“FOXY JOE TELLS TALES.”
“For every inch that is not a fool is a rogue.”
--DRYDEN.
Miss Pink, who was in the highest spirits, followed Betty into her
bed-room, when they arrived home from the ball, and offered to unlace
her dress, if Betty would do the same kind office for her.
“You looked perfectly beautiful,” she exclaimed, kissing her, “and did
you not have a lovely time. Oh, _my_!”
Betty agreed that she had had a lovely time, and when, after an hour’s
thorough discussion of the events of the evening, she had got rid of
her vivacious companion, she wrapped herself in a shawl, and put out
the candles, and went and sat in a deep window seat, to watch for the
dawn, and to think. Never before had Betty’s thoughts kept her out of
bed.
She was not the same gay careless Betty that we had figuratively
handed into the old green chariot a week ago. No, her little simple
heart now beat with delicious dazzling hopes and then fluttered with
dismal dreadful fears. She had made a discovery; she found that she
was continually thinking of George Holroyd, and that she liked him.
Not as she liked Denis Malone, and Fred and Ghosty Moore. No, quite
differently. She had a guilty knowledge that she never was so happy
as when he was talking to her, and that when he was not present she
was continually and secretly watching the door. Alas! poor Betty, this
latter is a truly fatal symptom.
Miss Dopping was a lady who never allowed anything to interfere with
her plans. When she fixed an hour for her arrival or departure, nothing
less than an earthquake could alter her arrangements. At ten o’clock,
the morning after the dance, she and her _protégée_ were trotting
smartly down the Roskeen avenue, behind a pair of posters, _en route_
home. Strange to say, Mr. Holroyd made a pretext for returning to
Ballingoole the following day, although pressed to remain for a most
tempting meet. When he had taken his leave, Fred Moore imparted some of
his ideas to his brother, over a quiet cigar in the smoking-room.
“I tell you what, Ghosty, that chap Holroyd is head over ears in love
with Betty Redmond.”
“Not he,” returned his brother, contemptuously. “It’s Belle you are
thinking of; did you not see him dancing with her, and towing the
mother in to supper? What an old woman she is; she reminds me of a
walrus shuffling about in black satin.”
“Belle asked Holroyd to dance. She has brass enough for anything, and
_she_ told him off to her mother.”
“He is always at Noone,” persisted Ghosty, “and every one says that he
is after Belle; why, Betty is a mere child; it was only the other day
she went into long dresses.”
“Child or not, when I went into the oak room the night of the ball, I
started a fine covey, or I’m greatly mistaken. He was leaning towards
her, speaking as if his life and soul depended on her answer, and her
face was as red as fire. She ate no supper, not even lobster salad, and
strawberry ice! That’s a very bad sign in a girl.”
But to all this his brother Augustus turned a scornful face, and a deaf
ear.
* * * * *
Foxy Joe was no friend to Denis Malone. Denis laughed at him openly,
and made a butt of him at Nolan’s, and Foxy Joe was fully resolved
“to have it in for him,” as he expressed it, “_yet_,” although he
carried his messages meanwhile, and took his money; for that matter he
took every one’s messages, from dainty little pink notes from Noone,
to a couple of pounds of steak for Mrs. Maccabe. She was his most
constant patroness, and he saw a good deal of her, and her niece and
book-keeper, pretty Lizzie, who looked _so_ demure, as she sat behind
a kind of railed-in desk, peering through the bars, with her bright
dark eyes, and shovelling out greasy coppers, with her lady-like white
fingers.
“A good girl,” said her aunt, in confidence to Jane Bolland
(consequently in confidence to the town), “with a great head for
figures, and worth her weight in gold, and though I’m against cousins
marrying, if she and Dan were to set up together, it would not be a
bad thing, and she might drop into _my_ shoes!” Ridiculous idea! as if
coquettish Lizzie, with her smart dresses and high heels, would ever
harangue her customers in a black poke bonnet, much less wield the ox
tail with a vigorous arm, and personally visit the slaughter yard!
No! Lizzie in her heart loathed the business; she was rather romantic,
and there was no poetry about a butcher’s shop, and ribs and briskets.
