AM I TO BE INVITED TO THE MASQUE-BALL AT CASTLE-HALL?
When the old housekeeper led the Count through the mysterious opening
from the blue drawing-room into the old bed-room, which happened to be
her own (only she had another approach by which she and others always
entered), she had seen the Countess and Carlo walking beneath the
windows, and from previous experience knew they were going into the
orangery. She had seen them often there before, and so, unfortunately,
had some of the housemaids, who had peeped through the creepers which
covered the window, and then had spread about scandalous reports among
their fellow-servants.
As soon as Mrs. Lacy had seen with her own eyes that the Countess and
Carlo used often to come there, she allowed no one to enter her room,
and kept the key of it in her pocket. But it occurred to her, as the
Count was talking with her about his beautiful lost bride, that he had
better know the state of affairs about his present wife, so she suddenly
resolved to give him the opportunity.
It was a terrible moment, for he could not avoid overhearing words
spoken of himself, to which his wife should not have assentingly
listened; and although, without waiting for more, he immediately quitted
the room with the housekeeper, he caught a glimpse of them as he turned
away, just as Carlo was endeavouring, with a tender embrace, to atone
for having frightened the Countess by his words.
“Of course you allow no one to enter that room,” he said to the
housekeeper with as much calmness as he could command.
“Here is the key of the only door that is ever used,” she said, as she
took it out of her pocket, “and as for this entrance,” (through which
they were now passing into the blue drawing-room), “there is not a human
being that has known of it for more than fifty years. ’Twas in that
room--but now I must return to the housekeeper’s room at once, or they
will go wrong.”
The dear old tactful housekeeper had not ventured to look at the Count
since the scene she gave him the means of observing, and she indeed felt
that he must be left quite alone.
It just occurred to her, as she was leaving the drawing-room, that
perhaps he might not wish the great fête to take place; but on second
thoughts she felt that nothing could be done at present.
She was right in her surmises, for he had determined not to let this
cause, at the last hour, deprive the whole county of their intended
amusement; so he resolved to wait till the morning after the ball, when
the whole party were to break up, to speak on the subject to his wife.
He did not return home till late in the afternoon of the fête day, only
just in time to see the guests before dinner, for he felt quite unequal
to play the part of a civil host for an instant more than could be
helped.
The ladies had all gone already to make their grand toilettes, so he
found only the Duke of Dromoland, and four or five other gentlemen.
Though not personally known to them, their good-breeding and pleasant
manners did not clash unpleasantly with the sad pre-occupation of his
mind.
The Duke observed to his good-humoured wife, he supposed it must be a
great bore for a foreigner to have to undergo these kind of country
gatherings.
“House turned topsy-turvy,” he said to the Count, as they passed up the
great hall; “you only do this kind of thing in towns abroad, I suppose;
and your climate, too, is so delightful, you can’t well have much lack
of amusement. I remember a Summer we spent at Sorrento some years ago,
and I never enjoyed anything more. By-the-by, what has become of that
splendid beauty who came from Sorrento, who set everyone mad last season
when she went out with Lady Horatia Somerton?”
“Miss Vivian?”
“Yes; by-the-by, your friend Lord Lorrington is breaking his heart
because she refused him.”
“Ah, yes,” said the Count, “I did meet her in London, and indeed her
mother is a relation of ours; but I don’t know where she is now. I know
she had a kind friend in Lady Horatia, but I never heard of her since.”
“Why, don’t you know,” interrupted Mr. Taylour, one of the last
arrivals, “she is staying down here with an old lady who is very
eccentric, and never goes out or sees anybody at all, and the poor girl
is buried alive there?”
“And she is not coming here to-night then?” eagerly inquired the Duke.
“I do not think the Countess was aware of her being in our
neighbourhood,” said Count Rossi, “otherwise of course she would have
certainly been invited.”
“What a pity, for she is the most beautiful girl I ever saw. Could
nothing be done now?”
Mr. Taylour, who overheard this, was on the point of saying that he
himself had informed Cunigunda of the presence of her cousin in the next
village; but that she most strangely turned a deaf ear to the news,
which of course he attributed to jealousy; but not liking to make
mischief, he said nothing.
“Could nothing be done?” continued the Duke; “ought not the Countess to
be told? But perhaps you would not wish to disturb her,” continued the
good-natured Duke, when he saw a look of perplexity on the Count’s face.
“Where’s the Duchess? I’ll tell her, and no doubt she will manage it,
for it would never do to lose the presence of such a beauty at the
fête.”