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April's Lady: A Novel

<h2>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Love is its own great loveliness always, And takes new beauties from the touch of time; Its bough owns no December and no May, But bears its blossoms into winter's clime."</div> </div> <div class="blockquot">"I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without children." </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> "Oh, Felix—is it you!" says Mrs. Monkton in a dismayed tone. Her hansom is at the door and, arrayed in her best bib and tucker, she is hurrying through the hall when Dysart, who has just come, presents himself. He was just coming in, in fact, as she was going out. "Don't mind me," says he; "there is always to-morrow." "Oh, yes,—but——" "And Miss Kavanagh?" "It is to recover her I am going out this afternoon." It is the next day, so soon after her rupture with Joyce, that she is afraid to even hint at further complications. A strong desire to let him know that he might wait and try his fortune once again on her return with Joyce is oppressing her mind, but she puts it firmly behind her, or thinks she does. "She is lunching at the Brabazons'," she says; "old friends of ours. I promised to lunch there, too, so as to be able to bring Joyce home again." "She will be back, then." "In an hour and a half at latest," says Mrs. Monkton, who after all is not strong enough to be quite genuine to her better judgments. "But," with a start and a fresh determination to be cruel in the cause of right, "that would be much too long for you to wait for us." "I shouldn't think it long," says he. Mrs. Monkton smiles suddenly at him. How charming—how satisfactory he is. Could any lover be more devoted! "Well, it would be for all that," says she. "But"—hesitating in a last vain effort to dismiss, and then losing herself—, "suppose you do not abandon your visit altogether; that you go away, now, and get your lunch at your club—I feel," contritely, "how inhospitable I am—and then come back again here about four o'clock. She—I—will have returned by that time." "An excellent plan," says he, his face lighting up. Then it clouds again. "If she knows I am to be here?" "Ah! that is a difficulty," says Mrs. Monkton, her own pretty face showing signs of distress. "But anyhow, risk it." "I would rather she knew, however," says he steadily. The idea of entrapping her into a meeting with him is abhorrent to him. He had had enough of that at the Doré Gallery; though he had been innocent of any intentional deception there. "I will tell her then," says Mrs. Monkton; "and in the meantime go and get your——" At this moment the door on the right is thrown open, and Tommy, with a warhoop, descends upon them, followed by Mabel. "Oh! it's Felix!" cries he joyfully. "Will you stay with us, Felix? We've no one to have dinner with us to-day. Because mammy is going away, and Joyce is gone, and pappy is nowhere; and nurse isn't a bit of good—she only says, 'Take care you don't choke yourselves, me dearies!'" He imitates nurse to the life. "And dinner will be here in a minute. Mary says she's just going to bring it upstairs." "Oh, do—do stay with us," supplements little Mabel, thrusting her small hand imploringly into his. It is plain that he is in high favor with the children, however out of it with a certain other member of the family—and feeling grateful to them, Dysart hesitates to say the "No" that is on his lips. How hard it is to refuse the entreaties of these little clinging fingers—these eager, lovely, upturned faces! "If I may——?" says he at last, addressing Mrs. Monkton, and thereby giving in. "Oh! as for that! You know you may," says she. "But you will perfectly hate it. It is too bad to allow you to accept their invitation. You will be bored to death, and you will detest the boiled mutton. There is only that and—rice, I think. I won't even be sure of the rice. It may be tapioca—and that is worse still." "It's rice," says Tommy, who is great friends with the cook, and knows till her secrets. "That decides the question," says Felix gravely. "Every one knows that I adore rice. It is my one weakness." At this, Mrs. Monkton gives way to an irrepressible laugh, and he, catching the meaning of it, laughs, too. "You are wrong, however," says he; "that other is my one strength. I could not live without it. Well, Tommy, I accept your invitation. I shall stay and lunch—dine with you." In truth, it seems sweet in his eyes to remain in the house that she (Joyce) occupies; it will be easier to wait, to hope for her return there than elsewhere. "Your blood be on your own head," says Barbara, solemnly. "If, however, it goes too far, I warn you there are remedies. When it occurs to you that life is no longer