Interference

The flame of Mrs. Redmond’s life flickered along unsteadily from day to day, and month to month. She was now entirely bed-ridden, and the strain of constant nursing wore Betty down a good deal. Occasionally Maria Finny came and spent an hour or two in the sick room—and subsequently spread alarming reports in the village, where deaths and births were the only exciting events; a marriage was rare indeed. Once she even went so far as to assure Mrs. Maccabe, that the dying woman “could not possibly put over the night,” and to request that a very superior sirloin (then hanging in the shop) should be immediately set aside for the funeral breakfast! but when Maria hurried to Noone the next morning she found the invalid not merely alive, but better—better and fretful.

“Ah,” she said in answer to Maria’s query, “I was bad enough yesterday—yes, you thought I was going—I could have died if I liked, long ago, but I am holding on—holding on—at least till the next mail comes in.”

All she seemed to care for now was the Indian mail, but how many mails come in and brought her no letters! Belle was enjoying herself without a thought of her. It was Betty who was her real daughter, the girl whom she had wronged. Every one else was going from her, and she was going from every one! The old lady was not in a happy frame of mind, she was filled with remorse now.

Betty’s determined refusal of Ghosty Moore had opened her eyes, but had occasioned no surprise to Miss Dopping. That excellent lady had her own private views, and was truly concerned to see her young friend so hollow-eyed and pale, so different from what she used to be! But Betty never uttered a word of complaint, and she struggled along bravely under the heavy tasks imposed on her; she was a-foot all day—the first to rise, the last to go to rest, therefore Miss Dopping drove over one afternoon to have a serious talk with Mrs. Redmond, about getting a professional nurse to take some of the load off Betty’s shoulders, but the miserly patient turned a deaf ear to her suggestion. A trained nurse would require wages, she would certainly eat—possibly she would drink porter!

“Betty,” she declared, “did very well. Betty liked nursing. Betty could manage alone.”

And as the wish was father to the thought, Mrs. Redmond believed it, and relapsed into her normal condition of torpid selfishness.

“I don’t know what I should do without her, or what she will do without me,” she groaned. “It’s a great trial that she won’t look at Ghosty Moore. She has refused him twice. I can’t understand her, and the Moores so fond of her, and such a splendid connection, and for Belle too. It’s too bad of Betty. Have you any idea of her real reason?”

“I believe I have,” replied Miss Dopping with unexpected promptness. “I always thought that George Holroyd was in love with Betty, and that she had a fancy for him.” As she spoke she looked sharply at her questioner, and Mrs. Redmond’s face betrayed her; she was weak, and had lost the command of her countenance.

Her eyes fell, her lips twitched nervously, a faint guilty colour stole into her pallid face.

In a second, the astute old maid had guessed all, and felt disposed to deal with her companion as Queen Elizabeth did with the Countess of Nottingham, and shake the dying woman in her bed, and declare that “God might forgive her, but she never would!”

“Then it was Betty?” leaning forward and speaking in a hoarse whisper.

“It was,” returned the other in a still fainter key. “Now you know my secret—keep it.”

“No—not from Betty—in all justice to George Holroyd, she shall know that he is a man of honour and did not break his pledge. Woman! what possessed you to ruin two lives, and peril your own immortal soul?”

“Belle is happy—I did it for her,” protested the culprit.

“And is every one to be sacrificed to Belle! And is Belle happy? I know Holroyd is not; other people can write besides his wife. The Moores’ niece says she would never have known him—he has grown so silent and careworn, and as to Belle, I need not tell you what her temper is! Nor that she cannot keep a servant, or a female friend. She is the scourge and heartscald of the station.”

“He paid her great attention,” faltered Mrs. Redmond. “She fully expected his offer.”

“Not a bit of it,” returned Miss Dopping scornfully. “She paid him great attention. I only hope she is half as attentive to him still! Does she know?”

“No one knows but Holroyd and myself.”

