Part 17 (1/2)

”Well,” says Madam O'Connor, turning round as she sees him disappear, and addressing the three or four people round her generally, ”'pon me conscience, that's the silliest young man I ever met in my life!” When disturbed, elated, or distressed, Madam O'Connor always says, ”'Pon me conscience!”

”Don't be hard upon him,” says Mr. Kelly, kindly. ”Though very mad, he is _quite_ harmless!”

”He plays tennis very well,” says Miss Fitzgerald, the tall girl. ”So nice, isn't it? to have these ancient games reproduced!” This with the learned air of one who could say more if she would.

”_Ancient?_” says Madam O'Connor. ”Faith, I thought it was a game of yesterday.”

”Oh, dear, no!” says the erudite Bella, with a lenient smile. ”Tennis was first brought from France to England in the reign of Charles the Second.”

”There now, Miss Beresford, don't forget that,” says Madam O'Connor, turning to Monica with an amused smile: ”it is essential you should remember it, as it is part of one's education.” After which she moves away towards some other guests, having said all she has to say to those near her.

”May I see you to your carriage, Miss Blake?” says Desmond, finding she and Miss Penelope are bent on going; and Aunt Priscilla, who has taken quite a fancy to this strange young man, gives her gracious permission that he shall accompany them to the fossilized chariot awaiting them.

”Who is he, my dear Priscilla?” asks Miss Penelope, in a stage whisper, as they go.

”Don't know, my dear, but a vastly agreeable young man, very superior to those of his own age of the present day. He is marvellously polite, and has, I think, quite a superior air.”

”Quite,” says Penelope, ”and a very sweet expression besides,--so open, so ingenuous. I wish _all_ were like him.” This with a sigh, Terence having proved himself open to suspicion with regard to plain dealing during the past few days.

Now, it so happens that at this instant they turn a corner leading from the shrubbery walk on to the gravel sweep before the hall door; as they turn this corner, so does some one else, only _he_ is coming from the gravel sweep to the walk, so that consequently he is face to face with the Misses Blake without any hope of retreat.

The walk is narrow at the entrance to it, and as the newcomer essays to pa.s.s hurriedly by Miss Priscilla he finds himself fatally entangled with her, she having gone to the right as he went to the left, and afterwards having gone to the left as he went to the right, and so on.

Finally a pa.s.sage is cleared, and the stranger--who is an amazingly ugly old man, with a rather benign though choleric countenance--speeds past the Misses Blake like a flash of lightning, and with a haste creditable to his years, but suggestive rather of fear than elasticity.

”My uncle?” says Brian Desmond, in an awestruck tone, to Monica, who literally goes down before the terrible annunciation, and trembles visibly.

It is a rencontre fraught with mortal horror to the Misses Blake. For years they have not so much as looked upon their enemy's face, and now their skirts have actually brushed him as he pa.s.sed.

”Come, come quickly, Monica,” says Miss Penelope, on this occasion being the one to take the initiative. ”Do not linger, child. Do you not see?

It was _our enemy_ that pa.s.sed by.”

If she had said ”it was the arch fiend,” her voice could not have been more tragic.

”I am coming, Aunt Penny,” says Monica, nervously.

Now, it is at this inauspicious moment that Mr. Kelly (who, as I have said before, is always everywhere) chooses to rush up to Brian Desmond and address him in a loud tone.

”My dear boy, you are not going yet, are you?” he says reproachfully. ”I say, Desmond, you can't, you know, because Miss Fitzgerald says you promised to play in the next match with her.”

The fatal name had been uttered clearly and distinctly. As though petrified the two old ladies, stand quite still and stare at Brian; then Miss Priscilla, with a stately movement, gets between him and Monica, and, in tones that tremble perceptibly, says to him,--

”I thank you for the courtesy already received sir; but we will no longer trouble you for your escort: we prefer to seek our carriage _alone_.”

She sweeps him a terribly stiff little salute, and sails off, still trembling and very pale, Miss Penelope, scarcely less pale, following in her wake.

Desmond has barely time to grasp Monica's hand, and whisper, ”Remember,”

in as mysterious a tone as the hapless Stuart, when she too is swept away, and carried from his sight.