How the Misses Blake discover a gigantic fraud—How Terence is again arraigned, and brought before the Court on a charge of duplicity—and how he is nearly committed for contempt.
How the Misses Blake discover a gigantic fraud—How Terence is again arraigned, and brought before the Court on a charge of duplicity—and how he is nearly committed for contempt.
Reaching home, they find the atmosphere there decidedly clouded. Miss Priscilla, who has returned from her drive just a moment before, is standing in the hall, gazing with a stern countenance upon the old-fashioned eight-day clock, in which two or three people might be safely stowed away. The clock regards her not at all, but ticks on loudly with a sort of exasperating obstinacy, as though determined to remind every one of the flight of time.
"Who has wound this clock?" demands Miss Priscilla, in an awful tone. With a thrill of thankfulness the girls feel they can answer truthfully, "Not I."
"Dear me!" says Miss Penelope, timidly, advancing from the morning-room; "I did. You were so long out, Priscilla, and I feared—I mean, I thought it would save you the trouble."
"Trouble in winding a clock! What trouble could there be in that? And it isneverwound until Saturday evening. For twenty years I have wound it on Saturday evening. A good eight-day clock nearly fifty years old can't bear being tampered with. Now, Penelope, why did you do that? You know that I can't endure old rules to be upset."
"But, my dear Priscilla, I only thought as I was passing——"
"Youthought, Penelope; but I wish youwouldn'tthink. There are other things you ought to think about that you often neglect; and——"
"Now, Priscilla, is that just? I think—IhopeI seldom neglect my duty; and I must say I didn't expect this fromyou."
Here Miss Penelope dissolves into tears, to Monica's grief and dismay.
"Oh, Aunt Priscilla, I am sure Aunt Pen only meant to save you trouble," she says, earnestly, putting her arms round Miss Penelope, who sobs audibly on her shoulder.
"And who says I thought anything else?"says poor Miss Priscilla, fiercely, though her voice trembles with emotion: itis terrible to her to see her faithful friend and sister in tears of her causing. "Penelope, I meant nothing, but I have heard something that has grieved and disturbed me: so I must needs come home and avenge my ill-temper on the best creature in the world. Alas! I am a wicked woman."
"Oh, no, no," cries Miss Penelope. "My dear Priscilla, you will break my heart if you talk thus. My good soul, come in here and tell me what has happened to distress you."
In truth it is quite plain now that something has happened during her drive to take Miss Priscilla's well-balanced mind off its hinges.
"Where is Terence?" she asks, looking from one to other of the group in the hall.
"Here," says Terence himself, coming leisurely towards her from a side-passage.
"Come in here with me," says Miss Priscilla; and they all follow her into the morning-room.
Here she turns and faces the unconscious Terence with a pale, reproachful face.
"When I tell you I have just come from Mitson the coast-guard, and that I thanked him for having lent you his gun, you will understand how I have been grieved and pained to-day," she says, a tremor in her voice.
Terence is no longer unconscious; and Monica feels that her heart is beating like a lump of lead.
"Oh! what is it, Priscilla?" asks Miss Penelope, greatly frightened.
"A tale of craft and cunning," says Miss Priscilla in a hollow tone. "Mitson tells me he never lent him that gun. Terence has wilfully deceived us, his poor aunts, who love him and only desire his good. He has, I fear, basely mystified us to accomplish his own ends, and has indeed departed from the precious truth."
"I never said Mitson did lend it to me," says Terence, sullenly: "you yourself suggested the idea, and I let it slide, that was all."
"All! Is not prevarication only ameanlie? Oh, Terence, I am so deeply grieved! I know not what to say to you."
The scene is becoming positively tragical. Already a sense of crime of the blackest and deepest dye is overpowering Terence.
"Whomdidyou get that gun from, Terence?" asks Miss Priscilla, sternly.
No answer.
"Now, Terence, be calm," says Miss Penelope. "Sit down now, Terence, and collect yourself, and don't be untruthful again."
"I have told no lie, aunt," says Terence, indignantly.
"Then tell your good Aunt Priscilla who gave you the gun."
Dead silence.
"Are we to understand that youwon'ttell us, Terence?" asks Miss Priscilla, faintly. She is now much the more nervous of the two old maids.
Terence casts a hasty glance at Monica's white face, and then says, stoutly,—
"I don't want to tell, and Iwon't!"
"Terence!" exclaims the usually mild Miss Penelope, with great indignation, and is going to further relieve her mind, no doubt, when Miss Priscilla, throwing up her hands, checks her.
"Let him alone, Penelope," she says, sadly. "Perhaps he has some good reason: let us not press him too far. Obduracy is better than falsehood. Let us go and pray that heaven may soften his heart and grant him a right understanding."
With this the two old ladies walk slowly and with dignity from the room, leaving the criminal with his sisters.
Monica bursts into tears and flings her arms round his neck. "You did it forme. I know it!—I saw it in your eyes," she says. "Oh, Terence, I feel as if it was all my fault."
"Fiddlesticks!" says Mr. Beresford, who is in a boiling rage. "Did you ever hear anything like her? and all about a paltry thing like that! She couldn't behave worse if I had been convicted of murder. I'm convinced"—viciously—"it was all baffled curiosity that got up her temper. She wasdyingto know about that gun, and so I was determined I wouldn't gratify her. A regular old cat, if ever there was one."
