Volume II Part 18 (2/2)
”Why, what would life be to you if you had not Ould Ireland to fight for?” cried Vixen, smiling at him.
”Life would be simply perfect for me if I had----”
”What?” asked Vixen, as he came to a sudden stop.
”The dearest wish of my heart. But I dare not tell you what that is yet awhile.”
Vixen felt very sorry she had asked the question. She looked wildly round for another cottage. They had just done the last habitation in a straggling village in the heart of the woods. There was nothing human in sight by which the conversation might be diverted from the uncomfortable turn it had just taken. Yes; yonder under the beechen boughs Vixen descried a small child with red legs, like a Jersey partridge, dragging a smaller child by the arm, ankle-deep in the sodden leaves. To see them, and to dart across the wet gra.s.s towards them were almost simultaneous.
”Tommy,” cried Vixen, seizing the red-legged child, ”why do you never come to the Abbey House?”
”Because Mrs. Trimmer says there's nothing for me,” lisped the infant.
”The new master sells the milk up in Lunnun.”
”Laudable economy,” exclaimed Vixen to Lord Mallow, who had followed her into the damp woodland and heard the boy's answer. ”The poor old Abbey House can hardly know itself under such admirable management.”
”There is as big a house where you might do what you liked; yes, and give away the cows as well as the milk, if you pleased, and none should say you nay,” said Lord Mallow in a low voice, full of unaffected tenderness.
”Oh, please don't!” cried Vixen; ”don't speak too kindly. I feel sometimes as if one little kind word too much would make me cry like a child. It's the last straw, you know, that crushes the camel; and I hate myself for being so weak and foolish.”
After this Vixen walked home as if she had been winning a match, and Lord Mallow, for his life, dared not say another tender word.
This was their last _tete-a-tete_ for some time. Christmas came with its festivities, all of a placid and eminently well-bred character, and then came the last day of the year and the dinner at Ashbourne.
CHAPTER XII.
”Fading in Music.”
”Mrs. Winstanley, on her marriage, by the d.u.c.h.ess of Dovedale.”
That was the sentence that went on repeating itself like a cabalistic formula in Pamela Winstanley's mind, as her carriage drove through the dark silent woods to Ashbourne on the last night of the year.
A small idea had taken possession of her small mind. The d.u.c.h.ess was the fittest person to present her to her gracious mistress, or her gracious mistress's representative, at the first drawing-room of the coming season. Mrs. Winstanley had old friends, friends who had known her in her girlhood, who would have been happy to undertake the office.
Captain Winstanley had an ancient female relative, living in a fossil state at Hampton Court, and vaguely spoken of as ”a connection,” who would willingly emerge from her aristocratic hermitage to present her kinsman's bride to her sovereign, and whom the Captain deemed the proper sponsor for his wife on that solemn occasion. But what social value had a fossilised Lady Susan Winstanley, of whom an outside world knew nothing, when weighed in the balance with the d.u.c.h.ess of Dovedale?
No; Mrs. Winstanley felt that to be presented by the d.u.c.h.ess was the one thing needful to her happiness.
It was a dinner of thirty people; quite a state dinner. The finest and newest orchids had been brought out of their houses, and the dinner-table looked like a tropical forest in little. Vixen went in to dinner with Lord Ellangowan, which was an unappreciated honour, as that n.o.bleman had very little to say for himself, except under extreme pressure, and in his normal state could only smile and look good-natured. Roderick Vawdrey was ever so far away, between his betrothed and an enormous dowager in sky-blue velvet and diamonds.
After dinner there was music. Lady Mabel played a dreary minor melody, chiefly remarkable for its delicate modulation from sharps to flats and back again. A large gentleman sang an Italian buffo song, at which the company smiled tepidly; a small young lady sighed and languished through ”Non e ver;” and then Miss Tempest and Lord Mallow sang a duet.
This was the success of the evening. They were asked to sing again and again. They were allowed to monopolise the piano; and before the evening was over everyone had decided that Lord Mallow and Miss Tempest were engaged. Only the voices of plighted lovers could be expected to harmonise as well as that.
”They must have sung very often together,” said the d.u.c.h.ess to Mrs.
Winstanley.
”Only within the last fortnight. Lord Mallow never stayed with us before, you know. He is my husband's friend. They were brother-officers, and have known each other a long time. Lord Mallow insists upon Violet singing every evening. He is pa.s.sionately fond of music.”
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