How Monica listens to strange words and suffers herself to be led
away.--How Cupid plants a shaft in Mars, and how Miss Priscilla
finds herself face to face with the enemy.
"You see I failed," says Brian Desmond.
A quick warm blush has dyed Monica's cheeks crimson.
"Ah! it is you," she said. "I thought you had not come."
This betrays the fact that she has been thinking of him, but he is far
too wise a young man in his own generation to take count of it.
"Yes, I came. Three days ago I thought I should have been in London now,
and then I heard _you_ were to be here to-day."
"In what have you failed?" asks she, abruptly, alluding to his opening
sentence.
"Can't you guess? Have you forgotten the last cruel injunction you laid
upon me? 'When next we meet,' you said, 'you are to look straight over
my head and pass on.' Will you believe that twice to-day I obeyed that
mandate? The third time was the charm: it conquered me; I broke my sword
in two and came to you."
"I wish you hadn't," says Monica, sincerely, if impolitely. "I wish you
would go away now, and promise me never to speak to me again. You _know_
I am afraid of you," looking nervously around.
"I don't, indeed; I can't conceive such a situation. You do me a great
injustice, I think. I verily believe if I tried my very hardest I
couldn't instil terror into the smallest child in the village."
"You know what I mean. Of course," scornfully, "I should never be afraid
of a _man_: it is Aunt Priscilla I am afraid of. And see, see _there_!"
in an agony, "she is standing quite close to us, talking to somebody."
"If that is your aunt Priscilla, she is safe for an hour at least. The
old lady with her is Lady Rossmoyne, and she never lets any one
(unfortunate enough to get into her clutches) go free under a generous
sixty minutes. She is great on manures, and stock, and turnips, and so
forth. And your aunt, I hear, is a kindred spirit."
"But then there is Aunt Penelope," says Monica, timidly.
"She, too, is arranged. Half an hour ago I met her so deep in a
disgraceful flirtation with the vicar that I felt it my duty to look the
other way. Depend upon it, she is not thinking of you."
"But some one may tell them I have been talking to you."
"I always thought I had a proper amount of pride until I met you," says
Mr. Desmond. "You have dispelled the belief of years. 'Is thy servant a
dog,' that you should be ostracized for speaking to him? Never mind; I
submit even to that thought if it gives me five minutes more of your
society. But listen to me. No one can tell tales of us, because we are
both strangers in the land. No one knows me from Adam, and just as few
know you from--let us say _Eve_, for euphony's sake."
She laughs. Encouraged by her merriment to believe that at least she
bears him no ill will, Brian says, hurriedly,--
"Come with me to the rose-garden. It is stupid sitting here alone, and
the garden is beyond praise. Do come."
"Why?" lifting her heavy lashes.
"For one thing, we shall be free from observation, and you know you
dislike being seen with me. For another----" He pauses.
"Well?" rather nervously.
"It is just this, that I _must_ speak to you," says the young man, his
gay manner changing to one of extreme earnestness. "You were unkind to
me that day we parted. I want you to tell me why. I understand quite
that I have no right to demand even the smallest favor of you, yet I do
entreat you to come with me."
For another moment she hesitates, then--
"Yes, I will come with you," she says, raising her soft eyes to his. In
her whole manner, voice, and bearing there is something so sweet and
childish and trusting as to render Desmond her slave upon the spot.
The path to the rose-garden leads away from Miss Priscilla, so they
avoid detection as they go.
But they are singularly silent and grave; when the garden is reached
they pass between the rows of growing blossoms mute, if rich in thought.
At last, when silence is becoming too eloquent to be borne, her
companion turns to her.
"It wasn't _true_ what you said to me that last day, was it?" he asks,
with far more anxiety than the occasion seems to demand. "Not _really_,
I mean. You said it for fun, perhaps--or----It has been with me ever
since. I can't forget it. You said you disliked sudden friendships, and
the way you said it made me think you disliked _me_. Tell me I thought
wrong."
"Quite wrong," in a low tone. She is plucking a rose to pieces, and
keeps her eyes downcast. "When I said that, I was angry about
something."
"About something I _said_?"
"No. Nothing you said."
"Something I did, then?" growing more and more anxious.
"Ye-es."
"What was it?"
"It doesn't matter now; not in the least now; and I can not tell you,
_indeed_."
