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April's Lady: A Novel

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<h2>CHAPTER LVIII.</h2> <div class="blockquot">"Lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of the birds has come." </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> The vague suspicion of rain that had filled their thoughts at breakfast has proved idle. The sun is shining forth again with redoubled vigor, as if laughing their silly doubts to scorn. Never was there so fair a day. One can almost see the plants growing in the garden, and from every bough the nesting birds are singing loud songs of joy. The meadows are showing a lovely green, and in the glades and uplands the <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Daffodils That come before the swallow dares,"</div> </div> are uprearing their lovely heads. The air is full of sweet scents and sounds, and Joyce, jumping down from the drawing-room window, that lies close to the ground, looks gladly round her. Perhaps it is not so much the beauty of the scene as the warmth of happiness in her own heart that brings the smile to her lips and eyes. He will be here to-day! Involuntarily she raises one hand and looks at the ring that encircles her engaged finger. A charming ring of pearls and sapphires. It evidently brings her happy thoughts, as, after gazing at it for a moment or two, she stoops and presses her lips eagerly to it. It is his first gift (though not his last), and therefore the most precious. What girl does not like receiving a present from her lover? The least mercenary woman on earth must feel a glow at her heart and a fonder recognition of her sweetheart's worth when he lays a love-offering at her feet. Joyce, after her one act of devotion to her sweetheart, runs down the garden path and toward the summer house. She is not expecting Dysart until the day has well grown into its afternoon; but, book in hand, she has escaped from all possible visitors to spend a quiet hour in the old earwiggy shanty at the end of the garden, sure of finding herself safe there from interruptions. The sequel proves the futility of all human belief. Inside the summer house; book in hand likewise, sits Mr. Browne, a picture of studious virtue. Miss Kavanagh, seeing him, stops dead short, so great is her surprise, and Mr. Browne, raising his eyes, as if with difficulty, from the book on his knee, surveys her with a calmly judicial eye. "Not here. Not here, my child," quotes he, incorrectly. "You had better try next door." "Try for what?" demands she, indignantly. "For whom? You mean——" "No, I don't," with increasing anger. "Jocelyne!" says Mr. Browne, severely. "When one forsakes the path of truth it is only to tread in——" "Nonsense!" says Miss Kavanagh, irreverently. "As you will!" says he, meekly. "But I assure you he is not here." "I could have told you that," says she, coloring, however, very warmly. "I must say, Dicky, you are the most ingeniously stupid person I ever met in my life." "To shine in even the smallest line in life is to achieve something," says Mr. Browne, complacently. "And so you knew he wouldn't be here just now?" This is uttered in an insinuating tone. Miss Kavanagh feels she has made a false move. To give Dicky an inch is, indeed, to give him an ell. "He? Who?" says she, weakly. "Don't descend to dissimulation, Jocelyne," advises he, severely. "It's the surest road to ruin, if one is to believe the good old copy books. By he—you see I scorn subterfuge—I mean Dysart, the person to whom in a mistaken moment you have affianced yourself, as though I—I were not ready at any time to espouse you." "I'm not going to be espoused," says Miss Kavanagh, half laughing. "No? I quite understood——" "I won't have that word," petulantly. "It sounds like something out of the dark ages." "So does he," says Mr. Browne. "'Felix,' you know. So Latin! Quite like one of the old monks. I shouldn't wonder if he turned out a——" "I wish you wouldn't tease me, Dicky," says she. "You think you are amusing, you know, but I think you are one of the rudest people I ever met. I wish you would let me alone." "Ah! Why didn't you leave me alone?" says he, with a sigh that would have set a furnace ablaze. "However!" with a noble determination to overcome his grief. "Let the past lie. You want to go and meet Dysart, isn't that it? And I'll go and meet him with you. Could self-sacrifice further go? 'Jim along Josy,' no doubt he is at the upper gate by this time, flying on the wings of love." "He is not," says Joyce; "and I wish once for all, Dicky, that you wouldn't call me 'Josy.' 'Jocelyne' is bad enough, but 'Josy!' And I'm not going to 'jim' anywhere, and certainly"—with strong determination—"not with you." She looks at him with sudden curiosity. "What brought you here to-day?" asks she, most inhospitably it must be confessed. "What brings me here every day? To see the unkindest girl in the world." "She doesn't live here," says Miss Kavanagh. "Dicky"—changing her tone suddenly and looking at him with earnest eyes. "What is this I hear about Lady Baltimore and her husband? Be sensible now, do, and tell me." "They're going abroad together—with Bertie. They've made it up," says he, growing as sensible as even she can desire. "It is such a complete make up all round that they didn't even ask me to go with them. However, I'm determined to join them at Nice on their return from Egypt. Too much billing and cooing is bad for people." "I'm so glad," says Joyce, her eyes filling with tears. "They are two such dear people, and if it hadn't been for Lady—By the by, where is Lady Swansdown?" "Russia, I think." "Well, I liked her, too," says Joyce, with a sigh; "but she wasn't good for Baltimore, was she?" "Not very!" says Mr. Browne, dryly. "I should say, on the whole, that she disagreed with him. Tonics are sometimes dangerous." "I'm so delighted," says Joyce, still thinking of Lady Baltimore. "Well," smiling at him, "why don't you go in and see Barbara?" "I have seen her, talked with her a long while, and bid her adieu. I was on my way back to the Court, having failed in my hope of seeing you, when I found this delightful nest of earwigs, and thought I'd stay and confabulate with them a while in default of better companions." "Poor Dicky!" says she. "Come with me, then, and I'll talk to you for half an hour." "Too late!" says he, looking at his watch. "There is only one thing left me now to, say to you, and that is, 'Good-by.'" "Why this mad haste?" "Ah, ha! I Can have my little secrets, too," says he. "A whisper in your ear," leaning toward her. "No, thank you," says she, waving him off with determination. "I remember your last whisper. There! if you can't stay, Dicky, good by indeed. I'm going for a walk." She turns away resolutely, leaving Mr. Browne to sink back upon the seat and continue his reading, or else to go and meet that secret he spoke of. "I say," calls he, running after her. "You may as well see me as far as the gate, any way." It is evident the book at least has lost its charms. Miss Kavanagh not being stony hearted so far gives in as to walk with him to a side gate, and having finally bidden him adieu, goes back to the summer house he has quitted, and, opening her book, prepares to enjoy herself. Vain preparation! It is plain that the fates are against her to-day. She is no sooner seated, with her book of poetry open on her knee, than a little flying form turns the corner and Tommy precipitates himself upon her. "What are you doing?" asks he. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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