"Oh, who will o'er the downs so free,"
"Oh, who will o'er the downs so free,"
taking immense comfort out of, and repeating over and over again, such lines as—
"I sought her bower at break of day,'Twas guarded safe and sure;""Her father he has locked the door,Her mother keeps the key;But neither bolt nor bar shall keepMy own true love from me,"—
"I sought her bower at break of day,'Twas guarded safe and sure;"
"Her father he has locked the door,Her mother keeps the key;But neither bolt nor bar shall keepMy own true love from me,"—
until bars, and bolts, and locks, and keys seemed all real.
How, after much discussion, the devoted, if mistaken, adherents of Thalia gain the day—and how, for once in his life, Owen Kelly feels melancholy that is not assumed.
How, after much discussion, the devoted, if mistaken, adherents of Thalia gain the day—and how, for once in his life, Owen Kelly feels melancholy that is not assumed.
"I wish you would all attend," says Olga Bohun, just a little impatiently, looking round upon the assembled group, with brows uplifted and the point of a pencil thrust between her rose-red lips.
"Thrice-blessed pencil!" murmurs Mr. Kelly, in averystage whisper. "Man is the superior being, yet he would not be permitted to occupy so exalted a position. Are you a stone, Ronayne, that you can regard the situation with such an insensate face?" Mr. Ronayne is at this moment gazing at Mrs. Bohun with all his heart in his eyes. He starts and colors. "I cannot help thinking of that dear little song about the innocent daisy," goes on Mr. Kelly, with a rapt expression. "But I'd 'choose to be apencil, if I might be a flower.'"
"Nowdolet us decide upon something," says Olga, taking no heed of this sally, and frowning down the smile that is fighting for mastery.
"Yes; now you are all to decide upon something at once," says Mr. Kelly, gloomily. "There is a difficulty about the right way to begin it, but it must be done; Mrs. Bohun says so. There is to be no deception. I shall say one, two, three, and away, and then every one must have decided: the defaulter will be spurned from the gates. Now, one, two——Desmond," sternly "you are not deciding!"
"I am, indeed," says Desmond, most untruthfully. He is lying on the grass at Monica's feet, and is playing idly with her huge white fan.
"You are not doing it properly. I daresay Miss Beresford is making you uncomfortable; and I am sure you are trying to break her fan. Come over here and sit by me, and you will be much happier."
"Penance is good for the soul. I shall stay here," says Desmond.
"If we mean to get up tableaux, we certainly ought to set about them at once," says Herrick, indolently.
"There doesn't seem to be any work in anybody," says Olga, in despair.
"Try me," says Lord Rossmoyne, bending over her chair. He has only just come, and his arrival has been unannounced.
"Ah!thankyou!"—with a brilliant smile. "Now youdolook like business."
It is Monday, and four o'clock. Aghyohillbeg lying basking in the sunshine is looking its loveliest,—which is saying a great deal. The heat is so intense on this sweet July day that every one has deserted the house and come out to find some air,—a difficulty. They have tried the grass terraces, in vain, and now have congregated beneath a giant fir, and are, comparatively speaking, cool.
Just before luncheon Madam O'Connor brought Monica home in triumph with her from Moyne, to find Desmond, handsome and happy, on her doorstep, waiting with calm certainty an invitation to that meal. He got it, and to dinner likewise.
"We have set our hearts on tableaux, but it issodifficult to think of any scene fresh and unhackneyed," says Olga, gazing plaintively into Lord Rossmoyne's sympathetic face.
"Don't give way," says Mr. Kelly, tenderly. "It must be a poor intellect that couldn't rise superior to such a demand as that. Given one minute, I believe even I could produce an idea as novel as it would be brilliant."
"You shall have your minute," says Olga, pulling out her watch. "Now—begin——"
"Time's up," she says, presently, when sixty seconds have honestly expired.
"You might have said that thirty seconds ago, and I should not have objected," says Mr. Kelly, with an assured smile.
"And your idea."
"The Huguenots!"
Need I say that every one is exceedingly angry?
"Ever heard it before?" asks Mr. Kelly, with aggressive insolence; which question, being considered as adding insult to injury, is treated with silent contempt.
"I told you it was not to be done," says Olga, petulantly addressing everybody generally.
"I can't agree with you. I see no reason why it should fall to the ground," says Miss Fitzgerald, warmly, who is determined to show herself off in a gown that has done duty for "Madame Favart," and the "Bohemian Girl," and "Maritana," many a time and oft.