"But I wish very much you would. Perhaps, being in wretched ignorance, I
shall be so unhappy as to do it again some day, and so make you hate me
a second time."
"I didn't _hate_ you."
"No? Yet there was a look in your eyes I wouldn't like to see there
again. Do tell me, lest I once more fall into error."
"Oh, no," coloring deeply, as though at some unpleasant recollection.
"That would be impossible. It could never happen again. I shall take
care of that. I shall never as long as I live get into a--that is--I
mean--I----Really I have forgiven it all now, so let us forget it too."
Though still greatly mystified, Mr. Desmond wisely forbears to press the
point, something in her pretty distressed face and heightened color
forbidding him.
"Very good," he says, pleasantly. "But there is another thing I have
not forgotten. Have you ever cleared up that mystery about my uncle and
your aunts?"
"Oh! _that_. It cannot be cleared, I am afraid it is too muddy a tale
for any help; but I have at least found out all about it."
"Would it be indiscreet if I said I would give anything to be as wise as
you on this subject? In other words, will you divulge the secret?"
"It is a story that doesn't redound to the honor and glory of _your_
house," says Miss Beresford, stepping back from him with a gay little
laugh, and glancing at him mischievously from under her big "Patience"
hat. "If I were you I should shrink from hearing it."
"I decline to shrink," with unparalleled bravery. "I prefer to rush upon
my fate. Life has no longer any flavor for me until I hear what the old
reprobate at Coole has done."
"Well, if you _will_ insist upon the sorry tale, 'tis this. Once there
lived a wicked knight, who wooed a maiden fair. But when that her heart
was all his own, his love grew cold, and, turning from her, he refused
to fulfil his plighted troth and lead her to the hymeneal altar. In
fact, he loved and he rode away, leaving her as dismally disconsolate as
the original maid forlorn."
"Alas for the golden age of chivalrie!" says Mr. Desmond.
"Alas, indeed! That wicked knight was your uncle; the maid forlorn my
mother!"
"You have been giving me a summary of a fairytale, haven't you?" asks
he, in an unbelieving tone.
"No, indeed; it is all quite true. From what I have heard, your uncle
must have treated my mother very badly. Now, aren't you thoroughly
ashamed of yourself and your family?"
"One swallow makes no summer," says Mr. Desmond, hardily. "Because my
uncle refused to succor a distressed damosel is no reason why I should
so far forget myself. Besides, the whole thing seems incredible. Report
says, and," with an expressive glance at her, "I can well believe it,
your mother was the most beautiful woman of her time in all the
countryside; while my uncle, bless him, is one of the very ugliest men I
ever met in my life. He might take a prize in that line. Just fancy the
Beast refusing to wed with Beauty!"
"To be ugly, so far as a _man_ is concerned, is nothing," says Monica
with a knowledge beyond her years. "Many singularly plain men have been
much beloved. Though"--with an unconscious study of her companion's
features, who is decidedly well favored--"I confess I should myself
prefer a man whose nose was straight, and whose eyes were--had no
inclination to look round the corner, I mean."
"A straight nose is to be preferred, of course," says Mr. Desmond,
absently stroking his own, which is all that can be desired. "But I
never since I was born heard such an extraordinary story as yours. I
give you my word,"--earnestly,--"my uncle is just the sort of man who,
if _any_ girl, no matter how hideous, were to walk up to him and say, 'I
consent to marry you,' ought to be devoutly grateful to her. Why,
talking of noses, you should just see his: it's--it's _anyhow_," with
growing excitement. "It's all up hill and down dale. I never before or
since saw such a nose; and I'd back his mouth to _beat that_!"
"He must be a very distinguished-looking person," says Miss Beresford,
demurely.
"I know very little about him, of course, having been always so much
abroad; but he _looks_ like a man who could be painfully faithful to an
attachment of that kind."
"He was not faithful to her, at all events. I daresay he fell in love
with some other girl about that time, and slighted my mother for her."
"Well," says Mr. Desmond, drawing a deep breath, "he _is_ 'a grand
man!'"
"I think he must be a very _horrid_ old man," replies Monica, severely.
"You have proofs of his iniquity, of course," says Brian, presently, who
evidently finds a difficulty in believing in his uncle's guilt.
