How Monica makes a most important discovery and, changing suddenly
from "lively to severe," is reprehensibly cruel to a most
unoffending young man.
"You are very kind," says Monica slowly, feeling not so much
embarrassment as surprise at this sudden advent.
Then the young man looses the rope, and, having done so, casts a cursory
glance at the boat to which it is attached. As he does so, he lifts his
brows.
"Surely you are not dreaming of going on the river in _that_!" he says,
indicating the wretched punt by a contemptuous wave of his hand.
"Yes. Why not?" returns she.
"There isn't a sound bit of timber in her. What _can_ your people be
thinking of, to let you trust yourself in such a miserable affair?"
"My people have nothing to do with it," says Monica, somewhat grandly.
"I am _my own mistress_."
She has picked up her flowers again out of the despised punt, and now
stands before him with her hands filled with the June blossoms, blue,
and white, and red. They show bravely against the pallor of her gown,
and seem, indeed, to harmonize altogether with her excessive fairness,
for her lips are as red as her poppies, and her cornflowers as blue as
her eyes, and her skin puts her drooping daisies all to shame.
"As you _are_ your own mistress," says the young man, with a suspicion
of a smile, as he takes in the baby sweetness of her mouth, and each
detail of her slight girlish figure, that bespeaks the child rather than
the woman, "I entreat you to have mercy upon _yourself_."
"But what is the matter with it?" asks Monica, peering into the boat.
"It _looks_ all right; I can't see a hole in it."
"It's nothing _but_ holes, in my opinion," says the strange young man,
peering in his turn. "It's a regular _coffin_. You will be committing
nothing less than suicide if you put your foot in it."
"Dear me," says Monica, blankly, feeling impressed in spite of herself,
"I do think I am the most unfortunate person alive. Do you know,"
lifting her eyes to his, "I didn't sleep a wink last night, thinking of
this row on the river to-day, and now it comes to nothing! That is just
like my luck always. I was so bent on it; I wanted to get round that
corner over there," pointing to it, "to see what was at the other side,
and now I can't do it." It seems to the young man looking at her, as
though her glance is reproachful, and as if she connects him, innocent
as he is, with her disappointment.
"There is no reason why you shouldn't," he is beginning, anxiously, when
she contradicts him.
"After all," she says, doubtfully, bending over to look into the clear
bed of the river, "I don't believe, if things came to the worst, and I
_did_ get swamped, I should be drowned."
"Certainly not, if you could swim, or if there was any one watching over
your welfare from the banks that could."
"Well, I can't," confesses Monica, with a sigh; "and unless _you_," with
an irrepressible laugh that shows all her white and even teeth, "will
promise to run along the banks of the river all the afternoon to watch
over me, I don't think there is much chance of my escaping death."
"I shouldn't mind in the least being on guard in such a cause," says the
stranger, politely, with the same carefully suppressed smile upon his
lips (which are very handsome) as had moved them a while ago. "Command
me if you will; but I would have you remember that, even though I should
come to the rescue, it would not save you an unpleasant ducking,
and--and your pretty gown," with a glance that is almost affectionate at
the white Indian cotton, "would be completely ruined."
"Even that dire idea doesn't daunt me," says Monica, gayly: "you forgot
that the more limp I am the more aesthetic I shall look. Well," with a
sudden relapse into melancholy, "I suppose I must give it up, and not go
round the corner to-day."
"But _why_ not?" exclaims he, eagerly. "My boat is at your service. _Do_
take it. I have quite done with it, I have indeed, and it is lighter
than it looks."
"Too heavy for me, I am afraid," says Monica with a sigh.
"Is it? Then," with desperate boldness, "let _me_ row you."
"Oh, _no_!" returns she, blushing warmly. "You forget," with a swift
glance at him, "you are quite a stranger to me."
Yet he is not quite such a stranger as she thinks. She is not such a
stranger to him at least, because her face, seen for a minute about a
week a go, has haunted him persistently ever since.
