Interference

“Mother,” said George, after a truly eloquent pause, “why don’t you send Cuckoo to school? her accent is frightful, and——”

“I know, I know,” interposed Mrs. Malone, laying down her work, with a dismal sigh. “I am afraid she must strike you as ill-mannered and pert; Julia thought so, too; but then she told a whole room full of visitors that Julia was coming as soon as she had put in her new teeth; the child is a great help to me in the house, and remarkably open and truthful, as you may notice.”

“Yes, the very densest must admit that, but the naked truths she introduces so gleefully are not always pleasant additions to a family circle.”

“Perhaps not—perhaps she is too outspoken; she ought to go to school. We must think it over, but in these hard times, George, I don’t know how we are to afford the expense.”

“But I always understood that Major Malone had his land in his own hands.”

“I am sorry to say he has, but farming is not his forte. We are always short of money. I cannot think how it is!”

She knew but too well how it was. The ready money received for oats, barley, and young stock, went straight into the Major’s yawning pockets, and then mysteriously evaporated! How could she divulge to her son that his stepfather had lost seven hundred pounds at the Curragh, and nearly as much at Cork Park races; that his wine merchant and tailor were raving for their money; that the servants were owed a year’s wages; that she blushed to meet the baker’s wife, and was afraid to enter the post office.

“How is Denis getting on, mother?” asked George, after a pause.

“I really do not know,” she replied with evident reluctance. “Dr. Moran thinks he has abilities; he is fond of surgery, and you know, ever since he was quite a boy, he has always killed our pigs; he says himself that his next examination is absurdly easy.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“You see he has such high spirits, poor fellow,” continued his doting parent, taking up arms for her darling, against something intangible in his elder brother’s voice. “He is so young and spirited. It’s hard to be tied down to books and loathsome disecting-rooms, when he is such a splendid shot, and so fond of hunting and fishing. He is very sorry now that he ever decided to be a doctor; he says he ought to have gone into the army like you.”

“He can still be an army doctor.”

“So he can,” sighed Mrs. Malone, once more resuming her needle. “Well, we must think it over.”

George leant his elbow on the mantel-piece, and looked at her attentively. How different from the golden-haired angel of his childhood! How aged and thin, and worn she had become during these last five years!

“Mother,” he said abruptly, “you are looking ill and worried; what is the matter? Have you any trouble on your mind?”

“Yes, George, to tell the truth I have; but I am not going to share it with you. So don’t ask me. You have been only too generous—the best of sons—and if I have seen but little of you of late, nor seemed a real mother to you, I have never forgotten you day and night, and when I heard that you were so ill, I cannot tell you what I suffered, or describe my feelings.”

(The Major’s feelings were those of complacent anticipation; if George died unmarried, his income of five hundred a year lapsed to his mother for her life.)

“Are you quite sure that the sea voyage has set you up? And tell me, dear, do you wear flannel next to your skin?” gazing up into his face with an expression of intense anxiety.

“Do I look like an invalid?” he returned with an evasive smile. “I am as right as a trivet now. I was well before we reached Suez. Never mind me, but tell me all about Denis,” and leaning towards her, he said:

“Your trouble is about him, is it not?”

“George, you must be a wizard. How could you guess? Well, you are right; it is about him. His college expenses are frightful, and his tailor’s bill is incredible.”

“I should not have supposed that he spent much on his clothes,” remarked his brother gravely.

“But he does, and there is a long account at his grocer’s—he breakfasts in his rooms—for tea and sugar, and raisins, and candles—such quantities of candles, but he will study at night.” (Miserable Mrs. Malone! for candles, read whisky, for sugar, porter, for tea, gin). “I really dare not show them to his father,” and she put a ragged lace handkerchief to her eyes, and wept.

“Perhaps, mother, you had better show them to me,” suggested George.

“No, no, you are far too liberal. You have little enough as it is,” she sobbed. “I am past help,” casting her thoughts over all their debts, their accumulating debts in Dublin, Ballingoole, and at the county bank. “You might as well try to bale the sea with a tea-spoon as to help me.”

