“Sausages and bacon, Lady Dysart! Yes, indeed, that was his breakfast,
and that for a man who--if you’ll excuse the expression, Lady Dysart,
but, indeed, I know you’re such a good doctor that I’d like you to tell
me if it was quite safe--who was vomiting lake water for half an hour
after he was brought into the house the night before.”
“Do you really mean that he came down to breakfast?” asked Lady Dysart,
with the flattering sincerity of interest that she bestowed on all
topics of conversation, but especially on those that related to the art
and practice of medicine. “He ought to have stayed in bed all day to let
the system recover from the shock.”
“Those were the very words I used to him, Lady Dysart,” returned Mrs.
Lambert dismally; “but indeed all the answer he made was,
‘Fiddle-de-dee!’ He wouldn’t have so much as a cup of tea in his bed,
and you may think what I suffered, Lady Dysart, when I was down in the
parlour making the breakfast and getting his tray ready, when I heard
him in his bath overhead--just as if he hadn’t been half-drowned the
night before. I didn’t tell you that, Mrs. Gascogne,” she went on,
turning her watery gaze upon the thin refined face of her spiritual
directress. “Now if it was me such a thing happened to, I’d have that
nervous dread of water that I couldn’t look at it for a week.”
“No, I am sure you would not,” answered Mrs. Gascogne with the
over-earnestness which so often shipwrecks the absent-minded; “of course
you couldn’t expect him to take it if it wasn’t made with really boiling
water.”
Mrs. Lambert stared in stupefaction, and Lady Dysart, far from trying to
cloak her cousin’s confusion, burst into a delighted laugh.
“Kate! I don’t believe you heard a single word that Mrs. Lambert said!
You were calculating how many gallons of tea will be wanted for your
school feast.”
“Nonsense, Isabel!” said Mrs. Gascogne hotly, with an indignant and
repressive glance at Lady Dysart, “and how was it--” turning to Mrs.
Lambert, “that he--a--swallowed so much lake water?”
“He was cot under the sail, Mrs. Gascogne. He made a sort of a dash at
Miss Fitzpatrick to save her when she was falling, and he slipped
someway, and got in under the sail and he was half-choked before he
could get out!” A tear of sensibility trickled down the good
turkey-hen’s red beak. “Indeed, I don’t know when I’ve been so upset,
Lady Dysart,” she quavered.
“Upset!” echoed Lady Dysart, raising her large eyes dramatically to the
cut glass chandelier, “I can well believe it! When it came to ten
o’clock and there was no sign of them, I was simply _raging_ up and down
between the house and the pier like a mad bull robbed of its whelps!”
She turned to Mrs. Gascogne, feeling that there was a biblical ring in
the peroration that demanded a higher appreciation than Mrs. Lambert
could give, and was much chagrined to see that lady concealing her
laughter behind a handkerchief.
Mrs. Lambert looked bewilderedly from one to the other, and, feeling
that the ways of the aristocracy were beyond her comprehension, went on
with the recital of her own woes.
“He actually went down to Limerick by train in the afternoon--he that
was half-drowned the day before, and a paragraph in the paper about his
narrow escape. I haven’t had a wink of sleep those two nights, what with
palpitations and bad dreams. I don’t believe, Lady Dysart, I’ll ever be
the better of it.”
“Oh, you’ll get over it soon, Mrs. Lambert,” said Lady Dysart
cheerfully; “why, I had no less than three children--”
“Calves,” murmured Mrs. Gascogne, with still streaming eyes.
“Children,” repeated Lady Dysart emphatically, “and I thought they were
every one of them drowned!”
“Oh, but a _husband_, Lady Dysart,” cried Mrs. Lambert with orthodox
unction; “what are children compared to the husband?”
“Oh--er--of course not,” said Lady Dysart, with something less than her
usual conviction of utterance, her thoughts flying to Sir Benjamin and
his bath chair.
“By the way,” struck in Mrs. Gascogne, “my husband desired me to say
that he hopes to come over to-morrow afternoon to see Mr. Lambert, and
to hear all about the accident.”
Mrs. Lambert looked more perturbed than gratified. “It’s very kind of
the Archdeacon, I’m sure,” she said nervously; “but Mr. Lambert--” (Mrs.
