‘But where are the maids?’
‘Over the stables at the western side, some of them.’
‘You don’t say so!’ says Mrs. Hennessy. ‘Bless me, but they wouldn’t like—you know, the—er—the atmosphere!’
‘Oh, there’s ways of doing away with that too,’ says Miss Blake, with a knowing air. ‘But you’ll come in for a cup of tea, won’t you? Jane’s dyin’ to have a chat with you.’
Miss Blake is hardly to be trusted in matters such as these, her imagination being extraordinarily strong. And, indeed, the idea of those stables rose alone from her great mind. But although there are still corners in the splendid old Hall to let, it must be confessed that it is pretty full at present.
Guests at the Park! Such a thing had not been heard of for many years. Not for the last eight years, at all events.
Then Crosby, who was about twenty-five, came home from Thibet, and his sister Katherine, who was quite a girl—being six years his junior—had been brought over from England by her aunt to freshen up her old love for him, and to stay with him for his birthday. Not longer. The birthday came off within the week of their arriving. Lady Melland was a woman of Society, who hated earwigs, and early birds, and baa-lambs, and insisted on bringing quite a big company ‘on tour’ with her on this re-introduction of the brother to the sister, and had organized a distinct rout at the Hall during her memorable stay. It had created a fearful, if pleasurable, impression at the time, and people are beginning now to wonder in this little village if Lady Forster will be a worthy representative of her aunt. Or if perchance the aunt will again take up the deal; for Lady Melland has, they say, come here with her.
However, for once ‘they say’ is wrong. Katherine Crosby had married Sir William Forster two years after the termination of that remarkable visit, and nothing had been seen of her since that, until now. She had, however, in between shaken off Lady Melland.
She has brought an innumerable company in her train, thus justifying the idea of Curraghcloyne that she would probably follow in her aunt’s footsteps, and, as I have said, the village has waked to find itself no longer deserted, but the centre of a very brilliant crowd.
Yesterday was the first of August, Saturday, and a most unendurable one on the small platform of the railway-station. Possibly during its brief existence so many basket-trunks have never been laid upon its modest flags before. To-day is Sunday, and possibly also the parish church has never had so large a congregation within its whitewashed walls. Even the Methodists, quite a large portion of the Curraghcloyne people, have deserted their chapel for the orthodox church. Even Miss Ricketty has been heard to say with distinct regret that she ‘wished she was a Protestant for once.’