How Monica goes to Aghyohillbeg, and meets there an old friend and a very new one.
How Monica goes to Aghyohillbeg, and meets there an old friend and a very new one.
Time flies, and no man can reach his hand to stay it. A very good thing, too, thinks Monica, as she stands before her looking-glass putting the last pretty touches to her white toilet.
It is Friday. Madam O'Connor's garden-party lies before her, and, probably, other things. Here she blushes at herself, as she sees that pretty soul in the glass, though,indeed, she has no cause to do so; but possibly the vague thought of those "other things" has something to do with it, and perhaps it is for their sake too that she places with such care the heavy, blood-colored rose beneath her chin.
This is the only suspicion of color about her. Her gown is white; her hat is white; long white silk gloves run up her rounded arms as though bent on joining her sleeves far above the elbow. A white Surat sash is tied round her dainty waist. She is looking "as fair as the moon, as lovely as a rose," and altogether distinctly dangerous.
Perhaps she half recognizes this fact, because she smiles at her own reflection, and—vain little girl that she is—stoops forward and kisses herself in the happy glass that holds her even for so brief a minute; after which she summons her maid from her dressing-room beyond.
"Canty," she says, as the "uncle's wife's sister's child" enters, "I am dressed now; and——"
"Shure, so you are, miss; and lovely ye look, more power to ye."
"Make my room very tidy," says Monica, giving her her directions before starting. "And, Canty, I shall want my blue dress for dinner. You can put it out."
"Yes, miss," whereupon Monica prepares to leave the room; but the new maid stops her.
"If ye please, Miss Monica," she says, hesitating, and applying her apron to her lips.
"Yes, Canty?"
"I'd be very thankful to ye, miss, if ye wouldn't call me that."
"Call you what?"
"Canty, miss."
"But," astonished, "isn't it your name?"
"No, miss; me name is Bridget."
"But surely Canty is your name, too?"
"Well, it's me father's name, miss, no doubt; but faix I feel just like a boy when ye call me by it, an' ye wouldn't like me to feel like a boy, miss, would ye?" says the village beauty casting an anxious glance at Monica from her dark Irish eyes, and blushing deeply.
"Certainly not," says Monica, laughing a little. "Very well, Bridget; I shall try to forget you ever had a surname."
"Thank ye, miss," says Bridget, with a sigh of profound relief.
Then Monica runs downstairs, where she finds her aunts in the drawing-room, dressed in their very best silk gowns, waiting for the carriage to come round. There is a little delay, which wasted time the two old ladies spend in endeavoring todrill Terence into shape. Something of this sort is going on as Monica enters.
"When I introduce you to Madam O'Connor or Lady Rossmoyne, my dear boy, be sure you make a very low bow. Nothing distinguishes a gentleman so much from the common herd as the manner of his salute. Now make me a bow, that I may judge of your style." Thus Miss Priscilla.
"I couldn't make one to order like that," says Terence; yet he sulkily complies, making a very short, stiff, and uncompromising nod that makes both aunts lift their hands in dismay.
"Oh, no, my dear!—that won't doat all! Most ungraceful, and totally devoid of the dignity that should inspire it. Now look at me. It should be something likethis," making him a reverence that might well have created admiration in the court of Queen Anne.
"Ah, yes! that is something like what it should be," chimes in Miss Penelope, paying a tribute to the talent of her sister. "Priscilla has caught the true tone. I wish, Terence, we could see you more like your dear grandfather;hewas a man to bow."
Terence, calling to mind the portrait of his "dear grandfather," as represented in the elaborate gilt frame in the dining-room, in a court suit and a periwig, and with an abominable simper, most devoutly thanks his gods that he isnotlike unto him. He is, indeed (feeling goaded to the last degree), about to break into unseemly language, when, fortunately, the arrival of the ancient equipage that has done duty at Moyne as state carriage for generations is announced.
The coachman, who is considerably older than Timothy, draws up the old horses before the door with a careful manner that impresses the beholder with the belief that he thinks they would run away in a minute if he relaxed a muscle on the reins; and a small boy who acts as footman and looks decidedly depressed, lets down the rickety steps.
Miss Priscilla Blake then enters the carriage. She isfollowedwith much ceremony by Miss Penelope. After which Monica, who is impressed by the proceedings, and Terence, who is consumed with secret mirth, step in and seat themselves. Then the coachman says, "Gee up!" in exactly the tone he has employed for forty years; and the gloomy boy settling down beside him, they are all presently on the fair road to Aghyohillbeg.
The drive is a very pleasant one, though filled with injunctions of the most obsolete from the Misses Blake as to theirbehavior, etc. The fact is, that the two old maids are so puffed out with pride at the thought that they will presently introduce to the county the handsome lad and beautiful girl opposite them that they have grown fidgety and over-anxious about the niceties of their presentation.
"Surely," say the Misses Blake to themselves and to each other, "not half so pretty a pair could be produced by any family in the south!"
Which is saying a great deal, as in the south of Ireland a pretty face is more the rule than the exception.
Over the dusty road they go, calmly, carefully, the old horses being unaccustomed to fast ways of any sort; slowly, with much care they pick their aged steps, never stumbling, never swerving, but as certainly never giving way to frivolous haste.
Then, all at once, as it seems to Monica, the hillside seems to break in twain, and a great iron gate appears, into which they turn to drive in their solemn fashion down a dark avenue shaded by swaying elms.
It is a perfect place, old as the hills that surround it, and wild in its loveliness. To right and left great trees, gnarled and moss-grown, and dipping tangles of blackberry and fern; patches of sunlight, amidst the gloom, that rests lovingly upon a glowing wilderness of late bluebells, and, beyond all these broad glimpses of the glorious, restless ocean, as it sleeps in its bay below.
Gazing at all this natural beauty, Monica's soft eyes and heart expand, and,—
"Joy rises in her like a summer morn."
"Joy rises in her like a summer morn."
And then she sees an old house, low, broad, picturesque, with balconies and terraces, and beyond the house slanting lawns, and at one side tennis-courts, where many gayly-clad figures are moving to and fro. There is a sound of subdued laughter and the perfume of many flowers, and a general air of gayety; it is as though to-day care has utterly forgotten this one favored corner of the earth.
Then they all descend from the time honored chariot, and cross the lawn to where they can see their hostess standing, tall and erect and handsome, in spite of her sixty years.
"Your niece?" says Madam O'Connor, staring hard at Monica's pure little face, the girl looking straight back at her with a certain amount of curiosity in her eyes.—"Well, I wish you no greater fortune than your face, my dear," says the oldIrishwoman. "It ought to be a rich one, I'm thinking. You're like your mother, too; but your eyes are honester than hers. You must know I knew Kitty Blake very well at one time."
"I have heard my mother speak of you," says Monica.