"I have another idea," says Mr. Kelly, at this opportune moment.
"If it is as useful as your first, you may keep it," says Olga, with pardonable indignation.
"I am misunderstood," says Mr. Kelly, mournfully, but with dignity. "I shall write to Miss Montgomery and ask her to make another pathetic tale about me. As you are bent on trampling upon an unknown genius,—poor but proud—I shallnotmake you acquainted with this last beautiful thought which I have evolved from my inner consciousness."
"Don't say that!dotell it to us," says Monica, eagerly, and in perfect good faith. Sheknowsless of him than the others, and may therefore be excused for still believing in him.
"Thank you, Miss Beresford.Youcan soar above a mean desire to crush a rising power. You have read, of course, that popular poem by our poet-laureate, called 'Enid.'"
"Yes," says Monica, staring at him.
"I mean the poem in which he has so faithfully depicted the way in which two escaped lunatics would be sure to behave if left to their own devices. Considered as a warning to us to keep bolts and bars on Colney Hatch and Hanwell, it may be regarded as a delicate attention. Dear Tennyson! he certainly is a public benefactor. There is a scene in that remarkable poem which I think might suit us. You remember where, after much wild careering in the foreground, the principal idiots decide upon riding home together, pillion fashion?"
"I—I think so," says Monica, who plainly doesn't, being much confused.
"'Then on his foot she sat her own and climbed,'—and then she threw her arms round him in a most unmaidenly fashion, if I recollect aright; but of course mad peoplewillbe vehement, poor souls; they can't help it. Now, supposing we adopted that scene, wouldn't it be effective? One of Madam O'Connor's big carriage-horses, if brought forward,—I mean the one that kicked over the traces, yesterday,—would, I firmly believe, create quite a sensation, and in all probability bring down the house."
"The stage, certainly," says Desmond.
"Ah! you approve of it," says Kelly, with suspicious gratitude. "Then let us arrange it at once. Miss Beresford might throw her arms round Ryde, for example: that would be charming."
Desmond looking at this moment as if he would willingly murder him, Mr. Kelly is apparently satisfied, and sinks to restwith his head upon his arm once more. No one else has heard the suggestion.
"I think you might help me, instead of giving voice to insane propositions," says Olga, reproachfully, turning her eyes upon Mr. Kelly's bowed form,—he is lying prostrate on the grass,—which is shaking in a palsied fashion. "I reallydidbelieve inyou," she says, whereupon the young man, springing to his feet, flings his arms wide, and appeals in an impassioned manner to an unprejudiced public as to whether he has not been racking his brain in her service for the last half-hour.
"Then I wish you would go and rack it in somebody else's service," says Mrs. Bohun, ungratefully.
"Hear her!" says Mr. Kelly, gazing slowly round him. "She still persists in the unseemly abuse. She is bent on breaking my heart and driving sleep from mine eyelids. It is ungenerous, the more so that she knows I have not the courage to tear myself from her beloved presence. You, Ronayne, and you, Rossmoyne, can sympathize with me:
'In durance vile here must I wake and weep,And all my frowzy couch in sorrow steep.'
'In durance vile here must I wake and weep,And all my frowzy couch in sorrow steep.'
Fancy a frowzy couch saturated with tears! you know,"reproachfullyto Olga, "youwouldn't like to have to lie on it."
"Oh, do come and sit down here near me, and be silent," says Olga, in desperation.
"Why not have a play?" says Captain Cobbett, who with Mr. Ryde has driven over from Clonbree.
"'The play's the thing,'" says Brian Desmond, lazily; "but when you are about it, make it a farce."
"Oh,no!" says Miss Fitzgerald, with a horrified gesture; "anythingbut that! Why not let us try one of the good old comedies?—'The School for Scandal,' for example?"
"What!" says Mr. Kelly, very weakly. He is plainly quite overcome by this suggestion.
"Well, why not?" demands the fair Bella, with just asoupconof asperity in her tone,—as much as she ever allows herself when in the society of men. She makes up for this abstinence by bestowing a liberal share of it upon her maid and her mother.
"It's—it's such a naughty, naughty piece," says Mr. Kelly, bashfully, beating an honorable retreat from his first meaning.
"Nonsense! One can strike out anything distasteful."
"Shades of Farren—and——Who would be Lady Teazle?" says Olga.
"I would," says Bella, modestly.
