No! Lizzie in her heart loathed the business; she was rather romantic, and there was no poetry about a butcher’s shop, and ribs and briskets. Yes, Lizzie was decidedly romantic, and it was passing sweet to her, to meet a young gentleman, by stealth, heir to a good old name and property (Heaven help your innocence, Lizzie!) and to walk along lonely lanes, with her head on his shoulder, and his arm round her waist; she was exceedingly sly, cautious and clever to have kept her secret for a whole year from lynx-eyed Ballingoole. Poor Ballingoole; that was so badly in want of some new topic of conversation. She frequently sent and received notes, placing them under a certain stone, on a certain wall, that was her private post office. Latterly Lizzie had grown bolder, and during a visit to Dublin she and Denis had had the audacity to go to the theatre, and to the circus in company, and to take a Sunday stroll on Kingstown pier; and so far they were undiscovered. The evening after Betty had returned home, from ease, and idleness, and play, to economy, and more economy and work, she went for a long walk up what was called “the bog road,” to give the dogs a run. This was their favourite direction; the cabins were few and far between, and contained a fair supply of active cats and not too many furious, ferocious lurchers, only too ready to rush out and attack three peaceable, gentlemanlike little white dogs. On her way home, in a lane not far from Bridgetstown, Betty saw two figures standing near the hedge. At first she scarcely noticed them, but on nearer approach she perceived that they were lovers—a man—a gentleman—and a girl; the girl’s hand was on his shoulder; and she seemed to be speaking to him eagerly, he replying with expressive nods, and then he suddenly raised her face by the chin, kissed her hastily, and disappeared through an adjacent gap.
They were totally unconscious of a spectator, and as the girl turned back, she came almost face to face with Betty—the girl was Lizzie Maccabe.
“Good evening, miss,” she said in some confusion.
“Lizzie, who was that you were speaking to?” enquired the young lady, in a tone of austere displeasure.
“Indeed, Miss Elizabeth, it was just a friend.”
“I could see that, but who was it?”
“Well, then, indeed, Miss Elizabeth, I don’t see what right you have to ask.”
“The same right as I would have to try and put you out, if I saw your clothes on fire, or to throw you a rope if you were drowning. You were walking with a gentleman, Lizzie.”
“And if I was, miss?” returned Lizzie, flippantly, “sure the road is not mine!”
“If you won’t tell me, I shall speak to your aunt; she had better look after you.”