How Kit's plot is betrayed, and how a walk that begins gayly ends in
gloom.
The road to Mrs. Daly's is full of beauty. On one side of it runs Coole,
its trees rich with leafy branches; upon the other stretches a common,
green and soft, with a grand glimpse of the ocean far down below it.
"Why walk on the dusty road when those fields are green in there?" says
Kit, pointing to Coole; and, after a faint hesitation, Monica follows
her over the wall and into the dark recesses of the woods. The grass is
knee deep in ferns and trailing verdure; great clumps of honeysuckle,
falling from giant limbs of elm, make the air sweet. Some little way to
their right--but where they cannot see because of the prodigality of
moss and alder and bracken--a little hidden brook runs merrily, making
"Sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage."
Some thought belonging to the past night coming to Kit, she turns to
Monica with a little laugh.
"How silent you have been about last night's adventure!" she says. "I
watched you from your own window until the shadows caught you. You
looked like a flitting spirit,--a--a bhoot."
"A _boot_!" says Monica, very justly surprised.
"Yes," loftily. Kit's educational course, as directed by herself, has
been of the erratic order, and has embraced many topics unknown to
Monica. From the political economy of the Faroe Isles, it has reached
even to the hidden mysteries of Hindostan.
"I must have struck you then as being in my liveliest mood," says
Monica, still laughing. "Terry told us yesterday he was as gay as old
boots. As I looked like _one_, I suppose I was at least half as gay as
he was. After all, there is nothing like leather, no matter how
ancient."
"There's an _h_ in my bhoot," says Kit, with some disgust. "Really, the
ignorance of some people--even the _nicest_--is, surprising."
"Then why don't you take it out?" says Monica, frivolously. "Not that I
know in the very least what harm a poor innocent letter could do there."
"You don't understand," says Kit, pitifully.
"I don't indeed," says Monica, unabashed.
"A bhoot is an Indian ghost."
"And you thought I looked like an Indian ghost! with a turban! and an
Afghan! and a scimitar! Oh, Kit! Did I really look like the mahogany
table beneath the silver moonbeams? and did my eyes glitter?"
"What a goose you are!" says Kit, roaring with laughter. "No, you looked
lovely; but I was reading an Indian story yesterday, and it came into my
head."
"You read too much," says Monica. "'Much learning will make you mad,' if
you don't take care. Remember what Lord Bacon says, 'Reading maketh a
full man.' How would _you_ like to be a full woman,--like Madam
O'Connor, for example?"
"Francis Bacon never meant it in that sense," says Kit, indignantly. "I
really _wonder_ at you Monica." And, having so scolded her idol, she
relapses into silence for a considerable time.
"Oh! what lovely dog-roses!" says Monica, presently, pointing to a
hanging spray of pink blossoms, satisfying as a happy dream. "I _must_
get them."
She springs up a mossy bank as she speaks, regardless of the blackberry
branches that cross her path, barring her way, and catching viciously
at her skirts, as though to hinder her progress.
"Oh, take care!" cries Kit, forgetting all about Lord Bacon in her
terror lest her pretty sister shall not show to the best advantage in
her lover's eyes. "Your gown will be torn. Wait, wait, until I set you
free from these dreadful thorns."
"'Alas! how full of briers is this working-day-world,'" quotes Monica,
gayly. "There, now I am all right, and I have got my pretty roses into
the bargain. Are they not sweet?--_sweet?_" holding them right under
Kit's nose.
"They are, indeed. And, by the by, here we are," pointing to a low
farmhouse in the distance.
Reaching it, and finding the door as usual open, they enter what might
be the hall in another house, but is here the kitchen. There is no
leading up to it. From the moment you cross the threshold the kitchen
lies before you.
It is a large room, if it may so be called, with a huge fireplace in
which a dozen fires might be stowed away and forgotten. Just now there
is a flame somewhere in its blackmost depths that cannot possibly annoy
these June visitors, as one has to search for it to find it.
