Interference

Betty had been unremitting in her attention to Miss Dopping all through the winter, and her virtue was not to be her sole reward! The old lady hired a pair of posters, and drove out to Noone in her mother’s green chariot, and had a long private interview with Mrs. Redmond. She was going to the Moores of Roskeen for a week, and they had asked her to bring Betty.—It would be by no means Betty’s first visit to that part of the world. She and Kathleen Moore were bosom friends; indeed she was a great favourite with the whole family. But this visit would be a more solemn occasion; as Miss Dopping represented to Mrs. Redmond, her young friend was now eighteen, it was manifestly high time she came out; she might make her début at Lord Enniscorthy’s ball. She might go with the Moores, and Miss Dopping herself would chaperone her, and provide her dress! Mrs. Redmond hesitated. Ought not Betty to come out under her wing?

“Not at all, my good creature,” replied the other promptly. “You have your own chick to look after” (“and a pretty old chick too,” she remarked inwardly). “I’ve known Betty long before you ever heard of her existence. She is my child. I owe her many a pleasant hour, and she shall owe some pleasant hours to me.”

Miss Dopping was fully determined to carry her point, and when she took her leave, Mrs. Redmond had given her a promise to “see about it,” and let her know before post time next day.

Now promising to “see about it,” really meant consulting Belle. What would she say to Betty’s coming out? Strange to say Belle bore the news surprisingly well! It was true that she was a little jealous of her cousin appearing with éclat in the suite of the Moores, for the Moores were great social magnates, and took but scant notice of Belle and her mother. (They were strangers in a county where it takes ten years at least to ingratiate yourself with the old residents.)

It was a triumphant fact that Lady Mary Moore had left cards at Noone, thanks to Miss Dopping’s good offices, but a slight lowering of the eyelids was the only salutation she ever vouchsafed to Bel and the Dragon.

She had seen the former at a fancy ball, clothed in smiles and a little tulle, and had taken a prejudice against her on the spot—the prejudice of a prudent mother with two marriageable sons.

“Of course Betty must come out some time or other,” thought Belle as she carefully considered the situation; and Miss Dopping and Maria Finny had been making disagreeable speeches about her costumes, and her occupations. For instance, Maria had said in her most aggressive manner: “I suppose your mother is making a fine purse for Betty! We all know she has two hundred a year of her own, and her dress and board cannot cost thirty; indeed she is as good as two servants—and saves that much.”

“What a kind interest you take in our concerns!” returned Belle, with blazing eyes, and a quiver in her voice.

“I do,” replied Maria with fearless frankness, “and it’s your interest to know that every one in the place is talking of the shabby way that Betty is dressed; they say she wears your cast-off dresses, but I cannot believe that, for I’ve seen you in things that I daren’t offer to a beggar woman.”

Belle had made a mental note of this conversation. It would never do to have people gossiping, or to be supposed to ill-use Betty, who was a popular favourite—that would be very bad policy; unpleasant hints might come to George’s ears, and it was essential that he should only hear complimentary remarks about Noone. Betty, if she went to Roskeen, would be staying in his neighbourhood; possibly he would be at Roskeen itself! She would be able to report on his doings, and tell her if he was flirting with anyone! Unsophisticated Betty should be her spy in the land. Moreover the ball would be no expense. Miss Dopping had guaranteed that; her cousin could never be her rival, no matter how she was dressed. And after revolving all these matters in her mind, she came to the gracious conclusion that “Betty might go.”

Happy Betty! who had never suspected that her fate was trembling in the balance, was all gay chatter and high spirits, as she and her adviser laid their heads together, to choose a gown from patterns, and Belle (who could be most generous and unselfish at other people’s expense) selected a most recherché and elegant white ball dress, not forgetting such important details as shoes, and fan, and gloves. She even offered to endow her beaming relative with some of her own less becoming belongings.

“There’s my grey dress would fit you, with very little alteration, and you can have my red bonnet if you like.”

