BELLE _VERSUS_ BETTY.
“The last and greatest art, the art to blot.”
--POPE.
Summer had come round once more at Ballingoole, and the little
place and surrounding society was much as it had been twelve months
previously, save for the change at Bridgetstown--(now let to a
dairyman, who churned in the drawing-room, kept ducks in the kitchen,
and calves in the pleasure-ground). Belle had spent two brilliant, but
barren, months at Southsea, with an elderly widow, and returned in the
early autumn to Noone (and to the winter of her discontent). Betty
had also been from home, and paid a visit to Roskeen, whence she had
arrived somewhat unexpectedly--for a reason only known to Ghosty Moore
and herself.
Mrs. Redmond’s health had long been failing; she had entirely
relinquished her airings in the bath-chair; she took but a subordinate
interest in rabbits and fruit, and had signed a truce with Mrs.
Maccabe (who sent an oblation of sweet-breads by Foxy Joe). Latterly
the old lady never rose till mid-day, and Betty brought her breakfast
and letters to her bedside, read aloud the daily paper, and made
suggestions about dinner; whilst Robinson sat in close attendance on
the invalid, and devoured choice morsels of buttered toast--for Mrs.
Redmond’s appetite was now a thing of the past. Belle was never astir
before eleven o’clock, and, with regard to the immortal bird, was
inclined to agree with the man who said, “The more fool the worm for
getting up so early.” One morning she sauntered into her mother’s room,
with an unusually dissatisfied face; it was a wet day. She had had no
letters, and she was suffering from a twinge of toothache.
“How are you, mother, this morning?” she enquired languidly.
“A little better, darling; and how are you?”
“Oh, I’m as usual! wishing I was dead,” walking over and staring out
of the window, down which the rain was streaming in a most depressing
manner--out on the big trees, that looked dim through the mist, out on
the gravel drive, with its little pools of water.
“Belle, my dearest, you must not say that.”
“Why not, when it is true?” enquired Belle with a fierceness
engendered of temper and toothache. “Mother,” she continued, now
walking to the foot of the bed, and clutching the rail in her hands,
and speaking through her set teeth, “_can’t_ you see that this life
is killing me by inches? It’s all very well for Betty, who has never
known any other; she likes the country, and dogs, and horses, and long
walks--she even likes the common people and the rain! She has never had
an admirer. She is not like me--you know what I have been accustomed
to, what my life was, and what _this_ is. If I only had the courage, I
would drown myself in the canal--I swear I would.”
“Belle!” expostulated her mother.
“Could you not give up Noone, and let it, in spite of that brute,
old Brian, and go away and take lodgings for the winter at Brighton
or Southsea; at least, we should see something out of our windows,
instead of this eternal grass and fir-trees? We could live on very
little; we might get a hamper from here every week. Betty could stay
with old Sally.”
Mrs. Redmond shook her head sadly; she knew that she was very ill, that
it was more than doubtful if she would ever pass the gates of Noone
again--save in her coffin.
“If we don’t get away from this hateful hole,” continued Belle, looking
fixedly at her mother, with a white face and gleaming eyes, “I shall do
something desperate--I know I shall, and I warn you that I shall.”
So saying she snatched the _Irish Times_ off the bed, and swept out of
the room.
Mrs. Redmond sank back feebly among her pillows, and a good many
unusual tears trickled down her poor, faded cheeks. What more could
she do for Belle? Had she not always done her best for her imprudent,
impetuous child?
All through that weary, wet day, she was unusually silent and
depressed, and heaved many a long sigh at short intervals. The very
next morning, in sorting out the contents of the post bag, she
discovered a letter from India, addressed to herself, in Mr. Holroyd’s
writing. It was not for Belle! No, there was “Mrs. Redmond” as
plain as pen could write it; her dull eyes brightened, and her face
flushed as she tore it open. Here was a proposal for Belle _at last_!
But--but--what was this?
An enclosure directed to Miss Elizabeth Redmond. The old lady’s hands
shook as she scanned it, and her jaw dropped, and the “rigor mortis”
seemed already visible in the outlines of her once jovial countenance.
She thrust it hastily under the counterpane, as if it stung her, and
slowly unfolded her own letter, which ran as follows:--
“DEAR MRS. REDMOND,--I hope you will not be surprised to receive a
letter from _me_, nor to read the address of the enclosed note, nor
to hear that I have been attached to your niece for some time--(yes,
niece). My prospects when I was at home were so very poor that I did
not feel justified in speaking to you on a subject nearest my heart,
nor in asking her to bind herself to a long engagement. I have been
working very hard this last year, and have passed the Higher Standard
in Hindustani, in hopes of getting some staff appointment and increase
of pay, and now within a week, my fortunes have taken a turn for
the better. My uncle, who has discovered my impoverished state,
has made me an allowance of five hundred a year, and begged that I
will marry. I will gladly carry out his wishes, if you will give me
Betty. No doubt she could marry a wealthier man (here he was thinking
of Ghosty Moore), and make what is called a far better match, but
it would be impossible for any one to love her as much as _I_ do. I
hope you will not be startled to hear that I am asking for Betty at
once. Colonel and Mrs. Calvert, very old friends of mine, are leaving
London for Bombay the end of September; she could come out with them,
and they would be present at our wedding soon after they had landed.
