“I’m afraid you mismanaged the business—eh? You just leave it to me. I’ll arrange it!”
“No—no—no. That’s just the one thing I bar. Interference would dish the whole concern. I beg and implore of you to leave—a—well alone—for the present, at any rate. Miss West and I understand one another.”
“I’m glad of that; for I’m blessed if I understand either of you!” exclaimed his disgusted listener.
“Ah! hullo, there goes Miss Pace, and I promised to play tennis with her. I must go and get my bat and shoes.” Exit.
At the end of September the tide of enjoyment at Clane was at its height. Theatricals were in rehearsal—that fertile field for flirtation and fighting. The bags of the season had been enviably heavy; the poor neighbours were sensible of a pleasant circulation of money and new ideas; prices were rising steadily. The wealthy neighbours appreciated Mr. West’s princely hospitality, and spoke of him as “not a bad sort in his way, though a shocking little bounder.” Mrs. Leach had prolonged her visit, and her attentions to her host were becoming quite remarkable. He was not an ardent sportsman; his short legs were unaccustomed to striding over the heather-clad mountains; he did not want to shoot deer—in fact, he was rather afraid of them. So he left the delights of his shooting to well-contented, keen young men, and was easily beguiled into long saunters among the grounds and woods in the syren’s company. To tell the truth, they were not much missed, and they frequently rested on rustic seats, and talked to one another with apparent confidence—flattering confidence. He spoke of Madeline’s future—his earnest desire to see her suitably married. “A girl like her might marry a duke; don’t you think so, Mrs. Leach?”
“She might,” said the lady, but without a trace of enthusiasm in her voice—in fact, there was an inflection of doubt. “She is undeniably lovely, but——”
“But what?”
“I—well—I am sentimental” (about as sentimental as a charwoman), “and I have my own ideas. I think that dear Madeline has a private romance: that she either cares for some one whom she can never marry——”
“That’s nonsense,” interrupted her companion, impatiently. “I have her word of honour that there is no one she wants to marry.”
“Oh, well, she may have loved and lost,” said the lady, sweetly; “for, speaking as a woman, it is inconceivable that a girl who is, or was, heart-free could be absolutely indifferent to every one. She has dozens of admirers, for she is not only very pretty, but”—and she smiled enchantingly into Mr. West’s little eyes—“very rich—your heiress. It is my opinion that Madeline has some little closet in her heart that you have never seen—that she is constant to some memory. Of course, time tries all things, and in time this memory will fade; but I am positive that dearest Madeline will not marry for some years.” Then she tapped his arm playfully. They were sitting side-by-side in a shady path in the vast pleasure grounds. “You will be married before her yourself.”