How Brian, having instituted inquiries, condemns his Uncle
secretly--How Terry throws light upon a dark subject, and how, for
the third time, Love "finds out his way."
It is the evening of the next day, and dinner at Coole has just come to
an end. Mr. Kelly, who has been Brian's guest for the last fortnight,
and who is to remain as long as suits him or as long after the
grouse-shooting in August as he wills, has taken himself into the garden
to smoke a cigar. This he does at a hint from Brian.
Now, finding himself alone with his uncle, Brian says, in the casual
tone of one making an indifferent remark,--
"By the bye, I can see you are not on good terms with those old ladies
at Moyne."
As he speaks he helps himself leisurely to some strawberries, and so
refrains from looking at his uncle.
"No," says The Desmond, shortly.
"Some old quarrel I have been given to understand."
"I should prefer not speaking about it," says the squire.
"Twinges of conscience even at this remote period," thinks Brian, and is
rather tickled at the idea, as he lifts his head to regard his uncle in
a new light,--that is, as a regular Don Juan.
"Well, of course, I dare say I should not have mentioned the subject,"
he says, apologetically; "but I had no idea it was a sore point. It was
not so much bad taste on my part as ignorance. I beg your pardon!"
"It was a very unhappy affair altogether," says Don Juan.
"Very unfortunate indeed, from what I have heard."
"_More_ than unfortunate!--right down disgraceful!" says the squire,
with such unlooked-for energy as raises astonishment in the breast of
his nephew. ("By Jove, one would think the old chap had only now
awakened to a sense of his misconduct," he thinks, irreverently.)
"Oh, well," he says, leniently, "hardly _that_, you know."
"_Quite_ that," emphatically.
"It has been often done before: yours is not a solitary case."
"Solitary or not, there were elements about it inexcusable," says the
old squire, beating his hand upon the table as though to emphasize his
words.
"I wouldn't take it so much to heart if I were you," says Brian, who is
really beginning to pity him.
"It has lain on my heart for twenty years. I can't take it off now,"
says the squire.
"You have evidently suffered," returns Brian, who is getting more and
more amazed at the volcano he has roused. "Of course I can quite
understand that if you were once more to find yourself in similar
circumstances you would act very differently."
"I should indeed!--_very_ differently. A man seldom makes a fool of
himself twice in a lifetime."
("He's regretting her now," thinks Brian.)
But out loud he says,--
"You didn't show much wisdom, I daresay."
"No, none; and as for _her_,--to fling away such a love as that----"
Here he pauses, and looks dreamily at the silver tankard before him.
This last speech rather annoys Brian; to gloat over the remembrance of a
love that had been callously cast aside to suit the exigences of the
moment, seems to the younger man a caddish sort of thing not to be
endured.
("Though what the mischief any pretty girl of nineteen could have seen
in _him_," he muses, gazing with ill-concealed amazement at his uncle's
ugly countenance, "is more than I can fathom.")
"Perhaps it wasn't so deep a love as _you_ imagine," he cannot refrain
from saying _a propos_ to his uncle's last remark, with a view to taking
him down a peg.
"It was, sir," says the Squire, sternly. "It was the love of a lifetime.
People may doubt as they will, but I know _no_ love has superseded it."
"Oh, he is in his dotage!" thinks Brian, disgustedly; and, rising from
the table, he makes a few more trivial remarks, and then walks from the
dining-room on to the balcony and so to the garden beneath.
Finding his friend Kelly in an ivied bower, lost in a cigar, and
possibly, though improbably, in improving meditation, he is careful not
to disturb him, but, making a successful detour, escapes his notice, and
turns his face towards that part of Coole that is connected with Moyne
by means of the river.
* * * * *
At Moyne, too, dinner has come to an end, and, tempted by the beauty of
the quiet evening, the two old ladies and the children have strolled
into the twilit garden.
There is a strange and sweet hush in the air--a stillness full of
life--but slumberous life. The music of streams can be heard, and a
distant murmur from the ocean; but the birds have got their heads
beneath their wings, and the rising night-wind wooes them all in vain.
Shadows numberless are lying in misty corners; the daylight lingers yet,
as though loath to quit us and sink into eternal night. It is an eve of
"holiest mood," full of tranquillity and absolute calm.
"It is that hour of quiet ecstasy,
When every rustling wind that passes by
The sleeping leaf makes busiest minstrelsy."
"You are silent, Priscilla," says Miss Penelope, glancing at her.
"I am thinking. Such an eve as this always recalls Katherine; and
yesterday _that meeting_,--all has helped to bring the past most vividly
before me."
"Ah, dear, yes," says Miss Penelope, regarding her with a furtive but
tender glance. "How must _he_ have felt, when he thought what grief he
brought to her young life!"
"You are talking of mother?" asks Kit, suddenly, letting her large dark
eyes rest on Miss Penelope's face, as though searching for latent
madness there.
"Yes, my dear, of course."
"He would not have dared so to treat her had her father been alive or
had we been blessed with a brother," says Miss Priscilla, sternly. "He
proved himself a dastard and a coward."
"Perhaps there was some mistake," says Monica, timidly, plucking a pale
blossom and pretending to admire it.
"No, no. We believe he contracted an affection for some other girl, and
for her sake jilted your mother. If so, retribution fit and proper
followed on his perfidy, because he brought no wife later on to grace
his home. Doubtless he was betrayed in his turn. That was only just."
