Mademoiselle murmured something in reply, but what, she scarcely knew, so absorbed was she in studying the charming picture made by father and daughter, the Major with his hair scarcely touched with grey, his charming smile and stalwart figure, and above him Esmeralda, in all her wonderful, gipsy-like beauty. Her hair was as dark as Bridgie’s was fair, and stood out from her head in a mass of curls and waves, her features were perfect in their haughty, aquiline curves, and the bloom of youth was on her cheeks. With such hair and colouring it would have been natural to expect brown eyes, but what gave to her face its note of distinction was the fact that they were grey, and not brown—wonderful clear grey eyes, which gave the beholder a thrill of mingled surprise and admiration every time she lifted her curled black lashes and turned them upon him. Mademoiselle stared in speechless admiration, and Esmeralda’s brothers and sisters stared at her in their turn, well pleased at the effect produced; for what was the use of groaning beneath the whims and tyrannies of “the beautiful Miss O’Shaughnessy,” if one could not also enjoy a little honour and glory once in a while?
Chapter Seventeen.
Esmeralda’s Wiles.
It was easy to see that if Pixie were the pet, Esmeralda was the pride of her father’s heart, and exercised a unique influence over him. She seated herself by his side at the table, and they teased and joked together more like a couple of mischievous children than a staid, grown-up father and his daughter. The girl was quick and apt in her replies, and Mademoiselle was conscious that the Major kept turning surreptitious glances towards herself, to see if she were duly impressed by the exhibition. He evidently delighted in showing off Esmeralda’s beauty and cleverness, and that in a wider circle than home, for presently he said meaningly—
“The hounds meet at Balligarry on Monday, Joan. It will be the best run we have had yet, and the whole county will be there. You’ll arrange to come with me, of course.”
“I’d love to, but—” Esmeralda raised her brows, and looked across the table with a glance half appealing, half apologetic—“it’s Bridgie’s turn! I went with you the last time.”
“And the time before that!” muttered Miles into his cup; but the Major waved aside the suggestion with his accustomed carelessness. “Oh, Bridgie would rather stay at home. She’ll be too much taken up with Mademoiselle to have any time to spare.”
Mademoiselle looked, as she felt, decidedly uncomfortable, but the first glance at Bridgie’s face sufficed to restore her complacency, for the smile was without a shadow of offence, and the voice in which she replied was cheerfulness itself.