"Ay—so? Yet I fear there wasn't much love lost between us."
Then she turns a little aside to greet some one else, and Monica lets her eyes roam round the grounds. Suddenly she starts, and says out loud,—
"Ah! there is Olga?"
"You know Mrs. Bohun, then?" says her hostess, attracted by her exclamation and her pretty vivacious expression.
"So very, very well," says Monica. She has flushed warmly, and her eyes are brilliant. "I want to speak to her; I want to go to her,please."
"Bless me! what a shame to waste that lovely blush on a mere woman!" says Madam O'Connor, with a merry laugh. "Here, Fred," turning to a young man standing close to her with a very discontented expression, "I am going to give you a mission after your own heart. You are to take Miss Beresford over there, to where Mrs. Bohun is dealing death to all those boys.—This is Lord Rossmoyne, Miss Beresford: he will see you safely over your rubicon."
"Oh, thank you!" says Monica, gratefully smiling at her.
"Tut, child! thank me when I have done something for you. It is Fred's turn to thank me now," says Madam O'Connor, with a merry twinkle in her gray eyes.
She is a large woman close on sixty, with an eagle eye and a hawk's nose. As Monica leaves her she continues her gossip with the half dozen young men round her, who are all laughing at some joke. Presently she herself is laughing louder than any of them (being partial to boys and their "fun," as she calls it). Bestowing now a smart blow with her fan upon the youngest and probably therefore most flippant of her attendants, she stalks away from them across the lawn, to where two ladies are sitting together.
One is elderly, but most ridiculously dressed in juvenile attire, that might have well suited the daughter sitting beside her. This latter is a tall girl, and large in every way, with curious eyes and a rather harsh voice; she is laughing now at some remark made by a man lounging at the back of her chair, and the laugh is both affected and discordant.
"Have you seen that girl of Kitty Beresford's, Edith?" asks Madam O'Connor of the elder lady.
"That little washed-out-looking girl who came with those two old Miss Blakes?" asks the youthful old woman, with a profoundly juvenile lisp.
"Faith, I don't know about her being washed out," says Madam O'Connor, bluntly. "I think she is the prettiest creature I've seen this many a day."
"You are so impulsive, my dear Theresa!" says her friend, with a simper: "all your geese are swans."
"And other people's swans my geese, I suppose," says Madam, with a glance at the tall girl, which somehow brings the conversation to a full stop.
Meantime, Monica is crossing the soft turf, with the moody man called Rossmoyne beside her. She can see her goal in the distance, and finds comfort in the thought that soon she must be there, as she cannot bring herself to be agreeable to her new acquaintance; and certainly he is feeling no desire just at present to be agreeable to her or to anybody.
As Monica comes nearer to her friend, she gazes anxiously at her, as though to see if time has worked a change in her.
She is quite a little woman about five and twenty, but looking at least four years younger than that. Her eyes are large, dark, and mischievous. Her hair is so fair as to be almost silvery; naturally wavy, it is cut upon the forehead in the prevailing fashion, but not curled. Her mouth is small, mutinous, and full of laughter; her nose distinctly retroussé. Altogether she is distractingly pretty, and, what goes for more nowadays, very peculiar in style, and out of the common.
She is exquisitely dressed in a costume that suggests Paris. She is a harmony in black and white, as Lord Rossmoyne told her an hour ago, when he wasnotwearing his discontented expression. Seated beside her is a tall pallid woman with a cold face, but very velvety eyes and a smile rare buthandsome. Every now and then this smile betrays itself, as her companion says anything that chances to amuse her. She is a Mrs. Herrick, a cousin of Olga Bohun's, and is now on a visit with her at Aghyohillbeg.
There are several men grouped round Mrs. Bohun, all in various standing positions. One man is lying at her feet. He is a tall slight young fellow, of about twenty-three, with a lean face, dark hair, and beautiful teeth. He has, too, beautiful eyes, and a most lovable expression, half boyish, but intensely earnest and very sensitive.
Just now he appears happy and careless, and altogether as if he and the world are friends indeed, and that he is filled with the belief that every one likes him; and, in truth, he is right in so believing, for every one does like him, and a great many are fond of him, and some love him.
He is looking up at Mrs. Bohun, and is talking rapidly, as Monica and Lord Rossmoyne come up behind them.
"What! another bit of scandal?" exclaims Mrs. Bohun, lifting her brows in pleased anticipation. "The air seemed full of it. An hour ago I heard of the dire discomfiture of two of my dearest friends, and just now I listened to a legend of Belgravia that was distinctlyfifiand had a good deal to do with a marchioness. It is really quite too much happiness foroneday."
"My tale does not emanate from such an aristocratic region as Belgravia," says Ulic Ronayne, the man at her feet: "it is, I blush to say, from the city."
"Ah!" in a regretful tone; "then it will of course be decenter. Don't trouble to expend color on it, as I daresay there isn't a blush in the whole of it. Well," resignedly, "go on."
In the usual quick manner habitual to him, and with the slight but eloquent amount of gesture common to Irish people, Ronayne tells his news, which is received with low laughter by those around.
"I've heard better stories," says Mrs. Bohun, discontentedly; "and it isn't a bit like what Lord Tommy would do. It is more in Rossmoyne's line. I don't think I believe it. And the roundabout way in which you told it reminds one of a three-volume novel: the first leads up to the point, the third winds up the point, the secondisthe point. I confess I like the second volume best. When I grow funny over my friends I'mallsecond."
"Then don't be funny about me, please," says Ronayne, lazily.
"Areyou my friend?" asks she, glancing at him. Lifting his eyes to hers, he pauses, and then says slowly, the smile dying from his face,—
"Well, perhapsnot."
Then he lowers his eyes again, and goes back to his idle occupation of decorating with daisies some of the fantastic loops upon her gown.
At this moment Lord Rossmoyne, coming forward, says, sullenly, "May I hear the story that just now reminded you ofme? But first——" He pauses, and glances at Monica. Mrs. Bohun, following his glance, rises hurriedly from her seat, and going up to the girl, embraces her warmly.
"Ah! myprettyMonica! my little saint!" she cries, in her sweet, gay voice, "what happy breeze has blown you hither?"
"I am living here,—at Moyne,—with my aunts," in a happy, breathless way. "Some days ago they described you to me, and I knew it must be you. I was right. And to-day I have found you."
"I'm always found out, as a rule," says Mrs. Bohun, with a light laugh. "That is my standing grievance. You know Hermia, don't you?" indicating the tall, cold-looking woman near her, who so far unbends as to take Monica's hand kindly and bestow upon her one of her handsome smiles. "She has come here to look after me and see that I don't get into a scrape or make myself unhappy."
"Could you be unhappy?" says Rossmoyne, from behind her chair, in so disagreeable a tone that every one looks at him. "Decidedly," thinks Monica to herself, "he has either neuralgia or an execrable temper."