"Yes. He wrote her a letter, stating in distinct terms that"--and here
she alters her voice until it is highly suggestive of Miss Blake's fine
contralto--"'he deemed it expedient for both parties that the present
engagement existing between them should be annulled.' Those are Aunt
Priscilla's words; what he really meant, I suppose, was that he was
tired of her."
"Your mother, I should imagine, was hardly a woman to be tired of
readily."
"That is a matter of opinion. We--that is, Terry and Kit and I--thought
her a very tiresome woman indeed," says Miss Beresford, calmly. She does
not look at him as she makes this startling speech, but looks beyond
him into, possibly, a past where the "tiresome woman" held a part.
Brian Desmond, gazing at her pale, pure, spiritual face, sustains a
faint shock, as the meaning of her words reaches him. Is she heartless,
emotionless? Could not even a mother's love touch her and wake her into
life and feeling?
"You weren't very fond of your mother, then?" he asks, gently. The bare
memory of his own mother is adored by him.
"Fond?" says Monica, as though the idea is a new one to her. "Fond? Yes,
I suppose so; but we were all much fonder of my father. Not that either
he or mamma took very much notice of us."
"Were they so much wrapt up in each other, then?"
"No, certainly not," quickly. Then with an amount of bitterness in her
tone that contrasts strangely with its usual softness, "I wonder why I
called my mother 'mamma' to you just now. I never dared do so to _her_.
Once when she was going away somewhere I threw my arms around her and
called her by that pet name; but she put me from her, and told me I was
not to make a noise like a sheep."
She seems more annoyed than distressed as she says this. Desmond is
silent. Perhaps his silence frightens her, because she turns to him with
a rather pale, nervous face.
"I suppose I should not say such things as these to you," she says,
unsteadily. "I forgot, it did not occur to me, that we are only
strangers."
"Say what you will to me," says Desmond, slowly, "and be sure of this,
that what you _do_ say will be heard by you and me alone."
"I believe you," she answers, with a little sigh.
"And, besides, we are not altogether strangers," he goes on, lightly;
"that day on the river is a link between us, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes, the river," she says, smiling.
"_Our_ river. I have brought myself to believe it is our joint property:
no one else seems to know anything about it."
"I have never been near it since," says Monica.
"I _know that_," returns he, meaningly.
"How?" is almost framed upon her lips; but a single glance at him
renders her dumb. Something in his expression suggests the possibility
that he has spent pretty nearly all his time since last they met, and
_certainly_ all his afternoons, upon that shady river just below the
pollard willows, in the vain hope of seeing her arrive.
She blushes deeply, and then, in spite of herself, laughs out loud, a
low but ringing laugh, full of music and mischief.
This most uncalled-for burst of merriment has the effect of making Mr.
Desmond preternaturally grave.
"May I ask what you are laughing at?" he says, with painful politeness;
whereupon Miss Beresford checks her mirth abruptly, and has the grace to
blush again even harder than before. Her confusion is, indeed, the
prettiest thing possible.
"I don't know," she says, in an evasive tone.
"People generally _do_ know what they are laughing at," contends he,
seriously.
"Well, _I_ don't," returns she, with great spirit.
"Of course not, if you _say_ so; but," with suppressed wrath, "I don't
myself think there is anything provocative of mirth in the thought of a
fellow wasting hour after hour upon a lonely stream in the insane but
honest hope of seeing somebody who _wouldn't_ come. Of course in your
eyes the fellow was a fool to do it; but--but if I were the girl I
wouldn't laugh at him for it."
Silence.
Monica's eyes are bent upon the ground; her face is averted; but there
is something about her attitude that compels Mr. Desmond to believe she
is sorry for her untimely laughter; and thinking this breeds hatred
towards himself for having caused this sorrow and makes him accuse
himself of basest ill temper.
"I beg your pardon!" he says, in a contrite tone; "I shouldn't have
spoken to you like that. I lost my temper most absurdly and must
apologize to you for it now. It was ridiculous of me to suppose you
would ever come again to the river; but one hopes against hope. Yet, as
Feltham tells us, 'he that hopes too much shall deceive himself at
last:' that was my fate, you see. And you never once thought of coming,
did you? You were quite right."
"No, I was quite wrong; but--but--_you_ are quite wrong too in _one_
way," still with her eyes downturned.
"By what right did I expect you? I was a presumptuous fool and got just
what I deserved."
