Rossmoyne Part 64

"No. They are crossing the gravel to the hall door."

"They are devoid of souls, to be able to quit so divine a view in such hot haste. Besides, it is absurdly early to think of going indoors yet.

By Jove, though!" looking at his watch, "I'm wrong: it is well after eleven. Now, who would have thought it?"

"Are you sure you mean _eleven_?" with flattering incredulity.

"Only too sure. _Hasn't_ the time gone by quickly? Well, I suppose I must take you in, which means candles and bed for you, and a dreary drive home for Kelly and me, and not a chance of seeing you alone again."

"This time last week you couldn't have seen me at all," says Miss Beresford.

"True. I am ungrateful. And altogether this has been such a delightful evening,--to me at least: were," doubtfully, "_you_ happy?"

"Very, _very_ happy," with earnest, uplifted eyes.

"Darling love!--I am afraid I must give you up to Mrs. O'Connor now," he goes on, presently, when an ecstatic thought or two has had time to come and go. "But, before going, say good-night to me here."

"Good-night, Brian."

He has never attempted to kiss her since that first time (and last, _so far_) in the orchard; and even now, though her pretty head is pressed against him, and her face is dangerously close to his, he still refrains. He has given her his word and will not break it; but perhaps he cannot altogether repress the desire to expostulate with her on her cruelty, because he gives voice to the gentle protest that rises to his lips.

"That is very cold good-night," he says. "You would say quite as much as that to Kelly or any of the others."

"I shouldn't call Mr. Kelly by his Christian name."

"No; but you would, Ronayne."

"Well, I shan't again, if you don't like it."

"That has nothing at all to do with what I mean. I only think you might show me a little more favor than the rest."

"Good-night, then, _dear_ Brian. Now, I certainly shouldn't dream of calling Mr. Ronayne dear Ulic."

"Of course not. I should hope not, indeed! But still----there is something else that you might do for _me_."

Miss Beresford draws herself a little--_a very_ little--away from him, and, raising her head, bestows upon him a glance that is a charming combination of mischief and coquetry. A badly-suppressed smile is curving the corner of her delicate lips.

"What a long time it takes you to _say_ it!" she says, wickedly.

At this they both break into low, soft laughter,--_delicious_ laughter!--that must not be overheard, and is suggestive of a little secret existing between them, that no one else may share.

"That is an invitation," says Desmond, with decision. "I consider you have now restored to me that paltry promise I made to you the other day in the orchard. And here I distinctly decline ever to renew it again.

No, there is no use in appealing to me: I am not to be either softened or coerced."

"Well," says Miss Beresford, "listen to me." She stands well back from him this time, and, catching up the tail of her white gown, throws it negligently over her arm. "If you _must_ have--you know what!--at least you shall earn it. I will race you for it, but you must give me long odds, and then, if you catch me before I reach that laurel down there, you shall have it. Is that fair?"

Plainly, from her exultant look, she thinks she can win.

"A bargain!" says Desmond. "And, were you Atalanta herself, I feel I shall outrun you."

"_So_ presumptuous! Take care. 'Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall,' and you may trip."

"I may not, too."

"Well," moving cautiously away from him, "when I come to that branch there, and say one, two, three, you--will----_Now!_"

At this, before he is half prepared, she cries, "one, two, three," with scandalous haste, and rushes away from him down the moonlit path. Swift and straight as a deer she flies, but, alas! just as the goal is all but reached, she finds the race is not to her, and that she is a prisoner in two strong arms!

"Now, who was presumptuous?" says Desmond, gazing into her lovely face.

Her head, with a touch of exhaustion about it, is thrown back against his chest; through her parted lips her breath is coming with a panting haste, born of excitement and her fruitless flight. He bends over her, lower, and lower still. She feels herself altogether in his power.

"As you are strong, be merciful," she whispers, faintly. A warm flood of crimson has dyed her cheeks; her smile has faded; she struggles slightly, and then all in one moment Desmond becomes aware that tears have sprung into her eyes.

Instantly he releases her.

"Darling, forgive me," he says, anxiously. "See how your heart is beating now, and all for nothing! Of course I shall let you off your bargain. What do you take me for? Do you think I should make you unhappy for all the world could offer? Take those tears out of your eyes this instant, or I shall be seriously angry with you."

Monica laughs, but in a rather nervous fashion, and lets her lover dry her eyes with his own handkerchief. Then she sits down with him upon a rustic seat close by, wishing to be quite mistress of herself again before encountering the glare of the drawing-room lamps and the still more searching light of her friends' eyes.

For a full minute not a word is spoken by either of them She is inwardly troubled; he is downcast. Presently she rises with a little restless movement.

"No, do not stir just yet," she says. "I only want to pick some of that syringa behind you, it is so sweet."

Disinclined for action of any sort, he obeys her. She slips away behind him, and he sits there waiting listlessly for her return, and thinking, somewhat sadly, how small a way he has made with her, and that she is almost as shy with him now as on that day by the river when first they met.

And then something marvellous happens that puts all his theories and regrets and fears to flight forever. Two soft arms--surely the softest in this wide glad world--steal round his neck; a gold-brown head is laid against his; a whisper reaches him.

"You were very good to me about _that_!" says somebody, tremulously; and then two warm childish lips are laid on his, and Monica is in his arms.

"I wonder what it was that frightened you?" says Desmond, in a tender whisper, drawing her down on his knees and enfolding her closely as though she were in form the child that verily at heart she still is.

"Tell me."

"I don't know." She has twined her bare beautiful arms around him, and is rubbing her cheek softly up and down against his in a fresh access of shyness.

"I think you do, my dearest."

"It was only this; that when I found I couldn't get away from you, I was frightened. It was very foolish of me, but whenever I read those stories about prisoners of war, and people being confined in dungeons, and that, I always know that if I were made a captive I should _die_."

"But surely your lover's arms cannot be counted a prison, my life!"

"Yes, if they held me when I wanted to get away."

"But," reproachfully, "would you want to get away?"

She hesitates, and, lifting one arm, runs her fingers coaxingly through the hair fashion has left him.

"I don't want to go away now, at all events," she temporizes sweetly.

Then, a moment later, "But I _must_, nevertheless. Come," nervously, "we have been here a long time, and Madam O'Connor will be angry with me; and besides," pityingly, "you have all that long drive home still before you."

"I forgot all about the time," says Desmond, truthfully. "You are right: we must go in. Good-night again, my own."