"That is more than good of you," says Olga, casting a curious glance at her from under her long lashes. "But I thought, perhaps——You, Hermia, would you not undertake it? You know, last season, they said you were——"
"No, dear, thanks. No,indeed," with emphasis.
"Cobbett does Joseph Surface to perfection," breaks in Mr. Ryde, enthusiastically.
"Oh, I say now, Ryde! Come, you know, this is hardly fair," says the little captain, coyly, who is looking particularly pinched and dried to-day, in spite of the hot sun. There is a satisfied smirk upon his pale lips, and a poor attempt at self-depreciation about his whole manner.
"You know youtook 'emby storm at Portsmouth, last year,—made 'em laugh like fun. You should see him," persists Ryde, addressing everybody generally.
"Perhaps you mean the part of Charles Surface," says Ronayne, in some surprise.
"No. Joseph: the sly one you know," says Ryde chuckling over some recollection.
"Well, it never occurred to me that Joseph's part might be termed afunnyone," says Mr. Kelly, mildly; "but that shows how ignorant all we Irish are. It will be very kind of you, Cobbett, to enlighten us,—to show us somethinggood, in fact."
"Really, you know, you flatter me absurdly," says Cobbett, the self-depreciation fainter, the smirk broader.
Lord Rossmoyne, whose good temper is not his strong point, glances angrily at him, smothers an explosive speech, and walks away with a sneer.
"And Sir Peter,—who will kindly undertake Sir Peter?" asks Olga, with a smile that is faintly sarcastic. "Will you, Owen?" to Mr. Kelly.
"Don't ask me. I could not act with Cobbett and Miss Fitzgerald. I mean, I should only disgrace them," says Kelly, who is a member of a famous dramatic club in Dublin, and who has had two offers from London managers to tread the boards. "I feel I'm not up to it, indeed."
"I suspect you are not," says Hermia Herrick, with a sudden smile that lights up all her cold impassive face. Kelly, catching it, crawls lazily over to her, along the grass, Indian fashion, and finding a fold of her gown lays his arm on it, and his head on his arm, and relapses into silence.
"Ryde has done it," says Captain Cobbett.
"Indeed!" says Olga, raising questioning eyes to the big marine standing behind Monica's chair.
"Ye—es. We—er—do a good deal of that sort of thing inourcountry," says Ryde, with conscious worth. "I have done Sir Peter once or twice; and people have been good enough not to—" with a little laugh—"hissme. I have a style of my own; but—er——" with an encouraging glance at the other men, "I daresay there are many here who could do it as I do it."
"Notone, I am convinced," says Desmond, promptly; and Monica laughs softly.
"We must think it over. I don't believe anything so important could be got up without deep deliberation——" Olga is beginning, when Kelly, by a movement of the hand, stops her.
"Do let it go on to its bitter end," he says, in a whisper, with most unusual animation for him. "Mrs. Herrick, help me."
"Why not, Olga?" says Hermia, in a low tone. "The principal characters are willing; we have not had a real laugh for some time: why throw away such aperfectchance?"
"Oh!that——" says Olga.
Here a slight diversion is caused by the appearance of a footman, tea tray, a boy,a gypsy table, a maid, a good deal of fruit, maraschino, brandy, soda,andMadam O'Connor. The latter, to tell the truth, has been having a siesta in the privacy of her own room, and has now come down, like a giant refreshed, to see how her guests are getting on.
"Well,I hope you're all happy," she says, jovially.
"We are mad with perplexity," says Olga.
"What's the matter, then, darling?" says Madam. "Hermia, like a good child, go and pour out the tea."
"I'll tell you all about it," says Brian, who is a special favorite of Madam O'Connor's, coming over to her and stopping behind her chair to whisper into her ear.
Whatever he says makes her laugh immoderately. It is easy to bring smiles to her lips at any time,—her heart having kept at a standstill whilst her body grew old,—but now she seems particularly fetched.
"Yes, yes, my dear Olga, let them have their own way," she says merrily.
"Very good. Let us consider it settled," says Mrs. Bohun. "But Ishouldlike some tableaux afterwards, as a wind-up."
"Yes, certainly," says Ronayne. "What do you think, Madam?"
"I have set my mind on them," says his old hostess, gayly."You are such a handsome boy, Ulic, that I'm bent on seeing you in fancy clothes; and so is somebody else, I daresay. Look at the children, how they steal towards us; were there ever such demure little mice? Come here, Georgie, my son, I have peaches and pretty things for you."