"There seems to be reason in that conjecture," says Miss Penelope,
"because he went abroad almost immediately. I saw him shortly before he
left the country, and he was then quite a broken-down man. He must have
taken his _own_ misfortune greatly to heart."
"Served him right!" says Miss Priscilla, uncompromisingly. "He deserved
no greater luck. Your mother suffered so much at his hands that she
almost lost her health. I don't believe she ever got over it."
"Oh, yes, she did," says Terry, suddenly; "she got over it uncommonly
well. We didn't know who Mr. Desmond was then, of course; but I know she
used to make quite a joke of him."
"A joke!" says Miss Priscilla, in an awful tone.
"Yes, regular fun, you know," goes on Terence, undaunted. "One day she
was telling father some old story about Mr. Desmond, a 'good thing'
_she_ called it, and she was laughing heartily; but he wasn't, and when
she had finished, I remember, he said something to her about want of
'delicacy of feeling,' or something like that."
"I was there," says Kit, in her high treble. "He said, too, she ought to
be ashamed of herself."
"Oh, that was nothing," says Mr. Beresford, airily. "Father and mother
never agreed for a moment; they were always squabbling from the time
they got up till they went to bed again."
The Misses Blake have turned quite pale.
"Terence how can you speak so of your sainted mother?" says Miss
Penelope. "I'm sure, from her letters to us, she was a most _devoted_
mother and wife, and, indeed, sacrificed her every wish and pleasure to
yours."
"I never knew it cost her so much to _keep away_ from us," says Terence.
"If she was dying for our society, she must indeed have sacrificed
herself, because she made it the business of her life to avoid us from
morn to dewy eve."
"Doubtless she had her duties," says Miss Penelope, in a voice of
suppressed fear. What is she going to hear next? what are these dreadful
children going to say?
"Perhaps she had," said Terence. "If so, they didn't agree with her, as
she was always in a bad temper. She used to give it to papa right and
left, until he didn't dare to call his soul his own. When I marry, I
shall take very good care my wife doesn't lead me the life my mother led
my father."
"_Your_ wife! who'd marry _you_?" says Kit, scornfully, which interlude
gives the discussion a rest for a little time. But soon they return to
the charge.
"Your mother when here had an angelic temper," says Miss Penelope. Miss
Priscilla all this time seems incapable of speech.
"Well, she hadn't when _there_," says Terence; and then he says a
dreadful thing, as vulgar as it is dreadful, that fills his aunt's heart
with dismay. "She and my father fought like cat and dog," he says; and
the Misses Blake feel their cup is indeed full.
"And she never would take Monica anywhere," says Kit; "so selfish!"
It is growing _too_ terrible. Is their idol to be shattered thus before
their eyes?
"Monica, was your mother _unkind_ to you?" says Miss Penelope, in a
voice full of anguish. After all these years, is the Katherine of their
affections to be dragged in the dust?
Monica hesitates. She can see the grief in her aunt's face, and cannot
bear to add to it. The truth is that the late Mrs. Beresford had _not_
been beloved by her children, for reasons which it will be possible to
conceive, but which would be tiresome to enumerate here. Perhaps there
seldom had been a more careless or disagreeable mother.
So Monica pauses, flushes, glances nervously from right to left, and
then back again, and finally rests her loving, regretful eyes full upon
Miss Penelope's agitated face.
Something she sees there decides her. Sinking to her knees, she flings
her arms around the old lady's neck, and lays her cheek to hers.
"I will say nothing, but that I am happy _here_," she says, in a low
whisper.
Miss Penelope's arms close round her. The worst has come to her; yet
there is solace in this clinging embrace, and in the dewy lips that
seek hers. If she has lost one idol, who can say she has not gained
another, and perhaps a worthier one?
Yet beyond doubt the two old ladies have sustained a severe shock: they
hold down their heads, and for a long time avoid each other's eyes, as
though fearing what may there be seen.
"Let us walk round the garden, Aunt Priscilla," says Monica, feeling
very sorry for them. "The evening is lovely, and the roses so sweet."
"Come then," says Miss Priscilla, who is perhaps glad to escape from her
own thoughts. And so they all wander to and fro in the pretty garden,
bending over this flower and lingering over that in a soft, idle sort of
enjoyment that belongs alone to the country.
Terence had disappeared, but, as he is not great on flowers, his
presence is not indispensable, and no one takes any notice of his
defection.
Presently they come upon the old gardener, who is also the old coachman,
upon his bended knees beside a bed. The whole garden is scrupulously
raked and scrupulously weeded till not a fault can be found. But Miss
Priscilla is one of those who deem it necessary always to keep a servant
up to his trumps.
Stooping over the bed, therefore, she carefully adjusts her glasses upon
her nose, and proceeds to examine with much minuteness the earth beneath
her. A tiny green leaf attracts her notice.
"Corney, is that a _weed_?" she asks, severely. "I certainly remember
sowing some seeds in this place; but _that_ has a weedy look."
"It's seeds, miss," says Corney, "Ye'd know it by the curl of it."
"I hope so, I _hope_ so," says Miss Priscilla, doubtfully, "but there's
a common cast about it. It reminds me of groundsel. Corney, whatever you
do, don't grow careless."
"Faix, I'm too ould a hand for that, miss," says Corney. "But, to tell
the truth, I think myself, now, not to desaive ye, that the leaf ye
mentioned is uncommon like the groundsel. You ought to be proud of yer
eyes, Miss Priscilla; they're as clear as they were twinty years ago."
