Interference

George Holroyd’s departure left an aching void, a desolate blank at Noone. Belle missed him acutely; here was another disappointment, the last and worst! Betty shed secret tears, and even Juggy, at the gate, openly and loudly bemoaned, “that fine open-handed young gentleman.”

Belle was not in love with George, but she liked him, and his departure, without one word of significance, threw her into a paroxysm of angry despair. She severely cross-examined Betty as to whether he had said anything about her, when she had met him in the avenue, also as to whether he looked at all sorry or cut up?

Betty admitted that he had (this with a rather guilty conscience—How could she tell her fierce questioner that his regrets were for herself?) and that deeply dissatisfied lady relapsed into low spirits, a fractious temper, and her old clothes. She wrote to George steadily, and he in return sent her amusing descriptions of his voyage out, of his station, of his munshi, and of his dogs, invariably concluding with some message to Betty—which Belle did not consider it worth while to repeat. Her only hope now—and that a faint one—was that George would write to her to join him; and in her letters, she mentioned more than once how sincerely she envied him living in warm sunny India instead of rainy, melancholy, dull Ballingoole; and imparted her views and sentiments with a charming disregard of conventional restraint. He had always been a most appreciative and attentive acquaintance, but alas! he had never let fall anything approaching to an offer of marriage. He had given her songs, books, photographs, but there had never been a hint of offering himself. “Not as yet,” whispered hope.

She read large extracts of his letters aloud to eager and interested Betty, and interested and puzzled Maria Finny, and indeed there was no reason why she might not have read them straight on from—Dear Miss Redmond to Yours Sincerely, for there was not a line that even Jane Bolland at the post office could weave into a romance; and she talked of “her letters from Mr. Holroyd” so constantly, and carried them about her person so ostentatiously, that Maria began to fear she was engaged; and even Betty could barely stifle the mutterings of the green-eyed monster. The summer was a dull one, especially to Belle; far be it from her to fish or boat on the canal, or to go in quest of mushrooms or blackberries in high-heeled French boots. There were hopeless wet days, which drowned the hay and flowers, and subsequently made the country intensely and patriotically green. There were a few picnics, a few gatherings, where crowds of pretty girls were expected to amuse one another, and men were in a deplorable minority, and even then, stout elderly fathers of families, and married curates. Belle and Betty partook of some of these festivities; the latter was a girl who enjoyed herself anywhere, who was happy in the society of young people of her own age, who played tennis, climbed hills, made salad, and boiled kettles, with a merry beaming face, and did not care if there was not one representative of the sterner sex among the company, since the only man she wished to see, was thousands of miles away at the other side of the world. But not so Belle. Oh, dear no. Her temper and her face were the unerring barometer by which you might judge of the number of the men at a party. If there was a respectable muster, and one of these had singled her out for special attention, had walked with her, talked with her, and made love to her, she was all smiles and sprightliness on her way home. If, on the other hand, she had had no cavalier, she made herself conspicuously disagreeable; sat aloof and sulked, refused to sing, refused to play tennis, presently announced an agonising headache, and withdrew at an early hour, carrying poor Betty in her train.

“The idea!” she would grumble, as they jolted homeward in a local cover-car. “I call it an insult for people to ask us to drive nine miles, and to wear our best dresses, in order to walk round a weedy old garden, with a pack of giggling girls, and to play tennis in grass that is nearly up to one’s knees! I shall never go again, never!”

This was her frequent threat, but the next invitation was invariably accepted, and the excitement of looking over her dresses, speculating on her chances of amusement, and fighting with her mother for the money for new gloves and the fare of a car, occupied her until the event (possibly another insult) came off!

Betty had always enjoyed herself, and said so frankly, and stood up for the company, the hosts, and the garden.

“Of course you think it very fine,” Belle would rejoin scornfully, “because you know no better—walking arm in arm through cabbages with Katie Moore is the height of bliss to you—you don’t know what pleasure is!”