The kind old soul holds out her arms to two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, who are coming slowly, shyly towards her. They are so like Hermia Herrick as to be unmistakably hers. The boy, coming straight to Madame O'Connor, climbs up on her lap and lays his bonny cheek against hers; but the girl, running to her mother, who is busy over the tea-tray, nestles close to her.
"Gently, my soul," say Hermia, in a soft whisper. Though she still calmly pours out the tea, with Kelly beside her, she lets the unoccupied hand fall, to mingle with the golden tresses of the child. As her hand meets the little sunny head, a marvellous sweetness creeps into her face and transfixes it to a heavenly beauty. Kelly, watching her, marks the change.
Going round to the child, he would have taken her in his arms,—asishis habit with most children, being a special favorite in every nursery; but this little dame, drawing back from him, repels him coldly. Then, as though fearing herself ungracious, she slowly extends to him a tiny, friendly hand, which he accepts. The likeness between this grave baby and her graver mother is so remarkable as to be almost ludicrous.
"I think you haven't given Mr. Kelly even one kiss to-day," says her mother, smiling faintly, and pressing the child closer to her. "She is a cold little thing, is she not?"
"I suppose she inherits it," says Owen Kelly, without lifting his eyes from the child's fair face.
Mrs. Herrick colors slightly.
"Will you let me get you some tea, Fay?" says Mr. Kelly, addressing the child almost anxiously.
"No, thank you," says the fairy, sweetly but decidedly. "My mammy will give me half hers. I do not like any other tea."
"I am not in favor to-day," says Kelly, drawing back and shrugging his shoulders slightly, but looking distinctly disappointed. It may be the child sees this, because she comes impulsively forward, and, standing on tiptoe before him, holds her arms upwards towards his neck.
"I want to kiss you now," she says, solemnly, when he has taken her into his embrace. "But no one else. I only want to kissyousometimes—andalwaysmamma."
"I am content to be second where mamma is first. I am glad you place me with her in your mind. I should like to be always with mamma," says Kelly. He laughs a little, and kisses the child again, and places her gently upon the ground, and then he glances at Hermia. But her face is impassive as usual. No faintest tinge deepens the ordinary pallor of her cheeks. She has the sugar tongs poised in the air, and is apparently sunk in abstruse meditation.
"Now, I wonder who takes sugar and who doesn't," she says, wrinkling up her pretty brows in profound thought. "I have been here a month, yet cannot yet be sure. Mr. Kelly, you must call some one else to our assistance to take round the sugar, as you can't do everything."
"I can donothing," says Kelly, in a low tone, after which he turns away and calls Brian Desmond to come to him.
How Desmond asserts himself, and shows himself a better man than his rival—And how a bunch of red roses causes a breach, and how a ring heals it.
How Desmond asserts himself, and shows himself a better man than his rival—And how a bunch of red roses causes a breach, and how a ring heals it.
"Then it is decided," says Olga. "'The School for Scandal' first, and tableaux to follow. Now forthem. I suppose four altogether will be quite sufficient. We must not try the patience of our poor audience past endurance."
"It will be past that long before our tableaux begin," says Ulic Ronayne, in a low tone. He is dressed in a tennis suit of white flannel, and is looking particularly handsome.
Olga makes a pretty littlemoue, but no audible response.
"I have two arranged," she says, "but am distracted about three and four. Will anybody except Mr. Kelly come to my assistance?"
"Oh, you're jealous because you didn't think of 'Enid' and the carriage-horse yourself," returns that young man, with ineffable disdain,—"or that Dolly Varden affair."
"Well, that last might do,—modified a little," says Olga, brightening. "Mr. Ryde is enormous enough for anything. Quite an ideal Hugh."
"Quite," says Ronayne, with a smile.
"Then it has arranged itself; that is, if you agree, dear?" says Olga, turning to Monica.
"It shall be as you wish. I mean, I know nothing about it," gently; "but I shall like to help you if I can."
"I mean you don't object to the subject,—or Mr. Ryde?" says Olga, kindly, unaware that Mr. Ryde has come away from the tea-table and is now close behind her. Monica, however, sees him, and smiles courteously.
"Oh, no," she says, as in duty bound.
And then the fourth is found and grasped, and all trouble is at an end.
"Soglad I can now take my tea in peace," says Olga, with a sigh of profound relief. "Whowould be stage-manager?"
"Ah! you don't do much of this kind of thing in Ireland, I daresay," says Mr. Ryde.
"What kind of thing?" asks Olga, sweetly, who doesn't like him. "Tea-drinking?"