“It was a bold game for an ailing old woman! I have no doubt the devil helped you. How did you do it?”

“I gave Betty’s letter to Belle—I had only to change one word.”

“Well, you must tell Betty at once.”

“Don’t you think she is happier not to know?” faltered the invalid.

“Don’t I think that you are a wicked, treacherous old creature! She has blamed the wrong person for more than a year. Take your sin on your own head. If I were the girl, I would never forgive you. You have ruined her life and his. It would never surprise me if he took to drink, or if he were to shoot Belle. I believe I’d shoot her, if I was married to her.”

“What nonsense you talk, old Sally Dopping!” exclaimed the invalid angrily. “George is a sane, respectable man; he has got a very pretty, accomplished wife, and as to Betty—she is young——”

“She is, and before she is a week older she shall know that George Holroyd kept faith with her.”

“I can’t tell her—I won’t tell her,” protested the culprit irritably.

“Very well! it would come better from you than me; you may sweeten your story—I shall not. I give you three days’ law, three days to make up your mind—not an hour longer.”

And then Miss Dopping arose, holding herself unusually erect, seized her umbrella, and marched straight out of the room without another word—without even the formality of “Good afternoon.”

Mrs. Redmond endured Miss Dopping’s daily “Have you told her?” for a whole week, before she mustered up her courage and spoke. It was at night time, when the house was closed and silent. Betty had been reading the Bible, seated at a small table, with the lamp-light falling on her face—a face that could not be implacable.

“Betty,” began the invalid suddenly, “I have something important to say to you. Open my dressing-case—the key is in it, and take a letter out of the flap.”

Betty rose and did as desired. Mrs. Redmond received the letter with a shaking hand, saying, as she did so:

“Sit down and tell me something, Betty. Did it ever occur to you, that George Holroyd liked you?”

Betty, who had been standing hitherto, sat down, and faced her questioner with silent lips and piteous eyes.

“How could he?” she said at last in a very low voice. “He married Belle.”

“Yes, Betty, he did, and I must ease my mind and confess a great wrong to you before I die. He married Belle because I made him marry her.”

“You!—I don’t understand.”

“You know that Belle was my idol ever since she was born. I would have died for her. I was prepared to make any sacrifice for her. I—I sacrificed you!”

Betty leant her arms on the table, and gazed at her aunt with a colourless face.

“The letter I gave to Belle was yours, addressed under cover to me, to Miss Elizabeth Redmond; he only mentioned your name once. I was sorely tempted; the letter would apply equally well to Belle. I blotted out that word. I gave it to her, and now she is away at the other end of the world, dancing and singing and amusing herself, whilst you are the only comfort of the wicked woman who spoiled your life. But Belle fretted so dreadfully, her heart was set on change. She never dreamt that he cared for you. His proposal to you would have been an awful blow. I dared not tell her; you remember her attacks—her violent nervous attacks? A doctor once told me that her frenzies bordered on insanity, and that any sudden nervous shock might—might—Betty dear,” lowering her voice, “you and I alone know—though we have never, never spoken of it—that sometimes she was a little strange—not quite herself.”

Betty recalled, with a shiver, one dark winter’s night, when, after a day of terrible depression, Belle had appeared suddenly in the study, her hair wet, a table knife gleaming in her hand, and an odd wild look in her eyes. “Do you know what I have been doing?” she asked triumphantly.

“I felt that I must do something or go mad. I saw Maggie going out to the poultry yard with a knife and a candle. I went with her. I killed a fowl. I cut its throat. I liked doing it! Yes, I did.”

“Betty—Betty do not cover your face,” pleaded Mrs. Redmond. “Are you very, very angry?”

“Oh, what is the good of being angry?” moaned the girl, with a long shuddering sigh, and the old lady noticed that tears were trickling through her fingers. Tears not wholly of grief. It was balm to her wounded heart to know that, though lost to her for ever, George had not been false, nor she willingly forsaken. He had been faithful. Poor George!

