A bird of passage

by B. M. Croker

"Not they—if they did know, I doubt if they would inform you, as they are even more disagreeable than they look,—and that is saying much. However, I shall get a friend to sound them about their cousin. I believe they treated her like a servant, and made her carry parcels, run messages, mend their clothes, and button their boots!"

"How did you hear this? from Miss Denis?"

"She never named them. I'm afraid to tell you, lest you should think me a second Mrs. Creery."

"No fear—there could be but one Mrs. Creery—she is matchless."

"Well, my sister's maid, Plunket—now really this is downright gossip—came to her from the Platts, and one day we were talking about fine heads of hair, and she described the beautiful hair of a poor young lady in her last place,—Mrs. Platt's niece, Miss Denis; and so it all came out, for of course I pricked up my ears when I heard her name."

During this conversation the curtain had risen on the second act, and the entire audience was convulsed with delight at one of Grossmith's songs, and yet these two talked on, and never once cast their eyes to the stage. Indeed, Mrs. Durand had almost turned her back on the actors, and was wholly engrossed in an interesting little drama in private life. The other occupants of the box were in ecstasies with the performers, and Captain Durand, after gasping and wiping his eyes, turned to his wife impatiently, and said,—

"Well, really, Mary, you might just as well have stayed at home, and talked there; you have done nothing but gossip. I thought you were wild to see this piece. If you are so bored yourself, you might at least give Lisle a chance of enjoying it!"

"Charley says I must not go on chattering any longer, distracting your attention from the play. We can finish our conversation another time."—So saying, she took up her opera glass, and addressed herself seriously to the performance.

As for Gilbert Lisle, he leant back in his chair, and also fixed his eyes on the stage, but he saw absolutely nothing. If he had been asked to describe a character, a scene, or a song, he could not have done so to save his life. His mind was in a state of extraordinary confusion; he was dazed, overwhelmed, at the situation in which he found himself.

So he had been the dupe, and tool, of Quentin from first to last! It seemed incredible, that Quentin, to gain a momentary empty triumph, had stooped to theft, in order to bolster up a lie, and maintain his reputation as a lady-killer. Then as for Miss Denis,—if she had not been engaged to Quentin, and had never parted with the ring, what must she think of him? He held his breath at this poignant reflection. If any one had jilted her,—if any one had behaved vilely, if any one was a dishonoured traitor, it was he—Gilbert Lisle—sitting there staring stupidly before him, surrounded by ignorant and confiding friends, who believed him to be a gentleman, and a man of honour! As he cast his eyes over a mental picture, and saw himself, as he must appear to Helen, he was consumed by a fever of shame, that seemed to devour him. To live under the imputation of such conduct, was torture of the most exquisite description to a man of his temperament;—who had such a delicate sense of personal honour, and such chivalrous reverence for other people's veracity, that he had fallen an easy prey to an unscrupulous brazen-tongued adventurer, like James Quentin. Fury against Quentin, restored faith in his lost fiancée, were all secondary to one scorching thought, that seemed to burn his very brain—the thought of the disgrace that lay upon his hitherto unblemished name. To have sworn to return to a girl,—to have vowed to make her his wife,—and to have miserably deserted her, without message, or excuse,—left her to bear the buffets of adversity as best she could,—to earn her own living, or to eat the bread of charity, was maddening—maddening. He must get out of the theatre into the open air; but first he leant over Mrs. Durand's chair, and spoke to her in a few broken and imperfect sentences.