An old woman, infirm and toothless, yet with all the remains of great
beauty, sits cowering over this hidden turf fire, mumbling to herself,
it may be, of golden days now past and gone, when she had been the
fairest colleen at mass or pattern, and had counted her lovers by the
score. Yea, those were good old times, when the sky was ever blue and
all the earth was young.
Two young women, sitting near her, but farther from the chimney-nook,
are gossiping idly, but persistently, in the soft, mellifluous brogue
that distinguishes the county Cork.
As the Beresford girls enter, these two latter women rise simultaneously
and courtesy with deep respect. The youngest of them, who is so like the
handsome old woman in the corner of the fireplace as to be unmistakably
of kin to her, comes quickly forward to greet her visitors with the
kindly grace and the absence of consciousness that distinguish the Irish
peasantry when doing the honors of their own homes. This lack of
_mauvaise honte_ arises perhaps from the fact that they are so honestly
glad to welcome a guest beneath their roof that they forget to be shy or
backward.
She makes a slight effort to pull down her tucked-up sleeves, and then
desists, for which any one with a mind artistic should be devoutly
grateful, as her arms, brown as they are from exposure to the sun, are
at least shaped to perfection. She is dressed in a maroon-colored skirt
and body, the skirt so turned up in fishwife fashion (as _we_ wore it
some seasons ago) that a dark-blue petticoat beneath, of some coarse
description, can be distinctly seen.
Her throat is a little bare, arms, as I have said, quite so, far up
above the elbows. She is stout and comely, with a beautiful laughing
mouth, and eyes of deepest gray, merry as her lips. Outside, lying
about, half naked in the warm sunshine, are three or four boys with the
same eyes and mouth, undeniably her children.
"Wisha! 'tis meself's glad to see ye," she says, with a beaming smile.
"Good luck to yer faces. 'Tis a long time now, Miss Beresford, since ye
came, or Miss Kit there."
"I promised your mother a pudding, and I have brought it," says Kit.
"Look at that, now! 'Tis a trouble we are to ye entirely. Mother, wake
up a bit, an' thank Miss Kit for what she's brought ye."
"Ye're too kind, asthore, too kind," mumbles the old woman in the
corner, turning eyes that are still full of light upon the child, "to
think of an ould 'ooman now in the grave as it might be. Ay, faix! An'
the bells a-ringin' too. I can hear 'em sometimes, when the wind's
down----"
"Nonsense, mother! the yard (churchyard) will be lonely for ye yet
awhile," says Mrs. Daly, junior, cheerfully. "See, now! taste this:
'twill do ye good. An' you'll sit down, Miss Monica, I hope. Take care,
honey, till I dust the chair for ye." This is dexterously done with the
corner of her apron. "An' ye'll take a dhrop o' tay too, may be; oh, ye
will now, if only to plase me, afther yer long walk, an' all to honor
the ould woman."
"Ah, there is Mrs. Moloney!" says Kit, addressing the second younger
woman, who is a thin little peasant with a somewhat discontented
expression. "The sun blinded my eyes so that I could not see you at
first. Have you heard from your boy at sea?"
"Yes, miss. Praises be above! He's doin' well, he says; but it's belike
I'll never see a sight of his handsome face again."
"Oh, nonsense, now, Mrs. Moloney, me dear! What are ye talkin' like that
for?" says young Mrs. Daly, who seems to be the parish consoler. "Sure
it's back he'll be wid ye before the new year."
"Oh, yes, I _hope_ so," says Monica, softly.
"'Tis hard to hope, miss, wid the rowling wind o' nights, an' the waves
dashin' up on the beach."
"Ye're an ould croaker," says Mrs. Daly, giving her a good-humored
shake, "An' now sit down, Miss Monica an' Miss Kit, do, till I get ye
the sup o' tay. Mrs. Moloney, me dear, jist give the fire a poke, an'
make the kittle sing us a song. 'Tis the music we want most now."
It would have been considered not only a rudeness, but an act _hauteur_,
to refuse this simple hospitality: so the girls seat themselves, and,
indeed, to tell the truth, are rather glad than otherwise of this chance
of securing their afternoon tea.
