The fatal name had been uttered clearly and distinctly. As though petrified the two old ladies, stand quite still and stare at Brian; then Miss Priscilla, with a stately movement, gets between him and Monica, and, in tones that tremble perceptibly, says to him,—
"I thank you for the courtesy already received sir; but we will no longer trouble you for your escort: we prefer to seek our carriagealone."
She sweeps him a terribly stiff little salute, and sails off, still trembling and very pale, Miss Penelope, scarcely less pale, following in her wake.
Desmond has barely time to grasp Monica's hand, and whisper, "Remember," in as mysterious a tone as the hapless Stuart, when she too is swept away, and carried from his sight.
Not until the gates of Aghyohillbeg are well behind them do the Misses Blake sufficiently recover themselves for speech. Terence, who has been a silent witness of the whole transaction, creating a diversion by making some remark about the day generally, breaks the spell that binds them. His remark is passed over in silence, but still the spell is broken.
"Whoever introduced you to that young man," begins Miss Priscilla, solemnly, "did a wrong thing. Let us hope it was done in ignorance."
At this Monica shivers inwardly and turns cold, as she remembers that no introduction has ever been gone through between her and "that young man." What if her Aunt Priscilla persists, and asks the name of the offending medium? Fortunately, Miss Blake loses sight of this idea, being so much engrossed with a greater.
"For the future you must forget you ever spoke to this Mr. Desmond," she says, her face very stern. "Happily he is an utter stranger to you, so there will be no difficulty about it. You will remember this, Monica?"
"Yes, I will remember," says the girl, slowly, and with a visible effort.
Then Moyne is reached in solemn silence so far as the Misses Blake are concerned; in solemn silence, too, the two old ladies mount the oaken staircase that leads to their rooms. Outside, on the corridor, they pause and contemplate each other for a moment earnestly.
"He—he is very good-looking," says Miss Penelope at last, as though compelled to make the admission even against her will.
"He is abominably handsome," says Miss Priscilla fiercely: after which she darts into her room and closes the door with a subdued bang behind her.
How Brian, having instituted inquiries, condemns his Uncle secretly—How Terry throws light upon a dark subject, and how, for the third time, Love "finds out his way."
How Brian, having instituted inquiries, condemns his Uncle secretly—How Terry throws light upon a dark subject, and how, for the third time, Love "finds out his way."
It is the evening of the next day, and dinner at Coole has just come to an end. Mr. Kelly, who has been Brian's guest for the last fortnight, and who is to remain as long as suits him or as long after the grouse-shooting in August as he wills, has taken himself into the garden to smoke a cigar. This he does at a hint from Brian.
Now, finding himself alone with his uncle, Brian says, in the casual tone of one making an indifferent remark,—
"By the bye, I can see you are not on good terms with those old ladies at Moyne."
As he speaks he helps himself leisurely to some strawberries, and so refrains from looking at his uncle.
"No," says The Desmond, shortly.
"Some old quarrel I have been given to understand."
"I should prefer not speaking about it," says the squire.
"Twinges of conscience even at this remote period," thinks Brian, and is rather tickled at the idea, as he lifts his head to regard his uncle in a new light,—that is, as a regular Don Juan.
"Well, of course, I dare say I should not have mentionedthe subject," he says, apologetically; "but I had no idea it was a sore point. It was not so much bad taste on my part as ignorance. I beg your pardon!"
"It was a very unhappy affair altogether," says Don Juan.
"Very unfortunate indeed, from what I have heard."
"Morethan unfortunate!—right down disgraceful!" says the squire, with such unlooked-for energy as raises astonishment in the breast of his nephew. ("By Jove, one would think the old chap had only now awakened to a sense of his misconduct," he thinks, irreverently.)
"Oh, well," he says, leniently, "hardlythat, you know."
"Quitethat," emphatically.
"It has been often done before: yours is not a solitary case."
"Solitary or not, there were elements about it inexcusable," says the old squire, beating his hand upon the table as though to emphasize his words.
"I wouldn't take it so much to heart if I were you," says Brian, who is really beginning to pity him.
"It has lain on my heart for twenty years. I can't take it off now," says the squire.
"You have evidently suffered," returns Brian, who is getting more and more amazed at the volcano he has roused. "Of course I can quite understand that if you were once more to find yourself in similar circumstances you would act very differently."
"I should indeed!—verydifferently. A man seldom makes a fool of himself twice in a lifetime."
("He's regretting her now," thinks Brian.)
But out loud he says,—
"You didn't show much wisdom, I daresay."
"No, none; and as forher,—to fling away such a love as that——" Here he pauses, and looks dreamily at the silver tankard before him.
This last speech rather annoys Brian; to gloat over the remembrance of a love that had been callously cast aside to suit the exigences of the moment, seems to the younger man a caddish sort of thing not to be endured.
("Though what the mischief any pretty girl of nineteen could have seen inhim," he muses, gazing with ill-concealed amazement at his uncle's ugly countenance, "is more than I can fathom.")
"Perhaps it wasn't so deep a love asyouimagine," he cannotrefrain from sayinga proposto his uncle's last remark, with a view to taking him down a peg.
"It was, sir," says the Squire, sternly. "It was the love of a lifetime. People may doubt as they will, but I knownolove has superseded it."
"Oh, he is in his dotage!" thinks Brian, disgustedly; and, rising from the table, he makes a few more trivial remarks, and then walks from the dining-room on to the balcony and so to the garden beneath.
Finding his friend Kelly in an ivied bower, lost in a cigar, and possibly, though improbably, in improving meditation, he is careful not to disturb him, but, making a successful detour, escapes his notice, and turns his face towards that part of Coole that is connected with Moyne by means of the river.
