Rossmoyne

"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.

CHAPTER IX

How Terry is put in the Dock – And how the two Misses Blake baffle expectation, and show themselves in their true colors.

Monica and Kit reach the house in breathless haste. It is far later than they imagined when lingering in happy dalliance in the flower-crowned field below, and yet not really late for a sultry summer evening. But the Misses Blake are fearful of colds, and expect all the household to be in at stated hours; and the Misses Beresford are fearful of scoldings, carrying, as they do, guilty hearts within their bosoms.

"Conscience makes cowards of us all;" and the late secret interview with Brian Desmond has lowered the tone of their courage to such an extent that they scarcely dare to breathe as they creep into their aunts' presence.

The lamps are lighting in the drawing-room as they enter, though the windows are open, and Dies pater, the all-great, is still victorious over Nox. The Misses Blake both start and look up as they come in, and show general symptoms of relief which is not reciprocated by the culprits. Mrs. Mitchell, the nurse, who has followed almost on their heels, stands in the doorway, with bayonets fixed, so to speak, seeing there is every chance of an engagement. It may be as well to remark here that Mitchell has not "got on" with the Misses Blake, having rooted opinions of her own not to be lightly laid aside. The Misses Blake's opinions have also a home in very deep soil, so that the "give-and-take" principle is not in force between them and the foreign nurse, as they term Jane Mitchell, though she was bred and born on Devonshire soil.

"Mitchell," say the Misses Blake in confidence to each other, "is not altogether what one would desire in a servant assigned to the care of children. She is not nice in many ways; there is far too much of the fine lady about her," etc.

"H'elderly ladies as 'asn't been to the h'altar," says Mrs. Mitchell in confidence to cook, "can't be supposed to know what is right and proper for motherless lambs." And so the war rages.

Just now Mrs. Mitchell is plainly on the defensive, and eyes her baby – as she still calls Kit (having nursed her) – with all the air of one prepared to rush in and rescue her by bodily force, should the worst come to the worst.

"My dear Monica, what a late hour to be abroad!" says Miss Priscilla, reproachfully. "The dew falling, too, which is most unwholesome. For you, Kit, a mere child, it is really destruction. Nurse, as you are there," regarding the bony Mitchell with distrust and disfavor, "I think it as well to let you know I do not think this is a proper time for Miss Katherine to be in the open air. It is far too late."

"It isn't late, miss. It is only nine o'clock."

"Nine o'clock! What is the woman thinking about? Nine! why, that means night?"

"Not at this time of the year, miss."

"At any time of year. With all the experience you say you have had, I wonder you do not consider it a most injurious hour for a child of Miss Katherine's age to be out of doors."

"I don't hold with making a child puny, miss. Coddling up, and that sort, only leads to consumptions and assmas, in my humble opingion."

"I must request that for the future you will show deference to our opinion, nurse; which is directly opposed to yours," says Miss Priscilla, straightening herself.

"I suppose I can manage my own young lady, miss," says Mitchell, undaunted, and now, indeed, thoroughly braced for conflict.

"I have grave doubts about that, Mitchell, and at least you should not answer me in this wise."

"If I brought my young lady safely all the way from Jerusalem, miss, I suppose I can take care of her 'ere."

"Her ear?" questions Miss Priscilla, not meaning to be rude at all.

"She means here," says Miss Penelope, in a stage whisper.

"Oh!" says Miss Priscilla, rather shocked at her mistake, which has been accepted by Mitchell as a deliberate insult. "Katherine, go upstairs with Mitchell, and change your shoes and stockings; they must be damp."

"I don't consider Mitchell at all a nice person," says Miss Priscilla, when the door had closed upon that veteran; "but still I hope I did not offend her with that last thoughtless slip of mine. But really, over here in Ireland, we are not accustomed to the extraordinary language in which Mitchell indulges at times. She seems to me to be saving up her aspirates for a hypothetical dearth of that article in the future."

Miss Priscilla is so pleased with this long word that she quite recovers her temper.

"Certainly, from Jerusalem is a long way to bring a child," says Miss Penelope, thoughtfully; and, indeed, this journey from Palestine has been, and probably always will be, Mrs. Mitchell's trump card when disputing with the mistresses of Moyne.

Miss Priscilla has walked to the window, and is now gazing in thoughtful fashion over the fast darkening landscape. Perhaps her mind is travelling that long journey to Palestine, perhaps it is still occupied with the inimical Mitchell; be that as it may, she keeps her senses well about her, and a keen eye behind her spectacles, because presently she says aloud, in a tone calculated to attract attention, —

"What is that in the meadow, creeping along beneath the ha-ha, Katherine?" – Kit has returned with dry shoes and stockings; – "come here, your eyes are sharper than mine!" which is a distinct libel upon her own orbs.

"Where?" says Kit, recognizing the crouching form of Terry with a pang of terror. Is she to be compelled to inform upon her own brother? Perish the thought!