Greatly mollified by this compliment, Miss Priscilla declines to scold
any more, and, the groundsel forgotten, moves onward to a smooth piece
of sward on which a cartload of large white stones from the seashore has
been ruthlessly thrown.
"What is this?" she says, indignantly, eying the stones with much
disfavor. "Corney, come here! Who flung those stones down on my green
grass?"
"The rector, miss. He sent his man wid a load of 'em, and 'tis there
they left 'em."
"A most unwarrantable proceeding!" says Miss Priscilla, who is in her
managing mood. "What did Mr. Warren mean by that?"
"Don't you think it was kind of him to draw them for our rookery, my
dear Priscilla?" says Miss Penelope, suggestively.
"No, I don't," says Miss Priscilla. "To bring cartloads of nasty large
stones and fling them down upon my velvet grass on which I pride myself
(though _you_ may think nothing of it, Penelope) is _not_ kind. I must
say it was anything but nice,--anything but gentlemanly."
"My dear, he is quite a gentleman, and a very good man."
"That may be. I suppose I am not so uncharitable as to be rebuked for
every little word; but to go about the country destroying people's good
grass, for which I paid a shilling a pound, is _not_ gentlemanly.
Katherine, what are you laughing at?"
"At the stones," says Kit.
"There is nothing to laugh at in a stone. Don't be silly, Katherine. I
wonder, Monica, you don't make it the business of your life to instil
some sense into that child. The idea of standing still to laugh at a
_stone_."
"Better do that than stand still to _cry_ at it," says the younger Miss
Beresford, rebelliously. Providentially, the remark is unheard; and
Monica, scenting battle in the breeze, says, hastily,--
"Do you remember the roses at Aghyohillbeg, auntie? Well, I don't think
any of them were as fine as this," pointing to a magnificent blossom
near her. It is the truth, and it pleases Miss Priscilla mightily, she
having a passion for her roses. And so peace is once more restored.
"It grows chilly," says Miss Penelope, presently.
"Yes; let us all go in," says Miss Priscilla.
"Oh, not yet, auntie; it is quite lovely yet," says Monica, earnestly.
She cannot go in yet, not _yet_; the evening is still young, and--and
she would like _so_ much to go down to the river, if only for a moment.
All this she says guiltily to herself.
"Well we old women will go in at least," says Miss Penelope. "You two
children can coquet with the dew for a little while; but don't stay too
long, or sore throats will be the result."
"Yes, yes," says Miss Priscilla, following her sister. As she passes
Monica, she looks anxiously at the girl's little slight fragile figure
and her slender throat and half-bared arms.
"That dress is thin. Do not stay out too long. Take care of yourself, my
darling." She kisses her pretty niece, and then hurries on, as though
ashamed of this show of affection.
A little troubled by the caress, Monica moves mechanically down the path
that leads towards the meadows and the river, followed by Kit. By this
time the latter is in full possession of all that happened
yesterday,--at least so much of it as relates to Monica's acquaintance
with Mr. Desmond (minus the tender passages), his uncle's encounter with
her aunts, and Brian's subsequent dismissal. Indeed, so much has
transpired in the telling of all this that Kit, who is a shrewd child,
has come to the just conclusion that the young Mr. Desmond is in love
with her Monica!
Strange to say, she is not annoyed at his presumption, but rather
pleased at it,--he being the first live lover she has ever come in
contact with, and therefore interesting in no small degree.
Now, as she follows her sister down the flowery pathway, her mind is
full of romance, pure and sweet and great with chivalry, as a child's
would be. But Monica is sad and taciturn. Her mind misgives her,
conscience pricks her, her soul is disquieted within her.
What was it she had promised Aunt Priscilla yesterday? Aunt Priscilla
had said, "For the future you will remember this?" and she had answered,
"Yes."
But how can she forget? It was a foolish promise, for who has got a
memory under control?
Of course, Aunt Priscilla had meant her to understand that she was never
to speak to Mr. Desmond again, and she had given her promise in the
spirit. And of course she would be obedient; she would at least so far
obey that she would not be the first to speak to him, nor would she seek
him--nor----But why, then, is she going to the river? Is it because the
evening is so fine, or is there no lurking hope of----
And, after all, what certainty is there that--that--any one will be at
the river at this hour? And even if they should be, why need she speak
to him? she can be silent; but if he speaks to her, what then? Can she
refuse to answer?
Her mind is as a boat upon a troubled sea, tossed here and there; but
by and by the wind goes down, and the staunch boat is righted, and turns
its bow toward home.
"Kit, do not let us go to the river to-night," she says, turning to face
her sister in the narrow path.
"But why? It is so warm and light, and such a little way!"
"You have been often there. Let us turn down this side of the meadow,
and see where it will lead to."
That it leads directly away from Coole there cannot be the least doubt;
and the little martyr treading the ground she would not, feels with an
additional pang of disappointment that the fulfilment of her duty does
not carry with it the thrill of rapture that ought to suffuse her soul.
No, not the faintest touch of satisfaction at her own heroism comes to
lighten the bitter regret she is enduring as she turns her back
deliberately on the river and its chances. She feels only sorrow, and
the fear that _some one_ will think her hard-hearted, and she could cry
a little, but for Kit and shame's sake.
"Monica, who is that?" exclaims Kit, suddenly, staring over the high
bank, beside which they are walking, into the field beyond. Following
her glance, Monica sees a crouching figure on the other side of this
bank, but lower down, stealing cautiously, noiselessly, towards them, as
though bent on secret murder. A second glance betrays the fact that it
is Terence, with--yes, most positively with a _gun_!