"Oh, no! don't speak like that; I am sure they love you—and they were disappointed—and——"
"They'll have to get through a good deal of disappointment," says Terence, still fuming. "What right have they to make me out a Sir Galahad in their imaginations? I'd perfectlyhateto be a Sir Galahad; and so I tell them." This is not strictly correct as the Misses Blake are out of hearing. "And as for their love, they may keep it, if it only means blowing a fellow up for nothing."
"Aunt Penelope was just as bad," says Kit. "I really"—with dignified contempt—"felt quiteashamedof her!"
Miss Priscilla keeps a diary, in which she most faithfully records all that happens in every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days of every year.
About this time there may be seen in it an entry such as follows:
"Saturday, July 3.—I fear Terence told aLIE! Hecertainlyequivocated! Penelope and I have done our best to discover the real owner ofTHEgun, but as yet have failed. The secret rests with Terence, and to force his confidence would be unchristian; but itmaytranspire intime."
After thiscomesundry other jottings, such as—
"Monday, July 5.—Past four. Fanny Stack called. Penelope in the garden, as usual. All the trouble of entertaining falling uponmyhands. Still, I do not repine. Providence is good; and Penelope of course, dear soul, should be allowed the recreation that pertains to her garden. And, indeed, a sweet place she makes of it."
After this again comes a third paragraph:
"Tuesday, July 6.—Terence again most wilful, and Kit somewhat saucy; yet my heart yearns over these children. God grant they be guided by a tender hand along the straight and narrow way!"
It is the next day, July 7, and the two Misses Blake, standing in the dining-room, are discussing Terence again. They have had a great shock, these two old ladies, in the discovery of a duplicity that they in their simplicity have magnified fourfold. How is it possible they should remember howtheyfelt thirty years ago?
"I doubt we must keep a tight hand upon him, Penelope," says Miss Priscilla, sorrowfully. "The rector is very lax. He goes to him day by day, but beyond Greek and Latin seems to imbibe little else. Andmoralsare the groundwork of all, and surely superior to the languages spoken by those who believed in heathen gods. I wonder at the rector, I must say. But we must only make up for his deficiences by keeping a tight hand, as I said before, upon this unhappy boy."
"Yes, but nottootight, Priscilla; that might only create a rebellious feeling and destroy all our chances of success. And we are bent on leading this poor dear boy (poor Katherine's boy, Priscilla) into the way of truth."
"Yes, yes; we must be cautious,mostcautious, in our treatment," says Miss Priscilla, nervously, "and very careful of hiscomings and goings, withoutappearingto be so! Dear me! dear me! I wonder if the greatness of our cause justifies so much deceit. It sounds jesuitical, my dear Penelope, say what we can."
"The end justifies the means," says Miss Penelope, as solemnly as if this speech emanated from her throat as an original remark.
"Oh, don't!my dear Penelope!" says MissPriscilla, with a shudder; "that istheirprincipal argument."
"Whose? The children's?" asks Miss Penelope, startled.
"No; the Jesuits,—the Inquisitors,—those dreadful people we read of in 'Westward Ho,'" says Miss Priscilla, protestingly. "Still, I agree with you; secrecy is the part we have to play. We must keep one eye" (as if there was only one between them) "upon him withoutseemingto do so. And there he is,"—pointing through thewindowto where Terence may be seen coming slowly towards the window in which they stand in a most unhappy frame of mind.
"I wonder where he can have been for the past half-hour," says Miss Priscilla presently, in a nervous whisper, though Terence is so far off that if she spoke at the top of her lungs he could not have heard her.
"Perhaps if we ask him he may tell us," says Miss Penelope, equally nervous and decidedly with great doubt as to the success of her suggestion.
"Well, you ask him," says Miss Priscilla.
"I am greatly wanting inforceon occasions such as these," says Miss Penelope, hurriedly. "No, no, my dear; you ask him. But be gentle with him, my dear Priscilla."
"Why can'tyoudo it?" persists Miss Blake, plainly anxious to shift the obnoxious task from her own shoulders to another's. "You have great influence with the children, I have remarked many times."
"Nothing toyours," says Miss Penelope, with an agitated wave of her hand. "I couldn't do it; indeed Icouldn't, my dear Priscilla," openly quaking. "Don't ask me.See, here he comes! Now be firm,—befirm, Priscilla, but lenient,verylenient: he is only a boy, remember, and even the great Luther was strangely wanting in principle when young."
"It is my duty; I suppose I must go through with it," says poor Miss Priscilla, sighing; and then she throws wide the window and calls to Terence to come to her.
"Where have you been, Terence?"
"At the back gate, aunt."
"But, mydearTerence,whyat the back gate? Such a nice day for a good long wholesome walk! Why spend it at the back gate?"
"Because—that is—I——"
"My dear boy, be calm. Wait a moment now, Terence, and don't hurry yourself. There is no occasion for haste."
"I was only going to say, aunt——"
"Pause now, Terence: consider well before you speak. Though, indeed, there should be no need for consideration when only the simple but lovely truth is required. Truth is always lovely, Terence; it is a flower of great beauty. Collect yourself, now." (This is a favorite formula with the Misses Blake.) "Don't tell a lie, Terence!"
