"All is not golde that outward shewith bright."
"I love everything that's old--old friends, old times, old manners,
old books, old wine."
"An' is it you, Miss Joyce? Glory be! What a day to be out! 'Tis
drenched y'are, intirely! Oh! come in, me dear--come in, me darlin'!
Here, Mikey, Paddy, Jerry!--come here, ivery mother's son o' ye, an'
take Mr. Beauclerk's horse from him. Oh! by the laws!--but y'are soaked!
Arrah, what misfortune dhrove y'out to-day, of all days, Miss Joyce? Was
there niver a man to tell ye that 'twould be a peltin' storm before
nightfall?"
There had been one. How earnestly Miss Kavanagh now wishes she had
listened to his warning.
"It looked so fine two hours ago," says she, clambering down from the
dog cart with such misguided help from the ardent Mrs. Connolly as
almost lands her with the ducks in the muddy stream below.
"Och! there's no more depindince to be placed upon the weather than
there is upon a man. However, 'tis welcome y'are, any way. Your father's
daughter is dear to me--yes, come this way--up these stairs. 'Tis Anne
Connolly is proud to be enthertainin' one o' yer blood inside her door."
"Oh! I'm so glad I found you," says Joyce, turning when she has reached
Mrs. Connolly's bedroom to imprint upon that buxom widow's cheek a warm
kiss. "It was a long way here--long, and so cold and wet."
"An' where were ye goin' at all, if I may ax?" says Mrs. Connolly,
taking off the girl's dripping outer garments.
"To see Connor's Cross----"
"Faith, 'twas little ye had to do! A musty ould tomb like that, wid
nothin but broken stones around it. Wouldn't the brand-new graveyard
below there do ye? Musha! but 'tis quare the ginthry is! Och! me dear,
'tis wet y'are; there isn't a dhry stitch on ye."
"I don't think I'm wet once my coats are off," says Joyce; and indeed,
when those invaluable wraps are removed; it is proved beyond doubt--even
Mrs. Connolly's doubt, which is strong--that her gown is quite dry.
"You see, it was such a sudden rain," says Joyce, "and fortunately we
saw the lights in this village almost immediately after it began."
"Fegs, too suddint to be pleasant," says Mrs. Connolly. "'Twas well the
early darkness made us light up so quickly, or ye might have missed us,
not knowin' yer road. An' how's all wid ye, me dear--Miss Barbara, an'
the masther, an' the darling childher? I've a Brammy cock and a hen that
I'm thinkin' of takin' down to Masther Tommy this two weeks, but the
ould mare is mighty quare on her legs o' late. Are ye all well?"
"Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Connolly."
"Wisha--God keep ye so."
"And how are all of you? When did you hear from America?"
"Last month thin--divil a less; an' the greatest news of all! A letther
from Johnny--me eldest boy--wid a five-pound note in it, an' a picther
of the girl he's goin' to marry. I declare to ye when that letther came
I just fell into a chair an' tuk to laughin' an' cryin' till that
ounchal of a girl in the kitchen began to bate me on the back, thinkin'
I was bad in a fit. To think, me dear, of little Johnneen I used to
nurse on me knee thinkin' of takin' a partner. An' a sthrappin' fine
girl too, fegs, wid cheeks like turnips. But there, now, I'll show her
to ye by-and-by. She's a raal beauty if them porthraits be thrue, but
there's a lot o' lies comes from over the wather. An' what'll ye be
takin' now, Miss Joyce dear?"--with a return to her hospitable mood--"a
dhrop o' hot punch, now? Whiskey is the finest thing out for givin' the
good-bye to the cowld."
"Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Connolly"--hastily--"if I might have a cup of
tea, I----"
"Arrah, bad cess to that tay! What's the good of it at all at all to a
frozen stomach? Cowld pison, I calls it. Well, there! Have it yer own
way! An' come along down wid me, now, an' give yerself to the
enthertainin' of Misther Beauclerk, whilst I wet the pot. Glory! what a
man he is!--the size o' the house! A fine man, in airnest. Tell me now,"
with a shrewd glance at Joyce, "is there anything betwixt you and him?"
"Nothing!" says Joyce, surprised even herself by the amount of vehement
denial she throws into this word.
"Oh, well, there's others! An' Mr. Dysart would be more to my fancy.
There's a nate man, if ye like, be me fegs!" with a second half sly,
wholly kindly, glance at the girl. "If 'twas he, now, I'd give ye me
blessin' wid a heart and a half. An' indeed, now, Miss Joyce, 'tis time
ye were thinkin' o' settlin'."