"Where on earth did he get it?" says Kit; and, unable to contain her
curiosity any longer, she scrambles up the bank, and calls out, "Terry,
here we are! Come here! Where did you get it?" at the top of her fresh
young lungs.
As she does so, a little gray object, hitherto unseen by her, springs
from among some green stuffs, and, scudding across the field into the
woods of Coole beyond, is in a moment lost to view.
"Oh, _bother_!" cries Terry, literally dancing with rage; "I wouldn't
_doubt_ you to make that row just when I was going to fire. I wish to
goodness you girls would stay at home, and not come interfering with a
fellow's sport. You are always turning up at the wrong moment, and just
when you're not wanted!--indeed you _ever are_!"
These elegant and complimentary remarks he hurls at their heads, as
though with the wish to annihilate them. But they haven't the faintest
effect: the Misses Beresford are too well accustomed to his eloquence to
be dismayed by it. They treat it, indeed, as a matter of course, and so
continue their inquiries uncrushed.
"Terry, where _did_ you get this gun?" asks Monica, as breathless with
surprise as Kit. "Is it"--fearfully--"_loaded_? Oh! don't!--don't point
it this way! It will surely go off and kill somebody."
Here she misses her footing and slips off the high bank, disappearing
entirely from view, only to reappear again presently, flushed but
uninjured.
"What a lovely gun!" says Kit, admiringly.
"Isn't it?" says Terence, forgetting his bad temper in his anxiety to
exhibit his treasure. "It's a breech-loader, too; none of your
old-fashioned things, mind you, but a reg'lar good one. I'll tell you
who lent it to me, if you'll promise not to peach."
"We won't," says Kit, who is burning with curiosity.
"Guess, then."
"Bob Warren?" says Monica. Bob Warren is the rector's son, and is much
at Moyne.
"Not likely! Pegs above _him_. Well, I'll tell you. It's that fellow
that's spoons on you,"--with all a brother's perspicacity,--"the fellow
who saw us on the hay-cart,"--Monica writhes inwardly,--"Desmond, you
know!"
"The enemy's nephew?" asks Kit, in a thrilling tone, that bespeaks
delight and a malicious expectation of breakers ahead.
"Yes. I was talking to him yesterday, early in the day, at Madam
O'Connor's; and he asked me was I your brother, Monica, to which I
pleaded guilty, though," with a grin, "I'd have got out of it if I
could; and then he began to talk about shooting, and said I might knock
over any rabbits I liked in Coole. I told him I had no gun, so he
offered to lend me one. I thought it was awfully jolly of him,
considering I was an utter stranger, and that; but he looks a real good
sort. He sent over the gun this morning by a boy, and I have had it
hidden in the stable until now. I thought I'd never get out of that
beastly garden this evening."
"Oh, Terence, you shouldn't have taken the gun from him," says Monica,
flushing. "Just think what Aunt Priscilla would say if she heard of it.
You know how determined she is that we shall have no intercourse with
the Desmonds."
"Stuff and nonsense!" says Mr. Beresford. "I never heard such a row as
they are forever making about simply _nothing_. Why, it's quite a
common thing to jilt a girl, nowadays. I'd do it myself in a minute."
"You won't have time," says Kit, contemptuously. "She--whoever she may
be--will be sure to jilt _you_ first."
"Look here," says Terence, eyeing his younger sister with much disfavor;
"you're getting so precious sharp, you know, that I should think
there'll be a conflagration on the Liffey before long; and I should
think, too, that an outraged nation would be sure to fling the cause of
it into the flames. So take care."
"Terence, you ought to send that gun back _at once_," says Monica.
"Perhaps I ought, but certainly I shan't," says Terence, genially. "And
if I were you," politely, "I wouldn't make an ass of myself. There is
quite enough of that sort of thing going on up there," indicating, by a
wave of his hand, the drawing-room at Moyne, where the Misses Blake are
at present dozing.
"You shouldn't speak of them like that," says Monica; "it is very
ungrateful of you, when you know how kind they are, and how fond of
you."
"Well, I'm fond of them, too," says Terence, remorsefully but gloomily;
"and I'd be even fonder if they would only leave me alone. But they keep
such a look-out on a fellow that sometimes I feel like cutting the whole
thing and making a clean bolt of it."
"If you ran away you would soon be wishing yourself back again," says
Monica, scornfully. "You know you will have no money until you are
twenty-one. People pretend to be discontented, at times, with their
lives; but in the long run they generally acknowledge 'there is no place
like home.'"
"No, thank goodness, there isn't," says Terence, with moody fervor.
"I'll acknowledge it at once, without the run. To have frequent
repetitions of it would be more than human nature could endure. I have
known two homes already; I should think a third would be my death."
So saying, he shoulders the forbidden gun and marches off.
Monica and Kit, getting down from their elevated position, also pursue
their path, which leads in a contrary direction.
"Monica," says Kit, presently, slipping her slender brown fingers
through her sister's arm, "what did Terry mean just now, when he spoke
about some one being 'spoons' on you? Does that mean being in love with
you?"
No answer.
"Is Mr. Desmond, then, in love with you?"
No answer.
"_Is_ he?"
"Oh, Kit, how can I answer such a question as that?"
"In words, I suppose. _Is_ he in love with you?"
"I don't know," says Monica, in a troubled tone. "If I ever had a lover
before, I should _know_; but----"
"That means he is," says the astute Kit. "And I'm sure," with a little
loving squeeze of her arm, "I don't wonder at it."
