Belle would possibly carry out her threat of yesterday and do something desperate, whereas, as Mr. Holroyd’s wife, in some gay Indian station, well off, well dressed, and sufficiently amused, and shifting her home perpetually, she would have everything her soul longed for—she would be happy—and Belle’s happiness was now the sole aim of her own nearly worn-out existence.
To know that Belle was in a congenial sphere, and provided with ample means, and a strong, natural protector, would lift an immense load off her mind; but Belle, the restless inmate of some cheap boarding house, discontented, embittered, and in debt, with no one to shield, or soothe her frenzies, what would be her end?
With Betty it was entirely different. She was clever, bright and young. She had all her best years before her, she would be Miss Dopping’s heiress—she would have plenty of lovers and friends wherever she went—she could marry Ghosty Moore to-morrow if she chose, and even if the worst came to the worst, she was strong, self-reliant and sensible—well able to stand alone and bear the knocks of fate. Not that these knocks could hurt her, for she was a lucky girl, and a general favourite. But this was Belle’s last chance (Belle, low be it whispered, was thirty-one). After an hour’s cogitation, and weighing and planning, Mrs. Redmond made up her mind to give the letter to her own daughter.
“And what about George and Betty?”
“Well, Betty would never know that her cousin had taken her place; she might be a little disappointed, all girls had their love trials. Why, look at Belle, she had had dozens of far worse affairs—and Betty would get plenty of other offers.”
And as to George Holroyd, she was sending him a much more suitable bride—a handsome, lively, accomplished girl, who would be a credit to him anywhere—who could sing, and act, and dress and dance—and was just cut out for an officer’s wife. She would despatch her with a first-rate outfit, and once actually en route, once landed in Bombay—George must marry her.
The short notice he had given, and his bare allusion to a name in the letter, were high trumps in her hand, and she meant to play a very bold game. Once Belle had started, it would be après Belle le déluge; she did not care what Belle’s bridegroom thought of her. She would write and give him her very distinct reasons for this arrangement. She would say that she could not spare Betty, who was too young and inexperienced, and for whom she had other views, and that sooner than disappoint him altogether, she had despatched her own daughter, who was far more fitted for society and to shine as his wife; that she wanted a good husband and a good home for Belle; for she was a dying woman, and that he must try and forgive her—if not, she would endeavour to do without his forgiveness as best she could.
“I shall pretend that the letters came by second post,” she said, as she rose and rang for hot water—and when her toilette was completed, she nerved herself for the first move in a very difficult, delicate undertaking. She took a double dose of sal-volatile, and opening her blotter, she sat down and carefully re-examined Mr. Holroyd’s love letter, and the word Betty. What was she to do with it? A pen-knife would show on such thin paper; happy thought! a blot. It would have one or two companions, for the epistle had apparently been written in great haste. She raised a well-laden pen, and carefully let fall a good-sized drop, on the word “Betty.”
Did this hard-hearted old woman suspect that she was blotting out the poor girl’s happiness at the same moment? When her task was complete, and the ink looked quite nice and dry, and natural, she nerved herself for her next move. She took a long sniff at her smelling-salts, and sent for Belle.
“Belle,” she said, as that young lady strolled indolently into the room. “I’ve had a letter.”