“THINE ONLY.”
“Infinite riches in a little room.”
--MARLOWE.
George Holroyd’s departure left an aching void, a desolate blank at
Noone. Belle missed him acutely; here was another disappointment, the
last and worst! Betty shed secret tears, and even Juggy, at the gate,
openly and loudly bemoaned, “that fine open-handed young gentleman.”
Belle was not in love with George, but she liked him, and his
departure, without one word of significance, threw her into a paroxysm
of angry despair. She severely cross-examined Betty as to whether he
had said anything about _her_, when she had met him in the avenue,
also as to whether he looked at all sorry or cut up?
Betty admitted that he had (this with a rather guilty conscience--How
could she tell her fierce questioner that his regrets were for
herself?) and that deeply dissatisfied lady relapsed into low spirits,
a fractious temper, and her old clothes. She wrote to George steadily,
and he in return sent her amusing descriptions of his voyage out, of
his station, of his munshi, and of his dogs, invariably concluding with
some message to Betty--which Belle did not consider it worth while to
repeat. Her only hope now--and that a faint one--was that George would
write to her to join him; and in her letters, she mentioned more than
once how sincerely she _envied_ him living in warm sunny India instead
of rainy, melancholy, dull Ballingoole; and imparted her views and
sentiments with a charming disregard of conventional restraint. He had
always been a most appreciative and attentive acquaintance, but alas!
he had never let fall anything approaching to an offer of marriage. He
had given her songs, books, photographs, but there had never been a
hint of offering himself. “Not as yet,” whispered hope.
She read large extracts of his letters aloud to eager and interested
Betty, and interested and puzzled Maria Finny, and indeed there was
no reason why she might not have read them straight on from--Dear
Miss Redmond to Yours Sincerely, for there was not a line that even
Jane Bolland at the post office could weave into a romance; and she
talked of “her letters from Mr. Holroyd” so constantly, and carried
them about her person so ostentatiously, that Maria began to fear she
was engaged; and even Betty could barely stifle the mutterings of the
green-eyed monster. The summer was a dull one, especially to Belle;
far be it from _her_ to fish or boat on the canal, or to go in quest
of mushrooms or blackberries in high-heeled French boots. There were
hopeless wet days, which drowned the hay and flowers, and subsequently
made the country intensely and patriotically green. There were a few
picnics, a few gatherings, where crowds of pretty girls were expected
to amuse one another, and men were in a deplorable minority, and even
then, stout elderly fathers of families, and married curates. Belle
and Betty partook of some of these festivities; the latter was a girl
who enjoyed herself anywhere, who was happy in the society of young
people of her own age, who played tennis, climbed hills, made salad,
and boiled kettles, with a merry beaming face, and did not care if
there was not one representative of the sterner sex among the company,
since the only man _she_ wished to see, was thousands of miles away at
the other side of the world. But not so Belle. Oh, dear no. Her temper
and her face were the unerring barometer by which you might judge of
the number of the men at a party. If there was a respectable muster,
and one of these had singled her out for special attention, had walked
with her, talked with her, and made love to her, she was all smiles and
sprightliness on her way home. If, on the other hand, she had had no
cavalier, she made herself conspicuously disagreeable; sat aloof and
sulked, refused to sing, refused to play tennis, presently announced an
agonising headache, and withdrew at an early hour, carrying poor Betty
in her train.
“The idea!” she would grumble, as they jolted homeward in a local
cover-car. “I call it an insult for people to ask us to drive nine
miles, and to wear our best dresses, in order to walk round a weedy old
garden, with a pack of giggling girls, and to play tennis in grass that
is nearly up to one’s knees! I shall never go again, _never_!”
This was her frequent threat, but the next invitation was invariably
accepted, and the excitement of looking over her dresses, speculating
on her chances of amusement, and fighting with her mother for the money
for new gloves and the fare of a car, occupied her until the event
(possibly another insult) came off!
Betty had always enjoyed herself, and said so frankly, and stood up for
the company, the hosts, and the garden.
“Of course _you_ think it very fine,” Belle would rejoin scornfully,
“because you know no better--walking arm in arm through cabbages with
Katie Moore is the height of bliss to _you_--you don’t know what
pleasure is!”
Betty had nevertheless a very good idea of what it meant, when her
birthday brought her long letters from Mrs. Malone, and Cuckoo, and the
former despatched a box containing what she said was “a little souvenir
from George, which he hoped she would do him the honour to accept.”