"Well, I'm not thinking of it this time," says Joyce, laughing, though a
little catch in her throat warns her she is not far from tears. Perhaps
Mrs. Connolly hears that little catch, too, for she instantly changes
her tactics.
"Faith, an' 'tis right y'are, me dear. There's a deal o' trouble in
marriage, an' 'tis too young y'are intirely to undertake the likes of
it," says she, veering round with a scandalous disregard for
appearances. "My, what hair ye have, Miss Joyce! 'Tis improved, it is;
even since last I saw ye. I'm a great admirer of a good head o' hair."
"I wonder when will the rain be over?" asks Joyce, wistfully gazing
through the small window at the threatening heavens.
"If it's my opinion y'are askin'," says Mrs. Connolly, "I'd say not till
to-morrow morning."
"Oh! Mrs. Connolly!" turning a distressed face to that good creature.
"Well, me dear, what can I say but what I think?" flinging out her ample
arms in self-justification. "Would ye have me lie to ye? Why, a sky like
that always----"
Here a loud crash of thunder almost shakes the small inn to its
foundations.
"The heavens be good to us!" says Mrs. Connolly, crossing herself
devoutly. "Did ye iver hear the like o' that?"
"But--it can't last--it is impossible," says Joyce, vehemently. "Is
there no covered car in the town? Couldn't a man be persuaded to drive
me home if I promised him to----"
"If ye promised him a king's ransom ye couldn't get a covered car
to-night," says Mrs. Connolly. "There's only one in the place, an' that
belongs to Mike Murphy, an' 'tis off now miles beyant Skibbereen,
attindin' the funeral o' Father John Maguire. 'Twon't be home till
to-morrow any way, an'-faix, I wouldn't wondher if it wasn't here then,
for every mother's son at that wake will be as dhrunk as fiddlers
to-night. Father John, ye know, me dear, was greatly respected."
"Are you sure there isn't another car?"
"Quite positive. But why need ye be so unaisy, Miss Joyce, dear? Sure,
'tis safe an' sure y'are wid me."
"But what will they think at home and at the Court?" says Joyce,
faltering.
"Arrah! what can they think, miss, but that the rain was altogether too
mastherful for ye? Ye know, me dear, we can't (even the best of us)
conthrol the illimints!" This incontrovertible fact Mrs. Connolly gives
forth with a truly noble air of resignation. "Come down now, and let me
get ye that palthry cup o' tay y'are cravin' for."
She leads Joyce downstairs and into a snug little parlor with a roaring
fire that is not altogether unacceptable this dreary evening. The smell
of stale tobacco smoke that pervades it is a drawback, but, if you think
of it, we can't have everything in this world.
Perhaps Joyce has more than she wants. It occurs to her, as Beauclerk
turns round from the solitary window, that she could well have dispensed
with his society. That lurking distrust of him she had known vaguely,
but kept under during all their acquaintance, has taken a permanent
place in her mind during her drive with him this afternoon.
"Oh! here you are. Beastly, smoky hole!" he says, taking no notice of
Mrs. Connolly, who is doing her best curtsey in the doorway.
"I think it looks very comfortable," says Joyce, with a gracious smile
at her hostess, and a certain sore feeling at her heart. Once again her
thoughts fly to Dysart. Would that have been his first remark when she
appeared after so severe a wetting?
"'Tis just what I've been sayin' to Miss Kavanagh, sir," says Mrs.
Connolly, with unabated good humor. "The heavens above is always too
much for us. We can't turn off the wather up there as we can the cock in
the kitchen sink. Still, there's compinsations always, glory be! An'
what will ye plaze have wid yer tay, Miss?" turning to Joyce with great
respect in look and tone. In spite of all her familiarity with her
upstairs, she now, with a looker-on, proceeds to treat "her young lady"
as though she were a stranger and of blood royal.
"Anything you have, Mrs. Connolly," says Joyce; "only don't be long!"
There is undoubted entreaty in the request. Mrs. Connolly, glancing at
her, concludes it is not so much a desire for what will be brought, as
for the bringer that animates the speaker.
"Give me five minutes, Miss, an' I'll be back again," says she
pleasantly. Leaving the room, she stands in the passage outside for a
moment, and solemnly moves her kindly head from side to side. It takes
her but a little time to make up her shrewd Irish mind on several
points.
"While this worthy person is getting you your tea I think I'll take a
look at the weather from the outside," says Mr. Beauclerk, turning to
Joyce. It is evident he is eager to avoid a tête-à-tête, but this does
not occur to her.
