CONVERSATION AND A LITTLE PIG-STUFF
After that a short time passed away, during which Rosalie saw much of
Mr. Barringcourt and the Golden Priest, though not intimately.
During this time Lady Flamington, young, beautiful, much courted and
admired, died. It caused a great sensation at the time, because she had
only been ill a week, and the doctor had great hopes of recovery because
she was strong. But it was double pneumonia, and whereas many a poor
person less well attended to gets well and strong again, she, with all
attention, passed away.
Rosalie, though knowing comparatively little of her, was somehow much
affected by her death. Sir John went to the funeral, and she was put
away in a manner that would have done many a poor person’s heart good.
The next morning was bright and frosty, and Rosalie took an early walk
in the Park. Walking there, she met Mr. Barringcourt, and as it was
daylight, and the frog was with her, she did not beat a retreat. She
expected to find him doleful, searched his face for the usual signs, but
found nothing. She remembered Mariana’s words, and thought there must be
truth in them.
“You are out early,” he said.
“Yes. I left Miss Crokerly feeding the birds and cleaning the cages. She
prefers to do it alone, so I don’t offer to help her.”
“You are happier with her than you were with me.”
“Of course. I was not at all happy with you, Mr. Barringcourt. You knew
it.”
“I don’t think you waited long enough to find out.”
“I escaped by the first open door, in case none other should present
itself.”
“Which door was that?”
“That is my little secret. You must be as charming as charming to me,
and I will be sure never to let you know.”
He laughed. “Mariana again?”
“Yes, Mariana,” said Rosalie, suddenly standing still and looking up at
him, for they had walked along together. “How is Mariana? I want to see
her again.”
“Oh, she is perfectly well, I think,” he answered. “But you cannot see
her. The guest of Sir John Crokerly cannot fraternise with a housemaid.”
“When did you find me a snob?” asked Rosalie. “Of course I can see her.
I—I should have written and asked her to call and see me, only things in
your house aren’t quite on the highest principle.”
And Rosalie’s nose went one degree higher, and she drew her skirts more
severely round her, and moved quite half an inch further away as they
walked along.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the postman would do his part of the work, but I doubt whether
Everard would.”
“Then, if you don’t trust Everard, why not call yourself?”
Rosalie’s eyes opened.
“Do you mean to say if I wouldn’t trust a letter I should trust myself?
How you reason, Mr. Barringcourt.”
“You could neither be torn up nor burned.”
“No. But it is my firm intention never to enter Marble House again.”
“You are the young lady who once said you never had run away, and never
intended to.”
Her ears began to burn.
“To recall things that are past is mean—and—and abominable.”
“I am not recalling things. I merely wish to point out to you people
always do the things they say they won’t do.”
“Do they?” she answered, and turned a pair of mermaid eyes on to his
profile, and tried to recall things that he had said.
Under the scrutiny he turned his face to her again, laughing.
“Still the old trick of staring, Rosalie.”
“You must be very careful how you speak to me. See, I carry my chaperon
in my muff,” and she tilted it up and showed the frog sitting there.
“If you had lived two hundred years ago, they’d have called that little
animal your familiar spirit, and burnt you as a witch. Where did you get
it from?”
“Another secret, Mr. Barringcourt. You must be still more charming, and
I’ll count twenty every time before I speak. But when may I see
Mariana?”
“Mariana has forgotten you.”
“Has she married Everard, then?”
“Oh, no! Their friendship is as pleasant as iced milk in summer. If you
want to see Mariana, you must come and seek her.”
Rosalie bit her lip. “I’ve told you I won’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if I came you’d never let me out again.”
“You say so, so I should be very ill-mannered if I contradicted you. My
road lies this way. Good morning!”
“Mr. Barringcourt.”
“Yes,” and he turned to find her standing there, with a puzzled and
anxious look on her face.
“Would you mind giving me a little advice—telling me what to do, I
mean?”
“About what?”
“It’s about a handkerchief that was found in the temple, so it seems,
some time ago. It belonged to me. I keep wondering ought I to tell, and
I don’t want to. I would have asked Miss Crokerly, only she knows
nothing about it, and might not understand. What would you do if you
were me?”
“I’d worry; but being myself, I’d let it pass.”
“But it caused a scandal, and did the Great High Priest a great deal of
harm.”