At Moyne, too, dinner has come to an end, and, tempted by the beauty of the quiet evening, the two old ladies and the children have strolled into the twilit garden.
There is a strange and sweet hush in the air—a stillness full of life—but slumberous life. The music of streams can be heard, and a distant murmur from the ocean; but the birds have got their heads beneath their wings, and the rising night-wind wooes them all in vain.
Shadows numberless are lying in misty corners; the daylight lingers yet, as though loath to quit us and sink into eternal night. It is an eve of "holiest mood," full of tranquillity and absolute calm.
"It is that hour of quiet ecstasy,When every rustling wind that passes byThe sleeping leaf makes busiest minstrelsy."
"It is that hour of quiet ecstasy,When every rustling wind that passes byThe sleeping leaf makes busiest minstrelsy."
"You are silent, Priscilla," says Miss Penelope, glancing at her.
"I am thinking. Such an eve as this always recalls Katherine; and yesterdaythat meeting,—all has helped to bring the past most vividly before me."
"Ah, dear, yes," says Miss Penelope, regarding her with a furtive but tender glance. "How musthehave felt, when he thought what grief he brought to her young life!"
"You are talking of mother?" asks Kit, suddenly, letting her large dark eyes rest on Miss Penelope's face, as though searching for latent madness there.
"Yes, my dear, of course."
"He would not have dared so to treat her had her father been alive or had we been blessed with a brother," says Miss Priscilla, sternly. "He proved himself a dastard and a coward."
"Perhaps there was some mistake," says Monica, timidly, plucking a pale blossom and pretending to admire it.
"No, no. We believe he contracted an affection for some other girl, and for her sake jilted your mother. If so, retribution fit and proper followed on his perfidy, because he brought no wife later on to grace his home. Doubtless he was betrayed in his turn. That was only just."
"There seems to be reason in that conjecture," says Miss Penelope, "because he went abroad almost immediately. I saw him shortly before he left the country, and he was then quite a broken-down man. He must have taken hisownmisfortune greatly to heart."
"Served him right!" says Miss Priscilla, uncompromisingly. "He deserved no greater luck. Your mother suffered so much at his hands that she almost lost her health. I don't believe she ever got over it."
"Oh, yes, she did," says Terry, suddenly; "she got over it uncommonly well. We didn't know who Mr. Desmond was then, of course; but I know she used to make quite a joke of him."
"A joke!" says Miss Priscilla, in an awful tone.
"Yes, regular fun, you know," goes on Terence, undaunted. "One day she was telling father some old story about Mr. Desmond, a 'good thing'shecalled it, and she was laughing heartily; but he wasn't, and when she had finished, I remember, he said something to her about want of 'delicacy of feeling,' or something like that."
"I was there," says Kit, in her high treble. "He said, too, she ought to be ashamed of herself."
"Oh, that was nothing," says Mr. Beresford, airily. "Father and mother never agreed for a moment; they were always squabbling from the time they got up till they went to bed again."
The Misses Blake have turned quite pale.
"Terence how can you speak so of your sainted mother?" says Miss Penelope. "I'm sure, from her letters to us, she was a mostdevotedmother and wife, and, indeed, sacrificed her every wish and pleasure to yours."
"I never knew it cost her so much tokeep awayfrom us," says Terence. "If she was dying for our society, she must indeedhave sacrificed herself, because she made it the business of her life to avoid us from morn to dewy eve."
"Doubtless she had her duties," says Miss Penelope, in a voice of suppressed fear. What is she going to hear next? what are these dreadful children going to say?
"Perhaps she had," said Terence. "If so, they didn't agree with her, as she was always in a bad temper. She used to give it to papa right and left, until he didn't dare to call his soul his own. When I marry, I shall take very good care my wife doesn't lead me the life my mother led my father."
"Yourwife! who'd marryyou?" says Kit, scornfully, which interlude gives the discussion a rest for a little time. But soon they return to the charge.
"Your mother when here had an angelic temper," says Miss Penelope. Miss Priscilla all this time seems incapable of speech.
"Well, she hadn't whenthere," says Terence; and then he says a dreadful thing, as vulgar as it is dreadful, that fills his aunt's heart with dismay. "She and my father fought like cat and dog," he says; and the Misses Blake feel their cup is indeed full.
"And she never would take Monica anywhere," says Kit; "so selfish!"
It is growingtooterrible. Is their idol to be shattered thus before their eyes?
"Monica, was your motherunkindto you?" says Miss Penelope, in a voice full of anguish. After all these years, is the Katherine of their affections to be dragged in the dust?
Monica hesitates. She can see the grief in her aunt's face, and cannot bear to add to it. The truth is that the late Mrs. Beresford hadnotbeen beloved by her children, for reasons which it will be possible to conceive, but which would be tiresome to enumerate here. Perhaps there seldom had been a more careless or disagreeable mother.
So Monica pauses, flushes, glances nervously from right to left, and then back again, and finally rests her loving, regretful eyes full upon Miss Penelope's agitated face.
Something she sees there decides her. Sinking to her knees, she flings her arms around the old lady's neck, and lays her cheek to hers.
"I will say nothing, but that I am happyhere," she says, in a low whisper.
Miss Penelope's arms close round her. The worst has come to her; yet there is solace in this clinging embrace, and in thedewy lips that seek hers. If she has lost one idol, who can say she has not gained another, and perhaps a worthier one?
Yet beyond doubt the two old ladies have sustained a severe shock: they hold down their heads, and for a long time avoid each other's eyes, as though fearing what may there be seen.