“No, no,” returned Betty hastily, “I shall do very well; you know the Moores don’t dress much, and I have my new serge, and my black lace for the evenings, and you can re-trim my brown hat.”

These two respectable frocks were the immediate result of Maria Finny’s warning; her conversation (considerably watered down) had been repeated to Mrs. Redmond, with this insignificant issue.

“They do dress,” repeated Belle, “and there is that little American heiress there. She is certain to be a swell. I wonder if she will set her cap at George Holroyd; or Kathleen Moore may take his fancy! Mind you write and let me know if he makes love to any of the girls over there. Now promise me this, Betty!” she urged impressively.

“But I am only going for a week,” objected Betty, “and you will see him at the ball yourself.”

“Well, at any rate promise to write and tell me all the news.”

“I don’t suppose there will be much news, but of course I shall write you if you wish, though I hate writing letters.”

A few days later, Betty was driving down Ballingoole, seated beside Miss Dopping in the old green chariot; they were on their way to Roskeen, a distance of fifteen miles.

Roskeen was a fine country place, kept up in suitable style, thanks to Lady Mary’s comfortable fortune in the Three per Cents; the shooting was well preserved, the stables were full, the house luxuriously furnished in a modern fashion. Soft Persian carpets covered the floors, velvet portières draped the doors, the walls were lined with fine paintings, there was a music-room, a billiard-room, a winter garden, and a French cook! and there was never an instant’s hesitation in people’s minds about accepting an invitation to Roskeen. Betty faithfully fulfilled her promise. A few days after her departure, her anxious cousin received the following letter:—

“Dancing and games, and hide-and-go-seek!” muttered Belle. “There is nothing like a few days in a country house for bringing people together, and promoting intimacy. Three days, above all three wet days, are better than a hundred balls. However there is luckily no one for George Holroyd to fall in love with. Katie is as good as engaged, the heiress is disposed of—and there is no one else!”

Strange as it may appear, she never cast a thought to Betty. Her remark about wet days in a country house was perfectly just. In those wet days, Betty was the life of Roskeen. She had known the Moores for years; they all—even Ghosty and Fred—called her by her Christian name; she was invariably gay, obliging, and good-tempered, ready for anything, from a game of fox and geese, to a drive on the box seat of Colonel Moore’s drag. George Holroyd saw her now in a new light! A favoured guest, among luxurious surroundings, bright and pretty, and admired (too much admired to please him, for Ghosty followed her about like her shadow), Katie appealed to her opinion on every occasion, Lady Mary stroked her hair affectionately, and Flora Pink was loud in her praises, and said that she “just adored her.”

“I do like you,” said Flora, with a childlike frankness as they sat over the fire in Betty’s room; “and shall I tell you something—some one likes you better than I do, and that’s Mr. Holroyd. You see I know all the signs and tokens, for I have gotten a lover of my own.”

“Nonsense, Flora, how can you be so silly!”

“Yes, I noticed how he looked at you, when you were dressed up in that splendid old brocade, with your hair powdered, the night of the tableaux, do you mind? And he is so jealous when you are talking to Ghosty; he is a perfectly lovely young man—Great Scott! Betty! you needn’t look so angry. Have some candy.”

The evening of the dance came at last, and as George Holroyd leisurely descended the stairs, previous to taking his seat in the Moores’ comfortable family omnibus, he noticed a charming figure flitting down before him—a girl in her ball dress! She paused to take one last fond look in the great glass on the first landing. It was Betty, beautified—a fashionable young lady, in a misty, white gown, a pearl necklace, and long gloves. She carried a bouquet, too; now who had given her this bouquet? He approached softly on the Turkey carpet, and looking over her shoulder observed:

“Most satisfactory, is it not?”

“Oh!” blushing and turning round, “how you startled me, and I am quite nervous enough as it is.”

“Really you must find that an entirely new sensation! Pray allow me to feel your pulse?”

“No, no, thank you,” with a smile, “I am not quite so bad as that, but I have never been to any kind of dance—except the school breaking-up dances, and I have not an idea of what a ball will be like!” and she looked at him with bright, excited eyes.

