"The old, old pain of earth."
It is now close upon midnight--that midnight of the warmer months when
day sets its light finger on the fringes of it. There is a sighing
through the woods, a murmur from the everlasting sea, and though Diana
still rides high in heaven with her handmaiden Venus by her side, yet in
a little while her glory will be departed, and her one rival, the sun,
will push her from her throne.
The gleaming lamps among the trees-are scarcely so bright as they were
an hour ago, the faint sighing of the wind that heralds the morning is
shaking them to and fro. A silly bird has waked, and is chirping in a
foolish fashion among the rhododendrons, where, in a secluded path,
Joyce and Dicky Browne are wandering somewhat aimlessly. Before them
lies a turn in the path that leads presumably into the dark wood,
darkest of all at this hour, and where presumably, too, no one has
ventured, though one should never presume about hidden corners.
"I can't think what you see in him," says Mr. Browne, after a big pause.
"I'd say nothing if his face wasn't so fat, but if I were you, that
would condemn him in my eyes."
"I can't see that his face is fatter than yours," says Miss Kavanagh,
with what she fondly believes perfect indifference.
"Neither is it," says Mr. Browne meekly, "but my dear girl, there lies
the gist of my argument. You have condemned me. All my devotion has been
scouted by you. I don't pretend to be the wreck still that once by your
cruelty you made me, but----"
"Oh, that will do," says Joyce, unfeelingly. "As for Mr. Beauclerk, I
don't know why you should imagine I see anything in him."
"Well, I confess I can't quite understand it myself. He couldn't hold a
candle to--er--well, several other fellows I could name, myself not
included, Miss Kavanagh, so that supercilious smile is thrown away. He
may be good to look at, there is certainly plenty of him on which to
feast the eye, but to fall in love with----"
"What do you mean, Dicky? What are you speaking about--do you know?
You," with a deadly desire to insult him, "must be in love yourself
to--to maunder as you are doing?"
"I'm not," says Mr. Browne, "that's the queer part of it. I don't know
what's the matter with me. Ever since you blighted me, I have lain
fallow, as it were. I," dejectedly, "haven't been in love for quite a
long, long time now. I miss it--I can't explain it. I can't be well, can
I? I," anxiously, "I don't look well, do I?"
"I never saw you looking better," with unkind force.
"Ah!" sadly, "that's because you don't give your attention to me. It's
my opinion that I'm fading away to the land o' the leal, like old
What-you-may-call-'em."
"If that's the way he did it, it must have taken him some time. In fact,
he must be still at it," says Miss Kavanagh, heartlessly.
By this time they had come to the end of the walk, and have turned the
corner. Before them lies a small grass plot surrounded by evergreens, a
cosy nook not to be suspected by any one until quite close upon it. It
bursts upon the casual pedestrian, indeed, as a charming surprise. There
is something warm, friendly, confidential about it--something safe.
Beyond lies the gloomy wood, embedded in night, but here the moonbeams
play. Some one with a thoughtful care for loving souls has placed in
this excellent spot for flirtation a comfortable garden seat, just
barely large enough for two, sternly indicative of being far too small
far the leanest three.
Upon this delightful seat four eyes now concentrate themselves. As if by
one consent, although unconsciously, Mr. Browne and his companion come
to a dead stop. The unoffending seat holds them in thrall.
Upon it, evidently on the best of terms with each other, are two people.
One is Miss Maliphant, the other Mr. Beauclerk. They are whispering
"soft and low." Miss Maliphant is looking, perhaps, a little
confused--for her--and the cause of the small confusion is transparent.
Beauclerk's hand is tightly closed over hers, and even as Dicky and Miss
Kavanagh gaze spellbound at them, he lifts the massive hand of the
heiress and imprints a lingering kiss upon it.
"Come away," says Dicky, touching Joyce's arm. "Run for your life, but
softly."
He and she have been standing in shadow, protected from the view of the
other two by a crimson rhododendron. Joyce starts as he touches her, as
one might who is roused from an ugly dream, and then follows him
swiftly, but lightly, back to the path they had forsaken.
She is trembling in a nervous fashion, that angers herself cruelly, and
something of her suppressed emotion becomes known to Mr. Browne.
Perhaps, being a friend of hers, it angers him, too.
"What strange freaks moonbeams play," says he, with a truly delightful
air of saying nothing in particular. "I could have sworn that just then
I saw Beauclerk kissing Miss Maliphant's hand."
No answer. There is a little silence, fraught with what angry grief who
can tell? Dicky, who is not all froth, and is capable of a liking here
and there, is conscious of, and is sorry for, the nervous tremor that
shakes the small hand he has drawn within his arm; but he is so far a
philosopher that he tells himself it is but a little thing in her life;
she can bear it; she will recover from it; "and in time forget that she
had been ever ill," says this good-natured skeptic to himself.
Joyce, who has evidently been struggling with herself, and has now
conquered her first feeling, turns to him.
"You should not condemn the moonbeams unheard," says she, bravely, with
the ghost of a little smile. "The evidence of two impartial witnesses
should count in their favor."
"But, my dear girl, consider," says Mr. Browne, mildly. "If it had been
anyone else's hand! I could then accuse the moonbeams of a secondary
offense, and say that their influence alone, which we all know has a
maddening effect, had driven him to so bold a deed. But not madness
itself could inspire me with a longing to kiss her hand."
"She is a very good girl, and I like her," says Joyce, with a suspicious
vehemence.
"So do I; so much, indeed, that I should shrink from calling her a good
girl. It is very damnatory, you know. You could hardly say anything more
prejudicial. It at once precludes the idea of her having any such minor
virtues as grace, beauty, wit, etc. Well, granted she is 'a good girl,'
that doesn't give her pretty hands, does it? As a rule, I think that all
good girls have gigantic points. I don't think I would care to kiss Miss
Maliphant's hands, even if she would let me."
"She is a very honest, kind-hearted girl," says Miss Kavanagh a little
heavily. It suggests itself to Mr. Browne that she has not been
listening to him.
"And a very rich one."
"I never think about that when I am with her. I couldn't."
"Beauclerk could," says Mr. Browne, tersely.
There is another rather long silence, and Dicky is beginning to think he
has gone a trifle too far, and that Miss Kavanagh will cut him
to-morrow, when she speaks again. Her tone is composed, but icy enough
to freeze him.
"It is a mistake," says she, "to discuss people towards whom one feels a
natural antagonism. It leads, one, perhaps, to say more than one
actually means. One is apt to grow unjust. I would never discuss Mr.
Beauclerk if I were you. You don't like him."
"Well," says Mr. Browne, thoughtfully, "since you put it to me, I
confess I think he is the most rubbishy person I ever met!"
After this sweeping opinion, conversation comes to a deadlock. It is not
resumed. Reaching the stone steps leading to the conservatory, they
ascend them in silence, and reach that perfumed retreat to find Dysart
on the threshold.
"Oh, there you are!" cries he to Miss Kavanagh. "I thought you lost for
good and all!" His face has lighted up. Perhaps he feels a sense of
relief at finding her with Dicky, who is warranted harmless. He looks
almost handsome, better than handsome! The very soul of honesty shines,
in his kind eyes.
"Oh! it is hard to lose what nobody wants," says Joyce in a would-be
playful tone, but something in the drawn, pained lines about her mouth
belies her mirth. Dysart, after a swift examination of her face, takes
her hand and draws it within his arm.
"The last was our dance," says he.
"Speak kindly of the dead," says Mr. Browne, as he beats a hasty
retreat.