“Of course I know you will never forgive me,” whimpered Mrs. Redmond. “You will go away, and leave me, and I shall die with no one near me but a strange hospital nurse, who will rob me out of the face. Oh! I am sorry I ever told you. It was all old Sally’s doing. She made me.”

“No—no—aunt, do not be afraid that I shall desert you; but oh! what must he think of me?”

“He knows all. I wrote very plainly, and here is his letter to me—keep it. It was a bold venture sending out Belle. I wonder I had the strength and nerve to go through that awful time. Supposing he had refused to marry her, and she had been cast adrift helpless and penniless! I declare I never had a real night’s rest until I got the telegram to say that the wedding was over.”

“You might have trusted him!”

“Yes, especially when I told him that you were soon to be married to Ghosty Moore, and had never given him a thought.”

“Oh, Aunt Emma!”

The girl’s voice was sharp with pain, and she trembled from head to foot.

“Yes, indeed, I stuck at nothing; but then I must say, that I had no suspicion that you liked George Holroyd, and I was confident that you would accept Augustus Moore. I wrote everything quite frankly to Holroyd—and he married Belle.”

“Does she know?” enquired Betty faintly.

“Know? Oh, no! and never will; but after all I am afraid they are not very happy. He is sure not to understand her temper—it’s all over so soon too, and, poor girl, she is always sorry. Betty, you must promise me solemnly that he shall never know that you know.”

“What does it matter?” she returned. “We shall never meet again, but whether or no, I can make no promise.”

“I—I suppose you would not go out to Belle?”

“Aunt Emma!”

“You know she is always wishing for you; she is a jealous girl, and of course if she knew, she would as soon have the plague in the house! Well, I must say, Betty, you have taken it beautifully; you are a dear good child; come and kiss me. I shall sleep all the better for having a load off my mind, and when you have settled the fire, and fixed the night-light, and given me my draught, you can go.”

Mrs. Redmond slept peacefully that night, with heavy long-drawn snores, but Betty sat hour after hour in her window, with dry, tearless eyes, looking out upon the stars that seemed to return her gaze with sympathy, and shone with a frosty brightness. She was still sitting there when they began to pale. The next time Miss Dopping came to Noone she found Maria closeted with Betty, whilst the invalid was asleep.

“No letter from Belle this morning, I suppose?” enquired the old lady.

“No, but I heard of her,” returned Maria with eager volubility. “I was at the Moores’ yesterday and met their niece, who is just home from India. She saw Belle lately; she has lost every scrap of her looks, and is as yellow as a kite’s claw; her temper has worn her to fiddle-strings, and they are as much afraid of her out there as if she were a mad dog! As to Holroyd, you would never know him; he is as grave and as silent as if he were at a priest’s funeral. I always knew it would be a miserable match.”

“Oh, you say that of every match, Maria,” rejoined Miss Dopping. “I don’t believe half I hear. What about this new tea of Casey’s? Have you tried it?”

“No,” snapped Maria, who saw that the topic was disagreeable, and naturally pursued it. “I can’t tell you anything about the tea, but I would be thankful if you would tell me, what possessed young Holroyd to marry Isabella?”

Miss Sally’s glance met Betty’s.

Betty blushed, and she read in the girl’s eyes that the tale had been told.

“He was no more in love with her than he was with me,” continued Miss Finny emphatically. “Do you think she had any hold over him, or knew some secret in his past about money, or——?”

“Murder! say it out boldly. Secret in his past indeed,” repeated Miss Dopping. “Tut, tut, Maria! I could not have believed that a woman of your age could be such a fool, but of course there’s no fool like an old one.” Nevertheless Miss Dopping glanced somewhat nervously out of the corner of her eye at Betty. But Betty was staring into the fire.

A few days later Mrs. Redmond had passed away tranquilly in her sleep, with all Belle’s letters—no great quantity—under her pillow, and Belle’s most flattering photograph grasped in her rigid hand.