“Shall I tell you?” he said, as they reached the great carpeted hall, with its two generous fireplaces, and seated themselves on a large Eastern divan. “A native syce, who had the good luck to obtain a peep of his master in a ball-room, was overheard describing his performances, something in this way—to a brother syce:

“‘First he gallops her about, then he walks her slowly round to cool her, then he gives her water, then he gives her gram’—(that is to say, refreshments)—‘then he goes and gallops some one else.’”

“I don’t think many people will gallop me,” said Betty, laughing, “I know so few! But, at any rate, I shall not do like a friend of Miss Pink’s. She goes and stays in the ladies’ dressing-room, when she is not engaged—lest people should see her sitting out!”

“There is no fear that you will be driven to such a desperate expedient,” returned George with twinkling eyes. “I hope you are going to give me the first waltz.”

“No, I promised it to Fred a week ago. You know I did.”

“The first dance, then,” he urged, “even if it is a square. I am not proud.”

She shook her head emphatically as she replied, “Ghosty bespoke that a year ago.”

“Hang Ghosty! I am sorry I did not leave him at the bottom of that ditch! At any rate you will give me two waltzes, and the supper dance to begin with?”

“Yes, to begin with and end with. Miss Dopping says that in her day it was not correct to dance with any one more than twice.”

“Minuets I presume! and as they took up best part of an hour, I am with her there. Here comes Fred, chortling to himself as he walks. Look at his beautiful shoes, and the gold buttons on his waistcoat.”

“Hullo,” he exclaimed, “down first; Betty, you are an early bird—we will not say anything about the worm,” glancing at George. “What a ripping bouquet! Now I know what old Ghosty was fuming and fussing about, he got it over from Covent Garden.”

“From Covent Garden,” echoed the young lady, “when there are lovely flowers in the hothouses here.”

“Yes, but it’s more swagger to get ’em from town. Remember the first waltz is ours—we will show them how it ought to be done.”

“Speak for yourself! I know I dance abominably. I only hope that I shall not make too humbling an exhibition of myself.”

“At least you don’t waltz as if you were going to sit down, nor cling to a fellow as if you were drowning,” said Fred consolingly. “Here they come at last. Miss Pink, you are the pink of perfection. I guess you are going to give me 2, and 5 and 9.”

“No, I expect you will have to guess again,” said Miss Pink drily.

“Of course I know you are engaged. The knowledge has aged me by years.”

“I wonder you ain’t ashamed, Mr. Fred! I truly do. Your jokes throw a gloom over the whole place—why should you try to damp our little pleasure?”

By this time the hall was full—Lady Mary, in a blaze of family diamonds, Colonel Moore in a sad, dejected state of mind, Miss Dopping in black velvet, with magnificent Mechlin lace—who would suppose this somewhat stately old lady to be the self-same Sally, who wore a poke bonnet, short woollen skirts, and was followed in her walks by a train of hungry beggars, instead of these yards of the finest Genoa pile? The party from Roskeen drove over to Lord Enniscorthy’s seat, the scene of the festivity, in a comfortable, well-warmed private omnibus. Flora Pink, Kathleen, and Fred, kept the ball of conversation rolling, but Betty was too nervous, and too full of delightful anticipations to talk much. How her heart beat, as they drove under the grand entrance porch, and stepped out upon red cloth! Ghosty Moore gave her his sound arm, and a programme; in another moment she was among the crowd of strange faces—and presented to Lady Enniscorthy, a stout elderly woman, with a large nose, who smiled on her graciously, and then they passed on into the ball-room. She danced the first lancers with Ghosty, and this gave her time to compose herself, look about her, and regain her self-possession. Several pairs of eyes were fixed on her, and people asked: “Who was the pretty, tall girl who had come with the Moores?” To hear that “she was nobody in particular, only Mrs. Redmond’s niece,” was rather a disappointment. After the dance, Betty and her partner walked about and recognised their acquaintances—the Malones for instance, who seized on Betty as upon a long lost friend—Mrs. Malone looking flushed and nervous, in a new black brocade, the Major pompous and talkative, Denis in gloves much too large, and shoes much too small, holding his nose high in the air, and affecting to look down upon the whole thing.

