Rossmoyne

Be assured no minutest detail is forgotten; Miss Penelope is soon in possession of every smallest look and word connected with it, and deeply gratifying is the manner in which the great news is received by that gentle maiden.

"Though late in the day, Penelope," says Miss Priscilla, as a sort of wind-up to her recital, "it was an offer of marriage any woman might be proud of, be she young or old; and he meant it, too. He was quite pressing. Twice he asked me, although my first was a most decided 'No.'"

"It seems terrible, your having been so cold to him, poor fellow!" says Miss Penelope, with a regretful sigh for the griefs of the rejected Desmond.

"What could I do?" says Miss Priscilla, with an air of self-defence. This thought, that she can actually be accused of having treated the sterner sex in a hardhearted fashion, is cakes and ale to her.

"We must not talk of this, Penelope," she says, presently. "It would be unfair. It must never transpire through us that George Desmond laid his heart and fortune at my feet only to be rejected."

To her these old-world phrases sound grand and musical and full of fire and sentiment.

"No, no," says Miss Penelope, acquiescing freely, yet with a sigh; she would have dearly liked to tell her gossips of this honor that has been done her dear Priscilla. And, after all, she has her wish, for the story gets about, spread by the hero of it himself.

The squire, tired, no doubt, of keeping secrets, and perhaps (but this in a whisper) grateful to her because of her refusal, goes about everywhere, and tells people far and near of his offer; so that when their friends flock to Moyne, and, giving The Desmond as their authority for it, accuse Miss Priscilla of her refusal, and she still, with maidenly modesty, parries their questions, Miss Penelope, feeling herself absolved from further reticence, comes to the front and gives them a full and true account of the wonderful event.

"Yes, Priscilla might indeed have reigned as queen at Coole had she so wished it, and well graced the position too," winds up Miss Penelope, on all these occasions, with much pride and dignity.

Brian, who had been busy all the morning swearing informations, and so forth, with Mr. Kelly and the groom, before magistrates and others, coming into his uncle's room about half an hour after Miss Blake's departure, finds him considerably better both in mind and in body, though feeble in spirit, as is only natural. Indeed, the bullet had done him little harm, causing merely a flesh-wound, but the shock had been severe to a man of his years.

"Come here, Brian; I want to tell you something," he says, as the young man leans over him.

"You are not to talk," says his nephew, peremptorily.

"If you won't listen to me, I'll send for Bailey, the steward," says the squire. "Nonsense! it does me good." And then he tells him all the particulars of Miss Priscilla's visit relating to his engagement with Katherine Beresford, with one reservation.

"It is all right between us now," he says, in a pleased tone. "She told me everything, and it appears we were both sadly taken in, though I don't wish to say anything against her even now. I daresay she had her own grievances, poor soul; and indeed Priscilla said – "

Here he pauses, and a guilty flush covers his pale face. He hesitates, and then beckons Brian to come even nearer.

"Look you, lad! I'm not quite at ease even yet. There's something wrong here!" laying his hand upon his heart.

"Is it pain?" asks his nephew, anxiously. "I told you you were talk – "

"No, no, boy. It's only mental pain. I want to be ashamed of myself, and I can't. I'm feeling a satisfaction about something that I shouldn't. It's not right, Brian. It's not a gentlemanly feeling, but I can't curb it. The more I think of it, the more pleased I feel. Eh? You don't look as if you understood me."

"I don't, much," confesses Brian, seating himself on the edge of the bed. "You see, you haven't told me what it is all about."

"It is about Katherine Beresford. Priscilla told me, and I should like to tell you. I say, Brian, you won't throw it in my teeth, now, when I'm better, eh?"

"I swear I won't," says Brian.

"Well, she told me Katherine had a regular devil of a life with her husband, and I'm glad of it! There!" says the squire; after which disgraceful confession he regularly scrambles under the bedclothes, with a view to hiding his shame and his exultation from public view.

Brian fairly roars with laughter. At the sound of his welcome mirth, the old man slowly emerges from the sheets again, and looks at him doubtfully, but with growing hope.

"She had the best of it, of course; any one would have the best of it with James Beresford," he says. "But she couldn't have been altogether comfortable; that's what I mean. I don't want you to think I should rejoice at her having received bad treatment at her husband's hands. He had all the bad treatment to himself, I expect."