"An' how are the old ladies up above?" says Mrs. Daly, meaning the
Misses Blake.
"Quite well, thank you," says Monica. "It was only yesterday Aunt
Priscilla was saying she should come down and see old Mrs. Daly."
"She's as welcome as the flowers in May whenever she comes," says the
daughter-in-law. "D'ye hear that, mother? Miss Priscilla's comin' to see
ye, some day soon. Ay, 'tis a good friend she always was to the poor,
summer an' winter; an' isn't it wondherful now, Miss Monica, how she's
kept her figure all through? Why," raising her hands with an expressive
gesture of astonishment, "'twas Friday week I saw her, an' I said to
meself, says I, she's the figure o' a young girl, I says. Ye'll take a
taste o' this home-made cake, alanna."
She is made happy forever by Kit's unmistakable enjoyment of this
last-named luxury.
"Ay, she's an iligant figure even now," says Mrs. Moloney, in her
depressing voice. "But time an' throuble is cruel hard on some of us. I
had a figure meself when I was young," with a heartrending sigh.
"Ye were always slight, me dear, an' ye're slight now too," says Mrs.
Daly, tenderly. "I niver see the like o'ye for keepin' off the flesh.
Why, I remember ye well as a slip o' a girl, before yer blessed babby
was born, an' ye were a screed, me dear,--a screed."
"Yes, I was always ginteel," says Mrs. Moloney, openly consoled. Still
she sighs, and sips her tea with a mournful air. Mrs. Daly is drinking
hers with much appreciation out of her saucer, it being considered
discourteous to offer anything to a guest without partaking of the same
one's self.
At this moment a little cooing sound coming from the other corner of the
fireplace makes itself heard. Instantly the old woman stooping over the
turf embers rouses herself, and, turning, puts out her withered hand
lovingly towards what looks like a box covered with colored stuff of
some sort. Young Mrs. Daly rises too, precipitately and, hurrying across
the kitchen, bends over the box.
"Ay, she's awake sure enough!" says the old woman, who has quite
brightened into life. "See how she looks at ye, Molly! The colleen of
the world, she was! asthore machree-sthig."
Many another fond name is muttered, such as "pulse o' my heart," and
such like, before Mrs. Daly junior emerges from the supposed box, but
_not_ empty-handed.
"Oh! it is the baby!" cry Monica and Kit, in a breath. "Oh! what a
darling baby! and what red, red cheeks, just like a June rose!"
It is the only daughter of the house, so the mother is of course
inordinately proud of it. She places it, with quite a little flourish of
triumph, in Monica's arms, to Kit's terrible but unspoken
disappointment.
"She grows prettier every day. She is really the sweetest baby I ever
saw in my life!" says Monica, enthusiastically, to whom babies are an
endless joy.
The mother is pleased beyond doubt at these compliments, yet a shade of
anxiety crosses her brow. To praise a child _too_ much in the
superstition of these simple folks, is to "overlook" it; and when a
child is "overlooked" it dies. The smiles fades from Mrs. Daly's bonny
face, and her mouth grows anxious.
"You should say, 'God bless her,' miss, when ye give her the good word,"
says Mrs. Moloney, timidly, who is also bending over the beloved bundle,
and notes the distress in her neighbor's eyes.
"God bless her!" says Monica with pretty solemnity, after which the
mother's face clears, and sunshine is again restored to it.
"I think she knows ye," she says to Monica. "See how she blinks at ye!
Arrah! look, now, how she clutches at yer hand! Will ye come to yer
mother now, darlin',--will ye? Sure 'tis starvin' ye must be, by this."
"Oh! don't take her yet," says Monica, entreatingly.
A little figure with naked legs and feet, creeping into the doorway at
this moment, draws near the baby as if fascinated. It is Paudheen, the
eldest son of the house, and baby's _nurse_,--save the mark!
"Come nearer, Paddy," says Monica, smiling at him with sweet
encouragement; but Paddy stops short and regards her doubtfully.