"You must not say that," says Monica, earnestly. "Indeed, he said a few
_things_ to me, but that is nothing; and----"
"You think he _likes_ you?"
"Yes," reluctantly.
"I believe he adores the very ground you walk on."
"Oh, no, indeed."
"If you say that, he _isn't_ a real lover. A real one, to my mind, ought
to be ready and willing to kiss the impressions your heels may make in
the earth."
"That would be the act of a fool; and Mr. Desmond is not a fool."
"Ergo, not a lover. And yet I think he is _yours_. Monica," coaxingly,
"did he say any pretty things to you?"
"What should he say? I only met him twice."
"You are prevaricating," gazing at her severely. "Why don't you answer
me honestly?"
"I don't know what _you_ call 'pretty things.'"
"Yes, you do. Did he tell you your eyes were _deep, deep_ wells of love,
and that your face was full of soul?"
"No, he did not," says Monica, somewhat indignantly; "_certainly_ not.
The idea!"
"Well, that is what Percival said to the girl _he_ loved in the book I
was reading yesterday," says Kit, rather cast down.
"Then I'm very glad Mr. Desmond isn't like Percival."
"I daresay he is nicer," says Kit, artfully. Then she tucks her arm into
her sister's, and looks fondly in her face. "He must have said
_something_ to you," she says. "Darling love, why won't you tell your
own Kitten all about it?"
A little smile quivers round Monica's lips.
"Well, I will, then," she says. In her heart I believe she is glad to
confide in somebody, and why not in Kit the sympathetic? "First, he made
me feel he was delighted to meet me again. Then he asked me to go for a
walk _alone_ with him; then he said he was--my lover!"
"Oh!" says Kit, screwing up her small face with delight.
"And then he asked me to meet him again to-day with _you_."
"With _me_! I think that was very delicate of him." She is evidently
flattered by this notice of her existence. Plainly, if not _the_ rose in
his estimation, she is to be treated with the respect due to the rose's
sister. It is all charming! she feels wafted upwards, and incorporated,
as it were, in a real love affair. Yes, she will be the guardian angel
of these thwarted lovers.
"And what did you say?" she asks, with a gravity that befits the
occasion.
"I refused," in a low tone.
"To meet him?"
"Yes."
"With _me_?" says this dragon of propriety.
"Yes."
"But why?"
"Because of Aunt Priscilla." And then she tells her all about Aunt
Priscilla's speech in the carriage, and her reply to it.
"I never heard such a rubbishy request in my life!" says the younger
Miss Beresford, disdainfully. "It is really beneath notice. And when all
is told it means nothing. As _I_ read it, it seems you have only
promised to forget you ever spoke to Mr. Desmond: you haven't promised
never to speak to him again." Thus the little Jesuit.
"That was not what Aunt Priscilla meant."
"If she meant anything, it was folly. And, after all, what is this
dreadful quarrel between us and the Desmonds all about? It lives in Aunt
Priscilla's brain. I'll tell you what I think, Monica. I think Aunt
Priscilla was once in love with old Mr. Desmond, and mother cut her out;
and now, just because she has been disappointed in her own love-affair,
she wants to thwart you in yours."
"She doesn't, indeed. Any one but Mr. Desmond might show me attention,
and she would be pleased. She was quite glad when Mr. Ryde--well--when
he made himself agreeable to me."
"From all you told me of him, he must have made himself _dis_-agreeable.
I'm perfectly certain I should hate Mr. Ryde, and I'm equally sure I
should like Mr. Desmond. What did he say to you, darling, when you
refused to meet him even with _me_?" She lays great stress on this
allusion to herself.
"He said I might do as I chose, but that he would meet me again, whether
I liked it or not, and _soon_!"
"Now, that's the lover for _me_!" says Kit, enthusiastically. "No giving
in, no shilly-shallying, but downright determination. He's an honest
man, and we all know what an honest man is,--'the noblest work of God.'
I'm certain he will keep his word, and I do hope I shall be with you
when next you meet him, as I should like to make friends with him."
At this moment it occurs to Monica that she never before knew how very,
_very_ fond she is of Kit.
"Oh, well, I don't suppose I _can_ see him again for ever so long," she
says. But even as the words pass her lips she knows she does not mean
them, and remembers with a little throb of pleasure that he had said he
would see her again _soon_. _Soon!_ why, that might mean this
evening,--now,--_any_ moment! Instinctively she lifts her head and looks
around her, and there, just a little way off, is a young man coming
quickly towards her, bareheaded and in evening dress.
"I told you how it would be," says Kit, in a nervous whisper, taking
almost a bit out of poor Monica's arm in her excitement. "Oh, when I
have a lover I hope he will be like _he_."
Her grammar has gone after her nerve.
Monica is silent: some color has gone from her cheeks, and her heart is
beating faster. It is her very first _affaire_, so we must forgive her:
a little frightened shadow has fallen into her eyes, and altogether she
looks a shade younger than usual: she is troubled in spirit, and
inclined to find fault with the general management of things.
After all, she might as well have gone to the river this evening for
what good her abstinence has done her: the poverty of our strength to
conquer faith and the immutability of its decrees fills her with
consternation and a fretful desire for freedom. Yet above and beyond all
these vain imaginings is a gladness and a pride that her power is strong
enough to draw her lover to her side in spite of all difficulties.
The bareheaded young man has come up to her by this time, and is
holding out his hand: silently she lays her own in it, and colors
treacherously as his fingers close on hers in a close, tender, and
possessive fashion.
