How Miss Priscilla is driven to enter Coole—How she there receives an important proposal, but with much fortitude declines it—And how The Desmond suffers more from a twinge of conscience than from a bullet.
How Miss Priscilla is driven to enter Coole—How she there receives an important proposal, but with much fortitude declines it—And how The Desmond suffers more from a twinge of conscience than from a bullet.
In the morning, a certain amount of constraint prevails with every one. Kit is, of course, aware of all that has happened,andof the day's expected visitor for Monica, who has refused to come down to breakfast, and who is as unsettled and miserable as she well can be. Kit has espoused her causecon amore, and is (I need hardly say) ready for open war at a moment's notice. She has indeed arranged a plan of action that will bring her on the battle-field at a critical moment to deliver a speech culled from some old novels in her room and meant to reduce both her aunts to annihilation.
When breakfast is over she disappears to study her partafresh, and the Misses Blake, too, separate and go to their own rooms, with an air of careful unconcern, that would not have imposed upon a one-year babe.
When again they reappear, they seem desirous of avoiding each other's glances, whereupon it occurs suddenly to everybody that they have both put on their very best silk gowns and lace caps, and have in fact got themselves up with elaborate care to receive—aDesmond! No wonder they are ashamed of themselves!
Still keeping up the outward symptoms of supreme indifference, they seat themselves in the drawing-room, Miss Penelope attacking her knitting with tremendous vigor, whilst Miss Priscilla getsapparentlylost in the pages of "Temple Bar." Monica, sliding in presently like a small ghost, in her clinging white gown, slips into a seat in the window that overlooks the avenue, and hides herself and her pretty anxious face behind the lace curtains.
An hour glides by with aggravatingslowness; and then a sound of wheels upon the gravel makes Monica's heart beat almost to suffocation. The two Misses Blake, suddenly forgetful of theirroleof unconcern, start from their seats and go to the window where Monica now is standing. A brougham and pair of horses drive up to the door, and a young man, opening the door, springs to the ground. It is Desmond.
"To come here in a close carriage!" says Miss Priscilla, with much contempt. "Is he afraid of catching cold, I wonder? I never heard of such foppery in my life."
"He is not a fop," says Monica, indignantly, and then she catches sight of her lover's face, and something in it awakes within her a prescience of coming evil.
Then the drawing-room door is thrown open with rather unceremonious haste, and the young man, entering, goes straight to where Miss Priscilla is standing, merely taking and holding Monica's hand as he reaches her, but addressing to her neither word nor look. He seems greatly agitated, and altogether unlike the man who stood here yesterday and almost defied them. His face is very pale, and full of honest grief and indignation.
"My uncle is at death's doors," he says in a voice that quivers with rage and excitement. "Coming home late last night he was shot at by some ruffians from behind the blackthorn hedge on the Coole road. He wants you Miss Blake" (to Priscilla). "He is asking for you. You will not refuse to come to a man who may be dying for all we know! I havebrought the carriage for you, and I implore you not to delay, but to come to him at once."
Miss Priscilla has sunk into a chair, and is quite colorless; Miss Penelope clasps her hands.
"Oh, poor George!" she says, involuntarily, almost unconsciously. His present danger has killed remembrance of all the angry years that stand between to-day and the time when last she called him by his Christian name.
"When did it happen? How?" asks Monica, tightening her fingers round his, and trembling visibly.
"About ten o'clock last evening. Both Kelly and I were with him, and a groom. Two shots were fired. Kelly and I jumped off the dog-cart and gave chase and succeeded in securing one of them. There were four altogether, I think. We did not know my uncle was wounded when we ran after them, but when we came back we found Murray the groom holding him in his arms. He was quite insensible. I left Kelly and Murray to guard our prisoner, and drove my uncle home myself. He is very badly hurt. Miss Blake," turning again to Miss Priscilla, "you will come with me?"
"Oh, yes, yes," says Miss Priscilla, faintly.
"And I shall go with you, my dear Priscilla," says Miss Penelope, heroically. "Yes, you will want me. To find yourself face to face with him after all these years of estrangement and in so sad a state will be distressing. It is well I should be on the spot to lend you some support."
Miss Priscilla lays her hand on her arm.
"I think I shall go alone, Penelope," she says, falteringly. For one moment Miss Penelope is a little surprised, and then in another moment she is not surprised at all. But I believe in her heart she is a good deal disappointed: there is a flavor of romance and excitement about this expedition she would gladly have tasted.
"Well, perhaps it will be better so," she says, amiably. "I am glad he has sent for you. He will be the easier foryourforgiveness, though he cannot obtainhers, now. Come upstairs: you should not keep Mr. Desmond waiting." There is a kindly light in her eyes as she glances at the young man. And then she takes Miss Priscilla away to her room, and helps her carefully with her toilet, and accepts the situation as a matter of course, though in her secret soul she is filled with amazement at The Desmond's sending for Miss Priscilla even though lying at death's door.
And indeed when the old man had turned to Brian andasked him to bring Miss Blake to Coole, Brian himself had known surprise too, and some misgivings. Was he going to make her swear never to give her consent to his (Brian's) marriage with her niece? or was he going to make open confession of that dishonorable action which caused Miss Blake's pretty stepsister to suffer dire tribulation, according to the gossips round?
