How Monica is put in possession of a dreadful secret--And how Kit
protests against the injustice of the world.
"An invitation from Madam O'Connor," says Miss Priscilla in a pleased
tone, glancing at them all, over the top of her spectacles. She has the
card in her hand, and slowly reads aloud the information printed upon
it, to the effect that Madam O'Connor will be at home on Friday the
15th, from four to six o'clock, etc.
"I am very glad she has asked Terence and Monica," says Miss Penelope.
"Excessively attentive I call it."
"Will you go, Aunt Priscilla?" asks Monica, in a sneaky sort of tone.
Her young soul hankers after the world, and will not be subdued. Upon
Miss Priscilla's "yes" or "no" she waits with an anxiety that surprises
even herself.
"Certainly, my dear," says Miss Blake, drawing herself up. "I shall feel
it my duty to take you to all such places as will enable you to mix with
people in your own rank of life. I am not one of those who think it well
for young girls to lead the life of nuns. No, indeed!"
"I quite agree with you, my dear Priscilla," says Miss Penelope, who is
an echo of her elder sister. "Yes, we will rouse ourselves, and once
more seek the world."
"But I would not have you make yourselves unhappy," says Monica,
falteringly.
"Nay, my dear, it will be a pleasure, for _your_ sake."
Not for worlds, even to themselves, would these two old ladies
acknowledge that they are right glad of the chance that has come to them
of introducing so beautiful a niece to the gay world around them, and of
mingling, even in a subdued and decorous fashion, with the amusements
that for the last five years they have (most unwillingly, be it said,
but on the score of age) declined.
"I wonder who will be there," says Monica, in a fresher tone, striving
vainly to drown the hope that is taking possession of her, a hope that
connects itself with a certain blue-eyed, dark-haired young man, last
seen in boating flannels.
"Everybody," says Miss Priscilla,--"the entire country. Madam
O'Connor may not be--is not--there may be certain points about
her--that"--floundering hopelessly--"I mean"--with a rush--"there are
a few who object to her _manner_ but her birth is undeniable, and she
has a large fortune; you must know, my dear, her father was a direct
descendant of King O'Toole, and her husband the head of one of the
oldest families in Ireland."
"Is that the old woman who called here the day before yesterday?" asked
Terence, irreverently. They are all sitting in the drawing-room, Terence
being rather on the balcony perhaps.
"Yes--I regret you were not in to receive her. I should have liked you
to make her acquaintance, Monica, before going to Aghyohillbeg."
"Oh I saw her," says Terence, contemptuously, "she's got an eye like a
lance, and a man's figure. She drove herself, and held the reins like
this," throwing himself into position.
"If you are going out, Terence, you may as well go at once," says Miss
Priscilla, with dignity, pretending neither to hear nor see him.
Whereupon Terence gladly departs.
"Go on, auntie," says Monica, slipping down on a footstool close to Aunt
Penelope, and leaning both her arms across the old lady's knee. "Who
else will be there?"
"Yes, tell her everything, Priscilla," says Miss Penelope, smoothing the
girl's hair softly, and feeling a strange thrill of pleasure in her
heart as she notices the little confident gesture with which the girl
nestles close to her.
"Well, there will be her own guests, of course, I mean those staying
with her, for she always has her house full," says Miss Priscilla, after
a slight pause, being still somewhat ruffled by Terry's remarks. "The
Fitzgeralds will be there, of course. Bella is considered a very
handsome girl, but I don't think you will like her much."
"No, no, she is not at all our Monica's style," says Miss Penelope,
stroking the pretty cheek near her with her mittened hand. "Yet she has
a fine skin."
"Ay, and a fine temper under it, or I'm a Dutchman," says Miss
Priscilla. "And she is more peculiar than handsome; but men admire her,
so _we_ say nothing."
"Is she tall?" asks Monica, anxiously, who is a little thing herself,
and looks even smaller than she really is because of her slender,
girlish figure. She wonders in a vague, uncomfortable fashion
whether--whether most men like tall women best.
"Tall? yes, and large in proportion; and as for her _manners_," says
Miss Priscilla, in her severest tone, "in my opinion they are simply
unbearable. Modesty in my days was a virtue, nowadays it is as _naught_.
Bella Fitzgerald is never content unless she has every man in the room
at her side, and goodness alone knows what it is she says to them. The
way she sets her cap at that poor boy Ronayne, just because he has
fallen in for that property, is quite revolting."
"And a mere lad, too," says Miss Penelope.
Monica draws a breath of relief. Perhaps if Miss Fitzgerald likes Mr.