"So do I," says Brian, who is laughing still.

"And you don't think so badly of me for it?" says the Squire, anxiously.

"Not I," says Brian.

"Still, it's rather a mean sort of feeling, isn't it, now? It's very low – eh?"

"Low or not," says Brian, with decision, "I'm perfectly certain if it was my case I should feel just like that myself."

"You're the comfort of my life, Brian," says his uncle, gratefully; and then he indulges in a covert smile himself, after which he drops off into a slumber, sound and refreshing.

CHAPTER XXX

How Madam O'Connor gives her opinion on certain subjects – How Fay electrifies an entire audience – And how Olga makes up her mind.

It is growing towards evening, and as yet at Aghyohillbeg they have not grown tired of discussing the terrible event of last night.

"When I called just now, Priscilla Blake was with him," says Madam O'Connor. "Brian told me The Desmond had sent for her. I suppose the old quarrel about Katherine will be patched up now, and I shouldn't wonder if our two lovers, Monica and Brian, get married quite comfortably and in the odor of sanctity, after all."

"I suppose they couldn't have managed it without the old people's consent," says Mrs. Herrick, who is rocking herself lazily to and fro in a huge American chair.

"Nonsense, my dear!" says Madam, throwing up her chin. "Accredit them with some decent spirit, I beg of you. Of course they would have got married whether or not, – there is nothing like opposition for that kind of thing, and no doubt would have enjoyed it all the more for the fun of the thing, because there must be an excitement in a runaway match unknown to the orthodox affair."

"I don't think I should like to run away," says Olga Bohun; "there is always a difficulty about one's clothes."

"What's the good of being in love if you can't get over a few paltry obstacles?" says Madam, whose heart is still young. "Well, I expect we shall have a gay wedding here before long, and be able to give that pretty child our presents without any trouble."

"How long the day has been!" says Olga, with a little affected yawn, meant to reduce Ulic Ronayne to despair, who is sitting in a distant window touching up one of her paintings. "I don't know when I have been so bored, – no one to speak to. Madam, darling, you shall never go out again without me; remember that. Nobody has called, – I suppose they are afraid of being shot, – not even Owen Kelly; and one would like to see him and Brian, to make sure they are all there."

"Talk of somebody," says Madam, looking out of the window, "here comes Owen."

As Olga puts her hand in his presently, she says, laughing, —

"Madam O'Connor says you are, in polite language, his sable majesty himself. So you must be, to escape as you did last night. Now tell us all about it. We have heard so many garbled accounts that a real one will set our minds at rest."

Then he tells them all about it, dropping as though unconsciously into a low chair very close to Hermia's.

"So, you see," he says, when he had finished, "it might have been a very sensational affair, and covered us all with glory, only it didn't."

"I think it did," says Mrs. Herrick, gently. She doesn't raise her eyes from her work to say this, but knits calmly on; only a very careful observer could have noticed the faint trembling of her fingers, or the quivering of her long, downcast lashes.

"How can you say such a thing, Owen?" says Olga. "Look at all the cases we have known where the assassins have got away quite free, and here we have the principal secured."

"Yes, that was very clever of Brian," says Mr. Kelly.

"Did he capture him, then, single-handed? Were not you with him? Were you in no danger of your life, too?" exclaims Hermia, with such unwonted animation that every one looks at her. She takes no notice of their regard, but fixes her kindling eyes on Kelly, who, in returning her mute protest, forgets that any other more open answer may be required of him. Then she lets her eyes fall from his, and her face grows calm and statuesque again, and only the rapid clicking of her needles show the perturbation of the mind within.

"Did the fellow give you much trouble, Kelly?" asks Ronayne, who in his secret soul is bitterly regretful he had not been on the scene of action.

"Not he, the fool!" says Mr. Kelly, with something approaching a smile. "Brian fired his revolver and grazed his arm slightly, – a mere scratch, you will understand, – and the miserable creature rolled upon the ground, doubled himself in two, and, giving himself up as dead, howled dismally. Not knowing at that time that the poor squire was hurt, Brian and I roared with laughter: we couldn't help it, the fellow looked so absurd."

