Interference

It was the very last evening at Bridgetstown, a lovely one, towards the end of June; never had the place (now passing for ever from the Malones) looked to greater advantage. The pleasure-ground was quite a blaze of roses, and all the garden walks were bordered by fragrant mignonette, wallflower and sweet pea. Mrs. Malone, who was now convalescent, and able to be downstairs, was holding a melancholy and final interview with Miss Dopping and the Finnys—she and Mrs. Finny mingling their tears, whilst Maria and Miss Dopping kept up a cross fire of would-be consolatory remarks. The Malones were leaving for Dublin the next morning, and Betty, who had been packing hard for three days, came out with Cuckoo for a breath of air, and a farewell round of the pleasure-grounds and garden. But Cuckoo was presently summoned indoors, and Betty was left alone—she was tired, very tired, and seating herself on the steps inside the garden gate, with her chin resting on her hand, looked up at the full silver moon, with a face almost as white as her dress.

George, who had been solacing himself with a cigar, descried her from a distance, and hastened to join her; he scarcely ever got a chance of having a word with her alone now, and here was a long-sought opportunity. The evening breezes blew across their faces, and brought with them the scents of thousands of roses, the very spirit of summer seemed riding on the night, and summoning all people out of doors—to come and do her homage, but the only two at Bridgetstown who stood among the moon-lit flowers were George Holroyd and Betty Redmond.

“Well, this is the last night at Bridgetstown!” he said, “and the old place is looking its best, as if it was determined to haunt our memories. There is the yellow rose I helped you to nail up—do you remember? I think I deserve one—as a memento.”

“Then I am sure you may help yourself,” she returned composedly.

“No, I want you to give me one.”

“Very well,” rising and breaking off a heavy-headed yellow rose.

“I shall never see this old tree again,” he said, as he took it from her. “Nor the house and grounds of Bridgetstown—nor—nor——”

“Nor any one in Ballingoole,” she added, without raising her eyes.

“Do not say that,” he returned gravely; “I hope to see every one, and above all to see you, Betty. What should we have done without you?”

“It was nothing,” she replied, reseating herself wearily. “I have always been at home here, long,” looking at him with a somewhat watery smile, “before you came! When are you going back to India? Soon?”

“As soon as I have settled my mother comfortably in Dublin.”

“Then to-morrow will be good-bye?”

“No, I shall run down again for a day. Betty, I want to ask you something;” he latterly called her by her Christian name quite naturally. “You remember when we came back from Roskeen, where we had always been such good friends—had we not?”

Betty nodded, and stared at an enormous bush of lavender, with a somewhat fixed expression.

“Afterwards, when I met you at home, you would scarcely speak to me, or even look at me—will you tell me the reason of this? for I know you are a girl who always has a reason for her actions.”

“Yes—if you wish it very much—I will,” she answered, drawing a pattern in the gravel with the toe of her shoe, “but I would much rather not tell you.”

“And I would so much rather that you did tell me.”

“It—it was only the evening after I came home—I made a mistake—I was in the meadow lane, and I saw Lizzie Maccabe and a gentleman; he seemed very fond of her—and she said that it was you.”

“I am sure I am excessively obliged to her! And so that was the reason! Oh, Betty, how could you believe her—surely you know by this time who it is that I care about.”

Betty’s heart beat fearfully fast, but she managed to control her voice, and to say quite naturally:

“I thought you were to carry that yellow rose to India—you are picking it to pieces, and will have nothing left but the stalk.”

George also exercised all his self-command; hot, passionate words, that came flocking to his lips, were fiercely forced back, by common sense, honour and reason. He had no right to ask this girl, who had seen nothing of the world, to share his present poverty. He must first work for her, and then win her. Nevertheless he could not go without one word, without some frail hope, were it but a look or a flower, and his heart sank within him when he thought of Ghosty Moore. Oh, if he and Betty were but the real master and mistress of that fine old house behind them, how happy he would be! But what was the good of wishing—he was going to India. In ten days’ time, the seas would be rolling between him and Betty.

“I want you to tell me something else,” he said. “I should like to hear your opinion about a friend of mine. A man I know very well.” His voice shook a little as he mentioned this. “He is desperately in love with a girl, but he has lost every penny of his money, and does not think it honourable to ask her to bind herself to him in any way, until his lot is more assured. Do you think if she knew this, and supposing that she cared about him—she would trust in his silence, and wait, say, a year?”