"Why should I tell a lie?" says Terence, fiercely, feeling at this moment that death, when compared with nagging, would be sweet.
"Oh, Terence, what a tone! and to your good aunt Penelope, who loves you! Such a tone as that, my dear, is unchristian. Now, we don't want to know what you weredoingat the back gate. Why should you be afraid of us? Are we not your greatest friends? But what could you have been doing for half an hour at the back gate, Terence?"
"I went up there with Michael, aunt."
"I didn't ask you that, dear. I am afraid you have no confidence in us, Terence. I didn't ask you who went with you. Can't you say yes or no, Terence? Were youlongat the gate?"
"No, aunt."
"Was any one but Michael with you?"
"Yes, aunt."
"Was it Adams?"
"No, aunt."
"Can't you say anything but yes or no, Terence? Have you no command of the Queen's English, after all the money, too, your poor father wasted on your education,—and now the rector? Speak up, my dear child, and tell us everything honestly and nobly."
"But there is nothing to tell, aunt, except that——"
"No, collect yourself, Terence; take time, my dear.Now, answer me: who was with you, besides Michael?"
"Timothy, aunt."
The hoary-headed butler being, like Cæsar's wife, above suspicion, the Misses Blake are pulled up pretty short,—soshort, indeed, that they forget to ask if any one besides the respectable Timothy was at the obnoxious back gate. Perhaps had they known that the smith's son, and two or three other young men, had been there, and that all had been talking the most violent politics, their fears for Terence's morality would have increased rather than diminished.
As it is, they are well pleased.
"But why didn't you say that at once, my dear boy? We are so afraid of your mixing with evil companions."
Terence thinks of the smith's son, and his unqualified opinion that all landlords and aristocrats and sovereigns should be "stamped out," and wonders ifhewould come under the category of evil companions, but he wisely refrains from speech.
"And," says Miss Penelope, softly, "why didn't you tell us before leaving the house where you were going? I am sure, if you had, both your aunt Priscilla and I would have been delightedto go with you, busy though we were."
This is the climax. Again in Terence's fevered imagination the smith's son arises, wielding his brawny brown arm like a sledge-hammer, as he noisily lays down the laws of extermination: he can see himself, too, joining in the fray, and defying the smith's son's opinion with an eloquence of which he had been only proud. He feels he is deceiving these two old ladies, and is angry with himself for doing it, and still more angry with them for making him do it.
"I am glad we have heard the truth atlast, Terence," says Miss Priscilla. "There is nothing so mean or contemptible as a lie."
"You are enough to makeanyfellow tell a lie," bursts out Terence, with miserable rage, "with your questionings and pryings!"
At this awful speech, the two Misses Blake burst into tears, and Terence dashes in a fury from the room.
How the afternoon at Moyne proves a great success—How Olga Bohun is led into a half confession, and how Monica, growing restless, seeks a dubious solitude.
How the afternoon at Moyne proves a great success—How Olga Bohun is led into a half confession, and how Monica, growing restless, seeks a dubious solitude.
"It is quite the loveliest old place in the world!" says Mrs. Bohun, in her soft plaintive voice, speaking very enthusiastically."We ought to be more than grateful to you, dear Miss Blake, for letting us see it."
Miss Priscilla reddens with suppressed satisfaction but says,—
"Tut tut, my dear! It is only a funny old-fashioned spot, after all," in quite an off-hand manner.
It is Friday,—theFriday,—as the Misses Blake have been thinking of it for days, in fear and trembling, as being the date of their first hospitable venture for many years.
All the Aghyohillbeg party, and the men from Clonbree Barracks, and some other neighbors, are strolling through the sweet antiquated gardens of Moyne, hedged with yews fantastically cut. The roses, white and red and yellow, are nodding their heads lazily, bowing and courtesying to the passing breeze. The stocks and mignonette are filling the air with perfume. Tall lilies are smiling from distant corners, and the little merry burn, tumbling over its gray boulders through the garden, is singing a loud and happy song, in which the birds in the trees above join heartily.
The lazy hum of many insects makes one feel even more perceptibly how drowsy-sweet is all the summer air.
Mrs. Bohun has now flitted away with Monica, who in her white gown looks the prettiest flower of all, in this "wilderness of sweets," with the tall, infatuated Ryde and handsome young Ronayne in their train. Mrs. Bohun, who is in one of her most mischievous moods to-day, has taken it into her head to snub Lord Rossmoyne and be all that is of the sweetest to Ulic Ronayne, a proceeding her cousin, Mrs. Herrick, regards withdismay.
Not so, however, does Bella Fitzgerald regard it. She, tall, and with a would-be stately air, walks through the grounds at Lord Rossmoyne's side, to whom she has attached herself, and who,faute de mieux, makes himself as agreeable as he can to her, considering how he is inwardly raging at what he is pleased to term Olga's disgraceful behavior.
Miss Priscilla has now been seized upon by Madam O'Connor and carried off for a private confab.
"And you reallymustlet her come to us for a week, my dear," says Madam O'Connor, in her fine rich brogue. "Yes, now, really I want her. It will be quite a favor. I can't withstand a pretty face, as you well know 'tis a weakness of mine, my dear, and she is really a pearl. Olga Bohun is talking of getting up tableaux or some such nonsense, and she wants your pretty child to help us."
