CHAPTER XX.
NOT “A HAPPY COUPLE.”
The postponed picnic to the Devil’s Pie-dish eventually came off. It took place on the occasion of what was called “a holiday of obligation,” when no good Catholics are allowed to work, but must put on their best clothes and attend Mass. As there were no keepers or beaters available, the shooting-men meekly submitted to their fate, and started to the mountains, for once, minus dogs and guns, and escorting a large assortment of ladies, in a break, landau, dog-cart, and jaunting-car. The morning was lovely; the treacherous sun smiled upon and beguiled the party to the summit of one of the mountains—a wild spot commanding a splendid view of river, forest, lake, and sea—a long, long climb, but it repaid the exertion. Luncheon was laid out in the Pie-dish, a green hollow between two peaks, and it was there discussed with great appreciation. The festive party sat long. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, mists began to collect, clouds to gather; the scenery at their feet grew dimmer and yet dimmer, the hypocritical sunshine vanished and gave way to rain, heavy, stinging rain. There was no shelter, not for miles—not a bush, much less a tree; but at a distance some one descried what looked like a mound of stones, but proved to be a cottage. To this dwelling every one ran at their utmost speed. It certainly was a house—a little humped-back cot that seemed as if it had been in the act of running down hill and had sat down. It consisted of a kitchen and bedroom, and the former could scarcely contain the company, even standing. There were one or two stools, a chest, and a chair. The atmosphere was stifling, but “any port in a storm;” anything sooner than the icy, cutting rain that swept the mountain. When their eyes became accustomed to the place, it turned out that besides smoke and hens, it contained an old woman, who sat huddled up by the fire enjoying a pipe, and who stared stolidly and made no answer to eager inquiries for permission to remain. She was either stone deaf or silly, possibly both. But suddenly a barefooted girl entered, with a creel of wet turf on her back.
“I see yees running, and yees are kindly welcome,” upsetting her load in a corner, and shaking out her wet shawl. “The grannie, there,” pointing, “has no English; ’tis only Irish she can spake.”
“Irish! Oh, I’d like to hear it so much!” cried Miss Pamela. “Oh, do make her talk!” Exactly as if she were alluding to some mechanical toy, such as a talking-doll.
“She’s not much of a talker, at all, miss—and she’s cruel old; and so many quality coming in on her at once has a bit stunned her. I’m sorry we are short of sates,” looking round, and proffering the turf creel to Lady Rachel. “And I’ve no tay, but lashins of butter-milk.”
“Never mind anything, thank you,” said Mr. West, pompously; “we have just lunched.”
“Oh, an’ is that yourself, me noble gentleman, from the castle below! An’ ’tis proud I am to see yees. And here’s Michael for ye,” as a tall dark countryman with long black whiskers entered, amazement at the invasion depicted in his dark blue eyes.
“’Tis a wet day, Michael,” said Mr. West, who employed him as a beater.
“’Tis so, yer honour.”
“Do you think it will last?” asked Madeline.
“I could not rightly say, miss; but I think not. It come on so sudden.”
“I suppose you have been to the town to Mass?”
“Yes, sir; second Mass.”
“Did you meet any friends, Micky? Did you get a drink?” inquired Lord Tony, insinuatingly.
“No, not to say a drink, sir.”
“Well, what?”
“Just a taste.”
“And if you were to be treated, Mick, what would you choose? Give it a name, now,” said Lord Tony, genially.
“Oh, whisky and porter!”
“What, together?”
“Ay. And why not? Sure, ’tis the best in many ways.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Faix! an’ with raison. If I drink porter I’m full before I’m drunk, ye see; if I drink whisky, I’m drunk before I’m full, and both together comes about right.”
“Michael,” cried his wife, “’tis you as ought to be dead ashamed, talking in such a coarse, loose way before the ladies! Ye has them all upset, so ye has.” And, to make a diversion, she darted into the room and returned with (by way of a treat for the ladies) a baby in her arms. It had weak, blinking, blue eyes, was wrapped in an old shawl, and was apparently about a month old. However, it created quite the sensation its mother had anticipated.
“Oh, Lord,” cried Mr. West, “a baby! I hate babies, though I like small children—especially little boys! Take it away before it starts screaming.”
“Oh, show it to me! Let me have it!” came simultaneously from several quarters; but in each case the baby received its new friend with a yell, and had to be promptly returned to its apologetic parent. Several had tried their hand upon it; Miss Pam, Mrs. Leach, Miss Lumley, and Lady Rachel had been repulsed in turn.
“Now, Maddie, let us see what way you would manage it, or if you know which end is uppermost!” said Lady Rachel, taking the child from its mother, and laying it in Madeline’s arms.
After a storm a calm! The irritable infant was actually quiet at last, and glared at his new nurse in silence; and whilst Madeline hushed it and rocked it, and talked to it in a most approved fashion, the delighted mother and granny looked on with grateful surprise. And then the old lady made some loud remark in Irish, and pointed her pipe at Madeline.
“What does she say? Oh, do tell us?” cried Miss Pamela, excitedly. “Do—do, please!”
“Oh, miss dear, I—I—faix, then I couldn’t!”
“’Tis no harm whatever,” broke in Michael, with a loud laugh.
“Then out with it!” commanded Mr. West from a corner, where he was sitting on a kist, swaying his little legs high above the ground, and fully expecting to hear some pleasant Irish compliment about his daughter doing everything well.