"You were not a fool," exclaims she, quickly; and then, with a little
impulsive gesture, she draws herself up and looks him fair in the eyes.
"If I had known you were there," she says, bravely, though evidently
frightened at her own temerity, "I--I--am almost sure _I_ should have
been there too!"
"No! would you really?" says Desmond, eagerly.
Then follows a rather prolonged silence. Not an awkward one, but
certainly a silence fraught with danger to both. There is no greater
friend to Cupid than an unsought silence such as this. At last it is
broken.
"What lovely roses there are in this garden!" says Desmond, pointing to
a bush of glowing beauty near him.
"Are there not?" She has taken off a long white glove, so that one hand
and arm are bare. The hand is particularly small and finely shaped, the
nails on it are a picture in themselves; the arm is slight and childish,
but rounded and very fair.
Breaking a rose from the tree indicated, she examines it lovingly, and
then, lifting it to his face, as though desirous of sympathy, says,--
"Is it not sweet?"
"It is indeed!" He is staring at her. Very gently he takes the little
hand that holds the flower and keeps it in his own. He detains it so
lightly that she might withdraw it if she pleases, but she does not.
Perhaps she doesn't please, or perhaps she sees nothing remarkable in
his action. At all events, she, who is so prone to blush on all
occasions, does not change color now, but chatters to him gayly, in an
unconcerned manner, about the scented blossoms round her, and afterwards
about the people yonder, behind the tall flowering shrubs that surround
the tennis-ground.
And still her little slender fingers lie passively in his. Glancing at
them, he strokes them lightly with his other hand, and counts her rings.
"Four--five," he says; "quite a burden for such a little hand to carry."
"I like them," says Monica: "brooches and earrings and bracelets I don't
care for, but rings I love. I never really feel dressed until they are
on. To slip them on my fingers is the last thing I do every morning
before running downstairs. At least nearly the last."
"And what is the last?"
"I say my prayers," says Monica, smiling. "That is what every one does,
isn't it?"
"I don't know," says Mr. Desmond, not looking at her. It seems to him a
long, long time now since last he said _his_ prayers. And then he
suddenly decides within himself that he will say them to-morrow morning,
"the last thing before going downstairs;" he cannot have quite forgotten
_yet_.
He is examining her rings as he thinks all this, and now a little pale
turquoise thing attracts his notice.
"Who gave you that?" he asks, suddenly. It is to a jealous eye rather a
lovable little ring.
"Papa, when I was fourteen," says Monica. "It is very pretty, isn't it?
I have felt quite grown up ever since he gave me that."
"Monica," says Brian Desmond suddenly, tightening his hold on her hand,
"had you ever a lover before?"
"Before?"
"Yes," slowly, and as if determined to make his meaning clear, and yet,
too, with a certain surprise at his own question. "Had you?"
"Before?" as if bewildered, she repeats the word again. "Why, I never
had a lover _at all_!"
"Do not say that again," says Brian, moving a step nearer to her and
growing pale: "I am your lover now--and _forever_!"
"Oh! no, _no,_" says Monica, shrinking from him. "Do not say that."
"I won't, if you forbid me, but," quietly, "I am, and shall be, all the
same. I think my very soul--belongs to you."
A crunching of gravel, a sound of coming footsteps, the murmur of
approaching voices.
Monica, pallid as an early snowdrop, looks up to see her Aunt Priscilla
coming towards her, accompanied by a young man, a very tall and very
stout young man, with a rather drilled air.
"Ah! here is Aunt Priscilla," says Monica, breathlessly. "Who is that
with her?"
"Ryde, one of the marines stationed at Clonbree," says Mr. Desmond,
cursing the marine most honestly in his heart of hearts. Clonbree is a
small town about seven miles from Rossmoyne, where a company of marines
has been sent to quell the Land League disturbances.
Miss Priscilla is looking quite pleased with herself, and greets Monica
with a fond smile.
"I knew I should find you here," she says; "flowers have such a
fascination for you. You will let me introduce you to Mr. Ryde, dear
child!"
And then the introduction is gone through, and Monica says something
unworthy of note to this big young man, who is staring at her in a more
earnest manner than is strictly within the rules of etiquette. Somehow,
too, she presently discovers she has fallen into line with her new
friend, and is moving towards the lawn again with Aunt Priscilla
following in her train with _Mr. Desmond_.
