Rossmoyne Part 44

The h.o.a.ry-headed butler being, like Caesar's wife, above suspicion, the Misses Blake are pulled up pretty short,--so short, indeed, that they forget to ask if any one besides the respectable Timothy was at the obnoxious back gate. Perhaps had they known that the smith's son, and two or three other young men, had been there, and that all had been talking the most violent politics, their fears for Terence's morality would have increased rather than diminished.

As it is, they are well pleased.

"But why didn't you say that at once, my dear boy? We are so afraid of your mixing with evil companions."

Terence thinks of the smith's son, and his unqualified opinion that all landlords and aristocrats and sovereigns should be "stamped out," and wonders if _he_ would come under the category of evil companions, but he wisely refrains from speech.

"And," says Miss Penelope, softly, "why didn't you tell us before leaving the house where you were going? I am sure, if you had, both your aunt Priscilla and I would have been delighted _to go with you_, busy though we were."

This is the climax. Again in Terence's fevered imagination the smith's son arises, wielding his brawny brown arm like a sledge-hammer, as he noisily lays down the laws of extermination: he can see himself, too, joining in the fray, and defying the smith's son's opinion with an eloquence of which he had been only proud. He feels he is deceiving these two old ladies, and is angry with himself for doing it, and still more angry with them for making him do it.

"I am glad we have heard the truth at _last_, Terence," says Miss Priscilla. "There is nothing so mean or contemptible as a lie."

"You are enough to make _any_ fellow tell a lie," bursts out Terence, with miserable rage, "with your questionings and pryings!"

At this awful speech, the two Misses Blake burst into tears, and Terence dashes in a fury from the room.

CHAPTER XVI.

How the afternoon at Moyne proves a great success--How Olga Bohun is led into a half confession, and how Monica, growing restless, seeks a dubious solitude.

"It is quite the loveliest old place in the world!" says Mrs. Bohun, in her soft plaintive voice, speaking very enthusiastically. "We ought to be more than grateful to you, dear Miss Blake, for letting us see it."

Miss Priscilla reddens with suppressed satisfaction but says,--

"Tut tut, my dear! It is only a funny old-fas.h.i.+oned spot, after all," in quite an off-hand manner.

It is Friday,--_the_ Friday,--as the Misses Blake have been thinking of it for days, in fear and trembling, as being the date of their first hospitable venture for many years.

All the Aghyohillbeg party, and the men from Clonbree Barracks, and some other neighbors, are strolling through the sweet antiquated gardens of Moyne, hedged with yews fantastically cut. The roses, white and red and yellow, are nodding their heads lazily, bowing and courtesying to the pa.s.sing breeze. The stocks and mignonette are filling the air with perfume. Tall lilies are smiling from distant corners, and the little merry burn, tumbling over its gray boulders through the garden, is singing a loud and happy song, in which the birds in the trees above join heartily.

The lazy hum of many insects makes one feel even more perceptibly how drowsy-sweet is all the summer air.

Mrs. Bohun has now flitted away with Monica, who in her white gown looks the prettiest flower of all, in this "wilderness of sweets," with the tall, infatuated Ryde and handsome young Ronayne in their train. Mrs.

Bohun, who is in one of her most mischievous moods to-day, has taken it into her head to snub Lord Rossmoyne and be all that is of the sweetest to Ulic Ronayne, a proceeding her cousin, Mrs. Herrick, regards with dismay.

Not so, however, does Bella Fitzgerald regard it. She, tall, and with a would-be stately air, walks through the grounds at Lord Rossmoyne's side, to whom she has attached herself, and who, _faute de mieux_, makes himself as agreeable as he can to her, considering how he is inwardly raging at what he is pleased to term Olga's disgraceful behavior.

Miss Priscilla has now been seized upon by Madam O'Connor and carried off for a private confab.

"And you really _must_ let her come to us for a week, my dear," says Madam O'Connor, in her fine rich brogue. "Yes, now, really I want her.

It will be quite a favor. I can't withstand a pretty face, as you well know 'tis a weakness of mine, my dear, and she is really a pearl. Olga Bohun is talking of getting up tableaux or some such nonsense, and she wants your pretty child to help us."

"I should like her to go to you. It is very kind of you," says Miss Priscilla, but with unmistakable hesitation.

"Now, what is it? Out with it, Priscilla!" says Madam O'Connor, bluntly.

Miss Priscilla struggles with herself for yet another minute, and then says, quickly,--

"That young man Desmond,--will _he_ be staying in your house?"

"Not if you object, my dear," says Mrs. O'Connor, kindly; "though I do think it is a pity to thwart that affair. He is as nice and as pleasant a young fellow as I know, and would make a jewel of a husband; and money--say what you like, my dear Priscilla--is always something. It ranks higher than _revenge_."

"There is no revenge. It is only a just resentment."

"Well, I'll call it by any name you like, my dear, but I must say----"

"I must beg, Gertrude, you will not discuss this unhappy subject," says Miss Priscilla, with some agitation.

"Well, I won't, there. Then let it lie," says Madam O'Connor, good-humoredly. "And tell me, now, if I come over to fetch Monica on Monday, will she be ready for me?"

"Quite ready. But we have not consulted her yet," says Miss Priscilla, clinging to a broken reed.

"Olga is talking to her about it. And, if she's the girl she _looks_, she'll be glad of a change, and the chance of a sweetheart," says Madam O'Connor, gayly.

"What lovely lilies!" says Mrs. Bohun, standing before a tall white group.

"Oh, don't!" says Owen Kelly, who has joined her and Monica. "Whenever I hear a lily mentioned I think of Oscar Wilde, and it hurts very much."

"I like Oscar Wilde. He is quite nice, and _very_ amusing," says Olga.

"I wonder if I could make my hair grow," says Mr. Kelly, meditatively.

"He's been very clever about his; but I suppose somebody taught him."

"Well, I think long hair is dirty," says Mrs. Bohun, with an abstracted glance at Ronayne's lightly-shaven head.

Then, as though tired of her sweet _role_ and of its object (Ronayne) and everything, she turns capriciously aside, and, motioning away the men with her hand and a small frown, sits down at Hermia Herrick's feet and plucks idly at the gra.s.ses near her.

"So we are dismissed," says Kelly, shrugging his shoulders. Monica has disappeared long ago with the devoted Ryde. "Your queen has her tempers, Ronayne."

"There are few things so cloying as perfection," says Ronayne, loyally.

"I entirely agree with you,--so much so that I hope Providence will send me an ugly wife. She--I beg your pardon--Mrs. Bohun does pretty much what she likes with you, doesn't she?"

"Altogether what she likes. She's been doing it for so long now that I suppose she'll go on to the end of the chapter. I hope it will be a long one. Do you know," says the young man, with a rather sad little laugh, "it sounds of course rather a poor thing to say, but I really think it makes me _happy_, being done what she likes with?"

"It is only to oblige a friend that I should seek to understand such a hopelessly involved sentence as that," says Mr. Kelly, wearily. "But I have managed it. You're as bad a case as ever I came across, Ronayne, and I pity you. But, 'pon my soul, I respect you too," with a flash of admiration: "there is nothing like being thoroughly in earnest. And so I wish you luck in your wooing."

"You're a very good fellow, Kelly," says Ronayne gratefully.

In the mean time, Olga, tiring of tearing her gra.s.ses to pieces, looks up at Hermia.