How rations fall short in the enemy's camp; and how Monica, armed
with a strange ammunition, marches into the hostile land.
"Did ye hear, miss? Oh, faix, there's terrible news, ma'am!" says old
Timothy, trotting into the breakfast-room at Moyne the following
morning, his face pale with excitement.
"You alarm me, Ryan! what is it?" says Miss Priscilla, laying down her
fork.
"Oh, it's beyant everything, ma'am! Oh, the blackguards o' the world! It
was last night, miss, it happened. The ould squire, there below, was
sittin' in his library, as paceable as ye plaze, ma'am, when they fired
a bullet at him, an' shot him an' wounded Misther Brian----No, be the
powers, I b'lave I'm wrong; they kilt Misther Brian an' wounded the
Squire; an' there's the greatest commotion ye iver see down below,
miss."
For one awful moment Monica thinks she is going to faint. A mist rises
between her and Timothy's face; his voice sounds far away, in the next
county as it were, and then ceases altogether. Then a sharp sting of
pain rushing through her veins rouses her, and sends the blood back with
a tumultuous haste to cheek and neck and brow. The pain is short but
effective, and is, indeed, nothing more than a pinch of a pronounced
type, administered by the watchful Kit, with a promptitude very
creditable to her.
"He is exaggerating," says the astute Kit, in a subdued whisper
apparently addressed to her plate. "Don't believe him; take courage;
and, at all events, remember their eyes are upon you!" Her tone is great
with mystery and kindly encouragement. More revived by it than even by
the pinch, Monica takes heart of grace, and listens with maddening
impatience for what is yet to come. Glancing at Miss Priscilla, she can
see that her aunt is as pale as death, and that her hands are trembling
excessively. Miss Penelope is looking with anxiety at her, whilst trying
to elicit the truth from Ryan.
"Collect yourself, Ryan," she says, severely. "Who was killed?"
"No one outright, I'm tould, miss,--but----"
"Then who is wounded?"
"The bullet went right through them, miss."
"Through _both_! But that is impossible. I must beg you again to collect
yourself, Timothy; all this is most important, and naturally Miss
Blake--that is, _we_--are much upset about it. Through whom did the
bullet go?"
"The ould squire an' his nephew, miss."
"Through their bodies?" cries Miss Penelope, throwing up hope and both
her hands at the same time.
"No, ma'am, jist between them, as it might be between you an' Miss
Priscilla now." He illustrates the real truth as he says this.
"Bless me, man! sure they weren't touched at all so," says Miss
Penelope.
"No more they were, miss. Sorra a bit, praise be----"
"Then why did you say they were killed?" says Terence, indignantly, who
has been stricken dumb by the appalling fate of his dear Desmond.
"An' sure how much nearer could they be to it? What saved thim, but
maybe the hitch of a chair? Oh! wirrasthrue this day!" says old Ryan,
beginning to cry.
"Timothy sit down directly. Terence get him a glass of whiskey," says
Miss Penelope. "Now, don't excite yourself, Timothy; you know it is very
bad for you at your age. Take time, now. Collect yourself!"
"Have the assassins been discovered?" asks Miss Priscilla, in a
trembling tone.
"No, miss. But I'm tould the polis is very eager afther 'em."
"Was nobody hurt, Timothy?"
"No one, ma'am."
Here Monica, feeling the relief greater than she can support, gives way
to a dry but perfectly audible sob.
"Don't be afeard, miss, dear," says old Ryan, with heartfelt but most
ill-judged sympathy: "the _young gentleman_ is all right. Not a single
scratch on him, they say; so you needn't be cryin' about him, honey."
"Miss Monica is in no wise anxious about Mr. Brian Desmond," says Miss
Priscilla, recovering from her nervousness with as much haste as though
she had been subjected to an electric shock. "She is only distressed--as
I am--by these lawless proceedings."
"An' we hear they're boycotted, too, ma'am," says old Ryan, still
oppressed with news that must be worked off. "John Bileman, the
Protestant baker in the village they always dealt wid, has been
forbidden to give 'em another loaf, and the butcher is threatened if he
gives 'em a joint, an' the Clonbree butcher has been telegraphed to
also, miss, an' there's the world an' all to pay!"
"Do you mean that they are going to treat him as they did Mr. Bence
Jones?" says Miss Penelope, indignantly.
"Troth, I believe so, ma'am."
"Will Mr. Brian have to milk the cows?" says Terence, at which
astounding thought both he and Kit break into merry laughter until
checked by Monica's reproachful gaze. How _can_ they laugh when Brian
may be _starving_?
"Faix, it's awful, miss; an' the ould man to be wantin' for things
now,--he that allus kep' a fine table, to spake truth of him, and liked
his bit an' sup amazin', small blame to him. I'm thinkin' 'tis hungry
enough he'll be now for the future, the crathur! Oh, wirra! wirra!" says
Timothy, sympathetically, as he shambles towards the door.
