Part 22 (1/2)
”Oh, what lovely dog-roses!” she says, effusively, in a tone that wouldn't have deceived a baby; ”I really _must_ get some.”
”Let me get them for you,” says Desmond, gloomily, which she at once decides is excessively stupid of him, and she doing all she can for him too! She tries to wither him with a glance, but he is too miserable to be lightly crushed.
”No, thank you,” she says; ”I prefer getting them myself. Flowers are like fruit, much more enjoyable when you pick them with your own hands.”
So saying, this accomplished gooseberry skips round the corner, leaving Monica and Mr. Desmond _tete-a-tete_.
That they enjoy their sudden isolation just at first is questionable: Monica discovers blots on the perfect horizon; and Mr. Desmond, after a full minute's pause, says, reproachfully,--
”You didn't _really_ mean that, did you?”
”Mean what?” uncompromisingly, and without changing position.
”That even if matters had been quite--quite comfortable with us, you would not have gone to meet me at the river?”
”I don't know,” in a low tone.
”_Say_ you didn't mean it.”
”I--suppose I didn't,” even lower.
”Look at me, then,” says Mr. Desmond.
Kit, in her high, sweet voice, is warbling that little, pretty thing about a ”lover and his la.s.s,” in the next field. The words of her song, and its silly refrain of
”A hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,”
come to them across the corn and scented meadow. Monica, with her hand in his, smiles faintly.
”You hear what she sings,--'that life is but a flower:' is it wise, then, to set your heart upon----”
”You?”
”I meant, an impossibility.”
”Which you are _not_. You shall not be. I don't believe in impossibilities, to begin with; and, even if it were so, I should still prefer to be unwise.”
”You are defiant,” she says, lightly; but her smile is still very sad.
”I have hope. 'Affection's ground is beyond time, place, and all mortality,' as we read. I shall conquer yet; yes, even _your_ prejudices. In the mean time, give me fair play; do not harden your heart against me.”
”I wish mine was the only hard heart you had to contend against,”
returns she, with a faint sigh. But this remark seems to drop so carelessly from her lips that, though elated by it, he is afraid to take any open notice of it.
”I hope your aunts were not cross to you last evening on my account?” he says, anxiously.
”No. Nothing was said, more than Kit told you, except that Aunt Priscilla touched upon the point of introduction. Oh, what a fright I got then! If she had persisted in her inquiries, what _would_ have become of me?”
”Couldn't you have----” began Mr. Desmond, and then stops abruptly. A glance at the face uplifted to his checks his half-uttered speech effectually, and renders him, besides, thoroughly ashamed of himself.