"I should like to see Priscilla Blake," the old squire had said, in a low whisper, his nephew leaning over him to catch the words, and then he had muttered something about "old friends and forgiveness," that had not so easily been understood.
"You shall see her," the younger man says, tenderly. "I'll go for her myself. I am sure she won't refuse to come."
"Refuse!" There is something in the squire's whisper that puzzles Brian.
"I am certain she will not," he repeats, mechanically, whilst trying to translate it. But the look has faded from the old man's face, and his tone is different, when he speaks again.
"If she is afraid to come," he says, generously, having evidently settled some knotty point of inward discussion to his entire satisfaction, "tell her from me that I am ready and willing to forgiveall."
"You mean you are anxious to obtain her forgiveness," says Brian, with the kindly intention of assisting the old man's wandering imagination.
"Eh?" says the squire, sharply. "What d'ye mean, Brian? Speak, lad, when I desire you."
"Look here, George! if you excite yourself like this, you know what the consequences will be," says Brian, sharply, in his turn. "I only meant that, as you—er—jilted their stepsister, I suppose you are anxious to obtain their pardon, now you feel yourself prettylow. But I'd advise you to wait and see about that when you have recovered your strength a little."
"And you believed that old story too!" says the poor squire, forlornly. "I didn't jilt her at all, Brian.It was she jilted me!"
"What!" says Brian, turning to see if the bullet had touched his brain instead of his ribs.
"'Tis true. I tell you, that girl broke my heart. She was the prettiest creature I ever saw, with soft dove's eyes, and a heavenly smile, and no more heart thanthat," striking the post of the old-fashioned bedstead with his uninjured arm. "I gave myself up to her, I worshipped the very ground she walked on,and within a fortnight of our wedding she calmly wrote to tell me she could not marry me!"
"Giving a reason?"
"No. Evenshe, I presume, could not summon sufficient courage to tell the wretch she had deluded of her love for another. She gave me no reason.She entreated me, however, to keep silence about the real author of the breach between us,—that is, herself.Iwas the one to break off our engagement! I was to bear all the blame! She implored me to conceal her share in it, and finally demanded of me, as a last favor, that I would give the world to understand I had thrownherover."
"A charmingly disinterested specimen of womankind," says Brian, raising his brows.
"And this tome," says The Desmond, an indignant sob making his weak voice weaker,—"a man who had always kept himself straight in the eyes of the world. I was required to represent myself as a low, despicable fellow, one of those who seek a woman's affections only to ignore them at the sight of the next pretty face."
"But you refused to comply with her request?" says Brian, hastily.
"No, sir, I didn't," says the squire, shame struggling with his excitement. "On the contrary, I gave in to her in every respect. I believe at that time I would cheerfully have allowed myself to be branded as athiefif she had desired it and if it would have saved her one scrap of discomfort. She was afraid of her sisters, you see. I blamed them then, Brian, but I think now her fear of them arose from the fact thattheywere as true asshewas——Well, well!"
"This is indeed a revelation," says Brian.
"Yes; you wouldn't think they would behave like that, would you?" says Mr. Desmond, eagerly.
"Who? The Misses Blake?" says Brian, startled.
"Yes. It wasn't like them to keep silent all these years, and let me bear the brunt of the battle, when they knew I was innocent and that it was their own flesh and blood who was in fault. Yet they turned their backs upon me, and have treated me ever since as though I were in reality the miscreant they have succeeded in making me out."
"There is a terrible mistake somewhere," says Brian. "They do verily believe you to be the miscreant you describe."
"Brian, come here!" says the old man, in an ominously calm tone. "Do you mean to tell me Priscilla Blake believesme guilty of having behaved dishonestly to her sister Katherine? You positively think this?"
"Iknowit," says Brian, who feels it is better to get out the plain unvarnished truth at once.
"You have no doubt? Think, Brian; think."
"I needn't.—There is no doubt on my mind."
"Then she deceived usall," says the squire, in a stricken tone. Then he roused himself again. He seems to have recovered his strength wonderfully during the past hour. "Go, get me Priscilla Blake," he says. "Hurry, boy! hurry! I must make it right with her before I die."
"Before you recover, you mean," says Brian, cheerily. "There! lie down now, and keep yourself quiet, or you won't be looking your best when she comes."
And now Miss Priscilla has come, and is standing beside the bed of her quondam friend, looking down upon him with dim eyes.
"I am sorry to meet you again like this, George Desmond," she says, at last, in tones meant to be full of relentless displeasure, but which falter strangely.
"She made as great a fool ofyouas ofme, Priscilla," is the squire's answer, whose tired mind can only grasp one thought,—the treachery of the woman he had loved! And then it all comes out, and the letter the false Katherine had written him is brought out from a little secret drawer, bound round with the orthodox blue ribbon, and smelling sadly of dust, as though to remind one of all things, of warmest sweetest love, of truest trust, and indeed of that fair but worthless body from whose hand it came, now lying mouldering and forgotten in a foreign land.
"Oh, I wouldn't have believed it of her!" says Miss Priscilla, weeping bitterly. "But there must have been something wrong with her always, though we could never see it. What an angel face she had! But the children, they speak terribly of her, and they say—that she—and JamesBeresford—did not get on at all."
"Eh?" says the squire. He rises himself on his sound elbow, and quite a glow of color rushes into his pallid cheeks. When, with a groan of self-contempt, he sinks back again, and the light in his eye (was it of satisfaction?) dies.