When he is gone, Miss Priscilla turns upon Terence and Kit.
"I must say, I think your mirth at such a time most unseemly," she says.
"I am glad Monica takes no part in it. Terence, did you go up to the
widow Driscoll with my message this morning?"
"Yes, aunt."
She had evidently expected him to say "no," because her tone is
considerably mollified when she speaks again.
"Was she pleased, do you think?"
"Yes, aunt."
"She said so, perhaps?"
"No, aunt."
"Then what _did_ she say? I wish, my dear boy, you would try to be a
little less reticent."
"She said, 'Her duty to you, aunt, and her very coarse veins were worse
than ever.'"
"Varicose, Terence--varicose!"
"She said very coarse, aunt, and I suppose she knows more about them
than any one else."
He has a very sweet face, and it is more than usually so as he says all
this.
"And her son, how is he, poor soul?" asks Miss Penelope, as Miss
Priscilla withdraws, beaten, into the background.
"His duty to you, too, and 'he is better, but has been much afflicted
with the egg-cups for the last two days.'"
"_The what!_" says Miss Penelope, shifting her _pinceneze_ uneasily, and
looking perplexed in the extreme.
"Oh, Terry! how can you be so silly?" says Kit, with another merry
laugh.
"How am I silly?" with an impassible countenance. "Young Driscoll is
silly, of course, and evidently looks upon part of the breakfast-ware as
enemies of some sort. But that is not _my_ fault."
"Hiccoughs he must have meant, my dear," says Miss Priscilla, hastily.
"Dear--dear--dear! what a terrible shock he--they--must have got last
night at Coole!"
* * * * *
When day is deepening into eventide, Monica, finding Kit alone, kneels
down beside her, and lays her cheek to hers.
All day long she has been brooding miserably over her lover's danger,
and dwelling with foolish persistency upon future dangers born of her
terrified imagination.
She had been down to their trysting-place at the river, hardly hoping to
find him there, yet had been terribly disappointed when she had _not_
found him, Brian at that very moment being busy with police and
magistrates and law generally.
"What is it, ducky?" says Kit, very tenderly, laying down her book and
pressing her pretty sister close to her.
"Kit," says Monica, with tearful eyes, "_do_ you think it is all true
that Timothy said this morning about their--their _starving_ at Coole?
Oh Kit, I can't bear to think he is _hungry_!"
"It is dreadful! I don't know what to think," says Kit. "If nobody will
sell them anything, I suppose they have nothing to eat."
At this corroboration of her worst fears, Monica dissolves into tears.
"I couldn't eat my chicken at lunch, thinking of him," she sobs. "It
stuck in my throat."
"Poor sweet love!--it _was_ dry," says Kit, expanding into the wildest
affection. She kisses Monica fondly, and (though you would inevitably
have suffered death at her hands had you even hinted at it) is beginning
to enjoy herself intensely. Once again this luckless couple look to
_her_ for help. She is to be the one to raise them from their "Slough of
Despond,"--difficult but congenial task! "Then you have been existing on
lemon tart and one glass of sherry since breakfast time?" she says, with
the deepest commiseration. "Poor darling! I saw it; I noticed you ate
nothing _except_ the tart. You liked that, didn't you?"
"I didn't," says Monica. "I _hated_ it. And I was a cruel, cold-hearted
wretch to _touch_ it. But it was sweet--and--I--it--somehow
disappeared."
"It did," says Kit, tenderly.
"Oh, Kit, help me!"
"You mean you want to take him something wherewith to stave off the
pangs of hunger," says the younger Miss Beresford, with that grandeur of
style she usually affects in moments of strong excitement, and with the
vigor that distinguishes her. "I see; certainly." She grows abstracted.
"There's a leg of mutton hanging in the larder, with some fowl, and a
quarter of lamb," she says, presently. "But I suppose if we took _them_,
Aunt Priscilla would put us in the hue and cry."
"It mustn't be thought of. No, no; think of something else."
"Bread, then. Ordinary, of course, very ordinary, but yet the staff of
life."
"I _couldn't_ take him anything so nasty as mere bread," says Monica, in
despair. "But, if cook would make us a cake----"
"A big one, with currants! The very _thing_!" says Kit, with decision.
"And she will never betray us. Reilly, in little affairs of this
kind,--though sadly wanting where soups are concerned,--is quite all she
ought to be."
"When will it be baked? He _must_ get it to-night," says Monica, who is
evidently afraid her lover, if not succored, will die of want before
morning.
"Leave all to me," says Kit, flitting away from her through the
gathering gloom to seek the lower region and its presiding goddess.