"Come, then, and kiss your little sister," continues Monica, gently; but
Paddy is still obdurate, and declines to hearken to the charmer, charm
she never so wisely. There is, indeed, a sad lack both of sweetness and
light about Paddy.
"An' what d'ye mane be standin' there, an' niver a word out o' ye in
answer to the lady, ye ill-mannered caubogue?" cries his mother, deeply
incensed. The laughter is all gone from her face, and her eyes are
aflame. "What brought ye in at all, ye ugly spalpeen, if ye came without
a civil tongue in yer head?"
"I came to see the baby an' to get me dinner," says the boy, with
hanging head, his silence arising more from shyness than sullenness. The
potatoes have just been lifted from the fire by Mrs. Moloney, and are
steaming in a distant corner. Paudheen looks wistfully towards them.
"Dickens a sign or taste ye'll get, then, if only to tache ye better
manners. Be off, now, an' don't let me see ye agin."
"I'm hungry," says the boy, tears coming into his eyes.
"Oh, Mrs. Daly!" says Monica, in a distressed tone.
"A deal o' harm it will do him to be hungry, thin!" says the culprit's
mother, with an angry voice, but with visible signs of relenting in her
handsome eyes. "Be off wid ye now, I tell ye." This is the last burst of
the storm. As the urchin creeps crestfallen towards the doorway her rage
dies, its death being as sudden as its birth. "Come back here!" she
cries, inconsistently. "What d'ye mane be takin' me at me word like
that? Come back, I tell ye, an' go an' ate something, ye crathur. How
dare ye behave as if I was a bad mother to ye?"
The boy comes back, and, raising his bonny head, smiles at her fondly
but audaciously.
"Look at him, now, the blackguard," says the mother, returning the smile
in kind. "Was there ever the like of him? Go an' ate yer praties now,
and thank yer stars Miss Monica was here to say a good word for ye."
Paddy, glad of his rescue, casts a shy glance at Monica, and then, going
over to where his grandmother and the pot of potatoes rest side by side,
sits down (close cuddled up to the old dame) to fill his little empty
stomach with as many of those esculent roots as he can manage, which, in
truth, is the poor child's only dinner from year's end to year's end.
And yet it is a remarkable fact that, in spite of this scanty fare, the
Irish peasant, when come to man's estate, is ever strong and vigorous
and well grown. And who shall say he hasn't done his queen good service,
too, on many a battle-field? and even in these latter days, when sad
rebellion racks our land, has not his name been worthy of honorable
mention on the plains of Tel-el-Kebir?
"I don't think he _looks_ like a bad boy, Mrs. Daly," says Monica,
reflectively, gazing at the liberated Paddy.
"Bad, miss, is it?" says the mother, who, having made her eldest born
out a villain, is now prepared to maintain he is a veritable saint. "You
don't know him, faix. Sure there niver was the like of him yet. He is a
raal jewel, that gossoon o' mine, an' the light of his father's eyes.
Signs on it, he'd die for Daly! There niver was sich a love betwixt
father an' son. He's the joy o' my life, an' the greatest help to me.
'Tis he minds the pig, an' the baby, an' ould granny there, an'
everything. I'd be widout my right hand if I lost him."
"But I thought you said----" begins Monica, mystified by this change
from righteous wrath to unbounded admiration.
"Arrah, niver mind what I said, acushla," says the younger Mrs. Daly,
with an emphatic wink. "Sure 'twas only to keep him in ordher a bit, I
said it at all at all! But 'tis young he is yet, the crathur."
"_Very_ young. Oh, Mrs. Daly, _look_ at baby! See how she is trying to
get at my hair!" Monica is beginning in a delighted tone,--as though to
have one's hair pulled out by the roots is the most enchanting sensation
in the world,--when suddenly her voice dies away into silence, and she
herself stares with great open violet eyes at something that darkens the
doorway and throws a shadow upon the assembled group within.
It is Desmond!
