Interference

“There goes old Sally, hot foot out to Noone to hear the news and to set them all by the ears!”

In this agreeable manner did Maria Finny notify the fact to her mother; Maria, who was cautiously peering over the blind, just merely showing the top of her grey head, and her grey eyebrows—not staring out with a bold and undaunted gaze, like her opposite neighbour.

“There she goes,” she repeated, “and half the beggars in the town after her.” For once Miss Finny’s surmise was correct. Miss Dopping had hardly been able to credit her senses when she was told of Belle’s engagement. She must have it from the fountain-head, she must hear it from the bride-elect’s own lips.

With her, impulse meant action, and at the unusual hour of eleven o’clock in the morning she had put on her bonnet and shawl, and seized her umbrella, and posted out to cross-examine the Redmonds, root and branch. On the canal bridge just beyond the town, she encountered Belle herself—also afoot at an unusually early hour—walking into Ballingoole with a brisk step and beaming face, to give orders about her outfit, to post some glowing letters, and to receive the congratulations of the community. With present contentment in her heart, re-assured vanity whispering in her ear, and (as she firmly believed) a delightful future before her, everything seemed couleur de rose; even Ballingoole, hated Ballingoole, looked quite pretty, as it sloped towards the canal, showing a series of sunny old gardens, brilliant with gay August flowers, their crumbling grey walls almost hidden by a wealth of autumn fruit. Even detestable old Sally Dopping, as she paused on the top of the high “fly” bridge, and leant on her redoubtable umbrella, looked less like a malevolent old witch, and more like a generous, good fairy, who would bring a valuable wedding present in her hand! And as to the Mahons, Finnys, Maccabes, she really felt quite fond of them—now that she was going to leave them—and she had not the smallest doubt in her own mind, that they would all sincerely regret her departure.

But Belle, could she but see herself as others saw her, was not popular in the neighbourhood.

The Irish are quick to discern character, and are, when they choose, incisive and severe critics. Belle was judged to be a smart, dashing young woman, but hot-tempered and stingy, and had never been known to give a copper to any one—not even the poor “dark” man by the post office steps. “She is not fit to open the door to Miss Betty. She will be as fat as her mother yet, and every bit as mane!” Such was the village verdict.

“Well, Miss Dopping,” she exclaimed, “you are out early. I suppose you have heard my news?”

“So then it is you!” was the rather ungracious reply.

“Of course,” with a smile of triumphant complacency, “and what do you say to it?”

“Umph—say to it; I say better late than never!”

“Oh,” with an angry laugh, but determined not to lose her temper, “come now, Miss Dopping, you would not have said that if it had been Betty!”

“No—how could I? And she only nineteen? Look here, Isabella, you know I never mince my words, do I? I always thought it was Betty. I say so plainly to your face, and I suppose I must be dropping into my second childhood, for I declare I certainly thought by the looks of that young fellow, that he was desperately in love with her, and it seemed to me, when I’d seen them riding together side by side, so handsome and so happy, that the Lord made them for one another! Will you swear to me here on the top of Ballingoole Bridge, that there has been no bamboozling about letters, and no trickery of any kind?”

Such an insinuation was more than the expectant bride-elect could tamely bear—even from rich Miss Dopping.

“I swear to you that there has not,” returned Belle, glaring at her with her face and eyes in flame, and literally trembling with fury.

“You wicked old woman; you may see his letters if you like? Of course I know that you are horribly annoyed to find that anyone could prefer me to Betty; it’s lucky for me that there are not many Miss Doppings in the world! Thank goodness, I have plenty of friends, and always been a favourite wherever I have been.”

“Oh, of course,” agreed the old lady drily, “we all know that your mother reared an angel; but Betty has no mother, and none to put in a word for her but me. I have asked you a plain question privately, and you have given me my answer, and there is an end of it.”

“And are you satisfied, because that is so very important?” sneered Belle, with an expression on her face that rendered it downright ugly.