“But if I may not help my own mother, whom may I help?” he urged eagerly. “I have been living at a cheap little up country station, where I had no way of spending rupees, and I have a good balance at Cox’s. I can let you have a cheque for three hundred pounds at once.”

“Oh, George, I am ashamed to take it,” she whimpered, drawing him towards her, and throwing her arms round his neck. “You make me feel like a guilty woman; you make me feel like a thief.”

“Mother, you must never say that to me. Besides, you forget that I brought you home no presents. I was too hurried to look for things in Bombay, and I am sure you can lay out the money far more sensibly than I should have done, in trashy curiosities.”

(This three hundred pounds was part of a sum that he had set aside for his trip home; he had had visions of a couple of clever hunters, of renting a small shooting-box, of a round of the London theatres, and a trip to Paris and Nice.)

“Is it true that your Uncle Godfrey is going to make you his heir?” she asked, as she dried her eyes and brightened up a little; “I heard something about it from old Miss Holroyd.”

“No, he offered me a large allowance if I would cut the Service and marry.”

“And what did you say, George? I hope you promised to think it over.”

“I thanked him, and declined. I have enough for myself. I have no idea of marrying, and I mean to stick to the Service, as long as it will stick to me.”

“If you ever do marry, dear, I hope you will get a good wife. Marriage is a great lottery, and there are many blanks——”

One of these blanks now walked into the room in the shape of Major Malone, followed by a tray of light refreshments, also by Cuckoo, red-eyed, but tranquil.

George poured out a glass of wine, and carried it to his mother, whilst Cuckoo helped herself generously to macaroons, remarking, as she did so: “Denis says that sherry is poison—eighteen shillings a dozen—don’t you touch it; it’s only kept for visitors; we never have supper like this when we are alone. These are lovely macaroons,” speaking with her mouth full. “Cleary, the grocer, grumbled about giving them; he is owed such a bill, and he says——”

“Cuckoo,” roared her father, turning on her a countenance charged with fury, “I have told you once before to-night to hold your tongue. Upon my word, Lucy, I believe that girl is possessed of some devil. I shall pack her off to a reformatory one of these days, I swear I shall. As to Cleary, the grocer,” now blustering and helping himself to a stiff tumbler of highly-coloured whisky and water, “he is uncommonly proud of my custom, and thankful to have it. It was my father who first set him going, and without the Malones of Bridgetstown he would be in a very poor way.” (Thanks to the Malones of Bridgetstown, he was in a very poor way.)

The Major had a notion that tradespeople actually considered his orders a high compliment, and fully equivalent to cash, and when he strutted into a shop, be it tailor’s, saddler’s, or grocer’s, he selected largely of the best. He did not comprehend self-denial, nor why he should lack anything that was furnished to men of ten times his means. Yet when creditors timidly ventured to ask for their little account, he considered it a most impertinent liberty, as if they were begging for his money. He was not at all sensitive about debt; he owed bills for years to his wine merchant and tailor, and had not the most remote intention of paying them. Ready cash could be laid out so much more pleasantly and satisfactorily. Besides, when wine has been drunk, and coats worn threadbare, is it not a cruel hardship to have your immediate attention requested to a very stiff account?

Cuckoo took shelter behind the chair of her elder brother, and whispered to him, as she munched her macaroons, that “if anyone ought to be sent to a reformatory, it was Denis; he was out now, smoking in the harness room, with Casey, the jockey, and Mooney, the sweep.”

Soon after this refection the family retired to rest. George had the luxury of a fire in his room, and sat before it for a long time, buried in thought.

What a home this was! His mother a mere heart-broken household drudge; his sister a mischievous, razor-tongued little savage; his brother—he was beginning to fear that Denis, of whom his mother had written such glowing accounts, was neither more nor less than an idle scapegrace; and, as to Major Malone—he was Major Malone.