No answer for quite a long interval—for Betty could not find her voice. Suddenly she stood up and glanced at his pale, tense face.

“Well—what do you think?” he asked in a low, eager tone.

“I am sure she would.”

“Would you, if you were she?” he enquired, and his voice shook.

“Yes,” she responded, almost in a whisper.

Betty looked at him, the veil was drawn between their two souls, and they knew each other’s hearts.

To George, her eyes seemed to speak all that was sweetest and best in the world; he took the little hand that still held a rose, and removing the flower, kissed it reverently and fervently. What a cold, trembling little hand it was! How quickly it was withdrawn. For at this supreme moment, the inevitable Cuckoo came running to the gate and peering eagerly through, called: “Betty, where are you? Bet, come in, mother wants you immediately!” And Betty hastily snatched her fingers away, and turned to face Mrs. Malone’s untimely emissary—her future sister-in-law. George loved her past all doubting, truly; with this conviction in her heart, she moved to the gate which he held open. George loved her, that was enough. What was money—what was time, what was anything? She would wait for him for years—for ever. As she walked slowly back through the fragrant pleasure-grounds she seemed to be treading on air, although Cuckoo dragged from her arm, with an exceedingly earthly weight.

Strange to say, that usually unguarded young lady made no remark beyond some incoherent suggestions about Boozle and his basket, but for the remainder of the evening she was amazingly silent—unnaturally solemn, and followed George with deeply inquisitive and interested eyes—Betty had returned to her packing.

The scene inside the gate, embowered in roses, handsome George kissing Betty’s hand, and Betty standing so tall and white, like some young queen, was photographed on her memory for ever; she was a notoriously sharp young person, and the picture only ratified what she had long suspected, that George and Betty were in love with each other.

In a few days, Mrs. Malone and Cuckoo, Crab and Boozle, were installed in a small, detached house, close to a church, post office and train. George had done his best for his mother. For her, he had given up his furlough schemes—his private income, save fifty pounds, and his present hopes. She wept in gasps upon his shoulder, and sobbed out “that he was the best of sons, no one was like him, no one,” urgently suggested that he should apply to his Uncle Godfrey for an allowance—and in her heart loved Denis! To feel herself the free, unfettered owner of a small, but comfortable villa; at liberty to come and go, and spend and cry just as much as she pleased was (but this is for your private ear) a truly blessed relief! She wore the outward garb of woe, and used mourning paper, with inch deep black border, and envelopes so woeful that scarcely room was left for an address, and publicly bemoaned the late dear Major, and actually imagined that she was his truly disconsolate widow.

George’s departure was sudden; a telegram gave him forty-eight hours to embark, and he instantly took the train for Ballingoole, ostensibly to make some final family arrangements, but in reality to say good-bye to Betty.

His visit was quite unexpected. Betty was in the garden, picking strawberries for preserving. Mrs. Redmond was lying down, and Belle was standing disconsolately in the drawing-room window, staring at the lawn, the fir trees, and the grey clouds that hung over a distant low range of hills, betokening either rain or heat.

“Mr. Holroyd,” said the parlour-maid abruptly, and she sprang round, her whole face transformed from gloom to sunlight in one second.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you,” she cried, holding out both hands, “we did not know when we were to expect you.”

“I came down to-day only for an hour. I got my orders this morning, and I’m off to-morrow—sail in the Malabar on Saturday.”

Belle’s nostrils quivered, but for once she restrained herself; she merely said: “How is your mother?”

“Wonderfully well and cheerful; she has found some old friends already, and is beginning to feel at home.”

“And Cuckoo?” with very forced composure.

“Cuckoo goes to school, and, strange to say, likes it. I hope Mrs. Redmond is well.”

“No, she is but poorly to-day. I am afraid she will not be able to come down and wish you good-bye. How we shall miss you,” then “How I shall miss you, for you cannot think—you can never know—what your society has been to me in this hateful, melancholy place! Now it will be ten times more dreary than ever,” and there were tears in her voice.

Silence—an uncomfortable but golden silence. George looked steadily at one particular patch in the carpet; Belle always talked in this exaggerated way; he wished she would not be quite so confoundedly personal.

“Where is Betty?” he enquired in a would-be cheerful tone.

“Oh, out with the dogs—somewhere about the place. Do you want to see her?”