Quaking inwardly, Monica at first cannot take her mind off the twain
behind her, and all the consequences that must ensue if Miss Priscilla
once discovers a Desmond is being addressed by her with common civility.
She is, therefore, but poor company for the tall marine, who seems,
however, quite satisfied with the portion allotted him and maunders on
inanely about the surroundings generally. When the weather and the
landscape have been exhausted, it must be confessed, however, that he
comes to a standstill.
Miss Priscilla, pleased with her day and the satisfactory knowledge that
every one has been raving about Monica, is making herself specially
agreeable to her companion, who, nothing loath, draws her out and grows
almost sycophantic in his attentions. She becomes genial with him, not
knowing who he is, while he becomes even more than genial with her,
knowing right well who she is. Indeed, so merrily does he make the time
fly that Miss Priscilla is fain to confess to herself that seldom has
she passed so pleasant a five minutes.
In the meantime, Monica, strolling on in front with Mr. Ryde, is feeling
both nervous and depressed. This chance meeting between her aunt and Mr.
Desmond, and the memory of all the strange exciting things the latter
has said to her, renders her mute and unequal to conversation, and her
present companion is not one likely to enchain her attention by any
brilliant flashes of intellect.
He is, in truth, a very ordinary young man, of the heavy, stupid type
too often met with to require either introduction or description. He had
arrived in Queenstown about a fortnight before, with nothing much to
guide his conduct in a strange country beyond the belief that Hibernia,
as he elects to call it, is like Africa, a "land benighted," fit only to
furnish food for jests. He has a fatal idea that he himself can supply
these jests at times, and that, in fact, there are moments when he can
be irresistibly funny over the Paddies: like many others devoid of
brain, and without the power to create wholesome converse, he mistakes
impertinence for wit, and of late has become rude at the expense of
Ireland whenever he found anybody kind enough, or (as in Monica's case
now) obliged, to listen to him.
Just now, there being a distinct and rather embarrassing pause, he says
amiably,--
"Awfully jolly gown you've got on!"
"So glad you like it!" says Monica, absently.
"Got it from town, I suppose?"
"From Dublin--yes."
"Oh! by Jove, you call Dublin town, do you?" says Mr. Ryde, with a heavy
laugh that suggests danger of choking, he being slightly plethoric by
nature.
"Yes: what do you call it?" says Monica, regarding him steadily. She has
hardly looked at him till now, and tells herself instantly that young
men with fat faces are not in _her_ line.
"Always thought it was a village, or something of that sort, you know,"
replies he, with a continuation of the suicidal merriment.
Monica stares, and her color rises, ever so little, but unmistakably.
"You ought to read something, papers and articles on Ireland, now and
then," she says, deep but suspicious pity for him in her tone.
"Considering what education costs nowadays, it is shameful the way yours
has been neglected. Your college, or wherever you were, ought to be
ashamed of itself. Why, I don't believe you know what a capital means."
"A capital?--in writing, do you mean?" asks he, puzzled.
"N--o; I wasn't thinking of that. You can write, I suppose," with
malicious hesitation that betrays doubt. "I was speaking of the capitals
of Europe. Dublin is one of them."
Unable to grasp the fact that she is mildly snubbing him, Mr. Ryde
smiles gayly, and says, "Oh, really?" with an amused air that incenses
her still more highly. "Was there ever," she asks herself, angrily, "so
hateful a man, or so long a gravel walk!"
Having racked his brain to find something further wherewith to beguile
the monotony of the way, and finding it barren, Mr. Ryde falls back upon
the original subject.
"I like a white gown on a woman better than any," he says. "And so they
really _can_ make gowns in Ireland? I've been awfully disappointed, do
you know?--reg'lar sold. I came over here in the full hope of seeing
everybody going about in goatskins and with beads round their
necks--and--er--that."
"And why are you disappointed?" asks Monica, mildly, with a provoking
want of appreciation of this brilliant sally. "Are you fond of goatskins
and beads? Do _you_ wear them when 'your foot is on your native heath'?"
"Eh?--Oh, you don't understand," says this dense young man, fatally
bent on explanation. "I meant to imply that the general belief with us
over there"--pointing to the horizon, which would have led him to
America rather than to England--"is that everybody here is half
savage--d'ye see--eh?"