"Yes--do--do," says she, nevertheless with such a liberal encouragement
as puzzles him. Women are kittle cattle, however, he tells himself;
better not to question their motives too closely or you will find
yourself in queer street. He gets to the door with a cheerful assumption
of going to study the heavens that conceals his desire for a cigar and a
brandy and soda, but on the threshold Joyce speaks again.
"Is there no chance--would it not be possible to get home?" says she, in
a tone that trembles with nervous longing.
"I'm afraid not. I'm just going to see. It is impossible weather for you
to be out in."
"But you----? It is clearing a little, isn't it?" with a despairing
glance out of the window. "If you could manage to get back and tell them
that----"
She is made thoroughly ashamed of her selfishness a moment later.
"But my dear girl, consider! Why should I tempt a severe attack of
inflammation of the lungs by driving ten or twelve miles through this
unrelenting torrent? We are very well out of it here. This
Mrs.--er--Connor--Connolly seems a very respectable person, and is known
to you. I shall tell her to make you as comfortable as her 'limited
liabilities,'" with quite a laugh at his own wit, "will allow."
"Pray tell her nothing. Do not give yourself so much trouble," says
Joyce calmly. "She will do the best she can for me without the
intervention of any one."
"As you will, au revoir!" says he, waving her a graceful farewell for
the moment.
He is not entirely happy in his mind, as he crosses the tiny hall and
makes his way first to the bar and afterward to the open doorway. Like a
cat, he hates rain! To drive back through this turmoil of wind and wet
for twelve long miles to the Court is more than his pleasure-loving
nature can bear to look upon. Yet to remain has its drawbacks, too.
If Miss Maliphant, for example, were to hear of this escapade there
might be trouble there. He has not as yet finally made up his mind to
give inclination the go by and surrender himself to sordid
considerations, but there can be no doubt that the sordid things of this
life have, with some natures, a charm hardly to be rivaled successfully
by mere beauty.
The heiress is attractive in one sense; Joyce equally so in another.
Miss Maliphant's charms are golden--are not Joyce's more golden still?
And yet, to give up Miss Maliphant--to break with her finally--to throw
away deliberately a good £10,000 a year!
He lights his cigar with an untrembling hand, and, having found it
satisfactory, permits his mind to continue its investigations.
Ten thousand pounds a year! A great help to a man; yet he is glad at
this moment that he is free to accept or reject it. Nothing definite has
been said to the heiress--nothing definite to Joyce either. It strikes
him at this moment, as he stands in the dingy doorway of the inn and
stares out at the descending rain, that he has shown distinct cleverness
in the way in which he has manoeuvred these two girls, without either of
them feeling the least suspicion of the other. Last night Joyce had been
on the point of a discovery, but he had smoothed away all that.
Evidently he was born to be a successful diplomatist, and if that
appointment he has been looking for ever comes his way, he will be able
to show the world a thing or two.
How charming that little girl in there can look! And never more so than
when she allows her temper to overcome her. She had been angry just now.
Yes. But he can read between the lines; angry--naturally that he has not
come to the point--declared himself--proposed as the saying is. Well,
puffing complacently at his cigar, she must wait--she must wait--if the
appointment comes off, if Sir Alexander stands to him, she has a very
good chance, but if that falls through, why then----
And it won't do to encourage her too much, by Jove! If Miss Maliphant
were to hear of this evening's adventure, she is headstrong, stolid
enough, to mark out a line for herself and fling him aside without
waiting for judge or jury. Much as it might cost her, she would not
hesitate to break all ties with him, and any that existed were very
slight. He, himself, had kept them so. Perhaps, after all, he had better
order the trap round, leave Miss Kavanagh here, and----
And yet to go out in that rain; to feel it beating against his face for
two or three intolerable hours. Was anything, even £10,000 a year, worth
that? He would be a drowned rat by the time he reached the Court.
And, after all, couldn't it be arranged without all this bother? He
might easily explain it all away to Miss Maliphant, even should some
kind friend tell her of it. That was his role. He had quite a talent for
explaining away. But he must also make Joyce thoroughly understand. She
was a sensible girl. A word to her would be sufficient. Just a word to
show that marriage at present was out of the question. Nothing
unpleasant; nothing finite; but just some little thing to waken her to
the true state of the case. Girls, as a rule, were sentimental, and
would expect much of an adventure such as this. But Joyce was proud--he
liked that in her. There would be no trouble; she would quite
understand.
"Tea is just comin' up, sorr!" says a rough voice behind him. "The
misthress tould me to tell ye so!"
The red-headed Abigail who attends on Mrs. Connolly beckons him, with a
grimy forefinger, to the repast within. He accepts the invitation.