Ronayne she will not care to practise her fascinations upon----any other
man.
"How old is she?" she asks, feeling deeply interested in the
conversation.
"She _says_ she is twenty-four," says Miss Priscilla, with an eloquent
sniff. "There is nothing easier to say than that. I _won't_ be
uncharitable, my dear Penelope,--you needn't look at me like that,--but
this I must say, she looks every hour of eight and twenty."
"Her mother ought to know," says Miss Penelope.
"She ought, indeed," grimly. "But, as from the way she dresses we may
reasonably conclude she thinks _herself_ nineteen, I suppose she has
lost her memory on all points."
"Her father, Otho Fitzgerald, was the same," says Miss Penelope,
reflectively. "He never could bear the idea of age. He was one who saw
nothing honorable in it. Gray hairs with him were a crime."
"So he used to dye them," says Miss Priscilla, maliciously; "and when he
got warm the dye used to melt, and (unknown to him) run all down his
cheek."
"Oh, Priscilla, how you remember things? Dear, dear, I think I see him
now," says Miss Penelope. And here the two old ladies, overcome by this
comical recollection, laugh until the tears run down their faces. Monica
joins in from sheer sympathy; but Kit, who is sitting in the embrasure
of a distant window and who had been strangely silent ever since the
invitation came from Aghyohillbeg, maintains a stern gravity.
"Poor man," says Miss Penelope, wiping her eyes, "I shall never forget
the night your sweet mother, my dear Monica, most unintentionally
offended him about the diamond--you recollect, Priscilla? Tell Monica of
it."
"He always wore a huge diamond ring upon his little finger," says Miss
Priscilla, addressing Monica, "of which he was very proud. He was at
this time about fifty-three, but used to pose as a man of thirty-nine.
One evening showing the ring to your mother, then quite a girl, he said
to her, in his stilted way, 'This jewel has been in our family for fifty
years.' 'Ah! did you buy it, Mr. Fitzgerald?' asks your mother, in her
sweet innocent way. Ha, ha, ha!" laughs Miss Priscilla, "you should have
seen his face. It was a picture! and just when he was trying to make
himself agreeable to your poor mother, and acting as if he was a
youthful beau of twenty-five, or at least as young as the best of us."
"That was so like mother," says Monica, in a low tone. "She always knew
where to _touch_ people."
"Oh, no, my dear, not at all like her," says Miss Penelope, hastily.
"She didn't _mean_ it, you must understand; she was the very soul of
sweetness, and would not willingly affront any one for the world."
For just an instant Monica lifts her eyes and gazes earnestly at her
aunt; but the old face is so earnest and sincere that with a faint sigh
she lowers her eyes again, and makes no further remark.
"After that he married his cousin's wife, a widow with one child, this
girl, Bella," says Miss Priscilla, still full of reminiscences, as old
people will be. "A most unpleasant person I thought her, though she was
considered quite a belle in those days."
"She always appeared to me such a silly woman," says Miss Penelope.
"She is worse than that now," says Miss Priscilla, who seems specially
hard on the Fitzgeralds. "She is a shocking old woman, with a nose like
a flower-pot. I won't say she drinks, my dear Penelope, because I know
you would object to it; but I _hear_ she does, and certainly her nose is
her betrayer."
"Do you remember," says Miss Penelope, "how anxious she once was to
marry George Desmond?" This she says in a very low tone.
"Yes, I remember." The bare mention of her enemy's name has sent a flush
of crimson into Miss Priscilla's cheeks. "But he never bestowed a
thought upon _her_."
"Oh, no, never," says Miss Penelope, after which both the Misses Blake
grow silent and seem to be slowly sinking into the land of revery.
But Monica, having heard the "enemy's name" mentioned, becomes filled
with a determination to sift the mystery connected with him, now, to the
end.
"Aunt Priscilla," she says, softly, looking at her with grave eyes
across Miss Penelope's knees, "tell me, now, why Mr. Desmond is our
enemy."
"Oh, not _now_," says Miss Penelope, nervously.
"Yes, now, please," says Monica, with ever-increasing gravity.
"It may all be said in a few words, Monica," says Miss Priscilla,
slowly. "And what I have to say affects you, my dear, even more than
us."
"_Me?_"
"Yes, in that it affects your mother. Twenty years ago George Desmond
was her affianced husband. Twenty years ago, wilfully and without
cause, he deliberately broke with her his plighted troth."
"He threw her over?" exclaims Monica, aghast at this revelation.
"Well, I never heard be used actual violence to her, my dear," says Miss
Penelope, in a distressed tone; "but he certainly broke off his
engagement with her, and behaved as no man of honor could possibly
behave."