Betty had nevertheless a very good idea of what it meant, when her birthday brought her long letters from Mrs. Malone, and Cuckoo, and the former despatched a box containing what she said was “a little souvenir from George, which he hoped she would do him the honour to accept.” Betty’s heart beat double time, as she carefully removed the wrappings; he had been gone now for five months, and this was the first token he had sent her. The wrapping gave place to a morocco leather case, and in that case was a massive gold Indian bangle on which was inscribed one word in strange characters that looked like hieroglyphics, or was it merely a bit of ornament? She could not tell—the letters—if they were letters—stood out in high relief. At any rate it was a lovely bangle and she had but little jewellery, but that was not the reason why she kissed it so tenderly. How good it was of him! and this was not her only present; there was a gold thimble from Katie Moore, a pin-cushion from Cuckoo, and a ten-pound note from Miss Dopping, which was enclosed in a letter delivered by Foxy Joe—a letter bidding her buy something for herself, and please her old friend, Sally Dopping, who could not find any suitable gift in the shops of Ballingoole. Betty ran down to breakfast, with a radiant face, and eagerly displayed her presents to Mrs. Redmond and Belle (who had no gifts to offer her). Belle became rather red and there was a somewhat awkward silence, as she turned over, and critically scrutinised, the gold bangle. But when her mother said, “A very proper attention, Betty, I only wonder that he did not think of it before. Gratitude is a rare virtue! I was often surprised, that he made no acknowledgment of all your attention to his mother after the Major’s death. Better late than never!”

In this manner Betty’s birthday present was explained to Belle’s complete satisfaction, and she looked upon George’s gift to her cousin as a sort of indirect compliment to herself.

“Was there a letter?” she asked suspiciously.

“No, not any,” returned Betty with a vivid blush.

“Oh, then there will be no necessity to write and thank him. I will send a nice message from you when I write next mail.”

Betty made no reply. She thought it would be better to express her gratitude through George’s mother! She wore the bangle constantly, for it was a plain, and what Mrs. Redmond termed, “every-day affair.” Nevertheless, one afternoon, it attracted Dr. Moran’s notice, as she sat before Miss Dopping’s fire, stroking the old hound, and he smoked a Trichy cheroot. Miss Dopping’s visitors might smoke (gossips said that she smoked herself! but this was not true, but I will not deny that now and then—only now and then—she took a pinch of snuff). Dr. Moran had been in the army, and had seen service in India, had tended the wounded after Chillianwallah, and been several times under fire, though no one would suspect it. He was a very silent, spare, reserved old bachelor, who had a small private fortune, and lived in Ballingoole, because he had been born there. He was eccentric like his neighbour Miss Dopping; wore an apron at home to protect his trousers from the fire, made his own tea, mended his own shirts, spent a large portion of his income on literature and tobacco—and was ever haunted by the fear that Maria Finny would marry him.

“What is that thing you have on your wrist?” he enquired. “Let me see it. It looks like an Indian bangle,” stretching out a bony brown hand.

“And so it is,” replied Betty, removing it and offering it to him as she spoke.

Dr. Moran slowly put on his glasses, and examined the ornament as critically as Belle had done.

“Do you know what this writing means, young lady?” he asked presently, looking keenly over his spectacles.

“No, I was not even sure that it was writing.”

“It is one word in Urdu letters.”

“Can you make it out?”

“Yes—easily enough, and if the bangle was given to you by a young man, it means a great deal. This word ‘Tumhara,’ interpreted into English, is simply ‘Thine alone.’”

Miss Dopping—who knew the donor of the bangle—coughed sharply, and glanced at Betty, with an extraordinary amount of expression in her little beady eyes.

She even so far forgot herself as to wink, and Betty coloured to the roots of her hair. She had been a wee bit envious of all those foreign envelopes with green stamps; not that she did not trust George with all her heart, and he had said that he would not write. Still, there had been a curious, uneasy, unsatisfactory sensation, that, if not exactly jealousy, was jealousy’s first cousin, and now, after all, her precious gold bangle and its message was worth a thousand of Belle’s letters.

“So that’s the way of it,” exclaimed Miss Dopping after Betty had left, “and I am glad of it,” for she knew George well, and he was one of her prime favourites, with his handsome face and pleasant manners. Many a time she had rapped for him, from her window, and many a visit he had paid her, and now she came to think of it, he always drew the conversation round to Betty. “I knew she wouldn’t look at Ghosty Moore,” she added triumphantly.

“And why not?” said Dr. Moran incredulously. “Holroyd is only a sub-altern in a marching regiment, with a mother and sister to support, whilst Ghosty Moore is an eldest son, and heir to a splendid property—I only hope she may never do worse.”

“Worse—than that poor miserable anatomy of a creature! Did you ever see him in shooting boots and long stockings?”

“Never.”

“Well then I have—and his legs look for all the world like a pair of knitting needles, stuck in two sods of turf! Now George Holroyd has a leg that you might model.”

“And you’d have a girl marry a man for his leg?” he asked with a sneer.

“No, you old owl! No, but for his handsome face and honourable conduct and kind heart. If Betty Redmond marries him, she will be a lucky girl, and I’ll give her something more than my blessing! And so you may just keep your gibes to yourself, Paddy Moran.”