"I should like her to go to you. It is very kind of you," says Miss Priscilla, but with unmistakable hesitation.
"Now, what is it? Out with it, Priscilla!" says Madam O'Connor, bluntly.
Miss Priscilla struggles with herself for yet another minute, and then says, quickly,—
"That young man Desmond,—willhebe staying in your house?"
"Not if you object, my dear," says Mrs. O'Connor, kindly; "though I do think it is a pity to thwart that affair. He is as nice and as pleasant a young fellow as I know, and would make a jewel of a husband; and money—say what you like, my dear Priscilla—is always something. It ranks higher thanrevenge."
"There is no revenge. It is only a just resentment."
"Well, I'll call it by any name you like, my dear, but I must say——"
"I must beg, Gertrude, you will not discuss this unhappy subject," says Miss Priscilla, with some agitation.
"Well, I won't, there. Then let it lie," says Madam O'Connor, good-humoredly. "And tell me, now, if I come over to fetch Monica on Monday, will she be ready for me?"
"Quite ready. But we have not consulted her yet," says Miss Priscilla, clinging to a broken reed.
"Olga is talking to her about it. And, if she's the girl shelooks, she'll be glad of a change, and the chance of a sweetheart," says Madam O'Connor, gayly.
"What lovely lilies!" says Mrs. Bohun, standing before a tall white group.
"Oh, don't!" says Owen Kelly, who has joined her and Monica. "Whenever I hear a lily mentioned I think of Oscar Wilde, and it hurts very much."
"I like Oscar Wilde. He is quite nice, andveryamusing," says Olga.
"I wonder if I could make my hair grow," says Mr. Kelly, meditatively. "He's been very clever about his; but I suppose somebody taught him."
"Well, I think long hair is dirty," says Mrs. Bohun, with an abstracted glance at Ronayne's lightly-shaven head.
Then, as though tired of her sweetroleand of its object (Ronayne) and everything, she turns capriciously aside, and, motioning away the men with her hand and a small frown, sitsdown at Hermia Herrick's feet and plucks idly at the grasses near her.
"So we are dismissed," says Kelly, shrugging his shoulders. Monica has disappeared long ago with the devoted Ryde. "Your queen has her tempers, Ronayne."
"There are few things so cloying as perfection," says Ronayne, loyally.
"I entirely agree with you,—so much so that I hope Providence will send me an ugly wife. She—I beg your pardon—Mrs. Bohun does pretty much what she likes with you, doesn't she?"
"Altogether what she likes. She's been doing it for so long now that I suppose she'll go on to the end of the chapter. I hope it will be a long one. Do you know," says the young man, with a rather sad little laugh, "it sounds of course rather a poor thing to say, but I really think it makes mehappy, being done what she likes with?"
"It is only to oblige a friend that I should seek to understand such a hopelessly involved sentence as that," says Mr. Kelly, wearily. "But I have managed it. You're as bad a case as ever I came across, Ronayne, and I pity you. But, 'pon my soul, I respect you too," with a flash of admiration: "there is nothing like being thoroughly in earnest. And so I wish you luck in your wooing."
"You're a very good fellow, Kelly," says Ronayne gratefully.
In the mean time, Olga, tiring of tearing her grasses to pieces, looks up at Hermia.
"How silent you are!" she says.
"I thought that was what you wanted,—silence. You have been talking all day. And, besides, if I speak at all, it will be only to condemn."
"Neverthelessspeak. Anything is better than this ghastly quiet; and, besides, frankly, I need not mind you, you know."
"You are flirting disgracefully with that Ronayne boy."
"What harm, if heisa boy?"
"He is not such a boy as all that comes to; and, if you don'tmeanit, you are overkind to him."
"He is my baby," says Olga, with a little laugh; "I often tell him so. Why should Inotbe kind to him?"
"Oh, if you arebenton it."
"I am bent on nothing. You do run away so with things!"
"I think you might do better."
"I'm not going to do anything," says the widow. Shethrows off her hat, and ruffles up all her pretty pale gold hair with impatient fingers.
"Oh! if you canassureme of that!"
"I don't want to assure you of anything."
"So I thought. That is why I say you might do better."
"I might do worse, too."
"Perhaps. But still I cannot forget there was Wolverhampton last year. A title is not to be despised; and he was devoted to you, and would, I think, have made a good husband."
"I daresay. He was fool enough for anything. And I liked him, rather; but there was something in him—wasn't there, now, Hermia?—something positively enraging at times."
"I suppose, then, your fancy for young Ronayne arises from the fact that there isnothingin him," says Hermia, maliciously: "that's his charm, is it?"
Mrs. Bohun laughs.
"I don't suppose there is very much in him," she says: "that in itself is such a relief. Wolverhampton was so overpowering about those hydraulics. Ulic isn't a savant, certainly, and I don't think he will ever set the Liffey afire, but he is 'pleasant too to think on.' Now, mind you, I don't believe I care a pin about Ulic Ronayne,—he is younger than I am, for one thing,—but still I don't care to hear him abused."
"I am not abusing him," says Hermia. "It was you said he was no savant, and would be unlikely to set the Liffey afire."