"Miserably so," says the pretty widow, airily. "Though, after all," reflectively, "I believe I have even a greater talent for making others so. That, however, is my misfortune, not my fault. I was 'born so,' like that poor man with the twisted neck."
"Well, this is not one of your miserably unhappy hours, at all events," says Hermia Herrick. "You have been in magnificent spirits ever since you came to Aghyohillbeg."
"You've learned it?" says Olga, staring at her with pretended surprise. "The name, I mean. Well, youareclever. It takes most people four long weeks. Oh, yes, I am blissfully happy here. Ioughtto be. It would be the grossest ingratitude if I were otherwise, as all the men have been good enough to fall in love with me, and that, of course, is the principal thing."
At this the young man at her feet smiles openly and presses his face unperceived against her gown; but Rossmoyne throws up his head and glances with a coldly displeased expression into the vague distance.
"Have you been here long?" asks Monica, turning to her friend.
"Verylong," pettishly. Something—perhaps Rossmoyne—has annoyed the capricious beauty.
"Only a fortnight," says Mrs. Herrick, briefly. "Youmustknow that."
"I don't judge time by days and weeks; itseemslong," says Mrs. Bohun, "years,—an eternity almost!"
A sudden gloom appears to have fallen upon the group. Rossmoyne's dark face grows darker still; the smile fades from Ronayne's face, a shadow falls athwart his eyes.
"I think I like the country," says Monica, suddenly. "It is so calm, so quiet, and there are moments when the very beauty of it brings tears to my eyes."
"I love it too," says Ronayne, quickly, addressing her pointedly in a friendly tone, although no introduction has been gone through between them. "I wonder how any one who has once tasted the sweetness of it can ever again long for the heat and turmoil of the town."
"Yes, for a time it is charming, all-sufficing," says Mrs. Bohun, "but for what alittletime! Perhaps,—I am not sure,—butperhapsI should like to live for three months of every year in the country. After that, I know I should begin to pine again for the smoke and smuts of my town."
"If you are already wearied, I wonder you stay here," says Lord Rossmoyne, sullenly.
"And I wonder what has happened to-day to your usually so charming temper," returns she, laughingly uplifting her face to his, and letting her eyes rest on him with almost insolent inquiry.
"Desmond says good temper is a mere matter of digestion," says some one at this moment. Monica starts more at the name mentioned than at the exceedingly worn-out words uttered. She glances at the speaker, and sees he is a very ugly young man, with a nice face, and a remarkably dismal expression. He is looking at Rossmoyne. "Sit down, dear boy," he says,sotto voceand very sadly. "There's too much of you; you should never stand. You appear to so much better advantage when doubled in two. It don'tsoundwell, does it? but——"
"But really, when you come to think of it," Mrs. Bohun is saying, feelingly, "there is very little in the country."
"There is at least the fascinating tulip and lily," says the sad man who mentioned Desmond's name. "Don't put yourself beyond the pale of art by saying you had forgotten those æsthetic flowers,—blossoms, I mean. Don't you yearn when you think of them?Ido."
"So glad you are awake at last, Owen!" says Mrs. Bohun.
"That silly craze about tulips," says Mrs. Herrick, contemptuously,"I have always treated it with scorn. Why could not the art idiots have chosen some better flower for their lunatic ravings? What cananyone see in a tulip?"
"Sometimes earwigs," says the man called Owen.
"Nonsense! I don't believe even earwigs would care for it. Foolish, gaudy thing, uplifting its lanky neck as though to outdo its fellows! There is really nothing in it."
"Like the country," says Owen, meekly, "according to Mrs. Bohun."
"And like Bella Fitzgerald," says that graceless person, with a little grimace.
"MydearOlga," says Mrs. Herrick, glancing quickly to right and left. "Do you neverthink?"
"As seldom as ever I can. But why be nervous, Hermia? If any one were to comparemewith a tulip, I should die of—no, not chagrin—joy, I mean, of course. Monica, what are you saying to Owen?"
"I don't think I know who Owen is," says Monica, with a glance at the gentleman in question, that is half shy, half friendly.
"That argues yourself unknown," says Olga. "He is Master Owen Kelly, of Kelly's Grove, county Antrim, and the bright and shining light of the junior bar. They all swear by him in Dublin,—all, that is except the judges, and they swearathim."
Monica looks at Master Owen Kelly in a faintly puzzled fashion.
"It is all quite true," says that young man, modestly, in a reassuring tone.
"Now tell us what you were saying to each other," says Olga.
"It was nothing," returns Monica. "We were only talking about this Egyptian war. But I don't really," nervously, "understand anything about it."
"You needn't blush for your ignorance on that score," says Mr. Kelly. "You're in the general swim: nobody knows."
"It is the most senseless proceeding altogether," says Hermia Herrick, in her decided way. "Gladstone's wars are toys. He has had three of them now, dear little fellow, to amuse himself with, and he ought to be proud of hisvictories."
"According to Erasmus, war is the 'malady of princes,'" says Lord Rossmoyne, sententiously.
"Rossmoyne isn't well," says Mr. Kelly, softly. "He is calling the wood-cutter a prince. It reminds one of HansAndersen's fairy-tale: all hewers of wood and drawers of water were blood-royal then."
"Yet Gladstone has intellect," says Mrs. Herrick, in oh,sucha tone: would that the master of Hewarden could have heard her!
"Some!" said Mr. Kelly. "He is indeed 'a thing apart.' I know nothing like him. 'Once, in the flight of ages past, there lived aman.' In ages to come they will say that of our modern immortal William. They will probably add that norealman has ever lived since."
"How silly you can be at times!" says Olga.
"It isn't mine; it's Montgomery's nonsense," says Mr. Kelly, sadly. "Blame him, not me."
"I don't want to blame any one," says Olga, with a skillfully-suppressed yawn; "but, taking your view of the case, I think it will be an awful age when theredoesn'tlive a man."
"Your 'occupation will be o'er,' indeed," says Rossmoyne, with an accentuated bitterness, "when that time comes."
("He must be very much in love with her," thinks Monica, with a touch of inspiration, "he is so excessively rude to her!")
"Lord Rossmoyne," says Mrs. Bohun, turning to him with ineffable sweetness, "will you do something for me?"
The transition from coldness to tender appeal is too much for Rossmoyne: his face brightens.
"You know there is nothing I would not do for you," he says, gravely but eagerly.
"Then," promptly, "please take that ugly frown off your forehead and put it in your pocket; or—no, throw it away altogether; if you kept it near you, you might be tempted to put it on again."
"I did not know I was frowning."
"You were," sweetly. "You are all right again now, and so shall be rewarded. You can't think how unbecoming frowns are, and how much better you look when you are all 'sweetness and light' as now for example. Come," rising, "you shall take me for a nice long walk through these delightful old gardens."