"Let us walk round the garden, Aunt Priscilla," says Monica, feeling very sorry for them. "The evening is lovely, and the roses so sweet."
"Come then," says Miss Priscilla, who is perhaps glad to escape from her own thoughts. And so they all wander to and fro in the pretty garden, bending over this flower and lingering over that in a soft, idle sort of enjoyment that belongs alone to the country.
Terence had disappeared, but, as he is not great on flowers, his presence is not indispensable, and no one takes any notice of his defection.
Presently they come upon the old gardener, who is also the old coachman, upon his bended knees beside a bed. The whole garden is scrupulously raked and scrupulously weeded till not a fault can be found. But Miss Priscilla is one of those who deem it necessary always to keep a servant up to his trumps.
Stooping over the bed, therefore, she carefully adjusts her glasses upon her nose, and proceeds to examine with much minuteness the earth beneath her. A tiny green leaf attracts her notice.
"Corney, is that aweed?" she asks, severely. "I certainly remember sowing some seeds in this place; butthathas a weedy look."
"It's seeds, miss," says Corney, "Ye'd know it by the curl of it."
"I hope so, Ihopeso," says Miss Priscilla, doubtfully, "but there's a common cast about it. It reminds me of groundsel. Corney, whatever you do, don't grow careless."
"Faix, I'm too ould a hand for that, miss," says Corney. "But, to tell the truth, I think myself, now, not to desaive ye, that the leaf ye mentioned is uncommon like the groundsel. You ought to be proud of yer eyes, Miss Priscilla; they're as clear as they were twinty years ago."
Greatly mollified by this compliment, Miss Priscilla declines to scold any more, and, the groundsel forgotten, moves onward to a smooth piece of sward on which a cartload of large white stones from the seashore has been ruthlessly thrown.
"What is this?" she says, indignantly, eying the stones with much disfavor. "Corney, come here! Who flung those stones down on my green grass?"
"The rector, miss. He sent his man wid a load of 'em, and 'tis there they left 'em."
"A most unwarrantable proceeding!" says Miss Priscilla, who is in her managing mood. "What did Mr. Warren mean by that?"
"Don't you think it was kind of him to draw them for our rookery, my dear Priscilla?" says Miss Penelope, suggestively.
"No, I don't," says Miss Priscilla. "To bring cartloads of nasty large stones and fling them down upon my velvet grass on which I pride myself (thoughyoumay think nothing of it, Penelope) isnotkind. I must say it was anything but nice,—anything but gentlemanly."
"My dear, he is quite a gentleman, and a very good man."
"That may be. I suppose I am not so uncharitable as to be rebuked for every little word; but to go about the country destroying people's good grass, for which I paid a shilling a pound, isnotgentlemanly. Katherine, what are you laughing at?"
"At the stones," says Kit.
"There is nothing to laugh at in a stone. Don't be silly, Katherine. I wonder, Monica, you don't make it the business of your life to instil some sense into that child. The idea of standing still to laugh at astone."
"Better do that than stand still tocryat it," says the younger Miss Beresford, rebelliously. Providentially, the remark is unheard; and Monica, scenting battle in the breeze, says, hastily,—
"Do you remember the roses at Aghyohillbeg, auntie? Well, I don't think any of them were as fine as this," pointing to a magnificent blossom near her. It is the truth, and it pleases Miss Priscilla mightily, she having a passion for her roses. And so peace is once more restored.
"It grows chilly," says Miss Penelope, presently.
"Yes; let us all go in," says Miss Priscilla.
"Oh, not yet, auntie; it is quite lovely yet," says Monica, earnestly. She cannot go in yet, notyet; the evening is still young, and—and she would likesomuch to go down to the river, if only for a moment. All this she says guiltily to herself.
"Well we old women will go in at least," says Miss Penelope. "You two children can coquet with the dew for a littlewhile; but don't stay too long, or sore throats will be the result."
"Yes, yes," says Miss Priscilla, following her sister. As she passes Monica, she looks anxiously at the girl's little slight fragile figure and her slender throat and half-bared arms.
"That dress is thin. Do not stay out too long. Take care of yourself, my darling." She kisses her pretty niece, and then hurries on, as though ashamed of this show of affection.
A little troubled by the caress, Monica moves mechanically down the path that leads towards the meadows and the river, followed by Kit. By this time the latter is in full possession of all that happened yesterday,—at least so much of it as relates to Monica's acquaintance with Mr. Desmond (minus the tender passages), his uncle's encounter with her aunts, and Brian's subsequent dismissal. Indeed, so much has transpired in the telling of all this that Kit, who is a shrewd child, has come to the just conclusion that the young Mr. Desmond is in love with her Monica!
Strange to say, she is not annoyed at his presumption, but rather pleased at it,—he being the first live lover she has ever come in contact with, and therefore interesting in no small degree.
Now, as she follows her sister down the flowery pathway, her mind is full of romance, pure and sweet and great with chivalry, as a child's would be. But Monica is sad and taciturn. Her mind misgives her, conscience pricks her, her soul is disquieted within her.
What was it she had promised Aunt Priscilla yesterday? Aunt Priscilla had said, "For the future you will remember this?" and she had answered, "Yes."
But how can she forget? It was a foolish promise, for who has got a memory under control?
Of course, Aunt Priscilla had meant her to understand that she was never to speak to Mr. Desmond again, and she had given her promise in the spirit. And of course she would be obedient; she would at least so far obey that she would not be the first to speak to him, nor would she seek him—nor——But why, then, is she going to the river? Is it because the evening is so fine, or is there no lurking hope of——
And, after all, what certainty is there that—that—any one will be at the river at this hour? And even if they should be, why need she speak to him? she can be silent; but if he speaks to her, what then? Can she refuse to answer?