"For which we should be devoutly grateful," says Olga, frivolously. "Consider, if hecould, what the consequences would be, both to life and property. Poor young man! I really think Government ought to give him a pension because hecan't."
"And what about all the other young men?" asks Hermia. And then she yawns.
Here Monica—who has been absent with Mr. Ryde for the best part of an hour—comes up to them, and presently Terence, with the Fitzgeralds, and Miss Priscilla and Lord Rossmoyne.
"I heard a story yesterday I want to tell you," says Terence, gayly, singling out Miss Fitzgerald and Olga, and sinking upon the grass at the former's feet. He is such a handsome merry boy that he is a favorite with all the women. Miss Priscilla stands near him; the others are all conversing together about the coming plays at Aghyohillbeg.
"It is about the curate," says Terence, gleefully. "Youknow, he is awful spoons on the ugliest French girl, and the other day he wanted to run up to Dublin to get her a ring, or something, but——"
"Now, Terence, dear, surely that is not the way to pronounce that word," says Miss Priscilla, anxiously; "such a vulgar pronounciation—'bu-ut.' How you drawled it! How ugly it sounds—'bu-ut!' Now put your lips together like mine, so, and say 'but,'shortly. Now begin your story again, and tell it nicely."
Terence begins again,—verygood humoredly, thinks Olga,—and has almost reached the point, when Miss Priscilla breaks in again:
"Now, not so fast, my dear Terence. I really cannot follow you at all. I don't even understand what you are at. Gently, my dear boy. Now begin it all over again, and be more explicit."
But the fun is all out of Terence by this time, though Olga is so convulsed with laughter that it might have been the best story on record, which somewhat astonishes though it consoles Terence, as when his funny incident is related in a carefully modulated voice, and with a painful precision, it strikes even him as being hopelessly uninteresting. However, Mrs. Bohun certainly enjoys it,—or something else, perhaps: fortunately, it never occurs to Terry to ponder on the "something else."
"Hermia, Olga, come now, my dears. You can't stay here forever, you know," cries Madam O'Connor's loud but cheery voice. "It is nearly seven. Come, I tell you, or the Misses Blake, our good friends here, will think we mean to take up our residence at Moyne for good."
"Oh, now, Gertrude!" says Miss Priscilla, much shocked. But Madam O'Connor only laughs heartily, and gives her a little smart blow on the shoulder with her fan. Olga laughs too, gayly, and Hermia lets her lips part with one of her rare but perfect smiles. If she likes any one besides Olga and her children, it is bluff and blunt old Gertrude O'Connor.
One by one they all walk away, and presently Moyne is lying in the dying sunshine, in all its usual quietude, with never a sound to disturb the calm of coming eve but the light rustling of the rising breeze among the ivy-leaves that are clambering up its ancient walls.
Kit and Terry are indoors, laughing merrily over the day, and congratulating themselves upon the success it has certainly been.
"Yes. I do think, Penelope, they all enjoyed themselves," says Miss Priscilla, in high glee; "and your claret-cup, my dear, was superb."
But Monica has stolen away from them all. The strange restlessness that has lain upon her all day is asserting itself with cruel vigor, and drives her forth into the shadows of the coming night.
All day long she has struggled bravely against it; but, now that the enforced necessity for liveliness is at an end, she grows dreamy,distraite, and feels an intense longing for solitude and air.
Again she walks through the now deserted garden, where the flowers, "earth's loveliest," are drooping their sweet heads to seek their happy slumbers. Past them she goes with lowered head and thoughts engrossed, and so over the lawn into the wood beyond.
Here Coole and Moyne are connected by a high green bank, that in early spring is studded and diamonded with primroses and now is gay with ferns. Not until she has reached this boundary does she remember how far she has come.
She climbs the bank, and gazes with an ever-growing longing at the cool shade in the forbidden land, at the tall, stately trees, and the foxgloves nodding drowsily.
It is a perfect evening, and as yet the god of day—great Sol—is riding the heavens with triumphant mirth, as though reckless of the death that draweth nigh. Shall he not rise again to-morrow morn in all his awful majesty, and so defy grim Mars? It is, indeed, one of those hours when heaven seems nearest earth, "as when warm sunshine thrills wood-glooms to gold," and "righteousness and peace have kissed each other," and Nature, tender mother, smiles, and all the forest deeps are by "a tender whisper pierced."
Conscience forbidding her, she abstainsfromentering those coveted woods, and, with a sigh, seats herself upon the top of the green bank.
"Monica!" says a voice close to her, yet not close to her,—mysteriously, far up in mid-air, right over her head. She starts! Is the great wood peopled with satyrs, ouphs, or dryads?
The marvellous history of how Monica finds the green-eyed monster in a beech-tree—and how, single-handed, she attacks and overcomes him.
The marvellous history of how Monica finds the green-eyed monster in a beech-tree—and how, single-handed, she attacks and overcomes him.
It is not a tender voice. It is not even a gentle or coldly friendly voice. It is, when all is told, a distinctly angry voice, full of possible reproaches and vehement upbraidings.
Monica, raising her head with extreme nervousness, had just time to see Mr. Desmond in the huge fir-tree above her, before he drops at her feet.
"What on earth were you doing up there?" asks she, thinking it wise to adopt the offensive style, so as to be first in the field, feeling instinctively that a scolding is coming and that she deserves it.