Then there were the Finnys, in a retired nook, which commanded a good view—Mrs. Finny pitifully abject, Maria grim and defiant, hardly knowing a soul in the room, save by sight.

Here the sensible reader will naturally ask, “Why did they come?” They came to protest their gentility; their right to be classed among the “county” gentry, and more particularly, Mrs. Finny came, because Maria made her—and Maria came, because the scene gave her food for discourse for the next twelve months. She enjoyed the delights of sitting in Jane Bolland’s back parlour, and vivisecting the present gay and unsuspecting company. The Major was in his element, and in considerable request among luckless elderly spinsters, whom he made happy by his attentions—by giving them one dance, so that they could say, “Oh, dear me, yes, it was a capital floor, I danced of course.” He took starving dowagers into the refreshment room, and quite a convoy of old ladies (of position) down to supper; whilst Mrs. Malone watched her son (her eldest son) with proud and eager eyes, and pointed him out with undisguised triumph to her immediate neighbours: “That’s my son George, coming this way now with Lady Armine Fitzmaurice,” or “that is my eldest son, dancing with Betty Redmond.” It was agreed—even by Maria Finny—that Betty looked well, was one of the prettiest girls in the room—in short that she was a great credit to Ballingoole. She was in enviable request, surrounded by would-be partners, and Fred—who had not been quite certain as to how she would “take”—now pestered her for half the dances on her programme, and advertised his intimacy by calling her “Betty” across a set of lancers. George did not mind him, but he was really jealous of Ghosty. An innocent hunting friend had pointed him out to him, as “Booked for pretty Betty Redmond. It was true she had next to no fortune, but the Moores all liked her, and it was a settled thing.” His waltz with Betty came at last; it was only number five, so the evening was not so very far advanced, but for him, it was only just about to begin.

“I did not know that the Major danced,” he exclaimed, as he watched his step-father revolving round the room like a big humming-top.

“Yes—he is very fond of balls,” replied Betty, “and, until lately, he wore his full dress tunic on every possible occasion, until it was agony to him, and he said he could not put the tip of his finger inside his waist-belt; now he is at a loss to know what to do with his uniform. What can you suggest?”

“He might stuff it, and set it up in his study, as an effigy of himself,” returned George shortly. “Our next dance is number twelve, is it not? May I see your card?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You are dancing the next with Denis. What sort of a performer is he?”

“Well,” smiling, “I may tell you in confidence, that Fred Moore says in a small room he is dangerous, but he will have lots of scope here.”

“Why do you not give him a square?” expostulated his step-brother.

“I offered him a square—I begged of him, almost with tears in my eyes, but he would not hear of it; as it is, he is offended; ‘out’ with me, as they say.”

“Although you have agreed to sacrifice yourself,” returned George as he led her into a passage. “He deserves to be put to death to slow music.”

In this passage they came face to face with Mrs. Redmond and Belle. Belle, in a yellow gown, was looking quite her best; a slight soupçon of rouge set off her dark eyes—eyes that sparkled with unusual brilliancy.