“She says the lady has such a wonderful knack, that she must have had great practice entirely, and ’tis a married woman she is, with a baby of her own!”
This was not the description of speech that Mr. West or any one expected. He frowned heavily, looked extremely displeased, and growled out, “I think the old hag in the corner has been having some of your brew, Michael,” whilst the rest of the party set up a sudden buzz of talking, to hide the unfortunate remark of the venerable semi-savage.
Poor Miss West! No one ventured to look at her save Lord Tony. She had bent her face over the baby, and her very forehead was crimson.
The captious weather now made a diversion; it was going to clear. People began to shake their capes and hats, to fumble for their gloves. Mrs. Leech—it was well there was no looking-glass, for every one was more or less damp and dishevelled—felt her faultless fringe was perfectly straight, her feathers in a sort of pulp, thanks to the torrents upon a Kerry mountain. The torrents had ceased entirely, the deceitful sun was shining, and once more the picnicers sallied forth, not sorry to breathe a little fresh air. Mr. West had placed half a crown in Mrs. Riordan’s hand, and received in return many blessings; but his daughter had pressed a whole sovereign into the infant’s tiny palm, ere she followed her father and guests over the threshold.
And now to get home! The short grass was damp, noisy rivulets trickled boastfully after the rain, but the mountains and low country looked like a brilliant, freshly painted scene: the hills were gay with gorse, cranberries, and bright purple heather, and dotted with sheep and little black cattle. The party now descended two and two—Lord Tony and Madeline the last. He was really in love with this pretty tall girl who walked beside him, with a deer-stalker cap on her dark hair, a golf-cape over her graceful shoulders, and a lovely colour, the result of rain and wind, in her charming face. The rain and wind had but enhanced her beauty. Yes; they would get on capitally; she would be not only a wife to be proud of, but a bonne camarade, ever gay, quick-witted, and good-tempered; a capital hostess and country gentleman’s helpmate. How well she got over the ground, how nimbly she scaled the stiles, and climbed the loose walls without bringing down half a ton of stones. Here was another opportunity: speak he would. Gradually and clumsily he brought the subject round to the topic nearest his heart. His speech was half uttered, when she interrupted him, saying—
“Lord Anthony, I like you very much as a friend——”
“You need not offer me platonic friendship, because I won’t have it, and I don’t believe in it. No,” he began impetuously. “And if you like me, I am quite content.”
“Stop! Please let me finish. I like you so much, that I am going to tell you a great secret.”
“You are engaged to be married?” he exclaimed.
“No; I am married already.”
Lord Tony halted. She also came to a full stop, and they looked at one another in expressive silence.
She was wonderfully cool, whilst he was crimson with astonishment; his eyes dilated, his mouth quivered, his lower lip dropped.
“You are joking!” he gasped out at last.
“No; indeed I am not.”
“And where is your husband?”
“He is in London. My father does not know that such a person exists.”
“Great Cæsar’s ghost!”
“No; I have never dared to tell him yet. I married from school,” she continued, and in a few hurried sentences gave the outline of her story, omitting her husband’s name and profession, and all reference to her small son. “You see how I am situated. I have not ventured to tell the truth yet, and I confide my secret to your honour and your keeping.”
“Of course it is perfectly safe,” he began, rather stiffly, “and I feel myself very much honoured by your confidence, and all that.”
“Oh, Lord Tony, please don’t talk to me in that tone,” she exclaimed, with tears in her eyes. “I told you—because—you are what men call ‘a good sort;’ because I feel that I can rely upon you; because, though you like me, you don’t really care for me, you know you don’t; nor have I ever encouraged you or any man. My father is devoted to you; he is determined to—to—well—you know his wishes—and I want you to allow him to think that you have cooled, and have changed your mind. You—you understand?”
“And play the hypocrite all round!”
“Yes, but only for a little while.”
“Rather hard lines, when I have not changed my mind. Is Rachel in the swindle?”
“No—oh no!—no one but you and me and my husband, and a friend of his.”
“And pray, when do you intend to discharge your little domestic bomb?”
“When I go home. If I were to speak now, I should be turned out, probably on the hall door-steps, and the party would be broken up.”
(Yes, and there were several good days’ deer-stalking still in prospect, thought Lord Tony, much as he was concerned at this recent astounding confidence.)
“I know you are dreadfully vexed,” she said humbly; “but you will forgive me and stand by me, won’t you?” and she looked at him appealingly. She had really most lovely and expressive eyes; who could refuse them anything?
“Meaning, that I am to neglect you openly, slight you on all occasions?”
“There is a medium; you need not be too marked in your defection, unless you like”—with a short, hysterical laugh.
“I don’t like the job at all; but I will lend you a hand, and be a party to the fraud. Whoever is your husband, Mrs. What’s-your-name, is a deuced lucky fellow!”
“Then it is a bargain, that you keep my secret?”
“Yes; here is my hand on it!”
At this instant (it is constantly the way) Mr. West paused and looked behind, and was extremely pleased. He had intended to shout to this tardy pair to hurry on, for the carriages were waiting, the horses, of course, catching cold. However, he must make allowances, under the circumstances.
Evidently Tony had come to the point again, and been accepted. He hastened down the road in great delight, hustled the company into various vehicles, and departed in the landau vis-à-vis to Mrs. Leach (the wretched condition of her hair and complexion discounted many delightful recollections of her beauty); and he took care to leave the dog-cart behind, for the sole use of the happy couple.