“Why did you not speak about it at the time?”
“Because I wasn’t in Lucifram. I—I—I—You see, I haven’t got out of my
old habit.”
“No,” he answered, and raised his hat and turned away again, and spoke
with such a short kind of pride, that just the one sharp monosyllable
was almost more than Rosalie could stand.
“There now,” said she to the frog, as they walked home, she with a
burning heart. “Do you like him now? Did I not tell you no one could be
nastier?”
“Well,” replied Brightcoat, “you ask advice, and only give half the
information—not that.”
“I see you have conspired against me. If I told him the story of the
Governor, and how I met with you, he would only laugh and say I was
dreaming.”
“You shouldn’t stammer when you’re speaking. People always misconstrue
it, and give it more meaning than it has.”
“Because people are so stupid. Well, we’ve quarrelled again now, and you
can blame me if you like; but I blame him. And I would so love to see
Mariana again. And to think he called her a housemaid! Housemaid? I’ve
seen no woman to compare to her in beauty or grace since I came here.
The only thing she needed was life. And housemaids, as a rule, have too
much of that.”
It is sad to relate that a few days after this the Great High Priest
died, and his death was a general relief. He was little mourned for. The
public do not always forgive a man readily, even when he has the grace
to die, though it’s certainly a great point in his favour. But still
there was a certain section still in his favour, or rather, in favour of
a certain Golden Priest called Phillipus, who was the oldest of that
superior gathering, and likeliest, therefore, to come soonest upon
dotage. Now Phillipus, if seniority had anything to do with it, ought to
have stepped into the vacant throne, and would have done, if the events
of the last two years or so had not undermined public feeling.
He was a man of sixty, so well preserved, and of an intellect so keen,
he appeared as one in the very middle youth of life. But when events are
against a man, he may be what he will, he doesn’t make much headway,
from a worldly point of view.
But the death of the High Priest, so unexpected as it was, threw things
forward a bit. The election for his successor must come off sooner than
was expected. In lieu of this, a famous conclave was called together at
a dinner-party—a party at which the dinner was not to be so important as
the speeches to follow.
Whilst this was in progress of preparation, cards of invitation were
issued for a great ball in Marble House on Christmas Day.
And so it was the day before the big dinner came off, and about a week
after the invitations for the ball had been issued, Susiebelle rushed
into the drawing-room of her great friend, Miss Groggerton.
Now, before proceeding, it may be as well to introduce this lady
cautiously. She lived in Lucifram, not upon Earth. She was so shockingly
and vulgarly outspoken that on our modest sphere she would never have
been tolerated; but there she was.
And why? Well, the reason is a good one. She had twice been crossed in
love. That on Earth makes a woman bitter. Not so on Lucifram.
Crossed once, she does become embittered; crossed twice, she becomes a
scourge in the land. And Miss Groggerton had been crossed twice.
She therefore spared no one, man, woman, or child, and in consequence
all persons with a spite against anyone went to her. She poured pepper
and vinegar upon their wounds; then salt, and healed them.
So it was that Susiebelle rushed into her room, furnished in yellow
satin.
“I think it’s shameful!”
“What’s shameful?” asked Miss Groggerton, laying down her yellow-backed
novel.
“The way Camille Barringcourt has behaved!”
“I knew you’d never manage it,” said the other.
“Manage what?”
“To get him up to the scratch.”
“You’ve failed often enough; you needn’t talk to me.
“I was talking to myself.”
“It’s scandalous the way that grey-haired old Agnes Crokerly gets into
everything. The reason her brother’s never got married is because she
never lets him out of her sight.”
“The reason he’s never got married,” said Miss Groggerton, “is because
he’s no morals.”
“You know a good bit about people,” said Susiebelle, more respectfully.
“I should think I did! People are no better than pigs; they’re swine.”
“Pa made his money out of pigs.”
“They’re one degree better than people, then.”
“I wish you’d let me say what I came to say.”
“Go on. No one’s hindering you but yourself.”
“Camille Barringcourt’s a pig. He’s gone and asked old Agnes Crokerly to
play hostess at his big do. And I thought now Lady Flamington was gone
there’d be a chance for ma and me.”
“What d’ye want with _him_?” said the other sneeringly. “He’s not a
duke. He’s plain Mr.! Bless me, you’re coming down!”
