NOT “A HAPPY COUPLE.”
The postponed picnic to the Devil’s Pie-dish eventually came off.
It took place on the occasion of what was called “a holiday of
obligation,” when no good Catholics are allowed to work, but must put
on their best clothes and attend Mass. As there were no keepers or
beaters available, the shooting-men meekly submitted to their fate,
and started to the mountains, for once, minus dogs and guns, and
escorting a large assortment of ladies, in a break, landau, dog-cart,
and jaunting-car. The morning was lovely; the treacherous sun smiled
upon and beguiled the party to the summit of one of the mountains--a
wild spot commanding a splendid view of river, forest, lake, and
sea--a long, long climb, but it repaid the exertion. Luncheon was
laid out in the Pie-dish, a green hollow between two peaks, and it
was there discussed with great appreciation. The festive party sat
long. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, mists began to collect, clouds
to gather; the scenery at their feet grew dimmer and yet dimmer, the
hypocritical sunshine vanished and gave way to rain, heavy, stinging
rain. There was no shelter, not for miles--not a bush, much less a
tree; but at a distance some one descried what looked like a _mound of
stones_, but proved to be a cottage. To this dwelling every one ran at
their utmost speed. It certainly was a house--a little humped-back
cot that seemed as if it had been in the act of running down hill and
had sat down. It consisted of a kitchen and bedroom, and the former
could scarcely contain the company, even standing. There were one or
two stools, a chest, and a chair. The atmosphere was stifling, but
“any port in a storm;” anything sooner than the icy, cutting rain that
swept the mountain. When their eyes became accustomed to the place, it
turned out that besides smoke and hens, it contained an old woman, who
sat huddled up by the fire enjoying a pipe, and who stared stolidly and
made no answer to eager inquiries for permission to remain. She was
either stone deaf or silly, possibly both. But suddenly a barefooted
girl entered, with a creel of wet turf on her back.
“I see yees running, and yees are kindly welcome,” upsetting her load
in a corner, and shaking out her wet shawl. “The grannie, there,”
pointing, “has no English; ’tis only Irish she can spake.”
“Irish! Oh, I’d like to hear it so much!” cried Miss Pamela. “Oh, do
make her talk!” Exactly as if she were alluding to some mechanical toy,
such as a talking-doll.
“She’s not much of a talker, at all, miss--and she’s cruel old; and so
many quality coming in on her at once has a bit stunned her. I’m sorry
we are short of sates,” looking round, and proffering the turf creel to
Lady Rachel. “And I’ve no tay, but lashins of butter-milk.”
“Never mind anything, thank you,” said Mr. West, pompously; “we have
just lunched.”
“Oh, an’ is that yourself, me noble gentleman, from the castle below!
An’ ’tis proud I am to see yees. And here’s Michael for ye,” as a tall
dark countryman with long black whiskers entered, amazement at the
invasion depicted in his dark blue eyes.
“’Tis a wet day, Michael,” said Mr. West, who employed him as a beater.
“’Tis so, yer honour.”
“Do you think it will last?” asked Madeline.
“I could not rightly say, miss; but I think not. It come on so sudden.”
“I suppose you have been to the town to Mass?”
“Yes, sir; second Mass.”
“Did you meet any friends, Micky? Did you get a drink?” inquired Lord
Tony, insinuatingly.
“No, not to say a drink, sir.”
“Well, what?”
“Just a _taste_.”
“And if you were to be treated, Mick, what would you choose? Give it a
name, now,” said Lord Tony, genially.
“Oh, whisky and porter!”
“What, together?”
“Ay. And why not? Sure, ’tis the best in many ways.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Faix! an’ with raison. If I drink porter I’m full before I’m drunk, ye
see; if I drink whisky, I’m drunk before I’m full, and both together
comes about right.”
“Michael,” cried his wife, “’tis you as ought to be dead ashamed,
talking in such a coarse, loose way before the ladies! Ye has them all
upset, so ye has.” And, to make a diversion, she darted into the room
and returned with (by way of a treat for the ladies) a baby in her
arms. It had weak, blinking, blue eyes, was wrapped in an old shawl,
and was apparently about a month old. However, it created quite the
sensation its mother had anticipated.
“Oh, Lord,” cried Mr. West, “a baby! I hate babies, though I like
small children--especially little boys! Take it away before it starts
screaming.”
“Oh, show it to me! Let me have it!” came simultaneously from several
quarters; but in each case the baby received its new friend with a
yell, and had to be promptly returned to its apologetic parent. Several
had tried their hand upon it; Miss Pam, Mrs. Leach, Miss Lumley, and
Lady Rachel had been repulsed in turn.
“Now, Maddie, let us see what way you would manage it, or if you know
which end is uppermost!” said Lady Rachel, taking the child from its
mother, and laying it in Madeline’s arms.
After a storm a calm! The irritable infant was actually quiet at last,
and glared at his new nurse in silence; and whilst Madeline hushed
it and rocked it, and talked to it in a most approved fashion, the
delighted mother and granny looked on with grateful surprise. And then
the old lady made some loud remark in Irish, and pointed her pipe at
Madeline.
“What does she say? Oh, do tell us?” cried Miss Pamela, excitedly.
“_Do--do_, please!”
“Oh, miss dear, I--I--faix, then I couldn’t!”
“’Tis no harm whatever,” broke in Michael, with a loud laugh.
“Then out with it!” commanded Mr. West from a corner, where he was
sitting on a kist, swaying his little legs high above the ground,
and fully expecting to hear some pleasant Irish compliment about his
daughter doing everything well.
