slender, girlish figure. She wonders in a vague, uncomfortable fashion whether—whether most men like tall women best.
"Tall? yes, and large in proportion; and as for hermanners," says Miss Priscilla, in her severest tone, "in my opinion they are simply unbearable. Modesty in my days was a virtue, nowadays it is asnaught. Bella Fitzgerald is never content unless she has every man in the room at her side, and goodness alone knows what it is she says to them. The way she sets her cap at that poor boy Ronayne, just because he has fallen in for that property, is quite revolting."
"And a mere lad, too," says Miss Penelope.
Monica draws a breath of relief. Perhaps if Miss Fitzgerald likes Mr. Ronayne she will not care to practise her fascinations upon——any other man.
"How old is she?" she asks, feeling deeply interested in the conversation.
"Shesaysshe is twenty-four," says Miss Priscilla, with an eloquent sniff. "There is nothing easier to say than that. Iwon'tbe uncharitable, my dear Penelope,—you needn't look at me like that,—but this I must say, she looks every hour of eight and twenty."
"Her mother ought to know," says Miss Penelope.
"She ought, indeed," grimly. "But, as from the way she dresses we may reasonably conclude she thinksherselfnineteen, I suppose she has lost her memory on all points."
"Her father, Otho Fitzgerald, was the same," says Miss Penelope, reflectively. "He never could bear the idea of age. He was one who saw nothing honorable in it. Gray hairs with him were a crime."
"So he used to dye them," says Miss Priscilla, maliciously; "and when he got warm the dye used to melt, and (unknown to him) run all down his cheek."
"Oh, Priscilla, how you remember things? Dear, dear, I think I see him now," says Miss Penelope. And here the two old ladies, overcome by this comical recollection, laugh until the tears run down their faces. Monica joins in from sheer sympathy; but Kit, who is sitting in the embrasure of a distant window and who had been strangely silent ever since the invitation came from Aghyohillbeg, maintains a stern gravity.
"Poor man," says Miss Penelope, wiping her eyes, "I shall never forget the night your sweet mother, my dear Monica, most unintentionally offended him about the diamond—you recollect, Priscilla? Tell Monica of it."
"He always wore a huge diamond ring upon his little finger," says Miss Priscilla, addressing Monica, "of which he was very proud. He was at this time about fifty-three, but used to pose as a man of thirty-nine. One evening showing the ring to your mother, then quite a girl, he said to her, in his stilted way, 'This jewel has been in our family for fifty years.' 'Ah! did you buy it, Mr. Fitzgerald?' asks your mother, in her sweet innocent way. Ha, ha, ha!" laughs Miss Priscilla, "you should have seen his face. It was a picture! and just when he was trying to make himself agreeable to your poor mother, and acting as if he was a youthful beau of twenty-five, or at least as young as the best of us."
"That was so like mother," says Monica, in a low tone. "She always knew where totouchpeople."
"Oh, no, my dear, not at all like her," says Miss Penelope,hastily. "She didn'tmeanit, you must understand; she was the very soul of sweetness, and would not willingly affront any one for the world."
For just an instant Monica lifts her eyes and gazes earnestly at her aunt; but the old face is so earnest and sincere that with a faint sigh she lowers her eyes again, and makes no further remark.
"After that he married his cousin's wife, a widow with one child, this girl, Bella," says Miss Priscilla, still full ofreminiscences, as old people will be. "A most unpleasant person I thought her, though she was considered quite a belle in those days."
"She always appeared to me such a silly woman," says Miss Penelope.
"She is worse than that now," says Miss Priscilla, who seems specially hard on the Fitzgeralds. "She is a shocking old woman, with a nose like a flower-pot. I won't say she drinks, my dear Penelope, because I know you would object to it; but Ihearshe does, and certainly her nose is her betrayer."
"Do you remember," says Miss Penelope, "how anxious she once was to marry George Desmond?" This she says in a very low tone.
"Yes, I remember." The bare mention of her enemy's name has sent a flush of crimson into Miss Priscilla's cheeks. "But he never bestowed a thought uponher."
"Oh, no, never," says Miss Penelope, after which both the Misses Blake grow silent and seem to be slowly sinking into the land of revery.
But Monica, having heard the "enemy's name" mentioned, becomes filled with a determination to sift the mystery connected with him, now, to the end.
"Aunt Priscilla," she says, softly, looking at her with grave eyes across Miss Penelope's knees, "tell me, now,why Mr. Desmond is our enemy."
"Oh, notnow," says Miss Penelope, nervously.
"Yes, now, please," says Monica, with ever-increasing gravity.