"As we live in the same neighborhood, we cannot long continue
strangers," he says, gently; "and, in the mean time, why lose this
lovely afternoon, and that corner you were speaking of? The view of the
sea, when you get round it, is really worth seeing."
"Yes, yes, I daresay," reluctantly turning to leave him. "I shall see it
some day."
"Look here," says the young man, very earnestly, following her as she
moves. "If you will come with me you will see it _now_. I will only be
your oarsman; I won't say a word to you unless you wish it; I won't even
_look_ at you. Think of me as a common boatman you have hired by the
hour; or, better still, don't think of me at all. With a little care you
might bring yourself to imagine I wasn't there."
"But if we met any one?" says Miss Beresford, visibly relenting.
"Impossible! There is never a soul on this stream save myself. I have
been here now every day for ten days, and never yet came upon even the
ghost of anything human."
"Very well," says Monica, though still with palpable hesitation. "Now,
remember, you have pledged yourself not to speak to me, or to look at
me." At this he fixes on her so prolonged a gaze that one may readily
understand he means it to be a last one for some time.
Then he turns aside, and, having brought his boat to her side of the
fence, holds out to her his hand. As he does this he keeps his eyes bent
upon the ground, as though determined to let her know his penance has
already begun.
"I am not in the boat yet," says Monica, with a quaint little smile,
laying her palm on his. Whereupon he looks at her again; and then, as
their eyes meet, they both laugh joyously, as youth will when it meets
youth.
Lightly she steps into his boat, and slowly, lazily, he rows her down
the little river,--flower-clad on either bank,--letting the boat drift
almost at its own sweet will.
The willows, drooping towards the water's edge, woo them as they pass;
the foolish weeds would hold them in embrace; the broad flag-flowers
would fain entwine them. But they, though loving them, go by them,
thinking their own thoughts, and wondering vaguely at the beauty of the
"Starry river-buds among the sedge,
And floating water-lilies broad and bright,
* * * * *
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothes the dazzled eye with sober sheen."
So far silence has been scrupulously kept. Not a word has been spoken
since they left the bank, not a look exchanged. Monica is letting her
little slender fingers trail through the water and the flat leaves of
the lilies. He, with his coat off, is pretending to row, but in reality
is letting his body grow subservient to his mind. He has even adhered
honorably to his promise not to look at her, and is still mentally
ambitious about being true to his word in this respect, when an
exclamation from her puts an end to all things.
"Oh! look at _that_ lily!" she says, excitedly. "Was there ever such a
beauty? If you will row a little more to the right, I am sure I shall be
able to get it."
"Don't stir. I'll get it," returns he, grateful to the lily for this
break in their programme; and presently the floating prize is secured,
and he lays it, wet and dripping, in her outstretched hands.
"After all, you see, you broke your promise," she says, a moment later,
most ungratefully, glancing up at him coquettishly from under her long
lashes.
"But who made me do it?" asks he, reproachfully, whereupon she laughs
and reddens.
"I never confess," she says, shaking her pretty head; "and after all--do
you know?--I am rather glad you spoke to me, because, though I like
being quite by myself at times, still I _hate_ silence when any one is
with me."
"So do I," says her companion, with the utmost cheerfulness.
"I think," leaning towards him with a friendly smile, "I cannot do
better than begin our acquaintance by telling you my name. It is Monica
Beresford."
"Monica," lingering over it lovingly; "a beautiful name, I think. I
think, too, it suits you. Mine is not to be compared to yours; but, such
as it is, I give it you!"
He throws a card into her lap.
"I hope it isn't John Smith," says Monica, smiling and picking up the
card. But, as she reads what is printed thereon, the smile fades, and an
expression of utter dismay overspreads her face.
"'Desmond'--Oh! _not_ Desmond!" she says, imploringly, her lips growing
quite pale.
"Yes, it _is_ Desmond," says the young man, half amused, half puzzled.
"You really think it ugly, then! Do you know I rather fancy my surname,
although my Chris----"
"You are not--you cannot be _the_ Desmond," interrupts she, hastily.