"Watchingyou," returns he, sternly, nothing dismayed by her assumption of injured innocence, so her little ruse falls through.
"A charming occupation, certainly!" says Miss Beresford, with fine disgust.
"I climbed up into that tree," says Mr. Desmond, savagely, "and from it saw that you had spent your entire day with that idiot, Ryde."
"Do you think," says Miss Beresford, with awful calm, "that it was agentlemanlything to climb into that tree, like a horrid schoolboy, and spy upon a person?—do you?"
"I don't," vehemently, "but I was driven to it. I don't care what is gentlemanly. I don't care," furiously, "what you think of me. I only know that my mind is nowsatisfiedabout you, and that I know you are the most abominable flirt in the world, and that you ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"Well, I'm not," with great self-possession.
"The more to your discredit! That only means that you are bent on doing it again."
"I shall certainly always talk to any man who talks to me. That is," cuttingly, "any man who knows how to conduct himself with propriety."
"Meaning—Idon't, I suppose?"
"Certainlyyou don't."
"Oh, if it comes to that," says Desmond, in tones of thedeepest desperation, and as if nothing is left to expect but the deluge in another moment.
And, in effect, it comes. Not, as one has been taught to expect, in sudden storm, and wind, and lightning, but first in soft light drops, and then in a perfect downpour, that bursts upon them with passionate fury.
As they are standing beneath a magnificent beech, they get but a taste of the shower in reality, though Desmond, seeing some huge drops lying on Monica's thin white gown, feels his heart smite him.
"Here, take this," he says, roughly, taking off his coat and placing it round her shoulders.
"No, thank you," says Miss Beresford, stiffly.
"You must," returns he, and, to his surprise, she makes no further resistance. Perhaps she is cowed by the authority of his manner;perhapsshe doesn't like the raindrops.
Encouraged, however, by her submission to a further daring of fortune, he says, presently,—
"You might have given Cobbett a turn, I think, instead of devoting yourself all day to that egregious ass."
"He prefers talking to Hermia. I suppose you don't want me to go up to people and ask them to be civil to me?"
"Some other fellow, then."
"You would be just as jealous of him, whoever he was."
"I am not jealous at all," indignantly. "I only object to your saying one thing tomeand another tohim."
"What is the one thing I say to you?"
This staggers him.
"You must find me a very monotonous person if I say only one thing to you always."
"I haven't found you so."
"Then it—whatever it is—must be one of the most eloquent and remarkable speeches upon record.Dotell it to me."
"Look here, Monica," says Mr. Desmond, cautiously evading a reply: "what I want to know is—what youseein Ryde. He is tall, certainly, but he is fat and effeminate, with'a forehead villanous low.'"
"Your own is very low," says Miss Beresford.
"If I thought it was likehis, I'd make away with myself. And you listen to all his stories, and believe them every one. I don't believe a single syllable he says: I never met such a bragger. To listen to him, one would think he had killedevery tiger in Bengal. In my opinion, he never even saw one."
"'Les absents ont toujours tort,'" quotes she, in a low, significant tone.
This is the finishing stroke.
"Oh! youdefendhim," he says, as savagely almost as one of those wild beasts he has just mentioned. "In your eyes he is a hero, no doubt. I daresay all women see virtue in a man who'talks as familiarly of roaring lions as maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs.'"
"I don't think maids of thirteen, as a rule, talk much of puppy-dogs. I'm sure Kit doesn't," says Monica, provokingly. "And really, to do Mr. Ryde justice too, I never heard him mention a roaring lion. Perhaps you are thinking of Artemus Ward's lion that goes about'seeking whom he may devour somebody.'" She smiles in a maddening fashion.
"I am thinking of Ryde," says Desmond. "I am thinking, too, how mad I was when I thought you liked me better than him. Ididthink it, you know; but now I amdesillusionnee. It is plain to me you are infatuated about this fellow, who is'perfumed like a milliner' and hasn't two ideas in his head."
"I can't think where you find all your quotations," says Monica, who is now seriously annoyed; "but I must ask you not to worry me any further about Mr. Ryde."
"You are madly in love with him," says Desmond, choking with rage. Upon which Miss Beresford loses the last remnant of her patience, and very properly turns her back on him.
The rain has ceased, but during its reign has extinguished the dying sun, which has disappeared far below the horizon. A great hush and silence has followed the petulant burst of storm, and a peace unspeakable lies on all the land. There is a little glimpse of the ocean far away beyond the giant firs, and one can see that its waves are calm, and the fishing-boats upon its bosom scarcely rock.
The grass is bending still with the weight of the past rain, and a plaintive dripping from the trees can be heard,—a refreshing sound that lessens the sense of heat. The small birds stir cosily in their nests, and now and then a drowsy note breaks from one or another; a faint mist, white and intangible, rises from the hills, spreading from field to sky, until
"The earth, with heaven mingled, in the shadowy twilight lay,And the white sails seemed like spectres in a cloud-land far away."
"The earth, with heaven mingled, in the shadowy twilight lay,And the white sails seemed like spectres in a cloud-land far away."
"Ah! you don't like me to say that," says Desmond, unappeased by the beauty of the growing night; "but——"
"Do not sayanotherword," says Monica, imperiously. The moon is rising slowly—slowly,—and so, by the by, is her temper. "I forbid you. Here," throwing to him his coat; "I think I have before remarked that the rain isquiteover. I am sorry I ever touched anything belonging to you."
