Rossmoyne Part 51

"I have two arranged," she says, "but am distracted about three and four. Will anybody except Mr. Kelly come to my a.s.sistance?"

"Oh, you're jealous because you didn't think of 'Enid' and the carriage-horse yourself," returns that young man, with ineffable disdain,--"or that Dolly Varden affair."

"Well, that last might do,--modified a little," says Olga, brightening.

"Mr. Ryde is enormous enough for anything. Quite an ideal Hugh."

"Quite," says Ronayne, with a smile.

"Then it has arranged itself; that is, if you agree, dear?" says Olga, turning to Monica.

"It shall be as you wish. I mean, I know nothing about it," gently; "but I shall like to help you if I can."

"I mean you don't object to the subject,--or Mr. Ryde?" says Olga, kindly, unaware that Mr. Ryde has come away from the tea-table and is now close behind her. Monica, however, sees him, and smiles courteously.

"Oh, no," she says, as in duty bound.

And then the fourth is found and grasped, and all trouble is at an end.

"_So_ glad I can now take my tea in peace," says Olga, with a sigh of profound relief. "_Who_ would be stage-manager?"

"Ah! you don't do much of this kind of thing in Ireland, I daresay,"

says Mr. Ryde.

"What kind of thing?" asks Olga, sweetly, who doesn't like him.

"Tea-drinking?"

"No--acting--er--and that."

"I'm afraid I'm quite at sea about the '_that_,'" says Olga, shaking her blonde head. "Perhaps we do a good deal of it, perhaps we don't. Explain it to me."

("Awful stoopid people!--not a word of truth about their ready wit,"

says Mr. Ryde to himself at this juncture.)

"Oh, well--er--let us confine ourselves to the acting," he says, feeling somehow at a loss. "It is new to you here, it seems."

"I certainly have never acted in my life," begins Monica; "but----"

Mrs. Bohun interrupts her.

"We are a hopelessly benighted lot," she says, making Ryde a present of a beautiful smile. "We are sadly behind the world,--_rococo_"--shrugging her shoulders pathetically--"to the last degree. You, Mr. Ryde, have opened up to us possibilities never dreamt of before; touches of civilization hitherto unknown."

"I should think in your case a very little tuition would be sufficient,"

says Ryde, with such kindly encouragement in his tone that Ronayne, who is at Olga's feet, collapses, and from being abnormally grave breaks into riotous laughter.

"You must teach us stage effects,--is that the proper term?--and correct us when we betray too cra.s.s an ignorance, and--above all things, Mr.

Ryde," with an arch glance, "you must promise not to lose your temper over the _gaucheries_ of your Dolly Varden."

"Whose Dolly Varden?" asks Desmond, coming up at this instant laden with cups of tea.

"Mr. Ryde's."

"He is to be Hugh to Miss Beresford's Dolly," says Ronayne.

"Yes, isn't it good of Monica? she has consented to take the part," says Olga, who is really grateful to her for having helped her out of her difficulty.

"_Have_ you?" says Desmond, turning upon Monica with dilated eyes.

"Yes. Is that tea for me?" returns she, calmly, with great self-possession, seeing that sundry eyes are upon her.

"For you, or any one," replies he. Tone can convey far more meaning than words. The words just now are correct enough, but the tone is uncivil to the last degree. Monica, flushing slightly, takes a cup from him, and Olga takes the second.

There is a short silence whilst they stir their tea, during which Madam O'Connor's voice can be distinctly heard,--it generally _can_ above every tumult. She is discoursing enthusiastically about some wonderful tree in her orchard, literally borne down by fruit.

"You never saw such a sight!" she is saying,--"laden down to the ground.

The finest show of pears in the country. I was telling Williams he would do well to prop it. But I suppose it will ruin the tree for the next two years to come."

"What, the propping?" says Rossmoyne.

"No, the enormous produce, you silly boy!" says his hostess, with a laugh.

Monica, who is growing restless beneath Desmond's angry regard, turns to her nervously.

"I think I should like to see it," she says, softly.

"Allow me to take you to it," says Ryde, quickly, coming to her side.

"Miss Beresford is coming with _me_," interposes Desmond. His face is pale, and his eyes flash ominously.

"That is for Miss Beresford to decide."

"She _has_ decided," says Desmond, growing even paler, but never removing his eyes from his rival's. He is playing a dangerous game, but even in the danger is ecstasy. And, as Monica continues silent, a great joy fills his soul.

"But until"--begins the Englishman, doggedly--"I hear----"

"Mrs. Bohun's cup is causing her embarra.s.sment. See to it," interrupts Desmond, unemotionally. And then, turning to Monica, he says, "Come,"

coldly, but with such pa.s.sionate entreaty in his eyes that she is borne away by it, and goes with him submissively across the lawn, until she has so far withdrawn herself from her companions that a return would be undignified.

They go as far as the entrance to the orchard, a good quarter of a mile, in silence, and then the storm breaks.

"I won't have that fellow holding you in his arms," says Desmond, pale with grief and rage, standing still and confronting her.

"I thought you said you would never be jealous again," says Monica, who has had time to recover herself, and time, too, to grow angry.

"I also said I hoped you would never give me cause."

"Mrs. Bohun has arranged this tableau."

"Then disarrange it."