‘The web of our life is of mingled yarn,
Good and ill together.’
The rooms are crowded to excess, and it is with difficulty that Crosby
and Wyndham make their way to the place where someone has told them
their hostess is to be found. They have arrived very late, in spite of
Crosby’s attempt at haste, so late, indeed, that already some of the
guests are leaving—a fact that has somewhat embarrassed their journey up
the staircase. The heat is intense, and the perfume of the many roses
makes the air heavy.
Quite at the end of the music-room Wyndham sees his aunt, and presently
she, seeing him and Crosby in the doorway, makes them a faint
salutation. The Hon. Mrs. Prior is a tall woman, with a high,
aristocratic nose, fair hair, and blue eyes, now a little pale. She was
the handsomest of the three daughters of Sir John Burke, and, what is
not always the case, had made the best marriage. Her youngest sister,
Kate, had, however, done very well, too, when she married James Wyndham,
but the eldest sister had made a distinct fiasco of her life. She had
run away with a ne’er-do-well, a certain Robert Haines, who came from no
one knew where, and went no one knew where, either, taking Sir John’s
favourite daughter with him. It was hushed up at the time, but the old
man had caused ceaseless secret inquiries to be made for the missing
daughter, always, however, without result. It was for a time a blot upon
the family history, but it was forgotten after awhile, and Mrs. Prior
and her daughter have for some time taken leading parts in Dublin
society.
A tall, thin woman is singing very beautifully as the two young men
enter, and Mrs. Prior’s slight movement of recognition to her nephew
conveys with it a desire that he should not seek her until the song has
come to an end. And presently the last quivering note dies away upon the
air, and the crowd is once more in motion. Lady H—— is being
congratulated on the beauties of her voice by many people, and Mrs.
Prior, having done her part, is now able to receive her nephew and
Crosby without having to pause and wonder who she is to speak to next.
Indeed, Lady H——’s singing has virtually wound up the evening. Few would
care to sing after her, and now the rooms are beginning to look
deserted.
‘Always a laggard, Paul,’ says his aunt, who, having bidden good-bye to
her principal guests, has left the rest to her daughter. ‘But I suppose
something of it must be put down to to-night.’ She smiles at Crosby,
whom she has known since he was a little boy. ‘You should have been here
earlier, you two; she sang even better in the beginning of the evening.
It was “Allan Water,” and you know how that would suit her voice. But
now that you have come so late, you must stay a little later and have
supper with Josephine and me.’
She talks on to them in her cultivated yet somewhat hard voice, rising
now and then to say good-bye to someone, until the rooms are quite
cleared and her daughter is able to join them.
Josephine Prior comes across the polished floor of the music-room to
where they are sitting in a curtained recess; she is as tall as her
mother, and as fair, and a little harder. Miss Prior is undoubtedly the
handsomest girl in Dublin this season (now all but over), and has been
for the past two or three. Tall, _distinguée_ and with irreproachable
manners, there are very few who can outdo her. She sweeps up to them
now, her pretty silken skirts falling gracefully around her, and her
mother, rising, motions her into her own seat, that next to Wyndham’s,
while she sinks into a chair on Crosby’s left.
It had been a settled thing with Mrs. Prior for years that Josephine,
her only child, should marry Paul Wyndham, who, though only a barrister,
is still a very rising one, and heir to his grand-uncle, Lord Shangarry.
To know Josephine a countess! There lay all the hope, all the ambition,
of Mrs. Prior’s life, and the fact that old Lord Shangarry shared her
hopes about this matter naturally led to the idea that in time it must
be accomplished. If Paul were to offend his uncle, then—well, then, the
title would be his indeed; but the enormous income now attached to it,
not being entailed, could be left as Lord Shangarry wished. Few people
fly in the face of Providence where thousands a year are concerned, and
Mrs. Prior depended upon Wyndham’s common-sense to secure him as a
husband for her daughter. As for Wyndham, though up to this not a
syllable has passed between him and Josephine to bind him to her in any
way, he has of late brought himself to believe that a marriage with her,
considering the stakes, is not out of the question. She is a handsome
girl, too, and as a countess would look the part.
Now, as she seats herself beside him, he again acknowledges the beauty
of her chiselled nose and chin. But——yes; there is a but. All at once it
occurs to him that beauty is very seldom to be found in perfect
features. The really artistic face has always one feature quite beyond
the bounds of art. Strange that it had not occurred to him before!
Still, Josephine is undoubtedly handsome.
Josephine’s voice is like her mother’s—clear and very hard. She is
talking now.