Desmond having received the coat, and put himself into it once more, silence ensues. It does, perhaps, strike him as a hopeful sign that she shows no haste to return home and so rid herself of a presence she has inadvertently declared to be hateful to her, because presently he says, simply, if a little warmly,—
"There is no use in our quarreling like this. I won't give you up without a further struggle, toanyman. So we may as well have it out now. Do you care for that—for Ryde?"
"If you had asked me that before,—sensibly,—you might have avoided making an exhibition of yourself and saying many rude things. I don't in the least mind telling you," says Miss Beresford, coldly, "that Ican't bearhim."
"Oh, Monica! is thistrue?" asks he, in an agony of hope.
"Quite true. But you don't deserve I should say it."
"My darling! My 'one thing bright' in all this hateful world! Oh!" throwing up his head with an impatient gesture, "I have been so wretched all this evening! I have suffered the tortures of the——"
"Now, you musn't say naughty words," interrupts she, with an adorable smile. "You are glad I have forgiven you?"
This is how she puts it, and he is only too content to be friends with her on any terms, to show further fight.
"Morethan glad."
"And you will promise me never to be jealous again?"
This is a bitter pill, considering his former declaration that jealousy and he had nothing to do with each other; but he swallows it bravely.
"Never. And you—you will never again give me cause, darling, will you?"
"I gave you no cause now," says the darling, shaking her pretty head obstinately. And he doesn't dare contradict her. "You behaved really badly," she goes on, reproachfully, "and at such a time, too,—just when I was dying to tell yousuchgood news."
"Good?—your aunts—" eagerly, "have relented—they——"
"Oh, no! oh,dear, no!" says Miss Beresford. "They are harder than ever against you. Adamant is aspongein comparison with them. It isn't that; but Madam O'Connor has asked me to go and stay with her next Monday for a week!—there!"
"And me too?"
"N—o. Aunt Priscilla made it a condition with regard to my going that you shouldn't be there."
"The——And Madam O'Connor gave in to such abominable tyranny?"
"Without a murmur."
"I thought she had a soul above that sort of thing," says Mr. Desmond, with disgust. "But they are all alike."
"Who?—women?"
"Yes."
"You mean to tell me I am like Aunt Priscilla and Madam O'Connor?"
"Oldwomen, I mean," with anxious haste, seeing a cloud descending upon the brow of his beloved.
"Oh!"
"And, after all, itisgood news," says Brian, brightening, "because though I can't stop in the house for the week, still there is nothing to prevent my riding over there every one of the seven days."
"That's just what I thought," says Monica, ingenuously, with a sweet little blush.
"Ah! you wished for me, then?"
She refuses to answer this in any more direct manner than her eyes afford, but says, quickly, doubtfully,—
"It won't be deceiving Aunt Priscilla, your coming there to visit, will it? She must know she cannot compel Madam O'Connor to forbid you the house. And she knows perfectly you are an intimate friend of hers."
"Of course she does. She is a regular old tyrant,—a Bluebeard in petticoats; but——"
"No, no; you must not abuse her," says Monica: so he becomes silent.
She is standing very close to the trunk of the old beech, half leaning against it upon one arm which is slightly raised. She has no gloves, but long white mittens that reach above her elbow to where the sleeves of her gown join them. Through the little holes in the pattern of these kindly mittens her whitearms can be seen gleaming like snow beneath the faint rays of the early moon. With one hand she is playing some imaginary air upon the tree's bark.
As she so plays, tiny sparkles from her rings attract his notice.
"Those five little rings," says Desmond, idly, "always remind me of the five little pigs that went to market,—I don't know why."
"They didn't all go to market," demurely. "One of them, Iknow, stayed at home."
"So he did. I remember now. Somehow it makes me feel like a boy again."
"Then, according to Hood, you must be nearer heaven than you were a moment ago."
"I couldn't," says Desmond, turning, and looking into her beautiful eyes. "My heaven has been near me for the last half-hour." If he had saidhourhe would have been closer to the truth.
A soft, lovely crimson creeps into her cheeks, and her eyes fall before his for a moment. Then she laughs,—a gay, mirthful laugh, that somehow puts sentiment to flight.
"Go on about your little pigs," she says, glancing at him with coquettish mirth.
"About your rings, you mean. I never look at them that I don't begin this sort of thing." Here, seeing an excellent opportunity for it, he takes her hand in his. "This little turquoise went to market, this little pearl stayed at home, this little emerald got some—er—cheese——"
"No, it wasn't," hastily. "It was roast beef."
"So it was. Better than cheese, any day. How stupid of me! I might have known an emerald—I mean a pig—wouldn't like cheese."
"I don't suppose it would like roast beef a bit better," says Monica; and then her lips part and she bursts into a merry laugh at the absurdity of the thing. She is such a child still that she finds the keenest enjoyment in it.
"Never mind," with dignity, "and permit me to tell you, Miss Beresford, that open ridicule is rude. To continue:thislittle pearl got none, and this little plain gold ring got—he got—what on earth did the little plain gold pig—I mean, ring—get?"