"Oh, yes, it's quite plain," says Miss Beresford, her eyes immovably
fixed on the horizon. "'Over _there_' must be a most enlightened spot."
"So of course I thought the goatskins, etc., would be the order of the
day," goes on Mr. Ryde, with another chuckle.
"You do think sometimes, then?" says Monica, innocently.
"I have been thinking of _you_ ever since I first saw you this
afternoon," returns he, promptly, if unwisely.
There is an almost imperceptible pause, and then--
"Don't trouble yourself to do that again," says Monica _very_ sweetly,
but with a telltale flash in her blue eyes; "I am sure it must fatigue
you dreadfully. Remember what a warm day it is. Another thing: don't for
the future, please, say rude things about Ireland, because I don't like
that _either_."
The "_either_" is the cruellest cut of all: it distinctly forbids him
even to think of her.
"I am afraid I have been unlucky enough to offend you," says young Mars,
stiffly, awaking at last to a sense of the situation, and glancing down
uneasily at the demure little figure marching beside him with her pretty
head erect. "I didn't mean it, I assure you. What I said was said in
fun."
"Are you always like that when you are funny?" asks she, looking
straight before her. "Then I think, if I were you, I wouldn't do it."
Then she is a little ashamed of her severity, and, changing her tone,
makes herself so charming to him that he quite recovers his spirits
before they come up with all the others on the lawn.
Yet perhaps her smiles have wrought him more harm than her frowns.
Madam O'Connor, going up to Miss Priscilla, engages her in some
discussion, so that presently Monica finds Brian beside her again.
"You will let me see you again soon," he says, in a low tone, seeing
Ryde is talking to Miss Fitzgerald.
"But how can I?"
"You can if you will. Meet me somewhere, as I may not call; bring your
brother, your sister, _any one_, with you; only meet me."
"If I did that, how could I look at Aunt Priscilla afterwards?" says
Monica, growing greatly distressed. "It would be shameful; I should feel
like a traitor. I feel like it already."
"Then do nothing. Take a passive part, if you will, and leave all to
me," says Desmond, with a sudden determination in his eyes. "I would not
have you vexed or made unhappy in any way. But that I shall see you
again--and _soon_--be sure."
"But----"
"I will listen to no 'buts:' it is too late for them. Though all the
world, though even you yourself, should forbid me your presence, I
should still contrive to meet you."
Here somebody addresses him, and he is obliged to turn and smile, and
put off his face the touch of earnest passion that has just illumined
it; while Monica stands silent, spellbound, trying to understand it all.
"Is it thus that all my countrymen make love?" she asks herself,
bewildered. At the very second meeting (she always, even to herself,
ignores that ignominious first) to declare in this masterful manner that
he _must_ and _will_ see her again!
It is rapid, rather violent wooing; but I do not think the girl
altogether dislikes it. She is a little frightened, perhaps, and
uncertain, but there is a sense of power about him that fascinates her
and tells her vaguely that faith and trust in him will never be
misplaced. She feels strangely nervous, yet she lifts her eyes to his,
and gazes at him long and bravely, and then the very faintest glimmer of
a smile, that is surely full of friendliness and confidence, if nothing
more, lights up her eyes and plays around her pensive mouth. A moment,
and the smile has vanished, but the remembrance of it lives with him
forever.
Yes, the wooing is rapid, and she is not won; but "she likes me," thinks
Desmond, with a touch of rapture he has never known before. "Certainly,
she _likes_ me; and--there are always time and hope."
"My dear Monica, it grows late," says Miss Priscilla at this moment.
"Say good-by to Madame O'Connor, and let us go."
"Oh, not a bit of it, now," says Madam O'Connor, hospitably in her rich,
broad brogue, inherited in all its purity, no doubt, from her kingly
ancestor. "You mustn't take her away yet: sure the day is young. Mr.
Ryde, why don't you get Miss Beresford to play a game with you? In my
time, a young fellow like you wouldn't wait to be told to make himself
agreeable to a pretty girl. There, go now, do! Have you brought your own
racket with you?"
"I left it at home," says Mr. Ryde. "Fact is," affectedly, "I didn't
think tennis was known over here. Didn't fancy you had a court in the
land."
This speech fires the blood of the O'Toole's last descendant.
Madam O'Connor uprears a haughty crest, and fixes the luckless
lieutenant with an eagle eye, beneath which he quails.