"No—acting—er—and that."
"I'm afraid I'm quite at sea about the 'that,'" says Olga, shaking her blonde head. "Perhaps we do a good deal of it, perhaps we don't. Explain it to me."
("Awful stoopid people!—not a word of truth about their ready wit," says Mr. Ryde to himself at this juncture.)
"Oh, well—er—let us confine ourselves to the acting," he says, feeling somehow at a loss. "It is new to you here, it seems."
"I certainly have never acted in my life," begins Monica; "but——"
Mrs. Bohun interrupts her.
"We are a hopelessly benighted lot," she says, making Ryde a present of a beautiful smile. "We are sadly behind the world,—rococo"—shrugging her shoulders pathetically—"to the last degree. You, Mr. Ryde, have opened up to us possibilities never dreamt of before; touches of civilization hitherto unknown."
"I should think in your case a very little tuition would be sufficient," says Ryde, with such kindly encouragement in his tone that Ronayne, who is at Olga's feet, collapses, and from being abnormally grave breaks into riotous laughter.
"You must teach us stage effects,—is that the proper term?—and correct us when we betray too crass an ignorance, and—above all things, Mr. Ryde," with an arch glance, "you must promise not to lose your temper over thegaucheriesof your Dolly Varden."
"Whose Dolly Varden?" asks Desmond, coming up at this instant laden with cups of tea.
"Mr. Ryde's."
"He is to be Hugh to Miss Beresford's Dolly," says Ronayne.
"Yes, isn't it good of Monica? she has consented to take the part," says Olga, who is really grateful to her for having helped her out of her difficulty.
"Haveyou?" says Desmond, turning upon Monica with dilated eyes.
"Yes. Is that tea for me?" returns she, calmly, with great self-possession, seeing that sundry eyes are upon her.
"For you, or any one," replies he. Tone can convey far more meaning than words. The words just now are correct enough, but the tone is uncivil to the last degree. Monica, flushing slightly, takes a cup from him, and Olga takes the second.
There is a short silence whilst they stir their tea, during which Madam O'Connor's voice can be distinctly heard,—it generallycanabove every tumult. She is discoursing enthusiastically about some wonderful tree in her orchard, literally borne down by fruit.
"You never saw such a sight!" she is saying,—"laden down to the ground. The finest show of pears in the country. I was telling Williams he would do well to prop it. But I suppose it will ruin the tree for the next two years to come."
"What, the propping?" says Rossmoyne.
"No, the enormous produce, you silly boy!" says his hostess, with a laugh.
Monica, who is growing restless beneath Desmond's angry regard, turns to her nervously.
"I think I should like to see it," she says, softly.
"Allow me to take you to it," says Ryde, quickly, coming to her side.
"Miss Beresford is coming withme," interposes Desmond. His face is pale, and his eyes flash ominously.
"That is for Miss Beresford to decide."
"Shehasdecided," says Desmond, growing even paler, but never removing his eyes from his rival's. He is playing a dangerous game, but even in the danger is ecstasy. And, as Monica continues silent, a great joy fills his soul.
"But until"—begins the Englishman, doggedly—"I hear——"
"Mrs. Bohun's cup is causing her embarrassment. See toit," interrupts Desmond, unemotionally. And then, turning to Monica, he says, "Come," coldly, but with such passionate entreaty in his eyes that she is borne away by it, and goes with him submissively across the lawn, until she has so far withdrawn herself from her companions that a return would be undignified.
They go as far as the entrance to the orchard, a good quarter of a mile, in silence, and then the storm breaks.
"I won't have that fellow holding you in his arms," says Desmond, pale with grief and rage, standing still and confronting her.
"I thought you said you would never be jealous again," says Monica, who has had time to recover herself, and time, too, to grow angry.
"I also said I hoped you would never give me cause."
"Mrs. Bohun has arranged this tableau."
"Then disarrange it."
"But how?"
"Say you won't act with Ryde."
"You can't expect me to make myself laughable in that way."
"ThenI'lldo it."
"And so make me laughable in another way. I can't see what right you have to interfere," she breaks out suddenly, standing before him, wilful but lovely. "What are you to me, or I to you, that you should order me about like this?"
"You are all the world to me,—you aremy wife," says the young man, in a solemn tone, but with passionately angry eyes. "You can refuse me if you like, but I shall go to my grave with your image only in my heart. As to what I am toyou, that is quite another thing,—less than nothing, I should say."