As she moves she sees the daisies still clinging to her gown that Ulic Ronayne has been amusing himself with during the past half-hour. More than this, she sees, too, the imploring gaze of his dark eyes upturned to hers.
"Silly boy!" she says, stooping to shake away the daisies with her hand; but her words have a double meaning. Involuntarily,unseen by all the others—except Monica—his hand closes upon hers.
"Do not go with him," he says, with deep entreaty.
"I must—now."
"Then let me cometoo?"
"No." Then she raises herself, and says, gayly, "You shall stay and make love to Miss Beresford—Monica, I have desired Mr. Ronayne to stay here and amuse you."
She moves across the lawn with Rossmoyne beside her. Mrs. Herrick and Mr. Kelly are strolling lazily in another direction. Monica and Ulic are alone.
"Is there anything I can take you to see?" asks he, gently.
"No, thank you. I am quite happy here."
Then, noticing the extreme sadness on his beautiful face, she says, slowly, "But you are not, I am afraid."
"Ishouldbe, with so fair a companion." He smiles as he says this, but his smile is without mirth, and she does not return it. Suddenly leaning forward, she says to him, very tenderly,—
"You love Olga, do you not?"
She never afterwards thinks of this speech without blushing deeply and wondering why she said it. It was an impulse too strong to be conquered, and it overpowers her. His face changes, and he colorsperceptibly; he hesitates too, and regards her inquiringly. Something, perhaps, in her expression reassures him, because presently he says, bravely,—
"Yes, I do. I love her with all my heart and soul; as I never have loved, as I never shall love again.Thisthought is my happiness: my sorrow lies in the fear that she will never loveme. Forgive my saying all this to you: she told me to amuse you," with a faint smile, "and I have woefully neglected her commands."
"You must forgive me," says Monica. "I should not have asked you the question."
"Do not be sorry for that: it has done me good, I think. I am glad I have said itout loudto somebody at last. It is odd though,—isn't it?—I should have made my confession to you, of all people, whom I never saw until ten minutes ago!"
Then Monica remembers that this is the second young man she has found herself on friendly terms with since her arrival at Moyne, without the smallest introduction having been gone through on any side. It all sounds rather dreamy, and certainly very irregular.
"Ah! there is Madam O'Connor beckoning to me," saysRonayne, rising lazily to his feet. "I suppose she wants me for a moment. Will you mind my leaving you for a little, or will you come with me? I shan't be any time."
"I shall stay here," says Monica. "There, go: she seems quite in a hurry. Come back when you can."
He runs across the grass to his hostess; and Monica, leaning back in her chair, gives herself up to thought. Everything is strange, and she is feeling a little lonely, a littledistraite, and (but this she will not allow even to herself) distinctly disappointed. She is trying very hard to prevent her mind from dwelling upon a certain face that should be naught to her, when she suddenly becomes conscious of the fact that some one has come to a standstill close beside her chair. She turns.
How Monica listens to strange words and suffers herself to be led away.—How Cupid plants a shaft in Mars, and how Miss Priscilla finds herself face to face with the enemy.
How Monica listens to strange words and suffers herself to be led away.—How Cupid plants a shaft in Mars, and how Miss Priscilla finds herself face to face with the enemy.
"You see I failed," says Brian Desmond.
A quick warm blush has dyed Monica's cheeks crimson.
"Ah! it is you," she said. "I thought you had not come."
This betrays the fact that she has been thinking of him, but he is far too wise a young man in his own generation to take count of it.
"Yes, I came. Three days ago I thought I should have been in London now, and then I heardyouwere to be here to-day."
"In what have you failed?" asks she, abruptly, alluding to his opening sentence.
"Can't you guess? Have you forgotten the last cruel injunction you laid upon me? 'When next we meet,' you said, 'you are to look straight over my head and pass on.' Will you believe that twice to-day I obeyed that mandate? The third time was the charm: it conquered me; I broke my sword in two and came to you."
"I wish you hadn't," says Monica, sincerely, if impolitely. "I wish you would go away now, and promise me never to speak to me again. YouknowI am afraid of you," looking nervously around.
"I don't, indeed; I can't conceive such a situation. You do me a great injustice, I think. I verily believe if I tried my very hardest I couldn't instil terror into the smallest child in the village."
"You know what I mean. Of course," scornfully, "I should never be afraid of aman: it is Aunt Priscilla I am afraid of. And see, seethere!" in an agony, "she is standing quite close to us, talking to somebody."
"If that is your aunt Priscilla, she is safe for an hour at least. The old lady with her is Lady Rossmoyne, and she never lets any one (unfortunate enough to get into her clutches) go free under a generous sixty minutes. She is great on manures, and stock, and turnips, and so forth. And your aunt, I hear, is a kindred spirit."
"But then there is Aunt Penelope," says Monica, timidly.
"She, too, is arranged. Half an hour ago I met her so deep in a disgraceful flirtation with the vicar that I felt it my duty to look the other way. Depend upon it, she is not thinking of you."
"But some one may tell them I have been talking to you."
"I always thought I had a proper amount of pride until I met you," says Mr. Desmond. "You have dispelled the belief of years. 'Is thy servant a dog,' that you should be ostracized for speaking to him? Never mind; I submit even to that thought if it gives me five minutes more of your society. But listen to me. No one can tell tales of us, because we are both strangers in the land. No one knows me from Adam, and just as few know you from—let us sayEve, for euphony's sake."
She laughs. Encouraged by her merriment to believe that at least she bears him no ill will, Brian says, hurriedly,—
"Come with me to the rose-garden. It is stupid sitting here alone, and the garden is beyond praise. Do come."
"Why?" lifting her heavy lashes.
"For one thing, we shall be free from observation, and you know you dislike being seen with me. For another——" He pauses.
"Well?" rather nervously.
"It is just this, that Imustspeak to you," says the young man, his gay manner changing to one of extreme earnestness. "You were unkind to me that day we parted. I want you to tell me why. I understand quite that I have no right to demand even the smallest favor of you, yet I do entreat you to come with me."
For another moment she hesitates, then—
"Yes, I will come with you," she says, raising her soft eyes to his. In her whole manner, voice, and bearing there is something so sweet and childish and trusting as to render Desmond her slave upon the spot.
The path to the rose-garden leads away from Miss Priscilla, so they avoid detection as they go.
But they are singularly silent and grave; when the garden is reached they pass between the rows of growing blossoms mute, if rich in thought. At last, when silence is becoming too eloquent to be borne, her companion turns to her.
"It wasn'ttruewhat you said to me that last day, was it?"he asks, with far more anxiety than the occasion seems to demand. "Notreally, I mean. You said it for fun, perhaps—or——It has been with me ever since. I can't forget it. You said you disliked sudden friendships, and the way you said it made me think you dislikedme. Tell me I thought wrong."