"No; that's my uncle," says the young man, innocently.
"Oh! then you acknowledge the crime?" in deep distress.
"I didn't know that an old Irish title must necessarily be connected
with guilt," says her companion, fairly puzzled.
"Eh?" says Monica, puzzled in her turn. "I don't understand you: I only
want to know if you are one of the _particular_ Desmonds?"
"I suppose not," he replies, now openly amused, "because I regret to
say we have never yet done anything worthy of note, or likely to
distinguish us from all the other Desmonds, whose name is legion."
"If you are going to tell me you live at Coole," says Miss Beresford, in
a tone that is almost tragic, "I warn you it will be the last straw, and
that I shan't be able to bear it."
"I am not going to tell you anything," protests he.
"But you must," declares she, illogically. "I may as well hear the worst
at once. Go on," heroically; "tell me the truth. _Do_ you live there?"
"I'm awfully afraid I do," says Mr. Desmond, feeling somehow, without
knowing why, distinctly ashamed of his name and residence.
"I knew it! I _felt_ it!" says Monica, with the calmness of despair.
"Take me back to the bank at once,--this very instant, please. Oh, what
a _row_ I should get into if they only knew!"
Very justly offended at the turn affairs have taken, Mr. Desmond rows
her in silence to the landing-place, in silence gives her his hand to
alight, in silence makes his boat safe, without so much as a glance at
her, although he _knows_ she is standing a little way from him,
irresolute, remorseful, and uncertain.
He might, perhaps, have maintained this dignified indifference to the
end, but that, unfortunately lifting his eyes, he catches sight of her
in this repentant attitude, with her head bent down, and her slim
fingers toying nervously with the lilies of his own gathering.
This picture flings dignity to the winds. Going up to her, he says, in a
would-be careless but unmistakably offended voice, "May I ask what I
have done, that 'they,' whoever they are, should consider you had
disgraced yourself by being with me for half an hour?"
"_You_ have done nothing," says Monica, faintly. "It was your uncle."
"My _uncle!_--George Desmond! Why, what on earth can _he_ have done?"
demands he, bewildered.
"I don't know." Feeling this is indeed a lame answer to a most natural
question, she goes on hurriedly, "It all happened twenty years ago,
and----"
"But what happened?" asks he, with pardonable impatience.
"Something dreadfully wicked," says Monica, solemnly. "Something really
very, _very_ bad, because Aunt Priscilla can't hear you spoken of with
common patience."
"_Me!_"
"Not so much you, perhaps, as your name. She hates the very sound of it.
There isn't a doubt about _that_; because, though I have not heard the
exact story yet, I know both my aunts grow actually faint with horror
when your uncle's name is mentioned."
"Good gracious!" says the horrified nephew of this apparently
disreputable old man. He is staring at Monica, but in reality he does
not even see her. Before his mind's eye is a picture of a stout old
gentleman, irascible, but kindly, with a countenance innocent of guile.
Yet how can he doubt this girl's story? Twenty years ago, as it seems,
George Desmond had done something too bad to be discussed. After all,
how impossible it is to trust to appearances! As a rule, the most
seemingly harmless people are those who are guilty of the vilest
misdemeanors. And, yet, what on earth _could_ George have done twenty
years ago? Visions of forgery, murder, homicide, rise up before him,
but, try as he will, he cannot connect Mr. Desmond's face with any of
them.
"You don't exactly know yourself what the crime is with which he is
charged?" he asks her, with growing diffidence.
"No. But I shall find out, and tell----But that will be
impossible!"--with a glance full of liveliest regret. "I _cannot_ tell
you, because after to-day I shall never see or speak to you again."
"That is the most insane nonsense I ever heard in my life," says Mr.
Desmond.
The girl shakes her head sadly.
"If you won't speak to me I shall speak to you, whether you like it or
not," says Desmond, with decision.
"That will be out of your power, as you will never see me."
"Do you mean to tell me I may not call at Moyne?"
"Certainly I do. They wouldn't hear of it. They wouldn't, in fact,
receive you."