"It may all be said in a few words, Monica," says Miss Priscilla, slowly. "And what I have to say affects you, my dear, even more than us."
"Me?"
"Yes, in that it affects your mother. Twenty years ago George Desmond was her affianced husband. Twenty yearsago, wilfully and without cause, he deliberately broke with her his plighted troth."
"He threw her over?" exclaims Monica, aghast at this revelation.
"Well, I never heard be used actual violence to her, my dear," says Miss Penelope, in a distressed tone; "but he certainly broke off his engagement with her, and behaved as no man of honor could possibly behave."
"And mother must have been quite beautiful at that time, must she not?" says Monica, rising to her knees in her excitement, and staring with widely-opened eyes of purest amazement from one aunt to the other.
"'Beautiful as the blushing morn,'" says Miss Priscilla, quoting from some ancient birthday-book. "But, you see, even her beauty was powerless to save her from insult. From what we could learn, he absolutely refused to fulfil his marriage-contract with her. He was false to the oath he had sworn over our father's dying bed."
Nothing can exceed the scorn and solemnity of Miss Priscilla's manner as she says all this.
"And what did mother do?" asks Monica, curiously.
"Whatcouldshe do, poor child? I have no doubt it went nigh to breaking her heart."
"Her heart?" says Monica.
"She suffered acutely. That we could see, or rather we had to guess it, as for days she kept her own chamber and would see no one, going out only when it was quite dusk for a solitary ramble. Ah! when sorrow afflicts the soul, there is no balm so great as solitude. Your poor mother took the whole affair dreadfully to heart."
"You mean that she reallyfretted?" asks Monica, still in the same curious way, with her eyes fixed on her aunt. There is, indeed, so much unstudied surprise in her whole manner as might have produced a corresponding amount in the Misses Blake, had they noticed it.
"Yes, my dear, of course. Dear, dear, dear! what a sad thing it all was! Well, now you understand all that it is needful you should, Monica," says Miss Penelope, with a glance at her sister, who really seems quite overcome. "So we will say no more about it. Only you can see for yourself how impossible it is for any of our blood to be on friendly terms with a Desmond."
"They may not all be likethatMr. Desmond," says Monica, timidly, coloring to her brow.
"Yes, yes. Like father, like son; you know the old adage; and a nephew is as close a relation almost. We can know no one at Coole."
"I would almost rather see you dead than intimate with one of the name," says Miss Priscilla, with sudden harshness.
"I don't think we told Monica about the other guests at Aghyohillbeg," says Miss Penelope, hastily, with the kindly intention of changing the conversation. "A very pretty young woman came there about a week before your arrival, child, and is to remain, I believe, for some time. She is a widow, and young, and—by the bye, I wonder if she can be any relation to your friends in the South of France."
"Why?"
"Her name is Bohun, and——"
"NotOlgaBohun?" says Monica, springing to her feet. "A widow, you say, and young. Oh! auntie, if she onlymightbe Olga!"
"Well, certainly she has a heathenish—I mean, a Russian—name like that," says Miss Priscilla. "She is a very little woman, with merry eyes, and she laughs always, and she has the prettiest, the most courteous manners. Quite a relief I found her, after the inanities of Bella Fitzgerald."
"She is even smaller than I am. Yes, and her eyes do laugh!" says Monica, delight making her cheeks warm. "She is the prettiest thing. Ah! how happy I shall be if I may see her sometimes!"
"You shall see her just as often as ever you and she wish," say the two old maids in a breath, glad in the thought that they can make her home at Moyne happy to her.
"I hopeyoulike her," says Monica, glancing from one to the other of them.
"Yes. I thought her quite fascinating," says Miss Penelope. "Some people say she is rather—ratherfast, I believe is the word they use nowadays," getting the word out with difficulty, as though afraid it may go off and do somebody an injury. "But for my part I don't believe a word of it. She is quite natural, and most pleasing in manner,especiallyto those who are older than herself. A great charm in these times, my dear, when age is despised."
Plainly, the little widow at Aghyohillbeg has been playing off her sweetest graces upon the two Misses Blake.
"I dare say Monica will like young Ronayne," says Miss Priscilla. "He is quite nice, that lad. But I hope, Monica, that, even if circumstances should throw you together, you willtake no notice of young Mr. Desmond. I myself would not exchange a word with him if a queen's diadem were offered me as a bribe."
"You might speak to him without knowing him," says Monica, blushing again that nervous crimson of a while ago.
"Impossible, my dear. Instinct, sharpened by hatred, would tell me when one of the race was near me."
"Well, as it is your first party here, dear child, I hope you will enjoy it," says Miss Penelope, quickly, as though again anxious to throw oil on the waters by changing the conversation. "It is a charming place, and its mistress, if a little rough, is at least kindly."