"And mother must have been quite beautiful at that time, must she not?"
says Monica, rising to her knees in her excitement, and staring with
widely-opened eyes of purest amazement from one aunt to the other.
"'Beautiful as the blushing morn,'" says Miss Priscilla, quoting from
some ancient birthday-book. "But, you see, even her beauty was powerless
to save her from insult. From what we could learn, he absolutely refused
to fulfil his marriage-contract with her. He was false to the oath he
had sworn over our father's dying bed."
Nothing can exceed the scorn and solemnity of Miss Priscilla's manner as
she says all this.
"And what did mother do?" asks Monica, curiously.
"What _could_ she do, poor child? I have no doubt it went nigh to
breaking her heart."
"Her heart?" says Monica.
"She suffered acutely. That we could see, or rather we had to guess it,
as for days she kept her own chamber and would see no one, going out
only when it was quite dusk for a solitary ramble. Ah! when sorrow
afflicts the soul, there is no balm so great as solitude. Your poor
mother took the whole affair dreadfully to heart."
"You mean that she really _fretted_?" asks Monica, still in the same
curious way, with her eyes fixed on her aunt. There is, indeed, so much
unstudied surprise in her whole manner as might have produced a
corresponding amount in the Misses Blake, had they noticed it.
"Yes, my dear, of course. Dear, dear, dear! what a sad thing it all was!
Well, now you understand all that it is needful you should, Monica,"
says Miss Penelope, with a glance at her sister, who really seems quite
overcome. "So we will say no more about it. Only you can see for
yourself how impossible it is for any of our blood to be on friendly
terms with a Desmond."
"They may not all be like _that_ Mr. Desmond," says Monica, timidly,
coloring to her brow.
"Yes, yes. Like father, like son; you know the old adage; and a nephew
is as close a relation almost. We can know no one at Coole."
"I would almost rather see you dead than intimate with one of the name,"
says Miss Priscilla, with sudden harshness.
"I don't think we told Monica about the other guests at Aghyohillbeg,"
says Miss Penelope, hastily, with the kindly intention of changing the
conversation. "A very pretty young woman came there about a week before
your arrival, child, and is to remain, I believe, for some time. She is
a widow, and young, and--by the bye, I wonder if she can be any relation
to your friends in the South of France."
"Why?"
"Her name is Bohun, and----"
"Not _Olga_ Bohun?" says Monica, springing to her feet. "A widow, you
say, and young. Oh! auntie, if she only _might_ be Olga!"
"Well, certainly she has a heathenish--I mean, a Russian--name like
that," says Miss Priscilla. "She is a very little woman, with merry
eyes, and she laughs always, and she has the prettiest, the most
courteous manners. Quite a relief I found her, after the inanities of
Bella Fitzgerald."
"She is even smaller than I am. Yes, and her eyes do laugh!" says
Monica, delight making her cheeks warm. "She is the prettiest thing. Ah!
how happy I shall be if I may see her sometimes!"
"You shall see her just as often as ever you and she wish," say the two
old maids in a breath, glad in the thought that they can make her home
at Moyne happy to her.
"I hope _you_ like her," says Monica, glancing from one to the other of
them.
"Yes. I thought her quite fascinating," says Miss Penelope. "Some people
say she is rather--rather _fast_, I believe is the word they use
nowadays," getting the word out with difficulty, as though afraid it may
go off and do somebody an injury. "But for my part I don't believe a
word of it. She is quite natural, and most pleasing in manner,
_especially_ to those who are older than herself. A great charm in these
times, my dear, when age is despised."
Plainly, the little widow at Aghyohillbeg has been playing off her
sweetest graces upon the two Misses Blake.
"I dare say Monica will like young Ronayne," says Miss Priscilla. "He is
quite nice, that lad. But I hope, Monica, that, even if circumstances
should throw you together, you will take no notice of young Mr.
Desmond. I myself would not exchange a word with him if a queen's diadem
were offered me as a bribe."
"You might speak to him without knowing him," says Monica, blushing
again that nervous crimson of a while ago.
"Impossible, my dear. Instinct, sharpened by hatred, would tell me when
one of the race was near me."
"Well, as it is your first party here, dear child, I hope you will enjoy
it," says Miss Penelope, quickly, as though again anxious to throw oil
on the waters by changing the conversation. "It is a charming place, and
its mistress, if a little rough, is at least kindly."
At this moment Kit, emerging from the curtains that have hidden her for
the past hour, comes slowly to the front. Her face, her very attitude,
is martial. She is plainly in battle-array. Pausing before Miss
Priscilla, she directs her first fire upon her.