Lambert belonged to the large class of women who are always particular
to speak of their husbands by their full style and title) “Mr. Lambert
is most averse to talking about it, and perhaps--if the Archdeacon
didn’t mind--”
“That’s just what I complain of in Christopher,” exclaimed Lady Dysart,
breaking with renewed vigour into the conversation. “He was _most_
unsatisfactory about it all. Of course, when he came home that night, he
was so exhausted that I spared him. I said, ‘Not one word will I allow
you to say to-night, and I _command_ you to stay in bed for breakfast
to-morrow morning!’ I even went down at one o’clock, and pinned a paper
on William’s door, so that he shouldn’t call him. Well--” Lady Dysart,
at this turning-point of her story, found herself betrayed into saying
“My dear,” but had presence of mind enough to direct the expression at
Mrs. Gascogne. “Well, my dear, when I went up in the morning, craving
for news, he was most confused and unsatisfactory. He pretended he knew
nothing of how it had happened, and that after the upset they all went
drifting about in a sort of a knot till the yacht came down on top of
them. But, of course, something more must have happened to them than
_that!_ It really was the greatest pity that Miss Fitzpatrick got
stunned by that blow on the head just at the beginning of the whole
business. _She_ would have told us all about it. But men never can
describe anything.”
“Oh, well, I assure you, Lady Dysart,” piped the turkey hen, “Mr.
Lambert described to me all that he possibly could, and he said Mr.
Dysart gave every assistance in his power, and was the greatest help to
him in supporting that poor girl in the water; but the townspeople were
so very inquisitive, and really annoyed him so much with their
questions, that he said to me this morning he hoped he’d hear no more
about it, which is why I took the liberty of asking Mrs. Gascogne, that
the Archdeacon wouldn’t mention it to him.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” said Mrs. Gascogne very politely, recalling herself with
difficulty from the mental excursion on which she had started when Lady
Dysart’s unrelenting eye had been removed. “I am sure he will--a--be
delighted. I think, you know, Isabel, we ought--”
Lady Dysart was on her feet in a moment. “Yes, indeed, we ought!” she
responded briskly. “I have to pick up Pamela. Good-bye, Mrs. Lambert; I
hope I shall find you looking better the next time I see you, and
remember, if you cannot sleep, that there is no opiate like an open
window!”
Mrs. Lambert’s exclamation of horror followed her visitors out of the
room. Open windows were regarded by her as a necessary housekeeping
evil, akin to twigging carpets and whitewashing the kitchen, something
to be got over before anyone came downstairs. Not even her reverence for
Lady Dysart would induce her to tolerate such a thing in any room in
which she was, and she returned to her woolwork, well satisfied to let
the July sunshine come to her through the well-fitting plate-glass
windows of her hideous drawing-room.
“The person I do pity in the whole matter,” remarked Lady Dysart, as the
landau rolled out of the Rosemount gates and towards Lismoyle, “is
Charlotte Mullen. Of course, that poor excellent little Mrs. Lambert got
a great shock, but that was nothing compared with seeing the sail go
flat down on the water, as the people in the launch did. In the middle
of all poor Pamela’s own fright, when she was tearing open one of the
luncheon baskets to get some whisky out, Charlotte went into raging
hysterics, and _roared_, my dear! And then she all but fainted on to the
top of Mr. Hawkins. Who would ever have thought of her breaking down in
that kind of way?”
“Faugh!” said Mrs. Gascogne, “disgusting creature!”
“Now, Kate, you are always saying censorious things about that poor
woman. People can’t help showing their feelings sometimes, no matter how
ugly they are! All that I can tell you is,” said Lady Dysart, warming to
fervour as was her wont, “if you had seen her this afternoon as I did,
with the tears in her eyes as she described the whole thing to me, and
the agonies she was in about that girl, you would have felt sorry for
her.”
Mrs. Gascogne shot a glance, bright with intelligence and amusement, at
her cousin’s flushed handsome face, and held her peace. With Mrs.
Gascogne, to hold her peace was to glide into the sanctuary of her own
thoughts, and remain there oblivious of all besides; but the retribution
that would surely have overtaken her at the next pause in Lady Dysart’s
harangue was averted by the stopping of the carriage at Miss Mullen’s
gate.