"Over there," says Miss Priscilla, in an awful tone, pointing to where the luckless Terence is crawling home in the fond belief that he is defying all detection; whereupon Kit, with much presence of mind, looks scrutinizingly in just the opposite direction. "It is somebody carrying a gun. Good gracious! it is remarkably like Terence!"

At this Monica starts perceptibly, and lets the book she is holding fall heavily to the ground.

"Perhaps it is a poacher," says Kit, brightly, her general reading being deeply imbued with those characters.

"Perhaps," says Miss Priscilla, grimly. "Yet I feel sure it is your brother!" Then she throws wide the sash, and calls aloud to the culprit, —

"Terence! Terence, come here!"

At this, Mr. Beresford loses his presence of mind, and stands bolt upright, gun in hand: the words have come to him distinctly across the soft green grass, and fallen upon his ears with dismal distinctness. Throwing up the sponge, he shoulders the offending weapon and marches upon the foe with head erect and banners flying. Even if death is before him (meaning the confiscation of the gun), he vows to himself he will still die game.

"Really, it is Terence," says Miss Penelope, as he approaches; "but where can he have got the gun?"

"I know!" says Miss Priscilla, whereupon Monica feels positively faint.

Feeling she is growing very pale, she rises hurriedly from her seat, and, going to the lower window, so stands that her face cannot be seen.

If Terence is cross-examined, will he tell a lie about the obtaining of the gun? And if he does not, what will happen? what dreadful things will not be said and done by Aunt Priscilla? Her breath comes quickly, and with horror she finds herself devoutly hoping that Terence on this occasion will tell a lie.

By this time Terence has mounted the balcony, and is standing in a somewhat defiant attitude before his inquisitors.

"Where have you been, Terence?" began Miss Priscilla.

"Shooting, aunt."

"And where did you get the gun, Terence?"

Silence.

"You certainly had no gun yesterday, and none this morning, as far as I can judge. Now we want the truth from you, Terence, but we do not wish to coerce you. Take time, and give us an answer your heart can approve."

Such an answer is evidently difficult to be procured at a moment's notice, because Terence is still dumb.

"I am afraid your nature is not wholly free from deceit, Terence," says Miss Priscilla, sadly. "This hesitation on your part speaks volumes; and such unnecessary deceit, too. Neither your aunt Penelope nor I have any objection to your borrowing a gun if you find such a dangerous weapon needful to your happiness. But why not confide in us?"

"Is it possible she would not be really angry if she knew?" thinks Monica, breathlessly. I regret to say that both Kit and Terence take another view of Miss Blake's speech, and believe it an artful dodge to extract confession.

"I – " says Terence, to gain time, and because speech of some kind at this moment is absolutely necessary – "I didn't think – "

"Of course you didn't think, Terence, or you would not have recorded your poor aunts, in your secret thoughts, as hard-hearted and ungenerous. If you had told us openly that Mitson, the coast-guard, had lent you a gun (as I strongly suspect, and indeed felt sure from the first moment was the case), we should not have been at all angry, only naturally anxious that you should use an instrument of death with caution. But you have no confidence in us, Terence."

Intense relief fills the breasts of the three Beresfords. Remorse that the trusting nature of the old ladies should be so abused touches Monica keenly, but of the other two I must again declare with grief that they feel nothing but a sense of delivery from peril, and no contrition at all for their past suspicions.

"I thought you might be angry, aunt," says Terence. He is looking very dirty indeed, and his hands are grimy, and altogether even Monica cannot bring herself to feel proud of him. There is, too, a covert desire for laughter about him that exasperates her terribly.

"Not angry, my dear; only nervous. I hope you know how to load, and that. I remember a cousin of ours blowing off his first finger and thumb with a powder-horn."

"This is a breech-loader, auntie," says Monica, softly.

"Eh? One of those new-fangled things I have read of. Oh, well, my dear boy, I daresay there is more need for circumspection. Let me look at it. Ah! very handsome, indeed! I had no idea coast-guards were so well supplied; and yet I cling to the old guns that your grandfather used to use."

"Did you shoot anything?" asks Miss Penelope, who has grown quite interested, and regards Terence with a glance of pride.

"Only one thrush," says Terence, drawing the dilapidated corpse from his pocket, "and a sparrow, and one rabbit I fired at and wounded mortally, I know, but it got away into its hole and I lost it."

"Rabbits!" says Miss Priscilla. "Am I to understand – nay, I hope I am not to understand – that you crossed the stile into Coole?"

"There are plenty of rabbits in our own wood," says Terence; "more than I could shoot. I am glad you don't object to my having the gun, auntie."

"I don't, my dear; but I wish you had been more ingenuous with us. Why now, Terence, why do you steal along a field with your back bent as though desirous of avoiding our observation, and with your gun under your coat, as if there was a policeman or a bailiff after you?"