"You have met Brian," he says presently. "What do you think of him, Priscilla? He is a good lad,—averygood lad."
"He looks it," says Miss Priscilla, shortly.
"He does," heartily. "Well, I'm told this boy of mine is in love with your girl."
"Who told you?" says Miss Priscilla.
"Brian himself," says the Squire.
"I like that in him," says Miss Priscilla. "Well, George, if you will look upon that assettled, so shall I."
"So be it," says the squire—"Eh, my dear? but doesn't it make us feel old to be discussing the love-affairs of these young things, when it seems only yesterday that we—that you and I, Priscilla——"
"That is all buried long ago: don't rake it up. It died when first your eyes fell onher," says Miss Blake, hurriedly.
"I was a fool," says the squire. "But, somehow, since I have been talking to you, I don't think I'm going to die this time, and old scenes came back to me, and—I suppose it is too late now, Priscilla?"
There is no mistaking his meaning.
"Oh, yes; a whole lifetime too late," says Miss Priscilla, with a soft, faint blush that would not have misbecome a maiden in her teens. "But I am glad we are friends again, George."
She pressed his hand with real affection, and then colors again warmly, as though afraid of having discovered herself in the act of committing an indiscretion. Could that gentle pressure be called forward, or light, or unseemly? Terrible thought!
"So am I, my dear," says the squire. And then again, "You won't think of it, then, Priscilla?"
"No, no," says Miss Blake, feeling flattered at his persistence, and then she actually laughs out loud, and The Desmond laughs too, though feebly; and then the doctor comes in again, and Miss Priscilla goes home, to tell Miss Penelope, in the secrecy of her chamber, and with the solemnity that befits the occasion, all about the squire's proposal, its reception, and its rejection.
Be assured no minutest detail is forgotten; Miss Penelope is soon in possession of every smallest look and word connected with it, and deeply gratifying is the manner in which the great news is received by that gentle maiden.
"Though late in the day, Penelope," says Miss Priscilla, as a sort of wind-up to her recital, "it was an offer of marriageanywoman might be proud of, be she young or old; and hemeantit, too. He was quitepressing. Twice he asked me, although my first was a most decided 'No.'"
"It seems terrible, your having been so cold to him, poorfellow!" says Miss Penelope, with a regretful sigh for the griefs of the rejected Desmond.
"What could I do?" says Miss Priscilla, with an air of self-defence. This thought, that she can actually be accused of having treated the sterner sex in a hardhearted fashion, is cakes and ale to her.
"We must not talk of this, Penelope," she says, presently. "It would be unfair. It must never transpire throughusthat George Desmond laid his heart and fortune at my feet only to be rejected."
To her these old-world phrases sound grand and musical and full of fire and sentiment.
"No, no," says Miss Penelope, acquiescing freely, yet with a sigh; she would have dearly liked to tell her gossips of this honor that has been done her dear Priscilla. And, after all, she has her wish, for the story gets about, spread by the hero of it himself.
The squire, tired, no doubt, of keeping secrets, and perhaps (but this in a whisper) grateful to her because of her refusal, goes about everywhere, and tells people far and near of his offer; so that when their friends flock to Moyne, and, giving The Desmond as their authority for it, accuse Miss Priscilla of her refusal, and she still, with maidenly modesty, parries their questions, Miss Penelope, feeling herself absolved from further reticence, comes to the front and gives them a full and true account of the wonderful event.
"Yes, Priscilla might indeed have reigned as queen at Coole had she so wished it, and well graced the position too," winds up Miss Penelope, on all these occasions, with much pride and dignity.
Brian, who had been busy all the morning swearing informations, and so forth, with Mr. Kelly and the groom, before magistrates and others, coming into his uncle's room about half an hour after Miss Blake's departure, finds him considerably better both in mind and in body, though feeble in spirit, as is only natural. Indeed, the bullet had done him little harm, causing merely a flesh-wound, but the shock had been severe to a man of his years.
"Come here, Brian; I want to tell you something," he says, as the young man leans over him.
"You are not to talk," says his nephew, peremptorily.
"If you won't listen to me, I'll send for Bailey, the steward," says the squire. "Nonsense! it does me good." And then he tells him all the particulars of Miss Priscilla's visit relatingto his engagement with Katherine Beresford, with one reservation.
"It is all right between us now," he says, in a pleased tone. "She told me everything, and it appears we were both sadly taken in, though I don't wish to say anything against her even now. I daresay she had her own grievances, poor soul; and indeed Priscilla said——"
Here he pauses, and a guilty flush covers his pale face. He hesitates, and then beckons Brian to come even nearer.
"Look you, lad! I'm not quite at ease even yet. There's something wrong here!" laying his hand upon his heart.
"Is it pain?" asks his nephew, anxiously. "I told you you were talk——"
"No, no, boy. It's only mental pain. I want to be ashamed of myself, and Ican't. I'm feeling a satisfaction about something that I shouldn't. It's not right, Brian. It's not a gentlemanly feeling, but I can't curb it. The more I think of it, the more pleased I feel. Eh? You don't look as if you understood me."
"I don't, much," confesses Brian, seating himself on the edge of the bed. "You see, you haven't told me what it is all about."
