Rossmoyne Part 56

"You admit, then, the possibility of your being hated?" says Mrs.

Herrick.

"I have admitted that ever since--I met--_you_! But old Browne bore me a special grudge."

"And your sin against him?"

"I never fathomed it. 'The atrocious crime of being a young man,'

princ.i.p.ally, I think. Once, I certainly locked him up in his own wine-cellar, and left him there for six hours, under the pretence that I believed him to be a burglar, but nothing more. He quite disliked being locked in the cellar, I think. It was very dark, I must admit. But I'm not afraid of the dark."

"That's a good thing," says Madam O'Connor, entering, "because it will soon envelop you. Did any one ever see so dark an evening for the time of year? Well, I do think that fire looks cheerful, though it _is_ warm.

Has Mary Browne come down yet?"

"No. Come here, Madam; here's a cosey seat I have been keeping sacred for you for the past hour. Why have you denied us the light of your countenance all this weary time?"

"Get out with you now, and your fine compliments to an old woman!" says Madam, laughing. "If I were _your_ sweetheart, Owen, I'd never believe a word out of your lips."

Mrs. Herrick, laying down her knitting, raises her head, and looks full into Kelly's eyes. As she does so, a smile, lovely as it is unexpected, warms all her statuesque face into perfect beauty.

"And this to me!" says Kelly, addressing his hostess, and pretending to be blind to Mrs. Herrick's glance. "All the afternoon I have been treated by your s.e.x with the most consummate cruelty. With their tongues they have been stabbing me as with so many knives. But yours is the unkindest cut of all. It is, in fact, the--er--carving-knife!"

"Oh! here's the tea," says Olga, in a pleased tone. "Madam, _please_ let me pour it out to-night?"

"Of course, my love, and thank you too."

"And may I to-morrow evening?" asks Monica, with childish eagerness and a quick warm blush.

"You may, indeed, my pretty one; and I hope it won't be long before you pour me out my tea in your own house."

Monica laughs, and kisses her, and Desmond, who is standing near them, stoops over Madam O'Connor and tells her he would like to kiss her too,--first, for her own sake, and secondly, for that sweet hope of hers just uttered.

"Not a bit of it," says she, in return, in a tone as sprightly as it was twenty years ago, though too low for Monica to hear. "Your first and second reasons are all humbug. Say at once you want to kiss me because you think this child's caress still lingers on my lips. Ah ha!--you see I know more than you think, my lad. And hark you, Brian, come here till I whisper a word in your ear; I'm your friend, boy, in the matter, and I wish you luck, though Priscilla Blake kill me for it; that's what I want to say."

"I couldn't desire a better friend," says Brian gratefully.

"And where on earth _is_ Mary Browne?" says Madam O'Connor. "She is such a nice girl, though hardly a Venus. Owen, my dear, I want you to take her down to dinner, and to make yourself charming to her."

"I shall be only too pleased," says Mr. Kelly, faintly; and then he sinks back in his chair and covers his face with his hands.

"We were talking about Miss Browne's father; he was quite a millionaire, wasn't he?" says Lord Rossmoyne, who is standing at the tea-table beside Olga. He is a very rich man himself, and has, therefore, a due regard for riches in others.

"He was,--and the most unpleasant person I ever met in my life, into the bargain," says Madam O'Connor. "I'm sure the life he led that poor Mary!--I never felt more relieved at anything than at the news of his death."

"I feel as if I could weep for Mary," says Mr. Kelly, in an aside to Mrs. Herrick, who takes no notice of him. "I wonder if she has got a little lamb," he goes on, unrebuked.

"What about the lamb?" says Madam, whose ears are young as ever.

"I was only conjecturing as to whether your cousin Mary had a little lamb," says Mr. Kelly, genially. "The old Mary had, you know. A dear little animal with its

'Fleece as white as snow; And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go.'

You recollect, don't you? What does Miss Browne do with hers? Has she got it upstairs in her room, now? After all,--though the idea is sweetly pretty,--I think there might be certain places into which it would be awkward to have even the whitest lamb trotting after one. Eh?"

"I suppose Miss Browne is rich enough to indulge in any vagaries that may occur to her," says Bella Fitzgerald.