"But why must they visit my uncle's sins upon my shoulders? I have heard
of a father's sins being entailed upon his heir, but never an uncle's."
"It is your name," says Monica. Then she laughs a little, in spite of
herself, and quotes, in a low tone, "Oh! Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art
thou Romeo?"
But he takes no heed of this frivolous quotation.
"You mean me to understand, then, that I am never to speak to you
again?"
"I do, indeed."
"What! Do you know we are to be close neighbors for the future, you and
I? This is to be your home. Coole is to be mine. At the most, only a
mile of road lies between us, and _here_ not quite a yard. And yet you
calmly tell me I am from this day forth to be only a common stranger to
you."
"You look as if you were angry with _me_," says Monica, with sudden
tears in her eyes at his injustice. "It isn't my fault; I haven't done
anything wicked. Blame your uncle for it all."
"The whole thing is simply absurd," says the young man, taking now the
superior tone that is meant to crush the situation by holding it up to
ridicule. "You forget, perhaps, that we shall _have_ to meet sometimes.
I suppose the people down here give balls occasionally, and
tennis-parties, and that; and when I meet you at them, is it your wish
that I shall pretend never to have seen you before,--never to have known
you?"
"Yes," says Monica, with as much hesitation as lets him know how she
hates saying it. "When next you meet me, you are to look right over my
head, and pass on!"
"I couldn't do it," returns he, gazing at her steadily. "I couldn't
indeed. In fact, I feel it is just the last thing in the world I _could_
do."
"But you must," says Monica, imperiously, terrified to death as she
conjures up before her Aunt Priscilla's face as it will surely be if
this Philistine dares to address her: "I tell you my aunts would never
forgive me if they knew I had interchanged even one syllable with you.
From this moment you must forget me. There will really be no difficulty
about it, as our acquaintance is but of an hour's growth. You have seen
me for the first time to-day, and a chance meeting such as this is
easily driven from the mind."
"That is your opinion," says the young man, moodily. "It is not mine. I
dare say _you_ will find it very easy to forget. I shan't! And this
isn't the first time I have seen you, either. It seems to me as if years
have rolled by since last I looked upon your face. I was standing at the
gate of Coole, and saw you pass by, the day of your arrival in
Rossmoyne. So, you see, we are--in spite of you--almost old friends."
A bombshell flung at her feet could hardly have produced a greater
sensation than this apparently harmless speech. All at once there rushes
back upon her the recollection of that fatal day when she lay upon a
cart-load of hay and (according to Terence) kicked up her heels in the
exuberance of her joy. Oh, horror! she grows crimson from her soft
throat to her forehead! even her little ears do not escape the tint, but
turn a warm and guilty pink.
Never until this unlucky instant did it occur to her that this strange
young man must be the detested one who had stood in the gateway and
laughed at her undignified position and taken the clocks of her
stockings into careful remembrance.
The one absorbing thought that he was nephew to Aunt Priscilla's bugbear
has swallowed up all others; but now, as he himself reveals this other
truth to her, she feels that her cup is indeed full.
Deeper and deeper grows the crimson tint that dyes her pale, shy face,
until her cheeks are all aflame. Something like anger, too, is rendering
her sweet eyes brilliant beyond their wont. Delicately but haughtily she
gathers up the train of her white gown and casts one expressive glance
upon the way she came. This glance says much. Somehow it tells him as
distinctly as though she said it aloud that she is sorry she ever came
down to this river, and that her sorrow arises from the fact that it was
here she encountered him.
While he is still sore perplexed by her sudden change of demeanor, she
turns away from him. Then, pausing, she turns again, and bestows upon
him so indignant a look as completely finishes this ill used young man.
"I object to hasty friendships," she says, icily. "And," pausing as if
to make the effect greater, "if I were _you_, I think I should seek some
better employment than standing _idling all day long_ at your uncle's
gate."
With this parting shaft, and before he can recover from his
consternation, she goes swiftly away from him, up through the meadows,
home.