Betty’s heart beat double time, as she carefully removed the wrappings;
he had been gone now for five months, and this was the first token he
had sent her. The wrapping gave place to a morocco leather case, and in
that case was a massive gold Indian bangle on which was inscribed one
word in strange characters that looked like hieroglyphics, or was it
merely a bit of ornament? She could not tell--the letters--if they were
letters--stood out in high relief. At any rate it was a lovely bangle
and she had but little jewellery, but that was not the reason why she
kissed it so tenderly. How good it was of him! and this was not her
only present; there was a gold thimble from Katie Moore, a pin-cushion
from Cuckoo, and a ten-pound note from Miss Dopping, which was enclosed
in a letter delivered by Foxy Joe--a letter bidding her buy something
_for herself_, and please her old friend, Sally Dopping, who could not
find any suitable gift in the shops of Ballingoole. Betty ran down to
breakfast, with a radiant face, and eagerly displayed her presents to
Mrs. Redmond and Belle (who had no gifts to offer her). Belle became
rather red and there was a somewhat awkward silence, as she turned
over, and critically scrutinised, the gold bangle. But when her mother
said, “A very _proper_ attention, Betty, I only wonder that he did not
think of it before. Gratitude is a rare virtue! I was often surprised,
that he made no acknowledgment of all your attention to his mother
after the Major’s death. Better late than never!”
In this manner Betty’s birthday present was explained to Belle’s
complete satisfaction, and she looked upon George’s gift to her cousin
as a sort of indirect compliment to herself.
“Was there a letter?” she asked suspiciously.
“No, not any,” returned Betty with a vivid blush.
“Oh, then there will be no necessity to write and thank him. I will
send a nice message from you when I write next mail.”
Betty made no reply. She thought it would be better to express her
gratitude through George’s mother! She wore the bangle constantly,
for it was a plain, and what Mrs. Redmond termed, “every-day affair.”
Nevertheless, one afternoon, it attracted Dr. Moran’s notice, as she
sat before Miss Dopping’s fire, stroking the old hound, and he smoked a
Trichy cheroot. Miss Dopping’s visitors might smoke (gossips said that
she smoked herself! but this was not true, but I will not deny that now
and then--_only_ now and then--she took a pinch of snuff). Dr. Moran
had been in the army, and had seen service in India, had tended the
wounded after Chillianwallah, and been several times under fire, though
no one would suspect it. He was a very silent, spare, reserved old
bachelor, who had a small private fortune, and lived in Ballingoole,
because he had been born there. He was eccentric like his neighbour
Miss Dopping; wore an apron at home to protect his trousers from the
fire, made his own tea, mended his own shirts, spent a large portion of
his income on literature and tobacco--and was ever haunted by the fear
that _Maria Finny would marry him_.
“What is that thing you have on your wrist?” he enquired. “Let me see
it. It looks like an Indian bangle,” stretching out a bony brown hand.
“And so it is,” replied Betty, removing it and offering it to him as
she spoke.
Dr. Moran slowly put on his glasses, and examined the ornament as
critically as Belle had done.
“Do you know what this writing means, young lady?” he asked presently,
looking keenly over his spectacles.
“No, I was not even sure that it _was_ writing.”
“It is one word in Urdu letters.”
“Can you make it out?”
“Yes--easily enough, and if the bangle was given to you by a young man,
it means a great deal. This word ‘Tumhara,’ interpreted into English,
is simply ‘_Thine_ alone.’”
Miss Dopping--who knew the donor of the bangle--coughed sharply, and
glanced at Betty, with an extraordinary amount of expression in her
little beady eyes.
She even so far forgot herself as to wink, and Betty coloured to the
roots of her hair. She had been a wee bit envious of all those foreign
envelopes with green stamps; not that she did not trust George with all
her heart, and he had said that he would not write. Still, there had
been a curious, uneasy, unsatisfactory sensation, that, if not exactly
jealousy, was jealousy’s first cousin, and now, after all, her precious
gold bangle and its message was worth a thousand of Belle’s letters.
“So that’s the way of it,” exclaimed Miss Dopping after Betty had
left, “and I am glad of it,” for she knew George well, and he was one
of her prime favourites, with his handsome face and pleasant manners.
Many a time she had rapped for him, from her window, and many a visit
he had paid her, and now she came to think of it, he always drew the
conversation round to Betty. “I knew she wouldn’t look at Ghosty
Moore,” she added triumphantly.
“And why not?” said Dr. Moran incredulously. “Holroyd is only a
sub-altern in a marching regiment, with a mother and sister to
support, whilst Ghosty Moore is an eldest son, and heir to a splendid
property--I only hope she may never do worse.”
“Worse--than that poor miserable anatomy of a creature! Did you ever
see him in shooting boots and long stockings?”
“Never.”
“Well then I have--and his legs look for all the world like a pair of
knitting needles, stuck in two sods of turf! Now George Holroyd has a
leg that you might model.”
“And you’d have a girl marry a man for his leg?” he asked with a sneer.
“No, you old owl! No, but for his handsome face and honourable conduct
and kind heart. If Betty Redmond marries _him_, she will be a lucky
girl, and I’ll give her something more than my blessing! And so you
may just keep your gibes to yourself, Paddy Moran.”