Interference

Summer had come round once more at Ballingoole, and the little place and surrounding society was much as it had been twelve months previously, save for the change at Bridgetstown—(now let to a dairyman, who churned in the drawing-room, kept ducks in the kitchen, and calves in the pleasure-ground). Belle had spent two brilliant, but barren, months at Southsea, with an elderly widow, and returned in the early autumn to Noone (and to the winter of her discontent). Betty had also been from home, and paid a visit to Roskeen, whence she had arrived somewhat unexpectedly—for a reason only known to Ghosty Moore and herself.

Mrs. Redmond’s health had long been failing; she had entirely relinquished her airings in the bath-chair; she took but a subordinate interest in rabbits and fruit, and had signed a truce with Mrs. Maccabe (who sent an oblation of sweet-breads by Foxy Joe). Latterly the old lady never rose till mid-day, and Betty brought her breakfast and letters to her bedside, read aloud the daily paper, and made suggestions about dinner; whilst Robinson sat in close attendance on the invalid, and devoured choice morsels of buttered toast—for Mrs. Redmond’s appetite was now a thing of the past. Belle was never astir before eleven o’clock, and, with regard to the immortal bird, was inclined to agree with the man who said, “The more fool the worm for getting up so early.” One morning she sauntered into her mother’s room, with an unusually dissatisfied face; it was a wet day. She had had no letters, and she was suffering from a twinge of toothache.

“How are you, mother, this morning?” she enquired languidly.

“A little better, darling; and how are you?”

“Oh, I’m as usual! wishing I was dead,” walking over and staring out of the window, down which the rain was streaming in a most depressing manner—out on the big trees, that looked dim through the mist, out on the gravel drive, with its little pools of water.

“Belle, my dearest, you must not say that.”

“Why not, when it is true?” enquired Belle with a fierceness engendered of temper and toothache. “Mother,” she continued, now walking to the foot of the bed, and clutching the rail in her hands, and speaking through her set teeth, “can’t you see that this life is killing me by inches? It’s all very well for Betty, who has never known any other; she likes the country, and dogs, and horses, and long walks—she even likes the common people and the rain! She has never had an admirer. She is not like me—you know what I have been accustomed to, what my life was, and what this is. If I only had the courage, I would drown myself in the canal—I swear I would.”

“Belle!” expostulated her mother.

“Could you not give up Noone, and let it, in spite of that brute, old Brian, and go away and take lodgings for the winter at Brighton or Southsea; at least, we should see something out of our windows, instead of this eternal grass and fir-trees? We could live on very little; we might get a hamper from here every week. Betty could stay with old Sally.”

Mrs. Redmond shook her head sadly; she knew that she was very ill, that it was more than doubtful if she would ever pass the gates of Noone again—save in her coffin.

“If we don’t get away from this hateful hole,” continued Belle, looking fixedly at her mother, with a white face and gleaming eyes, “I shall do something desperate—I know I shall, and I warn you that I shall.”

So saying she snatched the Irish Times off the bed, and swept out of the room.

Mrs. Redmond sank back feebly among her pillows, and a good many unusual tears trickled down her poor, faded cheeks. What more could she do for Belle? Had she not always done her best for her imprudent, impetuous child?

All through that weary, wet day, she was unusually silent and depressed, and heaved many a long sigh at short intervals. The very next morning, in sorting out the contents of the post bag, she discovered a letter from India, addressed to herself, in Mr. Holroyd’s writing. It was not for Belle! No, there was “Mrs. Redmond” as plain as pen could write it; her dull eyes brightened, and her face flushed as she tore it open. Here was a proposal for Belle at last! But—but—what was this?

An enclosure directed to Miss Elizabeth Redmond. The old lady’s hands shook as she scanned it, and her jaw dropped, and the “rigor mortis” seemed already visible in the outlines of her once jovial countenance. She thrust it hastily under the counterpane, as if it stung her, and slowly unfolded her own letter, which ran as follows:—

When Mrs. Redmond had come to the end of this epistle, she felt dizzy for a moment; a rush of blood seemed to roar in her ears, the writing appeared to dance before her eyes, she laid it down, and sank back on her pillows, trembling as if she had been dealt a blow. Suddenly she heard Betty’s light step, and Betty’s pleasant voice on the landing outside her door, and had barely time to thrust the letter out of sight when Betty entered—she was instantly struck by the old lady’s drawn and ghastly face, and said as she leant over her:

“I am afraid you are not so well this morning. Have you had a bad night, dear?”

“Yes—a terrible night—such, such awful dreams. I think I will try and take a little doze now. No, I don’t want my drops, or anything, only to be quiet,” shrinking from Betty’s clear, sympathetic eyes, “if you will just draw down the blinds, and don’t let anyone disturb me till I ring—Where is Belle?”

