Rossmoyne Part 70

"In Westmeath," says Brian, when some necessary preliminaries have been gone through. "I hope you will like it. It is far prettier than Coole in every way."

"And I think Coole lovely, what I've seen of it," says Monica, sweetly.

Here the lamp that has. .h.i.therto been lighting the corridor, thinking, doubtless (and very reasonably, too), that it has done its duty long enough, flickers, and goes out. But no darkness follows its defection.

Through the far window a pale burst of light rushes, illumining in a cold and ghostly manner the spot on which they stand. "The meek-eyed morn, mother of dews," has come, and night has slipped away abashed, with covered front.

Together they move to the window and look out upon the awakening world; and, even as they gaze enraptured at its fairness, the sun shoots up from yonder hill, and a great blaze of glory is abroad.

"Over the spangled gra.s.s Swept the swift footsteps of the lovely light, Turning the tears of Night to joyous gems."

"Oh, we have delayed too long," says Monica, with a touch of awe engendered by the marvellous and mystic beauty of the hour. "Good-night, good-night!"

"Nay, rather a fair good-morrow, my sweet love," says Desmond, straining her to his heart.

CHAPTER XXV.

How The Desmond's mind is harra.s.sed by a gentle maiden and two ungentle roughs; and how the Land League shows him a delicate attention.

"By the by," says old Mr. Desmond, looking at his nephew across the remains of the dessert, "You've been a good deal at Aghyohillbeg of late: why?"

It is next evening, and, Monica being at Moyne and inaccessible, Brian is at Coole. Mr. Kelly is walking up and down on the gravelled walk outside, smoking a cigar.

"Because Miss Beresford was there," says Brian, breaking a grape languidly from the bunch he holds in his hand.

"_What!_" says Mr. Desmond, facing him.

"Because Miss Beresford was there."

"What am I to understand by that?"

"That she was there, I suppose," says Brian, laughing, "and that I am head over ears in love with her."

"How dare you say such a thing as that to me?" says the squire, pushing back his chair and growing a lively purple. "Are you going to tell me next you mean to marry her?"

"I certainly do," says Brian; "and," with a glance of good-humored defiance at the squire, "I'm the happiest man in the world to-day because she last night told me she'd have me."

"You shan't do it!" says the squire, now almost apoplectic. "You shan't do it!--do you hear? I'm standing in your poor father's place, sir, and I _forbid_ you to marry one of that blood. What! marry the daughter--of--of--" something in his throat masters him here,--"the niece of Priscilla Blake, a woman with a tongue! Never!"

"My dear George, you wouldn't surely have me marry a woman _without_ one?"

"I think all women would be better without them; and as for Priscilla Blake's, I tell you, sir, Xantippe was an angel to her. I insist on your giving up this idea at once."

"I certainly shan't give up Miss Beresford, if that is what you mean?"

"Then I'll disinherit you!" roars the squire. "I will, I swear it! I'll marry myself. I'll do something desperate!"

"No, you won't," says Brian, laughing again; and going over to the old man, he lays his hands upon his shoulders and pushes him gently back into his chair. "When you see her you will adore her, and she sent her love to you this morning, and this, too," laying a photograph of Monica before the Squire, who glances at it askance, as though fearful it may be some serpent waiting to sting him for the second time; but, as he looks, his face clears.

"She is not like her mother," he says, in a low tone.

"I never met such a remorseful old beggar," thinks Desmond, with wonder; but just at this moment a servant enters with a message to the squire; so the photograph is hastily withdrawn, and the conversation--or rather discussion--comes to an end.

"Two of the tenants are asking to see you, sir," says the butler, confidentially.

"What two?"

"Donovan, from the East, and Moloney, from the Bog Road, sir."

"Very well; show Moloney into the library, and tell Donovan to wait downstairs until I send for him."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Moloney, come to pay your rent?" says the squire, cheerfully, entering the library and gazing keenly at the man who is awaiting him there. He is a fellow of ordinary build, with a cringing, servile expression and shifting eyes. He smiles apologetically, and shuffles uneasily from one foot to the other as he feels the squire's eye upon him.

"No, sir; I can't bring it, sir. I'd be in dhread o' my life wid the boys to do it."

"I don't know who the gentlemen in question you designate as 'the boys'

may be," says the squire, calmly. "I can only tell you that I expect my rent from you, and intend to get it."

"That's what I come to spake about, yer honor. But the Land League is a powerful body, an' secret too; look at the murdher o' Mr. Herbert and that English Lord in Faynix Park, and the rewards an' all, an' what's come of it?"

"A good deal of hanging will come of it, I trust," says The Desmond, hopefully. "In the mean time, I am not to be detered from doing my duty by idle threats. I thought you, Moloney, were too respectable a man to mix yourself up with this movement."

"I'm only a poor man, sir, but my life is as good to me as another's; an' if I pay they'll murdher me, an' what'll become o' me then? An'

besides, I haven't it, sir; 'tis thrue for me. How can I be up to time, wid the crop so bad this year."

"It is as good a year as I have ever known for crops," says Desmond. "I will have no excuses of that sort: either you pay me or turn out; I am quite determined on this point."

"Ye wouldn't give me an abatement, yer honor?"

"No, not a penny. Not to men such as you, who come here to demand it as a right and are very well to do. There are others whose cases I shall consider; but that is my own affair, and I will not be dictated to. On Monday you will bring me your rent, or give up the land."

"I think ye're a bit unwise to press matthers just now," says the man, slowly, and with a sinister glance from under his knitted brows. "I don't want to say anything uncivil to ye, sir, but--I'd take care if I were you. The counthry is mad hot, an', now they think they've got Gladstone wid 'em, they wouldn't stick at a trifle."

"The trifle being my a.s.sa.s.sination," says old Desmond, with a laugh. He draws himself up, and, in spite of his ugly face, looks almost princely.

"Tut, man! don't think, after all these years among you, I am to be intimidated: you should know me better."

The man cowers before the haughty glance the old squire casts upon him, and retreats behind his cringing manner once again.

"I thought ye might take into considheration the fact that I'm of yer own religion," he says cunningly.

"That you are a Protestant does not weigh with me one inch. One tenant is as worthy of consideration as another; and, to tell the truth, I find your Roman Catholic brethren far easier to deal with, I will have no whining about differences of that sort. All I require is what is justly due to me; and that I shall expect on Monday. You understand?"

"Ye're a hard man," says Moloney, with an evil glance.