Rossmoyne Part 73

"No, miss. But I'm tould the polis is very eager afther 'em."

"Was n.o.body hurt, Timothy?"

"No one, ma'am."

Here Monica, feeling the relief greater than she can support, gives way to a dry but perfectly audible sob.

"Don't be afeard, miss, dear," says old Ryan, with heartfelt but most ill-judged sympathy: "the _young gentleman_ is all right. Not a single scratch on him, they say; so you needn't be cryin' about him, honey."

"Miss Monica is in no wise anxious about Mr. Brian Desmond," says Miss Priscilla, recovering from her nervousness with as much haste as though she had been subjected to an electric shock. "She is only distressed--as I am--by these lawless proceedings."

"An' we hear they're boycotted, too, ma'am," says old Ryan, still oppressed with news that must be worked off. "John Bileman, the Protestant baker in the village they always dealt wid, has been forbidden to give 'em another loaf, and the butcher is threatened if he gives 'em a joint, an' the Clonbree butcher has been telegraphed to also, miss, an' there's the world an' all to pay!"

"Do you mean that they are going to treat him as they did Mr. Bence Jones?" says Miss Penelope, indignantly.

"Troth, I believe so, ma'am."

"Will Mr. Brian have to milk the cows?" says Terence, at which astounding thought both he and Kit break into merry laughter until checked by Monica's reproachful gaze. How _can_ they laugh when Brian may be _starving_?

"Faix, it's awful, miss; an' the ould man to be wantin' for things now,--he that allus kep' a fine table, to spake truth of him, and liked his bit an' sup amazin', small blame to him. I'm thinkin' 'tis hungry enough he'll be now for the future, the crathur! Oh, wirra! wirra!" says Timothy, sympathetically, as he shambles towards the door.

When he is gone, Miss Priscilla turns upon Terence and Kit.

"I must say, I think your mirth at such a time most unseemly," she says.

"I am glad Monica takes no part in it. Terence, did you go up to the widow Driscoll with my message this morning?"

"Yes, aunt."

She had evidently expected him to say "no," because her tone is considerably mollified when she speaks again.

"Was she pleased, do you think?"

"Yes, aunt."

"She said so, perhaps?"

"No, aunt."

"Then what _did_ she say? I wish, my dear boy, you would try to be a little less reticent."

"She said, 'Her duty to you, aunt, and her very coa.r.s.e veins were worse than ever.'"

"Varicose, Terence--varicose!"

"She said very coa.r.s.e, aunt, and I suppose she knows more about them than any one else."

He has a very sweet face, and it is more than usually so as he says all this.

"And her son, how is he, poor soul?" asks Miss Penelope, as Miss Priscilla withdraws, beaten, into the background.

"His duty to you, too, and 'he is better, but has been much afflicted with the egg-cups for the last two days.'"

"_The what!_" says Miss Penelope, shifting her _pinceneze_ uneasily, and looking perplexed in the extreme.

"Oh, Terry! how can you be so silly?" says Kit, with another merry laugh.

"How am I silly?" with an impa.s.sible countenance. "Young Driscoll is silly, of course, and evidently looks upon part of the breakfast-ware as enemies of some sort. But that is not _my_ fault."

"Hiccoughs he must have meant, my dear," says Miss Priscilla, hastily.

"Dear--dear--dear! what a terrible shock he--they--must have got last night at Coole!"

When day is deepening into eventide, Monica, finding Kit alone, kneels down beside her, and lays her cheek to hers.

All day long she has been brooding miserably over her lover's danger, and dwelling with foolish persistency upon future dangers born of her terrified imagination.

She had been down to their trysting-place at the river, hardly hoping to find him there, yet had been terribly disappointed when she had _not_ found him, Brian at that very moment being busy with police and magistrates and law generally.

"What is it, ducky?" says Kit, very tenderly, laying down her book and pressing her pretty sister close to her.

"Kit," says Monica, with tearful eyes, "_do_ you think it is all true that Timothy said this morning about their--their _starving_ at Coole?

Oh Kit, I can't bear to think he is _hungry_!"

"It is dreadful! I don't know what to think," says Kit. "If n.o.body will sell them anything, I suppose they have nothing to eat."

At this corroboration of her worst fears, Monica dissolves into tears.

"I couldn't eat my chicken at lunch, thinking of him," she sobs. "It stuck in my throat."

"Poor sweet love!--it _was_ dry," says Kit, expanding into the wildest affection. She kisses Monica fondly, and (though you would inevitably have suffered death at her hands had you even hinted at it) is beginning to enjoy herself intensely. Once again this luckless couple look to _her_ for help. She is to be the one to raise them from their "Slough of Despond,"--difficult but congenial task! "Then you have been existing on lemon tart and one gla.s.s of sherry since breakfast time?" she says, with the deepest commiseration. "Poor darling! I saw it; I noticed you ate nothing _except_ the tart. You liked that, didn't you?"

"I didn't," says Monica. "I _hated_ it. And I was a cruel, cold-hearted wretch to _touch_ it. But it was sweet--and--I--it--somehow disappeared."

"It did," says Kit, tenderly.

"Oh, Kit, help me!"

"You mean you want to take him something wherewith to stave off the pangs of hunger," says the younger Miss Beresford, with that grandeur of style she usually affects in moments of strong excitement, and with the vigor that distinguishes her. "I see; certainly." She grows abstracted.

"There's a leg of mutton hanging in the larder, with some fowl, and a quarter of lamb," she says, presently. "But I suppose if we took _them_, Aunt Priscilla would put us in the hue and cry."

"It mustn't be thought of. No, no; think of something else."

"Bread, then. Ordinary, of course, very ordinary, but yet the staff of life."

"I _couldn't_ take him anything so nasty as mere bread," says Monica, in despair. "But, if cook would make us a cake----"

"A big one, with currants! The very _thing_!" says Kit, with decision.

"And she will never betray us. Reilly, in little affairs of this kind,--though sadly wanting where soups are concerned,--is quite all she ought to be."