“She says the lady has such a wonderful knack, that she must have had
great practice entirely, and ’tis a married woman she is, with a baby
of her own!”
This was not the description of speech that Mr. West or any one
expected. He frowned heavily, looked extremely displeased, and growled
out, “I think the old hag in the corner has been having some of your
brew, Michael,” whilst the rest of the party set up a sudden buzz of
talking, to hide the unfortunate remark of the venerable semi-savage.
Poor Miss West! No one ventured to look at her save Lord Tony. She had
bent her face over the baby, and her very forehead was crimson.
The captious weather now made a diversion; it was going to clear.
People began to shake their capes and hats, to fumble for their gloves.
Mrs. Leech--it was well there was no looking-glass, for every one
was more or less damp and dishevelled--felt her faultless fringe was
perfectly straight, her feathers in a sort of pulp, thanks to the
torrents upon a Kerry mountain. The torrents had ceased entirely, the
deceitful sun was shining, and once more the picnicers sallied forth,
not sorry to breathe a little fresh air. Mr. West had placed half a
crown in Mrs. Riordan’s hand, and received in return many blessings;
but his daughter had pressed a whole sovereign into the infant’s tiny
palm, ere she followed her father and guests over the threshold.
And now to get home! The short grass was damp, noisy rivulets trickled
boastfully after the rain, but the mountains and low country looked
like a brilliant, freshly painted scene: the hills were gay with
gorse, cranberries, and bright purple heather, and dotted with sheep
and little black cattle. The party now descended two and two--Lord
Tony and Madeline the last. He was really in love with this pretty
tall girl who walked beside him, with a deer-stalker cap on her dark
hair, a golf-cape over her graceful shoulders, and a lovely colour,
the result of rain and wind, in her charming face. The rain and wind
had but enhanced _her_ beauty. Yes; they would get on capitally; she
would be not only a wife to be proud of, but a _bonne camarade_, ever
gay, quick-witted, and good-tempered; a capital hostess and country
gentleman’s helpmate. How well she got over the ground, how nimbly she
scaled the stiles, and climbed the loose walls without bringing down
half a ton of stones. Here was another opportunity: speak he _would_.
Gradually and clumsily he brought the subject round to the topic
nearest his heart. His speech was half uttered, when she interrupted
him, saying--
“Lord Anthony, I like you very much as a friend----”
“You need not offer me platonic friendship, because I won’t have it,
and I don’t believe in it. No,” he began impetuously. “And if you like
me, I am quite content.”
“Stop! Please let me finish. I like you so much, that I am going to
tell you a great secret.”
“You are engaged to be married?” he exclaimed.
“No; I am married already.”
Lord Tony halted. She also came to a full stop, and they looked at one
another in expressive silence.
She was wonderfully cool, whilst he was crimson with astonishment; his
eyes dilated, his mouth quivered, his lower lip dropped.
“You are joking!” he gasped out at last.
“No; indeed I am not.”
“And where is your husband?”
“He is in London. My father does not know that such a person exists.”
“Great Cæsar’s ghost!”
“No; I have never dared to tell him yet. I married from school,” she
continued, and in a few hurried sentences gave the outline of her
story, omitting her husband’s name and profession, and all reference to
her small son. “You see how I am situated. I have not ventured to tell
the truth yet, and I confide my secret to your honour and your keeping.”
“Of course it is perfectly safe,” he began, rather stiffly, “and I feel
myself very much honoured by your confidence, and all that.”
“Oh, Lord Tony, please don’t talk to me in that tone,” she exclaimed,
with tears in her eyes. “I told you--because--you are what men call ‘a
good sort;’ because I feel that I can rely upon you; because, though
you like me, you don’t really care for me, you know you don’t; nor have
I ever encouraged you or any man. My father is devoted to you; he is
determined to--to--well--you know his wishes--and I want you to allow
him to think that you have cooled, and have changed your mind. You--you
understand?”
“And play the hypocrite all round!”
“Yes, but only for a little while.”
“Rather hard lines, when I have _not_ changed my mind. Is Rachel in the
swindle?”
“No--oh no!--no one but you and me and my husband, and a friend of his.”
“And pray, when do you intend to discharge your little domestic bomb?”
“When I go home. If I were to speak now, I should be turned out,
probably on the hall door-steps, and the party would be broken up.”
(Yes, and there were several good days’ deer-stalking still in
prospect, thought Lord Tony, much as he was concerned at this recent
astounding confidence.)
“I know you are dreadfully vexed,” she said humbly; “but you will
forgive me and stand by me, won’t you?” and she looked at him
appealingly. She had really most lovely and expressive eyes; who could
refuse them anything?
“Meaning, that I am to neglect you openly, slight you on all occasions?”
“There is a medium; you need not be _too_ marked in your defection,
unless you like”--with a short, hysterical laugh.
“I don’t _like_ the job at all; but I will lend you a hand, and be a
party to the fraud. Whoever is your husband, Mrs. What’s-your-name, is
a deuced lucky fellow!”
“Then it is a bargain, that you keep my secret?”
“Yes; here is my hand on it!”
At this instant (it is constantly the way) Mr. West paused and looked
behind, and was extremely pleased. He had intended to shout to this
tardy pair to hurry on, for the carriages were waiting, the horses, of
course, catching cold. However, he must make allowances, under the
circumstances.
Evidently Tony had come to the point again, and been accepted. He
hastened down the road in great delight, hustled the company into
various vehicles, and departed in the landau _vis-à-vis_ to Mrs. Leach
(the wretched condition of her hair and complexion discounted many
delightful recollections of her beauty); and he took care to leave the
_dog-cart_ behind, for the sole use of the happy couple.