"Quite wrong," in a low tone. She is plucking a rose to pieces, and keeps her eyes downcast. "When I said that, I was angry about something."
"About something Isaid?"
"No. Nothing you said."
"Something I did, then?" growing more and more anxious.
"Ye-es."
"What was it?"
"It doesn't matter now; not in the least now; and I can not tell you,indeed."
"But I wish very much you would. Perhaps, being in wretched ignorance, I shall be so unhappy as to do it again some day, and so make you hate me a second time."
"I didn'thateyou."
"No? Yet there was a look in your eyes I wouldn't like to see there again. Do tell me, lest I once more fall into error."
"Oh, no," coloring deeply, as though at some unpleasant recollection. "That would be impossible. It could never happen again. I shall take care of that. I shall never as long as I live get into a—that is—I mean—I——Really I have forgiven it all now, so let us forget it too."
Though still greatly mystified, Mr. Desmond wisely forbears to press the point, something in her pretty distressed face and heightened color forbidding him.
"Very good," he says, pleasantly. "But there is anotherthing I have not forgotten. Have you ever cleared up that mystery about my uncle and your aunts?"
"Oh!that. It cannot be cleared, I am afraid it is too muddy a tale for any help; but I have at least found out all about it."
"Would it be indiscreet if I said I would give anything to be as wise as you on this subject? In other words, will you divulge the secret?"
"It is a story that doesn't redound to the honor and glory ofyourhouse," says Miss Beresford, stepping back from him with a gay little laugh, and glancing at him mischievously from under her big "Patience" hat. "If I were you I should shrink from hearing it."
"I decline to shrink," withunparalleledbravery. "I prefer to rush upon my fate. Life has no longer any flavor for me until I hear what the old reprobate at Coole has done."
"Well, if youwillinsist upon the sorry tale, 'tis this. Once there lived a wicked knight, who wooed a maiden fair. But when that her heart was all his own, his love grew cold, and, turning from her, he refused to fulfil his plighted troth and lead her to the hymeneal altar. In fact, he loved and he rode away, leaving her as dismally disconsolate as the original maid forlorn."
"Alas for the golden age of chivalrie!" says Mr. Desmond.
"Alas, indeed! That wicked knight was your uncle; the maid forlorn my mother!"
"You have been giving me a summary of a fairytale, haven't you?" asks he, in an unbelieving tone.
"No, indeed; it is all quite true. From what I have heard, your uncle must have treated my mother very badly. Now, aren't you thoroughly ashamed of yourself and your family?"
"One swallow makes no summer," says Mr. Desmond, hardily. "Because my uncle refused to succor a distressed damosel is no reason why I should so far forget myself. Besides, the whole thing seems incredible. Report says, and," with an expressive glance at her, "I can well believe it, your mother was the most beautiful woman of her time in all the countryside; while my uncle, bless him, is one of the very ugliest men I ever met in my life. He might take a prize in that line. Just fancy the Beast refusing to wed with Beauty!"
"To be ugly, so far as amanis concerned, is nothing," says Monica with a knowledge beyond her years. "Manysingularly plain men have been much beloved. Though"—with an unconscious study of her companion's features, who is decidedly well favored—"I confess I should myself prefer a man whose nose was straight, and whose eyes were—had no inclination to look round the corner, I mean."
"A straight nose is to be preferred, of course," says Mr. Desmond, absently stroking his own, which is all that can be desired. "But I never since I was born heard such an extraordinary story as yours. I give you my word,"—earnestly,—"my uncle is just the sort of man who, ifanygirl, no matter how hideous, were to walk up to him and say, 'I consent to marry you,'ought to be devoutly grateful to her. Why, talking of noses, you should just see his: it's—it'sanyhow," with growing excitement. "It's all up hill and down dale. I never before or since saw such a nose; and I'd back his mouth tobeat that!"
"He must be a very distinguished-looking person," says Miss Beresford, demurely.
"I know very little about him, of course, having been always so much abroad; but helookslike a man who could be painfully faithful to an attachment of that kind."
"He was not faithful to her, at all events. I daresay he fell in love with some other girl about that time, and slighted my mother for her."
"Well," says Mr. Desmond, drawing a deep breath, "heis'a grand man!'"
"I think he must be a veryhorridold man," replies Monica, severely.
"You have proofs of his iniquity, of course," says Brian, presently, who evidently finds a difficulty in believing in his uncle's guilt.
"Yes. He wrote her a letter, stating in distinct terms that"—and here she alters her voice until it is highly suggestive of Miss Blake's fine contralto—"'he deemed it expedient for both parties that the present engagement existing between them should be annulled.' Those are Aunt Priscilla's words; what he really meant, I suppose, was that he was tired of her."
"Your mother, I should imagine, was hardly a woman to be tired of readily."
"That is a matter of opinion. We—that is, Terry and Kit and I—thought her a very tiresome woman indeed," says Miss Beresford, calmly. She does not look at him as shemakes this startling speech, but looks beyond him into, possibly, a past where the "tiresome woman" held a part.
Brian Desmond, gazing at her pale, pure, spiritual face, sustains a faint shock, as the meaning of her words reaches him. Is she heartless, emotionless? Could not even a mother's love touch her and wake her into life and feeling?
"You weren't very fond of your mother, then?" he asks, gently. The bare memory of his own mother is adored by him.
"Fond?" says Monica, as though the idea is a new one to her. "Fond? Yes, I suppose so; but we were all much fonder of my father. Not that either he or mamma took very much notice of us."
"Were they so much wrapt up in each other, then?"
"No, certainly not," quickly. Then with an amount of bitterness in her tone that contrasts strangely with its usual softness, "I wonder why I called my mother 'mamma' to you just now. I never dared do so toher. Once when she was going away somewhere I threw my arms around her and called her by that pet name; but she put me from her, and told me I was not to make a noise like a sheep."
She seems more annoyed than distressed as she says this. Desmond is silent. Perhaps his silence frightens her, because she turns to him with a rather pale, nervous face.
"I suppose I should not say such things as these to you," she says, unsteadily. "I forgot, it did not occur to me, that we are only strangers."
"Say what you will to me," says Desmond, slowly, "and be sure of this, that what youdosay will be heard by you and me alone."
"I believe you," she answers, with a little sigh.
"And, besides, we are not altogether strangers," he goes on, lightly; "that day on the river is a link between us, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes, the river," she says, smiling.
"Ourriver. I have brought myself to believe it is our joint property: no one else seems to know anything about it."
"I have never been near it since," says Monica.
"Iknow that," returns he, meaningly.
"How?" is almost framed upon her lips; but a single glance at him renders her dumb. Something in his expression suggests the possibility that he has spent pretty nearly all his time since last they met, andcertainlyall his afternoons, upon that shadyriver just below the pollard willows, in the vain hope of seeing her arrive.
