"IN CONFIDENCE."
"No hinge, nor loop,
To hang a doubt on."
_Othello._
THIS is Dido Sheridan's birthday.—She is twenty-four years old to-day.
Her cousin Helen's offering is to take the shape of this hat, which
she is engaged in trimming with somewhat anxious feelings. This straw
hat, a bunch of daisies, and a few yards of cream-coloured lace, have
swallowed up her very _last_ shilling, and there she sits, pinning, and
twisting, and unpinning and untwisting, in the greatest perplexity. Her
thoughts are running upon charming constructions, that she had seen in
milliners' windows in Bond Street, that looked so simple and yet were
so effective (and so expensive). How were they put together? Certainly
_not_ by amateur fingers, my dear young lady! After a long struggle,
sheer perseverance was rewarded by a result that would pass admirably
in Terryscreen, if not in Tyburnia. "Yes, it really looks very nice,"
she said to herself aloud as she held it up critically. Then, of
course, she went over to the glass and tried it on! The next thing was
to see how it suited Dido? so she walked to the door, and called "Dido"
in her clearest treble.
"She's out in the garden, miss," returned a voice from the dining-room,
"with a parcel of hucksters from Terryscreen; they are after the apples
and onions."
Helen reached her hat from its peg, and ran down the steps, and in
another moment was at the garden gate. There, in the middle walk,
beside the sun-dial, stood Dido, rake in hand, sun-bonnet on head,
solemnly bargaining with two weather-beaten women, whilst Darby Chute
sat on the side of a wheel-barrow, and listened, and looked on, with a
cunning and diverted countenance. Properly speaking, this selling of
fruit and vegetables "all standing" was Andy's legitimate business;
but, unfortunately, Andy was not to be trusted with finance! He had
been known to ask half-a-crown for a head of cabbage, and to sell a
whole plot of cauliflowers for three half-pence!
"You are very stiff to-day, Miss Dido," expostulated one of her
customers. "Shure, I bought all Mr. Reid's apples at a shillin' a
hundred, and you are talking of two! I wish I was sellin' to you."
"_Our_ apples are the best in the country, Mrs. Carmody. You get a
penny a piece for them, I know, and I cannot let you have them for less
than what I say."
"Here's your cousin Helen a-coming," wheezed Darby. "Sure she thinks
she's sharper than the whole houseful put together. Maybe she'll drive
a bargain for ye, Miss Dido! Avick!"
"Oh, indeed, the less _you_ say about bargains, Darby, the better,"
retorted Helen severely. "I wonder you were not ashamed to bring home
such a price for those calves!"
"Shure, I can't help the prices, miss; calves is down—all stock is
down, and what does a beautiful young English lady like you know about
farming?"
"Not much, indeed! but I used to go marketing in London, and I paid
thirteen pence a pound for veal; and fancy a great big calf selling for
twenty shillings! It's ridiculous!"
"I met Miss Katie and Misther Barry on the road there below," said
Darby, clumsily turning the subject. "She was perched up on the back
of his horse—on his saddle—and mighty unaisy she looked; faix, and
so did the horse! All at wanst it gave a little lep, and down she came
on the top of Misther Barry. Oh, she was not a happorth the worse—she
fell into his arms! The horse tore off home, and Mr. Barry was left
raging! I laughed, till I haden't an eye in me head!"
Helen looked at him indignantly, and turning to her cousin said, "Dido,
your hat is ready, come and try it on!"
"Mrs. Carmody, you can take the beans and the cabbages at your own
price—I'm going in now," said Miss Sheridan, taking her cousin's arm,
and so departing.
"Mrs. Mooney and Mrs. Carmody expect to get the things for nothing. I
don't know which of them is the greatest skinflint! And Darby just sat
there grinning, and never helped me a bit. He was worse than useless!"
"Never mind Darby, but come into the drawing-room and put on your hat;
you can see yourself beautifully in the glass over the chimney-piece!"
"It looks lovely,"—taking it up admiringly. "Yes,"—advancing to the
mirror—"and it suits me too! What do _you_ think?"
Helen ascended to the fender-stool, so as to have a good view, and to
be enabled to give her cousin the benefit of her candid opinion.
"I had no idea you were so clever, with your fingers," continued Dido;
"I won't know myself in a new hat. This will come in nicely for Mr.
Redmond's tennis party next week. I should not be a bit surprised if we
meet _my nephew_ there!" and she laughed merrily.