Her mind is as a boat upon a troubled sea, tossed here andthere; but by and by the wind goes down, and the staunch boat is righted, and turns its bow toward home.
"Kit, do not let us go to the river to-night," she says, turning to face her sister in the narrow path.
"But why? It is so warm and light, and such a little way!"
"You have been often there. Let us turn down this side of the meadow, and see where it will lead to."
That it leads directly away from Coole there cannot be the least doubt; and the little martyr treading the ground she would not, feels with an additional pang of disappointment that the fulfilment of her duty does not carry with it the thrill of rapture that ought to suffuse her soul. No, not the faintest touch of satisfaction at her own heroism comes to lighten the bitter regret she is enduring as she turns her back deliberately on the river and its chances. She feels only sorrow, and the fear thatsome onewill think her hard-hearted, and she could cry a little, but for Kit and shame's sake.
"Monica, who is that?" exclaims Kit, suddenly, staring over the high bank, beside which they are walking, into the field beyond. Following her glance, Monica sees a crouching figure on the other side of this bank, but lower down, stealing cautiously, noiselessly, towards them, as though bent on secret murder. A second glance betrays the fact that it is Terence, with—yes, most positively with agun!
"Where on earth did he get it?" says Kit; and, unable to contain her curiosity any longer, she scrambles up the bank, and calls out, "Terry, here we are! Come here! Where did you get it?" at the top of her fresh young lungs.
As she does so, a little gray object, hitherto unseen by her, springs from among some green stuffs, and, scudding across the field into the woods of Coole beyond, is in a moment lost to view.
"Oh,bother!" cries Terry, literally dancing with rage; "I wouldn'tdoubtyou to make that row just when I was going to fire. I wish to goodness you girls would stay at home, and not come interfering with a fellow's sport. You are always turning up at the wrong moment, and just when you're not wanted!—indeed youever are!"
These elegant and complimentary remarks he hurls at their heads, as though with the wish to annihilate them. But they haven't the faintest effect: the Misses Beresford are too well accustomed to his eloquence to be dismayed by it. Theytreat it, indeed, as a matter of course, and so continue their inquiries uncrushed.
"Terry, wheredidyou get this gun?" asks Monica, as breathless with surprise as Kit. "Is it"—fearfully—"loaded? Oh! don't!—don't point it this way! It will surely go off and kill somebody."
Here she misses her footing and slips off the high bank, disappearing entirely from view, only to reappear again presently, flushed but uninjured.
"What a lovely gun!" says Kit, admiringly.
"Isn't it?" says Terence, forgetting his bad temper in his anxiety to exhibit his treasure. "It's a breech-loader, too; none of your old-fashioned things, mind you, but a reg'lar good one. I'll tell you who lent it to me, if you'll promise not to peach."
"We won't," says Kit, who is burning with curiosity.
"Guess, then."
"Bob Warren?" says Monica. Bob Warren is the rector's son, and is much at Moyne.
"Not likely! Pegs abovehim. Well, I'll tell you. It's that fellow that's spoons on you,"—with all a brother's perspicacity,—"the fellow who saw us on the hay-cart,"—Monica writhes inwardly,—"Desmond, you know!"
"The enemy's nephew?" asks Kit, in a thrilling tone, that bespeaks delight and a malicious expectation of breakers ahead.
"Yes. I was talking to him yesterday, early in the day, at Madam O'Connor's; and he asked me was I your brother, Monica, to which I pleaded guilty, though," with a grin, "I'd have got out of it if I could; and then he began to talk about shooting, and said I might knock over any rabbits I liked in Coole. I told him I had no gun, so he offered to lend me one. I thought it was awfully jolly of him, considering I was an utter stranger, and that; but he looks a real good sort. He sent over the gun this morning by a boy, and I have had it hidden in the stable until now. I thought I'd never get out of that beastly garden this evening."
"Oh, Terence, you shouldn't have taken the gun from him," says Monica, flushing. "Just think what Aunt Priscilla would say if she heard of it. You know how determined she is that we shall have no intercourse with the Desmonds."
"Stuff and nonsense!" says Mr. Beresford. "I never heard such a row as they are forever making about simplynothing. Why, it's quite a common thing to jilt a girl, nowadays. I'd do it myself in a minute."
"You won't have time," says Kit, contemptuously. "She—whoever she may be—will be sure to jiltyoufirst."
"Look here," says Terence, eyeing his younger sister with much disfavor; "you're getting so precious sharp, you know, that I should think there'll be a conflagration on the Liffey before long; and I should think, too, that an outraged nation would be sure to fling the cause of it into the flames. So take care."
"Terence, you ought to send that gun backat once," says Monica.
"Perhaps I ought, but certainly I shan't," says Terence, genially. "And if I were you," politely, "I wouldn't make an ass of myself. There is quite enough of that sort of thing going on up there," indicating, by a wave of his hand, the drawing-room at Moyne, where the Misses Blake are at present dozing.
"You shouldn't speak of them like that," says Monica; "it is very ungrateful of you, when you know how kind they are, and how fond of you."
"Well, I'm fond of them, too," says Terence, remorsefully but gloomily; "and I'd be even fonder if they would only leave me alone. But they keep such a look-out on a fellow that sometimes I feel like cutting the whole thing and making a clean bolt of it."