She blushes deeply, and then, in spite of herself, laughs out loud, a low but ringing laugh, full of music and mischief.
This most uncalled-for burst of merriment has the effect of making Mr. Desmondpreternaturallygrave.
"May I ask what you are laughing at?" he says, with painful politeness; whereupon Miss Beresford checks her mirth abruptly, and has the grace to blush again even harder than before. Her confusion is, indeed, the prettiest thing possible.
"I don't know," she says, in an evasive tone.
"People generallydoknow what they are laughing at," contends he, seriously.
"Well,Idon't," returns she, with great spirit.
"Of course not, if yousayso; but," with suppressed wrath, "I don't myself think there is anything provocative of mirth in the thought of a fellow wasting hour after hour upon a lonely stream in the insane but honest hope of seeing somebody whowouldn'tcome. Of course in your eyes the fellow was a fool to do it; but—but if I were the girl I wouldn't laugh at him for it."
Silence.
Monica's eyes are bent upon the ground; her face is averted; but there is something about her attitude that compels Mr. Desmond to believe she is sorry for her untimely laughter; and thinking this breeds hatred towards himself for having caused this sorrow and makes him accuse himself of basest ill temper.
"I beg your pardon!" he says, in a contrite tone; "I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I lost my temper most absurdly and must apologize to you for it now. It was ridiculous of me to suppose you would ever come again to the river; but one hopes against hope. Yet, as Feltham tells us, 'he that hopes too much shall deceive himself at last:' that was my fate, you see. And you never once thought of coming, did you? You were quite right."
"No, I was quite wrong; but—but—youare quite wrong too inoneway," still with her eyes downturned.
"By what right did I expect you? I was a presumptuous fool and got just what I deserved."
"You were not a fool," exclaims she, quickly; and then, with a little impulsive gesture, she draws herself up and looks him fair in the eyes. "If I had known you were there," she says, bravely, though evidently frightened at her own temerity, "I—I—am almost sureIshould have been there too!"
"No! would you really?" says Desmond, eagerly.
Then follows a rather prolonged silence. Not an awkward one, but certainly a silence fraught with danger to both. There is no greater friend to Cupid than an unsought silence such as this. At last it is broken.
"What lovely roses there are in this garden!" says Desmond, pointing to a bush of glowing beauty near him.
"Are there not?" She has taken off a long white glove, so that one hand and arm are bare. The hand is particularly small and finely shaped, the nails on it are a picture in themselves; the arm is slight and childish, but rounded and very fair.
Breaking a rose from the tree indicated, she examines it lovingly, and then, lifting it to his face, as though desirous of sympathy, says,—
"Is it not sweet?"
"It is indeed!" He is staring at her. Very gently he takes the little hand that holds the flower and keeps it in his own. He detains it so lightly that she might withdraw it if she pleases, but she does not. Perhaps she doesn't please, or perhaps she sees nothing remarkable in his action. At all events, she, who is so prone to blush on all occasions, does not change color now, but chatters to him gayly, in an unconcerned manner, about the scented blossoms round her, and afterwards about the people yonder, behind the tall flowering shrubs that surround the tennis-ground.
And still her little slender fingers lie passively in his. Glancing at them, he strokes them lightly with his other hand, and counts her rings.
"Four—five," he says; "quite a burden for such a little hand to carry."
"I like them," says Monica: "brooches and earrings and bracelets I don't care for, but rings I love. I never really feel dressed until they are on. To slip them on my fingers is the last thing I do every morning before running downstairs. At least nearly the last."
"And what is the last?"
"I say my prayers," says Monica, smiling. "That is what every one does, isn't it?"
"I don't know," says Mr. Desmond, not looking at her. It seems to him a long, long time now since last he saidhisprayers. And then he suddenly decides within himself that he will say them to-morrow morning, "the last thing before going downstairs;" he cannot have quite forgottenyet.
He is examining her rings as he thinks all this, and now a little pale turquoise thing attracts his notice.
"Who gave you that?" he asks, suddenly. It is to a jealous eye rather a lovable little ring.
"Papa, when I was fourteen," says Monica. "It is very pretty, isn't it? I have felt quite grown up ever since he gave me that."
"Monica," says Brian Desmond suddenly, tightening his hold on her hand, "had you ever a lover before?"
"Before?"
"Yes," slowly, and as if determined to make his meaning clear, and yet, too, with a certain surprise at his own question. "Had you?"
"Before?" as if bewildered, she repeats the word again. "Why, I never had a loverat all!"
"Do not say that again," says Brian, moving a step nearer to her and growing pale: "I am your lover now—andforever!"
"Oh! no,no," says Monica, shrinking from him. "Do not say that."
"I won't,if you forbid me, but," quietly, "I am, and shall be, all the same. I think my very soul—belongs to you."
A crunching of gravel, a sound of coming footsteps, the murmur of approaching voices.
Monica, pallid as an early snowdrop, looks up to see her Aunt Priscilla coming towards her, accompanied by a young man, a very tall and very stout young man, with a rather drilled air.
"Ah! here is Aunt Priscilla," says Monica, breathlessly. "Who is that with her?"
"Ryde, one of the marines stationed at Clonbree," says Mr. Desmond, cursing the marine most honestly in his heart of hearts. Clonbree is a small town about seven miles from Rossmoyne, where a company of marines has been sent to quell the Land League disturbances.
Miss Priscilla is looking quite pleased with herself, and greets Monica with a fond smile.
"I knew I should find you here," she says; "flowers have such a fascination for you. You will let me introduce you to Mr. Ryde, dear child!"
And then the introduction is gone through, and Monica says something unworthy of note to this big young man, who is staring at her in a more earnest manner than is strictly within the rules of etiquette. Somehow, too, she presently discovers she has fallen into line with her new friend, and is moving towardsthe lawn again with Aunt Priscilla following in her train withMr. Desmond.
Quaking inwardly, Monica at first cannot take her mind off the twain behind her, and all the consequences that must ensue if Miss Priscilla once discovers a Desmond is being addressed by her with common civility.
She is, therefore, but poor company for the tall marine, who seems, however, quite satisfied with the portion allotted him and maunders on inanely about the surroundings generally. When the weather and the landscape have been exhausted, it must be confessed, however, that he comes to a standstill.
Miss Priscilla, pleased with her day and the satisfactory knowledge that every one has been raving about Monica, is making herself specially agreeable to her companion, who, nothing loath, draws her out and grows almost sycophantic in his attentions. She becomes genial with him, not knowing who he is, while he becomes even more than genial with her, knowing right well who she is. Indeed, so merrily does he make the time fly that Miss Priscilla is fain to confess to herself that seldom has she passed so pleasant a five minutes.