Francie lay back on her sofa after Pamela Dysart had left her. She saw
the landau drive away towards Bruff, with the sun twinkling on the
silver of the harness, and thought with an ungrudging envy how awfully
nice Miss Dysart was, and how lovely it would be to have a carriage like
that to drive about in. People in Dublin, who were not half as grand as
the Dysarts, would have been a great deal too grand to come and see her
up in her room like this, but here everyone was as friendly as they
could be, and not a bit stuck-up. It was certainly a good day for her
when she came down to Lismoyle, and in spite of all that Uncle Robert
had said about old Aunt Mullen’s money, and how Charlotte had feathered
her own nest, there was no denying that Charlotte was not a bad old
thing after all. Her only regret was that she had not seen the dress
that Miss Dysart had on this afternoon before she had got herself that
horrid ready-made pink thing, and the shirt with the big pink
horse-shoes on it. Fanny Hemphill’s hitherto unquestioned opinion in the
matter of costume suddenly tottered in her estimation, and, with the
loosening of that buttress of her former life, all her primitive
convictions were shaken.
The latch of the gate clicked again, and she leaned forward to see who
was coming. “What nonsense it is keeping me up here this way!” she said
to herself; “there’s Roddy Lambert coming in, and won’t he be cross when
he finds that there’s only Charlotte for him to talk to! I _will_ go
down to-morrow, no matter what they say, but I suppose it will be ages
before the officers call again now.” Miss Fitzpatrick became somewhat
moody at this reflection, and tried to remember what it was that Mr.
Hawkins had said about “taking shooting leave for the 12th”; she wished
she hadn’t been such a fool as not to ask him what he had meant by the
12th. If it meant the 12th of July, she mightn’t see him again till he
came back, and goodness knows when that would be. Roddy Lambert was all
very well, but what was he but an old married man. “Gracious!” she
interrupted herself aloud with a little giggle, “how mad he’d be if he
thought I called him that!” and Hawkins was really a very jolly fellow.
The hall-door opened again; she heard Charlotte’s voice raised in
leave-taking, and then Mr. Lambert walked slowly down the drive and the
hall-door slammed. “He didn’t stay long,” thought Francie; “I wonder if
he’s cross because I wasn’t downstairs? He’s a very cross man. Oh, look
at him kicking Mrs. Bruff into the bushes! It’s well for him Charlotte’s
coming upstairs and can’t see him!”
Charlotte was not looking any the worse for what she had gone through on
the day of the accident; in fact, as she came into the room, there was
an air of youthfulness and good spirits about her that altered her
surprisingly, and her manner towards her cousin was geniality itself.
“Well, me child!” she began, “I hadn’t a minute since dinner to come and
see you. The doorstep’s worn out with the world and his wife coming to
ask how you are; and Louisa doesn’t know whether she’s on her head or
her heels with all the clean cups she’s had to bring in!”
“Well, I wish to goodness I’d been downstairs to help her,” said
Francie, whirling her feet off the sofa and sitting upright; “there’s
nothing ails me to keep me stuck up here.”
“Well, you shall come down to-morrow,” replied Charlotte soothingly;
“I’m going to lunch with the Bakers, so you’ll have to come down to do
your manners to Christopher Dysart. His mother said he was coming to
inquire for you to-morrow. And remember that only for him the pike would
be eating you at the bottom of the lake this minute! Mind that! You’ll
have to thank him for saving your life.”
“Mercy on us,” cried Francie; “what on earth will I say to him?”
“Oh, you’ll find plenty to say to him! They’re as easy as me old shoe,
all those Dysarts; I’d pity no one that had one of them to talk to, from
the mother down. Did you notice at the picnic how Pamela and her brother
took all the trouble on themselves? That’s what I call breeding, and not
sitting about to be waited on like that great lazy hunks, Miss
Hope-Drummond! I declare I loathe the sight of these English fine
ladies, and my private belief is that Christopher Dysart thinks the same
of her, though he’s too well-bred to show it. Yes, my poor Susan,”
fondling with a large and motherly hand the cat that was sprawling on
her shoulder; “he’s a real gentleman, like yourself, and not a drop of
dirty Saxon blood in him. _He_ doesn’t bring his great vulgar bull-dog
here to worry my poor son--”
“What did Mr. Lambert say, Charlotte?” asked Francie, who began to be a
little bored by this rhapsody. “Was he talking about the accident?”
“Very little,” said Charlotte, with a change of manner; “he only said
that poor Lucy, who wasn’t there at all, was far worse than any of us.
As I told him, you, that we thought was dead, would be down to-morrow,
and not worth asking after. Indeed we were talking about business most
of the time--” She pressed her face down on the cat’s grey back to hide
an irrepressible smile of recollection. “But that’s only interesting to
the parties concerned.”