"There is no doubt we lack much," she says, taking his measure with
lofty scorn; "but we have at least our _manners_."
With this she turns her back upon him, and commences a most affable
discussion with Miss Penelope, leaving her victim speechless with
fright.
"Have a brandy-and-soda, Ryde?" says Mr. Kelly, who is always
everywhere, regarding the wretched marine through his eyeglass with a
gaze of ineffable sadness. "Nothing like it, after an engagement of this
sort."
"I thought Ireland was the land for jokes," says the injured Ryde,
indignantly,--"stock in trade sort of thing over here; and yet when I
give 'em one of mine they turn upon me as if I was the worst in the
world. I don't believe any one understands 'em over here."
"You see, your jokes are too fine for us," says Mr. Kelly, mournfully.
"We miss the point of them."
"You are all the most uncomfortable people I ever met," says the
wrathful marine.
"We are, we are," acquiesces Kelly. "We are really a very stupid people.
Anything, delicate or refined is lost upon us, or is met in an
unfriendly spirit. I give you my word, I have known a fellow's head
smashed for less than half what you said to Madam O'Connor just now.
Prejudice runs high in this land. You have, perhaps," in a friendly
tone, "heard of a shillelagh?"
"No, I haven't," sulkily.
"No? _really_? It is quite an institution here. It's a sort of a big
stick, a very unpleasant stick, and is used freely upon the smallest
difference of opinion. You'll meet them round every corner when you get
more used to us: you'd like to see them, wouldn't you?"
"No, I shouldn't," still more sulkily.
"Oh, but you ought, you know. If you are going to live for any time in
the country, you should study its institutions. The best way to see
_this_ one is to make cutting remarks about Ireland in a loud voice when
two or three of the peasants are near you. They don't like cutting
remarks, they are so stupid, and jokes such as yours annoy them
fearfully. Still, you mustn't mind that; you must smother your natural
kindliness of disposition and annoy them, if you want to see the
shillelagh."
"I said nothing to annoy Mrs. O'Connor, at any rate," says Mr. Ryde.
"She needn't have taken a simple word or two like that."
"You see, we are all so terribly thin-skinned," says Mr. Kelly,
regretfully, "I quite blush for my country-people. Of course there are
noble exceptions to every rule. I am the noble exception here. I don't
feel in the least annoyed with you. Now do try some brandy, my dear
fellow: it will do you all the good in the world."
"I don't know this moment whether _you_ are laughing at me or not," says
the marine, eying him doubtfully.
"I _never_ laugh," says Mr. Kelly, reproachfully. "I thought _even you_
could see that. Well, will you have that B. and S.?"
But Mars is huffed, and declines to accept consolation in any shape. He
strolls away with an injured air to where his brother officer, Captain
Cobbett, is standing near the hall door, and pours his griefs into his
ears. Captain Cobbett being a very spare little man, with a half starved
appearance and a dismal expression, it is doubtful whether poor Ryde
receives from him the amount of sympathy required.
"Well," says Madam O'Connor, turning round as she sees him disappear,
and addressing the three or four people round her generally, "'pon me
conscience, that's the silliest young man I ever met in my life!" When
disturbed, elated, or distressed, Madam O'Connor always says, "'Pon me
conscience!"
"Don't be hard upon him," says Mr. Kelly, kindly. "Though very mad, he
is _quite_ harmless!"
"He plays tennis very well," says Miss Fitzgerald, the tall girl. "So
nice, isn't it? to have these ancient games reproduced!" This with the
learned air of one who could say more if she would.
"_Ancient?_" says Madam O'Connor. "Faith, I thought it was a game of
yesterday."
"Oh, dear, no!" says the erudite Bella, with a lenient smile. "Tennis
was first brought from France to England in the reign of Charles the
Second."
"There now, Miss Beresford, don't forget that," says Madam O'Connor,
turning to Monica with an amused smile: "it is essential you should
remember it, as it is part of one's education." After which she moves
away towards some other guests, having said all she has to say to those
near her.
"May I see you to your carriage, Miss Blake?" says Desmond, finding she
and Miss Penelope are bent on going; and Aunt Priscilla, who has taken
quite a fancy to this strange young man, gives her gracious permission
that he shall accompany them to the fossilized chariot awaiting them.