"It is about Katherine Beresford. Priscilla told me, and I should like to tell you. I say, Brian, you won't throw it in my teeth, now, when I'm better, eh?"
"I swear I won't," says Brian.
"Well, she told me Katherine had a regulardevilof a life with her husband, andI'm glad of it!There!"says the squire; after which disgraceful confession he regularly scrambles under the bedclothes, with a view to hiding his shame and his exultation from public view.
Brian fairly roars with laughter. At the sound of his welcome mirth, the old man slowly emerges from the sheets again, and looks at him doubtfully, but with growing hope.
"Shehad the best of it, of course; any one would have the best of it with James Beresford," he says. "But she couldn't have been altogether comfortable; that's what I mean. I don't want you to think I should rejoice at her having received bad treatment at her husband's hands. He had all the bad treatment to himself, I expect."
"So do I," says Brian, who is laughing still.
"And you don't think so badly of me for it?" says the Squire, anxiously.
"Not I," says Brian.
"Still, it's rather a mean sort of feeling, isn't it, now? It's very low—eh?"
"Low or not," says Brian, with decision, "I'm perfectly certain if it wasmycase I should feel just like that myself."
"You're the comfort of my life, Brian," says his uncle, gratefully; and then he indulges in a covert smile himself, after which he drops off into a slumber, sound and refreshing.
How Madam O'Connor gives her opinion on certain subjects—How Fay electrifies an entire audience—And how Olga makes up her mind.
How Madam O'Connor gives her opinion on certain subjects—How Fay electrifies an entire audience—And how Olga makes up her mind.
It is growing towards evening, and as yet at Aghyohillbeg they have not grown tired of discussing the terrible event of last night.
"When I called just now, Priscilla Blake was with him," says Madam O'Connor. "Brian told me The Desmond had sent for her. I suppose the old quarrel about Katherine will be patched up now, and I shouldn't wonder if our two lovers, Monica and Brian, get married quite comfortably and in the odor of sanctity, after all."
"I suppose they couldn't have managed it without the old people's consent," says Mrs. Herrick, who is rocking herself lazily to and fro in a huge American chair.
"Nonsense, my dear!" says Madam, throwing up her chin. "Accredit them with some decent spirit, I beg of you. Of course they would have got married whether or not,—there is nothing like opposition for that kind of thing, and no doubt would have enjoyed it all the more for the fun of the thing, because there must be an excitement in a runaway match unknown to the orthodox affair."
"I don't think I should like to run away," says Olga Bohun; "there is always a difficulty about one's clothes."
"What's the good of being in love if you can't get over a few paltry obstacles?" says Madam, whose heart is still young. "Well, I expect we shall have a gay wedding here before long, and be able to give that pretty child our presents without any trouble."
"How long the day has been!" says Olga, with a little affectedyawn, meant to reduce Ulic Ronayne to despair, who is sitting in a distant window touching up one of her paintings. "I don't know when I have been so bored,—no one to speak to. Madam, darling, you shall never go out again without me; remember that. Nobody has called,—I suppose they are afraid of being shot,—not even Owen Kelly; and one wouldliketo see him and Brian, to make sure they are all there."
"Talk of somebody," says Madam, looking out of the window, "here comes Owen."
As Olga puts her hand in his presently, she says, laughing,—
"Madam O'Connor says you are, in polite language, his sable majesty himself. So you must be, to escape as you did last night. Now tell us all about it. We have heard so many garbled accounts that arealone will set our minds at rest."
Then he tells them all about it, dropping as though unconsciously into a low chair very close to Hermia's.
"So, you see," he says, when he had finished, "it might have been a very sensational affair, and covered us all with glory, only it didn't."
"I think it did," says Mrs. Herrick, gently. She doesn't raise her eyes from her work to say this, but knits calmly on; only averycareful observer could have noticed the faint trembling of her fingers, or the quivering of her long, downcast lashes.
"How can you say such a thing, Owen?" says Olga. "Look at all the cases we have known where the assassins have got away quite free, and here we have the principal secured."
"Yes, that was very clever of Brian," says Mr. Kelly.
"Did he capture him, then, single-handed? Were not you with him? Wereyouin no danger of your life, too?" exclaims Hermia, with such unwonted animation that every one looks at her. She takes no notice of their regard, but fixes her kindling eyes on Kelly, who, in returning her mute protest, forgets that any other more open answer may be required of him. Then she lets her eyes fall from his, and her face grows calm and statuesque again, and only the rapid clicking of her needles show the perturbation of the mind within.
"Did the fellow give you much trouble, Kelly?" asks Ronayne, who in his secret soul is bitterly regretful he had not been on the scene of action.
"Not he, the fool!" says Mr. Kelly, with something approaching a smile. "Brian fired his revolver and grazed hisarm slightly,—a mere scratch, you will understand,—and the miserable creature rolled upon the ground, doubled himself in two, and, giving himself up as dead, howled dismally. Not knowing at that time that the poor squire was hurt, Brian and I roared with laughter: we couldn't help it, the fellow looked so absurd."
They all laugh at this, but presently Olga, holding up her finger, says, seriously,—
"Owen, recollect yourself. You said youlaughed. Oh! itcan'tbe true."
"I regret to say it is," says Mr. Kelly, with intensest self-abasement. "For once I forgot myself; I reallydiddo it; but it shan't occur again. The exquisite humor of the moment was too much for me. I hope it won't be placed to my account, and that in time you will all forgive me my one little lapse."