I enclose Colonel Calvert’s address, and if you will write to him he
will make all arrangements about a passage, and is empowered to draw
on my bankers. I am afraid I am giving you very short notice--barely
a month, but the Calverts’ escort is a grand opportunity, and in
India we do everything rapidly and suddenly. We are here to-day, and
a thousand miles away next week. I am sure you will miss Betty, but
if she agrees to come out to me, I know that you will gladly spare
her, for I have often heard you say, that you thought India must be
a paradise for young people. I do not go so far as all that, but I
will do all in my power to make it a happy home for Betty. Excuse this
hurried letter, I have barely time to catch the post. Kindest regards
to Miss Redmond and yourself.
“Yours sincerely,
“GEORGE HOLROYD.”
When Mrs. Redmond had come to the end of this epistle, she felt dizzy
for a moment; a rush of blood seemed to roar in her ears, the writing
appeared to dance before her eyes, she laid it down, and sank back on
her pillows, trembling as if she had been dealt a blow. Suddenly she
heard Betty’s light step, and Betty’s pleasant voice on the landing
outside her door, and had barely time to thrust the letter out of sight
when Betty entered--she was instantly struck by the old lady’s drawn
and ghastly face, and said as she leant over her:
“I am afraid you are not so well this morning. Have you had a bad
night, dear?”
“Yes--a terrible night--such, such awful dreams. I think I will try and
take a little doze now. No, I don’t want my drops, or anything, only
to be quiet,” shrinking from Betty’s clear, sympathetic eyes, “if you
will just draw down the blinds, and don’t let anyone disturb me till I
ring--Where is Belle?”
“She is not up yet; she has toothache, and is feeling rather low. I
think it is something in the weather.”
“Very likely, my dear--do not let anyone come into the room for the
next hour or two, I may get a little sleep; I will rise by and by and
ring if I want Eliza; and oh, about the dinner! There is some cold
mutton that will make a nice hash, and that, with the fresh herrings,
will be ample--you need not mind a pudding,” the ruling passion
thrusting itself forward even under the present circumstances.
Having dispatched her visitor with a feeling of intense relief, the
old lady felt that she had now ensured privacy and leisure in which
to contemplate the position, and to balance the future of the two
girls--which practically lay in her hands.
First of all, she slowly read and re-read George’s letter; next she
examined the envelope of his enclosure.
Oh, Indian gum, for how much you have to answer!
The envelope was scarcely stuck, and came providentially (as she
thought) open in her hand! After a moment’s hesitation, she drew out
the letter, and devoured it greedily. It began thus abruptly:
“I hope and believe that you have understood the reason of my long
silence, my dearest; more than a year has elapsed since that miserable
July afternoon, when you and I said good-bye to one another, and only
good-bye, but it had to be so. _You_ knew better than anyone how
poor were my prospects, and that, with my mother to support, I had
hardly the means of keeping myself, much less a wife, and to ask
a girl to engage herself to a pauper, or to bring her to a life of
grinding poverty in this climate, far away from all her friends, is
in my opinion a very questionable phase of love. I have been working
hard for you, and you alone. I have passed in the language, and am
now qualified for various lucrative billets--which, alas! are, so
far, birds in the bush. Last mail, to my great surprise, I had a
letter from my uncle; he has made me a most generous allowance of five
hundred a year--and with this addition to my pay, I (but I hope it
will be _we_) could get along very comfortably; and the gist of this
is--will you come out and share it? I know you cared for me last year,
but that is fifteen months ago. Can you have changed in that time? A
long time--half a life-time to me. If you have, I don’t know how I
am to bear it. But I trust that your answer will be _yes_. Colonel
and Mrs. Calvert, who are leaving London in the _Nankin_ on the 30th
September, will take charge of my future wife; they will look after
you, as if you were their own sister, and we will be married in Bombay
and spend our honeymoon in Cashmere. You will have a full month to
prepare for your journey, which may seem a very scanty margin, but
I know a girl out here, who was married and went home at a _week’s_
notice. Send me a wire if your answer is what it would have been last
year, and I shall begin housekeeping on the spot. There is a pretty
bungalow here, surrounded by a garden, which I have often ridden
past and looked at, and thought how well it would do for us. In my
day dreams I have seen you walking among the flowers, with a white
umbrella over your head, or making tea in the verandah--which is half
shut in by _yellow_ roses. I shall have a piano and a trap awaiting
you, and I know of a pony that is the very thing to carry you. This
is a quiet station--we have only about fifteen ladies, and there are
but few dances, etc., but you will not mind that; you can get lots of
riding and tennis; bring out a side saddle, and, if you can, a dog. I
am writing in desperate haste to catch the mail, and am not saying the
quarter of what I want to say. How anxiously I shall await your answer
need not be told. I calculate that I ought to get a wire on Tuesday,
the twenty-seventh. Good-bye, my darling Betty.
