"Tell me where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply."
"An invitation from Lady Baltimore," says Joyce, looking at the big red
crest, and coloring slightly.
"Yes."
"How do you know?" asks she, rather suspiciously.
The young man raises his hands and eyes.
"I _swear_ I had nothing to do with it," says he, "I didn't so much as
hint at it. Lady Baltimore spent her time crossing the Channel in
declaring to all who were well enough to hear her, that she lived only
in the expectation of soon seeing you again."
"Nonsense!" scornfully; "it is only a month ago since I was staying
there, just before they went to London. By the bye, what brings them
home now? In the very beginning of their season?"
"_I_ don't know. And it is as well not to inquire perhaps. Baltimore and
my cousin, as all the world knows, have not hit it off together. Yet
when Isabel married him, we all thought it was quite an ideal marriage,
they were so much in love with each other."
"Hot love soon cools," says Miss Kavanagh in a general sort of way.
"I don't believe it," sturdily, "if it's the right sort of love.
However, to go back to your letter--which you haven't even deigned to
open--you _will_ accept the invitation, won't you?"
"I don't know," hesitating.
"Oh! I say, _do_ come! It is only for a week, and even if it does bore
you, still, as a Christian, you ought to consider how much, even in that
short time, you will be able to add to the happiness of your fellow
creatures."
"Flattery means insincerity," says she, tilting her chin, "keep all that
sort of thing for your Miss Maliphant; it is thrown away upon me."
"_My_ Miss Maliphant! Really I must protest against your accrediting me
with such a possession. But look here, _don't_ disappoint us all; and
you won't be dull either, there are lots of people coming. Dicky Brown,
for one."
"Oh! will he be there?" brightening visibly.
"Yes," rather gloomily, and perhaps a little sorry that he has said
anything about Mr. Browne's possible arrival--though to feel jealousy
about that social butterfly is indeed to sound the depths of folly; "you
like him?"
"I _love_ him," says Miss Kavanagh promptly and with sufficient
enthusiasm to restore hope in the bosom of any man except a lover.
"He is blessed indeed," says he stiffly. "Beyond his deserts I can't
help thinking. I really think he is the biggest fool I ever met."
"Oh! not the biggest, surely," says she, so saucily, and with such a
reprehensible tendency towards laughter, that he gives way and laughs
too, though unwillingly.
"True. I'm a bigger," says he, "but as that is _your_ fault, you should
be the last to taunt me with it."
"Foolish people always talk folly," says she with an assumption of
indifference that does not hide her red cheeks. "Well, go on, who is to
be at the Court besides Dicky?"
"Lady Swansdown."
"I like her too."
"But not so well as you like Dicky, _you_ love him according to your own
statement."
"Don't be matter-of-fact!" says Miss Kavanagh, giving him a
well-deserved snub. "Do you always say exactly what you mean?"
"Always--to _you_."
"I daresay you would be more interesting if you didn't," says she, with
a little, lovely smile, that quite spoils the harshness of her words. Of
her few faults, perhaps the greatest is, that she seldom knows her own
mind, where her lovers are concerned, and will blow hot and cold, and
merry and sad, and cheerful, and petulant all in one breath as it were.
Poor lovers! they have a hard time of it with her as a rule. But youth
is often so, and the cold, still years, as they creep on us, with dull
common sense and deadly reason in their train, cure us all too soon of
our pretty idle follies.
Just now she was bent on rebuffing him, but you see her strength failed
her, and she spoiled her effect by the smile she mingled with the
rebuff. The smile indeed was so charming that he remembers nothing but
it, and so she not only gains nothing, but loses something to the other
side.
"Well, I'll try to mend all that," says he, but so lovingly, and with
such unaffected tenderness, that she quails beneath his glance. Coquette
as undoubtedly Nature has made her, she has still so gentle a soul
within her bosom that she shrinks from inflicting _actual_ pain. A pang
or two, a passing regret to be forgotten the next hour--or at all events
in the next change of scene--she is not above imparting, but when people
grow earnest like--like Mr. Dysart for example--they grow troublesome.
And she hasn't made up her mind to marry, and there are other people----
"The Clontarfs are to be there too," goes on Dysart, who is a cousin of
Lady Baltimore's, and knows all about her arrangements; "and the
Brownings, and Norman Beauclerk."