“Ah! but he’s got a mint of money.”
“You’ve got enough money for two and more, if need be. What you want is
a title. If you looked back into his people you’d find they kept a chip
potato shop, I dare be bound.”
“Never!” said Susiebelle, with emphasis, the tears rising in her eyes.
“He’s so real a gentleman he makes Lord Hysquint look like a
twopence-halfpenny waiter in a restaurant I don’t want a duke” (her
voice was rising), “I won’t have a duke! They’re common little sniggling
things that are too proud for their place. One might think they’d never
tasted sausage! I’ll marry who I want to, and if I don’t marry who I
want, I’ll make everybody’s life a burden to them!”
And her voice rose to a high pitch, for she was hysterical, and had
never been much crossed in her life before.
Miss Groggerton was enjoying the oratory so much, she made no attempt at
interruption. This would be a delightful tale for repetition.
Susiebelle, once having begun to speak, had lost control over her
tongue, a state with which many will readily sympathise.
“I went to the temple specially when Lady Flamington died, and thanked
the Serpent, because I thought it was my turn next, and—and—and now it’s
old Agnes Crokerly—old cat!”
“Old Agnes Crokerly!” said Miss Groggerton, with a snort and a sneer.
“Old Agnes Crokerly!”
“Well, he’s asked her to do the thing for him. And he giving a big
affair with Lady Flamington warm in her coffin yet! And never a crape
band round his arm or his hat for her.”
“Well! Women who make themselves too cheap can’t expect to be respected
even in their graves.”
“She never made herself too cheap. Ma fought tooth and nail to get her
to our place, and wouldn’t have managed it then if it hadn’t been for
Mr. Barringcourt, who’s more democratic in his views. He brought her to
a charity concert when her husband was away in the land of Big Boasts
and Loud Voices, and ma improved the occasion.”
“And now,” said the other contemptuously, “you say John Crokerly’s
sister has taken her place.”
“Yes; it’s the way with young men. Mollycoddled by women old enough to
be their mothers.”
Her tears began to flow again.
“He’s not so very young,” said Miss Groggerton impressively. “And you
bet your bottom dollar it’s the other one he’s after.”
“Which other?” and Susiebelle opened her big brown eyes.
“What’s her name? Pa—Pa—Paleaf.”
“What!” screamed the other. “The girl with the pug-nose, the green eyes
and washed-out hair. Sprung from nowhere! A lot you know about it.”
“I know plenty, because I watch. Didn’t I see them walking in the Park
the other morning? I’ll do him the justice, though, to say she kept
calling him back when he was all for getting away.”
“I don’t believe it. She knows how to dress, and there’s an end of it.”
“She’s a right-down pretty woman,” said Miss Groggerton spitefully, who
would have been just as eager to pronounce her ugly upon another
occasion.
“There’s no dash, no ‘go’ about her. She gives one the impression she’s
been sleeping in a bandbox. I’d rather have Agnes for company than her.”
“You would. But then you’re not a man. It makes all the difference.”
And then Susiebelle, being quite overwrought, put her head on the sofa
pillow and cried aloud. Truly Miss Groggerton was cruel. But it was not
her nature to remain so long, if justice must be done her. Suddenly she
said:
“Are you very gone on Barringcourt?”
“Dead gone. If I don’t marry him I’ll marry no one. So pa had better
look out.”
“Well, it’s Miss Paleaf he’s gone upon now, though it may be only a
passing fancy. But why not set yourself to work to do her out?”
“How?” asked Susiebelle, raising her head.
“Well, she never goes anywhere but what she takes a hideous green toad
with her. These are days of extreme religion. Let’s say she worships it.
There would be scandal in no time, and it might end seriously for her.”
“Yes; but I’m thinking of him. I don’t think he’s a very religious man.
It might make no difference to him if he’s f—f—fond of her.”
Miss Groggerton laughed aloud.
“You’ll never get married if you’re such a greenhorn. D’ye think any man
would care for a girl who worshipped a toad when he was there himself to
be worshipped? On my word, Susiebelle, you don’t know everything.”
“Of course not,” said the other humbly. “How—how shall we begin?”
“Oh! I have a great friend, a priest called James Peter. I’ll speak of
it to him as a serious matter and scandal. There’s no one like the
priests for spreading gossip.”