Volume II Part 16 (1/2)
”Of course. Burke, and Curran, and Castlereagh, and O'Connell, and fifty more have failed to steer that lumbering old vessel off the mudbank on which she stranded at some time in the dark ages; in fact, n.o.body except Oliver Cromwell ever did understand how to make Ireland prosperous and respectable, and he began by depopulating her. And here is a fresh-coloured young man, with whiskers _a la cotelette de mouton_, who thinks he was born to be her pilot, and to navigate her into a peaceful haven. He is the sort of man who will begin by being the idol of a happy tenantry, and end by being shot from behind one of his own hedges.”
”I hope not,” said Vixen, ”for I am sure he means well. And I should like him to outlive Bullfinch.”
Roderick had been very happy all dinner-time. From the soups to the ice-puddings the moments had flown for him. It seemed the briefest dinner he had ever been at; and yet when the ladies rose to depart the silvery chime of the clock struck the half-hour after nine. But Lord Mallow's hour came later, in the drawing-room, where he contrived to hover over Violet, and fence her round from all other admirers for the rest of the evening. They sang their favourite duets together, to the delight of everyone except Rorie, who felt curiously savage at ”I would that my love,” and icily disapproving at ”Greeting;” but vindictive to the verge of homicidal mania at ”Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast!”
”His 'plaidie,' indeed,” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed inwardly. ”The creature never possessed anything so comfortable or civilised. How preposterous it is to hear an Irishman sing Scotch songs. If an Irishman had a plaidie, he would p.a.w.n it for a dhrop o' the cratur.”
Later Violet and Lord Mallow sang a little duet by Masini, ”_O, que la mer est belle!_” the daintiest, most bewitching music--such a melody as the Loreley might have sung when the Rhine flowed peacefully onward below mountain-peaks s.h.i.+ning in the evening light, luring foolish fishermen to their doom. Everybody was delighted. It was just the kind of music to please the unlearned in the art. Mrs. Carteret came to the piano to compliment Violet.
”I had no idea you could sing so sweetly,” she said. ”Why have you never sung to us before?”
”n.o.body ever asked me,” Vixen answered frankly. ”But indeed I am no singer.”
”You have one of the freshest, brightest voices I ever had the happiness of hearing,” Lord Mallow exclaimed enthusiastically.
He would have liked to go on singing duets for an indefinite period. He felt lifted into some strange and delightful region--a sphere of love and harmony--while he was mingling his voice with Violet's. It made the popular idea of heaven, as a place where there is nothing but singing--an eternal, untiring choir--clearer and more possible to him than it had ever seemed before. Paradise would be quite endurable if he and Violet might stand side by side in the serried ranks of choristers.
There was quite a little crowd round the piano, shutting in Violet and Lord Hallow, and Roderick Vawdrey was not in it. He felt himself excluded, and held himself gloomingly apart, talking hunting talk with a man for whom he did not care twopence. Directly his carriage was announced--_sotto voce_ by the considerate Forbes, so as not to wound anybody's feelings by the suggestion that the festivity was on its last legs--Mr. Vawdrey went up to Mrs. Winstanley and took leave. He would not wait to say good-night to Violet. He only cast one glance in the direction of the piano, where the n.o.ble breadth of Mrs. Carteret's brocaded amber back obscured every remoter object, and then went away moodily, denouncing duet-singing as an abomination.
When Lady Mabel asked him next day what kind of an evening he had had at the Abbey House, in a tone which implied that any entertainment there must be on a distinctly lower level as compared with the hospitalities of Ashbourne, he told her that it had been uncommonly slow.
”How was that? You had some stupid person to take into dinner, perhaps?”
”No; I went in with Violet.”
”And you and she are such old friends. You ought to get on very well together.”
Rorie reddened furiously. Happily he was standing with his back to the light in one of the orchid-houses, enjoying the drowsy warmth of the atmosphere, and Mabel was engrossed with the contemplation of a fine zygopetalum, which was just making up its mind to bloom.
”Oh, yes, that was well enough; but the evening was disgustingly slow.
There was too much music.”
”Cla.s.sical?”
”Lord knows. It was mostly French and German. I consider it an insult to people to ask them to your house, and then stick them down in their chairs, and say h--sh--h! every time they open their months. If people want to give amateur concerts, let them say so when they send out their invitations, and then one would know what one has to expect.”
”I am afraid the music must have been very bad to make you so cross,”
said Lady Mabel, rather pleased that the evening at the Abbey House should have been a failure. ”Who were the performers?”
”Violet, and an Irish friend of Captain Winstanley's--a man with a rosy complexion and black whiskers--Lord Mallow.”
”Lord Mallow! I think I danced with him once or twice last season. He is rather distinguished as a politician, I believe, among the young Ireland party. Dreadfully radical.”
”He looks it,” answered Rorie. ”He has a loud voice and a loud laugh, and they seem to be making a great deal of him at the Abbey House.”
”'Tommy loves a lord,'” says Lady Mabel brightly. Rorie hadn't the faintest idea whence the quotation came. ”I daresay the Winstanleys are rather glad to have Lord Mallow staying with them.”
”The Squire would have kicked him out of doors,” muttered Rorie savagely.
”But why? Is he so very objectionable? He waltzes beautifully, if I remember right; and I thought him rather a well-meaning young man.”