"The--Clontarfs," says Joyce, in a hurried way, that might almost be
called confused; to the man who loves her, and who is watching her, it
is quite plain that she is not thinking of Lord and Lady Clontarf, who
are quite an ordinary couple and devoted to each other, but of that last
name spoken--Norman Beauclerk; Lady Baltimore's brother, a man,
handsome, agreeable, aristocratic--the man whose attentions to her a
month ago had made a little topic for conversation amongst the country
people. Dull country people who never go anywhere or see anything beyond
their stupid selves, and who are therefore driven to do something or
other to avoid suicide or the murdering of each other; gossip unlimited
is their safety valve.
"Yes, and Beauclerk," persists Dysart, a touch of despair at his heart;
"you and he were good friends when last he was over, eh?"
"I am generally very good friends with everybody; not an altogether
desirable character, not a strong one," says she smiling, and still
openly parrying the question.
"You liked Beauclerk," says he, a little doggedly perhaps.
"Ye--es--very well."
"Very _much_! Why can't you be _honest_!" says he flashing out at her.
"I don't know what you mean," coldly. "If, however, you persist on my
looking into it, I--" defiantly--"yes, I _do_ like Mr. Beauclerk very
much."
"Well, I don't know what you see in that fellow."
"Nothing," airily, having now recovered herself, "that's his charm."
"If," gravely, "you gave that as your opinion of Dicky Browne I could
believe you."
She laughs.
"Poor Dicky," says she, "what a cruel judgment; and yet you are right;"
she has changed her whole manner, and is now evidently bent on restoring
him to good humor, and compelling him to forget all about Mr. Beauclerk.
"I must give in to you about Dicky. There isn't even the vaguest
suggestion of meaning about _him_. I--" with a deliberate friendly
glance flung straight into his eyes--"don't often give in to you, do I?"
On this occasion, however, her coquetry--so generally successful--is
completely thrown away. Dysart, with his dark eyes fixed
uncompromisingly upon hers, makes the next move--an antagonistic one.
"You have a very high opinion of Beauclerk," says he.
"Have I?" laughing uneasily, and refusing to let her rising temper give
way. "We all have our opinions on every subject that comes under our
notice. You have one on this subject evidently."
"Yes, but it is not a high one," says he unpleasantly.
"After all, what does that matter? I don't pretend to understand you. I
will only suggest to you that our opinions are but weak things--mere
prejudices--no more."
"I am not prejudiced against Beauclerk, if you mean that," a little
hotly.
"I didn't," with a light shrug. "Believe me, you think a great deal more
about him than I do."
"Are you sure of that?"
"I am at all events sure of one thing," says she quickly darting at him
a frowning glance, "that you have no right to ask me that question."
"I have not indeed," acknowledges he stiffly still, but with so open an
apology in his whole air that she forgives him. "Many conflicting
thoughts led me astray. I must ask your pardon."
"Why, granted!" says she. "And--I was cross, wasn't I? After all an old
friend like you might be allowed a little laxity. There, never mind,"
holding out her hand. "Let us make it up."
Dysart grasps the little extended hand with avidity, and peace seems
restored when Tommy puts an end to all things. To anyone acquainted with
children I need hardly remark that he has been listening to the
foregoing conversation with all his ears and all his eyes and every bit
of his puzzled intelligence.
"Well, go on," says he, giving his aunt a push when the friendly
hand-shake has come to an end.
"Go on? Where?" asks she, with apparent unconcern but a deadly
foreboding at her breast. She knows her Tommy.
"You _said_ you were going to make it up with him!" says that hero,
regarding her with disapproving eyes.
"Well, I have made it up."
"No, you haven't! When you make it up with me you always kiss me! Why
don't you kiss him?"
Consternation on the part of the principal actors. Dysart, strange to
say, is the first to recover.
"Why indeed?" says he, giving way all at once to a fatal desire for
laughter. This, Miss Kavanagh, being vexed with herself for her late
confusion, resents strongly.
"I am sure, Tommy," says she, with a mildness that would not have
imposed upon an infant, "that your lesson hour has arrived. Come, say
good-bye to Mr. Dysart, and let us begin at once. You know I am going to
teach you to-day. Good-bye, Mr. Dysart--if you want to see Barbara, you
will find her very probably in the study."