Yes, Lizzie was decidedly romantic, and it was passing sweet to her,
to meet a young gentleman, by stealth, heir to a good old name and
property (Heaven help your innocence, Lizzie!) and to walk along lonely
lanes, with her head on his shoulder, and his arm round her waist; she
was exceedingly sly, cautious and clever to have kept her secret for a
whole year from lynx-eyed Ballingoole. Poor Ballingoole; that was so
badly in want of some new topic of conversation. She frequently sent
and received notes, placing them under a certain stone, on a certain
wall, that was her private post office. Latterly Lizzie had grown
bolder, and during a visit to Dublin she and Denis had had the audacity
to go to the theatre, and to the circus in company, and to take a
Sunday stroll on Kingstown pier; and so far they were undiscovered.
The evening after Betty had returned home, from ease, and idleness,
and play, to economy, and more economy and work, she went for a long
walk up what was called “the bog road,” to give the dogs a run. This
was their favourite direction; the cabins were few and far between,
and contained a fair supply of active cats and not too many furious,
ferocious lurchers, only too ready to rush out and attack three
peaceable, gentlemanlike little white dogs. On her way home, in a lane
not far from Bridgetstown, Betty saw two figures standing near the
hedge. At first she scarcely noticed them, but on nearer approach she
perceived that they were lovers--a man--a _gentleman_--and a girl; the
girl’s hand was on his shoulder; and she seemed to be speaking to him
eagerly, he replying with expressive nods, and then he suddenly raised
her face by the chin, kissed her hastily, and disappeared through an
adjacent gap.
They were totally unconscious of a spectator, and as the girl turned
back, she came almost face to face with Betty--the girl was Lizzie
Maccabe.
“Good evening, miss,” she said in some confusion.
“Lizzie, who was that you were speaking to?” enquired the young lady,
in a tone of austere displeasure.
“Indeed, Miss Elizabeth, it was just a friend.”
“I could see _that_, but who was it?”
“Well, then, indeed, Miss Elizabeth, I don’t see what right you have to
ask.”
“The same right as I would have to try and put you out, if I saw your
clothes on fire, or to throw you a rope if you were drowning. You were
walking with a gentleman, Lizzie.”
“And if I was, miss?” returned Lizzie, flippantly, “sure the road is
not mine!”
“If you won’t tell _me_, I shall speak to your aunt; she had better
look after you.”
“Oh, she knows I am very well able to take care of myself,” returned
the other pertly, “and since you are so anxious to know, I may as well
tell you, that the gentleman was just Mr. Holroyd.”
“Mr. Holroyd,” gasped Betty, who had been almost certain that she had
recognised Denis.
“Yes,” continued Lizzie, who lied boldly and well, “why not him as well
as another? He means no harm, nor do I; a girl must have a bit of fun,
as well as young ladies.”
“He kissed you, Lizzie,” said Betty tragically.
“Well, miss, and if he did, you need not pick me eyes out! We
tradespeople are not so particular as the quality; he gives me a gold
locket, and I give him a kiss, where’s the harm?”
“There is great harm, Lizzie; you are not the girl I took you for.”
“Maybe then, miss, if you were to look at _home_ you would not be so
shocked at your neighbours. Maybe there’s a worse than _me_--maybe
there’s a young lady as Mr. Holroyd can kiss for the asking.”
“I have known you for years, Lizzie, and you and I were in the same
class in Sunday school; rude as you are, I cannot forget that. Promise
me that you will give up meeting Mr. Holroyd, and I will keep what I
have seen to myself.”
“Well then, miss,” after a moment’s hesitation, and with a curious
smile, “I don’t mind if I do give up meeting Mr. Holroyd, just to
oblige _you_. I am not so dead set upon him as some people, and
Ballingoole is a shocking place for gossip. And as for Jane Bolland, I
wonder the ground does not crack under her! I must be going now, Miss
Elizabeth, and so I will wish you good evening,” and she flounced off,
tossing her head and swinging her parasol as she went.
Betty walked home very, very slowly; she was more unhappy than she had
ever been in all her life; her illusions were dispelled; her little
demi-god had fallen from his pedestal, and lay shattered in the dust.