‘Do you know we were down in your part of the world the other day?’ says
she. ‘We were lunching with dear Lady Millbank, and then went on to your
cottage. We wanted to get some flowers. You know how mean Lady Millbank
is about her roses, so we decided on saying nothing to her, and trusting
to your place. But when we got there’—with an elephantine attempt at
playfulness—‘the cupboard was bare, at all events to us, because we
could not get in.’
‘Yes, so odd!’ says Mrs. Prior. ‘We rang, and rang, and rang, but no one
came for quite a long time. At last your housekeeper appeared, a most
disagreeable person, my dear Paul. She was, indeed, almost rude, and
said she had your orders to admit nobody.’
She looks back at Wyndham, who looks back at her with an immovable
countenance.
‘Not my orders, certainly,’ says he calmly. ‘I was abroad until the
other day, you know, so I can hardly be responsible for Mrs. Moriarty’s
manœuvres.’
His voice is perfectly even, though a perfect storm of rage against Mrs.
Denis is rendering him furious. Confound the woman! what does she mean
by seeking to create a scandal out of a mere nothing—a mountain out of a
mole-hill?
Crosby, glancing at him steadily for a moment, turns his eyes away
again, and breaks into the discussion.
‘I am sorry you did not go up to my place,’ says he, addressing Miss
Prior. ‘It is quite a terrible thing to contemplate, your having been in
want of flowers.’
‘Ah, but you weren’t there!’ says Josephine, with a mild attempt at
coquetry. ‘If you had been, we might have made a raid on you.’
‘Well, I’m at home now,’ says Crosby cheerfully. ‘You must come down
some day soon, and help me to gather my roses.’
‘You mean to stay, then?’ says Josephine, leaning a little towards him
across her mother. She is quite bent on marrying her cousin, though she
is as indifferent to him as he is to her; but in the meantime she is not
above a slight flirtation with Crosby. To tell the truth, this big,
good-humoured, handsome man appeals to her far more than Paul has ever
done.
‘Until the autumn, at all events,’ says he.
As for Wyndham, he is still sitting mute, apparently listening to his
aunt’s diatribes about society, and Dublin society in particular, but in
reality raging over Mrs. Denis’s shortcomings, and the deplorable Irish
sympathetic nature that has led her to sacrifice everything—even the
excellent situation she has at the Cottage—to a mere passing fancy for a
girl whom she has known at the longest for four or five weeks.
Crosby, noting his abstraction, is still rattling along.
‘Now, it’s a promise, Mrs. Prior, isn’t it? You’—here he glances
deliberately at Josephine—‘you will come and look round my place soon,
won’t you? I’m thinking of making up a little house-party in September
or August, and I hope you and Miss Prior will leave a week open for me.’
He throws a look over his shoulder. ‘You too, Wyndham?’
‘Thank you,’ says Paul absently.
‘What a charming idea!’ cries Josephine ecstatically. Here she decides
upon clapping her hands, and she does it in her perfectly well-bred way.
The result is deadly. ‘To stay with a bachelor! Mamma, you will
consent?’
Mamma consents. Josephine, again leaning towards Crosby, says something
delightful to him. It has seemed to her since Crosby’s coming that to
have two strings to your bow is a very desirable thing. Paul is well
enough, and in the end, of course, she will marry him, though at times
she has thought that he——But, of course, that is nonsense. He would be
afraid to marry anyone else—afraid of his uncle. What a pity he is not
Mr. Crosby, or Mr. Crosby Paul! Well, one can’t have everything one’s
own way, after all, and there is the title. Lady Shangarry—Mrs. Crosby.
Yes; the title counts. But really Paul is so very dull, and Mr. Crosby,
though he has no title, so infinitely better off than Paul will ever be,
and the Crosbys are an old family, dating back to—goodness knows when!
Still, a title!
Finally she gets back to the title, and stays there.
‘But yes, really, dear Paul,’ Mrs. Prior is saying, ‘I think that
housekeeper of yours, or caretaker, or whatever she is, takes too much
upon her. I tried to explain to her I was your aunt, and, indeed, she
has seen me several times, but I could not shake her determination to
let no one in. Anyone might be excused for imagining that she was
concealing something.’
‘Garden-party for her own friends, no doubt,’ says Crosby. He has cast a
half-amused, half-inquiring glance at Wyndham; but the latter’s face is
impassive.