Leaving all to Kit means that when dinner is over, about half-past
eight, the two Misses Beresford may be seen crossing the boundary that
divides Moyne from Coole with anxious haste and a hot cake.
This last is hugged to Monica's breast, and is plainly causing her the
greatest inconvenience. It is a _huge_ cake, and has to be carried
parcelwise, being much too big for the smaller basket they had, and
much too small for the bigger. But Monica--though it is heavy beyond
description (though, I hope, light in every other way for the sake of
Reilly's reputation) and still appallingly _hot_--trudges along with it
bravely, resisting all Kit's entreaties to be allowed to share the
burden.
* * * * *
"Who are those coming towards us through the elms down there?" says Mr.
Kelly, suddenly.
He and Brian Desmond are sitting upon a garden seat outside the
dining-room windows, enjoying an after dinner cigar.
"There?" says Brian, following his glance. "Eh?--What?" There is a
second pause, then, rising to his feet with much precipitancy, he flings
his cigar to the winds, and, before Owen has time to recover from his
astonishment at these proceedings, is well out of sight. A turn in the
lawn has hidden Brian and the advancing figures from his view.
"Monica!" says Desmond, as he reaches her; "what has brought you here at
this hour? My darling! how pale and tired you look!"
"She has been much perturbed," says Kit, solemnly. She has been
meditating this remark for some time.
"We heard all about last night," murmurs Monica, with a sweet troubled
face, out of which her eyes look into his, full of a tender pathos, like
violets drowned. "And you were not at the river this afternoon, and so I
came here to find you, and----" Her voice trembles ominously.
"I was obliged to be with the sergeant and the other men all day," says
Desmond, hurriedly. "Do not blame me, my _love_. When I went to the
river towards evening it was then of course too late. I meant to go up
to Moyne when the moon was up----But what have you got there, dearest?"
pointing to the enormous thing she is still holding tightly to her
breast.
She colors and hesitates; seeing which, the faithful Kit comes once more
to the rescue.
"It's a cake!" she says, with a nod of her sleek head. "We knew of you
being boycotted, and we thought you would be hungry, so we brought it to
you. But," eyeing him with disfavor, and as one might who feels herself
considerably _done_, "you are evidently not. You are looking just the
same as ever, and not a bit _pinched_ or _drawn_, as people are when
they are found starved in garrets."
"Yes, I was afraid you would get nothing to eat," says Monica, timidly.
There is in her lovely eyes a certain wistfulness suggestive of the
idea that she hopes her cake has not been made in vain.
Mr. Desmond, seeing it, grasps the situation.
"I _am_ hungry," he says; and I hope, and think, the gentle lie will be
forgiven him. "We have had nothing in the house all day but bread, and
that is not appetizing."
"_There!_" says Monica, turning to Kit with sparkling eyes, "I _told_
you he wouldn't like bread."
"But," goes on Desmond, with a view to making her future happier,
"to-morrow all will be right again. We know of a few faithful people who
will smuggle us in all we may require. So do not be unhappy about me
again. Sweetheart, what a terrible weight you have been carrying!"
"It _is_ a fine one, isn't it?" says Kit. "But give it to me now,
Monica," taking the cake from her, "while you talk to Brian: when you
are ready to come home, I can give it to him."
So saying, this inestimable child withdraws herself and Monica's
offering to a safe distance, and pretends for the remainder of the
interview an absorbing interest in some wild flowers growing near.
"I have only a moment to stay," says Monica, nervously. "I shall be
missed; and now I have _seen_ you safe and unhurt," with a very sweet
smile, "I shall be able to sleep. But all day long I have been haunted
by timid thoughts," she sighs.
"I doubt it was a sorry day for you, that first one when we met," says
Desmond, remorsefully. "I have brought you only trouble. By and by you
will regret you ever knew me."
"Do not say that. I have no regrets,--none! Even if--if--we cannot be--"
reddening vividly, "more to each other than we are now, I can still be
happy in the thought that you love me and are near me, and that I can
sometimes, in spite of _every one_--" with a recklessness that sits very
funnily upon her--"see you."
"But we shall be more to each other, Monica," says the young man,
earnestly. "We shall be all in all to each other. No human being has the
right to separate two hearts for the sake of a mere whim."
"There are so many things. But now, indeed, I must go. Good-night."
"Good-night, my own. But I shall go with you as far as the boundary
fence."
"No, no, indeed!"
"But indeed I shall!" and of course he has his own way, and parts from
her and Kit there, and answers her parting injunction "to take care of
himself for _her_ sake"--this last very low--with a lingering lover's
kiss, and watches the two slight figures with a beating heart, until
they are out of sight.
Then, picking up the cake, he goes back again to where Mr. Kelly is
still awaiting him.