‘They begin with making falsehood appear like truth, and end with
making truth appear like falsehood.’
Mrs. Prior knocks gently at the front-gate of the Cottage, not the
little green gate so well known to the Barrys; and after a little delay
Mrs. Denis’s martial strides can be heard behind it, and her voice
pierces the woodwork.
‘Who’s there?’
‘It is I, Mrs. Prior.’ Mrs. Prior’s tones are soft and suave and
persuasive. ‘That is you, I think, Mrs. Denis. I recognise your voice as
that of an old friend. I have been here before, you know, several times,
and I quite remember you. My nephew—your master, Mr. Wyndham, has at
last let me know about his tenant, and I have come’—very softly this—‘to
call on her.’
That she is lying horribly and with set purpose is beyond doubt. To
herself she excuses herself with the old, sad, detestable fallacy, that
her words are true, whatever the spirit of them may be.
Mrs. Denis, astute matron and alert Cerberus as she is (a rather comical
combination), is completely taken in. She is the more ready to be
deceived, in that she is at her heart, good soul! so unfeignedly glad to
think that now, after all this time, her master’s people are coming
forward to recognise, and no doubt make much of, the ‘purty darlin’’
under her care. Her care. Never for a moment has she admitted Miss
Manning’s right to chaperon Ella, though now on excellent terms with
that most excellent lady.
She does not answer Mrs. Prior immediately, but strokes her beard behind
the gate, and smiles languidly to herself. Hah! He’s tould ’em! He’s
found out for himself that he loves her! The crathure! An’ why not!
Fegs, there isn’t her aqual between this and the Injies! An’, of course,
it is a mark of honour designed by him to his young lady, that his aunt
should come an’ pay her respects to her.
For all this, she is still cautious, and now opens the gate to Mrs.
Prior by only an inch or so at a time. Mrs. Prior, on this, calmly and
with the leisurely manner that belongs to her, moves forward a step or
two, a step that places her parasol and her arm inside the gateway.
‘You are, I can see, a most faithful guardian,’ says she pleasantly, and
with the distinctly approving tones of the superior to the efficient
inferior. ‘I shall take care to tell Mr. Wyndham my opinion of you.’ The
little sinister meaning in her speech is clouded in smiles. She takes
another step forward that brings not only her arm and parasol, but
herself, inside the gate; thus mistress of the situation, she smiles
again—this time a little differently, but still with the utmost suavity.
‘This young lady?’ asks she. ‘She is in the house, no doubt? If you
could let me see her without any formal introduction, it would be so
much more friendly, it seems to me.’
Mrs. Denis’s ample bosom swells with joy and pride. Her beard vibrates.
‘Friendly.’ So they are going to be friendly—those people of his! After
all, perhaps Miss Ella is a princess in disguise, and they have only
just found it out. ‘Well, she looks one—wid her little feet, an’ her
little hands, an’ those small features of hers.’
‘No, ma’am,’ says she, addressing Mrs. Prior with a courtesy she seldom
uses to anyone. ‘Miss Ella is in the garding; an’ as you say ye’d like
to see her all be yerself, if ye’ll go round that corner ye’ll find her
aisy, near the hollyhocks. An’ I’ll tell ye this,’ says Mrs. Denis,
squaring her arms, and growing sentimental, ‘’tis plazed ye’ll be whin
ye do see her.’
‘I feel sure of that,’ says Mrs. Prior. She speaks quite calmly, yet a
rage of hatred shakes her. Glad to see this abominable creature, who has
interfered with the marriage of her daughter!
‘She’s got the face of an angel, ma’am.’
‘And the heart of one, of course,’ says Mrs. Prior. The sarcasm is
thrown away upon Mrs. Denis, who is now bursting with a pæan addressed
to her goddess.
‘Ay, ma’am. Fegs, ’tis aisy to see the masther has bin’ tellin’ you
about her.’
‘Just a little,’ says Mrs. Prior. ‘He——’
‘He thinks a dale of her,’ says Mrs. Denis, putting her hand to her
mouth, and speaking mysteriously. ‘I can see that much, but ’tis little
he says. But sure, ye know him. ’Tis mighty quiet he is entirely.’