(“Did he want to see her? Did he want to see his queen, his star, his goddess?”) Should he give Belle a hint?—No.

“Yes, I should like to wish her good-bye.”

“She is probably in the garden making herself ill with fruit!” said her cousin ill-naturedly.

“Oh, you must not go just yet” (seeing that he was about to rise), biting her lips to retain her composure, “you will not forget us—and you will write often, will you not?” she added desperately; her eyes fixed anxiously on his.

“Yes, I shall certainly write; it is very good of you to wish for my letters.”

“They will be my only happiness,” was her most embarrassing reply; “you won’t forget me, will you, George?” she whispered. George rose hastily, this conference was too personal to be pleasant; this pretty little woman, with the tragic dark eyes, was becoming a nuisance.

“I hate saying good-bye,” holding out his hand as he spoke. “But I must be making a start, my train goes at five o’clock, and I have not much time to lose.”

“Oh, you have an hour still; it won’t take you more than half that time to get to the station,” she pleaded in a strangled voice.

(Yes, quite true, but he had yet to see Betty, and every moment was priceless.)

“I must really go,” he said firmly, “I have business at Bridgetstown.”

Belle stood up as white as a ghost, and gazed at him despairingly.

It was not alone George Holroyd who was going, it was her life, her hopes, her future; she felt more than half inclined to throw herself into his arms, but something in his face arrested her intention, and she merely gave him her hand, and turning away her face, sank in a heap upon the sofa, in a storm of hysterical tears—and George escaped. To look back would have been to emulate Lot’s wife; to linger was destruction.

As he left the house, he gazed anxiously about him, and then he descried a welcome trio—three little white dogs trotting along from the direction of the garden, and presently a tall, girlish figure carrying on her arm a good-sized basket of strawberries. A lovely colour came into her face as she recognised him. He seized her hand eagerly, and said:

“I was afraid I might miss you! I got sudden orders, and I start to-morrow, so I just ran down to say good-bye to you.”

He still retained her hand in his, whilst the dogs sat round, staring at him affectionately, as if giving the young couple their countenance and consent; the little group was commanded by the drawing-room windows, but, luckily for them, Belle’s jealous eyes were buried in the sofa cushions.

“Will you walk down to the gate?” he asked, releasing her hand, and taking the basket. “I left the car there—I have still to go up the town, and my time is very, very short.”

They walked down that miserably short avenue, almost in total silence; how many things they would think of to say, afterwards. How passionately they would regret this sinful waste of five minutes—precious, golden minutes—but the truth was, they were determined to be very brave, and their hearts were too full to speak. When they came near the gate they halted, for at the gate itself stood Juggy with the key in her hand. She locked and unlocked the entrance to Noone as rigorously as if it were a jail, but if people could go in and out without her help, her occupation and her sixpences would be gone, and Mrs. Redmond winked at the arrangement—as she gave Juggy no wages.

“Give me one token, Betty, before I go,” he urged in an eager whisper. “Once you promised me whatever I asked for; give me that little silver brooch you are wearing.”

Betty unpinned it hastily, and put it in his hand; a shabby little “Mizpah” brooch! a present from Belle.

“Good-bye, God bless you, Betty!” he said in a husky, unsteady voice.

She raised her eyes to his, they were dim with tears, but love is easily satisfied, and the farewell look they interchanged, contented them for many a day. They knew that they could trust each other. In another moment he was gone, and the shabby iron gate had clanged behind him. She would catch one last glimpse as he repassed to the train, and—No—no, she must not cry yet. Leaving her basket under a bush, she raced along by the demesne wall, for fully a quarter of a mile, to where it ended, and gave place to a white paling lined with shrubs, and overshadowed by trees: here she took her station and waited patiently, listening with a beating heart for the rattle of the hack car on the hard, dusty highway. It came at last, nearer and nearer; she would not discover herself, no, she only wanted one last look. He was on the far side, but oh, comfort! Oh, happy moment; he turned and gazed back at Noone, until the car flew round the corner, and carried him finally out of her sight. Yes, he was really gone. Then Betty crept out from the bushes, and sat down upon a log, and to the amazement of her three companions, sobbed aloud. She dared not cry like this indoors, where walls had ears; here the old beeches were her kind sympathetic friends. If she were seen at Noone, indulging in such grief, she would be asked to explain the reason of her tears. But that was her secret, and George’s.