Rossmoyne. Duchess
vaguely at the beauty of the
"Starry river-buds among the sedge,
And floating water-lilies broad and bright,*****
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothes the dazzled eye with sober sheen."
So far silence has been scrupulously kept. Not a word has been spoken since they left the bank, not a look exchanged. Monica is letting her little slender fingers trail through the water and the flat leaves of the lilies. He, with his coat off, is pretending to row, but in reality is letting his body grow subservient to his mind. He has even adhered honorably to his promise not to look at her, and is still mentally ambitious about being true to his word in this respect, when an exclamation from her puts an end to all things.
"Oh! look at that lily!" she says, excitedly. "Was there ever such a beauty? If you will row a little more to the right, I am sure I shall be able to get it."
"Don't stir. I'll get it," returns he, grateful to the lily for this break in their programme; and presently the floating prize is secured, and he lays it, wet and dripping, in her outstretched hands.
"After all, you see, you broke your promise," she says, a moment later, most ungratefully, glancing up at him coquettishly from under her long lashes.
"But who made me do it?" asks he, reproachfully, whereupon she laughs and reddens.
"I never confess," she says, shaking her pretty head; "and after all – do you know? – I am rather glad you spoke to me, because, though I like being quite by myself at times, still I hate silence when any one is with me."
"So do I," says her companion, with the utmost cheerfulness.
"I think," leaning towards him with a friendly smile, "I cannot do better than begin our acquaintance by telling you my name. It is Monica Beresford."
"Monica," lingering over it lovingly; "a beautiful name, I think. I think, too, it suits you. Mine is not to be compared to yours; but, such as it is, I give it you!"
He throws a card into her lap.
"I hope it isn't John Smith," says Monica, smiling and picking up the card. But, as she reads what is printed thereon, the smile fades, and an expression of utter dismay overspreads her face.
"'Desmond' – Oh! not Desmond!" she says, imploringly, her lips growing quite pale.
"Yes, it is Desmond," says the young man, half amused, half puzzled. "You really think it ugly, then! Do you know I rather fancy my surname, although my Chris – "
"You are not – you cannot be the Desmond," interrupts she, hastily.
"No; that's my uncle," says the young man, innocently.
"Oh! then you acknowledge the crime?" in deep distress.
"I didn't know that an old Irish title must necessarily be connected with guilt," says her companion, fairly puzzled.
"Eh?" says Monica, puzzled in her turn. "I don't understand you: I only want to know if you are one of the particular Desmonds?"
"I suppose not," he replies, now openly amused, "because I regret to say we have never yet done anything worthy of note, or likely to distinguish us from all the other Desmonds, whose name is legion."
"If you are going to tell me you live at Coole," says Miss Beresford, in a tone that is almost tragic, "I warn you it will be the last straw, and that I shan't be able to bear it."
"I am not going to tell you anything," protests he.
"But you must," declares she, illogically. "I may as well hear the worst at once. Go on," heroically; "tell me the truth. Do you live there?"
"I'm awfully afraid I do," says Mr. Desmond, feeling somehow, without knowing why, distinctly ashamed of his name and residence.
"I knew it! I felt it!" says Monica, with the calmness of despair. "Take me back to the bank at once, – this very instant, please. Oh, what a row I should get into if they only knew!"
Very justly offended at the turn affairs have taken, Mr. Desmond rows her in silence to the landing-place, in silence gives her his hand to alight, in silence makes his boat safe, without so much as a glance at her, although he knows she is standing a little way from him, irresolute, remorseful, and uncertain.
He might, perhaps, have maintained this dignified indifference to the end, but that, unfortunately lifting his eyes, he catches sight of her in this repentant attitude, with her head bent down, and her slim fingers toying nervously with the lilies of his own gathering.
This picture flings dignity to the winds. Going up to her, he says, in a would-be careless but unmistakably offended voice, "May I ask what I have done, that 'they,' whoever they are, should consider you had disgraced yourself by being with me for half an hour?"
"You have done nothing," says Monica, faintly. "It was your uncle."
"My uncle!– George Desmond! Why, what on earth can he have done?" demands he, bewildered.
"I don't know." Feeling this is indeed a lame answer to a most natural question, she goes on hurriedly, "It all happened twenty years ago, and – "
"But what happened?" asks he, with pardonable impatience.
"Something dreadfully wicked," says Monica, solemnly. "Something really very, very bad, because Aunt Priscilla can't hear you spoken of with common patience."
"Me!"
"Not so much you, perhaps, as your name. She hates the very sound of it. There isn't a doubt about that; because, though I have not heard the exact story yet, I know both my aunts grow actually faint with horror when your uncle's name is mentioned."
"Good gracious!" says the horrified nephew of this apparently disreputable old man. He is staring at Monica, but in reality he does not even see her. Before his mind's eye is a picture of a stout old gentleman, irascible, but kindly, with a countenance innocent of guile. Yet how can he doubt this girl's story? Twenty years ago, as it seems, George Desmond had done something too bad to be discussed. After all, how impossible it is to trust to appearances! As a rule, the most seemingly harmless people are those who are guilty of the vilest misdemeanors. And, yet, what on earth could George have done twenty years ago? Visions of forgery, murder, homicide, rise up before him, but, try as he will, he cannot connect Mr. Desmond's face with any of them.
"You don't exactly know yourself what the crime is with which he is charged?" he asks her, with growing diffidence.
"No. But I shall find out, and tell – But that will be impossible!" – with a glance full of liveliest regret. "I cannot tell you, because after to-day I shall never see or speak to you again."
"That is the most insane nonsense I ever heard in my life," says Mr. Desmond.
The girl shakes her head sadly.
"If you won't speak to me I shall speak to you, whether you like it or not," says Desmond, with decision.
"That will be out of your power, as you will never see me."
"Do you mean to tell me I may not call at Moyne?"
"Certainly I do. They wouldn't hear of it. They wouldn't, in fact, receive you."
"But why must they visit my uncle's sins upon my shoulders? I have heard of a father's sins being entailed upon his heir, but never an uncle's."
"It is your name," says Monica. Then she laughs a little, in spite of herself, and quotes, in a low tone, "Oh! Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?"
But he takes no heed of this frivolous quotation.
"You mean me to understand, then, that I am never to speak to you again?"
"I do, indeed."
"What! Do you know we are to be close neighbors for the future, you and I? This is to be your home. Coole is to be mine. At the most, only a mile of road lies between us, and here not quite a yard. And yet you calmly tell me I am from this day forth to be only a common