"Nothing.Just whatyouought to get for such a badly-told story. He only cried,'Wee.'"
"Oh, no, indeed. He shan't cry at all. I won't have tears connected with you in any way."
She glances up at him with eyes half shy, half pleased, and with the prettiest dawning smile upon her lips.
He clasps the slender fingers closer, as though loath to part with them, and yet his tale has come to a climax.
"If I have told my story so badly, perhaps I had better tell it all over again," he says, with a base assumption of virtuous regret.
"No. I would not give you that trouble for the world," she says, mischievously, and then the dawning smile widens, brightens into something indescribable, but perfect.
"Oh, Monica, I do think you are the sweetest thing on earth," says the young man, with sudden fervid passion; and then all at once, and for the first time, he puts out his arms impulsively and draws her to him. She colors,—still smiling, however,—and after a brief hesitation, moves slowly but decidedly back from him.
"You don'thateme to touch you, do you?" asks he, rather hurt.
"Oh, no, indeed!" hurriedly. "Only——"
"Only what, darling?"
"I hardly know what," she answers, looking bewildered. "Perhaps because it is all so strange. Why should you lovemebetter than any one?—and yet you do," anxiously, "don't you?"
The innocently-expressed anxiety makes his heart glad.
"I adore you," he says, fervently; and then, "Did no one ever place his arm round youbefore, Monica?"
He finds a difficulty in even asking this.
"No, no," with intense surprise at the question, and a soft, quick glance that is almost shamed. "I never had a lover in my life until I met you. No one except you ever told me I was pretty. The first timeyousaid it I went home (when I was out of your sight," reddening, "I ran all the rest of the way) and looked at myself in the glass. Then," naively, "I knew you were right. Still I had my doubts; so I called Kit and told her about it; and she," laughing, "said you were evidently a person of great discrimination, so I suppose she agreed with you."
"She could hardly do otherwise."
"Yet sometimes," says Monica, with hesitation and a downcast face, "I have thought it was all mere fancy with you, and that you don't love mereally."
"My sweetheart, what a cruel thing to say to me!"
"But see how you scold me! Only now," nervously plucking little bits of bark from the trunk of the tree, "you accused me of dreadful things. Yes, sometimes I doubt you."
"I wonder where I leave room for doubt? Yet I must convince you. What shall I swear by, then?" he asks, halflaughing: "the chaste Diana up above—the lovers' friend—is in full glory to-night; shall I swear by her?"
"'Oh, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, lest that thy love prove likewise variable,'" quotes she archly; "and yet," with a sudden change of mood, and a certain sweet gravity, "I do not mistrust you."
She leans slightly towards him, and unasked, gives her hand into his keeping once again. She is full of pretty tender ways and womanly tricks, and as for the best time for displaying them, for this she has a natural talent.
Desmond, clasping her hand, looks at her keenly. His whole heart is in his eyes.
"Tell me that you love me," he says, in a low unsteady voice.
"How can I? I don't know. I am not sure," she says, falteringly; "and," shrinking a little from him, "it is growing very late. See how the moon has risen above the firs. I must go home."
"Tell me you love me first."
"Imustnot love you; you know that."
"But if you might, you could?"
"Ye—es."
"Then I defy all difficulties,—aunts, and friends, and lovers. I shall win you in the teeth of all barriers, and in spite of all opposition. And now go home, my heart's delight, my best beloved. I have this assurance from you, that your own lips have given me, and it makes me confident of victory."
"But if you fail," she begins, nervously; but he will not listen to her.
"There is no such word," he says, gayly. "Or, if there is, I never learnt it. Good-night, my love."
"Good-night." A little frightened by his happy vehemence she stands well away from him, and holds out her hands in farewell. Taking them, he opens them gently and presses an impassioned kiss on each little pink-tinged palm. With a courteous reverence for her evident shyness, he then releases her, and, raising his hat, stands motionless until she has sprung down the bank and so reached the Moyne fields again.
Then she turns and waves him a second and last good night. Returning the salute, he replaces his hat on his head, and thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, turns towards Coole—and dinner. He is somewhat late for the latter, but this troubles him little, so set is his mind upon the girl who has just left him.
Surely she is hard to win, and therefore—howdesirable! "The women of Ireland," says an ancient chronicler, "are the coyest, the most coquettish, yet withal the coldest and virtuousest women upon earth." Yet, allowing all this, given time and opportunity, they may be safely wooed. What Mr. Desmond complains of bitterly, in his homeward musings to-night, is the fact that to him neither time nor opportunity is afforded.
"She is a woman therefore to be won;" but how is his courtship to be sped, if thorns are to beset his path on every side, and if persistent malice blocks his way to the feet of her whom he adores?
He reaches home in an unenviable frame of mind, and is thoroughly unsociable to Owen Kelly and the old squire all the evening.
Next morning sees him in the same mood; and, indeed, it is about this time he takes to imagining his little love as being a hapless prisoner in the hands of two cruel ogres (I am afraid he really does apply the term "ogres" to the two old ladies of Moyne), and finds a special melancholy pleasure in depicting her as a lonely captive condemned to solitary confinement and dieted upon bread and water.
To regard the Misses Blake in the light either of ogres or witches required some talent; but Mr. Desmond, at this period of his love-affair, managed it.
He would go about, too, singing,—