Of course all this time she was contemplating herself in the glass—and
lifting her eyes to her cousin's reflection, to her astonishment she
noticed that she coloured to the roots of her hair! With a sudden flash
of comprehension she wheeled right about and looked at her curiously!
but Helen moved hastily away, and walking towards the window said,—
"Those daisies are too much at one side, they must come out."
"Never mind the daisies, Helen! I'm going to be very impertinent—I'm
going to be as bad as Barry. I'm going to guess something about _you_."
"Guess what?" sitting down in the window seat, and turning as if at bay.
"Guess something about 'my nephew.' Why did you blush just now, and why
is he the only person you met at Port Blair, whom you never mention?
Well, well," in answer to the expression of her cousin's face, "I see
you don't like it, so I won't say any more. If you don't wish to give
me your confidence I won't try to steal it."
After a moment's hesitation she added, with averted face,—
"I suppose Katie has told you all about _me_?"
"Yes, poor Dido! it was a hard, hard case," replied Helen, gently
taking her hand.
Dido sighed, and nodded her head, and then remarked, in quite a
cheerful voice, "I try not to think of it—it could not be helped."
An unusually long silence succeeded this speech, and at last Helen
said, "What I am going to tell you, Dido, I have never spoken of
before, not even to papa. I have never put my—my—experience—into
words—yet. I wonder very much how it will sound, both to you, and me.
No! You must not gaze at me like that, or I shall never be able to tell
it. Look out of the window and listen. Dido," lowering her voice to a
whisper, "you were right about Mr. Lisle."
"Yes," nodding her head with quick assent.
"You know everything about my life out there, all excepting—_that_.
He was at the Andamans when I arrived, but I did not meet him for a
month or more. He lived far away on the mainland—he did not go into
society; and because he was silent and shabby, people thought he was
an impostor, or some needy adventurer, or that he was hiding from his
creditors—if not worse—so he was a kind of social outlaw."
"What! Mr. Lisle, with his thousands a year!" cried her listener in a
key of angry astonishment.
"Yes; and he never undeceived any one—I suppose he was laughing in his
sleeve all the time. He told me once that he rather enjoyed living in
the Palace of Truth, and being valued for his appearance alone,—and
rated according to his wardrobe! especially his hat!"
"And when did you meet him?"
"We met one evening, on a kind of savage coast, where I was
accidentally deserted by a picnic party. I was nearly mad with fright,
and luckily for me, Mr. Lisle's boat was passing, and he saw me, and
took me off. On our way home we came in for an awful storm; over and
over again I thought we should have been drowned, but after the most
dreadful hour I ever spent, he landed me safely on Ross pier."
"Yes!—well, that was certainly a romantic beginning. Go on."
"Then he came and called. Papa liked him. Yes, and so did I. He was so
different to other people; he had a distinct personality of his own. He
had read and travelled, and kept his eyes open. He put old things in a
new light; in short, he was charming to talk to, and I was always glad
whenever he came and spoke to me,—though it was not very often. At one
time, he ventured over to the station tennis parties, and was quite
callous to Mrs. Creery's snubs and Lizzie Caggett's scowls. Then for
weeks he would disappear."
"And all this while had he ever said anything?" inquired Dido with the
authority of a girl, who had had an authenticated proposal.
"He never paid me a single compliment in his life; but I believed he
liked me."
"And you liked him?"
Helen made no direct answer, but continued her tale, and her cousin
accepted her silence for the proverbial consent.
"At length we had a grand ball, my first and only dance. To every one's
amazement, Mr. Lisle appeared in irreproachable evening dress, and
danced nearly the whole evening."
"With _you_, of course?"
"No; with a married lady, a Mrs. Durand."
"Well, I must say, that I think that was rather peculiar."
"Oh! but I found out afterwards that they had known each other as
children, and been old playmates and friends. I confess I was angry,
and—very, well—I suppose jealous. Afterwards I danced the last
waltz with him, almost in spite of myself, and when it was over we
walked up the island in the moonlight. Dido," suddenly raising her
eyes to her cousin's, "I shall never forget that night if I live to
be a hundred! The look of the sea, the stillness, the fire-flies, and
the moon, bright as day, casting sharp shadows of palms, and cactus
plants, across our path. I shut my eyes, and I can see it _now_. Then
we talked. He told me that he was going away the next day—a trip to
the Nicobars. He also told me that he understood that I was going to
be married to Mr. Quentin, whom you know I detest,—and offered me his
congratulations! Of course I denied this indignantly, and he seemed
positively not inclined to believe me at first, and then—and then—he
asked me. He told me—I need not go on—Dido, _you_ understand the
rest!"