They all laugh at this, but presently Olga, holding up her finger, says, seriously, —

"Owen, recollect yourself. You said you laughed. Oh! it can't be true."

"I regret to say it is," says Mr. Kelly, with intensest self-abasement. "For once I forgot myself; I really did do it; but it shan't occur again. The exquisite humor of the moment was too much for me. I hope it won't be placed to my account, and that in time you will all forgive me my one little lapse."

"Well, Owen, you are the drollest creature," says Madam O'Connor, with a broad sweet smile, that is copied by Olga and Ronayne. Mrs. Herrick remains unmoved, and her needles go faster and faster: Mr. Kelly stares at them uneasily.

"They'll give out sparks in another minute or so," he says, warningly, "and if they do there will be a general conflagration. Spare me that: I have had enough excitement for a while."

Mrs. Herrick lets her knitting fall into her lap.

"The squire may be thankful he got off so easily," says Madam O'Connor at this moment.

"He may, indeed," says Kelly. "Fay," to the child who is standing at a distance gazing thoughtfully with uplifted head at the blue sky without, "what are you wondering about now?"

The child turns upon him her large blue eyes, blue as Nankin china, and answers him in clear sweet tones, indifferent to the fact that every one in the room is regarding her.

"I was wondering," she says, truthfully, "why Ulic says his prayers to Olga."

A most disconcerting silence follows this speech. Madam hums a tune; Mrs. Herrick loses herself in her knitting; but Mr. Kelly, who is always alive, says "Eh?"

"I saw him," says Fay, dreamily.

Olga, who is as crimson as the heart of a red rose, makes here a frantic but subdued effort to attract the child's attention; Mr. Kelly, however, gets her adroitly on to his knees before she can grasp the meaning of Olga's secret signals.

"Where did you see him?" he says, mildly.

"In the summer-house, this morning. He was kneeling down before her, just as I kneel to mamma, and he had his head in her lap, and he was whispering his prayers. I could not hear what he said." At this instant an expression of the most devout thankfulness overspreads Mrs. Bohun's features. "But they were very long prayers; and I think he was sorry for something he had done."

"I haven't a doubt of it," says Mr. Kelly, mournfully. "Go on, my child."

"I'm not your child; I'm mamma's," says Fay, firmly; but, having so far vindicated her mother's character, she goes on with her tale: "When he got up he didn't look a bit better," she says. "He looked worse, I think. Didn't you, Ulic?" addressing the stricken young man in the window. "And I always thought it was only children who said their prayers to people, and not the grown-up ones. And why did he choose Olga? Wasn't there mamma? And wasn't there Madam? You would have let him say his prayers to you, Madam, wouldn't you?" turning placidly to her hostess.

"I should have been only too charmed, – too highly flattered," says Madam, in a stifled tone; and then she gives way altogether, and breaks into a gay and hearty laugh, under cover of which Olga beats an ignominious retreat.

Mr. Ronayne, feeling rather than seeing that his colleague in this disgraceful affair has taken flight, puts down his brushes softly and jumps lightly from the open window to the grass beneath. Then with a speed that belongs to his long limbs, he hurries towards that corner of the house that will lead him to the hall door: as he turns it, he received Olga almost in his arms.

"You here?" she says. "Oh, that terrible child!"

"She didn't understand, poor little soul." And then, as though the recollection overcomes him, he gives away to uncontrollable mirth.

"Such unseemly levity!" says Mrs. Bohun, in a disgusted tone; but, after the vaguest hesitation, she laughs too.

"Come to the orchard," says Ronayne; and to the orchard they go. Here, finding a rustic seat at the foot of a gnarled and moss-grown apple-tree, they take possession of it.

"It is very unfortunate," says Olga, with a sigh. Her fair hair is being blown like a silver cloud hither and thither and renders her distractingly pretty.

"You mean our betrayal by that child?"

"Yes. I hope it will cure you of ever being so silly as to go on your knees to any woman again."

"I shall never go on my knees to any woman but you, whether you accept or reject me."

"I am sure I don't know how I am ever to face those people inside again." Here she puts one dainty little finger to her lips and bites it cruelly.

"There is nothing remarkable in having one's accepted lover at one's feet."

"But you are not that," she says, lifting her brows and seeming half amused at his boldness.

