A STORY IN HER EYES.
“Her eye in silence hath a speech,
Which eye best understands.”
--MORLEY.
Betty was considered quite an acquisition in the station (though, after
its recent experience, the station was somewhat inclined to be coy in
its reception of fascinating strangers). True, she neither sang nor
acted, but she was pretty, young, and bright, played the hostess with
surprising success, and rode well forward with the Bobbery Pack on her
uncle’s well-known racing pony, “Leading Article.”
She received friendly advice about her health, and her ayah, and the
necessary precautions to preserve her clothes, and her complexion, in
the spirit in which it was meant, and was as popular as her cousin was
the reverse.
Strange to say--or perhaps it was not very strange--she rarely saw
George Holroyd save in the distance at polo or gymkhanas. In three
months’ time they had not exchanged three sentences. He was as distant,
and as formal, as if they had never met before, and she was secretly
hurt to notice that he avoided her purposely. But he could not avoid
her on that miserable occasion, when she came to a dinner, given in her
honour, at his own house.
The guests were twelve in number, and included, besides the Redmonds,
Captain La Touche, the Calverts, and Miss Gay, also the Judge and Mrs.
Pope--the latter, an elderly lady, with a generous face and fine head,
a woman good to know and look at, a woman to be relied on, and whose
heart was so large that she could even spare a morsel for “poor queer
Mrs. Holroyd.” The table was prettily decorated (by Betty), and there
was no unfortunate mistake about the Chartreuse _this_ time, but it
was not a pleasant entertainment; the hostess was in a bad temper,
the “plats” were abominable. Mr. Redmond was unusually “gritty”; to
be frank, the Collector liked his dinner, he had had a long day at
Cutcherry, and he was hungry, but this was dog’s food--“rateeb.”
Belle, with a touch of rouge on her cheeks and a feverish sparkle in
her eyes, talked and laughed incessantly, with an occasional fierce
aside to the servants, and a deadly thrust at her husband. She had
strung up her nerves with a strong dose of sal-volatile, and her
sallies spared no one.
Poor George! Was he happy with the wrong woman at the head of the
table, and the right woman on his left hand?
“George,” screamed the former, “just look at that wretch, he is handing
round port instead of claret. He has given Miss Gay port and soda
water, but _you_ don’t mind what they do, nor help me one bit; as long
as you can smoke and shoot, _you_ are satisfied!”
During this agreeable speech everyone commenced to talk with feverish
animation, so as to drown Mrs. Holroyd’s shrill voice. When the port
was carefully and properly handed round, she began again:
“Betty,” she exclaimed, “don’t you think George has become very quiet?
I notice that you and he have hardly opened your lips; is he not
silent to what he used to be?”
“Perhaps, like the parrot, he _thinks_ the more,” growled Mr. Redmond,
figuratively drawing his sword.
“Perhaps so, and like the parrot I shall have to give him a red chili
to make him talk,” rejoined Belle smartly.
“He could not be in better hands,” retorted the Collector, “no one so
capable as Mrs. Holroyd, of giving him something _hot_.”
Belle affected not to hear this pleasantry, and, turning to Captain La
Touche, said abruptly:
“What is that French riddle you have just given Miss Gay?”
“Oh, a mere bagatelle. I will give you one for yourself if you care to
guess it.”
“I delight in French riddles, you know I am half French!”
“Then listen to this,” counting on his plump white fingers.
“Mon premier c’est un Monstre,
Mon second c’est, un Tyran,
Mon tout c’est le diable lui Même.
Mais si vous aimez mon premier,
Vous ne craindrez pas mon second,
Et mon tout c’est le bonheur suprême.”
“I give it up,” said Belle, after several ineffectual guesses,
“although I am generally very good at them, and at all conundrums. It
sounds rather odd. Is it quite _proper_?”
“Proper! My dear madam, the answer speaks for itself; the word is
_Mariage_.”
“Mon premier c’est un Monstre--Mari,
Mon second c’est un Tyran--age,
Mon tout c’est le diable lui Même.”
“Yes, yes, I see, not at all bad,” she exclaimed condescendingly, but
she did not demand another French riddle; there had been a disagreeable
significance in Mr. Redmond’s expression, as he repeated “Mon tout
c’est le diable lui-même.” “Talking of marriages,” she said, “I hear
there is an end of Miss Lightwood’s engagement to Captain Holster of
the Pink Inexpressibles. Mr. Proudfoot told me, you know the horrible
way he talks. He said that the regiment had headed him off, and that
she was not ‘classy’ enough, or up to the form of the corps.”
“Indeed, it is the first I have heard of it,” returned Captain La
Touche with some animation.
“Yes, I see you are delighted! Your eyes twinkle at the news, you
horrid selfish bachelor; if you had your way, no officer would marry.”
“Oh, come now, Mrs. Holroyd, you must not give me such a character.”
“But I must! I believe you think there ought to be a sort of committee
on every girl before a comrade is allowed to propose to her. I wonder
if you would have passed _me_? You don’t answer; then I shall take
silence for consent?”
“Such a novel suggestion took my breath away, and deprived me for the
moment of the power of speech. I am dumb, simply because the question
is so utterly superfluous.”
Belle smiled and tittered, accepting this double-edged compliment
entirely from Lord Chesterfield’s point of view, and then addressed
herself to her other neighbour. She had already heard him, at an early
period in the feast, saying to his servant, as he gave his plate an
impatient push:
“Here! take this away; get me some dry toast,” and now he was turning
and re-turning his pudding with a palpably scornful spoon! As she
watched him she felt her heart grow hot within her.