"And no wonder, too, considering yourawfultemper," says Monica, viciously; but her tone trembles.
At this he seems to lose heart. A very sad look creeps into his dark eyes and lingers there.
"Well, do what you like about these wretched tableaux," he says, so wearily that Monica, though victorious, feels inclined to cry. "If they give you a moment's pleasure, why should I rebel? As you say, I am nothing to you. Come, let us go and look at this famous pear-tree."
But she does not stir. They are inside the orchard, standing in a very secluded spot, with only some green apples and an ivied wall to see them. Her eyes are downcast, and her slender fingers are playing nervously with a ribbon on hergown. Her lips have taken a remorseful curve. Now, as though unable to restrain the impulse, she raises her eyes to his for a brief second, but, brief as it is, he can see that they are full of tears.
"Brian," she says, nervously.
It is the first time she has ever called him by his Christian name, and he turns to her a face still sad indeed, but altogether surprised and pleased.
"Now, that is good of you," he says.
"There is nothing good about me," says Monica, tearfully. "I am as horrid as I well can be, and you are——Brian, I will give up that tableau. I will not be Dolly Varden; no, not if Mr. Ryde went on hiskneesto me."
"My dear,dearlove!" says Mr. Desmond.
"Do you indeed love me," says Monica, softly, "in spite of all I do?"
"I love youbecauseof all you do. What is there not commendable in every action of yours? I love you; I live always in the hope that some day you will be more to me than you are to-day. A presumptuous hope perhaps," with a rather forced smile, "but one Iwillnot stifle. I suppose every one lives in a visionary world at times, where some 'not impossible she' reigns as queen. I dare say you think my queenisimpossible, yet you little know what dreams have been my playmates, night and day."
"Am I your queen?" sweetly.
"Yes, darling."
"And you are glad I have given up this tableau?"
"I don't know what I should have done if you hadn't."
"Then, now you will do something for me," says Miss Beresford, promptly.
"Anything," with enthusiasm.
"Then to-morrow you are to come herewithoutthe roses I heard you promising Miss Fitzgerald this afternoon."
Her tone is quite composed, but two little brilliant flecks of color have risen hurriedly and are now flaunting themselves on either pretty cheek. She is evidently very seriously in earnest.
"She asked me for them: she will think it so ungenerous, so rude," says Desmond.
"Not ungenerous. She will never think you that, or rude either," says Monica, gauging the truth to a nicety. "Carelessif you will, but no more; and—Iwantyou to seem careless where she is concerned."
"But why, my dearest?"
"Because I don't like her; she always treats me as though I were some insignificant little girl still in short petticoats," says Miss Beresford, with rising indignation. "And because—because, too——"
She pauses in some confusion.
"Go on: because what?" with gentle encouragement.
"Well, then, because I know she wants tomarryyou," says Monica, vehemently, but in a choked voice.
"What an extraordinary idea to come into your head!" says Desmond, in a choked tone also, but from a different emotion.
"What are you laughing at?" severely. "At me?"
"My darling, it seems so absurd, and——"
"Iforbidyou to laugh," in a tone replete with anger but highly suggestive of tears. "Don't do it."
"I'll never laugh again, my pet, if it offends you so dreadfully."
"But your eyes are laughing; I can see them. I can see a great deal more than you think, and I know that hateful girl has made up her mind to marry you as soon as ever she can."
"That will be never."
"Not if you go on bringing her roses and things."
"What harm can a simple rose do?"
"If you are going to look at it in that light, I shall say no more. But in a very little time you will find she has married you, andthenwhere will you be?"
Her jealousy is too childishly open to be misunderstood. Mr. Desmond's spirits are rising with marvellous rapidity; indeed, for the past two minutes he feels as if he is treading on air.
"As you won't have me, I don't much carewhereI shall be," he says with the mean hope of reducing her to submission by a threat. In this hope he is doomed to be disappointed, as she meets his base insinuation with an unlowered front.
"Very good,goand marry her," she says, calmly, as if church, parson, and Miss Fitzgerald are all waiting for him, in anxious expectation, round the corner.
"No, I shan't," says Desmond, changing his tactics without a blush. "Catch me at it! As you persist in refusing me, I shall never marry, but remain a bachelor forever, for your sweet sake."
"Then say you will not bring those roses to-morrow. Or, better still, say you will bring them, and"—all women, even the best are cruel—"give them to mebeforeher."
"My darling! what an unreasonable thing to ask me!"
