The Lawrence family, and one or two others, were in the secret of “Miss Ruby Scarlett”—but the station, when hard up for a topic, still discourses of the mysterious, mad French lady who invaded the collector’s bungalow, and then disappeared. To Bobby Lovett the whole story was solemnly related by Mrs. Tompkins, and Bobby as solemnly gave it as his opinion that the amazing creature who flashed into the station for two days was a visitant from another world—possibly from the vast deep!
XI
THE OLD TOWN HOUSE
On a certain damp October evening in Dublin, not very long ago, a tall girl of two and twenty stood by Nelson’s pillar, obviously awaiting the arrival of a tram; her threadbare waterproof, and rusty felt hat, hinted at a low exchequer, and were but a mean accompaniment to a pair of splendid grey eyes and a brilliant complexion; in fact, such an attractive and arresting face was not often to be encountered even in a city justly celebrated for its pretty women. Tram after tram arrived, discharged passengers, and departed crammed to the doors, but still the girl’s friend came not.
At last “Patience at the foot of a monument” had its reward. An active, curly-headed young man sprang from a still-moving Donnybrook car, and hastened to join her with outstretched hands.
“I am most frightfully sorry, Bridge,” he began; “could not get off till now—such a heavy day at the Bank. I got your note.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” she answered cheerfully, “I just wanted to have a little talk with you about Granny.”
“Yes, so you said,” he assented, as they turned out of the crowd, and walked away at a brisk pace in the direction of Rutland Square.
Denis D’Arcy and Bridget Doyne had known one another all their lives; their people came from the same county, and were distantly connected. The D’Arcys were a military race, and had gained more glory than gold; the Doynes of Castle Doyne, on the contrary, owned a vast estate, and were once renowned for keeping hounds and racehorses, and dispensing the almost princely hospitality of old times. Both the D’Arcys and Doynes had come down in the world by many and painful degrees; their names were almost forgotten, and their places knew them no more. These two were the last representatives of the D’Arcy and Doyne families; one was a bank clerk at a salary of a hundred and twenty pounds a year; the other lived with her grandmother, an old lady of eighty, whose exquisite needlework brought them a little bread and tea, whilst the girl herself gave sixpenny music-lessons in their humble neighbourhood, and read the daily papers to a blind old gentleman, and for her services received three shillings a week.
In spite of their poor circumstances and shabby clothes, the young couple presented a surprisingly contented appearance, as they hurried along through the soft autumn mist. The pair were engaged, and deeply in love with one another; the mere fact of being together stood for complete, if transitory, happiness.
“You say that Granny wishes to see me most particularly,” said D’Arcy; “have you any idea what it’s about?—has anything extra happened?”