"And am I to understand that you said 'Yes'?"
"I believe so."
"You had no idea who he really was all the time?"
"I knew he was a gentleman, that he was well educated, and well bred;
like every one else, I thought he was poor, but that made no difference
to me."
"You never dreamt that he was the Honourable Gilbert Lisle, with about
twelve thousand a year?"
"Never! He was commencing to tell me something, when Mrs. Creery
swooped down upon us, and carried me off."
"Hateful old woman! And afterwards?"
"We never had an opportunity of speaking till the very last moment. He
followed me towards our bungalow, and said he would come over and see
papa early the next morning, before he sailed if possible. If not to
look for him in six weeks time,—and to be sure not to forget him."
"Well?" ejaculated her listener breathlessly.
"That was nearly two years ago.—I have never seen him since."
"What?" cried Dido, jumping to her feet, and tossing her new hat
passionately down on the sofa. "And you believe that _that_ man was
Gilbert Lisle. He was nothing of the kind! Mrs. Creery and Miss Caggett
were perfectly right. He was an impostor. He and the real Mr. Lisle are
as different as night from day!"
"But Mr. Lisle was in the Andamans at that time. Mrs. Durand, who was
a great friend of mine, could not be mistaken—it was she, who really
told us who he was, one night at the General's. He was travelling about
in search of amusement. I was a school-girl, and an easy prey—and all
the time he was engaged to Miss Calderwood."
"He was not, and he is not," retorted Dido, decidedly. "That is only
old Mr. Redmond's pet project—and Katie has got some silly idea into
her head because she saw them riding together once or twice; for that
matter, so did I! She looked as cross as two sticks, and he looked
bored to death; she told me once, in a burst of confidence, you know
her style of being one's bosom friend one day and cutting you dead the
next?"
"No, I don't" (shortly), "Miss Calderwood and I never coalesced."
"Well, she imparted to me that Mr. Lisle had a hateful temper and
unsufferable manners, but that one could not expect everything! I said
to myself, if _you_ expect to be Mrs. Lisle, you will find yourself
excessively mistaken. Mind you, _I_ am speaking of Mr. Redmond's
nephew."
"So am I."
"It is incredible that it should be him. Could there have been any
misunderstanding? Did you flirt with any one when he was away?"
"I flirt? I never did such a thing in my life!"
"Excepting with poor old Mr. Redmond; his infatuation is really
pitiable," interrupted her cousin with a laugh. "Well, Helen, believe
me, Gilbert Lisle never voluntarily broke his word to man or woman.
There is something in the background that will be explained _yet_. I
have a presentiment about it, and my presentiments are infallible."
"Do you ever have them about yourself?"
"No; excepting that I shall live and die an old maid; of course, there
ought to be one in every family."
"Yes, and I reserve that post for Helen Denis! Now, never mind my
humiliating experience, please tell me something more about Mr.
Halliday?"
"I fancy Katie has left me but little to tell! I met him at Portrush,
and there was nothing romantic about _our_ first meeting; no rescue
from a jungle; no hairbreadth escape—he was simply taking tea at the
Reids, in the most hum-drum fashion. We used to go for expeditions
along the coast, and sit upon the rocks by the sea, and watch the
waves, or the moon, and talk—_you_ understand the rest!" (smiling
significantly). "And one night, as we were walking home, he asked me to
marry him—oh, Helen, I was so surprised, and so happy! but it did not
last long—"
"Do you ever hear of him now?"
"Yes, occasionally, through the Reids; but it is all over.—We shall
never meet again."
"Well, at least you have the consolation of knowing that he loved you,
and wished to make you his wife; there is some poor satisfaction in
_that_, whilst I," and here she broke down, and buried her face in her
hands. But this emotion was merely momentary; presently she lifted her
face to her cousin, and said, "So you see that I have had a lesson for
life; I shall never, never marry."
"Neither will I," returned Dido, with much emphasis.
In the midst of their interesting confidences, and mutual assurances of
celibacy, the door opened, and Biddy's befrilled face was thrust in,
recalling them sharply from romance to reality.
"Miss Dido, will ye come out, av ye plase! Mrs. Carmody says she'll go
to two shillin' a hundred for them apples, and the onions sixpence a
stone!"