‘Yes, I think I know him. But this ... young lady——’
‘Wisha! ’tis only keepin’ ye from her I am. An’ ’tis longin’ ye are to
see her, ov course.’
‘You are right, my good woman,’ says Mrs. Prior; ‘I really don’t think I
was ever so anxious to make the acquaintance of anyone before.... Round
that corner, you say? Thank you. I shall certainly tell my nephew what a
trustworthy guardian you make.’
She parts with Mrs. Denis with a little gracious bow, and a sudden swift
change of countenance that strikes that worthy woman at the time—but
unfortunately works out a little late. Stepping quickly in the direction
indicated, Mrs. Prior turns the corner and goes along the southern
border of the pretty cottage until she reaches a small iron gate that
leads to the garden proper.
In here, soft perfumes meet one in the air, and delicate tints delight
the eye. The little walks run here and there, the grasses grow, and from
the flowering shrubs sweet trills are heard, sounds beautiful, and
‘Not sooner heard
Than answered, doubled, trebled more,
Voice of an Eden in the bird,
Renewing with his pipe of four
The sob; a troubled Eden, rich
In throb of heart.’
The grandeur of the dying autumn strikes through all; for over there, as
a background to the still brilliant flowers, are fading yellows, and sad
reds, and leaves russet-brown, more lovely now, perhaps, than when a
life dwelt in them.
Mrs. Prior moves through all these things untouched by their beauty—on
one thought bent. And all at once the subject of her thought lies there
before her. The clearest, sweetest thought!
Ella, on one of the many small paths, is standing as if struck by some
great surprise. She is looking at Mrs. Prior earnestly, half fearfully,
with eager searching in her large dark eyes, as of one trying to work
out some problem that had been suggested many years ago.
The sight of the girl, standing there with her hand pressed against her
forehead as if to compel thought, drives the anger she is feeling even
deeper into Mrs. Prior’s soul. Such an attitude! As if not
understanding! The absurd put-on innocence of it is positively—well,
disgusting!
And always Ella stands looking at her, as if frightened by the sudden
unexpected visitor, but presently through her fear and astonishment
another look springs into life. Her eyes widen—she does nothing, she
says nothing, but anyone looking on would say that the girl all at once
had remembered. But something terribly vague had touched her—something
startling out of the past that until that moment had lain dead. Oh,
surely she knows this lady, has met her somewhere.
As if impelled by this mad fancy, she goes quickly towards Mrs. Prior.
‘I—do I know you?’ asks she, in a low tense way.
‘I think not,’ says Mrs. Prior, in her calm _trainante_ voice, that is
now insolent to a degree. A faint, most cruel smile plays upon her lips.
‘You, and such as you, are seldom known by—us.’
The girl stands silent. No actual knowledge of her meaning enters into
her heart, but what does come home to her in some vague way is that she
has been thrust back—put far away—cast out, as it were.
‘I don’t understand,’ says she, a little faintly.
‘Oh, I think you do,’ says Mrs. Prior, with cultivated rudeness. ‘But I
have not come here to-day to inform you as to your position in life. I
have come rather to explain to you that your—er—relations with my nephew
must come to an end—and at once.’
‘Your nephew?’
‘Has Mr. Wyndham not spoken to you of his people, then? Rather better
taste than I should have expected from him. But one may judge from it
that he is not yet lost to all sense of decency.’
The insolence in her tone stings.
‘You must believe me or not, as you like,’ says the girl, drawing up her
slight figure, ‘but I don’t know what you are speaking about. Do you
mean that you think it wrong of me to have rented this cottage from Mr.
Wyndham?’
Mrs. Prior raises her pince-nez and looks at her.
‘Really, you are very amusing!’ says she. ‘Now what do you think it is?
Right? Your views should be interesting.’
‘If not this house, I should take another,’ says Ella. She is feeling
bewildered and frightened, and has grown very pale.
‘Of course, if you insist on the innocent _rôle_,’ says Mrs. Prior
coldly, shrugging her shoulders, ‘it is useless my wasting my time. If,
however, you have any regard for Mr. Wyndham, who, it seems, has been
very kind to you’—she glances meaningly round the charming little home
and garden—‘if distinctly unkind to himself, it may be of use to let you
know that your presence here is very likely to be the cause of his
ruin.’