In the meantime, Monica, strolling on in front with Mr. Ryde, is feeling both nervous and depressed. This chance meeting between her aunt and Mr. Desmond, and the memory of all the strange exciting things the latter has said to her, renders her mute and unequal to conversation, and her present companion is not one likely to enchain her attention by any brilliant flashes of intellect.
He is, in truth, a very ordinary young man, of the heavy, stupid type too often met with to require either introduction or description. He had arrived in Queenstown about a fortnight before, with nothing much to guide his conduct in a strange country beyond the belief that Hibernia, as he elects to call it, is like Africa, a "land benighted," fit only to furnish food for jests. He has a fatal idea that he himself can supply these jests at times, and that, in fact, there are moments when he can be irresistibly funny over the Paddies: like many others devoid of brain, and without the power to create wholesome converse, he mistakes impertinence for wit, and of late has become rude at the expense of Ireland whenever he found anybody kind enough, or (as in Monica's case now) obliged, to listen to him.
Just now, there being a distinct and rather embarrassing pause, he says amiably,—
"Awfully jolly gown you've got on!"
"So glad you like it!" says Monica, absently.
"Got it from town, I suppose?"
"From Dublin—yes."
"Oh! by Jove, you call Dublin town, do you?" says Mr. Ryde, with a heavy laugh that suggests danger of choking, he being slightly plethoric by nature.
"Yes: what do you call it?" says Monica, regarding him steadily. She has hardly looked at him till now, and tells herself instantly that young men with fat faces are not inherline.
"Always thought it was a village, or something of that sort, you know," replies he, with a continuation of the suicidal merriment.
Monica stares, and her color rises, ever so little, but unmistakably.
"You ought to read something, papers and articles on Ireland, now and then," she says, deep but suspicious pity for him in her tone. "Considering what education costs nowadays, it is shameful the way yours has been neglected. Your college, or wherever you were, ought to be ashamed of itself. Why, I don't believe you know what a capital means."
"A capital?—in writing, do you mean?" asks he, puzzled.
"N—o; I wasn't thinking of that. You can write, I suppose," with malicious hesitation that betrays doubt. "I was speaking of the capitals of Europe. Dublin is one of them."
Unable to grasp the fact that she is mildly snubbing him, Mr. Ryde smiles gayly, and says, "Oh, really?" with an amused air that incenses her still more highly. "Was there ever," she asks herself, angrily, "so hateful a man, or so long a gravel walk!"
Having racked his brain to find something further wherewith to beguile the monotony of the way, and finding it barren, Mr. Ryde falls back upon the original subject.
"I like a white gown on a woman better than any," he says. "And so they reallycanmake gowns in Ireland? I've been awfully disappointed, do you know?—reg'lar sold. I came over here in the full hope of seeing everybody going about in goatskins and with beads round their necks—and—er—that."
"And why are you disappointed?" asks Monica, mildly, with a provoking want of appreciation of this brilliant sally. "Are you fond of goatskins and beads? Doyouwear them when 'your foot is on your native heath'?"
"Eh?—Oh, you don't understand," says this dense youngman, fatally bent on explanation. "I meant to imply that the general belief with us over there"—pointing to the horizon, which would have led him to America rather than to England—"is that everybody here is half savage—d'ye see—eh?"
"Oh, yes, it's quite plain," says Miss Beresford, her eyes immovably fixed on the horizon. "'Overthere'must be a most enlightened spot."
"So of course I thought the goatskins, etc., would be the order of the day," goes on Mr. Ryde, with another chuckle.
"You do think sometimes, then?" says Monica, innocently.
"I have been thinking ofyouever since I first saw you this afternoon," returns he, promptly, if unwisely.
There is an almost imperceptible pause, and then—
"Don't trouble yourself to do that again," saysMonicaverysweetly, but with a telltale flash in her blue eyes; "I am sure it must fatigue you dreadfully. Remember what a warm day it is. Another thing: don't for the future, please, sayrudethings about Ireland, because I don't like thateither."
The "either" is the cruellest cut of all: it distinctly forbids him even to think of her.
"I am afraid I have been unlucky enough to offend you," says young Mars, stiffly, awaking at last to a sense of the situation, and glancing down uneasily at the demure little figure marching beside him with her pretty head erect. "I didn't mean it, I assure you. What I said was said in fun."
"Are you always like that when you are funny?" asks she, looking straight before her. "Then I think, if I were you, I wouldn't do it."
Then she is a little ashamed of her severity, and, changing her tone, makes herself so charming to him that he quite recovers his spirits before they come up with all the others on the lawn.
Yet perhaps her smiles have wrought him more harm than her frowns.
Madam O'Connor, going up to Miss Priscilla, engages her in some discussion, so that presently Monica finds Brian beside her again.
"You will let me see you again soon," he says, in a low tone, seeing Ryde is talking to Miss Fitzgerald.
"But how can I?"
"You can if you will. Meet me somewhere, as I may not call; bring your brother, your sister,any one, with you; only meet me."
"If I did that, how could I look at Aunt Priscilla afterwards?" says Monica, growing greatly distressed. "It would be shameful; I should feel like a traitor. I feel like it already."
"Then do nothing. Take a passive part, if you will, and leave all to me," says Desmond, with a sudden determination in his eyes. "I would not have you vexed or made unhappy in any way. But that I shall see you again—andsoon—be sure."
"But——"
"I will listen to no 'buts:' it is too late for them. Though all the world, though even you yourself, should forbid me your presence, I should still contrive to meet you."
Here somebody addresses him, and he is obliged to turn and smile, and put off his face the touch of earnest passion that has just illumined it; while Monica stands silent, spellbound, trying to understand it all.
"Is it thus that all my countrymen make love?" she asks herself, bewildered. At the very second meeting (she always, even to herself, ignores thatignominiousfirst) to declare in this masterful manner that hemustandwillsee her again!
It is rapid, rather violent wooing; but I do not think the girl altogether dislikes it. She is a little frightened, perhaps, and uncertain, but there is a sense of power about him that fascinates her and tells her vaguely that faith and trust in him will never be misplaced. She feels strangely nervous, yet she lifts her eyes to his, and gazes at him long and bravely, and then the very faintest glimmer of a smile, that is surely full of friendliness and confidence, if nothing more, lights up her eyes and plays around her pensive mouth. A moment, and the smile has vanished, but the remembrance of it lives with him forever.
Yes, the wooing is rapid, and she is not won; but "she likes me," thinks Desmond, with a touch of rapture he has never known before. "Certainly, shelikesme; and—there are always time and hope."
"My dear Monica, it grows late," says Miss Priscilla at this moment. "Say good-by to Madame O'Connor, and let us go."