At this moment Kit, emerging from the curtains that have hidden her for the past hour, comes slowly to the front. Her face, her very attitude, is martial. She is plainly in battle-array. Pausing before Miss Priscilla, she directs her first fire upon her.
"Am I not asked at all?" she says, in a terrible tone, that contrasts painfully with the ominous silence she has maintained ever since the invitation was brought by Mrs. O'Connor's groom.
"My dear child, you must remember you are only fourteen," says Miss Priscilla, who is sincerely sorry the child has not been included in the invitation, and, in fact, thinks it rather unkind she has been left out.
"Iknowthat, thank you," says the youngest Miss Beresford, uncompromisingly, fixing her aunt with a stony glare. "I know my birthday as well as most people. And so, just because I am a child, I am to be slighted, am I? I call it unfair! I call it beastlymean, that every one here is to be invited out to enjoy themselves exceptme."
"Young people are seldom asked to grown-up parties," says Miss Priscilla, in her best conciliatory manner. "When you are as old as Monica, of course you will go everywhere. In the meantime you are only a child."
"I am old enough to conduct myself properly, at all events," says Kit, unmoved. "I suppose atfourteen"—as if this is an age replete with wisdom—"I am not likely to do anythingveryextraordinary, or make myself unpleasant, or be in anybody's way."
"That is not the question, at all: it is merely one of age," says Miss Priscilla.
"Is it? And yet people say a great deal about childhood being the happiest time of one's life," says Kit, almost chokingwith scornful rage. "I should just like to see the fellow who first said that. Maybe I wouldn't enlighten him, and tell him what a hypocrite he was. Whoever said it, it is a decided untruth, and I know I wish to goodness I was grown up, because then," with withering emphasis, "I should not be trampled upon and insulted!"
This is dreadful. The two old ladies, unaccustomed in their quiet lives to tornadoes and volcanoes of any kind, are almost speechless with fright.
"Dearest," says Monica, going up to her, "howcanyou look at it in such a light?"
"It's all very well for you," says the indignant Kit: "you'regoing, you know. I'm to stay at home, like that wretched Cinderella!"
"Katherine, I am sure you are quite unaware of the injustice of your remarks," says Miss Priscilla, at last finding her voice. She is bent on delivering a calm rebuke; but inwardly (as any one can see) she is quaking. "And I have frequently told you before that the expression 'I wish to goodness,' which you used just now, is anything but ladylike. It is not nice; it is not proper."
"I don't care what is proper or improper, when I am treated as I now am," says the rebel, with flashing eyes and undaunted front.
"There is reallynothingto complain of," says Miss Priscilla, earnestly, seeing censure has no effect. "Madam O'Connor would not willingly offend any one; she is a very kind woman, and——"
"She is a regular old wretch!" says the youngestMissBeresford, with considerable spirit.
"MydearKatherine!"
"And it's my belief she has done iton purpose!" with increasing rage.
"Katherine, I must insist——"
"You may insist as you like, but I'll be even with her yet," persists Kit, after which, being quite overcome with wrath, she breaks down, and bursts into a violent fit of weeping.
"My dear child, don't do that," says Miss Penelope, rising precipitately, and going over to the weeping fury. "Priscilla," in a trembling tone, "I fear it is selfish. I think, my dear, I shall stay at home, too, the day you all go to Madam O'Connor's."
This kills the storm at once.
"No, no, indeed, Aunt Penny, you shan't." Kit cries, subdued,but still in tears. She is overcome with remorse, and blames herself cruelly in that her ill temper should have led to this proposal of self-sacrifice. To give in to Kit is the surest and quickest method of gaining your own point. She throws her arms, as she speaks, around Miss Penelope's neck, and nearly strangles that dear old lady in her remorseful agitation, to say nothing of the deadly havoc she makes of her frills and laces.
"But indeed, my Kitten, it will be no privation to me to stay at home with you, and we will be quite happy together, and we will have our tea out in the orchard," says Miss Penelope, soothing her with sweet words; while Miss Priscilla, who is thoroughly frightened by the sobbing, pats the refractory child on the back, with a view to allaying all fear of convulsions.
"You shan't stay at home, Aunt Penny,—you shan't indeed," cries the inconsistent Kitten. "I like being alone, Iloveit; if you don't go to that place with the long name, and enjoy yourself very much, I shall be miserable all my life, though I love you very, very,verymuch for wishing to keep me from being lonely. Tell her I mean it, Monica."
"Yes, I am sure she means it," says Monica, earnestly, whereupon peace is once more restored to the breasts of the terrified aunts.