‘His—ruin!’ The unmistakable horror in the girl’s face strikes Mrs.
Prior as hopeful, so she proceeds briskly.
‘Social ruin! It will undoubtedly mean his disinheritance by his uncle,
Lord Shangarry, and—the rupture of his engagement with the girl
he—loves!’
She plants this barb with joy. The telling of a lie more or less has
never troubled her during her life.
‘The girl he loves!’ Ella’s voice as she repeats the words sounds dull
and monotonous. She is quite ghastly now, and she has laid her hand on
the back of a garden-chair to steady herself.
‘Yes. The girl he has always meant to marry!’ She lays great stress on
the last word. That ought to tell. ‘Whom he meant to marry until
your—fascinations’—she throws detestable meaning into her speech, base
as it is detestable—‘alienated him—for the moment!’
All at once Ella recovers herself.
‘Oh, you are wrong, wrong!’ cries she vehemently. ‘Somebody has been
telling you what is not true, what is not the case! Mr. Wyndham does
not—does not’—she trembles violently—‘love me. Not me—anyone but me. Oh!
who could have said such a thing? Believe me, do believe me’—she comes
forward, holding out her hands imploringly—‘when I tell you that I am
the last girl in the world he would fall in love with. If you know this
young lady he loves, go back to her, I implore you, and tell her it is
all untrue—that he loves her, and her only, and that all she has heard
to the contrary is not worth one thought. Oh, madam! If he should be
hurt through me!... After all his goodness to me! Oh ... go ... go to
her and tell her what I say!’
She stops, and covers her face suddenly with her hands. She is not
crying, however. Tears are far from her eyes. But the misery of death
has swept over her soul.
Mrs. Prior gives way to a low laugh.
‘Why didn’t you go on the stage?’ she says. ‘You would have made even a
better living there. But perhaps you have only just come off it?’
The girl lets her hand drop to her sides, and turns passionately upon
her.
‘Why won’t you believe me?’ cries she, with sudden wild vehemence.
‘What have I done that you should disbelieve my word?’ Her eyes are
bright with grief and the eager desire that is consuming her to make
things straight for Wyndham and the girl he loves. Wyndham, who has
been so good to her, who has brought her out of such deep waters! To
hurt him—to injure him: the very thought is unbearable. She has
involuntarily—unknowingly—drawn up her _svelte_ and slender body to
its fullest height, and with a courage that few women could have found
under circumstances so poignant, so filled with agonized memory, and
with yet another feeling that perhaps is bitterest of all (though
hardly known), she looks full at her tormentor.
‘Can’t you see,’ cries she, with a proud humility, ‘how wrong you must
be? How could I interfere between Mr. Wyndham and the woman he loves?
Who am I? Nothing!’ She throws up her beautiful head with a touch of
inalienable pride, and repeats the word distinctly: ‘Nothing!’
‘Less than nothing,’ says Mrs. Prior, who is only moved to increased and
unendurable hatred by her beauty and her unconscious hauteur. ‘So far as
he regards you!’
Ella draws her breath quickly.
‘If so small in his regard, how then do I prevent his marriage with the
girl he loves?’
Alas for the sorrow of her voice! It might have touched the heart of
anyone. Mrs. Prior, however, is impervious to such touches.
‘Don’t you think it very absurd, your pretending like this?’ says she
contemptuously.
‘Of course, in spite of the absurd innocence you pretend, one can see
that you quite understand the situation, and how unpleasantly you are in
the way. If he had brought you anywhere but here, it might have been
hushed up, but to the very house his poor mother left him—why, it is an
open scandal, and an insult to my daughter!’
The girl makes a shocked gesture.
‘It is your daughter, then? But’—quickly—‘now you know he doesn’t love
me, and you can tell her—and——’ She is looking eagerly, with almost
passionate hope, at Mrs. Prior.
‘Tell her! Tell my daughter about you!’ Mrs. Prior’s voice is terrible.