worth living, go to the library; you will find there a revolver. It is three hundred years old, I'm told, and it is hung very high on the wall to keep it out of Freddy's reach. Blow your brains out with it—if you can." "You're awfully good, awfully thoughtful," says Mr. Dysart, "but I don't think, when the final catastrophe arrives, it will be suicide. If I must murder somebody, it will certainly not be myself; it will be either the children or the mutton." Mrs. Monkton laughs, then turns a serious eye on Tommy. "Now, Tommy," says she, addressing him with a gravity that should have overwhelmed him, "I am going away from you for an hour or so, and Mr. Dysart has kindly accepted your invitation to lunch with him. I do hope," with increasing impressiveness, "you will be good." "I hope so, too," returns Tommy, genially. There is an astonished pause, confined to the elders only, and then, Mr. Dysart, unable to restrain himself any longer, bursts but laughing. "Could anything be more candid?" says he; "more full of trust in himself, and yet with a certain modesty withal! There! you can go, Mrs. Monkton, with a clear conscience. I am not afraid to give myself up to the open-handed dealing of your son." Then his tone changes—he follows her quickly as she turns from him to the children to bid them good-bye. "Miss Kavanagh," says he, "is she well—happy?" "She is well," says Barbara, stopping to look back at him with her hand on Mabel's shoulder—there is reservation in her answer. "Had she any idea that I would call to-day?" This question is absolutely forced from him. "How should she? Even I—did I know it? Certainly I thought you would come some day, and soon, and she may have thought so, too, but—you should have told me. You called too soon. Impatience is a vice," says Mrs. Monkton, shaking her head in a very kindly fashion, however. "I suppose when she knows—when," with a rather sad smile, "you tell her—I am to be here on her return this afternoon she will not come with you." "Oh, yes, she will. I think so—I am sure of it. But you must understand, Felix, that she is very peculiar, difficult is what they call it now-a-days. And," pausing and glancing at him, "she is angry, too, about something that happened before you left last autumn. I hardly know what; I have imagined only, and," rapidly, "don't let us go into it, but you will know that there was something." "Something, yes," says he. "Well, a trifle, probably. I have said she is difficult. But you failed somewhere, and she is slow to pardon—where——" "Where! What does that mean?" demands the young man, a great spring of hope taking life within his eyes. "Ah, that hardly matters. But she is not forgiving. She is the very dearest girl I know, but that is one of her faults." "She has no faults," says he, doggedly. And then: "Well, she knows I am to be here this afternoon?" "Yes. I told her." "I am glad of that. If she returns with you from the Brabazons," with a quick but heavy sigh, "there will be no hope in that." "Don't be too hard," says Mrs. Monkton, who in truth is feeling a little frightened. To come back without Joyce, and encounter an irate young man, with Freddy goodness knows where—"She may have other engagements," she says. She waves him an airy adieu as she makes this cruel suggestion, and with a kiss more hurried than usual to the children, and a good deal of nervousness in her whole manner, runs down the steps to her hansom and disappears. Felix, thus abandoned, yields himself to the enemy. He gives his right hand to Freddy and his left to Mabel, and lets them lead him captive into the dining-room. "I expect dinner is cold," says Tommy cheerfully, seating himself without more ado, and watching the nurse, who is always in attendance at this meal, as she raises the cover from the boiled leg of mutton. "Oh! no, not yet," says Mr. Dysart, quite as cheerfully, raising the carving knife and fork. Something, however, ominous in the silence, that has fallen on both children makes itself felt, and without being able exactly to realize it he suspends operation for a moment to look at them. He finds four eyes staring in his direction with astonishment, generously mingled with pious horror shining in their clear depths. "Eh?" says he, involuntarily. "Aren't you going to say it?" asks Mabel, in a severe tone. "Say what?" says he. "Grace," returns Tommy with distinct disapprobation. "Oh—er—yes, of course. How could I have forgotten it?" says Dysart spasmodically, laying down the carvers at once, and preparing to distinguish himself. He succeeds admirably. The children are leaning on the table cloth in devout expectation, that has something, however, sinister about it. Nurse is looking on, also expectant. Mr. Dysart makes a wild struggle with his memory, but all to no