THE HOUR AND THE MAN.
“Meet me by moonlight alone,
And then I will tell you a tale.”
--J. A. WADE.
It was the very last evening at Bridgetstown, a lovely one, towards
the end of June; never had the place (now passing for ever from
the Malones) looked to greater advantage. The pleasure-ground was
quite a blaze of roses, and all the garden walks were bordered by
fragrant mignonette, wallflower and sweet pea. Mrs. Malone, who was
now convalescent, and able to be downstairs, was holding a melancholy
and final interview with Miss Dopping and the Finnys--she and Mrs.
Finny mingling their tears, whilst Maria and Miss Dopping kept up a
cross fire of would-be consolatory remarks. The Malones were leaving
for Dublin the next morning, and Betty, who had been packing hard for
three days, came out with Cuckoo for a breath of air, and a farewell
round of the pleasure-grounds and garden. But Cuckoo was presently
summoned indoors, and Betty was left alone--she was tired, very tired,
and seating herself on the steps inside the garden gate, with her chin
resting on her hand, looked up at the full silver moon, with a face
almost as white as her dress.
George, who had been solacing himself with a cigar, descried her from
a distance, and hastened to join her; he scarcely ever got a chance
of having a word with her alone now, and here was a long-sought
opportunity. The evening breezes blew across their faces, and brought
with them the scents of thousands of roses, the very spirit of summer
seemed riding on the night, and summoning all people out of doors--to
come and do her homage, but the only two at Bridgetstown who stood
among the moon-lit flowers were George Holroyd and Betty Redmond.
“Well, this is the last night at Bridgetstown!” he said, “and the
old place is looking its best, as if it was determined to haunt our
memories. There is the yellow rose I helped you to nail up--do you
remember? I think I deserve one--as a memento.”
“Then I am sure you may help yourself,” she returned composedly.
“No, I want _you_ to give me one.”
“Very well,” rising and breaking off a heavy-headed yellow rose.
“I shall never see this old tree again,” he said, as he took it from
her. “Nor the house and grounds of Bridgetstown--nor--nor----”
“Nor any one in Ballingoole,” she added, without raising her eyes.
“Do not say that,” he returned gravely; “I hope to see every one, and
above all to see you, Betty. What should we have done without you?”
“It was nothing,” she replied, reseating herself wearily. “I have
always been at home here, long,” looking at him with a somewhat watery
smile, “before you came! When are you going back to India? Soon?”
“As soon as I have settled my mother comfortably in Dublin.”
“Then to-morrow will be good-bye?”
“No, I shall run down again for a day. Betty, I want to ask you
something;” he latterly called her by her Christian name quite
naturally. “You remember when we came back from Roskeen, where we had
always been such good friends--had we not?”
Betty nodded, and stared at an enormous bush of lavender, with a
somewhat fixed expression.
“Afterwards, when I met you at home, you would scarcely speak to me, or
even look at me--will you tell me the reason of this? for I know you
are a girl who always _has_ a reason for her actions.”
“Yes--if you wish it very much--I will,” she answered, drawing a
pattern in the gravel with the toe of her shoe, “but I would much
rather not tell you.”
“And I would so much rather that you did tell me.”
“It--it was only the evening after I came home--I made a mistake--I
was in the meadow lane, and I saw Lizzie Maccabe and a gentleman; he
seemed very fond of her--and she said that it was _you_.”
“I am sure I am excessively obliged to her! And so that was the reason!
Oh, Betty, how could you believe her--surely you know by this time
_who_ it is that I care about.”
Betty’s heart beat fearfully fast, but she managed to control her
voice, and to say quite naturally:
“I thought you were to carry that yellow rose to India--you are picking
it to pieces, and will have nothing left but the stalk.”
George also exercised all his self-command; hot, passionate words,
that came flocking to his lips, were fiercely forced back, by common
sense, honour and reason. He had no right to ask this girl, who had
seen nothing of the world, to share his present poverty. He must first
work for her, and then win her. Nevertheless he could not go without
_one_ word, without some frail hope, were it but a look or a flower,
and his heart sank within him when he thought of Ghosty Moore. Oh, if
he and Betty were but the real master and mistress of that fine old
house behind them, how happy he would be! But what was the good of
wishing--he was going to India. In ten days’ time, the seas would be
rolling between him and Betty.
“I want you to tell me something else,” he said. “I should like to hear
your opinion about a friend of mine. A man I know very well.” His voice
shook a little as he mentioned this. “He is desperately in love with a
girl, but he has lost every penny of his money, and does not think it
honourable to ask her to bind herself to him in any way, until his lot
is more assured. Do you think if _she_ knew this, and supposing that
she cared about him--she would trust in his silence, and wait, say, a
year?”