‘How dare you suggest the idea of my speaking to my girl of——’ She
checks herself with difficulty, and goes on coldly: ‘No doubt you
believe Mr. Wyndham will be to you always as he is now. Women of your
class delude themselves like that. But—when he marries—as he will—as he
shall—you will learn that a wife is one thing and a mis——’
She breaks off in the middle of her odious word as though shot. A hand
has grasped her shoulder.
‘Hould yer tongue, woman, if there’s still a dhrop o’ dacency left in
ye! Hould yer tongue, I say!’
The voice is the voice of Mrs. Denis.
‘May I ask who it is you are addressing?’ asks Mrs. Prior, releasing
herself easily enough. Putting up her eyeglass, she bends upon Mrs.
Denis the glare that she has always found so effectual for the undoing
of her foes. But Mrs. Denis thinks nothing of glares. She is, indeed, at
this moment producing one of her own, beneath which Mrs. Prior’s sinks
into insignificance.
‘Faith ye may!’ says she, advancing towards the enemy with a regular
‘come on’ sort of air. ‘An’ as ye ask me, I’ll give ye yer answer. Ye’re
the aunt of a nevvy that has ivery right to be ashamed o’ ye! Know ye,
is it? Arrah!’ Here the unapproachable sarcasm of the Irish peasant
breaks forth. ‘Is it that ye’re askin’? Fegs, I do, thin, an’ to me
cost, for ’tis too late I am wid me knowledge.’ She pauses here, and
planting her hands on her ample hips, surveys Mrs. Prior with deliberate
scorn.
‘Oh, ye ould thraitor!’ says she at last.
Tableau!
It is open to question whether Mrs. Prior’s instant anger arises most
from the word ‘ould’ or ‘thraitor.’ Probably the ‘ould.’
‘You forget yourself!’ cries she sharply, furiously.
‘Ye’re out there,’ says Mrs. Denis; ‘for ’tis I’m remimberin’. “Oh, Mrs.
Denis”’—with a wonderful attempt at Mrs. Prior’s air—‘“an’ is that
you?”—so swate like. An’, “I’ll be tellin’ me nevvy what a good guardian
ye are.” An’, “’Tis me nevvy tould me to come an’ pay me respecks to
your young lady.”’ Here Mrs. Denis lifts her powerful fist and shakes it
in the air. ‘I wondher to the divil,’ says she, ‘that yer tongue didn’t
sthick to yer mouth whin ye said thim words. Yer nevvy indeed! Wait till
I see yer nevvy! ’Tis shakin’ in yer shoes ye’ll be thin! Worse than ye
made this poor lamb’—with a glance at Ella, who has drawn back and is
trembling violently—‘shake to-day.’
‘You shall have reason to remember this—this most insolent behaviour.
You shall know——’ begins Mrs. Prior, white with wrath; but Mrs. Denis
will have none of her.
‘I know one thing, any way,’ says she, ‘that out ov this ye go, this
minnit-second. Ye can tell yer nevvy all about it whin ye git out, an’
the sooner ye’re out, the sooner ye can tell him; an’ I wish ye joy of
the tellin’! Come now!’—she steps up to Mrs. Prior with a menacing
air—‘quick march!’
This grand old soldier—with whom even her husband, good man and true as
he had proved himself on many a battlefield, would probably have come
off second best at a close tussle—now sidling up to Mrs. Prior with
distinct battle in her eyes, that lady deems it best to lay down her
arms and sound a retreat.
‘This disreputable conduct only coincides with the whole of this
establishment,’ says Mrs. Prior, making a faint effort to sustain her
position whilst being literally moved towards the gate by the powerful
personality and still more powerful arm of Mrs. Denis. The latter does
not touch her, indeed, but she keeps waving that muscular member up and
down like a windmill, in a most threatening manner. ‘You understand that
I shall report all this to Mr. Wyndham?’
‘Ye’ve said all that before,’ says Mrs. Denis, with great contempt. ‘An’
now I’ll tell you something. That report ye spake of, in my humble
opinion, will make mighty little noise!’
After that she closes the gate with scant ceremony on Mrs. Prior’s
departing heels.