"Don't go like this," says he anxiously. "Or if you _will_ go, at least
tell me that you will accept Lady Baltimore's invitation."
"I don't know," smiling coldly. "I think not. You see I was there for
such a _long_ time in the beginning of the year, and Barbara always
wants me, and one should not be selfish you know."
"One should not indeed!" says he, with slow meaning. "What answer, then,
must I give my cousin? You know," in a low tone, "that she is not
altogether happy. You can lighten her burden a little. She is fond of
you."
"I can lighten Barbara's burden also. Think me the very incarnation of
selfishness if you will," says she rather unjustly, "but still, if
Barbara says 'don't go,' I shall stay here."
"Mrs. Monkton won't say that."
"Perhaps not," toying idly with a rose, in such a careless fashion as
drives him to despair. Brushing it to and fro across her lips she seems
to have lost all interest in the question in hand.
"If she says to you 'go,' how then?"
"Why then--I may still remain here."
"Well stay then, of course, if you so desire it!" cries he angrily. "If
to make all your world _un_happy is to make you happy, why be so by all
means."
"_All_ my world! Do you suppose then that it will make Barbara and
Freddy unhappy to have my company? What a gallant speech!" says she,
with a provoking little laugh and a swift lifting of her eyes to his.
"No, but it will make other people (more than _twice_ two) miserable to
be deprived of it."
"Are you one of that quartette?" asks she, so saucily, yet withal so
merrily that the hardest-hearted lover might forgive her. A little
irresistible laugh breaks from her lips. Rather ruefully he joins in it.
"I don't think I need answer that question," says he. "To you at all
events."
"To me of all people rather," says she still laughing, "seeing I am the
interested party."
"No, that character belongs to me. You have no interest in it. To me it
is life or death--to--you----"
"No, no, you mustn't talk to me like that. You know I forbid you last
time we met, and you promised me to be good."
"I promised then the most difficult thing in the world. But never mind
me; the principal thing is, your acceptance or rejection of that note.
Joyce!" in a low tone, "_say_ you will accept it."
"Well," relenting visibly, and now refusing to meet his eyes, "I'll ask
Barbara, and if she says I may go I----" pause.
"You will then accept?" eagerly.
"I shall then--think about it."
"You look like an angel," says he, "and you have the heart of a flint."
This remark, that might have presumably annoyed another girl, seems to
fill Miss Kavanagh with mirth.
"Am I so bad as that?" cries she, gaily. "Why I shall make amends then.
I shall change my evil ways. As a beginning, see here. If Barbara says
go to the Court, go I will. Now, stern moralist! where are you?"
"In the seventh heaven," says he, promptly. "Be it a Fool's Paradise or
otherwise, I shall take up my abode there for the present. And now you
will go and ask Mrs. Monkton?"
"In what a hurry to get rid of me!" says this coquette of all coquettes.
"Well, good-bye then----"
"Oh no, don't go."
"To the Court? Was ever man so unreasonable? In one breath 'do' and
'don't'!"
"Was ever woman so tormenting?"
"Tormenting? No, so discerning if you will, or else so----"
"Adorable! You can't find fault with _that_ at all events."
"And therefore my mission is at an end! Good-bye, again."
"Good-bye." He is holding her hand as though he never means to let her
have it again. "That rose," says he, pointing to the flower that had
kissed her lips so often. "It is nothing to you, you can pick yourself
another, give it to me."
"I can pick you another too, a nice fresh one," says she. "Here," moving
towards a glowing bush; "here is a bud worth having."
"Not that one," hastily. "Not one this garden, or any other garden
holds, save the one in your hand. It is the only one in the world of
roses worth having."
"I hate to give a faded gift," says she, looking at the rose she holds
with apparent disfavor.
"Then I shall take it," returns he, with decision. He opens her pretty
pink palm, releases the dying rosebud from it and places it triumphantly
in his coat.
"You haven't got any manners," says she, but she laughs again as she
says it.
"Except bad ones you should add."
"Yes, I forgot that. A point lost. Good-bye now, good-bye indeed."
She waves her hand lightly to him and calling to the children runs
towards the house. It seems as if she has carried all the beauty and
brightness and sweetness of the day with her.
As Dysart turns back again, the afternoon appears grey and gloomy.