"By one word you can make me so."

"Can I? What is the word?"

This is puzzling; but Mr. Ronayne, nothing daunted says, —

"You have only to say, 'you are,' and I am."

"It isn't Christmas yet," says Mrs. Bohun: "you shouldn't throw conundrums at me out of season. It is too much? 'you are and I am.' I couldn't guess it, indeed; I'm anything but clever."

"If you say the 'I will,' you will find the solution to our conundrum at once."

"But that is two words."

"Olga, does the fact that I love you carry no weight with it at all."

"But do you love me —really?"

"Need I answer that?"

"But there are others, younger, prettier."

"Nonsense! There is no one prettier than you in this wide world."

"Ah!" with a charming smile, "now indeed I believe you do love me, for the Greek Cupid is blind. What a silly boy you are to urge this matter! For one thing I am older than you."

"A year or two."

"For another – "

"I will not listen. 'Stony limits cannot hold love out:' why, therefore, try to discourage me?"

"But you should think – "

"I think only that if you will say what I ask you, I shall be always with you, and you with me."

"What is your joy is my fear. Custom creates weariness! And – 'the lover in the husband may be lost!'"

"Ah! you have thought of me in that light," exclaims the young man, eagerly. "Beloved if you will only take me, you shall find in me both a lover and husband until your life's end."

The smile has died from Olga's lips; she holds out her hands to him.

"So be it," she says gravely.

"You mean it?" says Ronayne, as yet afraid to believe in his happiness.

"Yes. But if ever you repent blame yourself."

"And if you repent?"

"I shall blame you too," she says, with a sudden return to her old archness.

"And you will refuse Rossmoyne?"

She laughs outright at this, and glances at him from under drooping lashes.

"I can't promise that," she says, with carefully simulated embarrassment – "because – "

"What?" haughtily, moving away from her.

"I did so yesterday."

"Oh, darling, how cruelly I misjudged you! I thought – I feared – "

"Never mind all that. I know – I forgive you. I've a lovely temper," says Olga, with self-gratulation.

"Why did you refuse him? Was it," hopefully, "because you didn't like him?"

"N – o. Not so much that – as – " again this shameless coquette hesitates, and turns her head uneasily from side to side, as though afraid to give utterance to the truth.

"What? Explain, Olga," says her lover, in a fresh agony.

"As that I —loved you!" returns she, with a heavenly smile.

His arms close round her, and at this moment she lets all her heart be seen by him. The mocking light dies out of her eyes, her face grows earnest. She lets her heart beat with happy unrestraint against his. The minutes fly, but time was never made to be counted by blissful lovers.

A gong sounding in the distance rouses them from their contented dreaming.

"I must go and tell Hermia," she says, starting to her feet: "that is the dressing-bell."

"You won't let her influence you against me?"

"Nobody could do that." She moves away from him, and then runs back to him again and lays her arms round his neck.

"You are more to me now than Hermia and the world!" she says, softly.

Yet presently, when she finds herself in Hermia's calm presence, her courage somewhat fails her. It is not that she for a moment contemplates the idea of having to give up her lover, but she is afraid of her cousin's cold disparagement of both him and her.

"I have just promised to marry Ulic," she says, plunging without preface into her story, with a boldness born of nervous excitement.

"To marry him! Why, I thought you looked upon him as a mere boy! Your 'baby,' you used to call him."

"Probably that is why I have accepted him. A baby should not be allowed to roam the world at large without some one to look after him."

"Do you love him, Olga?"

"Yes, I do," says Olga, defiantly. "You may scold me if you like, but a title isn't everything, and he is worth a dozen of that cold, stiff Rossmoyne."

"Well, dearest, as you have given him the best part of you, – your heart, – it is as well the rest should follow," says Mrs. Herrick, tenderly. "Yes, I think you will be very happy with him."

This speech is so strange, so unexpected, so exactly unlike anything she had made up her mind to receive, that for a moment Olga is stricken dumb. Then with a rush she comes back to glad life.

"'Do I wake? do I dream? are there visions about?'" she says. "Why, what sentiments from you! You have 'changed all that,' apparently."

"I have," says Hermia, very slowly, yet with a vivid blush. Something in her whole manner awakes suspicion of the truth in Olga's mind.

