Rossmoyne Part 79

"No, no," says Miss Penelope, acquiescing freely, yet with a sigh; she would have dearly liked to tell her gossips of this honor that has been done her dear Priscilla. And, after all, she has her wish, for the story gets about, spread by the hero of it himself.

The squire, tired, no doubt, of keeping secrets, and perhaps (but this in a whisper) grateful to her because of her refusal, goes about everywhere, and tells people far and near of his offer; so that when their friends flock to Moyne, and, giving The Desmond as their authority for it, accuse Miss Priscilla of her refusal, and she still, with maidenly modesty, parries their questions, Miss Penelope, feeling herself absolved from further reticence, comes to the front and gives them a full and true account of the wonderful event.

"Yes, Priscilla might indeed have reigned as queen at Coole had she so wished it, and well graced the position too," winds up Miss Penelope, on all these occasions, with much pride and dignity.

Brian, who had been busy all the morning swearing informations, and so forth, with Mr. Kelly and the groom, before magistrates and others, coming into his uncle's room about half an hour after Miss Blake's departure, finds him considerably better both in mind and in body, though feeble in spirit, as is only natural. Indeed, the bullet had done him little harm, causing merely a flesh-wound, but the shock had been severe to a man of his years.

"Come here, Brian; I want to tell you something," he says, as the young man leans over him.

"You are not to talk," says his nephew, peremptorily.

"If you won't listen to me, I'll send for Bailey, the steward," says the squire. "Nonsense! it does me good." And then he tells him all the particulars of Miss Priscilla's visit relating to his engagement with Katherine Beresford, with one reservation.

"It is all right between us now," he says, in a pleased tone. "She told me everything, and it appears we were both sadly taken in, though I don't wish to say anything against her even now. I daresay she had her own grievances, poor soul; and indeed Priscilla said----"

Here he pauses, and a guilty flush covers his pale face. He hesitates, and then beckons Brian to come even nearer.

"Look you, lad! I'm not quite at ease even yet. There's something wrong here!" laying his hand upon his heart.

"Is it pain?" asks his nephew, anxiously. "I told you you were talk----"

"No, no, boy. It's only mental pain. I want to be ashamed of myself, and I _can't_. I'm feeling a satisfaction about something that I shouldn't.

It's not right, Brian. It's not a gentlemanly feeling, but I can't curb it. The more I think of it, the more pleased I feel. Eh? You don't look as if you understood me."

"I don't, much," confesses Brian, seating himself on the edge of the bed. "You see, you haven't told me what it is all about."

"It is about Katherine Beresford. Priscilla told me, and I should like to tell you. I say, Brian, you won't throw it in my teeth, now, when I'm better, eh?"

"I swear I won't," says Brian.

"Well, she told me Katherine had a regular _devil_ of a life with her husband, and _I'm glad of it_! _There!_" says the squire; after which disgraceful confession he regularly scrambles under the bedclothes, with a view to hiding his shame and his exultation from public view.

Brian fairly roars with laughter. At the sound of his welcome mirth, the old man slowly emerges from the sheets again, and looks at him doubtfully, but with growing hope.

"_She_ had the best of it, of course; any one would have the best of it with James Beresford," he says. "But she couldn't have been altogether comfortable; that's what I mean. I don't want you to think I should rejoice at her having received bad treatment at her husband's hands. He had all the bad treatment to himself, I expect."

"So do I," says Brian, who is laughing still.

"And you don't think so badly of me for it?" says the Squire, anxiously.

"Not I," says Brian.

"Still, it's rather a mean sort of feeling, isn't it, now? It's very low--eh?"

"Low or not," says Brian, with decision, "I'm perfectly certain if it was _my_ case I should feel just like that myself."

"You're the comfort of my life, Brian," says his uncle, gratefully; and then he indulges in a covert smile himself, after which he drops off into a slumber, sound and refreshing.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

How Madam O'Connor gives her opinion on certain subjects--How Fay electrifies an entire audience--And how Olga makes up her mind.

It is growing towards evening, and as yet at Aghyohillbeg they have not grown tired of discussing the terrible event of last night.

"When I called just now, Priscilla Blake was with him," says Madam O'Connor. "Brian told me The Desmond had sent for her. I suppose the old quarrel about Katherine will be patched up now, and I shouldn't wonder if our two lovers, Monica and Brian, get married quite comfortably and in the odor of sanct.i.ty, after all."

"I suppose they couldn't have managed it without the old people's consent," says Mrs. Herrick, who is rocking herself lazily to and fro in a huge American chair.

"Nonsense, my dear!" says Madam, throwing up her chin. "Accredit them with some decent spirit, I beg of you. Of course they would have got married whether or not,--there is nothing like opposition for that kind of thing, and no doubt would have enjoyed it all the more for the fun of the thing, because there must be an excitement in a runaway match unknown to the orthodox affair."

"I don't think I should like to run away," says Olga Bohun; "there is always a difficulty about one's clothes."

"What's the good of being in love if you can't get over a few paltry obstacles?" says Madam, whose heart is still young. "Well, I expect we shall have a gay wedding here before long, and be able to give that pretty child our presents without any trouble."

"How long the day has been!" says Olga, with a little affected yawn, meant to reduce Ulic Ronayne to despair, who is sitting in a distant window touching up one of her paintings. "I don't know when I have been so bored,--no one to speak to. Madam, darling, you shall never go out again without me; remember that. n.o.body has called,--I suppose they are afraid of being shot,--not even Owen Kelly; and one would _like_ to see him and Brian, to make sure they are all there."

"Talk of somebody," says Madam, looking out of the window, "here comes Owen."

As Olga puts her hand in his presently, she says, laughing,--

"Madam O'Connor says you are, in polite language, his sable majesty himself. So you must be, to escape as you did last night. Now tell us all about it. We have heard so many garbled accounts that a _real_ one will set our minds at rest."

Then he tells them all about it, dropping as though unconsciously into a low chair very close to Hermia's.

"So, you see," he says, when he had finished, "it might have been a very sensational affair, and covered us all with glory, only it didn't."

"I think it did," says Mrs. Herrick, gently. She doesn't raise her eyes from her work to say this, but knits calmly on; only a _very_ careful observer could have noticed the faint trembling of her fingers, or the quivering of her long, downcast lashes.

"How can you say such a thing, Owen?" says Olga. "Look at all the cases we have known where the a.s.sa.s.sins have got away quite free, and here we have the princ.i.p.al secured."

"Yes, that was very clever of Brian," says Mr. Kelly.

"Did he capture him, then, single-handed? Were not you with him? Were _you_ in no danger of your life, too?" exclaims Hermia, with such unwonted animation that every one looks at her. She takes no notice of their regard, but fixes her kindling eyes on Kelly, who, in returning her mute protest, forgets that any other more open answer may be required of him. Then she lets her eyes fall from his, and her face grows calm and statuesque again, and only the rapid clicking of her needles show the perturbation of the mind within.

"Did the fellow give you much trouble, Kelly?" asks Ronayne, who in his secret soul is bitterly regretful he had not been on the scene of action.

"Not he, the fool!" says Mr. Kelly, with something approaching a smile.

"Brian fired his revolver and grazed his arm slightly,--a mere scratch, you will understand,--and the miserable creature rolled upon the ground, doubled himself in two, and, giving himself up as dead, howled dismally.

Not knowing at that time that the poor squire was hurt, Brian and I roared with laughter: we couldn't help it, the fellow looked so absurd."

They all laugh at this, but presently Olga, holding up her finger, says, seriously,--

"Owen, recollect yourself. You said you _laughed_. Oh! it _can't_ be true."