“She is not up yet; she has toothache, and is feeling rather low. I think it is something in the weather.”

“Very likely, my dear—do not let anyone come into the room for the next hour or two, I may get a little sleep; I will rise by and by and ring if I want Eliza; and oh, about the dinner! There is some cold mutton that will make a nice hash, and that, with the fresh herrings, will be ample—you need not mind a pudding,” the ruling passion thrusting itself forward even under the present circumstances.

Having dispatched her visitor with a feeling of intense relief, the old lady felt that she had now ensured privacy and leisure in which to contemplate the position, and to balance the future of the two girls—which practically lay in her hands.

First of all, she slowly read and re-read George’s letter; next she examined the envelope of his enclosure.

Oh, Indian gum, for how much you have to answer!

The envelope was scarcely stuck, and came providentially (as she thought) open in her hand! After a moment’s hesitation, she drew out the letter, and devoured it greedily. It began thus abruptly:

Betty’s name was only once mentioned in the letter, otherwise it would do equally well for Belle. In his haste he had not crossed his “t’s,” and with a little careful manipulation the name could be altered.

To which of the girls should she give it?

Mrs. Redmond closed her eyes, and endeavoured to review the whole case thoroughly and impartially. She herself was not long for this world, it was possibly a question of a few months; and then what would become of Belle, with her restless ways, excitable, uncertain temper, and miserably inadequate income? She was so pretty—so dependent—so—so—spoiled. If Betty were to go to India to marry George Holroyd she would fret to death—she would break her heart; pending which, she would give way to some of her terrible fits of passion, the very thought of which made the old lady close her eyes. Belle was sufficiently discontented now, and what would be her state of mind when she saw Betty—who had always been secondary to her in every way—depart with many presents, and a handsome trousseau, to India, to marry George Holroyd—a man upon whom she had set her heart!

Belle’s temper was getting worse year by year; each disappointment had left its mark; how and where would it end? There was a touch of insanity in the family! Mrs. Redmond recalled with a shudder how she had once been taken to see her own aunt—a melancholy spectacle—creeping along by a wall, with her long, tangled black hair, hanging like a veil over her face.

Belle would possibly carry out her threat of yesterday and do something desperate, whereas, as Mr. Holroyd’s wife, in some gay Indian station, well off, well dressed, and sufficiently amused, and shifting her home perpetually, she would have everything her soul longed for—she would be happy—and Belle’s happiness was now the sole aim of her own nearly worn-out existence.

To know that Belle was in a congenial sphere, and provided with ample means, and a strong, natural protector, would lift an immense load off her mind; but Belle, the restless inmate of some cheap boarding house, discontented, embittered, and in debt, with no one to shield, or soothe her frenzies, what would be her end?

With Betty it was entirely different. She was clever, bright and young. She had all her best years before her, she would be Miss Dopping’s heiress—she would have plenty of lovers and friends wherever she went—she could marry Ghosty Moore to-morrow if she chose, and even if the worst came to the worst, she was strong, self-reliant and sensible—well able to stand alone and bear the knocks of fate. Not that these knocks could hurt her, for she was a lucky girl, and a general favourite. But this was Belle’s last chance (Belle, low be it whispered, was thirty-one). After an hour’s cogitation, and weighing and planning, Mrs. Redmond made up her mind to give the letter to her own daughter.

“And what about George and Betty?”

“Well, Betty would never know that her cousin had taken her place; she might be a little disappointed, all girls had their love trials. Why, look at Belle, she had had dozens of far worse affairs—and Betty would get plenty of other offers.”

And as to George Holroyd, she was sending him a much more suitable bride—a handsome, lively, accomplished girl, who would be a credit to him anywhere—who could sing, and act, and dress and dance—and was just cut out for an officer’s wife. She would despatch her with a first-rate outfit, and once actually en route, once landed in Bombay—George must marry her.

The short notice he had given, and his bare allusion to a name in the letter, were high trumps in her hand, and she meant to play a very bold game. Once Belle had started, it would be après Belle le déluge; she did not care what Belle’s bridegroom thought of her. She would write and give him her very distinct reasons for this arrangement. She would say that she could not spare Betty, who was too young and inexperienced, and for whom she had other views, and that sooner than disappoint him altogether, she had despatched her own daughter, who was far more fitted for society and to shine as his wife; that she wanted a good husband and a good home for Belle; for she was a dying woman, and that he must try and forgive her—if not, she would endeavour to do without his forgiveness as best she could.