"Well, Owen, you are the drollest creature," says Madam O'Connor, with a broad sweet smile, that is copied by Olga and Ronayne. Mrs. Herrick remains unmoved, and her needles go faster and faster: Mr. Kelly stares at them uneasily.
"They'll give out sparks in another minute or so," he says, warningly, "and if they do there will be a general conflagration. Spare me that: I have had enough excitement for a while."
Mrs. Herrick lets her knitting fall into her lap.
"The squire may be thankful he got off so easily," says Madam O'Connor at this moment.
"He may, indeed," says Kelly. "Fay," to the child who is standing at a distance gazing thoughtfully with uplifted head at the blue sky without, "what are you wondering about now?"
The child turns upon him her large blue eyes, blue as Nankin china, and answers him in clear sweet tones, indifferent to the fact that every one in the room is regarding her.
"I was wondering," she says, truthfully, "why Ulic says his prayers to Olga."
A most disconcerting silence follows this speech. Madam hums a tune; Mrs. Herrick loses herself in her knitting; but Mr. Kelly, who is always alive, says "Eh?"
"I saw him," says Fay, dreamily.
Olga, who is as crimson as the heart of a red rose, makes here a frantic but subdued effort to attract the child's attention; Mr. Kelly, however, gets her adroitly on to his knees before she can grasp the meaning of Olga's secret signals.
"Where did you see him?" he says, mildly.
"In the summer-house, this morning. He was kneeling down before her, just as I kneel to mamma, and he had his head in her lap, and he was whispering his prayers. I could not hear what he said." At this instant an expression of the most devout thankfulness overspreads Mrs. Bohun's features. "But they were verylongprayers; and I think he wassorryfor something he had done."
"I haven't a doubt of it," says Mr. Kelly, mournfully. "Go on, my child."
"I'm not your child; I'm mamma's," says Fay, firmly; but, having so far vindicated her mother's character, she goes on with her tale: "When he got up he didn't look a bit better," she says. "He looked worse, I think. Didn't you, Ulic?" addressing the stricken young man in the window. "And I always thought it was only children who said their prayers to people, and not the grown-up ones. And why did he choose Olga? Wasn't there mamma? And wasn't there Madam? You would have let him say his prayers to you, Madam, wouldn't you?" turning placidly to her hostess.
"I should have been only too charmed,—too highly flattered," says Madam, in a stifled tone; and then she gives way altogether, and breaks into a gay and hearty laugh, under cover of which Olga beats an ignominious retreat.
Mr. Ronayne, feeling rather than seeing that his colleague in this disgraceful affair has taken flight, puts down his brushes softly and jumps lightly from the open window to the grass beneath. Then with a speed that belongs to his long limbs, he hurries towards that corner of the house that will lead him to the hall door: as he turns it, he received Olga almost in his arms.
"You here?" she says. "Oh, that terrible child!"
"She didn't understand, poor little soul." And then, as though the recollection overcomes him, he gives away to uncontrollable mirth.
"Such unseemly levity!" says Mrs. Bohun, in a disgusted tone; but, after the vaguest hesitation, she laughs too.
"Come to the orchard," says Ronayne; and to the orchard they go. Here, finding a rustic seat at the foot of a gnarled and moss-grown apple-tree, they take possession of it.
"It is very unfortunate," says Olga, with a sigh. Her fair hair is being blown like a silver cloud hither and thither and renders her distractingly pretty.
"You mean our betrayal by that child?"
"Yes. I hope it will cure you of ever being so silly as to go on your knees to any woman again."
"I shall never go on my knees to any woman but you, whether you accept or reject me."
"I am sure I don't know how I am ever to face those people inside again." Here she puts one dainty little finger to her lips and bites it cruelly.
"There is nothing remarkable in having one'sacceptedlover at one's feet."
"But you are not that," she says, lifting her brows and seeming half amused at his boldness.
"By one word you can make me so."
"Can I? What is the word?"
This is puzzling; but Mr. Ronayne, nothing daunted says,—
"You have only to say, 'you are,' and I am."
"It isn't Christmas yet," says Mrs. Bohun: "you shouldn't throw conundrums at me out of season. It is too much? 'youareand Iam.' I couldn't guess it, indeed; I'm anything but clever."
"If you say the 'I will,' you will find the solution toourconundrum at once."
"But that is two words."
"Olga, does the fact that I love you carry no weight with it at all."
"But do you love me—really?"
"Need I answer that?"
"But there are others, younger, prettier."
"Nonsense! There is no one prettier than you in this wide world."
"Ah!" with a charming smile, "now indeed I believe you do love me, for the Greek Cupid is blind. What a silly boy you are to urge this matter! For one thing I am older than you."
"A year or two."
"For another——"
"I will not listen. 'Stony limits cannot hold love out:' why, therefore, try to discourage me?"
"But you should think——"
"I think only that if you will say what I ask you, I shall be always with you, and you with me."
"What isyourjoy ismyfear. Custom creates weariness! And—'the lover in the husband may be lost!'"
"Ah! you have thought of me in that light," exclaims the young man, eagerly. "Beloved if you will only take me, youshall find in me both a lover and husband until your life's end."
The smile has died from Olga's lips; she holds out her hands to him.
"So be it," she says gravely.
