“Oh, miss dear, I—I—faix, then I couldn’t!”
“’Tis no harm whatever,” broke in Michael, with a loud laugh.
“Then out with it!” commanded Mr. West from a corner, where he was sitting on a kist, swaying his little legs high above the ground, and fully expecting to hear some pleasant Irish compliment about his daughter doing everything well.
“She says the lady has such a wonderful knack, that she must have had great practice entirely, and ’tis a married woman she is, with a baby of her own!”
This was not the description of speech that Mr. West or any one expected. He frowned heavily, looked extremely displeased, and growled out, “I think the old hag in the corner has been having some of your brew, Michael,” whilst the rest of the party set up a sudden buzz of talking, to hide the unfortunate remark of the venerable semi-savage.
Poor Miss West! No one ventured to look at her save Lord Tony. She had bent her face over the baby, and her very forehead was crimson.
The captious weather now made a diversion; it was going to clear. People began to shake their capes and hats, to fumble for their gloves. Mrs. Leech—it was well there was no looking-glass, for every one was more or less damp and dishevelled—felt her faultless fringe was perfectly straight, her feathers in a sort of pulp, thanks to the torrents upon a Kerry mountain. The torrents had ceased entirely, the deceitful sun was shining, and once more the picnicers sallied forth, not sorry to breathe a little fresh air. Mr. West had placed half a crown in Mrs. Riordan’s hand, and received in return many blessings; but his daughter had pressed a whole sovereign into the infant’s tiny palm, ere she followed her father and guests over the threshold.
And now to get home! The short grass was damp, noisy rivulets trickled boastfully after the rain, but the mountains and low country looked like a brilliant, freshly painted scene: the hills were gay with gorse, cranberries, and bright purple heather, and dotted with sheep and little black cattle. The party now descended two and two—Lord Tony and Madeline the last. He was really in love with this pretty tall girl who walked beside him, with a deer-stalker cap on her dark hair, a golf-cape over her graceful shoulders, and a lovely colour, the result of rain and wind, in her charming face. The rain and wind had but enhanced her beauty. Yes; they would get on capitally; she would be not only a wife to be proud of, but a bonne camarade, ever gay, quick-witted, and good-tempered; a capital hostess and country gentleman’s helpmate. How well she got over the ground, how nimbly she scaled the stiles, and climbed the loose walls without bringing down half a ton of stones. Here was another opportunity: speak he would. Gradually and clumsily he brought the subject round to the topic nearest his heart. His speech was half uttered, when she interrupted him, saying—
“Lord Anthony, I like you very much as a friend——”
“You need not offer me platonic friendship, because I won’t have it, and I don’t believe in it. No,” he began impetuously. “And if you like me, I am quite content.”