“I am afraid you have no appetite,” she observed in her sharpest key.
“I _thought_ you were looking rather yellow and out of sorts.”
“Never felt better in my life, hungry as a hunter; but, my dear madam,
_what_ is this new dish? Did you make it yourself?”
“A _vol au vent_ of plantains, you dreadful _bon vivant_. Is it true
that your first question every morning is, to ask how the wind is, to
see if your club mutton may hang a day longer?”
“A base libel, an invention of the enemy,” he returned emphatically;
and, so saying, he seized his glass, dashed a quantity of sherry into
his plate, and hastily gulped down its contents. Then, as he caught the
fiery eye of his hostess, he saw that she was working herself into a
frame of mind that might be troublesome, and said with his blandest
air:
“I notice that you have a pair of fine new pictures,” screwing his
glass into his eye. “I have not seen them before.”
“Yes--I picked them up at an auction, and I am rather proud of my
purchase, though George there,” with a withering glance at her husband,
“says that the Alps by moonlight might be taken for some haystacks
round a puddle, and that lovely sunset at sea, for a dish of eggs and
bacon. Now tell me your opinion of them frankly; for I believe you _do_
know something about art!”
“As well as I can judge from this distance, and, in fact, not being
much of a judge at any distance, I should say that these pictures
are oil paintings of some notoriety. And in fact, rather remarkable
productions. I give you my word of honour I have not seen anything
_like_ them for a long time; you have secured something quite out of
the common----”
“Ah, really,” looking steadfastly into his grave, impassive face.
“Well then, since I have had your opinion, I shall promote them to the
drawing-room in future. I shall promote _myself_ there now.”
And presently she and her lady guests arose and departed. When the
gentlemen rejoined the rest of the company, there was the usual
after-dinner music. Belle opened the concert with a sparkling little
ballad, and Betty played one of Scharwenker’s wild, weird Polish
dances, that seemed to set every one thinking of their past. Miss
Gay sang by special request “Forever and Forever.” As her rich and
sympathetic voice rang through the room, with its too appropriate
words, Betty bent her face over a book of photographs, and never once
raised it. Her head ached, she was nervous and constrained, and despite
her subsequent efforts to be gay and conversational, more than one
remarked “that pretty Miss Redmond seemed pale and out of spirits.”
She was most thankful when Mrs. Pope rose, and gave the signal for her
own release. She had been figuratively on the rack all that miserable
evening. The exposé of George’s wretched home wrung her very heart.
If Belle had made him happy, if there had been no shame for her in
her thoughts, no pity for him, it would have been different, oh! so
very different. She would not--she was sure--have felt this dreadful
tightness in her throat, and this insane impulse to burst out crying.
The worn-looking, grave young man who escorted her down the hall, but
did not offer to put on her cloak, could he be the same George Holroyd
that used to take her and Cuckoo out schooling through the fields
behind Bridgetstown, and make the keen wintry air ring with his cheery
laugh?
“Well, George! How do you think it went off?” enquired Belle, when the
last guest had taken a peg, a cheroot, and his departure, and she threw
herself yawning into a chair.
George stood with his hands in his pockets, and looked intently at his
boots, and made no reply.
“I think every one enjoyed themselves: it was quite a success. How do
you think Betty was looking?”
“Oh, as usual,” without raising his eyes.
“Of course you don’t admire her, I know; she was pale to-night, but
maybe that was her dress; pink does not suit Betty. Mrs. Pope has
taken such a fancy to her.”
“Has she?”
“She is nearly as enthusiastic as Sally Dopping; she thinks Betty is so
pretty, and interesting-looking! And what _do_ you think the funny old
woman says? She declares that Betty has a story in her eyes.”
“A what? A sty in her eye?”
“A _story_ in her eyes! Isn’t it a preposterous idea? I asked her what
she meant, and she nodded and smiled in that exaggerated way of hers
and said: ‘I am sure I am right, ask her to _tell_ it to you, my dear!’
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, that _she_ had a story in her
mouth, for you know as well as I do, that Betty never cared for anyone
in her life in that way; a story in her eyes indeed!”
As Mr. Redmond and his niece walked home, with a lantern carried before
them as a precaution against snakes, he said: “Thank goodness that’s
over and we need not go again. Betty, is there any cold meat in the
house?”
“Yes, cold corned beef, a nice hump.”
“Good! What a dinner! What courage Holroyd had to marry that woman; he
ought to be decorated with a V. C. What a temper she has.”
“Yes, it’s rather hot certainly.”
“Hot is no name for it. Holroyd acts as a sort of fire-engine between
her and the station. Poor chap! I often see his eyes fixed on her at
dinners with a sort of desperate apprehension as to what she will say
_next_! I wonder what possessed Holroyd to marry her. Do you know?”
No answer.
“She is not young, she has no money, her looks are going. She can talk,
I grant you! It is a pity that such power of utterance is not united to
more intelligence; in many ways she is an absolute fool.”
“Oh, no, Uncle Bernard, indeed she is not,” protested his companion.
“She may not be what you would call intellectual, but she is very
bright, she has plenty of sense.”
“If she has sense then heaven help those who have none. Well--well--she
always rubs _me_ up the wrong way. I don’t believe she has an ounce of
brains, but you think differently, and we won’t fall out. We will never
fall out, you and I, Bet! You are an amiable girl, and make allowances
for everyone, and can be happy and at ease even with that woman in the
next compound.”
But what, oh most learned yet ignorant Collector! what about the _man_
in the next compound?