Part 22 (2/2)
”If I had to confess there had been _no_ introduction,” goes on Monica, laughingly, ”I don't know what would have been the result.”
”The deluge, I suppose,” returns her companion thoughtfully.
”What a pity you have an uncle at all!” says Monica, presently. ”It would be all right only for him.” She omits to say _what_ would be all right, but the translation is simple.
”Oh, don't say that,” entreats Desmond, who has a wholesome affection for the old gentleman above at Coole. ”He is the kindest old fellow in the world. I think, if you knew him, you would be very fond of him; and I know he would adore _you_. In fact, he is so kind-hearted that I cannot think how all that unfortunate story about your mother ever came about. He looks to me as if he couldn't say 'Bo to a goose' where a woman was concerned and yet his manner to-night confirmed everything I heard.”
”He confessed?” in a deeply interested tone.
”Well just the same thing. He seemed distressed about his own conduct in the affair, too. But his manner was odd, I thought: and he seems as much at daggers drawn with your aunts as they with him.”
”That is because he is ashamed of himself. One is always hardest on those one has injured.”
”But that is just it,” says Mr. Desmond, in a puzzled tone. ”I don't believe, honestly, he is a bit ashamed of himself. He _said_ a good deal about his regret, but I could see he quite gloried in his crime. And, in fact, I couldn't discover the smallest trace of remorse about him.”
”He must really be a very bad old man,” says Monica, severely. ”I am perfectly certain if he were _my_ uncle I should not love him at all.”
”Don't say that. When he _is_ your uncle you will see that I am right, and that he is a very lovable old man, in spite of all his faults.”
At this Monica blushes a little, and twirls her rings round her slender fingers in an excess of shyness, and finally, in spite of a stern pressure laid upon herself, gives way to mirth.
”What are you laughing at now?” asks he laughing too.
”At you,” casting a swift but charming glance at him from under her long lashes. ”You _do_ say such funny things!”
”Did you hear there is to be an afternoon dance at the Barracks next week?” asks he presently. ”I was at Clonbree on Thursday, and Cobbett told me about it.”
”Who is Cobbett?”
”The captain there, you know. He was at Aghyohillbeg yesterday. Didn't you see him,--a little, half-starved looking man, with a skin the color of his hair, and both gray?”
”Oh, of course--now I remember him,” says Monica, this fetching description having cleared her memory. ”I thought to myself how odd he and the other man, Mr. Ryde, looked together, one as big as the other was little.”
”I think there is more matter than brains about Ryde,” says Desmond, contemptuously. ”Do you think your aunt will let you go to this dance at Clonbree?”
”Oh, no; I am _sure_ not. My aunts would be certain to look upon a dance in the Barracks as something too awfully dissipated.”
”For one reason I should be glad you didn't go.”
”Glad?” opening her eyes.
”Yes. That fellow Ryde never took his eyes off you yesterday.”
”Is _that_ a crime?”
”In my eyes, _yes_.”
”And you would wish me to be kept a prisoner at home just because one man looked at me?”
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