"I found the river too chilly," he says, smiling, "so I came on here.
Having been unsuccessful all the afternoon and morning, I _knew_ I
should find you _now_."
This might be hieroglyphics to others, but is certainly English to her,
however she may pretend otherwise; she doesn't pretend much, to do her
justice.
"This is your sister?" goes on Desmond, looking at Kit, who is regarding
him with an eye that is quite a "piercer."
"Yes," says Monica. "Kit, this is Mr. Desmond."
"I know that," says this _enfant terrible_, still fixing him with a
glance of calm and searching scrutiny that is well calculated to
disconcert even a bolder man. Then all at once her mind seems made up,
and, coming forward, she holds out her hand, and says, "How d'ye do?" to
him, with a sudden, rare sweet smile that convinces him at once of her
sisterhood to Monica.
"We are friends?" he says, being attracted to the child for her own
grace alone, as well as for the charm of her relationship to the pale
snowdrop of a girl beside her.
"Yes. If you prove true to my Monica."
"Oh, Kit!" says Monica, deeply shocked; but Kit pays no heed, her eyes
being fastened gravely upon the man before her. He is quite as grave as
she is.
"If our friendship depends upon that, it will be a lasting one," he
says, quietly. "My whole life is at your sister's service."
Something in his tones touches Monica: slowly she lifts her eyes until
they reach his.
"I wish, I _wish_ you would not persist in this," she says, sadly.
"But why? To think of you is my chiefest joy. Do you forbid me to be
happy?"
"No--but--"
"In the morning and the afternoon I went to the river, to look for
you--in vain; after dinner I went too, still hoping against hope; and
now at last that I _have_ found you, you are unkind to me!" He speaks
lightly, but his eyes are earnest. "Miss Katherine," he says appealingly
to Kit, "of your grace, I pray you to befriend me."
"Monica would not go to the river this evening because she remembered an
absurd promise she made to Aunt Priscilla, and because she feared to
meet you there. It is the most absurd promise in the world: wait till
you hear it." Whereupon Kit, who is in her element, proceeds to tell him
all about Miss Priscilla's words to Monica, and Monica's answer, and her
(Kit's) interpretation thereof. "She certainly didn't promise never to
speak to you again," concludes she, with a nod Solomon might have
envied.
Need it be said that Mr. Desmond agrees with her on all points?
"There is no use in continuing the discussion," says Monica, turning
aside a little coldly. "I should not have gone to the river, _anyway_."
This chilling remark produces a blank indescribable, and conversation
languishes: Monica betrays an interest in the horizon never before
developed; Mr. Desmond regards with a moody glance the ripening harvest;
and Kit, looking inward, surveys her mental resources and wonders what
it is her duty to do next.
"For aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth."
_This_ much she knows; and to any one blessed with a vision sharp as
hers it is very apparent now that there is a roughness somewhere. She
knows too, through many works of fiction, that those in attendance on
loving couples should at certain seasons see cause to absent themselves
from their duty, and search for a supposititious handkerchief or sprain
an unoffending ankle, or hunt diligently in hedgerows for undiscoverable
flowers. Three paths therefore lie open to her; which to adopt is the
question. To return to the house for a handkerchief would be a decidedly
risky affair, calculated to lead up to stiff and damning
cross-examination from the aunts, which might prove painful; to sprain
an ankle might prove even painfuller; but to dive into the innocent
hedgerow for the extraction of summer flowers, what can be more
effectual and reasonable? she will do it at once.
"Oh, what lovely dog-roses!" she says, effusively, in a tone that
wouldn't have deceived a baby; "I really _must_ get some."
"Let me get them for you," says Desmond, gloomily, which she at once
decides is excessively stupid of him, and she doing all she can for him
too! She tries to wither him with a glance, but he is too miserable to
be lightly crushed.
"No, thank you," she says; "I prefer getting them myself. Flowers are
like fruit, much more enjoyable when you pick them with your own hands."
So saying, this accomplished gooseberry skips round the corner, leaving
Monica and Mr. Desmond _tete-a-tete_.
That they enjoy their sudden isolation just at first is questionable:
Monica discovers blots on the perfect horizon; and Mr. Desmond, after a
full minute's pause, says, reproachfully,--
"You didn't _really_ mean that, did you?"
"Mean what?" uncompromisingly, and without changing position.
"That even if matters had been quite--quite comfortable with us, you
would not have gone to meet me at the river?"
"I don't know," in a low tone.
"_Say_ you didn't mean it."
"I--suppose I didn't," even lower.
"Look at me, then," says Mr. Desmond.
Kit, in her high, sweet voice, is warbling that little, pretty thing
about a "lover and his lass," in the next field. The words of her song,
and its silly refrain of
"A hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,"
come to them across the corn and scented meadow. Monica, with her hand
in his, smiles faintly.
"You hear what she sings,--'that life is but a flower:' is it wise,
then, to set your heart upon----"
"You?"
"I meant, an impossibility."
"Which you are _not_. You shall not be. I don't believe in
impossibilities, to begin with; and, even if it were so, I should still
prefer to be unwise."
"You are defiant," she says, lightly; but her smile is still very sad.
"I have hope. 'Affection's ground is beyond time, place, and all
mortality,' as we read. I shall conquer yet; yes, even _your_
prejudices. In the mean time, give me fair play; do not harden your
heart against me."
"I wish mine was the only hard heart you had to contend against,"
returns she, with a faint sigh. But this remark seems to drop so
carelessly from her lips that, though elated by it, he is afraid to take
any open notice of it.