‘I think it a little serious,’ says Mrs. Prior. ‘Young men, as a rule,
are always imposed upon by women of her class—caretakers, of course, I
mean,’ with a careful glance at the innocent Josephine. ‘Landladies and
that. Do you think, dear Paul, that she is quite honest?’
‘Quite, I think.’
‘Then why this extraordinary step on her part—this locking out your very
nearest and’—with an open glance at Josephine—‘dearest? No, no, George,’
to Crosby, ‘you really must not jest on this subject. I feel it is quite
important where Paul is concerned. You really know of no reason, Paul,
why she should have forbidden us an entrance?’
Is there meaning in the question? Wyndham looks at her steadily before
replying.
‘I was in France at the time,’ says he carelessly. ‘If she had a motive,
how could I know it?’
Crosby leans back and crosses his arms negligently. ‘What an idiotic
equivocation!’ thinks he.
‘You certainly ought to speak to her about it.’
‘Of course I shall speak to her.’
Crosby smiles.
‘I really think you ought,’ says Mrs. Prior. ‘You can’—severely—‘mention
me if you wish. I consider she behaved extremely badly. And I quite
tremble for the dear little old place. You know it was an uncle of
ours—a grand-uncle of yours—who left the place to your mother, and as
girls we—that is, your aunts and I—used to be very fond of running up
from your grandfather’s place in Kerry to spend a few weeks in it. We
were all girls then—your mother, and I, and your——’ She stops, and
sneezes most opportunely behind her lace handkerchief. The innocent
Josephine had touched her foot under cover of her gown. Of course the
aunt who had disappeared so unpleasantly had better not be mentioned.
‘I hope, Paul, you will see that this woman keeps the dear old place in
order,’ says Mrs. Prior rather hastily.
‘To confess a dreadful truth,’ says Wyndham, smiling somewhat briefly,
‘I have almost made up my mind to let the Cottage. It has been rather a
burden to me of late. And——’
‘To let it. But why?’
‘Well, as you see yourself,’ says Wyndham desperately, ‘Mrs. Moriarty
does not seem capable of looking after it. It is an awful bore, you
know, and’—with a rush of affection hitherto unborn—‘the idea of her
having kept you out of the place seems to put an end to my trust in her
for ever.’
Crosby flicks a little point of dust off his coat-sleeve. ‘Oh, the
handsome liar!’ thinks he.
‘But, my dear boy, you must not be too precipitate. A word to her would
perhaps——’
‘I’ve quite made up my mind,’ says Wyndham steadfastly. ‘I shall look
out for a tenant.’
‘Dear Paul!’ says Mrs. Prior, touched by this nephew-like act, ‘I of
course appreciate your sweetness in this matter. It is very dear of you
to be so angry about the woman’s incivility to me, and if you have made
up your mind about getting a tenant for the dear old Cottage, I think I
can help you.’
Here Crosby leans forward. It is proving very interesting.
‘You mustn’t take any trouble,’ says Wyndham; ‘I couldn’t allow you.’
‘It will be no trouble—for you,’ says Josephine, breaking into the
conversation very affectionately.
‘Thanks awfully, but I think I’ve got a desirable tenant in my eye,’
says Wyndham—‘one suitable in every respect.’
‘The real thing is to know if he is solvent,’ says Mrs. Prior.
‘Oh, I think so—I think so,’ says Wyndham thoughtfully.
‘Is he young or old?’ asks Josephine, who feels she ought to show some
interest in his affairs.
Wyndham remains wrapt up in thought for a moment, then apparently wakes
up.
‘Oh, the tenant,’ says he dreamily. ‘Not old; no, not old!’
‘At that rate you must introduce us to him,’ says Mrs. Prior, with quite
surprising archness. ‘Solvent and not old! Quite a desirable
acquaintance! What is his name, Paul?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Wyndham.
‘Not know? But, my dear Paul!’
‘I positively don’t,’ says Wyndham, in quite a loud voice. It occurs to
Crosby that now at last he is telling the truth, and that he is wildly
glad at being able to do so. But the truth! Where does it come in?
Crosby grows curious. ‘Strange as it may sound, the name is unknown to
me. And for the matter of that nothing is settled. There have been only
preliminaries. There must always be preliminaries, you know,’ talking
briskly to his aunt.
‘Well, be careful,’ says Mrs. Prior. ‘And whatever you do, Paul, don’t
take a lady tenant. They are so difficult. Now promise me, Paul, you
won’t take a lady as a tenant.’
Providentially, at this moment the very late supper is announced, and
Paul, rising, gives his arm to Josephine, after which the conversation
drifts into other channels.