Kit, feeling as guilty as though she were the leading character in some
conspiracy, colors crimson, and retires behind Mrs. Moloney. She lowers
her eyes, and is as mute as death. But Monica speaks.
"Is it you?" she says. Which, of course, is quite the silliest thing she
_can_ say, as he is standing there regarding her with eyes so full of
light and love that the cleverest ghost could not copy them. But then
she is not sillier than her fellows, for, as a rule, all people, if you
remark, say, "Is that you?" or "Have you come?" when they are actually
looking into your face and should be able to answer the question for
themselves.
"Yes, it is," says Desmond, with such an amount of diffidence (I hope it
wasn't assumed) as should have melted the heart of the hardest woman
upon earth. Monica is _not_ the hardest woman upon earth.
Still, she makes him no further speech, and Desmond begins to wonder if
he is yet forgiven. He is regarding her fixedly; but she, after that
first swift glance, has turned her attention upon the baby on her knee,
and is seemingly lost in admiration of its little snub nose. Why will
she not look at him? What did he say to her last night that is so
difficult to forgive? Can wrath be cherished for so long in that gentle
bosom? Her face is as calm as an angel's; surely
"There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple."
"Ah! come in, Misther Desmond," says Mrs. Daly, hospitably. "I'm glad
'tis company I have before you the day. Maybe 'twill coax ye to come
again. Where have you been this week an' more? Faix, ye were so long in
comin', I thought 'twas angry wid me ye were."
"Nobody is ever angry with a pretty woman like you," says Desmond,
saucily.
"Oh, now, hark to him!" says Mrs. Daly laughing heartily. "I wonder ye
aren't ashamed of yourself. An' is the ould Squire hearty?"
"He's as well as even _you_ could wish him. How d'ye do, Kit? Won't you
come and speak to me?"
He has been afraid to shake hands with Monica up to this, but now she
turns suddenly towards him and holds out to him one slender fair hand,
the other being twined round the baby. She does this musingly.
He grasps the little snowy hand with almost senile delight, and holds it
for--as long as he dares. During this undefined period he tells himself
what a perfect picture she is, with her clear, pale, beautiful face, and
her nut-brown hair, and the tender sweetness of her attitude, as she
bends over the smiling baby. Could any vaunted Madonna be half as
lovely? At this moment a growing contempt for all the greatest
masterpieces of the greatest masters permeates his being and renders him
weak in faith.
"Won't ye sit down, thin?" says Mrs. Daly. Being a woman, she grasps the
situation at a glance, and places a chair for him close to Monica.
"What's the matther wid ye to-day, Misther Desmond, that ye haven't a
word to give us?"
"You ought to know what I'm thinking of," says Desmond, accepting the
chair, and drawing it even a degree closer to Monica.
"Faix, thin, I don't," says Mrs. Daly junior, her handsome face full of
smiles. A love-affair is as good as a saint's day to an Irish peasant;
and here she tells herself, with a glance at Monica, is one ready-made
to her hand.
"I'm thinking what a lucky man Daly is," says Desmond, promptly.
"Oh, git along wid ye now, an' yer blarney!" says Mrs. Daly, roaring
with laughter; whilst even Mrs. Moloney the dismal, and the old granny
in the corner, chime in merrily.
And then the visit comes to a close, and they all rise and bid Mrs. Daly
and the others "good-by;" and Monica, mindful of his late affliction,
bestows a soft parting word upon the subdued Paddy.
And now they are all in the open air again, and, turning down the boreen
that leads to the Daly's homestead, reach the road that leads to Moyne.
It is Desmond's way as well as theirs, so he accompanies the girls
without remark.
"What brought you to see the Dalys, to-day?" asks Monica, suddenly,
without any ulterior meaning beyond the desire of making conversation;
but to Kit's guilty soul this question seems fraught with mischief.
"Oh, I often go to see Daly. I want him to come fishing with me
to-morrow: he's the best man about here for that, and trudges behind one
for miles without complaining."
"Poor Daly!"