“Ever Yours,
“GEORGE HOLROYD.”
Betty’s name was only once mentioned in the letter, otherwise it would
do equally well for Belle. In his haste he had not crossed his “t’s,”
and with a little careful manipulation the name could be altered.
To which of the girls should she give it?
Mrs. Redmond closed her eyes, and endeavoured to review the whole
case thoroughly and impartially. She herself was not long for this
world, it was possibly a question of a few months; and then what
would become of Belle, with her restless ways, excitable, uncertain
temper, and miserably inadequate income? She was so pretty--so
dependent--so--so--spoiled. If Betty were to go to India to marry
George Holroyd she would fret to death--she would break her heart;
pending which, she would give way to some of her terrible fits of
passion, the very thought of which made the old lady close her eyes.
Belle was sufficiently discontented _now_, and what would be her state
of mind when she saw Betty--who had always been secondary to her in
every way--depart with many presents, and a handsome trousseau, to
India, to marry George Holroyd--a man upon whom _she_ had set her heart!
Belle’s temper was getting worse year by year; each disappointment
had left its mark; how and where would it end? There was a touch
of insanity in the family! Mrs. Redmond recalled with a shudder
how she had once been taken to see her own aunt--a melancholy
spectacle--creeping along by a wall, with her long, tangled black hair,
hanging like a veil over her face.
Belle would possibly carry out her threat of yesterday and do
something desperate, whereas, as Mr. Holroyd’s wife, in some gay
Indian station, well off, well dressed, and sufficiently amused, and
shifting her home perpetually, she would have everything her soul
longed for--she would be happy--and Belle’s happiness was now the sole
aim of her own nearly worn-out existence.
To know that Belle was in a congenial sphere, and provided with ample
means, and a strong, natural protector, would lift an immense load off
her mind; but Belle, the restless inmate of some cheap boarding house,
discontented, embittered, and in debt, with no one to shield, or soothe
her frenzies, what would be _her_ end?
With Betty it was entirely different. She was clever, bright and young.
She had all her best years before her, she would be Miss Dopping’s
heiress--she would have plenty of lovers and friends wherever she
went--she could marry Ghosty Moore to-morrow if she chose, and even
if the worst came to the worst, she was strong, self-reliant and
sensible--well able to stand alone and bear the knocks of fate. Not
that these knocks could hurt her, for she was a lucky girl, and a
general favourite. But this was Belle’s last chance (Belle, low be it
whispered, was thirty-one). After an hour’s cogitation, and weighing
and planning, Mrs. Redmond made up her mind to give the letter to her
own daughter.
“And what about George and Betty?”
“Well, Betty would never know that her cousin had taken her place; she
might be a little disappointed, all girls had their love trials. Why,
look at Belle, she had had dozens of far worse affairs--and Betty would
get plenty of other offers.”
And as to George Holroyd, she was sending him a much more suitable
bride--a handsome, lively, accomplished girl, who would be a credit
to him anywhere--who could sing, and act, and dress and dance--and
was just cut out for an officer’s wife. She would despatch her with
a first-rate outfit, and once actually _en route_, once landed in
Bombay--George _must_ marry her.
The short notice he had given, and his bare allusion to a name in the
letter, were high trumps in her hand, and she meant to play a very bold
game. Once Belle had started, it would be _après Belle le déluge_;
she did not care what Belle’s bridegroom thought of _her_. She would
write and give him her very distinct reasons for this arrangement.
She would say that she could not spare Betty, who was too young and
inexperienced, and for whom she had other views, and that sooner than
disappoint him altogether, she had despatched her own daughter, who was
far more fitted for society and to shine as his wife; that she wanted
a good husband and a good home for Belle; for she was a dying woman,
and that he must try and forgive her--if not, she would endeavour to do
without his forgiveness as best she could.
“I shall pretend that the letters came by second post,” she said, as
she rose and rang for hot water--and when her toilette was completed,
she nerved herself for the first move in a very difficult, delicate
undertaking. She took a double dose of sal-volatile, and opening her
blotter, she sat down and carefully re-examined Mr. Holroyd’s love
letter, and the word Betty. What was she to do with it? A pen-knife
would show on such thin paper; happy thought! a blot. It would have
one or two companions, for the epistle had apparently been written in
great haste. She raised a well-laden pen, and carefully let fall a
good-sized drop, on the word “Betty.”