"If you ran away you would soon be wishing yourself back again," says Monica, scornfully. "You know you will have no money until you are twenty-one. People pretend to be discontented, at times, with their lives; but in the long run they generally acknowledge 'there is no place like home.'"
"No, thank goodness, there isn't," says Terence, with moody fervor. "I'll acknowledge it at once, without the run. To have frequent repetitions of it would be more than human nature could endure. I have known two homes already; I should think a third would be my death."
So saying, he shoulders the forbidden gun and marches off.
Monica and Kit, getting down from their elevated position, also pursue their path, which leads in a contrary direction.
"Monica," says Kit, presently, slipping her slender brown fingers through her sister's arm, "what did Terry mean just now,when he spoke about some one being 'spoons' on you? Does that mean being in love with you?"
No answer.
"Is Mr. Desmond, then, in love with you?"
No answer.
"Ishe?"
"Oh, Kit, how can I answer such a question as that?"
"In words, I suppose.Ishe in love with you?"
"I don't know," says Monica, in a troubled tone. "If I ever had a lover before, I shouldknow; but——"
"That means he is," says the astute Kit. "And I'm sure," with a little loving squeeze of her arm, "I don't wonder at it."
"You must not say that," says Monica, earnestly. "Indeed, he said a fewthingsto me, but that is nothing; and——"
"You think helikesyou?"
"Yes," reluctantly.
"I believe he adores the very ground you walk on."
"Oh, no, indeed."
"If you say that, heisn'ta real lover. A real one, to my mind, ought to be ready and willing to kiss the impressions your heels may make in the earth."
"That would be the act of a fool; and Mr. Desmond is not a fool."
"Ergo, not a lover. And yet I think he isyours. Monica," coaxingly, "did he say any pretty things to you?"
"What should he say? I only met him twice."
"You are prevaricating," gazing at her severely. "Why don't you answer me honestly?"
"I don't know whatyoucall 'pretty things.'"
"Yes, you do. Did he tell you your eyes weredeep, deepwells of love, and that your face was full of soul?"
"No, he did not," says Monica, somewhat indignantly; "certainlynot. The idea!"
"Well, that is what Percival said to the girlheloved in the book I was reading yesterday," says Kit, rather cast down.
"Then I'm very glad Mr. Desmond isn't like Percival."
"I daresay he is nicer," says Kit, artfully. Then she tucks her arm into her sister's, and looks fondly in her face. "He must have saidsomethingto you," she says. "Darling love, why won't you tell your own Kitten all about it?"
A little smile quivers round Monica's lips.
"Well, I will, then," she says. In her heart I believe she is glad to confide in somebody, and why not in Kit the sympathetic? "First, he made me feel he was delighted to meet me again. Then he asked me to go for a walkalonewith him; then he said he was—my lover!"
"Oh!" says Kit, screwing up her small face with delight.
"And then he asked me to meet him again to-day withyou."
"Withme! I think that was very delicate of him." She is evidently flattered by this notice of her existence. Plainly, if nottherose in his estimation, she is to be treated with the respect due to the rose's sister. It is all charming! she feels wafted upwards, and incorporated, as it were, in a real love affair. Yes, she will be the guardian angel of these thwarted lovers.
"And what did you say?" she asks, with a gravity that befits the occasion.
"I refused," in a low tone.
"To meet him?"
"Yes."
"Withme?" says this dragon of propriety.
"Yes."
"But why?"
"Because of Aunt Priscilla." And then she tells her all about Aunt Priscilla's speech in the carriage, and her reply to it.
"I never heard such a rubbishy request in my life!" says the younger Miss Beresford, disdainfully. "It is really beneath notice. And when all is told it means nothing. AsIread it, it seems you have only promised to forget you ever spoke to Mr. Desmond: you haven't promised never to speak to him again." Thus the little Jesuit.
"That was not what Aunt Priscilla meant."
"If she meant anything, it was folly. And, after all, what is this dreadful quarrel between us and the Desmonds all about? It lives in Aunt Priscilla's brain. I'll tell you what I think, Monica. I think Aunt Priscilla was once in love with old Mr. Desmond, and mother cut her out; and now, just because she has been disappointed in her own love-affair, she wants to thwart you in yours."
"She doesn't, indeed. Any one but Mr. Desmond might show me attention, and she would be pleased. She was quiteglad when Mr. Ryde—well—when he made himself agreeable to me."
"From all you told me of him, he must have made himselfdis-agreeable. I'm perfectly certain I should hate Mr. Ryde, and I'm equally sure I should like Mr. Desmond. What did he say to you, darling, when you refused to meet him even withme?" She lays great stress on this allusion to herself.
"He said I might do as I chose, but that he would meet me again, whether I liked it or not, andsoon!"
"Now, that's the lover forme!" says Kit, enthusiastically. "No giving in, noshilly-shallying, but downright determination. He's an honest man, and we all know what an honest man is,—'the noblest work of God.' I'm certain he will keep his word, and I do hope I shall be with you when next you meet him, as I should like to make friends with him."
At this moment it occurs to Monica that she never before knew how very,veryfond she is of Kit.
"Oh, well, I don't suppose Icansee him again for ever so long," she says. But even as the words pass her lips she knows she does not mean them, and remembers with a little throb of pleasure that he had said he would see her againsoon.Soon!why, that might mean this evening,—now,—anymoment! Instinctively she lifts her head and looks around her, and there, just a little way off, is a young man coming quickly towards her, bareheaded and in evening dress.
"I told you how it would be," says Kit, in a nervous whisper, taking almost a bit out of poor Monica's arm in her excitement. "Oh, when I have a lover I hope he will be likehe."
Her grammar has gone after her nerve.