"There's nothing like money," says Olga, with a sigh; at which Lord Rossmoyne looks hopeful, and young Ronayne despondent.

"Like leather, you mean," says Owen Kelly: "that's the real thing to get hold of."

"Some people would do _anything_ for money," says Miss Fitzgerald, with a spiteful glance in Olga's direction. "They would sell themselves for it." Here she turns her cold eyes upon Ronayne, who is standing erect, handsome, but unmistakably miserable.

"They could hardly sell themselves for a more profitable article," says Olga, with a fine shrug of her soft shoulders.

"So _they_ think. Croesus, we know, was, and is, allpowerful."

"Oh, no," says Olga, with a little silvery laugh; "you forget my dear Bella. Read it up again, and you will see that Croesus was once conquered by Cyrus. What became of his power then?"

Her lashes cover her eyes for a moment, and when she lifts them again they are fixed on Ronayne. By some coquettish art she gives him to understand in this single glance that he is Cyrus, Lord Rossmoyne Croesus. He can conquer the rich lord if he will.

"How idle you are, Mr. Ronayne!" she says aloud. "Come here directly and help me. You know I cannot do without _your_ help." There is the most delicate emphasis possible upon the p.r.o.noun. Obedient to her command, he comes, as Rossmoyne, armed with the cups, crosses the hall to Hermia and Miss Fitzgerald.

"Did your eyes speak true just now?" he asks, bending over her under pretext of helping her with the cups.

"What is truth?" asks she, in turn, with a swift upward glance. "Who knows aught of her? She lies buried in a deep well, does she not? Who shall drag her forth?"

She smiles, yet in a somewhat constrained fas.h.i.+on, that a.s.sorts ill with the inborn self-possession that as a rule characterizes her. She glances at him hurriedly. How young and handsome and earnest he looks! How full of tenderest entreaty! There is, too, a touch of melancholy in his dark eyes that never came to the birth (she is fain to acknowledge to herself with a pang of remorse) until that day when first they look on her.

He loves her,--that she knows; but Rossmoyne loves her too; and though Ronayne's rent-roll is by no means to be despised, still it counts but as a small one beside that of Rossmoyne's.

And Hermia is right! a t.i.tle _is_ of use in the world; and nothing is so lasting or so satisfactory as a respectable book at one's banker's. A good match (Hermia again) is the one thing to be desired; it covers all sins. Advice such as this coming from Mrs. Herrick is thoroughly disinterested, as the late lamented Mr. Herrick, having behaved to her like a brute during their mercifully short married life, had died in the odor of sanct.i.ty, leaving her complete mistress of all his enormous wealth, and quite free to make a second marriage of her _own_ choosing.

With her (Olga), however, the case is widely different; she is indeed without enc.u.mbrances so far as children may so be termed, and she has sufficient means to enable her to get her gowns and things from Paris, but there her independence ends.

As she runs over all this hurriedly in her mind, the desire for riches grows upon her. Yes, there is certainly a great deal of good in Rossmoyne, besides his income; and perhaps a solid sternness is preferable to an airy gayety of manner (this with an irrepressible leaning towards the "airy gayety"); and--and--what a _pity_ it is that Rossmoyne is not Ulic!----

"I will," says Ronayne, alluding to her last remark, in a low but determined tone. "Olga, tell me I am more to you than Rossmoyne."

"The boy you are!" says Olga, with an adorable smile that reaches him through the flickering flashes of the firelight. "The baby!" He is bending over her, and with a light caressing touch she brushes back the hair from his temples. "In a year, nay, in a month, once we are separated, you will see some other face, newer, more desirable, and forget you ever cared for mine."

"If I could believe that, I might find peace. Yet, for all that peace could give me, I would not so believe it. I am yours forever, boy though you deem me; and, yet, is one ever a boy again when one has once truly loved?"

"How often have you truly loved?" with an attempt at lightness that is down-trodden by the intensity of her regard.

"As often as I have seen you. Nay, more than that, every moment since I first saw you; because night and day, whether absent or present, I have been yours in heart and soul."

"You have fatigued yourself!--A long two months!" laughingly.

"A short two months."