“Well, I am satisfied that you are telling me the truth,” she returned evasively; “and since it is so, you are getting a very good match, for a good son will be a good husband. I wish you joy and I need detain you no longer. I’ll just go on to Noone, since I am this far.”

Belle, whose feathers had been considerably ruffled by this encounter, found her good spirits and self-approval return, as she visited in turn the post office, the Finnys and the Dooleys. She was the heroine of the hour, and enjoyed her brief triumph. The Dooleys, who kept a draper’s shop and the dressmakers’ establishment, and who had a keen eye to future orders, although they had had stormy passages with Belle (but who had not?) laid on congratulations and flattery, so to speak, with a trowel, and she was figuratively plastered over with compliments by the time she arrived at Mrs. Maccabe’s with a small domestic order.

“And so they tell me you’re going to the Indes, miss?” said the widow as she carefully pared and trimmed four loin chops, operating on them quite in a fashion after Mrs. Redmond’s own heart. “Ye’ll like that, I suppose?”

“Yes, I have all my life longed to go to India.”

“I hear them’s very ondacent people out there and wears next to no clothes! And they don’t ate no mate in them countries, I am told, but that will suit you finely! You won’t have no butcher’s bill, but will be living on bread and rice. Faix,” with a wheezy laugh, “you are not like my cat, that died of an Ash-Wednesday, because he could not face the Lent! Well, miss, I wish yourself and the gentleman every luck, and that ye may live long, and die happy.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Maccabe. I think we shall suit one another,” returned Belle, complacently.

“I’m glad it wasn’t Miss Betty he sent for; we could not spare her just yet, though no doubt she will be going from us some of these days, too, and it will be a lucky man that takes her. Get out of that, Joey,” to Foxy Joe; “what are ye waitin’ for? why don’t ye take them ribs up to the Glebe when ye know they dine at two o’clock.”

“I was just waiting on Miss Redmond to give her joy! You will not forget poor Joey, miss—will ye?” And he eyed her with an expression of latent cunning.

Belle glanced at him scornfully, and made no reply.

“You will remember the hand I had in it, won’t ye, miss?” he repeated in a louder key.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” returned Belle, haughtily, now preparing to leave the shop, which was filling fast with respectable customers.

Foxy Joe, who, I am sorry to say, had already been at Nolan’s, partaking of an early glass, and had imbibed what is generally known as the “cross drop,” was not to be thus set aside.

“Sure, I am talking of all the love letters I carried for you, miss,” he answered in an angry scream, “when he was at home. Begorra, ye were a terrible young lady with the pen! as many as four to his wan, and I was always to wait for an answer; bedad, he was not in the same hurry! And ye never give me a copper, not a hate but an old neck-tie, and promises—Faix!—ye must make it up to me now.”

Here a violent clout from Mrs. Maccabe’s ox tail reduced him to a whimpering silence, and then he roared out:

“And can’t ye let me alone, and what harm am I doing ye—Bridgey Maccabe?”

“How dar ye spake to your betters like that, ye dirty little tell-tale whelp?” she demanded furiously. “I’ll have to get shut of ye, I’m thinking—body—sleeves—and trimmings.”

“Never mind him,” interrupted Belle, whose voice shook with passion. “Take no notice on my account, Mrs. Maccabe. He’s only a fool; no one pays any attention to his lies.”

“Lies!” screamed Joey, “lies am I telling? I’m telling lies, am I? Well, I’ll tell a good one when I go about it—you’re a lady!”

At this Mrs. Maccabe laid hold of her foaming, stuttering retainer, and shook him like a rat, whilst Belle, holding her head very erect, and carrying the four chops in a small basket, stalked out of the shop with all the dignity she could muster, and her face in a flame!

Poor Belle! this world is full of disappointments, even when one’s affairs wear a most smiling aspect; her little triumphal expedition into town had not been quite as satisfactory as she had anticipated.