"Am I not asked at all?" she says, in a terrible tone, that contrasts
painfully with the ominous silence she has maintained ever since the
invitation was brought by Mrs. O'Connor's groom.
"My dear child, you must remember you are only fourteen," says Miss
Priscilla, who is sincerely sorry the child has not been included in the
invitation, and, in fact, thinks it rather unkind she has been left out.
"I _know_ that, thank you," says the youngest Miss Beresford,
uncompromisingly, fixing her aunt with a stony glare. "I know my
birthday as well as most people. And so, just because I am a child, I am
to be slighted, am I? I call it unfair! I call it beastly _mean_, that
every one here is to be invited out to enjoy themselves except _me_."
"Young people are seldom asked to grown-up parties," says Miss
Priscilla, in her best conciliatory manner. "When you are as old as
Monica, of course you will go everywhere. In the meantime you are only a
child."
"I am old enough to conduct myself properly, at all events," says Kit,
unmoved. "I suppose at _fourteen_"--as if this is an age replete with
wisdom--"I am not likely to do anything _very_ extraordinary, or make
myself unpleasant, or be in anybody's way."
"That is not the question, at all: it is merely one of age," says Miss
Priscilla.
"Is it? And yet people say a great deal about childhood being the
happiest time of one's life," says Kit, almost choking with scornful
rage. "I should just like to see the fellow who first said that. Maybe I
wouldn't enlighten him, and tell him what a hypocrite he was. Whoever
said it, it is a decided untruth, and I know I wish to goodness I was
grown up, because then," with withering emphasis, "I should not be
trampled upon and insulted!"
This is dreadful. The two old ladies, unaccustomed in their quiet lives
to tornadoes and volcanoes of any kind, are almost speechless with
fright.
"Dearest," says Monica, going up to her, "how _can_ you look at it in
such a light?"
"It's all very well for you," says the indignant Kit: "_you're_ going,
you know. I'm to stay at home, like that wretched Cinderella!"
"Katherine, I am sure you are quite unaware of the injustice of your
remarks," says Miss Priscilla, at last finding her voice. She is bent on
delivering a calm rebuke; but inwardly (as any one can see) she is
quaking. "And I have frequently told you before that the expression 'I
wish to goodness,' which you used just now, is anything but ladylike. It
is not nice; it is not proper."
"I don't care what is proper or improper, when I am treated as I now
am," says the rebel, with flashing eyes and undaunted front.
"There is really _nothing_ to complain of," says Miss Priscilla,
earnestly, seeing censure has no effect. "Madam O'Connor would not
willingly offend any one; she is a very kind woman, and----"
"She is a regular old wretch!" says the youngest Miss Beresford, with
considerable spirit.
"My _dear_ Katherine!"
"And it's my belief she has done it _on purpose_!" with increasing rage.
"Katherine, I must insist----"
"You may insist as you like, but I'll be even with her yet," persists
Kit, after which, being quite overcome with wrath, she breaks down, and
bursts into a violent fit of weeping.
"My dear child, don't do that," says Miss Penelope, rising
precipitately, and going over to the weeping fury. "Priscilla," in a
trembling tone, "I fear it is selfish. I think, my dear, I shall stay at
home, too, the day you all go to Madam O'Connor's."
This kills the storm at once.
"No, no, indeed, Aunt Penny, you shan't." Kit cries, subdued, but still
in tears. She is overcome with remorse, and blames herself cruelly in
that her ill temper should have led to this proposal of self-sacrifice.
To give in to Kit is the surest and quickest method of gaining your own
point. She throws her arms, as she speaks, around Miss Penelope's neck,
and nearly strangles that dear old lady in her remorseful agitation, to
say nothing of the deadly havoc she makes of her frills and laces.
"But indeed, my Kitten, it will be no privation to me to stay at home
with you, and we will be quite happy together, and we will have our tea
out in the orchard," says Miss Penelope, soothing her with sweet words;
while Miss Priscilla, who is thoroughly frightened by the sobbing, pats
the refractory child on the back, with a view to allaying all fear of
convulsions.
"You shan't stay at home, Aunt Penny,--you shan't indeed," cries the
inconsistent Kitten. "I like being alone, I _love_ it; if you don't go
to that place with the long name, and enjoy yourself very much, I shall
be miserable all my life, though I love you very, very, _very_ much for
wishing to keep me from being lonely. Tell her I mean it, Monica."
"Yes, I am sure she means it," says Monica, earnestly, whereupon peace
is once more restored to the breasts of the terrified aunts.