Chapter 13

How Kit reads between the lines--How the Misses Blake show themselves determined to pursue a dissipated course, and how Monica is led astray by an apt pupil of Machiavelli.

Early next morning Bridget, Monica's maid, enters Kit's room in a somewhat mysterious fashion. Glancing all round the room furtively, as though expecting an enemy lying in ambush behind every chair and table, she says, in a low, cautious tone,--

"A letter for you, miss."

As she says this, she draws a note from beneath her apron, where, in her right hand, it has been carefully hidden,--_so_ carefully, indeed, that she could not have failed to create suspicion in the breast of a babe.

"For me," says Kit, off her guard for once.

"Yes, miss."

"Who brought it?"

"A bit of a gossoon, miss, out there in the yard beyant. An' he wouldn't give me his name; but sure I know him well for a boy of the Maddens', an' one of the Coole people. His father, an' his gran'father before him, were laborers with the ould Squire."

"Ah, indeed!" says Kit. By this time she has recovered her surprise and her composure. "Thank you, Bridget," she says, with quite a grandiloquent air: "put it there, on that table. It is of no consequence, I dare say: you can go."

Bridget--who, like all her countrywomen, dearly likes a love-affair, and is quite aware of young Mr. Desmond's passion for her mistress--is disappointed.

"The gossoon said he was to wait for an answer, miss," she says, insinuatingly. "An' faix," waxing confidential, "I think I caught sight of the coat-tails of Misther Desmond's man outside the yard gate."

"You should never think on such occasions, Bridget; and coat-tails are decidedly _low_," says the younger Miss Beresford, with scathing reproof.

"They weren't very low, miss. He wore one o' them cutaway coats," says Bridget, in an injured tone.

"You fail to grasp my meaning," says Kit, gravely. "However, let it pass. If this note requires an answer, you can wait in the next room until I write it."

"Very well, miss," says the discomfited Bridget; and Kit, finding herself in another moment alone, approaches the table, and with a beating heart takes up the note. "It is--it _must_ be from Brian!"

The plot thickens; and _she_ has been selected to act a foremost part in it! She is to be the confidante,--the tried and trusted friend; without her aid all the fair edifice Cupid is erecting would crumble into dust.

And is there no danger, too, to be encountered,--perhaps to be met and overcome? If perchance all be discovered,--if Aunt Priscilla should suddenly be apprised of what is now going on beneath her very spectacles,--will not she,--Kit,--in her character of "guide, philosopher, and friend" to the culprits, come in for a double share of censure? Yes, truly there are breakers ahead, and difficulties to be overcome. There is joy and a sense of heroism in this thought; and she throws up her small head defiantly, and puts out one foot with quite a martial air, as it comes to her.

Then she tears open the envelope, and reads as follows:--

"DEAR LITTLE KIT,--Owing you all the love and allegiance in the world for having helped me once, I come to you again. How am I to pass this long day without a glimpse of _her_? It is a love-sick swain who doth entreat your mercy. Does any happy thought run through your pretty head? If so, my man is waiting for it somewhere; befriend me a second time.

"Ever yours, "BRIAN."

Prompt action is as the breath of her nostrils to Kit. Drawing pen and ink towards her, without a moment's hesitation, she scribbles an answer to Desmond:--

"We are going towards Ballyvoureen this afternoon, to take a pudding to old Biddy Daly: any one _chancing_ to walk there also might meet us. Count upon me always.

"KIT."

This Machiavellian epistle, which she fondly believes to be without its equal in the matter of depth, she folds carefully, and, enclosing it in an envelope void of address or anything (mark the astuteness of _that_!), calls to Bridget to return to her.

"You will find the boy you mentioned as being by birth a Madden," she says, austerely, "and give him this; and you will refrain from gossiping and idle talking with him, which is not convenient."

It would be impossible to describe the tone in which she says this. Bridget, much disgusted, takes the note silently, and with sufficient nervousness to make itself known. Indeed, she is so plainly impressed by Kit's eloquence that the latter's heart sings aloud for joy.

"Yes, miss," she says, in a very subdued voice, and goes away with indignant haste, to tell cook, as she passes through the kitchen, that "Faix, Miss Kit might be her own gran'mother,--she is so ould an' quare in her ways."

Kit meantime goes in search of Monica, with a mind stored with crafty arguments for the beguiling of that unconscious maiden. Hearing voices in the morning-room, she turns in there, and finds the whole family in conclave.

Miss Priscilla is speaking.