"Oh! I daresay! when people don'tlovepeople they always think everything they do unreasonable."
This rather involved sentence seems to cut Mr. Desmond to the heart.
"Of course, if you say that, I must do it," he says.
"Don't do it on my account," with a wilful air.
"No, on my own, of course."
"Well, remember I don't ask you to do it," with the most disgraceful ingratitude. "Do as you wish about it."
"Your wishes are mine," he says, tenderly. "I have had no divided existence since that first day I saw you,—how long ago it seems now——"
"Very long. Only a few weeks in reality, but it seems to myself that I have known and—liked you all my life."
"Yet that day when I saw you on the hay-cart is hardly two months old," says Desmond, dreamily.
As a breath of half-forgotten perfume, or a long-lost chord fresh sounded, brings back the memories of a lifetime, so does this chance remark of his now recall to her a scene almost gone out of mind, yet still fraught with recollections terrible to her self-love.
"Two months,—only two?—oh, it must be more," she says, with a pang. Surely time ought to lessen the feeling of shame that overpowers her whenever she thinks of that fatal day.
"So wearisome a time, my own?" asks he, reproachfully.
"No, it is not that. It is only——. Oh, Brian, that day you speak of, when I was on that horrid hay-cart, did you—I mean—did I—that is—did I look very ungraceful?"
The word she is dying to say isdisgraceful, but she dares not.
"Ungraceful?"
"Yes. Terry says that when we were passing you that day I was—was," with a desperate rush, "kicking up my heels?"
She is trembling with shame and confusion. Crimson has sprung to her cheeks, tears to her eyes.
"I don't believe a word of it," says Mr. Desmond, comprehending the situation at last. "But, even supposing you were,—and, after all, that is the sort of thingevery onedoes ona bundle of hay,"—as though it is quite the customary thing for people generally to go round the world seated on hay-carts,—"I didn't see you—that is, your heels, I mean; I saw only your face,—the prettiest face in the world. How could I look at anything else when I had once seen that?"
"Brian!" turning to him impetuously, and laying both her hands upon his shoulders, "I do think you are the dearest fellow on earth."
"Oh, Monica! am I the dearest to you?" He has twined his arms round her lissome figure, and is gazing anxiously into her eyes.
"Yes,—yes,certainly." And then, with anaiveteindescribable, and with the utmost composure, she says,—
"I think I should like to give you a kiss!"
Is the blue dome still over his head, or has the sky fallen? The thing he has been longing for, with an intensity not to be portrayed, ever since their first meeting, but has not dared to evenhintat, is now freely offered him, as though it were a thing of naught.
"Monica!" says her lover, the blood rushing to his face, "do youmeanit?" He tightens his clasp round her, yet still refrains from touching the sweet lips so near his own. A feeling of honest manliness makes him hesitate about accepting this great happiness, lest, indeed, he may have misunderstood her. To him it is so great a boon she grants that he hardly dares believe in its reality.
"Of course I do," says Miss Beresford, distinctly offended. "I—at least, Idid. I don't now. I always want to kiss people when I feel fond of them; but you don't, evidently, or else, perhaps, you aren't really fond of me at all, in spite of all you have said. Never mind. Don't put yourself out. It was merely a passing fancy on my part."
"Oh, don't let it pass," exclaims her lover, anxiously. "Darlinglife, don't you know I have been longing,longingto kiss you for weeks past, yet dared not, because something in your eyes forbade me? And now, to have you of your own accord really willing to give my dear desire seems too much."
"Are you sure that it is that, or——"
"My angel, what a question!"
"Yet perhaps you think——Don't kiss me just to oblige me, you know. I don't care so much about it as allthat, but——"
She finds it impossible to finish the sentence, because——
Dexterously, but gently, she draws herself away from him, and stands a little apart. Looking at her, he can see she is troubled. He has opened his lips to speak, but by a gesture she restrains him.
"I know it now," she says. This oracular speech is accompanied by a blush, vivid as it is angry, and there are large tears in her eyes. "I should not have askedyouto kissme. That was your part, and you have taught me that I usurped it. Yet I thought only that I was fond of you, that you were my friend, or like Terry, or—" here the grievance gains sound, "youshouldnot have kissed me like that."
"You didn't suppose I was going to kiss you as Terry might?" asks he, with just indignation. "He is your brother; I am—not."
"I don't know anything about it, except this, that it will be a very long time before you have the chance of doing it again. I can't bear beinghugged."