Monica is silent: some color has gone from her cheeks, and her heart is beating faster. It is her very firstaffaire, so we must forgive her: a little frightened shadow has fallen into her eyes, and altogether she looks a shade younger than usual: she is troubled in spirit, and inclined to find fault with the general management of things.
After all, she might as well have gone to the river this evening for what good her abstinence has done her: the poverty of our strength to conquer faith and the immutability of its decrees fills her with consternation and a fretful desire for freedom. Yet above and beyond all these vain imaginings is a gladness and a pride that her power is strong enough to draw her lover to her side in spite of all difficulties.
The bareheaded young man has come up to her by thistime, and is holding out his hand: silently she lays her own in it, and colors treacherously as his fingers close on hers in a close, tender, and possessive fashion.
"I found the river too chilly," he says, smiling, "so I came on here. Having been unsuccessful all the afternoon and morning, IknewI should find younow."
This might be hieroglyphics to others, but is certainly English to her, however she may pretend otherwise; she doesn't pretend much, to do her justice.
"This is your sister?" goes on Desmond, looking at Kit, who is regarding him with an eye that is quite a "piercer."
"Yes," says Monica. "Kit, this is Mr. Desmond."
"I know that," says thisenfant terrible, still fixing him with a glance of calm and searching scrutiny that is well calculated to disconcert even a bolder man. Then all at once her mind seems made up, and, coming forward, she holds out her hand, and says, "How d'ye do?" to him, with a sudden, rare sweet smile that convinces him at once of her sisterhood to Monica.
"We are friends?" he says, being attracted to the child for her own grace alone, as well as for the charm of her relationship to the pale snowdrop of a girl beside her.
"Yes. If you prove true to my Monica."
"Oh, Kit!" says Monica, deeply shocked; but Kit pays no heed, her eyes being fastened gravely upon the man before her. He is quite as grave as she is.
"If our friendship depends upon that, it will be a lasting one," he says, quietly. "My whole life is at your sister's service."
Something in his tones touches Monica: slowly she lifts her eyes until they reach his.
"I wish, Iwishyou would not persist in this," she says, sadly.
"But why? To think of you is my chiefest joy. Do you forbid me to be happy?"
"No—but—"
"In the morning and the afternoon I went to the river, to look for you—in vain; after dinner I went too, still hoping against hope; and now at last that Ihavefound you, you are unkind to me!" He speaks lightly, but his eyes are earnest. "Miss Katherine," he says appealingly to Kit, "of your grace, I pray you to befriend me."
"Monica would not go to the river this evening because she remembered an absurd promise she made to Aunt Priscilla, and because she feared to meet you there. It is the mostabsurd promise in the world: wait till you hear it." Whereupon Kit, who is in her element, proceeds to tell him all about Miss Priscilla's words to Monica, and Monica's answer, and her (Kit's) interpretation thereof. "She certainly didn't promise never to speak to you again," concludes she, with a nod Solomon might have envied.
Need it be said that Mr. Desmond agrees with her on all points?
"There is no use in continuing the discussion," says Monica, turning aside a little coldly. "I should not have gone to the river,anyway."
This chilling remark produces a blank indescribable, and conversation languishes: Monica betrays an interest in the horizon never before developed; Mr. Desmond regards with a moody glance the ripening harvest; and Kit, looking inward, surveys her mental resources and wonders what it is her duty to do next.
"For aught that ever I could read,Could ever hear by tale or history,The course of true love never did run smooth."
"For aught that ever I could read,Could ever hear by tale or history,The course of true love never did run smooth."
Thismuch she knows; and to any one blessed with a vision sharp as hers it is very apparent now that there is a roughness somewhere. She knows too, through many works of fiction, that those in attendance on loving couples should at certain seasons see cause to absent themselves from their duty, and search for a supposititious handkerchief or sprain an unoffending ankle, or hunt diligently in hedgerows for undiscoverable flowers. Three paths therefore lie open to her; which to adopt is the question. To return to the house for a handkerchief would be a decidedly risky affair, calculated to lead up to stiff and damning cross-examination from the aunts, which might prove painful; to sprain an ankle might prove even painfuller; but to dive into the innocent hedgerow for the extraction of summer flowers, what can be more effectual and reasonable? she will do it at once.
"Oh, what lovely dog-roses!" she says, effusively, in a tone that wouldn't have deceived a baby; "I reallymustget some."
"Let me get them for you," says Desmond, gloomily, which she at once decides is excessively stupid of him, and she doing all she can for him too! She tries to wither him with a glance, but he is too miserable to be lightly crushed.
"No, thank you," she says; "I prefer getting them myself.Flowers are like fruit, much more enjoyable when you pick them with your own hands."
So saying, this accomplished gooseberry skips round the corner, leaving Monica and Mr. Desmondtete-a-tete.
That they enjoy their sudden isolation just at first is questionable: Monica discovers blots on the perfect horizon; and Mr. Desmond, after a full minute's pause, says, reproachfully,—
"You didn'treallymean that, did you?"
"Mean what?" uncompromisingly, and without changing position.
"That even if matters had been quite—quite comfortable with us, you would not have gone to meet me at the river?"
"I don't know," in a low tone.
"Sayyou didn't mean it."
"I—suppose I didn't," even lower.
"Look at me, then," says Mr. Desmond.
Kit, in her high, sweet voice, is warbling that little, pretty thing about a "lover and his lass," in the next field. The words of her song, and its silly refrain of
"A hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,"
"A hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,"
come to them across the corn and scented meadow. Monica, with her hand in his, smiles faintly.
