Drumgool was a bachelor's, or, rather, a widower's, household. The
dining-room, where dead-and-gone Frenches looked at one another from
dusty canvases, was rarely used; the drawing-room never. Guns and
fishing-rods found their way into the sitting-room, which had once been
the library, and still held books enough to lend a perfume of mildew and
leather to the place--a perfume that mixed not unpleasantly with the
smell of cigar-smoke and the scent of the sea.
The house hummed with the sound of the sea. Fling a window open, and the
roar of it came in, and the smell of it better than the smell of roses.
Room after room of Drumgool, had you knocked at the doors of them, would
have answered you only with echoes.
"Here there was laughter of old;
There was weeping----"
Laughter there was none now, nor weeping--just silence, dust; old
furniture, so used by the sea air that a broker's man would scarcely
have taken the trouble to take possession of it.
In the sitting-room, on the morning of the day on which the governess
was expected to arrive, Mr. French was talking to his cousin, Mr.
Giveen, who, with his hat by his side, was seated on the sofa glancing
over a newspaper.
The breakfast things were still on the table, the window was open to
let in the glorious autumn day, and a blue haze of cigar-smoke hung in
the air, created by the cigar of Mr. French.
Mr. Giveen did not smoke; his head would not stand it. Neither did he
drink, and for the same reason.
He looked quite a young man when he had his hat on, but he was not; his
head was absolutely bald.
He was dressed in well-worn grey tweed, and his collar was of the
Gladstone type. Cruikshank's picture of Mr. Dick in "David Copperfield"
might have been inspired by Mr. Giveen.
This gentleman, who carried about with him a faint atmosphere of
madness, was not in the least mad in a great many ways; in some other
ways he was--well, peculiar.
He inhabited a bungalow half way between Drumgool House and Drumboyne,
and he had a small income, the exact extent of which he kept hidden. He
had no profession, occupation, or trade, no family--French was his
nearest relation, and continually wishing himself further away--no
troubles, no cares. He neither read, smoked, drank, played billiards,
cards, nor games of any description; all these methods of amusement were
too much for Mr. Giveen's head. He had, however, two pastimes that kept
his own and his neighbours hands full. Collecting news and distributing
it was one of these pastimes; making love was the other.
Small as was Drumboyne, and few as were the gentry distributed around,
Mr. Giveen's gossiping propensities had already created much mischief,
and there was not a girl or unmarried woman within a range of fifteen
miles that Mr. Giveen had not either made eyes at or love to.
The strange thing is that he could have been married several times.
There were girls in Drumboyne who would have swallowed Mr. Giveen for
the sake of the bungalow and the small income, which popular report made
big, but he was not a marrying man. On the other hand he was a most
moral man. He made love just for the sake of making love. It is an Irish
habit. The question of bringing a governess to Drumgool House had been
held in abeyance for some time on account of Mr. Giveen.
Mr. French knew quite well that anything with petticoats on it and in
the way of a lady would cause his cousin to infest the house. However,
Effie's education had to be considered.
"Sure," said Mr. French to himself, "it'll be all right if I get one old
enough."
It was only this morning that he broke the news.
"Dick," said Mr. French. "There's a governess coming for Effie."
"A what did you say?" asked Mr. Giveen, looking up from the newspaper,
the advertisement page of which he had been reading upside down. One of
his not altogether sane habits was to sit and stare at a paper and
pretend to be reading it, so that his thoughts might wander unperceived.
"A what did you say?"
"A governess is coming for Effie."
"Oh," said Mr. Giveen, and relapsed into the study of the newspaper.
Now, this appearance of indifference was a very ominous sign. The news
that a new servant was coming would have caused this inveterate tattler
to break into a volley of questions, questions of the most minute and
intimate description as to the name, age, colour, looks, height, and
native place of the newcomer; yet this important information left him
dumb, but it was a speechlessness that only affected the tongue. If you
had watched him closely you would have noticed that his eyes were
travelling rapidly up and down the columns of the paper, that his hand
was tremulous.
Mr. French, who was not an observer, went on to talk of other matters,
when suddenly Mr. Giveen dropped his paper.
"What's she like?" said he.
"What's who like?" replied Mr. French, who at the moment was discussing
turnips.
"The governess."
"I haven't seen her yet," said Mr. French, "but her name is Grimshaw,
and she's over forty."
At this news Mr. Giveen clapped his hat on his head and made for the
open French window. "I'll see you to-morrow," he cried back as he
disappeared amidst the rose trees.
Mr. French chuckled.
Then through the same window he passed into the garden, and thence to
the stable-yard, where he found Moriarty, who was standing at the
harness-room door engaged in cleaning a bit.
"Moriarty," said Mr. French, "you'll take the car to the station to
meet the half-past five train."
"Yes, sir," said Moriarty. "Any luggage?"
"Oh! I shouldn't think much," replied Mr. French. "You're to meet the
lady that's coming as governess for Miss Effie. You're sure to recognise
her--she's elderly. If she has more than one trunk you can tell Doyle to
bring it on in the morning."
As he went back to the house he took the letter he had received a week
before from Miss Grimshaw from his pocket and reread it.
"The question of salary," said Miss Grimshaw, "does not weigh
particularly with me, as I am possessed of a small income of my own, to
which I can, if I choose, add considerably with my pen. I am very much
interested in the study of Ireland and the Irish, and would like to
become more intimate at first-hand with your charming country, so I
think we will waive the question of pounds, shillings, and pence. Any
instruction I can give your little daughter will be amply repaid by your
hospitality."
A nice letter written in a nice firm, sensible woman's hand.
Miss Grimshaw had referred Mr. French to several highly respectable
people, but Mr. French, with that splendid indifference to detail which
was part of his nature, had not troubled to take Miss Grimshaw's
character up.
"Oh, bother her character," said he. "No woman has any character worth
troubling about over forty."