"Why," she says, "you don't mean to tell me that – Oh, no! it can't be true! and yet – I verily believe you have —Is it so, Hermia?"

"It is," says Hermia, who has evidently, by help of some mental process of her own, understood all this amazing farrago of apparently meaningless words.

There is a new sweetness on Mrs. Herrick's lips. One of her rare smiles lights up all her calm, artistic face.

"After all your vaunted superiority!" says Olga, drawing a deep sigh. "Oh, dear!" Then, with a wicked but merry imitation of Mrs. Herrick's own manner to her, she goes on! —

"You are throwing yourself away, dearest. The world will think nothing of you for the future; and you, so formed to shine, and dazzle, and – "

"He will be a baronet at his father's death," says Mrs. Herrick, serenely, with a heavy emphasis on the first pronoun; and then suddenly, as though ashamed of this speech, she lets her mantle drop from her, and cries, with some tender passion, —

"I don't care about that. Hear the truth from me. If he were as ugly and poor as Mary Browne's Peter, I should marry him all the same, just because I love him!"

"Oh, Hermia, I am so glad," says Olga. "After all what is there in the whole wide world so sweet as love? And as for Rossmoyne, – why, he couldn't make a tender speech to save his life as it should be made; whilst Ulic —oh he's charming!"

CHAPTER XXXI

How Monica's heart fails her; and how at last Hope (whose name is Brian) comes back to her through the quivering moonlight.

And now night has fallen at last upon this long day. A gentle wind is shivering through the elms; a glorious moon has risen in all its beauty, and stands in "heaven's wide, pathless way," as though conscious of its grandeur, yet sad for the sorrows of the seething earth beneath. Now clear, now resplendent she shines, and now through a tremulous mist shows her pure face, and again for a space is hidden,

"As if her head she bow'dStooping through a fleecy cloud."

Miss Priscilla, with a sense of now-found dignity upon her, has gone early to bed. Miss Penelope has followed suit. Terence, in the privacy of his own room, is rubbing a dirty oily flannel on the bright barrels of his beloved gun, long since made over to him as a gift by Brian.

Kit is sitting on the wide, old-fashioned window-seat in Monica's room at her sister's feet, and with her thin little arms twined lovingly round her. She is sleepy enough, poor child, but cannot bear to desert Monica, who is strangely wakeful and rather silent and distraite. For ever since the morning when he had come to carry Miss Priscilla to Coole, Brian has been absent from her; not once has he come to her; and a sense of chill and fear, as strong as it is foolish, is overpowering her.

She rouses herself now with a little nervous quiver that seems to run through all her veins and lets her hand fall on Kit's drooping head.

"It grows very late. Go to bed, darling," she says, gently.

"Not till you go," says Kit, tightening the clasp of her arms.

"Well, that shall be in a moment, then," says Monica, with a stifled sigh. All through the dragging day and evening she has clung to the thought that surely her lover will come to bid her "good-night." And now it is late, and he has not come, and —

She leans against the side of the wide-open casement, and gazes in sad meditation upon the slumbering garden underneath. The lilies, – "tall white garden-lilies," – though it is late in the season now, and bordering on snows and frosts, are still swaying to and fro, and giving most generously a rich perfume to the wondering air. Earth's stars they seem to her, as she lifts her eyes to compare them with the "forget-me-nots of the angels," up above.

Her first disappointment about her love is desolating her. She leans her head against the woodwork, and lifts her eyes to the vaguely-tinted sky. Thus, with face upturned, she drinks in the fair beauty of the night, and, as its beauty grows upon her, her sorrow deepens.

"With how sad steps, O moon! thou climb'st the skies!How silently, and with how wan a face,Thou feel'st a lover's case!I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace,To me, that feel the like, thy state descries."

As she watches the pale moon, Sidney's sad words return to her. Just now Diana is resting in a path of palest azure, whilst all around her clouds, silver-tinged, are lying out from her, trembling in mid-air.

Great patches of moonlight lie upon the garden sward. One seems brighter than its fellows, and as her eyes slowly sink from heaven to earth they rest upon it, as though attracted unconsciously by its brilliancy. And, even as she looks, a shadow falls athwart it, and then a low, quick cry breaks from her lips.