Rossmoyne Part 57

"There has been no time for fickleness."

"There never will be, so far as I am concerned. So sure am I of that, that I do not mind praying that Cupid's curse may light upon me if ever I prove unfaithful. You know it?"

"I have but small acquaintance with cursing of any sort."

"Then learn this one,--

'They that do change old love for new, Pray G.o.ds they change for worse!'

Will you repeat that after me?"

"Wait until I finish my tea; and--unkind as you are--you will give me a little bit of cake, won't you?"

"I would give you everything I possess, if I could."

"You don't possess this cake, you know: it is Madam O'Connor's."

"Oh, Olga, why will you always press me backwards? Am I never to be nearer to you than I am now?"

"I don't see how you could conveniently be very much nearer," says Mrs.

Bohun, with a soft laugh.

"After all, I suppose I come under the head of either madman or fool,"

says Ronayne, sadly. "You are everything to me; I am less than nothing to you."

"Is Lord Rossmoyne to come under the head of 'nothing'? How rude!" says Olga.

"I never thought of him. I was thinking only of how hopelessly I love you."

"Love! How should such a baby as you grasp even the meaning of that word?" says Olga, letting her white lids droop until their long lashes lie upon her cheeks like shadows, while she raises her cup with indolent care to her lips. "Do you really think you know what it means?"

"'The dredeful joy, alway that flit so yerne, All this mene I by Love,'"

quotes he, very gently; after which he turns away, and, going over to the fireplace again, flings himself down dejectedly at Monica's feet.

"Are you tired, Mr. Ronayne?" says Monica, very gently. Something in his beautiful face tells her that matters are not going well with him.

"Tired? no," lifting his eyes to her with a smile that belies his words.

"It is good of you to ask, though. I wish," earnestly, "you would not call me 'Mr. Ronayne.' I can't bear it from any one I like. Desmond tell her to call me Ulic."

It strikes both Monica and Brian as peculiar that he should appeal to the latter as to one possessed of a certain influence over the former.

It strikes Miss Fitzgerald in the same light too, who has been listening to his impetuous entreaty.

Seeing there is something wrong with him, something that might be termed excitement in his manner, Desmond whispers to Monica to do as he desires.

"He is unhappy about something; let him feel you are his friend," he says, in a low tone.

"Come a little farther from the fire, Ulic,--a little nearer to me,"

says Monica, in a tone of shy friendliness, "and I think you will be more comfortable."

He is more than grateful, I think, though he says nothing only he moves a good deal closer to her, and lays his head against her knee in a brotherly fashion,--need I say unrebuked?

Something in this little scene sends the blood rushing with impatient fervor through Olga's veins. But that she knows Monica well, and that the girl is dear to her, she could have hated her heartily at this moment, without waiting to a.n.a.lyze the motive for her dislike. As it is, she gives the reins to her angry spirit, and lets it drive her where it will. She laughs quite merrily, and says some pretty playful thing to Lord Rossmoyne that all the world can hear,--and Ronayne, be a.s.sured, the first of all.

Desmond, with a subdued touch of surprise in his eyes, turns to look at her. But the night has darkened with sullen haste--tired, perhaps, of the day's ill temper--and standing as he does within the magic circle of the firelight, he finds a difficulty in conquering the gloom beyond.

This makes his gaze in her direction the more concentrated; and, indeed, when he has separated her features from the mist of the falling night, he still finds it impossible to pierce the impenetrable veil of indifference that covers her every feature.

His gaze thus necessarily prolonged is distasteful to her.

"Brian, don't keep staring at the teapot in that mean fashion," she says, playfully, yet with a latent sense of impatience in her tone. "It is unworthy of you. Go up to Madam O'Connor _n.o.bly_, cup in hand, and I daresay--if you ask her prettily--she will grant me permission to give you a cup of tea."

Desmond, recovering from his revery with a start accepts the situation literally.

"Will you, Madam?" he says, meekly. "_Do._" His tone is of the most abject. There is a perceptible trembling about his knee-joints. "Is _this_ the 'air n.o.ble'?" he says to Olga, in an undertone. "Have I caught it?"

"You'll catch it in a minute in real earnest, if you don't mend your manners," says Madam, with a laugh. "Give him his tea, Olga, my dear, though he doesn't deserve it."

"Sugar?" says Olga, laconically.

"Yes, please," mendaciously.

"Then you shan't have even one lump, if only to punish you for all your misconduct."

"I thought as much," says Brian, taking his cup thankfully. "Fact is, I can't bear sugar but I knew you would drop it in, in an unlimited degree, if I said the other thing. Not that I have the vaguest notion as to how I have misconducted myself. If I knew, I might set a watch upon my lips."

"Set it on your _eyes_," says Olga, with meaning.

At this moment a light footfall is heard, and somebody comes slowly across the hall. A merry tongue of fire, flaming upwards, declares it to be the plain Miss Browne.

Mrs. O'Connor has just pa.s.sed into an adjoining room. Olga is busy with her tray and with her thoughts. Mrs. Herrick, partly turned aside, and oblivious of the approaching guest, is conversing in low tones with Lord Rossmoyne.

No one, therefore, is ready to give the stranger welcome and put her through the ceremony of introduction. Awkwardness is impending, when Monica comes to the rescue. Her innate sense of kindly courtesy conquering her shyness, she rises from her seat, and going up to Miss Browne, who has come to a standstill, lays her hand softly upon hers.

"Come over here and sit by me," she says, nervously, yet with such a gracious sweetness that the stranger's heart goes out to her on the spot, and Brian Desmond, if it be possible, falls more in love with her than ever.

"Thank you," says Miss Browne, pressing gratefully the little hand that lies on hers; and then every one wakes into life and says something civil to her.

Five minutes later the dressing-bell rings, and the scene is at an end.

CHAPTER XXI.

How Mrs. Herrick grows worldly-wise and Olga frivolous--How Mr.

Kelly tells a little story; and how, beneath the moonlight, many things are made clear.

Dinner has come to an end. The men are still dallying with their wine.