Rossmoyne Part 30

"You mean----"

"Love!"

"_Is_ there such a thing?" says Monica, wistfully, whereupon Mr. Kelly says to himself, "Now, what on earth has that fellow been doing to her?"

but aloud he says, in his usual subdued tones,--

"I don't know, I'm sure, but they say so, and perhaps they, whoever they may be, are right. If so, I think it is a dangerous subject to discuss with _you_. Let us skip it, and go on. You haven't told me why you are not dancing with Desmond."

"_Why_ should I dance with Mr. Desmond?"

"Because it is not always easy to have a refusal ready, perhaps, or----He has asked you?"

She would have given a good deal at this instant to be able to answer "No;" but the remembrance of how he pleaded with her for one waltz that evening at the end of the Moyne meadow comes between her and her desire.

So she says, "Yes," instead.

"And you would none of him?"

"_No._"

"It isn't my part to ask why," says Kelly, with quite a miserable air; "but still I cannot help wondering how _any one_ can dislike Desmond."

No answer. Miss Beresford is looking straight before her, but her color is distinctly higher, and there is a determination about her not to be cajoled into speech, that is unmistakable. Having studied her for a little, Mr. Kelly goes on,--

"I never know whether it is Desmond's expression or manner that is so charming, therefore I conclude it is both. Have you noticed what a peculiarly lovable way he has with him? But of course not, as, somehow he has the misfortune to jar upon you. Yet very few hate him. You see, you are that excellent thing, an exception."

"I do not hate him," says Monica; and, having thus unlocked her lips against her inclination, she feels Owen Kelly of Kelly's Grove has won the game; but she bears him no ill will for all that. "It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul!"

"No! well, hate is a bitter word, and an unmannerly. I am sorry, then, that you dislike him."

"Not even that."

"You mean, you regard him with indifference!"

"Yes, exactly that," says Monica, with slow deliberation.

"I am sorry for it. He is a man upon whom both men and women smile,--a rare thing,--a very favorite of Fortune."

"She is fickle."

"She may well be dubbed so, indeed, if she deserts him at his sorest need. But as yet she is faithful, as she ought to be, to the kindest, the sincerest fellow upon earth."

"Sincerest?"

As this repet.i.tion, and the fine sneer that accompanies it, escape her, she becomes aware that Desmond himself has come to the foot of the stairs, and is gazing at her reproachfully.

"Here is fickle Fortune's favorite literally at our feet," says Owen Kelly; and, before Monica can say anything, Brian has mounted the two steps that lie between him and her, and is at her side.

"If I may not dance with you, may I at least talk to you for a moment or two?" he says, hurriedly.

"Certainly," with cold surprise.

"I don't think three of us could sit together comfortably on this one step," says Mr. Kelly, with a thoughtful glance at its dimensions,--"not even if we squeezed up to each other ever so much; and I am afraid,"

mournfully, "Miss Beresford might not like that, either. Would you, Miss Beresford?"

"Not much," says Monica. "But why need you stir? Mr. Desmond has asked at the most for two moments; they will go quickly by: in fact,"

unkindly, "I should think they are already gone."

"And yet he has not begun his '_talk_.' Make haste Desmond. Time, tide, and Miss Beresford wait for no man. Hurry! we are all on the tiptoe of expectation." As Mr. Kelly says all this in a breath, he encourages Desmond generously to "come on" by a wave of his hand; whereupon Brian, who is not in his sweetest mood, directs a glance at him that ought to annihilate any ordinary man, but is thrown away upon Kelly, who is fire-proof.

"Some other time, then, as I disturb you now," says Brian, haughtily, addressing himself pointedly to Monica.

"By no means," says his whilom friend, rising. "Take my place for your two moments,--not a second longer, remember! I feel with grief that Miss Beresford will probably hail the exchange of partners with rapture.

'Talk,' says Bacon, 'is but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love;'

and as she would not let me discourse on any topics tenderer than the solar system and the Channel Tunnel, I have no doubt she has found it very slow. Now, _you_ will be the--er--other thing quite!"

With this speech, so full of embarra.s.sing possibilities, he bows to Monica, smiles at the gloomy Desmond, and finally withdraws himself gracefully from their view. Not without achieving his end, however: they both heartily wish him back again even while he is going.

"What have I done?" asks Desmond, abruptly, turning to Monica, who is gazing in a rapt fas.h.i.+on at her large black fan.

"Done?"

"Don't answer me like that, Monica. I have offended you. I can see that.

But how? Every moment of this wretched afternoon, until you came, I spent wondering when you would arrive. And yet when at last I _did_ see you, you would vouchsafe me neither smile nor glance. In fact, you looked as if you _hated_ me!"

"_Every_ moment?" sardonically.

"Every one."

"Even those spent with Mrs. Bohun?" To save her life she could not call her "Olga" now.

"With _her_?" staring in some surprise at his inquisitor. "Well, it certainly wasn't quite so bad--the waiting, I mean--then. Though still, with my mind full of you, I was----"

"You were indeed!" interrupting him hastily, with a contemptuous smile.

"Certainly I was," the surprise growing deeper.

"I wonder you are not ashamed to sit there and confess it," says Miss Beresford, suddenly, with a wrathful flash in her eyes. "I shall know how to believe you again. To say one thing to me one day, and another thing to another person another day, and----" Here she finds a difficulty in winding up this extraordinary speech, so she says, hurriedly, "It is _horrible_!"

"What is horrible?" bewildered.

But she pays no heed to his question, thinking it doubtless beneath her.

"At least," she says, with fine scorn, "you needn't be untruthful."

"Do you know," says Mr. Desmond, desperately, "you are making the most wonderful remarks I ever heard in my life? There is no beginning to them, and I'm dreadfully afraid there will be no ending."

"No doubt," scornfully, "you are afraid."

"If I allow I am," says Desmond, humbly, "will it induce you to explain?"