"You hear what she sings,—'that life is but a flower:'is it wise, then, to set your heart upon——"
"You?"
"I meant, an impossibility."
"Which you arenot. You shall not be. I don't believe in impossibilities, to begin with; and, even if it were so, I should still prefer to be unwise."
"You are defiant," she says, lightly; but her smile is still very sad.
"I have hope. 'Affection's ground is beyond time, place, and all mortality,' as we read. I shall conquer yet; yes, evenyourprejudices. In the mean time, give me fair play; do not harden your heart against me."
"I wish mine was the only hard heart you had to contend against," returns she, with a faint sigh. But this remark seems to drop so carelessly from her lips that, though elated by it, he is afraid to take any open notice of it.
"I hope your aunts were not cross to you last evening on my account?" he says, anxiously.
"No. Nothing was said, more than Kit told you, except that Aunt Priscilla touched upon the point of introduction. Oh, what a fright I got then! If she had persisted in her inquiries, whatwouldhave become of me?"
"Couldn't you have——" began Mr. Desmond, and then stops abruptly. A glance at the face uplifted to his checks his half-uttered speech effectually, and renders him, besides, thoroughly ashamed of himself.
"If I had to confess there had beennointroduction," goes on Monica, laughingly, "I don't know what would have been the result."
"The deluge, I suppose," returns her companion thoughtfully.
"What a pity you have an uncle at all!" says Monica, presently. "It would be all right only for him." She omits to saywhatwould be all right, but the translation is simple.
"Oh, don't say that," entreats Desmond, who has a wholesome affection for the old gentleman above at Coole. "He is the kindest old fellow in the world. I think, if you knew him, you would be very fond of him; and I know he would adoreyou. In fact, he is so kind-hearted that I cannot thinkhowall that unfortunate story about your mother ever came about. He looks to me as if he couldn't say 'Bo to a goose' where a woman was concerned and yet his manner to-night confirmed everything I heard."
"He confessed?" in a deeply interested tone.
"Well just the same thing. He seemed distressed about his own conduct in the affair, too. But his manner was odd, I thought: and he seems as much at daggers drawn with your aunts as they with him."
"That is because he is ashamed of himself. One is always hardest on those one has injured."
"But that is just it," says Mr. Desmond, in a puzzled tone. "I don't believe, honestly, he is a bit ashamed of himself. Hesaida good deal about his regret, but I could see he quite gloried in his crime. And, in fact, I couldn't discover the smallest trace of remorse about him."
"He must really be a very bad old man," says Monica, severely. "I am perfectly certain if he weremyuncle I should not love him at all."
"Don't say that. When heisyour uncle you will see that I am right, and that he is a very lovable old man, in spite of all his faults."
At this Monica blushes a little, and twirlsher ringsround herslender fingers in an excess of shyness, and finally, in spite of a stern pressure laid upon herself, gives way to mirth.
"What are you laughing at now?" asks he laughing too.
"At you," casting a swift but charming glance at him from under her long lashes. "Youdosay such funny things!"
"Did you hear there is to be an afternoon dance at the Barracks next week?" asks he presently. "I was at Clonbree on Thursday, and Cobbett told me about it."
"Who is Cobbett?"
"The captain there, you know. He was at Aghyohillbeg yesterday. Didn't you see him,—a little, half-starved looking man, with a skin the color of his hair, and both gray?"
"Oh, of course—now I remember him," says Monica, this fetching description having cleared her memory. "I thought to myself how odd he and the other man, Mr. Ryde, looked together, one as big as the other was little."
"I think there is more matter than brains about Ryde," says Desmond, contemptuously. "Do you think your aunt will let you go to this dance at Clonbree?"
"Oh, no; I amsurenot. My aunts would be certain to look upon a dance in the Barracks as something too awfully dissipated."
"For one reason I should be glad you didn't go."
"Glad?" opening her eyes.
"Yes. That fellow Ryde never took his eyes off you yesterday."
"Isthata crime?"
"In my eyes,yes."
"And you would wish me to be kept a prisoner at home just because one man looked at me?"
"I don't want any one to look at you but me!" Then he comes a little closer to her and compels her, by the very strength of his regard, to let her eyes meet his. "Do you like Ryde?" he asks, somewhat imperiously. "Monica, answer me."
It is the second time he has called her by her Christian name, and a startled expression passes over her face.
"Well, he was nice to me," she says, with a studied hesitation that belongs to the first bit of coquetry she has ever practised in her life. She has tasted the sweetness of power, and, fresh as her knowledge is she estimates the advantage of it to a nicety.
"I believe a man has only to be six feet one to have every woman in the world in love with him," says Desmond, wrathfully, who is only five feet eleven.
"I am not exactly inlovewith Mr. Ryde," says Monica, sweetly, with averted face and a coy air, assumed for her companion's discomfiture; "but——"
"Butwhat?"
"But, I was going to say, there is nothing remarkable in that,asI am not in love withany one, and hope I never shall be. I wonder where Kit can have gone to: will you get up there, Mr. Desmond, and look?" Breaking off a tiny blade of grass from the bank near her, she puts it between her pretty teeth, and slowly nibbles it with an air of utter indifference to all the world that drives Mr. Desmond nearly out of his wits.
Disdaining to take any heed of her "notice to quit," and quite determined to know the worst, he says, defiantly,—
"If youdogo to this dance, may I consider myself engaged to you for the first waltz?" There is quite a frown upon his face as he says this; but it hasn't the faintest effect upon Monica. She is not at all impressed, and is, in fact enjoying herself immensely.