"I was only trying to steal upon a crow, aunt."

"Well, that may be, my dear, but there are ways of doing things. And why put your gun under your coat? I can't think such a fraudulent proceeding necessary even with a crow. Now look here, Terence," illustrating his walk and surreptitious manner of concealing his gun beneath his coat, "does this look nice?"

"If I do it like you, auntie, it looks very nice," says Terence, innocently, but with a malevolent intention.

"What a pity you missed the rabbit, Terry!" says Monica, hurriedly.

"Oh, he is dead now, I'm certain; but I should have liked to bring him home. His leg was broken, and I chased him right through the rushes down below in the furze brake at Coole."

Sensation!

It is too late to redeem his error. "Murder wol out, that see we day by day," says Chaucer, and now, indeed, all the fat is in the fire. The two old ladies draw back from him and turn mute eyes of grief upon each other, while Kit and Monica stare with heavy reproach upon their guilty brother.

The guilty brother returns their glance with interest, and then Miss Priscilla speaks.

"So you went into Coole, after all," she says. "Oh, Terence!"

"I couldn't help it," says Terence, wrathfully. "I wasn't going to let the rabbit go for the sake of a mere whim."

"A mere whim!" Words fail me to convey Miss Priscilla's indignation. "Are you destitute of heart, boy, that you talk thus lightly of a family insult? Oh! shame, shame!"

"I'm very sorry if I have made you unhappy," says Terence, who is really a very good boy and fond. "I didn't mean it, indeed."

But Miss Priscilla appears quite broken-hearted.

"To dream of bringing a rabbit of Coole into this house!" she says, with quite a catch in her voice that brings Miss Penelope into prominent play.

"If, when you came to the stile that leads into Moyne," she says, "you had said to yourself, 'My good aunt, who loves me so dearly, would not wish me to enter this forbidden land,' you would, I hope, have paused, and come back here. But you did not. You went recklessly on, and trod upon ground where your foot is unwelcome."

"Dear Aunt Penelope, do not talk like that," says Monica, entreatingly, slipping her arm around her.

"And this to his poor old aunts who love him so fondly!" says Miss Penelope, in so dismal a voice that the two Misses Blake break into sobs.

"It wouldn't seem so bad if he hadn't equivocated about it," says Miss Priscilla, presently. "But he purposely led us to believe that he had not set his foot on that detested land."

"He has indeed been much to blame," says Miss Penelope. "Terence, what was it it said about lying in the Bible this morning? I am afraid your chapter to-day – that awful chapter about Ananias and Sapphira – did you little good."

A growl from Terence.

"He will be more careful for the future, auntie," says Monica, interpreting the growl after her own gentle fashion. "And now you will forgive him, won't you? After all, any one, even you, might forget about forbidden lands, if you were racing after a rabbit."

The idea of the Misses Blake racing through rushes and gorse after a rabbit strikes Kit as so comical that she forgets everything, and laughs aloud. And then the Misses Blake, who are not altogether without a sense of fun, catching "the humor of it," laugh too, and, drying their eyes, give Terence to understand that he is forgiven.

Just at this moment the door is opened, and Timothy enters, bearing not only an air of mystery with him, but a large envelope.

"Why, what is this at this time of night?" says Miss Priscilla, who is plainly under the impression that, once the lamps are lighted, it is verging on midnight. She takes the envelope from Timothy, and gazes at the huge regimental crest upon it with a judicial expression.

"A sojer brought it, miss. Yes, indeed, ma'am. A-hossback he come, all the way from the Barracks at Clonbree."

Redcoats at Rossmoyne are a novelty, and are regarded by the peasantry with mixed feelings of admiration and contempt. I think the contempt is stronger with Timothy than the admiration.

"From the Barracks?" says Miss Priscilla, slowly, turning and twisting the letter between her fingers, while Monica's heart beats rapidly. It is, it must be the invitation; and what will be the result of it?

"Yes, indeed, miss. I asked him what brought him at this hour, ma'am; but he took me mighty short wid his answer, so I give up me questions."

Never having been able during fifty years to make up his mind whether his mistresses should be addressed as maidens or matrons, Timothy has compromised matters by putting a "miss" and a "ma'am" into every sentence he dedicates to them.

"Ah, an invitation from Captain Cobbett for Friday next – um – um – four to seven – um – um. All of us invited, even Kit," says Miss Priscilla, in a decidedly lively tone.

"Me! am I asked?" cries Kit, excitedly.

"Yes, indeed, you are specially mentioned. Very nice and attentive, I must say, of those young men, particularly when we have not shown them any kindness as yet. I thought that Mr. Ryde a very superior young fellow, with none of the discourteous antipathy to age that disfigures the manners of the youth of the present day. Penelope, my dear, perhaps you had better indite the answer to this. Yours is the pen of a ready writer."