"You mean it?" says Ronayne, as yet afraid to believe in his happiness.
"Yes. But if ever you repent blame yourself."
"And if you repent?"
"I shall blame you too," she says, with a sudden return to her old archness.
"And you will refuse Rossmoyne?"
She laughs outright at this, andglancesat him from under drooping lashes.
"I can't promise that," she says, with carefully simulated embarrassment—"because——"
"What?" haughtily, moving away from her.
"Idid so yesterday."
"Oh, darling, how cruelly I misjudged you! I thought—I feared——"
"Never mind all that. I know—I forgive you. I've alovelytemper," says Olga, with self-gratulation.
"Why did you refuse him? Was it," hopefully, "because you didn't like him?"
"N—o. Not so much that—as——" again this shameless coquette hesitates, and turns her head uneasily from side to side, as though afraid to give utterance to the truth.
"What? Explain, Olga," says her lover, in a fresh agony.
"As that I——loved you!" returns she, with a heavenly smile.
His arms close round her, and at this moment she lets all her heart be seen by him. The mocking light dies out of her eyes, her face grows earnest. She lets her heart beat with happy unrestraint against his. The minutes fly, but time was never made to be counted by blissful lovers.
A gong sounding in the distance rouses them from their contented dreaming.
"I must go and tell Hermia," she says, starting to her feet: "that is the dressing-bell."
"You won't let her influence you against me?"
"Nobody could do that." She moves away from him, and then runs back to him again and lays her arms round his neck.
"You are more to me now than Hermia andthe world!" she says, softly.
Yet presently, when she finds herself in Hermia's calmpresence, her courage somewhat fails her. It is not that she for a moment contemplates the idea of having to give up her lover, but she is afraid of her cousin's cold disparagement of both him and her.
"I have just promised to marry Ulic," she says, plunging without preface into her story, with a boldness born of nervous excitement.
"Tomarryhim! Why, I thought you looked upon him as a mere boy! Your 'baby,' you used to call him."
"Probably that is why I have accepted him. A baby should not be allowed to roam the world at large without some one to look after him."
"Do you love him, Olga?"
"Yes, I do," says Olga, defiantly. "You may scold me if you like, but a titleisn'teverything, and he is worth a dozen of that cold, stiff Rossmoyne."
"Well, dearest, as you have given him the best part of you,—your heart,—it is as well the rest should follow," says Mrs. Herrick, tenderly. "Yes, I think you will be very happy with him."
This speech is so strange, so unexpected, so exactly unlike anything she had made up her mind to receive, that for a moment Olga is stricken dumb. Then with a rush she comes back to glad life.
"'Do I wake? do I dream? are there visions about?'" she says. "Why, what sentiments fromyou! You have'changed all that,' apparently."
"I have," says Hermia, very slowly, yet with a vivid blush. Something in her whole manner awakes suspicion of the truth in Olga's mind.
"Why," she says, "you don't mean to tell me that——Oh, no! it can't be true! and yet——I verily believe you have——Isit so, Hermia?"
"It is," says Hermia, who has evidently, by help of some mental process of her own, understood all this amazing farrago of apparently meaningless words.
There is a new sweetness on Mrs. Herrick's lips. One of her rare smiles lights up all her calm, artistic face.
"After all your vaunted superiority!" says Olga, drawing a deep sigh. "Oh,dear!" Then, with a wicked but merry imitation of Mrs. Herrick's own manner to her, she goes on!—
"You are throwing yourself away, dearest. The world will think nothing of you for the future; and you, so formed to shine, and dazzle, and——"
"Hewill be a baronet at his father's death," says Mrs. Herrick, serenely, with a heavy emphasis on the first pronoun; and then suddenly, as though ashamed of this speech, she lets her mantle drop from her, and cries, with some tender passion,——
"I don't care about that. Hear the truth from me. If he were as ugly and poor as Mary Browne's Peter, I should marry him all the same, just because I love him!"
"Oh, Hermia, I am soglad," says Olga. "After all what is there in the whole wide world so sweet as love? And as for Rossmoyne,—why, he couldn't make a tender speech to save his life as it should be made; whilst Ulic—oh he's charming!"
How Monica's heart fails her; and how at last Hope (whose name is Brian) comes back to her through the quivering moonlight.
How Monica's heart fails her; and how at last Hope (whose name is Brian) comes back to her through the quivering moonlight.
And now night has fallen at last upon this long day. A gentle wind is shivering through the elms; a glorious moon has risen in all its beauty, and stands in "heaven's wide, pathless way," as though conscious of its grandeur, yet sad for the sorrows of the seething earth beneath. Now clear, now resplendent she shines, and now through a tremulous mist shows her pure face, and again for a space is hidden,
"As if her head she bow'dStooping through a fleecy cloud."
"As if her head she bow'dStooping through a fleecy cloud."
Miss Priscilla, with a sense of now-found dignity upon her, has gone early to bed. Miss Penelope has followed suit. Terence, in the privacy of his own room, is rubbing a dirty oily flannel on the bright barrels of his beloved gun, long since made over to him as a gift by Brian.
Kit is sitting on the wide, old-fashioned window-seat in Monica's room at her sister's feet, and with her thin little arms twined lovingly round her. She is sleepy enough, poor child, but cannot bear to desert Monica, who is strangely wakeful and rather silent anddistraite. For ever since the morning when he had come to carry Miss Priscilla to Coole,Brian has been absent from her; not once has he come to her; and a sense of chill and fear, as strong as it is foolish, isoverpoweringher.