No answer for quite a long interval--for Betty could not find her
voice. Suddenly she stood up and glanced at his pale, tense face.
“Well--what do you think?” he asked in a low, eager tone.
“I am sure she would.”
“Would _you_, if you were she?” he enquired, and his voice shook.
“Yes,” she responded, almost in a whisper.
Betty looked at him, the veil was drawn between their two souls, and
they knew each other’s hearts.
To George, her eyes seemed to speak all that was sweetest and best
in the world; he took the little hand that still held a rose, and
removing the flower, kissed it reverently and fervently. What a cold,
trembling little hand it was! How quickly it was withdrawn. For at this
supreme moment, the inevitable Cuckoo came running to the gate and
peering eagerly through, called: “Betty, where are you? Bet, come in,
mother wants you immediately!” And Betty hastily snatched her fingers
away, and turned to face Mrs. Malone’s untimely emissary--her future
sister-in-law. George loved her past all doubting, truly; with this
conviction in her heart, she moved to the gate which he held open.
George loved her, that was enough. What was money--what was time, what
was anything? She would wait for him for years--for ever. As she
walked slowly back through the fragrant pleasure-grounds she seemed
to be treading on air, although Cuckoo dragged from her arm, with an
exceedingly earthly weight.
Strange to say, that usually unguarded young lady made no remark beyond
some incoherent suggestions about Boozle and his basket, but for the
remainder of the evening she was amazingly silent--unnaturally solemn,
and followed George with deeply inquisitive and interested eyes--Betty
had returned to her packing.
The scene inside the gate, embowered in roses, handsome George kissing
Betty’s hand, and Betty standing so tall and white, like some young
queen, was photographed on her memory for ever; she was a notoriously
sharp young person, and the picture only ratified what she had long
suspected, that George and Betty were in love with each other.
In a few days, Mrs. Malone and Cuckoo, Crab and Boozle, were installed
in a small, detached house, close to a church, post office and train.
George had done his best for his mother. For her, he had given up
his furlough schemes--his private income, save fifty pounds, and
his present hopes. She wept in gasps upon his shoulder, and sobbed
out “that he was the best of sons, no one was like him, no one,”
urgently suggested that he should apply to his Uncle Godfrey for an
allowance--and in her heart loved Denis! To feel herself the free,
unfettered owner of a small, but comfortable villa; at liberty to come
and go, and spend and cry just as much as she pleased was (but this is
for your private ear) a truly blessed relief! She wore the outward
garb of woe, and used mourning paper, with inch deep black border, and
envelopes so woeful that scarcely room was left for an address, and
publicly bemoaned the late dear Major, and actually imagined that she
was his truly disconsolate widow.
George’s departure was sudden; a telegram gave him forty-eight hours to
embark, and he instantly took the train for Ballingoole, ostensibly to
make some final family arrangements, but in reality to say good-bye to
Betty.
His visit was quite unexpected. Betty was in the garden, picking
strawberries for preserving. Mrs. Redmond was lying down, and Belle
was standing disconsolately in the drawing-room window, staring at the
lawn, the fir trees, and the grey clouds that hung over a distant low
range of hills, betokening either rain or heat.
“Mr. Holroyd,” said the parlour-maid abruptly, and she sprang round,
her whole face transformed from gloom to sunlight in one second.
“Oh, I am so glad to see you,” she cried, holding out both hands, “we
did not know when we were to expect you.”
“I came down to-day only for an hour. I got my orders this morning, and
I’m off to-morrow--sail in the _Malabar_ on Saturday.”
Belle’s nostrils quivered, but for once she restrained herself; she
merely said: “How is your mother?”
“Wonderfully well and cheerful; she has found some old friends already,
and is beginning to feel at home.”
“And Cuckoo?” with very forced composure.
“Cuckoo goes to school, and, strange to say, likes it. I hope Mrs.
Redmond is well.”
“No, she is but poorly to-day. I am afraid she will not be able to come
down and wish you good-bye. How we shall miss you,” then “How _I_ shall
miss you, for you cannot think--you can never know--what your society
has been to me in this hateful, melancholy place! Now it will be ten
times more dreary than ever,” and there were tears in her voice.
Silence--an uncomfortable but golden silence. George looked steadily
at one particular patch in the carpet; Belle always talked in this
exaggerated way; he wished she would not be quite so confoundedly
personal.
“Where is Betty?” he enquired in a would-be cheerful tone.
