Volume II Part 17 (2/2)
”Of course. It is at the other end of everything. And then you go into the House of Commons, and rave about Ireland, just as if you loved her as I love the Forest, where I hope to live and die. I think all this wild enthusiasm about Ireland is the silliest thing in the world when it comes from the lips of landowners who won't pay their beloved country the compliment of six months' residence out of the twelve.”
After this Lord Mallow gave up all hope of sympathy from Miss Tempest.
What could be expected from a young lady who could not understand patriotism in the abstract, but wanted to pin a man down for life to the spot of ground for which his soul burned with the ardour of an orator and a poet? Imagine Tom Moore compelled to live in a humble cot in the Vale of Avoca! He infinitely preferred his humdrum cottage in Wilts.h.i.+re. Indeed, I believe it has been proved against him that he had never seen the Meeting of the Waters, and wrote about that famous scene from hearsay. Ireland has never had a poet as Irish as Burns and Scott were Scottish. Her whole-hearted, single-minded national bard has yet to be born.
It was a relief, therefore, to Lord Mallow's active mind to find himself in conversation with a young lady who really cared for his subject and understood him. He could have talked to Lady Mabel for ever. The limits of five-o'clock tea were far too narrow. He was delighted when the d.u.c.h.ess paused as she was going away, and said:
”I hope you will come and see us at Ashbourne, Lord Mallow; the Duke will be very pleased to know you.”
Lord Mallow murmured something expressive of a mild ecstasy, and the d.u.c.h.ess swept onward, like an Australian clipper with all sails set, Lady Mabel gliding like a neat little pinnace in her wake.
Lord Mallow was glad when the next day's post brought him a card of invitation to the ducal dinner on December the 31st. He fancied that he was indebted to Lady Mabel for this civility.
”You are going, of course,” he said to Violet, twisting the card between his fingers meditatively.
”I believe I am asked.”
”She is,” answered Mrs. Winstanley, from her seat behind the urn; ”and I consider, under the circ.u.mstances, it is extremely kind of the d.u.c.h.ess to invite her.”
”Why?” asked Lord Mallow, intensely mystified.
”Why, the truth is, my dear Lord Mallow, that Violet is in an anomalous position. She has been to Lady Southminster's ball, and a great many parties about here. She is out and yet not out, if you understand.”
Lord Mallow looked as if he was very far from understanding.
”She has never been presented,” explained Mrs. Winstanley. ”It is too dreadful to think of. People would call me the most neglectful of mothers. But the season before last seemed too soon alter dear Edward's death, and last season, well”--blus.h.i.+ng and hesitating a little--”my mind was so much occupied, and Violet herself was so indifferent about it, that somehow or other the time slipped by and the thing was not done. I feel myself awfully to blame--almost as much so as if I had neglected her confirmation. But early next season--at the very first drawing-room, if possible--she must be presented, and then I shall feel a great deal more comfortable in my mind.”
”I don't think it matters one little bit,” said Lord Mallow, with appalling recklessness.
”It would matter immensely if we were travelling. Violet could not be presented at any foreign court, or invited to any court ball. She would be an outcast. I shall have to be presented myself, on my marriage with Captain Winstanley. We shall go to London early in the spring. Conrad will take a small house in Mayfair.”
”If I can get one,” said the captain doubtfully. ”Small houses in Mayfair are as hard to get nowadays as black pearls--and as dear.”
”I am charmed to think you will be in town,” exclaimed Lord Mallow; ”and, perhaps, some night when there is an Irish question on, you and Miss Tempest might be induced to come to the Ladies' Gallery. Some ladies rather enjoy a spirited debate.”
”I should like it amazingly,” cried Violet. ”You are awfully rude to one another, are you not? And you imitate c.o.c.ks and hens; and do all manner of dreadful things. It must be capital fun.”
This was not at all the kind of appreciation Lord Mallow desired.
”Oh, yes; we are excruciatingly funny sometimes, I daresay, without knowing it,” he said, with a mortified air.
He was getting on the friendliest terms with Violet. He was almost as much at home with her as Rorie was, except that she never called him by his christian-name, nor flashed at him those lovely mirth-provoking glances which he surprised sometimes on their way to Mr. Vawdrey. Those two had a hundred small jokes and secrets that dated back to Vixen's childhood. How could a new-comer hope to be on such delightful terms with her? Lord Mallow felt this, and hated Roderick Vawdrey as intensely as it was possible for a nature radically good and generous to hate even a favoured rival. That Roderick was his rival, and was favoured, were two ideas of which Lord Mallow could not dispossess himself, notwithstanding the established fact of Mr. Vawdrey's engagement to his cousin.
”A good many men begin life by being engaged to their cousins,”
reflected Lord Mallow. ”A man's relations take it into their heads to keep an estate in the family, and he is forthwith set at his cousin like an unwilling terrier at a rat. I don't at all feel as if this young man were permanently disposed of, in spite of all their talk; and I'm very sure Miss Tempest likes him better than I should approve of were I the cousin.”
While he loitered over his second cup of coffee, with the ducal card of invitation in his hand, it seemed to him a good opportunity for talking about Lady Mabel.
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