“Oh, Betty, so there you are!” accosting her, with much animation. “And Mr. Holroyd! We have only just arrived; we had Casey’s covered car, and it is so slow! I know scarcely anyone here, Mr. Holroyd; so I have put you down for three waltzes and an extra,” holding out her programme playfully. “Now you must leave Betty to talk to mother, and to tell her all she has been doing, and who gave her that lovely bouquet, and take poor me round the rooms.” And before George could realize the fact, she had walked him away, with her neatly gloved hand on his arm, leaving Betty in her own place—yes, Belle was undoubtedly a clever girl. It would have fared ill with Betty, had not Ghosty Moore (with the eye of love) discovered her—for Mrs. Redmond had towed her off to the white drawing-room—the haunt of dowagers only—and there she seated herself on a sofa beside her victim, and proceeded to cross-examine her, whilst at the same time she endeavoured to “catch the eye” and recognition of various haughty, high-fed old ladies. As long as Belle was enjoying herself, what did it matter about Betty? And she did not choose to sit alone; by and by she hoped to figuratively harpoon a substantial county magnate, who would take her down to supper, but she was certainly not going to herd with the Finnys and Malones! However, her young kinswoman was speedily carried off by an eligible young man, to take part in the ensuing waltz, and she was left to the tender mercies of Maria Finny, who had just discovered her—and who, perceiving that the old lady wished to ignore her acquaintance as much as possible, attached herself to her like a social “burr”—for the remainder of the evening!

Betty watched Belle, and her partner, floating round; they were admirable dancers both. What a pretty figure Belle had, and how wonderfully long-winded she must be, for her lips were moving incessantly. She talked as it were into her partner’s ear the whole time she was dancing, and as she subsequently walked about with him, in conspicuous companionship, her vivacity, her sparkling dark beauty, and smart ball dress, made her the cynosure of many eyes. Mr. Holroyd danced once more with Betty, the dance before supper. He had been, he thought, rather clever about this, as he led her, when it was over, into a little boudoir; there was no one in it but themselves. Now was his opportunity! Now he would put his fate in her hands. He stood on the hearth-rug, and lent his elbow firmly on the chimneypiece—but in spite of that, his arm shook; whilst she fanned herself slowly with her new white feather fan, and gazed into the fire.

“I hope you did not mind my leaving you that time,” he began nervously.

“Not at all,” she returned looking up at him; “why should I? Of course it was quite natural that you should go with Belle.”

“You think it quite natural that I should leave you for her?”

“Yes, of course I do,” she answered with a little nod and smile, but her pulses were throbbing fast.

“Then you are mistaken, Betty,” he said leaning towards her. “If I had my own way I would never leave you as long as I——”

“Here she is! the very girl I want!” exclaimed Fred Moore, pushing back the portière.

George turned and looked at him. At this moment he had never seen anyone he disliked as much as Fred, with his round fair head, pink shiny face, comfortable little figure, gold buttons, and grin.

“Come along, Bet, you are engaged to me; come along,” he called out masterfully. “I am going to take you in to supper. Why, Betty”—scanning her curiously—“what’s this; you are as red as a rose; you are actually blushing. I never saw you blush before. Betty, you have performed a feat!”

“I—I—how can you be so silly,” she stammered. “I don’t want any supper, but if you like I’ll go with you and look on.”

“Nonsense; you need not be showing off before Holroyd. You have as fine an appetite as any girl I know; Holroyd, you come along too—you may. We will get to a little table by ourselves, and do a good business with oysters, and truffled boar’s head, and champagne—you could not be in better hands than mine—and that’s sound.”

Perhaps George would have accepted this invitation to the unpopular post of “third” party, but for Belle, who entered with a partner at this moment, and said with an air of playful proprietorship:

“Oh, Mr. Holroyd, this is most fortunate! I know I can depend upon you to look after poor mamma—here she is—she says she is quite faint with hunger.”

Mrs. Redmond—who had at last shaken off Maria—was in a bland and chatty frame of mind, although intensely occupied with various toothsome comestibles—soup, salmon, ducklings, pâté de foie gras, all of which received her very best attention. She remained a long time in the supper-room—with George, so to speak, chained to the stake, and never noticed how silent and preoccupied he was; how often his eyes wandered to a little table, at which sat Betty, Miss Pink, and the brothers Moore, nor how restless he became, after they had risen and departed. Lady Mary was a fussy chaperon, and by the time Mr. Holroyd and his charge had returned to the ball-room, she and her young ladies were nowhere to be seen—they had gone home!

Poor George! He had never wished Mrs. Redmond at Jericho! Never!