"I hope your aunts were not cross to you last evening on my account?" he
says, anxiously.
"No. Nothing was said, more than Kit told you, except that Aunt
Priscilla touched upon the point of introduction. Oh, what a fright I
got then! If she had persisted in her inquiries, what _would_ have
become of me?"
"Couldn't you have----" began Mr. Desmond, and then stops abruptly. A
glance at the face uplifted to his checks his half-uttered speech
effectually, and renders him, besides, thoroughly ashamed of himself.
"If I had to confess there had been _no_ introduction," goes on Monica,
laughingly, "I don't know what would have been the result."
"The deluge, I suppose," returns her companion thoughtfully.
"What a pity you have an uncle at all!" says Monica, presently. "It
would be all right only for him." She omits to say _what_ would be all
right, but the translation is simple.
"Oh, don't say that," entreats Desmond, who has a wholesome affection
for the old gentleman above at Coole. "He is the kindest old fellow in
the world. I think, if you knew him, you would be very fond of him; and
I know he would adore _you_. In fact, he is so kind-hearted that I
cannot think how all that unfortunate story about your mother ever came
about. He looks to me as if he couldn't say 'Bo to a goose' where a
woman was concerned and yet his manner to-night confirmed everything I
heard."
"He confessed?" in a deeply interested tone.
"Well just the same thing. He seemed distressed about his own conduct in
the affair, too. But his manner was odd, I thought: and he seems as much
at daggers drawn with your aunts as they with him."
"That is because he is ashamed of himself. One is always hardest on
those one has injured."
"But that is just it," says Mr. Desmond, in a puzzled tone. "I don't
believe, honestly, he is a bit ashamed of himself. He _said_ a good deal
about his regret, but I could see he quite gloried in his crime. And, in
fact, I couldn't discover the smallest trace of remorse about him."
"He must really be a very bad old man," says Monica, severely. "I am
perfectly certain if he were _my_ uncle I should not love him at all."
"Don't say that. When he _is_ your uncle you will see that I am right,
and that he is a very lovable old man, in spite of all his faults."
At this Monica blushes a little, and twirls her rings round her slender
fingers in an excess of shyness, and finally, in spite of a stern
pressure laid upon herself, gives way to mirth.
"What are you laughing at now?" asks he laughing too.
"At you," casting a swift but charming glance at him from under her long
lashes. "You _do_ say such funny things!"
"Did you hear there is to be an afternoon dance at the Barracks next
week?" asks he presently. "I was at Clonbree on Thursday, and Cobbett
told me about it."
"Who is Cobbett?"
"The captain there, you know. He was at Aghyohillbeg yesterday. Didn't
you see him,--a little, half-starved looking man, with a skin the color
of his hair, and both gray?"
"Oh, of course--now I remember him," says Monica, this fetching
description having cleared her memory. "I thought to myself how odd he
and the other man, Mr. Ryde, looked together, one as big as the other
was little."
"I think there is more matter than brains about Ryde," says Desmond,
contemptuously. "Do you think your aunt will let you go to this dance at
Clonbree?"
"Oh, no; I am _sure_ not. My aunts would be certain to look upon a dance
in the Barracks as something too awfully dissipated."
"For one reason I should be glad you didn't go."
"Glad?" opening her eyes.
"Yes. That fellow Ryde never took his eyes off you yesterday."
"Is _that_ a crime?"
"In my eyes, _yes_."
"And you would wish me to be kept a prisoner at home just because one
man looked at me?"
"I don't want any one to look at you but me!" Then he comes a little
closer to her and compels her, by the very strength of his regard, to
let her eyes meet his. "Do you like Ryde?" he asks, somewhat
imperiously. "Monica, answer me."
It is the second time he has called her by her Christian name, and a
startled expression passes over her face.
"Well, he was nice to me," she says, with a studied hesitation that
belongs to the first bit of coquetry she has ever practised in her life.
She has tasted the sweetness of power, and, fresh as her knowledge is
she estimates the advantage of it to a nicety.
"I believe a man has only to be six feet one to have every woman in the
world in love with him," says Desmond, wrathfully, who is only five feet
eleven.
"I am not exactly in _love_ with Mr. Ryde," says Monica, sweetly, with
averted face and a coy air, assumed for her companion's discomfiture;
"but----"
"But _what_?"
"But, I was going to say, there is nothing remarkable in that, as I am
not in love with _any one_, and hope I never shall be. I wonder where
Kit can have gone to: will you get up there, Mr. Desmond, and look?"
Breaking off a tiny blade of grass from the bank near her, she puts it
between her pretty teeth, and slowly nibbles it with an air of utter
indifference to all the world that drives Mr. Desmond nearly out of his
wits.
Disdaining to take any heed of her "notice to quit," and quite
determined to know the worst, he says, defiantly,--
"If you _do_ go to this dance, may I consider myself engaged to you for
the first waltz?" There is quite a frown upon his face as he says this;
but it hasn't the faintest effect upon Monica. She is not at all
impressed, and is, in fact enjoying herself immensely.
"If I go, which is more than improbable, I shall certainly not dance
with you at all," she says, calmly, "because Aunt Priscilla will be
there too, and she would not hear of my doing even a mild quadrille with
a Desmond."
"I see," with a melancholy assumption of composure. "All your dances,
then, are to be reserved for Ryde."
"If Mr. Ryde asks me to dance, of course I shall not refuse."
"You mean to tell me"--even the poor assumption is now gone--"that you
are going to give him _all_ and me _none_?"