A man who could court a pert, vulgar girl like Lizzie Maccabe, was not
worth a second thought, nor would he be likely to think of her, but as
an unsophisticated country mouse, with whom he could flirt and amuse
himself.
Her heart was unusually sore, and she was both silent and depressed,
as she took her place at her aunt’s scantily-spread board. Various
sayings of George’s came back to her now, with an entirely new
interpretation! He had once told her that he thought “Elizabeth” the
most beautiful name in the world, and that it exactly suited _her_,
doubtless he thought that it suited Lizzie Maccabe still better!
When Mr. Holroyd came over the next afternoon, ostensibly to talk
about the ball--in reality to steal (if possible) a few moments with
Betty--lo!--she was an ice maiden! His eager greetings, his anxious
efforts to continue where he had left off, were cruelly repudiated, and
silenced. What was the reason of her cold, altered manner?
He could not imagine what had happened to pretty, smiling Betty, within
forty-eight hours. Who was this freezingly polite, this pale, and
rather silent young lady; not Betty surely?
Oh no, this was a member of the family he had never met before; this
was Miss Elizabeth Redmond.
As Lizzie tripped home, giggling at her own cleverness, and at the
recollection of Betty’s stern, shocked face, she little knew that a
Nemesis was on her track, in the shape of Foxy Joe!
Foxy Joe went further afield than most people; he saw a good deal,
he made excellent use of his cunning eyes and capacious ears, and
he did not deserve his name for nothing. Denis had recently placed
figuratively the last straw on the camel’s back, and Joey, screaming
with passion, his face grey with fury, had sworn a frightful oath that
he would pay him out _soon_. And Denis had laughed derisively! Would
Denis laugh if he knew that Joey had witnessed more than one stolen
interview, that he had appropriated more than one note, and that even
now _he_ was sniggering in his sleeve as he followed Lizzie home?
Lizzie halted in the town, and had a long and interesting gossip with
her bosom friend, the dressmaker, whilst Joey slipped down the street,
and walked into Mrs. Maccabe’s establishment. Mrs. Maccabe was reading
the _Freeman’s Journal_ by the light of a lamp in the front shop, and
glowered at Joey and his empty basket, over her horn spectacles.
“Ye left it?” she enquired curtly.
“Be Gob I did.”
“And brought no word about beef for corning?”
“Devil a word,” scratching his head, “I handed in the basket, and
passed no remark.”
“That’s strange! for mostly ye have as much jaw as a sheep’s head,”
sneered his employer. “And what _kept_ you?”
“Faix--I was just watching Miss Lizzie.”
“For what? What was she doing? She went to confession at four o’clock.”
“Confession, how are ye? And did she tell ye _who_ confesses her?” And
he looked under his eyebrows, with an unpleasant expression.
“Father Connell, you unfortunate natural, and who else?”
“No--but Father Denis Malone; I saw him confessing her, and sluthering
and kissing her, in the lane by the horse park, not twenty minutes ago.”
Mrs. Maccabe rose hastily, and felt round for the ox tail. Many a time
it had descended heavily on the dwarf’s shrinking shoulders.
“Joey! I’ll give you a lathering that you’ll remember to your dying
day,” advancing between him and the door. “How _dar_ you tell your
black lies on a respectable girl like Lizzie?”
“Before the mother of God, and all the blessed saints, I swear I saw
her,” howled Joey, holding a chair between himself and the virago, and
trembling in every limb; but the thought of Denis spurred his flagging
courage, and he added, “Sure Miss Betty saw them _too_, and hasn’t it
been going on this year or more!”
“Ye little lying baste!” she screamed, swinging the tail, and bringing
it down with a resounding whack. “Take that, and that, and _that_.”
“Oh! Mrs. Maccabe, ma’am! Oh! holy Moses! Oh! well maybe ye can read
their writing,” and out of a very greasy pocket he unearthed three
letters--one from Denis, and two in the handwriting of the fair
Lizzie, written (were further proof required) on bill paper, with a
little picture of a fat ox surmounted by “Bridget Maccabe and Sons,
Butchers and Salesmen.”
Mrs. Maccabe became yellow (white she could never be), staggered over
to the table, laid her weapon down at her right hand, and slowly
perused the letter, whilst Joey, armed with a shield, in the shape of a
large round basket, watched her narrowly, with his little sly grey eyes.