Before the mistress of the house removed her unwonted finery, she got an envelope and pencil, and hurriedly jotted down her most pressing debts. The butcher’s bill was £209. Would £80 stop Mrs. Maccabe’s mouth? The baker was owed £75, and one of Denis’ most dangerous creditors was clamouring for a hundred “on the nail.” There would be no margin for Cuckoo’s new outfit, nor for the sealskin jacket for herself, at which George had hinted. This three hundred would be a mere drop in the ocean. George must write her a larger cheque. Yes! poor woman, her finer feelings were blunted by distressing and disgraceful shifts; the iron entered into her soul when she evaded Miss Bolland, and cringed to Mrs. Maccabe—terrible Mrs. Maccabe! George was well off; he had no ties, and but few expenses; and, in spite of all her tears and deprecations, she was prepared to despoil her eldest born, to shield and succour Denis.

“Lucy,” said the Major, looking through his dressing-room door, tie in hand, “do you think that fellow would back a bill for me? Eh! what? what?”

“No, indeed, Major, I am certain he would not,” she returned indignantly.

“What have you got on that paper there? Eh, show.”

“Bills; debts; we owe so much money that I am ashamed to walk through the town. Cleary, the grocer, sent up to-day, and, as to Mrs. Maccabe, I tremble when I see her.”

“Pooh! So does everyone; you are not uncommon in that, the old termagant! I say, is that son of yours going to put his hand in his pocket? What’s the use of a rich fellow like that, if he won’t help his mother. Eh! what? what?”

“He is not rich, far from it; he believes that I have my jointure of four hundred a year; he does not know that I sold my life interest in it years ago.”

“I hope you impressed upon him that times were bad; I will go bail you cried; it’s about the only thing you are good at,” he concluded with a savage sneer.

“He has promised me a cheque for three hundred pounds,” said Mrs. Malone coldly.

“By Jove! then I will go halves!”

“No, indeed, it’s little, it’s not half enough. Do you know that we owe Kane, the baker, seventy-five pounds, and he is a poor man too.”

“Bosh! I’m a poor man; let these cormorants wait. They must; debts of honour come first, and I owe Dunne, of Jockey Hall, a hundred pounds, which will have to be paid at once.”

“A bet?”

“Yes, a bet,” he answered, with a defiant scowl.

“Tom Malone,” she said, tearing the envelope slowly as she spoke, “do you ever think what my life is? Do you know how often I wish I were dead? Do you suppose, if George Holroyd had lived, that I would be the poor, mean, unhappy wretch that I am?”

“There, don’t give me any more of that sort of stuff; you know the old proverb. Eh! what? Never marry a widow, unless her first husband was hanged. I have no doubt that if George the First was the cool-headed, fastidious, fine gentlemen his son is, he would have been devilish sick of you long ago. Mind one thing, I must have that hundred pounds this week; that chap is well off, times are hard. Why, I am actually smoking a pipe, and drinking cheap Scotch whisky! You are his mother, you have a strong claim on him. So don’t be afraid of opening your mouth.” And with this injunction, he entered his dressing-room and shut the door.

One scene more before the night closes. Let us take a peep at Belle Redmond, as she sits over her bedroom fire, with a small looking-glass in her hand, carefully examining first her teeth, then her eyelashes. She has been building fine castles in the air, ever since Juggy, at the lodge, announced that “a strange gentleman, in a grey ulster, had passed on a hack car, about six o’clock.”

“He won’t come and call to-morrow,” said Belle to herself. “No, but after to-morrow we must always have a good fire in the drawing-room, and I shall wear my brown dress, and see that Eliza is ready to answer the door. Betty must make a cake. Oh, dear, I hope he will be better than that oaf, Denis! And have some life and go in him, for I shall do my best to marry him, no matter how hideous he is. Another winter here would finish me. I should certainly be found hanging from the baluster one fine morning. How Eliza would scream! But she would not cut me down. No! she hates me,” and she smiled at her reflection in the mirror. “Yes,” she said, with a nod to herself, “I am as handsome and as irresistible as ever. And to this young Holroyd, fresh from dowdy, withered women in India, I shall seem divine.”

