Rossmoyne Part 82

"It grows very late. Go to bed, darling," she says, gently.

"Not till you go," says Kit, tightening the clasp of her arms.

"Well, that shall be in a moment, then," says Monica, with a stifled sigh. All through the dragging day and evening she has clung to the thought that surely her lover will come to bid her "good-night." And now it is late, and he has not come, and----

She leans against the side of the wide-open cas.e.m.e.nt, and gazes in sad meditation upon the slumbering garden underneath. The lilies,--"tall white garden-lilies,"--though it is late in the season now, and bordering on snows and frosts, are still swaying to and fro, and giving most generously a rich perfume to the wondering air. Earth's stars they seem to her, as she lifts her eyes to compare them with the "forget-me-nots of the angels," up above.

Her first disappointment about her love is desolating her. She leans her head against the woodwork, and lifts her eyes to the vaguely-tinted sky.

Thus, with face upturned, she drinks in the fair beauty of the night, and, as its beauty grows upon her, her sorrow deepens.

"With how sad steps, O moon! thou climb'st the skies!

How silently, and with how wan a face, Thou feel'st a lover's case!

I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace, To me, that feel the like, thy state descries."

As she watches the pale moon, Sidney's sad words return to her. Just now Diana is resting in a path of palest azure, whilst all around her clouds, silver-tinged, are lying out from her, trembling in mid-air.

Great patches of moonlight lie upon the garden sward. One seems brighter than its fellows, and as her eyes slowly sink from heaven to earth they rest upon it, as though attracted unconsciously by its brilliancy. And, even as she looks, a shadow falls athwart it, and then a low, quick cry breaks from her lips.

"What is it?" says Kit, scrambling to her knees.

"Only Brian," says Monica, with a hastily-drawn breath. A rich color has rushed into her cheeks, her eyes are alight, her lips have curved themselves into a happy smile.

"It's all right now, then, and I can go," says Kit, joyfully.

"Go? To bed, you mean, darling?"

"Yes, now I know you are _happy_," says Kit, tenderly; and then the sisters embrace, and presently Monica is alone, but for the shadow in the moonlight.

"It is you, Monica?" says Brian, coming close beneath her window, and looking upwards.

She leans out to him, her white gown gleaming softly in the moon's rays.

"Oh, why venture out at this hour?" she says, nervously. Now he is here,--woman-like,--fears for his safety, forgotten before, arise in all their horror. "They may have followed you; they may----"

"Come down to the balcony," he interrupts her, with a light laugh. "I want to talk to you. Nonsense, dear heart! I am as safe as a church. Who would touch me, with an angel like you near to protect me?"

His shadow, as he moves away, may again be seen for an instant, before he turns the corner of the old house; and Monica, opening her door softly, runs lightly down the corridor and the staircase, and across the hall and the drawing-room floor until she reaches the balcony beyond, where she finds his arms awaiting her.

"You have missed me all day?" he says, after a pause that to them has been divine.

"Oh, Brian, what a day it has been!" she clings to him. "All these past hours have been full of horror. Whenever I thought of your danger last night, I seemed to grow cold and dead with fear; and then when the minutes slipped by, and still you never came to me, I began to picture _you_ as cold and dead, and then----Ah!" she clings still closer to him, and her voice fails her. "I never knew," she whispers, brokenly, "how well I loved you until I so nearly lost you. I could not live without you now."

"Nor shall you," returns he, straining her to his heart with pa.s.sionate tenderness. "My life is yours, to do what you will with it. And somehow all day long I knew (and was happy in the knowledge, forgive me that) that you were lonely for want of me; but I could not come to you, my soul, until this very moment. Yet, believe me, I suffered more than you during our long separation." (If any one laughs here, it will prove he has never been in love, and so is an object of pity. This should check untimely mirth.)

"You felt it long too, then?" says Monica, hopefully.

"How can you ask me that? Your darling face was never once out of my mind, and yet I _could_ not come to you. I had so many things to do, so many people to see, and then the poor old fellow was so ill. But have we not cause to be thankful?--at last the breach between our houses is healed, and we may tell all the world of our love."

"You should have heard Aunt Priscilla, how she talked of you when she came back to-day from Coole," says Monica, in a little fervent glow of enthusiasm. "It was beautiful! You know she must have _understood_ you all along to be able to say the truth of you so well. She said so much in your favor that she satisfied even me."

She says this with such a graceful _naivete_, and such an utter belief in his superiority to the vast majority of men, that Mr. Desmond does well to feel the pride that surges in his heart.

"I really think she has fallen in love with you," says Miss Beresford, at the last, with a little gay laugh.

"Perhaps that is why she refused the squire," says Brian; and then he basely betrays trust, by telling her all that tale of the late wooing of Miss Priscilla, and its result, which awakens in the breast of that ancient lady's niece a mirth as undutiful as it is prolonged.

"And what were you doing all day?" she says, when it has somewhat subsided.

"Trying to keep my uncle--did I tell you he has fallen in love with your photograph?--from talking himself into a brain fever, and I was swearing hard, and----"

"_Brian!_"

"Only informations, darling! And I wouldn't have done that either, only I had to. They made me. Lay the blame on '_they_.' It wasn't my fault, indeed. If I had thought for a moment you had the slightest objection to that sort of----"

"Nonsense! don't be silly; go on," says Miss Beresford, austerely.

"Well, then, I listened patiently to a good deal of raving from Kelly on the subject of Hermia Herrick. I don't suppose I should have exhibited as much patience as I did, but for the fact that I was waiting on George--my uncle--at the time, and couldn't get away. And after that I listened with even more patience to a perfect farrago of nonsense from our sub-inspector about the would-be a.s.sa.s.sin we have caught, and his fellows; and, besides all this, I thought of _you_ every moment since last I saw you."

"_Every_ moment. Not _one_ neglected?" asks she, smiling.

"I'll swear to that too, if you like. I'm in good practice now."

"No, no," hastily. "I can believe you without that."

"Did you hear about your Ryde?" asks Desmond, suddenly.

"I disclaim the possession," says Monica. "But what of him?"

"He has been ordered, with his regiment, to Egypt, to fight Arabi, where I hope he will be shot. And the 36th are coming in his place."

"How can you say such shocking things?"

"Is it shocking to say the 36th are coming to Clonbree?"

"No, but what you said about Mr. Ryde."

"Oh, that! Well, I hope, then, if they don't knock the life they will knock the conceit and the superfluous _flesh_ out of him: will that do?"

"Very badly. He was a horrid man in many ways, but he did _you_ no harm."

"He dared to look at you."

"The cat may look at the king."

"But the cat may not look at my queen. So now, madam, what have you to say?"

"Well, never mind, then: tell me about Hermia. So Mr. Kelly is engaged to her?"