“If this is _true_, Foxy Joe,” she said at last, removing her horn
spectacles, with shaking fingers, “ye had better take the hatchet and
choppers out of me reach. I don’t want a murder on me soul! for I
believe I could kill her. Her that was a pattern in the convent, and
that talked of a vocation, and of taking the black veil! Her that can
scarcely lift her eyes to a man and that comes of dacent people--her
that no one has ever been able to say a word against, and _me_ that
has always kept myself so distant, and so high, and that has always
been respected. Oh! oh! oh!----” and--sight never seen before! sight
that dilated Joey’s narrow eyes--Mrs. Maccabe threw her blue checked
apron over her head, for once in her life gave way to her feelings, and
lifted up her voice and wept.
This strange paroxysm was of brief duration; she presently dried her
eyes, and retreated into her inner parlour, with the letters and the
lamp, leaving Joey alone in the dark shop.
An instant later, Lizzie came in, pink-cheeked, brisk, and smiling,
and, unaware of her danger, walked straight into the lion’s mouth.
“What’s this I am afther hearing about you, Lizzie Maccabe?” enquired
her aunt in a strangely forced voice.
“I am sure I don’t know!” returned Lizzie, tossing her head, but her
face became the colour of ashes, as her eyes fell upon the letters.
“Is it true?” demanded the elder woman hoarsely.
“What?” stammered the culprit.
“That you write letters to that blackguard, Denis Malone, and meet him
after dark, and kiss him?”
Lizzie glanced appealingly at Joey, who leant against the wall and
nodded his head, and looked at her with a grin of satisfied malice;
there was no hope from Joey!
“Yes, it’s true,” she answered in a whisper.
“Then my house is no place for the likes of you,” said Bridget Maccabe,
rising with an air that would have done credit to Sarah Siddons.
“There’s the door; out you go!”
“Oh, aunt, aunt, you don’t mean it?”
“Come!” taking her roughly by the arm, “I’ll never see your brazen face
again.”
“Oh, Aunt Bridget!” cried the wretched girl, falling on the floor, and
clasping her by the knees. “Don’t be so angry with me. Sure I would
have told you long ago; only he would not let me. Sure we--we are
married.”
“Ye are what? Get up off the floor, ye shameless hussey.”
“Married,” sobbed Lizzie, “married at a registry office in Dublin last
year. Sure haven’t I my ring, and all the papers at the bottom of the
little tin cash-box along with your bank book.”
“Then sit there on that chair, where I can see you, that I may have a
good look at the biggest fool that ever drew the breath of life,” and
Mrs. Maccabe moved back a few steps, and gazed at her weeping niece,
with her arms akimbo.
“Lizzie, you are a wicked, low girl--deceiving them that was good to
ye. What will Father Connell say, and the Reverend Mother, and (as an
afterthought) the Malones?”
“I don’t care what they say,” rejoined Lizzie, plucking up a little
spirit. “I am Mrs. Denis Malone, and as good as the best, and Denis is
the only son and heir.”
“Heir, indeed!” shouted her aunt, “and what are you going to live on,
if I may make bold to ask?”
“The Major----” began Lizzie.
“The Major can’t keep himself--let alone a son and a daughter-in-law.
Why _I’m_ keeping the Major! Well, well, to think of it! First and
foremost you will bring down your marriage lines to Father Connell, and
then we will get you decently married in chapel, and then we will see
how your husband is going to support you; for mind one thing, my good
girl, you won’t live here; it would ill become the wife of the _heir_
of the Malones, to be chopping mate at her aunt’s the butcher. Aye and
maybe cutting off the best loin chops for her lady mother-in-law.”
“Maybe the Malones will take us in.”
“Oh, keep your may bees for honey, and talk sense. I think I see the
Major arming you in to dinner; if he does, maybe you’ll remind him of
my bill. I think I see Mrs. Malone and Miss Betty making free with the
likes of yees----”
“Miss Betty! I saw Miss Betty this evening--she--she--she,” and here
Mrs. Denis Malone, frightened and overwrought, suddenly went off into a
fit of screaming hysterics, that were quite as protracted and alarming
as if she had been born a lady.