Then she laid aside her mirror, and, resting her chin on her hand, gazed into the fire, with an expression of unusual contentment in her dissatisfied dark eyes. Here is an opportunity to sketch Belle’s portrait, as she sits thus staring meditatively into the red turf sods. She inherits her dark eyes, her excitable disposition, and her volcanic spirit, from her grandmother, a French Canadian; and ever since she was a pretty and precocious—though somewhat sallow—infant, she has absolutely ruled her mother, who never attempted to contradict her wishes, nor to restrain her unusually fiery temper. What was amusing petulance at three years of age, was ungovernable passion at—well—twenty-nine. For each disastrous love affair, or social disappointment, had served to increase the force of her most prominent characteristic. She made no effort to control her furies before inferiors, or in the bosom of her family, for she had an idea that, as she was beautiful, she was absolved from being good! Fortunately these domestic tornadoes were of short duration, and, whilst the storm raged (and Belle raved, and stamped, and screamed) all the household bent before it, as reeds in a strong gale. When it passed over, the frantic madwoman of ten minutes previously, having gained her end, was a kissing, weeping, coaxing slave. Mrs. Redmond spoke of these visitations as “attacks on the nerves,” but the servants gave them a totally different interpretation. Belle’s scenes were chiefly enacted for the benefit of the home circle; but now and then there had been disagreeable outbreaks in shops, in boarding-houses, and, above all, at the rehearsals of private theatricals, after which, it had been the painful office of her miserable mother to offer abject apologies, to eat humble pie, and to fly the neighbourhood. Belle was undoubtedly out of her element at Noone, a veritable swan upon a turnpike road. She danced admirably, sang delightful little French songs, and acted with such grace and verve and real dramatic feeling, that spiteful people hinted that she was a professional, whose temper had been the bane of her engagements. But who wanted piquant chansons, or inimitable acting, in dreary Ballingoole? They would have been respectively stigmatised as French trash and tomfoolery; Belle pined for her former nomadic existence, and detested her present respectable anchorage. She loved the town and the gay haunts of fashion; loathed the country, and had a true Frenchwoman’s abhorrence of wet fields, muddy roads, strong boots and draggled petticoats. Although she only understood house-keeping from a lady lodger’s point of view, to wit, hashes, cold mutton, and poached eggs, she nevertheless eagerly seized the reins of government on her arrival at Noone. Her restless spirit and maddening tongue (and, they said, mean ways) soon drove the old servants wild—servants accustomed to unlimited meat, unlimited tea, and unlimited leisure.

There was one tremendous scene of powerful domestic interest, and they all gave warning, and departed “en masse.” After this catastrophe, the keys were made over to Betty, who established a new régime—and a great calm. Belle was unspeakably miserable; she had nothing to do; no congenial society; nowhere to display her gay new hats. Far be it from her, to run after beagles, to gather blackberries, or to visit stupid, narrow-minded old ladies. She spent as much time from home as possible, and, when at Noone, lay novel-reading in bed, or prowled restlessly from room to room, from window to window, and filled in the weary hours by combing her poodle, writing long letters, and reorganising her wardrobe. Sometimes, in fine weather, she dressed herself carefully, arrayed “Mossoo” in a pink ribbon, and strolled along a road that led to an—alas!—distant garrison town, on the meagre chance of meeting an officer who might drift thus far to shoot or fish. If she encountered one or two in a sporting dog-cart, and if they had stared very hard at the pretty, smartly dressed girl, and her well-trimmed companion, Belle’s mission was accomplished; she was happy for that day.

The morning after George Holroyd’s arrival, Mrs. Malone had a tearful and pathetic conversation with her son; and, as she sauntered, arm in arm with him, round the wintry garden, she opened her mouth to such an extent, that he was compelled to make his head-quarters at Bridgetstown. There would be no spare cash for clever hunters, a trip abroad, or even a little mixed shooting. Surely Belle Redmond’s star was in the ascendant.