"I am very sorry," says Mr. Desmond, stiffly. "Let me assure you, however, that I shall never cause you such offence again until you wish it."
"Then say never at once," says Monica, with a pout.
"Very good," says Desmond. It may now be reasonably supposed that he has met all her requirements, and that she has no further complaints to bring forward; but such is not the case.
"I don't like you when you talk to me like that," she says, aggressively, and with a spoiled-child air, glancing at him from under her sweeping lashes.
"How am I to talk to you, then?" asks he, in despair.
"You know very well how to talk to Miss Fitzgerald," retorts she, provokingly, and with a bold attempt at a frown. Yet there is something about her naughty little face, a hidden, mocking, mischievous, yet withal friendly smile as it were, that disarms her speech of its sting and gives Brian renewed hope and courage.
He takes her hand deliberately and draws it unrepulsed through his arm.
"Let us go up this walk," he says, "and leave all angry words and thoughts behind us."
He makes a movement in the direction indicated, and finds that she moves with him. He finds, too, that her slender fingers have closed involuntarily upon his arm. Plainly, she is as glad to be at peace with him as he with her.
Coming to a turn in the path, shaded by two rugged oldapple-trees now growing heavy with their green burden, Desmond stands still, and, putting his right hand in his pocket, draws out something from it. As he does this he colors slightly.
"You wear all your rings on your right hand," he says, with loving awkwardness, "and it seems to me the other poor little fingers always look neglected. I—I wish you would take this and make it a present to your left hand."
"This" is a thick gold band, set with three large diamonds of great brilliancy in gypsy fashion.
"Oh! not for me!" says Monica, recoiling, and clasping her hands behind her back, yet with her eyes firmly fastened upon the beautiful ring.
"Why not for you? Some day I shall give you all I possess; now I can give you only such things as this."
"Indeed I must not take it," says Monica; but even as she utters the half-hearted refusal she creeps unconsciously closer to him, and, laying her hand upon his wrist, looks with childish delight and longing at the glittering stones lying in his palm.
"But I say you must," says Desmond, taking a very superior tone. "It is yours, not mine. I have nothing to do with it. It was never meant for me. See," taking up her hand and slipping the ring on her engaged finger, "how pretty your little white hand makes it look!"
It is always a difficult thing to a woman to bring herself to refuse diamonds, but doubly difficult once she has seen them positively adorning her own person.
Monica looks at the ring, then sighs, then turns it round and round mechanically, and finally glances at Desmond. He returns the glance by passing his arm round her shoulders, after which there is never another word said about the ownership of the ring.
"But it will put my poor little pigs in the shade, won't it?" says Monica, looking at her other hand, and then at him archly. "Oh! it is lovely—lovely!"
"I think I might have chosen you a prettier one, had I run up to Dublin and gone to Waterhouse myself," says Desmond; "but I knew if I went I could not possibly get back until to-morrow evening, and that would mean losing two whole days of our precious seven."
This speech pleases Monica, I think, even more than the ring.
"I am glad you did not go," she says, softly.
"So am I—especially as——" Here he pauses, and thengoes on again hurriedly. "If I had gone, Monica, you would not have forgotten me?"
"How could I forget you in two little days?"
"They would have been two very big days to me. But tell me, if I were to go away from you for a far longer time—say for a whole month—would you still be faithful? Should I find you as I left you,—indifferent to others at least, if not wholly mine?"
"Why should I change?"
"Darling, there are so many reasons." He draws his breath quickly, impatiently. "Some day, you may meet some one else—more suited to you, perhaps, and——"
"I shall never do that." She interrupts him slowly, but decidedly.
"You are sure?"
"Yes."
The answer in words perhaps is meagre; but he, looking into the depths of her soft eyes, sees a surer answer there, and is satisfied.
The shadows are growing longer and slower. They do not dance and quiver now in mad glee, as they did an hour agone.
"I think we must go back," says Monica, with unconcealed regret.
"What! you will throw me again into temptation? into the very arms of the fair Bella?" says Desmond, laughing.
"Reflect, I beg of you, before it is too late."
"After all," says Monica, "I don't think I have behaved very nicely about her. I don't think now it would be a—a pretty thing to make you give me the roses before her. No, you must not do that; and you must not manage to forget them, either. You shall bring the handsomest you can find and give them to her,—butpubliclyBrian, just as if there was nothing in it, you know."
"There is nothing like adhering to the strict truth," says Brian. "There shall be nothing in my roses, I promise you,—except perfume."