Rossmoyne. Duchess

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СКАЧАТЬ for an hour at least. The old lady with her is Lady Rossmoyne, and she never lets any one (unfortunate enough to get into her clutches) go free under a generous sixty minutes. She is great on manures, and stock, and turnips, and so forth. And your aunt, I hear, is a kindred spirit."

      "But then there is Aunt Penelope," says Monica, timidly.

      "She, too, is arranged. Half an hour ago I met her so deep in a disgraceful flirtation with the vicar that I felt it my duty to look the other way. Depend upon it, she is not thinking of you."

      "But some one may tell them I have been talking to you."

      "I always thought I had a proper amount of pride until I met you," says Mr. Desmond. "You have dispelled the belief of years. 'Is thy servant a dog,' that you should be ostracized for speaking to him? Never mind; I submit even to that thought if it gives me five minutes more of your society. But listen to me. No one can tell tales of us, because we are both strangers in the land. No one knows me from Adam, and just as few know you from—let us say Eve, for euphony's sake."

      She laughs. Encouraged by her merriment to believe that at least she bears him no ill will, Brian says, hurriedly—

      "Come with me to the rose-garden. It is stupid sitting here alone, and the garden is beyond praise. Do come."

      "Why?" lifting her heavy lashes.

      "For one thing, we shall be free from observation, and you know you dislike being seen with me. For another——" He pauses.

      "Well?" rather nervously.

      "It is just this, that I must speak to you," says the young man, his gay manner changing to one of extreme earnestness. "You were unkind to me that day we parted. I want you to tell me why. I understand quite that I have no right to demand even the smallest favor of you, yet I do entreat you to come with me."

      For another moment she hesitates, then—

      "Yes, I will come with you," she says, raising her soft eyes to his. In her whole manner, voice, and bearing there is something so sweet and childish and trusting as to render Desmond her slave upon the spot.

      The path to the rose-garden leads away from Miss Priscilla, so they avoid detection as they go.

      But they are singularly silent and grave; when the garden is reached they pass between the rows of growing blossoms mute, if rich in thought. At last, when silence is becoming too eloquent to be borne, her companion turns to her.

      "It wasn't true what you said to me that last day, was it?" he asks, with far more anxiety than the occasion seems to demand. "Not really, I mean. You said it for fun, perhaps—or——It has been with me ever since. I can't forget it. You said you disliked sudden friendships, and the way you said it made me think you disliked me. Tell me I thought wrong."

      "Quite wrong," in a low tone. She is plucking a rose to pieces, and keeps her eyes downcast. "When I said that, I was angry about something."

      "About something I said?"

      "No. Nothing you said."

      "Something I did, then?" growing more and more anxious.

      "Ye-es."

      "What was it?"

      "It doesn't matter now; not in the least now; and I can not tell you, indeed."

      "But I wish very much you would. Perhaps, being in wretched ignorance, I shall be so unhappy as to do it again some day, and so make you hate me a second time."

      "I didn't hate you."

      "No? Yet there was a look in your eyes I wouldn't like to see there again. Do tell me, lest I once more fall into error."

      "Oh, no," coloring deeply, as though at some unpleasant recollection. "That would be impossible. It could never happen again. I shall take care of that. I shall never as long as I live get into a—that is—I mean—I——Really I have forgiven it all now, so let us forget it too."

      Though still greatly mystified, Mr. Desmond wisely forbears to press the point, something in her pretty distressed face and heightened color forbidding him.

      "Very good," he says, pleasantly. "But there is another thing I have not forgotten. Have you ever cleared up that mystery about my uncle and your aunts?"

      "Oh! that. It cannot be cleared, I am afraid it is too muddy a tale for any help; but I have at least found out all about it."

      "Would it be indiscreet if I said I would give anything to be as wise as you on this subject? In other words, will you divulge the secret?"

      "It is a story that doesn't redound to the honor and glory of your house," says Miss Beresford, stepping back from him with a gay little laugh, and glancing at him mischievously from under her big "Patience" hat. "If I were you I should shrink from hearing it."

      "I decline to shrink," with unparalleled bravery. "I prefer to rush upon my fate. Life has no longer any flavor for me until I hear what the old reprobate at Coole has done."

      "Well, if you will insist upon the sorry tale, 'tis this. Once there lived a wicked knight, who wooed a maiden fair. But when that her heart was all his own, his love grew cold, and, turning from her, he refused to fulfil his plighted troth and lead her to the hymeneal altar. In fact, he loved and he rode away, leaving her as dismally disconsolate as the original maid forlorn."

      "Alas for the golden age of chivalrie!" says Mr. Desmond.

      "Alas, indeed! That wicked knight was your uncle; the maid forlorn my mother!"

      "You have been giving me a summary of a fairytale, haven't you?" asks he, in an unbelieving tone.

      "No, indeed; it is all quite true. From what I have heard, your uncle must have treated my mother very badly. Now, aren't you thoroughly ashamed of yourself and your family?"

      "One swallow makes no summer," says Mr. Desmond, hardily. "Because my uncle refused to succor a distressed damosel is no reason why I should so far forget myself. Besides, the whole thing seems incredible. Report says, and," with an expressive glance at her, "I can well believe it, your mother was the most beautiful woman of her time in all the countryside; while my uncle, bless him, is one of the very ugliest men I ever met in my life. He might take a prize in that line. Just fancy the Beast refusing to wed with Beauty!"

      "To be ugly, so far as a man is concerned, is nothing," says Monica with a knowledge beyond her years. "Many singularly plain men have been much beloved. Though"—with an unconscious study of her companion's features, who is decidedly well favored—"I confess I should myself prefer a man whose nose was straight, and whose eyes were—had no inclination to look round the corner, I mean."

      "A straight nose is to be preferred, of course," says Mr. Desmond, absently stroking his own, which is all that can be desired. "But I never since I was born heard such an extraordinary story as yours. I give you my word,"—earnestly—"my uncle is just the sort of man who, if any girl, no matter how hideous, were to walk up to him and say, 'I consent to marry you,' ought to be devoutly grateful to her. Why, talking of noses, you should just see his: it's—it's anyhow," with growing excitement. "It's all up hill and down dale. I never before СКАЧАТЬ