She rouses herself now with a little nervous quiver that seems to run through all her veins and lets her hand fall on Kit's drooping head.
"It grows very late. Go to bed, darling," she says, gently.
"Not till you go," says Kit, tightening the clasp of her arms.
"Well, that shall be in a moment, then," says Monica, with a stifled sigh. All through the dragging day and evening she has clung to the thought that surely her lover will come to bid her "good-night." And now it is late, and he has not come, and——
She leans against the side of the wide-open casement, and gazes in sad meditation upon the slumbering garden underneath. The lilies,—"tall white garden-lilies,"—though it is late in the season now, and bordering on snows and frosts, are still swaying to and fro, and giving most generously a rich perfume to the wondering air. Earth's stars they seem to her, as she lifts her eyes to compare them with the "forget-me-nots of the angels," up above.
Her first disappointment about her love is desolating her. She leans her head against the woodwork, and lifts her eyes to the vaguely-tinted sky. Thus, with face upturned, she drinks in the fair beauty of the night, and, as its beauty grows upon her, her sorrow deepens.
"With how sad steps, O moon! thou climb'st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face,Thou feel'st a lover's case!I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace,To me, that feel the like, thy state descries."
"With how sad steps, O moon! thou climb'st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face,Thou feel'st a lover's case!I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace,To me, that feel the like, thy state descries."
As she watches the pale moon, Sidney's sad words return to her. Just now Diana is resting in a path of palest azure, whilst all around her clouds, silver-tinged, are lying out from her, trembling in mid-air.
Great patches of moonlight lie upon the garden sward. One seems brighter than its fellows, and as her eyes slowly sink from heaven to earth they rest upon it, as though attracted unconsciously by its brilliancy. And, even as she looks, a shadow falls athwart it, and then a low, quick cry breaks from her lips.
"What is it?" says Kit, scrambling to her knees.
"Only Brian," says Monica, with a hastily-drawn breath. A rich color has rushed into her cheeks, her eyes are alight, her lips have curved themselves into a happy smile.
"It's all right now, then, and I can go," says Kit, joyfully.
"Go? To bed, you mean, darling?"
"Yes, now I know you arehappy," says Kit, tenderly; and then the sisters embrace, and presently Monica is alone, but for the shadow in the moonlight.
"It is you, Monica?" says Brian, coming close beneath her window, and looking upwards.
She leans out to him, her white gown gleaming softly in the moon's rays.
"Oh, why venture out at this hour?" she says, nervously. Now he is here,—woman-like,—fears for his safety, forgotten before, arise in all their horror. "They may have followed you; they may——"
"Come down to the balcony," he interrupts her, with a light laugh. "I want to talk to you. Nonsense, dear heart! I am as safe as a church. Who would touch me, with an angel like you near to protect me?"
His shadow, as he moves away, may again be seen for an instant, before he turns the corner of the old house; and Monica, opening her door softly, runs lightly down the corridor and the staircase, and across the hall and the drawing-room floor until she reaches the balcony beyond, where she finds his arms awaiting her.
"You have missed me all day?" he says, after a pause that to them has been divine.
"Oh, Brian, what a day it has been!" she clings to him. "All these past hours have been full of horror. Whenever I thought of your danger last night, I seemed to grow cold and dead with fear; and then when the minutes slipped by, and still you never came to me, I began to pictureyouas cold and dead, and then——Ah!" she clings still closer to him, and her voice fails her. "I never knew," she whispers, brokenly, "how well I loved you until I so nearly lost you. I could not live without you now."
"Nor shall you," returns he, straining her to his heart with passionate tenderness. "My life is yours, to do what you will with it. And somehow all day long I knew (and was happy in the knowledge, forgive me that) that you were lonely for want of me; but I could not come to you, my soul, until this very moment. Yet, believe me, I suffered more than you during ourlong separation." (If any one laughs here, it will prove he has never been in love, and so is an object of pity. This should check untimely mirth.)
"You felt it long too, then?" says Monica, hopefully.
"How can you ask me that? Your darling face was never once out of my mind, and yet Icouldnot come to you. I had so many things to do, so many people to see, and then the poor old fellow was so ill. But have we not cause to be thankful?—at last the breach between our houses is healed, and we may tell all the world of our love."
"You should have heard Aunt Priscilla, how she talked of you when she came back to-day from Coole," says Monica, in a little fervent glow of enthusiasm. "It was beautiful! You know she must haveunderstoodyou all along to be able to say the truth of you so well. She said so much in your favor that she satisfied even me."
She says this with such a gracefulnaivete, and such an utter belief in his superiority to the vast majority of men, that Mr. Desmond does well to feel the pride that surges in his heart.
"I really think she has fallen in love with you," says Miss Beresford, at the last, with a little gay laugh.
"Perhaps that is why she refused the squire," says Brian; and then he basely betrays trust, by telling her all that tale of the late wooing of Miss Priscilla, and its result, which awakens in the breast of that ancient lady's niece a mirth as undutiful as it is prolonged.
"And what were you doing all day?" she says, when it has somewhat subsided.