effect. The beginning of various prayers come with malignant readiness to his mind, the ends of several psalms, the middles of a verse or two, but the graces shamelessly desert him in his hour of need. Good gracious! What is the usual one, the one they use at home—the—er? He becomes miserably conscious that Tommy's left eye is cocked sideways, and is regarding him with fatal understanding. In a state of desperation he bends forward as low as he well can, wondering vaguely where on earth is his hat, and mumbles something into his plate, that might be a bit of a prayer, but certainly it is not a grace. Perhaps it is a last cry for help. "What's that?" demands Tommy promptly. "I didn't hear one word of it," says Mabel with indignation. Mr. Dysart is too stricken to be able to frame a reply. "I don't believe you know one," continues Tommy, still fixing him with an uncompromising eye. "I don't believe you were saying anything. Do you, nurse?" "Oh, fie, now, Master Tommy, and I heard your ma telling you you were to be good." "Well, so I am good. 'Tis he isn't good. He won't say his prayers. Do you know one?" turning again to Dysart, who is covered with confusion. What the deuce did he stay here for? Why didn't he go to his club? He could have been back in plenty of time. If that confounded grinning woman of a nurse would only go away, it wouldn't be so bad; but—— "Never mind," says Mabel, with calm resignation. "I'll say one for you." "No, you shan't," cries Tommy; "it's my turn." "No, it isn't." "It is, Mabel. You said it yesterday. And you know you said 'relieve' instead of 'received,' and mother laughed, and——" "I don't care. It is Mr. Dysart's turn to-day, and he'll give his to me; won't you, Mr. Dysart?" "You're a greedy thing," cries Tommy, wrathfully, "and you shan't say it. I'll tell Mr. Dysart what you did this morning if you do." "I don't care," with disgraceful callousness. "I will say it." "Then, I'll say it, too," says Tommy, with sudden inspiration born of a determination to die rather than give in, and instantly four fat hands are joined in pairs, and two seraphic countenances are upraised, and two shrill voices at screaming-pitch are giving thanks for the boiled mutton, at a racing speed, that censorious people might probably connect with a desire on the part of each to be first in at the finish. Manfully they fight it out to the bitter end, without a break or a comma, and with defiant eyes glaring at each other across the table. There is a good deal of the grace; it is quite a long one when usually said, and yet very little grace in it to-day, when all is told. "You may go now, nurse," says Mabel, presently, when the mutton had been removed and nurse had placed the rice and jam on the table. "Mr. Dysart will attend to us." It is impossible to describe the grown-up air with which this command is given. It is so like Mrs. Monkton's own voice and manner that Felix, with a start, turns his eyes on the author of it, and nurse, with an ill-suppressed smile, leaves the room. "That's what mammy always says when-there's only her and me and Tommy," explains Mabel, confidentially. Then. "You," with a doubtful glance, "you will attend to us, won't you?" "I'll do my best," says Felix, in a depressed tone, whose spirits are growing low. After all, there was safety in nurse! "I think I'll come up and sit nearer to you," says Tommy, affably. He gets down from his chair and pushes it, creaking hideously, up to Mr. Dysart's elbow—right under it, in fact. "So will I," says Mabel, fired with joy at the prospect of getting away from her proper place, and eating her rice in a forbidden spot. "But," begins Felix, vaguely, "do you think your mother would——" "We always do it when we are alone with mammy," says Tommy. "She says it keeps us warm to get under her wing when the weather is cold," says Mabel, lifting a lovely little face to his and bringing her chair down on the top of his toe. "She says it keeps her warm, too. Are you warm now?" anxiously. "Yes, yes—burning!" says Mr. Dysart, whose toe is not unconscious of a corn. "Ah! I knew you'd like it," says. Tommy. "Now go on; give us our rice—a little rice and a lot of jam." "Is that what your mother does, too?" asks Mr. Dysart, meanly it must be confessed, but his toe is very bad still. The silence that follows his question and the look of the two downcast little faces is, however, punishment enough. "Well, so be it," says he. "But even if we do finish the jam—I'm awfully fond of it myself—we must promise faithfully not to be disagreeable about it; not to be ill, that is——" "Ill! We're never ill," says Tommy, valiantly, whereupon they make an end of the jam in no time. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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