Nothing can exceed the scorn and solemnity of Miss Priscilla's manner as she says all this.
"And what did mother do?" asks Monica, curiously.
"What could she do, poor child? I have no doubt it went nigh to breaking her heart."
"Her heart?" says Monica.
"She suffered acutely. That we could see, or rather we had to guess it, as for days she kept her own chamber and would see no one, going out only when it was quite dusk for a solitary ramble. Ah! when sorrow afflicts the soul, there is no balm so great as solitude. Your poor mother took the whole affair dreadfully to heart."
"You mean that she really fretted?" asks Monica, still in the same curious way, with her eyes fixed on her aunt. There is, indeed, so much unstudied surprise in her whole manner as might have produced a corresponding amount in the Misses Blake, had they noticed it.
"Yes, my dear, of course. Dear, dear, dear! what a sad thing it all was! Well, now you understand all that it is needful you should, Monica," says Miss Penelope, with a glance at her sister, who really seems quite overcome. "So we will say no more about it. Only you can see for yourself how impossible it is for any of our blood to be on friendly terms with a Desmond."
"They may not all be like that Mr. Desmond," says Monica, timidly, coloring to her brow.
"Yes, yes. Like father, like son; you know the old adage; and a nephew is as close a relation almost. We can know no one at Coole."
"I would almost rather see you dead than intimate with one of the name," says Miss Priscilla, with sudden harshness.