"Who is he, my dear Priscilla?" asks Miss Penelope, in a stage whisper,
as they go.
"Don't know, my dear, but a vastly agreeable young man, very superior to
those of his own age of the present day. He is marvellously polite, and
has, I think, quite a superior air."
"Quite," says Penelope, "and a very sweet expression besides,--so open,
so ingenuous. I wish _all_ were like him." This with a sigh, Terence
having proved himself open to suspicion with regard to plain dealing
during the past few days.
Now, it so happens that at this instant they turn a corner leading from
the shrubbery walk on to the gravel sweep before the hall door; as they
turn this corner, so does some one else, only _he_ is coming from the
gravel sweep to the walk, so that consequently he is face to face with
the Misses Blake without any hope of retreat.
The walk is narrow at the entrance to it, and as the newcomer essays to
pass hurriedly by Miss Priscilla he finds himself fatally entangled with
her, she having gone to the right as he went to the left, and afterwards
having gone to the left as he went to the right, and so on.
Finally a passage is cleared, and the stranger--who is an amazingly ugly
old man, with a rather benign though choleric countenance--speeds past
the Misses Blake like a flash of lightning, and with a haste creditable
to his years, but suggestive rather of fear than elasticity.
"My uncle?" says Brian Desmond, in an awestruck tone, to Monica, who
literally goes down before the terrible annunciation, and trembles
visibly.
It is a rencontre fraught with mortal horror to the Misses Blake. For
years they have not so much as looked upon their enemy's face, and now
their skirts have actually brushed him as he passed.
"Come, come quickly, Monica," says Miss Penelope, on this occasion being
the one to take the initiative. "Do not linger, child. Do you not see?
It was _our enemy_ that passed by."
If she had said "it was the arch fiend," her voice could not have been
more tragic.
"I am coming, Aunt Penny," says Monica, nervously.
Now, it is at this inauspicious moment that Mr. Kelly (who, as I have
said before, is always everywhere) chooses to rush up to Brian Desmond
and address him in a loud tone.
"My dear boy, you are not going yet, are you?" he says reproachfully. "I
say, Desmond, you can't, you know, because Miss Fitzgerald says you
promised to play in the next match with her."
The fatal name had been uttered clearly and distinctly. As though
petrified the two old ladies, stand quite still and stare at Brian; then
Miss Priscilla, with a stately movement, gets between him and Monica,
and, in tones that tremble perceptibly, says to him,--
"I thank you for the courtesy already received sir; but we will no
longer trouble you for your escort: we prefer to seek our carriage
_alone_."
She sweeps him a terribly stiff little salute, and sails off, still
trembling and very pale, Miss Penelope, scarcely less pale, following in
her wake.
Desmond has barely time to grasp Monica's hand, and whisper, "Remember,"
in as mysterious a tone as the hapless Stuart, when she too is swept
away, and carried from his sight.
Not until the gates of Aghyohillbeg are well behind them do the Misses
Blake sufficiently recover themselves for speech. Terence, who has been
a silent witness of the whole transaction, creating a diversion by
making some remark about the day generally, breaks the spell that binds
them. His remark is passed over in silence, but still the spell is
broken.
"Whoever introduced you to that young man," begins Miss Priscilla,
solemnly, "did a wrong thing. Let us hope it was done in ignorance."
At this Monica shivers inwardly and turns cold, as she remembers that no
introduction has ever been gone through between her and "that young
man." What if her Aunt Priscilla persists, and asks the name of the
offending medium? Fortunately, Miss Blake loses sight of this idea,
being so much engrossed with a greater.
"For the future you must forget you ever spoke to this Mr. Desmond," she
says, her face very stern. "Happily he is an utter stranger to you, so
there will be no difficulty about it. You will remember this, Monica?"
"Yes, I will remember," says the girl, slowly, and with a visible
effort.
Then Moyne is reached in solemn silence so far as the Misses Blake are
concerned; in solemn silence, too, the two old ladies mount the oaken
staircase that leads to their rooms. Outside, on the corridor, they
pause and contemplate each other for a moment earnestly.
"He--he is very good-looking," says Miss Penelope at last, as though
compelled to make the admission even against her will.
"He is abominably handsome," says Miss Priscilla fiercely: after which
she darts into her room and closes the door with a subdued bang behind
her.