"Well, I hope you enjoyed your visit to-day," says Kit, blithely,
glancing at him mischievously from beneath her broad hat.
"There was a drawback," says Brian, unthinkingly. "I went there full of
hope, and, after all, she never offered me any of your pudding!"
Tableau!
Kit's agonized glance and Monica's questioning eyes awake Mr. Desmond to
a knowledge of what he has done.
"How did _you_ hear of Kit's pudding?" asks Monica, looking keenly from
Brian to Kit, and then back again.
"Oh!--the pudding," stammers Desmond.
"There! don't commit yourself," says Monica, in a tone that trembles.
"Oh, Kit!"
Both culprits are afraid to look at her. Does the tremble mean tears, or
anger, or what? Perhaps horror at their duplicity, or contempt. Is she
hopelessly angered?
Then a suppressed sound reaches their ears, creating a fresh panic in
their breasts. Is she positively _choking_ with indignation? Cautiously,
anxiously, they glance at her, and find, to their everlasting relief,
that she is convulsed with laughter.
"When next you meditate forming a brilliant plot such as this," she says
to Kit, "I think I should look out a more trustworthy accomplice if I
were you."
"Catch me having a secret with _him_ again," says Kit now her fears are
appeased, turning wrathfully upon Desmond.
"I quite forgot all about it, I did, indeed," exclaims he, penitently.
"Forgive me this time, and I'll promise never to do it again."
"And I'll promise you you shan't have the chance," says Kit, with
fervor.
"_Why_ was I to be deceived?" says Monica. "I think I have been very
basely treated. If you, Kit, desired a clandestine meeting with Mr.
Desmond, I don't see why _I_ was to be drawn into it. And it was a
stupid arrangement, too: two is company, three trumpery. I know, if I
had a lover, I should prefer----"
"Monica!" says Kit, indignantly; but Monica only laughs the more.
"It is _my_ turn now, you know," she says.
"Kit had nothing to do with it: it was all my fault," says Desmond,
laughing too. "If you must pour out the vials of your wrath on some one,
let it be on me."
"Yes, give him a good scolding, Monica," says Kit viciously, but with a
lovely smile. "I am going to pick to some ferns for Aunt Pen; when I
return I hope I shall find that recreant knight of yours--I mean
_mine_--at the point of death!"
At this she flits away from them, like the good little thing she is, up
a sloping bank, and so into the fields beyond, until Desmond and Monica
are as much alone as if a whole sphere divided them from their kind.
Dear little Kit! When her own time comes may she be as kindly dealt
with!
"You are angry with me still,--about last night," says Desmond, softly,
"and, I own, with cause. But I was miserable when I called you a
coquette, and misery makes a man unjust. I wrote to Kit this morning,--I
was afraid to write to you,--and she was very good to me."
"How good?" plucking a leaf from a brier, as she goes slowly, _very_
slowly--down the road.
"She brought me _you_. Do you know, Monica, I have been as unhappy as a
man can be since last I saw you,--a whole night and part of a day? Is it
not punishment enough?"
"Too much for your crime," whispers she, softly, turning suddenly
towards him and letting her great luminous eyes rest with forgiveness
upon his. She smiles sweetly, but with some timidity, because of the
ardor of the glance that answers hers. Taking her hand with an impulsive
movement impossible to restrain, Desmond presses it rapturously to his
lips. Drawing it away from him with shy haste, Monica walks on in
silence.
"If I had written to you, and not to her, would you still have been here
to-day?" asks he, presently.
"I think not."
"That is a cruel answer, is it not?"
"Would you have me belie my nature?" asks she, with quick agitation;
"would you have me grow false, secret, deceitful? My aunts trust me: am
I to prove myself unworthy of their confidence?"
"I am less to you, then, than your aunts' displeasure!"
"You are less to me than my conscience; and yet----"
With a violent effort, that betrays how far her thoughts have been
travelling in company with his, she brings herself back to the present
moment, and a recollection of the many reasons why she must not listen
to his wooing. "Why should you believe yourself anything to me?" she
asks, in a voice that quivers audibly.