"Yes, I certainly think hospitality of some sort should be shown them," she is saying, with quite an excited flush on her dear old ugly face. "We cannot, of course, do much; but afternoon tea, now, and some pleasant people to meet them,--and strawberries,--and a little stroll round the gardens--eh? And, Penelope, you used to be a great hand at claret-cup in our dear father's time; and then there is tennis. I really think, you know, it might be done."

She quite bridles with pleasure at the bare anticipation. To entertain once more,--again to welcome guests beneath the old roof! For many years a nightly game of patience has been the sole dissipation the Misses Blake have known, and here of late days they have been going hither and thither to dances and garden-parties, and have acknowledged to themselves secretly that the change is sweet. And now they are actually discussing the idea of indulging in wild festivities on their own part! Surely these children from Jerusalem have much to answer for!

"Is there going to be a party _here_, Aunt Priscilla?" asks Kit with enlarged eyes.

"Well, my dear, we are debating the possibilities of it,--just the pros and cons," says Miss Priscilla, precisely. "Your aunt Penelope agrees with me that some attention is due to those young men in Clonbree Barracks."

"You are going to ask Captain Cobbett and Mr. Ryde here! Oh, what fun!" cries Kit, seating herself, minus invitation, on Miss Priscilla's knee, and twining her arms round her neck. "Do you know, when with mother we didn't dare call our souls our own; but with you we are having real good old times! Aren't we, now?"

"Oh, Kit!--my _dear_ Kit!--you must not speak so of your lost mother," cry the old ladies in a breath, both greatly distressed.

"Well, I shan't if you don't wish it; but it is true, for all that. And so you are really going to ask that big young man and his little captain to come here?"

"Your Aunt Penelope and I both feel that some hospitality should be shown to Her Majesty," says Miss Priscilla, pompously.

"The Queen!" says Kit aghast. "You aren't going to ask _her_ to Moyne are you? Windsor is a long way off, and she is pretty well on now, you know, and I don't believe she'd come."

"Not personally. But we shall pay her the compliment through her trusty servants the marines. Not that we owe her much," says Miss Priscilla, shaking her head. "I cannot think she has behaved quite fairly towards us in many ways. Never coming to see us, I mean, or sending the prince, or having a residence here, or that----"

"Still," breaks in Miss Penelope, coming to Her Majesty's relief, with the evident and kindly desire of showing her up in a more favorable light, "I have always understood that in private life she is a most exemplary woman,--a blameless wife so long as she was allowed to be so, and a most excellent mother."

"And grandmother," chimes in Miss Priscilla, gracefully, as though ashamed of her former acrimonious remarks. "From what I can glean from the papers, she seems quite devoted to those poor little motherless girls of Hesse."

It is quite plain that the Misses Blake regard their sovereign more as Victoria and sister than queen and mistress.

"She has sent these men to Clonbree to protect our lives and properties in these perilous times," goes on Miss Priscilla, in her clear, soft voice, "and so I think we are bound to show them any civility in our power."

"More especially the life and property of old Desmond," says Terry, at this moment, with a noble disregard of consequences. He is sitting at a distant window, tying flies, and makes this unfortunate remark without the faintest appearance of malice prepense. "They say he is running a regular rig with his tenants,--playing old Harry with 'em, in fact," he goes on, debonairly; "but they'll stop his little game for him with a bullet before long, I shouldn't wonder."

As the forbidden name is thus cavalierly thrown into their midst, like a bomb, Monica flushes first a warm crimson and then turns cold with fright.

The old ladies stiffen in their chairs, but never a word say they; they are too much overcome for ordinary rebuke. Kit, however, to whom any excitement is welcome, betrays an open admiration for the bold Terence and waits hopefully for what may come next.

It is even worse than might be expected. Terence, either unaware or careless of the sensation he has produced, closes one eye to examine with pleased scrutiny the gaudy fly he has just completed, after which he says, with a suggestion of jocoseness that under the circumstances is perfectly abominable,--

"I say, Aunt Priscilla, as Cobbett has been sent to look after old Desmond in particular, don't you think, if you entertain him, it will be to old Desmond, and _not_ Her Majesty, you will be paying attention, after all?"

He stops and smiles blandly. If, indeed, I said a _grin_ illuminates his countenance, I might be nearer the truth. It is apparent to everybody that he is _jesting_ on this sacred subject.

"Terry!" says Monica, with a little gasp.