Did this hard-hearted old woman suspect that she was blotting out the
poor girl’s happiness at the same moment? When her task was complete,
and the ink looked quite nice and dry, and natural, she nerved herself
for her next move. She took a long sniff at her smelling-salts, and
sent for Belle.
“Belle,” she said, as that young lady strolled indolently into the
room. “I’ve had a letter.”
“Have you?” indifferently. “Not Madame Josephine’s bill?”
“No, no, my dear, quite the contrary, a pleasant letter from
India--from Mr. Holroyd. He has written to me to say that his
prospects are much improved--and that he can afford to marry now.”
Belle, who had been staring incredulously at her mother, with a rigid
white face, twitching lips, and widely dilated black eyes, seized her
arm in a grip of steel and said breathlessly: “To marry whom, mother,
quickly--quickly?”
If Mrs. Redmond had had one lingering qualm of compunction, it was now
dispelled by her daughter’s overpowering agitation.
“Why--why _you_, my darling, who else?”
Belle gave a faint cry, and threw herself into her embrace, and hugged
her fiercely.
“Oh mother! mother, are you quite certain--certain?” she panted
hysterically.
“Here is his letter, enclosed to me (she had destroyed the envelope),
if you will only compose yourself, and read it, my darling.”
Belle took it eagerly, without the smallest suspicion, and sitting
down on the edge of the bed, read it over rapidly; her shaking
fingers scarcely able to steady the page before her eyes. “And to go
in a month--in a month,” she repeated ecstatically, springing up and
beginning to dance about the room, “Oh, I can scarcely believe it, I
scarcely know what I am doing; it’s too good to be true.”
“Yes,” thought the old lady, as she watched her intently. Belle, for
whom she had slaved and intrigued, and schemed, and slandered, and
perilled her very soul, would leave her in four weeks’ time, knowing
that she would never see her again, and would leave her with scarcely
a pang. Anything for change, anything for excitement, anything to get
away from Noone!
“I can hardly realise it, mother, it is such a surprise this dismal
morning. I never was so happy in my life, not even that time when I was
engaged to Major Evans, and we thought he had four thousand a year; he
had a tubby figure and a red nose. You see he invites Mossoo, and I
used to think he did not like him. It’s well he mentioned my treasure,
for I could not have been parted from him. ‘Love me, love my dog.’ And
about my trousseau? You will give me a good one, won’t you, like a dear
old mammy?” she said, confronting her parent with sparkling eyes, “I
can do the millinery myself if I have time. I have so often thought it
over, and made lists in my mind, and I know exactly what I want--for
it has always been the dream of my life to go to India. I shall want a
saddle and habit, at least four ball-dresses, and a ruby velvet dinner
dress, mammy darling, I _must_ have that, and your old rose point, and
sable tails, and the diamond brooch that was your grandmother’s. You
know you won’t be going out, once you have got _me_ off your hands,
and I shall want tea-gowns, and tailor-made dresses, and dozens of
boots and shoes--and only a month!” and she paused in her walk, and
gesticulated with her arms, like a figure in a ballet.
“Yes, only a month,” echoed her mother, sadly.
“He is very nice and very good-looking, isn’t he?” she continued. “I
shall not be ashamed when I am asked to point out my husband.”
“No,” assented her parent, absently.
“I had always an idea that he liked me, although he _was_ so
self-contained. Those are the sort of men who have deepest feelings.
He was terribly cut up the day he went away, but he was very reserved,
and never said anything straight out. He seems in a great hurry _now_,”
and she laughed triumphantly. “Does he not? There’s the telegram,”
glancing at the letter, “I shall send it off sharp, and put the poor
fellow out of his suspense. Oh! isn’t he fond of me? The telegram will
cost a good deal; give me your purse, dear, and I’ll send Betty up the
town. I wonder what Betty will say?”
Yes, indeed, what would Betty say?
“I’ll go this moment and tell her,” she rattled on, with brilliant eyes
and heightened colour, and she quitted the room with a buoyant step,
and ran downstairs, leaving her mother seated in her arm-chair, with a
bowed head, and a heavy heart.
How would Betty bear the blow? And what a pretty creature Belle was,
when in good spirits; how easily elated, or cast down.
If it had been Belle who was to stay behind, and Betty that had been
going? she dared not allow her mind to dwell on that awful alternative.
“Yes, yes,” she muttered, as she rose and straightened her cap at the
glass, and surveyed her own anxious white face. “A mother’s first duty
is to her own flesh and blood, and my conscience tells me that I have
done mine.”
Mrs. Redmond’s conscience!