“Oh, out with the dogs--somewhere about the place. Do you want to see
her?”
(“Did he want to see her? Did he want to see his queen, his star, his
goddess?”) Should he give Belle a hint?--No.
“Yes, I should like to wish her good-bye.”
“She is probably in the garden making herself ill with fruit!” said her
cousin ill-naturedly.
“Oh, you must not go just yet” (seeing that he was about to rise),
biting her lips to retain her composure, “you will not forget us--and
you will write often, will you not?” she added desperately; her eyes
fixed anxiously on his.
“Yes, I shall certainly write; it is very good of you to wish for my
letters.”
“They will be my only happiness,” was her most embarrassing reply; “you
won’t forget me, will you, George?” she whispered. George rose hastily,
this conference was too personal to be pleasant; this pretty little
woman, with the tragic dark eyes, was becoming a nuisance.
“I hate saying good-bye,” holding out his hand as he spoke. “But I must
be making a start, my train goes at five o’clock, and I have not much
time to lose.”
“Oh, you have an hour still; it won’t take you more than half that time
to get to the station,” she pleaded in a strangled voice.
(Yes, quite true, but he had yet to see Betty, and every moment was
priceless.)
“I must really go,” he said firmly, “I have business at Bridgetstown.”
Belle stood up as white as a ghost, and gazed at him despairingly.
It was not alone George Holroyd who was going, it was her life, her
hopes, her future; she felt more than half inclined to throw herself
into his arms, but something in his face arrested her intention, and
she merely gave him her hand, and turning away her face, sank in a heap
upon the sofa, in a storm of hysterical tears--and George escaped.
To look back would have been to emulate Lot’s wife; to linger was
destruction.
As he left the house, he gazed anxiously about him, and then he
descried a welcome trio--three little white dogs trotting along from
the direction of the garden, and presently a tall, girlish figure
carrying on her arm a good-sized basket of strawberries. A lovely
colour came into her face as she recognised him. He seized her hand
eagerly, and said:
“I was afraid I might miss you! I got sudden orders, and I start
to-morrow, so I just ran down to say good-bye to _you_.”
He still retained her hand in his, whilst the dogs sat round, staring
at him affectionately, as if giving the young couple their countenance
and consent; the little group was commanded by the drawing-room
windows, but, luckily for them, Belle’s jealous eyes were buried in the
sofa cushions.
“Will you walk down to the gate?” he asked, releasing her hand, and
taking the basket. “I left the car there--I have still to go up the
town, and my time is very, very short.”
They walked down that miserably short avenue, almost in total
silence; how many things they would think of to say, _afterwards_.
How passionately they would regret this sinful waste of five
minutes--precious, golden minutes--but the truth was, they were
determined to be very brave, and their hearts were too full to speak.
When they came near the gate they halted, for at the gate itself stood
Juggy with the key in her hand. She locked and unlocked the entrance to
Noone as rigorously as if it were a jail, but if people could go in and
out without _her_ help, her occupation and her sixpences would be gone,
and Mrs. Redmond winked at the arrangement--as she gave Juggy no wages.
“Give me one token, Betty, before I go,” he urged in an eager whisper.
“Once you promised me whatever I asked for; give me that little silver
brooch you are wearing.”
Betty unpinned it hastily, and put it in his hand; a shabby little
“Mizpah” brooch! a present from Belle.
“Good-bye, God bless you, Betty!” he said in a husky, unsteady voice.
She raised her eyes to his, they were dim with tears, but love is
easily satisfied, and the farewell look they interchanged, contented
them for many a day. They knew that they could trust each other. In
another moment he was gone, and the shabby iron gate had clanged behind
him. She would catch one last glimpse as he repassed to the train,
and--_No_--_no_, she must not cry yet. Leaving her basket under a bush,
she raced along by the demesne wall, for fully a quarter of a mile, to
where it ended, and gave place to a white paling lined with shrubs, and
overshadowed by trees: here she took her station and waited patiently,
listening with a beating heart for the rattle of the hack car on the
hard, dusty highway. It came at last, nearer and nearer; she would not
discover herself, no, she only wanted one last look. He was on the far
side, but oh, comfort! Oh, happy moment; he turned and gazed back at
Noone, until the car flew round the corner, and carried him finally
out of her sight. Yes, he was really gone. Then Betty crept out from
the bushes, and sat down upon a log, and to the amazement of her three
companions, sobbed aloud. She dared not cry like this indoors, where
walls had ears; here the old beeches were her kind sympathetic friends.
If she were seen at Noone, indulging in such grief, she would be asked
to explain the reason of her tears. But that was her secret, and
George’s.