"Well?" says Mr. Beresford, amiably, purposely misunderstanding the horror of her tone, and looking up as though thirsting for the remainder of her speech. It doesn't come. Monica, fearful of provoking him to further monstrosities, forbears from answer of any kind.

"Terence," says Miss Priscilla, with slow solemnity, "I have frequently told you that we object to hearing that detested name mentioned in our presence. It offends both your aunt Penelope and me. I must again beg that for the future we may be spared a repetition of it."

"When I was going to give Tim Daly a sound thrashing for his impertinence yesterday, you stopped me and bade me forgive my enemies," says Terence, calmly, questioningly. "Why don't you forgive old Desmond?"

"Because----That is quite another thing altogether. I mean----I----it seems to me----No matter _what_ it seems now; we can't discuss it," says Miss Priscilla, making a desperate effort to catch the horns of her dilemma and to escape from it.

"Let us discuss our party instead," says Kit, cheerfully, who is really of the greatest use at times. "When is it to be, Aunt Pris?"

"Next week, I suppose," says Miss Penelope, promptly, seeing that Miss Priscilla is still too agitated to reply. "And I think it would be rather nice to have tea in the orchard."

"Oh! how quite too lovely!" says Kit, clasping her hands.

"Quite too utterly consummately, preciously intense?" mutters Terence, _sotto voce_, regarding Kit sideways, who returns his rapturous glance with one full of ineffable disdain.

"I hope Michael won't object," says Miss Penelope, nervously. Michael is the gardener, and they are all, without exception, afraid of him.

"Nonsense, my dear! why should he?" says Miss Priscilla. "It isn't because he has been here for years that he is to forbid us the use of our own grounds, and of late I consider there is great fault to be found with him. Long service should not generate neglect, and of late there has not been a good lettuce or a respectable dish of asparagus in the garden."

"There wasn't even any thyme last week," says Kit, who maintains an undying feud with Michael. "He had to get some fresh plants from Cahirmore."

"Time was made for slaves," says Terence, meditatively. "_You_ aren't a slave, are you?"

"I should hope not," says Kit, icily.

"Then you can't want time: so don't worry that poor old man in the garden about it. He hasn't a scythe, or a bald head, or a dismal forelock: so he _can't_ know anything about it."

"You are so clever," says the younger Miss Beresford, with unmixed scorn, "that I wonder something dreadful doesn't happen to you."

"So do I," says Terence.

"Well, auntie, and whom shall we ask to meet these men of war?" says Kit, ignoring him,--publicly, to his great delight.

"I suppose Madam O'Connor and all her party, and the Frenches, and Lord Rossmoyne,--who I hear is still in the country,--and----Penelope, my dear, will you sit down and write the invitations now for Friday next, as I must get ready to go to the coast-guard station? That girl of Mitson's is ill, and wants to see me."

Monica rising at this moment to leave the room, Kit follows her.

"It is really _too_ amazing," she says, when they find themselves in the hall. "To think of their blossoming into a real live party! I feel quite overcome."

"So do I," says Monica, laughing.

"There is only one drawback to it," says Kit, softly: "I am _so_ sorry Brian can't be asked."

Monica flushes furiously, and swerves away from her somewhat impatiently; but reply she makes none.

"There are cobwebs in my brain," says Kit, raising her hands languidly to her head, with the oppressed air of one who is bravely struggling with a bad headache. "I think I shall go for a walk to Biddy Daly's to try and rout them. I promised her old mother a pudding the last day I was there, and to-day cook has it ready for me. Will you come with me, Monica? _Do._"

"Not to-day, I think," says Monica, lazily.

"I wish you would! I do so _hate_ going anywhere by myself. And, somehow, I am half afraid to go alone to-day, I feel--so--so faint. However," with a resigned sigh, "never mind; I dare say if I _do_ drop in a deadly swoon, somebody will pick me up."

"My dear Kit, if you feel like that, don't go," says Monica, naturally alarmed.

"I have promised old Mrs. Daly; I must go," replies Kit, with the determination of a Brutus. "If I am not back in time for dinner, you will understand what has happened."

This is awful! Monica turns quite pale.

"Of course I shall go with you," she says, hurriedly. "Is your head so very bad, darling? How bravely you carried it off in there!" pointing towards the morning-room they have just left. "However, it would be only like you to hide your worries from us, lest they should make us unhappy."

At this, it must be allowed to her credit, Kit feels some strong twinges of remorse,--not enough, however, to compel confession.

"It is really hardly worth talking about," she says, alluding to the headache; and this, at all events, is the strict truth.