"Trying to keep my uncle—did I tell you he has fallen in love with your photograph?—from talking himself into a brain fever, and I was swearing hard, and——"
"Brian!"
"Only informations, darling! And I wouldn't have done that either, only I had to. They made me. Lay the blame on 'they.' It wasn't my fault, indeed. If I had thought for a moment you had the slightest objection to that sort of——"
"Nonsense! don't be silly; go on," says Miss Beresford, austerely.
"Well, then, I listened patiently to a good deal of raving from Kelly on the subject of Hermia Herrick. I don't suppose I should have exhibited as much patience as I did, but for the fact that I was waiting on George—my uncle—at the time, and couldn't get away. And after that I listened with even more patience to a perfect farrago of nonsense from our sub-inspectorabout the would-be assassin we have caught, and his fellows; and, besides all this, I thought ofyouevery moment since last I saw you."
"Everymoment. Notoneneglected?" asks she, smiling.
"I'll swear to that too, if you like. I'm in good practice now."
"No, no," hastily. "I can believe you without that."
"Did you hear about your Ryde?" asks Desmond, suddenly.
"I disclaim the possession," says Monica. "But what of him?"
"He has been ordered, with his regiment, to Egypt, to fight Arabi, where I hope he will be shot. And the 36th are coming in his place."
"How can you say such shocking things?"
"Is it shocking to say the 36th are coming to Clonbree?"
"No, but what you said about Mr. Ryde."
"Oh, that! Well, I hope, then, if they don't knock the life they will knock the conceit and the superfluousfleshout of him: will that do?"
"Very badly. He was a horrid man in many ways, but he didyouno harm."
"He dared to look at you."
"The cat may look at the king."
"But the cat may not look at my queen. So now, madam, what have you to say?"
"Well, never mind, then: tell me about Hermia. So Mr. Kelly is engaged to her?"
"Yes. He has just discovered her to be the most superior as well as the loveliest woman upon earth. He told me so. I ventured mildly, but firmly, to differ with him and enter a protest on your behalf, but he wouldn't hear of it. In his opinion you are nowhere beside the majestic Hermia."
"I know that. He is right," says Monica, meekly. But there is a reproachful question in her eyes, as she says it, that contradicts the meekness.
"He isnot," says Desmond, with loving indignation, pressing her dear little head so close against his heart that she can hear it throbbing bravely and can find joy in the thought that each separate throb is all her own. "The man who thinks so must be insane. A fig for Hermia! Where would she be if placed besideyou, my 'Helen fair beyond compare'?"
"You are prejudiced; you tell too flattering a tale," saysMonica, with soft disparagement; but the fond, foolish, lover-like words are very dear and sweet to her, all the same.
He has his arms round her; in her tender childish fashion she has laid her cheek against his; and now, with a slow movement, she turns her head until her lips reach his.
"I love you," she whispers.
Almost in a sigh the words are breathed, and a sense of rapture—of completion—renders the young man for the instant mute. Yet in her soul so well she knows of his content that she cares little for any answer save that which his fond eyes give.
A breath from the sleeping world of flowers below comes up to the balcony and bathes the lovers in its sweets. The "wandering moon" looks down upon them, and lights up the dark windows behind them, till they looked like burnished silver. A deadly silence lies on grass and bough; it seems to them as though, of all the eager world, they two only are awake, and alone!
"Do I count with you, then, as more than all?" he says, at length; "than Terence or than Kit?"
"You know it," she says, earnestly.
Suddenly he loosens his arms from round her, and, pushing her slender, white-robed figure gently backwards, gazes searchingly into her calm but wondering face.
"Tell me," he says,—some mad, inward craving driving him to ask the needless question—"how would it have been with you if I had been killed yesterday? Would youin timehave loved again?"
I am not sure, but I think he would have recalled the words when it is too late. A quiver runs through the girl's frame; a great wave of emotion sweeping over her face transfigures it, changing its calm to quick and living grief. The moonbeams, catching her, fold her in floods of palest glory, until he who watches her with remorseful eyes can only liken her to a fragile saint, as she stands there in her white, clinging draperies.
"You are cruel," she says, at last, with a low, gasping cry.
He falls at her feet.
"Forgive me, my love, my darling!" he entreats, "I should never have said that, and yet I am glad I did. To feel, toknowyou are altogether mine——"
"You had a doubt?" she says; and then two large tears rise slowly, until her beautiful eyes look passionate reproach at him through a heavy mist. Then the mist clears, and two shiningdrops, quitting their sweet home, fall upon the back of the small hand she has placed nervously against her throat.
"A last one, and it is goneforever." He rises to his feet. "Place your arms round my neck again," he says, with anxious entreaty, "and let me feel myself forgiven."
A smile, as coy as it is tender, curves her dainty lips, as she lifts to his two, soft, dewy eyes, in which the light of a first love has at last been fully kindled. She comes a step nearer to him, still smiling,—a lovely thing round which the moonbeams riot as though in ecstasy over her perfect fairness,—and then in another instant they are both in heaven, "in paradise in one another's arms!"
"You are happy?" questions he, after a long pause, into which no man may look.
"I am withyou," returns she, softly.
"How sweet a meaning lies within your words!"
"A true meaning. But see, how late it grows! For a few hours we must part. Until to-morrow—good-night!"
"Good-night, my life! my sweet,sweetheart!" says Desmond.
The End.