"Ah, why, indeed?" returns he, bitterly. There is such pain in his voice
and face that her soul yearns towards him, and she repents of her last
words.
"I am wrong. You _are_ something to me," she says, in a tone so low that
he can scarcely hear it. But lovers' ears are sharp.
"You _mean_ that, Monica?"
"Yes," still lower.
"Then why cannot I be _more_ to you? Why am I to be denied a chance of
forwarding the cause in which all my hopes are centred? Monica, say you
will meet me somewhere--_soon_."
"How can I?" she says, tremulously. Her voice is full of tears. She is
altogether different from the coquettish, provoking child of last night.
"You forget all I have just now said."
"At least tell me," says he, sadly, "that if you could you would."
There is a pathetic ring in his tone, and tears rise to her eyes. Can
anything be so hopeless as this love-affair of hers?
"Yes, I would," she says, almost desperately.
"Oh, darling--_darling_!" says the young man with passion. He holds her
hands closely, and looks into her troubled eyes, and wishes he might
dare take her into his arms and, pressing her to his heart, ask her to
repeat her words again. But there is something in the calm purity of her
beautiful face that repels vehemence of any sort; and as yet--although
the dawn is near--her love has not declared itself to her own soul in
all its strength.
"I have at least one consolation," he says, at last, calling to mind the
quietude that surrounds Moyne and its inhabitants, and the withdrawal
from society that has obtained there for many years. "As you are not
allowed to see me,--except on such rare occasions as the present when
the Fates are kind,--you cannot at least see _any one else_,--often,
that is."
"Meaning?----"
"Ryde."
She laughs a little, and then colors.
"Aunt Priscilla has asked him to come to Moyne next Friday," she says,
looking at the ground: "she is giving an At Home on that day, for him
and Captain Cobbett. She says she feels it is a duty to her queen to
show some attention to her servants."
In her tone, as she says this, there is a spice of that mischief that is
never very far from any pretty woman.
"He is to be invited to Moyne,--to spend an entire day with you!" says
Desmond, thunderstruck by this last piece of news.
"Oh, no! only part of it," says Monica, meekly.
"It is just as bad. It is disgraceful! Your aunts are purposely
encouraging _him_ to keep you away from me. Oh, _why_," wretchedly,
"should this unlucky quarrel have arisen between our house and yours?"
"Well, that's your fault," says Monica.
"Mine?"
"Your uncle's, then. It is all the same," unjustly.
"I really can't see _that_," says Mr. Desmond, very righteously
aggrieved; "that is visiting the sins of the uncles upon the nephews
with a vengeance! Monica, at least promise me you won't be civil to
him."
"To your uncle?"
"Nonsense! You know I mean Ryde."
"I can't be rude to him."
"You can. Why not? It will keep him from calling again."
No answer.
"Oh, I daresay you _want_ him to call again," says Desmond, angrily.
At this moment, the gates of Moyne being in sight, and those of Coole
long passed, Kit suddenly appears on the top of a high stone wall, and
calls gayly to Desmond to come and help her alight.
"And now go away too," she says: "you are forbidden goods, you know, and
we must not be seen talking to you, under pain of death."
"Good-by," says Desmond, with alacrity, who is, in truth, sulky, and
undesirous of further parley with his beloved. "Good-by, Miss
Beresford."
"Good-by," says Monica, shortly.
"We shall see you again soon, no doubt," says Kit, kindly, in her clear,
sweet treble.
"I think it very improbable," returns he, raising his hat gravely and
taking his departure.
"Now, what _have_ you been saying to that wretched young man, Monica?"
says Kit, severely, standing still in the middle of the road, the better
to bring her sister beneath the majesty of her eye.
"Nothing. Nothing that any reasonable being could object to," declares
Monica, with such an amount of vigor as startles Kit. "But of all the
ill-tempered, bearish, detestable men I ever met in my life, _he is the
worst_."
Which unlooked for explosion from the gentle Monica has the effect of
silencing Kit for the remainder of the walk.