"If I go, which is more than improbable, I shall certainly not dance with you at all," she says, calmly, "because Aunt Priscilla will be there too, and she would not hear of my doing even a mild quadrille with a Desmond."
"I see," with a melancholy assumption of composure. "All your dances, then, are to be reserved for Ryde."
"If Mr. Ryde asks me to dance, of course I shall not refuse."
"You mean to tell me"—even the poor assumption is now gone—"that you are going to give himalland menone?"
"I shall not give any oneall: how can you talk like that? But I cannot defy Aunt Priscilla. It is very unkind of you to desire it. I suppose you think I should enjoy being tormented from morning till night all about you?"
"Certainly not. I don't want you to be tormented on any account, and, above all on mine," very stiffly. "To prevent anything of the kind, I shall not go to Cobbett's dance."
"If you choose to get into a bad temper I can't help you."
"I amnotin a bad temper, and even if I were I have cause. But it is not temper will prevent my going to the Barracks."
"What then?"
"Why should I go there to be made miserable?Youcan go and dance with Ryde to your heart's content, but I shall spare myself the pain of seeing you. Did you say you wanted yoursister? Shall I call her now? I am sure you must want to go home."
"I don't," she says, unexpectedly; and then a little smile of conscious triumph wreathes her lips as she looks at him, standing moody and dejected before her. A word from her will transform him; and now, the day being all her own, she can afford to be generous. Even the very best of women can be cruel to their lovers.
"I don't," she says, "notyet. There is something I want to ask you first," she pauses in a tantalizing fashion, and glances from the grass she is still holding to him, and from him back to the grass again, before she speaks. "It is a question," she says then, as though reluctantly, "but you look so angry with me that I am afraid to ask it." This is the rankest hypocrisy, as he is as wax in her hands at this moment; but, though he knows it, he gives in to the sweetness of her manner, and lets his face clear.
"Ask me anything you like," he says, turning upon her now a countenance "more in sorrow than in anger."
"It isn't much," said Miss Beresford, sweetly, "only—whatisyour Christian name? I have been solongingto know. It is very unpleasant to be obliged tothinkof people by their surnames, is it not? so unfriendly!"
He is quite staggered by the excess of her geniality.
"My name is Brian," he says, devoutly hoping she will not think it hideous and so see cause to pass judgment upon it.
"Brian!" going nearer to him with half-shy eyes, and a littleriantemouth that with difficulty suppresses its laughter. "Howpretty! Brian," purposely lingering over it, "with an 'i' of course?"
"Yes."
"I'm so glad I know yours now!" says this disgraceful little coquette, with a sigh of pretended relief. "You knew mine, and that wasn't fair, you know. Besides,"—with a rapid glance that might have melted an anchorite and delivered him from the error of his ways,—"besides, I may want to call you by itsomeday, and then I should be at a loss."
Though by no means proof against so much friendliness, Mr. Desmond still continues to maintain an injured demeanor. Monica lays one little hand lightly on his arm.
"Won't you ask me to call you by it?" she says, with the prettiest reproach.
"Oh, Monica," says the young man, seizing her hand and pressing it against his heart, "you know your power; be merciful.Darling," drawing her still nearer to him, "I don't think you quite understand how it is with me; but, indeed, I love you with all my heart and soul."
"But in such a little time, how can it be true?" says Monica, all her gayety turning into serious wonderment.
"'Love is a thing as any spirit free,'" quotes he, tenderly. "How shall one know when the god may come? It has nothing to do with time. I have seen you,—it little matters how often,—and now I love you. Dear heart,tryto love me."
There is something in his manner both gentle and earnest. Impressed by it, she whispers softly,—
"Iwilltry."
"And you will call me Brian?"
"Oh, no!—no, indeed!—not yet," entreats she, stepping back from him as far as he will allow her.
"Very well, not yet."
"And you will go to the Barracks for this dance?"
"I will do anything on earth you ask me. You know that too well, I fear, for my peace of mind."
"And you won't be angry with me if I don't dance with you there?"
"No. I promise that, too. Ah! here is Miss Kit coming,—and without the roses,—after all."
It is true she has no roses; she has, indeed, forgotten she even pretended to want them, and has been happy while away with her song and her own thoughts.
"I think, Monica, we ought, perhaps, to be thinking of coming home," she says, apologetically, yet with quite a motherly air. Has she not been mounting guard over and humoring these two giddy young people before her?
"Yes, I think so too;" and the goodness of Kit, and something else, strike her.
"If we are asked to this dance at Clonbree, and if we go, I should like Kit to go too," she says in a soft aside to Desmond, who says, "That is all right: I settled it with Cobbett yesterday," in the same tone; and then a little more energetically, as he sees the moments flying, he goes on, "Before you go, say one thing after me. It will be a small consolation until I see you again. Say, 'Brian, good-by.'"
"Good-by, Brian," she whispers, shyly, and then she draws her hand out of his, and, turning to the studiously inattentive Kit, passes her arm through hers.
"Good-by, Mr. Desmond! I trust we may soon meetagain," says the younger Miss Beresford, with rather a grand air, smiling upon him patronizingly.
"I hope so too," says Desmond, gravely, "and that next time you will graciously accord me a little more of your society."
Quite pleased with this delicate protest against her lengthened absence, Kit bows politely, and she and Monica take their homeward way.
Once Monica turns, to wave him a friendly adieu, and he can see again her soft, bare arms, her pretty baby-neck in her white dinner-gown, and her lovely, earnest eyes. Then she is gone, and her passing seems to him "like the ceasing of exquisite music," and nothing is left to him but the wailing of the rising night-wind, and the memory of a perfect girl-face that he knows will haunt him till he dies.