“I shall pretend that the letters came by second post,” she said, as she rose and rang for hot water—and when her toilette was completed, she nerved herself for the first move in a very difficult, delicate undertaking. She took a double dose of sal-volatile, and opening her blotter, she sat down and carefully re-examined Mr. Holroyd’s love letter, and the word Betty. What was she to do with it? A pen-knife would show on such thin paper; happy thought! a blot. It would have one or two companions, for the epistle had apparently been written in great haste. She raised a well-laden pen, and carefully let fall a good-sized drop, on the word “Betty.”

Did this hard-hearted old woman suspect that she was blotting out the poor girl’s happiness at the same moment? When her task was complete, and the ink looked quite nice and dry, and natural, she nerved herself for her next move. She took a long sniff at her smelling-salts, and sent for Belle.

“Belle,” she said, as that young lady strolled indolently into the room. “I’ve had a letter.”

“Have you?” indifferently. “Not Madame Josephine’s bill?”

“No, no, my dear, quite the contrary, a pleasant letter from India—from Mr. Holroyd. He has written to me to say that his prospects are much improved—and that he can afford to marry now.”

Belle, who had been staring incredulously at her mother, with a rigid white face, twitching lips, and widely dilated black eyes, seized her arm in a grip of steel and said breathlessly: “To marry whom, mother, quickly—quickly?”

If Mrs. Redmond had had one lingering qualm of compunction, it was now dispelled by her daughter’s overpowering agitation.

“Why—why you, my darling, who else?”

Belle gave a faint cry, and threw herself into her embrace, and hugged her fiercely.

“Oh mother! mother, are you quite certain—certain?” she panted hysterically.

“Here is his letter, enclosed to me (she had destroyed the envelope), if you will only compose yourself, and read it, my darling.”

Belle took it eagerly, without the smallest suspicion, and sitting down on the edge of the bed, read it over rapidly; her shaking fingers scarcely able to steady the page before her eyes. “And to go in a month—in a month,” she repeated ecstatically, springing up and beginning to dance about the room, “Oh, I can scarcely believe it, I scarcely know what I am doing; it’s too good to be true.”

“Yes,” thought the old lady, as she watched her intently. Belle, for whom she had slaved and intrigued, and schemed, and slandered, and perilled her very soul, would leave her in four weeks’ time, knowing that she would never see her again, and would leave her with scarcely a pang. Anything for change, anything for excitement, anything to get away from Noone!

“I can hardly realise it, mother, it is such a surprise this dismal morning. I never was so happy in my life, not even that time when I was engaged to Major Evans, and we thought he had four thousand a year; he had a tubby figure and a red nose. You see he invites Mossoo, and I used to think he did not like him. It’s well he mentioned my treasure, for I could not have been parted from him. ‘Love me, love my dog.’ And about my trousseau? You will give me a good one, won’t you, like a dear old mammy?” she said, confronting her parent with sparkling eyes, “I can do the millinery myself if I have time. I have so often thought it over, and made lists in my mind, and I know exactly what I want—for it has always been the dream of my life to go to India. I shall want a saddle and habit, at least four ball-dresses, and a ruby velvet dinner dress, mammy darling, I must have that, and your old rose point, and sable tails, and the diamond brooch that was your grandmother’s. You know you won’t be going out, once you have got me off your hands, and I shall want tea-gowns, and tailor-made dresses, and dozens of boots and shoes—and only a month!” and she paused in her walk, and gesticulated with her arms, like a figure in a ballet.

“Yes, only a month,” echoed her mother, sadly.

“He is very nice and very good-looking, isn’t he?” she continued. “I shall not be ashamed when I am asked to point out my husband.”

“No,” assented her parent, absently.

“I had always an idea that he liked me, although he was so self-contained. Those are the sort of men who have deepest feelings. He was terribly cut up the day he went away, but he was very reserved, and never said anything straight out. He seems in a great hurry now,” and she laughed triumphantly. “Does he not? There’s the telegram,” glancing at the letter, “I shall send it off sharp, and put the poor fellow out of his suspense. Oh! isn’t he fond of me? The telegram will cost a good deal; give me your purse, dear, and I’ll send Betty up the town. I wonder what Betty will say?”

Yes, indeed, what would Betty say?

“I’ll go this moment and tell her,” she rattled on, with brilliant eyes and heightened colour, and she quitted the room with a buoyant step, and ran downstairs, leaving her mother seated in her arm-chair, with a bowed head, and a heavy heart.

How would Betty bear the blow? And what a pretty creature Belle was, when in good spirits; how easily elated, or cast down.

If it had been Belle who was to stay behind, and Betty that had been going? she dared not allow her mind to dwell on that awful alternative. “Yes, yes,” she muttered, as she rose and straightened her cap at the glass, and surveyed her own anxious white face. “A mother’s first duty is to her own flesh and blood, and my conscience tells me that I have done mine.”

Mrs. Redmond’s conscience!