Mrs. Holroyd received the news of her mother’s death in her usual extravagant fashion. She wept, and raved, and screamed, and roamed about the house in her dressing-gown, with her hair loose, subsisted on sal-volatile and champagne, and angrily refused all comfort. She ordered the deepest mourning, and tied a wide black ribbon round “Mossoo’s” neck.

At the end of three days, she went out driving for the sake of her health, and despatched a very business-like letter to Betty, respecting her darling mother’s rings, and plate, and household effects. At the end of the week, she was playing tennis with her usual vigour and agility, and at the end of a month, even to her husband’s surprise, she was talking of leaving off her crape, and regretting that she could not take part in some theatricals, and society (not easily scandalised) was shocked to see Belle subsequently give way to precisely the same violent outbreak of grief over a dead monkey as she had recently displayed at the death of her mother! And in future, society tapped its forehead and looked significant when it spoke of Mrs. Holroyd.

One afternoon, not long after her double bereavement, Belle was amazed and flattered to hear that the Collector Sahib was at the door, and to receive Mr. Redmond’s card. He had come solely to talk to her about his niece Betty, he informed her with his usual bluntness. “Where is she now?” he enquired, as he carefully selected a seat. “Tell me all you know about her.” Now that Mrs. Redmond was dead, he was resolved to assert his claim as her nearest of kin, and to import her to India as his companion, housekeeper, and adopted daughter—for, in spite of the tempting snares that were spread for him, he had no inclination to marry again.

“She is at Ballingoole with Miss Dopping. I wanted to have had her out, but George is so queer, he says married people are best alone.”

“Some are,” assented Mr. Redmond, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“And although she is not very pretty, not the least like me, she would be quite a beauty among the hideous girls that are here. I’d have seen that she made a good match, and not married a wretched subaltern like George, but a Bengal Civilian like yourself. Don’t say that I never pay you a compliment!”

“Thank you,” he replied, in his driest manner. “Tell me one thing, Mrs. Holroyd, does she resemble you in any way?”

“No,” rejoined Belle with a triumphant laugh, “you would never dream that we were related. We are as opposite as the poles, and the same people never like us! I mean people that like Betty, hate me, and vice versâ. She is tall, and has grey eyes and rides splendidly, and is quite a cook. You would appreciate that! She has wonderful spirits, and the nerves of a man, but she is not really pretty, or taking; she is not sympathetic with men; in fact, poor mother—she was so partial—always said she was a capital foil for me.”

“I can easily believe it,” he rejoined with an irony that was completely lost on his fair listener. “And what about her temper?”

“No one has ever seen her angry in her life—really angry, you know—of course she is cross now and then; she has that serene disposition that, mother said, always went with an insipid character.”

“Your description enchants me! I delight in insipid people,” exclaimed Mr. Redmond, rubbing his chin quite fiercely. “Ha, hum! a good cook, a good rider, plain, insipid, and serene. I shall write by the mail to-morrow—I am her nearest of kin—and ask her to come out and live with me.”

“Oh, you dear, darling, delightful old man!” cried Belle, springing from her seat. “Oh, you angel, I declare I should like to kiss you, I really should.”

“I beg, madam, that you will do nothing of the sort,” backing away as he spoke. “And let me ask one thing. For goodness’ sake don’t go gabbling my plans all over the station. I hate to have my private affairs discussed by a pack of women, and besides, she may not come. She may prefer Ballingoole and Miss Dopping.”

“Miss Dopping will send her out—she thinks Betty is lost in Ballingoole. She often said so. She is sure to come! And to what a delightful home. Carriages, horses, and everything. I suppose you will give her the blue room? Can I help you to get it ready? Do tell me, can I do anything for you?”

“Yes, keep my news to yourself, that is all you can do. You may tell your husband, of course.”

“Oh, I shall not mention it to a soul, you may rely on that; it shall be a dead secret between you and me. It will be capital fun. I shall keep it as a grand surprise for George.”