and Kit and I – thought her a very tiresome woman indeed," says Miss Beresford, calmly. She does not look at him as she makes this startling speech, but looks beyond him into, possibly, a past where the "tiresome woman" held a part.
Brian Desmond, gazing at her pale, pure, spiritual face, sustains a faint shock, as the meaning of her words reaches him. Is she heartless, emotionless? Could not even a mother's love touch her and wake her into life and feeling?
"You weren't very fond of your mother, then?" he asks, gently. The bare memory of his own mother is adored by him.
"Fond?" says Monica, as though the idea is a new one to her. "Fond? Yes, I suppose so; but we were all much fonder of my father. Not that either he or mamma took very much notice of us."
"Were they so much wrapt up in each other, then?"
"No, certainly not," quickly. Then with an amount of bitterness in her tone that contrasts strangely with its usual softness, "I wonder why I called my mother 'mamma' to you just now. I never dared do so to her. Once when she was going away somewhere I threw my arms around her and called her by that pet name; but she put me from her, and told me I was not to make a noise like a sheep."
She seems more annoyed than distressed as she says this. Desmond is silent. Perhaps his silence frightens her, because she turns to him with a rather pale, nervous face.
"I suppose I should not say such things as these to you," she says, unsteadily. "I forgot, it did not occur to me, that we are only strangers."
"Say what you will to me," says Desmond, slowly, "and be sure of this, that what you do say will be heard by you and me alone."
"I believe you," she answers, with a little sigh.
"And, besides, we are not altogether strangers," he goes on, lightly; "that day on the river is a link between us, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes, the river," she says, smiling.
"Our river. I have brought myself to believe it is our joint property: no one else seems to know anything about it."
"I have never been near it since," says Monica.
"I know that," returns he, meaningly.
"How?" is almost framed upon her lips; but a single glance at him renders her dumb. Something in his expression suggests the possibility that he has spent pretty nearly all his time since last they met, and certainly all his afternoons, upon that shady river just below the pollard willows, in the vain hope of seeing her arrive.
She blushes deeply, and then, in spite of herself, laughs out loud, a low but ringing laugh, full of music and mischief.
This most uncalled-for burst of merriment has the effect of making Mr. Desmond preternaturally grave.
"May I ask what you are laughing at?" he says, with painful politeness; whereupon Miss Beresford checks her mirth abruptly, and has the grace to blush again even harder than before. Her confusion is, indeed, the prettiest thing possible.
"I don't know," she says, in an evasive tone.
"People generally do know what they are laughing at," contends he, seriously.
"Well, I don't," returns she, with great spirit.
"Of course not, if you say so; but," with suppressed wrath, "I don't myself think there is anything provocative of mirth in the thought of a fellow wasting hour after hour upon a lonely stream in the insane but honest hope of seeing somebody who wouldn't come. Of course in your eyes the fellow was a fool to do it; but – but if I were the girl I wouldn't laugh at him for it."
Silence.
Monica's eyes are bent upon the ground; her face is averted; but there is something about her attitude that compels Mr. Desmond to believe she is sorry for her untimely laughter; and thinking this breeds hatred towards himself for having caused this sorrow and makes him accuse himself of basest ill temper.
"I beg your pardon!" he says, in a contrite tone; "I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I lost my temper most absurdly and must apologize to you for it now. It was ridiculous of me to suppose you would ever come again to the river; but one hopes against hope. Yet, as Feltham tells us, 'he that hopes too much shall deceive himself at last:' that was my fate, you see. And you never once thought of coming, did you? You were quite right."
"No, I was quite wrong; but – but —you are quite wrong too in one way," still with her eyes downturned.
"By what right did I expect you? I was a presumptuous fool and got just what I deserved."
"You were not a fool," exclaims she, quickly; and then, with a little impulsive gesture, she draws herself up and looks him fair in the eyes. "If I had known you were there," she says, bravely, though evidently frightened at her own temerity, "I – I – am almost sure I should have been there too!"
"No! would you really?" says Desmond, eagerly.
Then follows a rather prolonged silence. Not an awkward one, but certainly a silence fraught with danger to both. There is no greater friend to Cupid than an unsought silence such as this. At last it is broken.
"What lovely roses there are in this garden!" says Desmond, pointing to a bush of glowing beauty near him.
"Are there not?" She has taken off a long white glove, so that one hand and arm are bare. The hand is particularly small and finely shaped, the nails on it are a picture in themselves; the arm is slight and childish, but rounded and very fair.
Breaking a rose from the tree indicated, she examines it lovingly, and then, lifting it to his face, as though desirous of sympathy, says, —
"Is it not sweet?"
"It is indeed!" He is staring at her. Very gently he takes the little hand that holds the flower and keeps it in his own. He detains it so lightly that she might withdraw it if she pleases, but she does not. Perhaps she doesn't please, or perhaps she sees nothing remarkable in his action. At all events, she, who is so prone to blush on all occasions, does not change color now, but chatters to him gayly, in an unconcerned manner, about the scented blossoms round her, and afterwards about the people yonder, behind the tall flowering shrubs that surround the tennis-ground.
And still her little slender fingers lie passively in his. Glancing at them, he strokes them lightly with his other hand, and counts her rings.
"Four – five," he says; "quite a burden for such a little hand to carry."
"I like them," says Monica: "brooches and earrings and bracelets I don't care for, but rings I love. I never really feel dressed until they are on. To slip them on my fingers is the last thing I do every morning before running downstairs. At least nearly the last."
"And what is the last?"
"I say my prayers," says Monica, smiling. "That is what every one does, isn't it?"
"I don't know," says Mr. Desmond, not looking at her. It seems to him a long, long time now since last he said his prayers. And then he suddenly decides within himself that he will say them to-morrow morning, "the last thing before going downstairs;" he cannot have quite forgotten yet.
He is examining her rings as he thinks all this, and now a little pale turquoise thing attracts his notice.
"Who