"I shall not give any one _all_: how can you talk like that? But I
cannot defy Aunt Priscilla. It is very unkind of you to desire it. I
suppose you think I should enjoy being tormented from morning till night
all about you?"
"Certainly not. I don't want you to be tormented on any account, and,
above all on mine," very stiffly. "To prevent anything of the kind, I
shall not go to Cobbett's dance."
"If you choose to get into a bad temper I can't help you."
"I am _not_ in a bad temper, and even if I were I have cause. But it is
not temper will prevent my going to the Barracks."
"What then?"
"Why should I go there to be made miserable? _You_ can go and dance with
Ryde to your heart's content, but I shall spare myself the pain of
seeing you. Did you say you wanted your sister? Shall I call her now? I
am sure you must want to go home."
"I don't," she says, unexpectedly; and then a little smile of conscious
triumph wreathes her lips as she looks at him, standing moody and
dejected before her. A word from her will transform him; and now, the
day being all her own, she can afford to be generous. Even the very best
of women can be cruel to their lovers.
"I don't," she says, "not _yet_. There is something I want to ask you
first," she pauses in a tantalizing fashion, and glances from the grass
she is still holding to him, and from him back to the grass again,
before she speaks. "It is a question," she says then, as though
reluctantly, "but you look so angry with me that I am afraid to ask it."
This is the rankest hypocrisy, as he is as wax in her hands at this
moment; but, though he knows it, he gives in to the sweetness of her
manner, and lets his face clear.
"Ask me anything you like," he says, turning upon her now a countenance
"more in sorrow than in anger."
"It isn't much," said Miss Beresford, sweetly, "only--what _is_ your
Christian name? I have been so _longing_ to know. It is very unpleasant
to be obliged to _think_ of people by their surnames, is it not? so
unfriendly!"
He is quite staggered by the excess of her geniality.
"My name is Brian," he says, devoutly hoping she will not think it
hideous and so see cause to pass judgment upon it.
"Brian!" going nearer to him with half-shy eyes, and a little _riante_
mouth that with difficulty suppresses its laughter. "How _pretty_!
Brian," purposely lingering over it, "with an 'i' of course?"
"Yes."
"I'm so glad I know yours now!" says this disgraceful little coquette,
with a sigh of pretended relief. "You knew mine, and that wasn't fair,
you know. Besides,"--with a rapid glance that might have melted an
anchorite and delivered him from the error of his ways,--"besides, I may
want to call you by it _some_ day, and then I should be at a loss."
Though by no means proof against so much friendliness, Mr. Desmond still
continues to maintain an injured demeanor. Monica lays one little hand
lightly on his arm.
"Won't you ask me to call you by it?" she says, with the prettiest
reproach.
"Oh, Monica," says the young man, seizing her hand and pressing it
against his heart, "you know your power; be merciful. Darling," drawing
her still nearer to him, "I don't think you quite understand how it is
with me; but, indeed, I love you with all my heart and soul."
"But in such a little time, how can it be true?" says Monica, all her
gayety turning into serious wonderment.
"'Love is a thing as any spirit free,'" quotes he, tenderly. "How shall
one know when the god may come? It has nothing to do with time. I have
seen you,--it little matters how often,--and now I love you. Dear heart,
_try_ to love me."
There is something in his manner both gentle and earnest. Impressed by
it, she whispers softly,--
"I _will_ try."
"And you will call me Brian?"
"Oh, no!--no, indeed!--not yet," entreats she, stepping back from him as
far as he will allow her.
"Very well, not yet."
"And you will go to the Barracks for this dance?"
"I will do anything on earth you ask me. You know that too well, I fear,
for my peace of mind."
"And you won't be angry with me if I don't dance with you there?"
"No. I promise that, too. Ah! here is Miss Kit coming,--and without the
roses,--after all."
It is true she has no roses; she has, indeed, forgotten she even
pretended to want them, and has been happy while away with her song and
her own thoughts.
"I think, Monica, we ought, perhaps, to be thinking of coming home," she
says, apologetically, yet with quite a motherly air. Has she not been
mounting guard over and humoring these two giddy young people before
her?
"Yes, I think so too;" and the goodness of Kit, and something else,
strike her.
"If we are asked to this dance at Clonbree, and if we go, I should like
Kit to go too," she says in a soft aside to Desmond, who says, "That is
all right: I settled it with Cobbett yesterday," in the same tone; and
then a little more energetically, as he sees the moments flying, he goes
on, "Before you go, say one thing after me. It will be a small
consolation until I see you again. Say, 'Brian, good-by.'"
"Good-by, Brian," she whispers, shyly, and then she draws her hand out
of his, and, turning to the studiously inattentive Kit, passes her arm
through hers.
"Good-by, Mr. Desmond! I trust we may soon meet again," says the
younger Miss Beresford, with rather a grand air, smiling upon him
patronizingly.
"I hope so too," says Desmond, gravely, "and that next time you will
graciously accord me a little more of your society."
Quite pleased with this delicate protest against her lengthened absence,
Kit bows politely, and she and Monica take their homeward way.
Once Monica turns, to wave him a friendly adieu, and he can see again
her soft, bare arms, her pretty baby-neck in her white dinner-gown, and
her lovely, earnest eyes. Then she is gone, and her passing seems to him
"like the ceasing of exquisite music," and nothing is left to him but
the wailing of the rising night-wind, and the memory of a perfect
girl-face that he knows will haunt him till he dies.