"Oh, not a bit of it, now," says Madam O'Connor, hospitably in her rich, broad brogue, inherited in all its purity, no doubt, from her kingly ancestor. "You mustn't take her away yet: sure the day is young. Mr. Ryde, why don't you get Miss Beresford to play a game with you? In my time, a youngfellow like you wouldn't wait to be told to make himself agreeable to a pretty girl. There, go now, do! Have you brought your own racket with you?"
"I left it at home," says Mr. Ryde. "Fact is," affectedly, "I didn't think tennis was known over here. Didn't fancy you had a court in the land."
This speech fires the blood of the O'Toole's last descendant.
Madam O'Connor uprears a haughty crest, and fixes the luckless lieutenant with an eagle eye, beneath which he quails.
"There is no doubt we lack much," she says, taking his measure with lofty scorn; "but we have at least ourmanners."
With this she turns her back upon him, and commences a most affable discussion with Miss Penelope, leaving her victim speechless with fright.
"Have a brandy-and-soda, Ryde?" says Mr. Kelly, who is always everywhere, regarding the wretched marine through his eyeglass with a gaze of ineffable sadness. "Nothing like it, after an engagement of this sort."
"I thought Ireland was the land for jokes," says the injured Ryde, indignantly,—"stock in trade sort of thing over here; and yet when I give 'em one of mine they turn upon me as if I was the worst in the world. I don't believe any one understands 'em over here."
"You see, your jokes are too fine for us," says Mr. Kelly, mournfully. "We miss the point of them."
"You are all the most uncomfortable people I ever met," says the wrathful marine.
"We are, we are," acquiesces Kelly. "We are really a very stupid people. Anything, delicate or refined is lost upon us, or is met in an unfriendly spirit. I give you my word, I have known a fellow's head smashed for less than half what you said to Madam O'Connor just now. Prejudice runs high in this land. You have, perhaps," in a friendly tone, "heard of a shillelagh?"
"No, I haven't," sulkily.
"No?really? It is quite an institution here. It's a sort of a big stick, a very unpleasant stick, and is used freely upon the smallest difference of opinion. You'll meet them round every corner when you get more used to us: you'd like to see them, wouldn't you?"
"No, I shouldn't," still more sulkily.
"Oh, but you ought, you know. If you are going to live for any time in the country, you should study its institutions.The best way to seethisone is to make cutting remarks about Ireland in a loud voice when two or three of the peasants are near you. They don't like cutting remarks, they are so stupid, and jokes such as yours annoy them fearfully. Still, you mustn't mind that; you must smother your natural kindliness of disposition and annoy them, if you want to see the shillelagh."
"I said nothing to annoy Mrs. O'Connor, at any rate," says Mr. Ryde. "She needn't have taken a simple word or two like that."
"You see, we are all so terribly thin-skinned," says Mr. Kelly, regretfully, "I quite blush for my country-people. Of course there are noble exceptions to every rule. I am the noble exception here. I don't feel in the least annoyed with you. Now do try some brandy, my dear fellow: it will do you all the good in the world."
"I don't know this moment whetheryouare laughing at me or not," says the marine, eying him doubtfully.
"Ineverlaugh," says Mr. Kelly, reproachfully. "I thoughteven youcould see that. Well, will you have that B. and S.?"
But Mars is huffed, and declines to accept consolation in any shape. He strolls away with an injured air to where his brother officer, Captain Cobbett, is standing near the hall door, and pours his griefs into his ears. Captain Cobbett being a very spare little man, with a half starved appearance and a dismal expression, it is doubtful whether poor Ryde receives from him the amount of sympathy required.
"Well," says Madam O'Connor, turning round as she sees him disappear, and addressing the three or four people round her generally, "'pon me conscience, that's the silliest young man I ever met in my life!" When disturbed, elated, or distressed, Madam O'Connor always says, "'Pon me conscience!"
"Don't be hard upon him," says Mr. Kelly, kindly. "Though very mad, he isquiteharmless!"
"He plays tennis very well," says Miss Fitzgerald, the tall girl. "So nice, isn't it? to have these ancient games reproduced!" This with the learned air of one whocouldsay more if she would.
"Ancient?" says Madam O'Connor. "Faith, I thought it was a game of yesterday."
"Oh, dear, no!" says the erudite Bella, with a lenient smile. "Tennis was first brought from France to England in the reign of Charles the Second."
"There now, Miss Beresford, don't forget that," says Madam O'Connor, turning to Monica with an amused smile:"it is essential you should remember it, as it is part of one's education." After which she moves away towards some other guests, having said all she has to say to those near her.
"May I see you to your carriage, Miss Blake?" says Desmond, finding she and Miss Penelope are bent on going; and Aunt Priscilla, who has taken quite a fancy to this strange young man, gives her gracious permission that he shall accompany them to the fossilized chariot awaiting them.
"Who is he, my dear Priscilla?" asks Miss Penelope, in a stage whisper, as they go.
"Don't know, my dear, but a vastly agreeable young man, very superior to those of his own age of the present day. He is marvellously polite, and has, I think, quite a superior air."
"Quite," says Penelope, "and a very sweet expression besides,—so open, so ingenuous. I wishallwere like him." This with a sigh, Terence having proved himself open to suspicion with regard to plain dealing during the past few days.
Now, it so happens that at this instant they turn a corner leading from the shrubbery walk on to the gravel sweep before the hall door; as they turn this corner, so does some one else, onlyheis coming from the gravel sweep to the walk, so that consequently he is face to face with the Misses Blake without any hope of retreat.
The walk is narrow at the entrance to it, and as the newcomer essays to pass hurriedly by Miss Priscilla he finds himself fatally entangled with her, she having gone to the right as he went to the left, and afterwards having gone to the left as he went to the right, and so on.
Finally a passage is cleared, and the stranger—who is an amazingly ugly old man, with a rather benign though choleric countenance—speeds past the Misses Blake like a flash of lightning, and with a haste creditable to his years, but suggestive rather of fear than elasticity.
"My uncle?" says Brian Desmond, in an awestruck tone, to Monica, who literally goes down before the terrible annunciation, and trembles visibly.
It is a rencontre fraught with mortal horror to the Misses Blake. For years they have not so much as looked upon their enemy's face, and now their skirts have actually brushed him as he passed.
"Come, come quickly, Monica," says Miss Penelope, on this occasion being the one to take the initiative. "Do not linger, child. Do you not see? It wasour enemythat passed by."
If she had said "it was the arch fiend," her voice could not have been more tragic.
"I am coming, Aunt Penny," says Monica, nervously.
Now, it is at this inauspicious moment that Mr. Kelly (who, as I have said before, is always everywhere) chooses to rush up to Brian Desmond and address him in a loud tone.
"My dear boy, you are not going yet, are you?" he says reproachfully. "I say, Desmond, you can't, you know, because Miss Fitzgerald says you promised to play in the next match with her."