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MRS. GEOFFREY.
BY THE DUCHESS,
AUTHOR OF "PHYLLIS," "MOLLY BAWN," "AIRY FAIRY LILIAN," ETC., ETC.
CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
BELFORD, CLARKE & COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.
MRS. GEOFFREY
CHAPTER I.
HOW GEOFFREY DECLARES HIS INTENTION OF SPENDING THE AUTUMN IN IRELAND.
"I don't see why I shouldn't put in a month there very comfortably,"
says Geoffrey, indolently, pulling the ears of a pretty, saucy little
fat terrier that sits blinking at him, with brown eyes full of love, on
a chair close by. "And it will be something new to go to Ireland, at all
events. It is rather out of the running these times, so probably will
prove interesting; and at least there is a chance that one won't meet
every town acquaintance round every corner. That's the worry of going
abroad, and I'm heartily sick of the whole thing."
"You will get murdered," says his mother, quite as indolently, half
opening her eyes, which are gray as Geoffrey's own. "They always kill
people, with things they call pikes, or burn them out of house and home,
over there, without either rhyme or reason."
"They certainly must be a lively lot, if all one hears is true," says
Geoffrey, with a suppressed yawn.
"You are not really going there, Geoff?"
"Yes, really."
"To what part of Ireland?"
"Somewhere beyond Bantry; you have heard of Bantry Bay?"
"Oh, I dare say! I am not sure," says Lady Rodney, pettishly, who is
rather annoyed at the idea of his going to Ireland, having other plans
in view for him.
"Ever heard of Botany Bay?" asks he, idly; but, this question being
distinctly frivolous, she takes no notice of it. "Well, it's in
Ireland," he goes on, after a slight but dignified pause. "You have
heard of the Emerald Isle, I suppose? It's the country where they grow
potatoes, and say 'bedad'; and Bantry is somewhere south, I think. I'm
never very sure about anything: that's one of my charms."
"A very doubtful charm."
"The name of the place I mean to stay at--my own actual property--is
called Coolnagurtheen," goes on Geoffrey, heedless of her censure.
"Eh?" says Lady Rodney.
"Coolnagurtheen."
"I always said you were clever," says his mother, languidly; "now I
believe it. I don't think if I lived forever I should be able to
pronounce such a sad word as that. Do--do the natives speak like that?"
"I'll tell you when I come back," says Geoffrey,--"if I ever do."
"So stupid of your uncle to leave you a property in such a country!"
says Lady Rodney, discontentedly. "But very like him, certainly. He was
never happy unless he was buying land in some uninhabitable place. There
was that farm in Wallachia,--your cousin Jane nearly died of chagrin
when she found it was left to her, and the lawyers told her she should
take it, whether she liked it or not. Wallachia! I don't know where it
is, but I am sure it is close to the Bulgarian atrocities!"
"Our 'pretty Jane,' on occasions, can talk as much nonsense as--as any
woman I ever met," says Geoffrey,--the hesitation being full of filial
reverence; "and that may be called, I think, unqualified praise."
"Better give up the Irish plan, dear, and come with Nichols and me to
the Nugents. They are easy-going people, and will suit you."
"Free-and-easy-going would be a more appropriate term, from all I have
heard."
"The shooting there is capital," says his mother, turning a deaf ear to
his muttered interruption, "and I don't believe there is anything in
Ireland, not even birds."
"There are landlords, at least; and very excellent shooting they are, if
all accounts be true," says Geoffrey, with a grin,--"to say nothing of
the partridge and grouse. Besides, it will be an experience; and a man
should say 'how d'ye do?' to his tenants sometimes."
"If you are going to preach to me on that subject, of course I have
nothing more to say. But I wish you would come with me to the Nugents."
"My dear mother, there is hardly anything I wouldn't do for you; but the
Nugent scheme wouldn't suit at all. That girl of the Cheviots is sure to
be there,--you know how fond Bessie Nugent is of her?--and I know she is
bent on marrying me."
"Nonsense! Would you have me believe you are afraid of her?"
"I am afraid of her; I was never so afraid of any one before. I have
made it the business of my life to avoid her ever since last New Year's
Day, when some kind fellow told me it was leap-year. You know I never
yet said 'No' to any one, and I shouldn't dare begin by saying it to
Miss Cheviot. She has such a stony glare, and such a profusion of nose!"
"And a profusion of gold, too," says Lady Rodney, with a sigh.
"I hope she has, poor soul: she will want it," says Geoffrey, feelingly;
and then he falls to whistling the "Two Obadiahs" softly, yet with a
relish, beneath his breath.
"How long do you intend to banish yourself from civilized life?"
"A month, I dare say. Longer, if I like it; shorter, if I don't. By the
by, you told me the other day it was the dream of your life to see me in
Parliament, now that 'Old Dick' has decided on leading a sedentary
existence,--a very stupid decision on his part, by the way, so clever as
he is."
"He is not strong, you see: a little thing knocks him up, and he is too
impressionable for a public career. But you are different."
"You think I am not impressionable? Well, time will tell. I shouldn't
care about going into the House unless I went there primed and loaded
with a real live grievance, Now, why should I not adopt the Irish?
Consider the case as it stands: I go and see them; I come home, raving
about them and their wretched condition, their cruel landlords, their
noble endurance, magnificent physique, patient suffering, honest
revenge, and so forth. By Jove! I feel as if I could do it already,
even before I've seen them," says Mr. Rodney, with an irreverent laugh.
"Well don't go to Dublin, at all events," says her mother, plaintively.
"It's wretched form."
"Is it? I always heard it was rather a jolly sort of little place, once
you got into it--well."
"What a partisan you do make!" says Lady Rodney, with a faint laugh.
"Perhaps after all we should consider Ireland the end and aim of all
things. I dare say when you come back you will be more Irish than the
Irish."
"It is a good thing to be in earnest over every matter, however trivial.
As I am going to Ireland, you will advise me to study the people, would
you not?"
"By all means study them, if you are really bent on this tiresome
journey. It may do you good. You will at least be more ready to take my
advice another time."
"What a dismal view you take of my trip! Perhaps, in spite of your
forebodings, I shall enjoy myself down to the ground, and weep copiously
on leaving Irish soil."
"Perhaps. I hope you won't get into a mess there, and make me more
unhappy than I am. We are uncomfortable enough without that. You know
you are always doing something bizarre,--something rash and uncommon!"
"How nice!" says Geoffrey, with a careless smile. "Your 'faint praise'
fails 'to damn'! Why, one is nothing nowadays if not eccentric. Well,"
moving towards the door, with the fox-terrier at his heels, "I shall
start on Monday. That will get me down in time for the 12th. Shall I
send you up any birds?"
"Thanks, dear; you are always good," murmurs Lady Rodney, who has ever
an eye to the main chance.
"If there are any," says Geoffrey, with a twinkle in his eye.
"If there are any," repeats she, unmoved.