“I detest ruins; they are so dull,” said Esmeralda ungraciously; but Mr Hilliard still continued to smile and to look at her in expectant fashion, and presently, almost against her will, as it seemed, she rose from her chair and moved across the room. “Of course, if you really want to see them! It will only take a few minutes. Come then, Pixie! You were asking me to come out. It will do you good to come too.”
Bridgie and Mademoiselle exchanged a quick glance of amusement at the look of disgust which passed over the visitor’s face, and which all his politeness was not able to conceal; but Pixie pranced after her sister with willing step, for it had never entered into her heart to believe it possible that there could exist a living creature unto whom her society could be otherwise than rapturously welcome. In the cloak-room off the hall she put on two odd shoes, the two which came first to hand, and a piebald sealskin jacket, which, according to tradition, had descended from a great-aunt, and which was known in the household as “The jacket,” and worn indiscriminately by whosoever might happen to need a warm wrap.
The effect of this costume, finished off by an old bowler hat, was so weird and grotesque that at the first moment of beholding it Hilliard thought it must surely be a joke designed for his benefit; but the air of unconsciousness worn by both girls saved him from making a false move, and he speedily forgot all about Pixie in admiration of her sister. Whatever Esmeralda wore, it seemed as if this were the dress of all others to show off her beauty to the best advantage; and the grey golf-cape and knitted cap, set carelessly over her smoke-like locks, appeared at once the ideal garments for a winter promenade. Pixie slipped her arm underneath the cloak to hang on to her sister’s arm, and the three set off together across the snow-bound park.
“I suppose you know a great deal about ruins, since you are so much interested in ours,” said Esmeralda, as an opening to the conversation. “People are always interested in things they understand. That’s the only reason why I should like to be clever and learned—it would make life so much more satisfying. It doesn’t amuse me in the least to see old walls, and bits of pillars sticking out of the earth. I’d pull them all down and build something new in their place if I had the chance, but people who understand are quite different. Some people came here once on a picnic from Dublin, and father gave them permission to see over the grounds. Of course it rained, but they all stood round on the damp, soaking grass while an old gentleman gave a lecture about that miserable little ruin. He said something about the shape of the windows, and they all took notes and sketches and snapshots, as if they had never seen anything so wonderful in their lives. There is a bit of a pillar two yards high. He prosed away about that until I had to yawn, but they seemed to like it. Some of them were quite young too. There was a girl rather like Bridgie, with such a pretty hat!” Esmeralda heaved a sigh of melancholy recollection. “She stood there and let the rain soak through the ribbons while she sketched the stupid old things. I envied her so! I thought, ‘Why can’t I be interested in ruins too, and then I should have something to think about, and to amuse myself with when the time feels so long?’”
“Does the time seem long to you, then? Do you find it dull over here?” asked Hilliard, in a tone that was almost tender in its anxious solicitude; and Esmeralda heaved a sigh of funereal proportions, delighted to find herself supplied with a listener ready to sympathise with her woes. A home audience is proverbially stoical, and after the jeers and smiles of brothers and sisters, it was a refreshing change to wake a note of distress at the very beginning of a conversation. She became suddenly conscious of a feeling of acute enjoyment, but endeavoured to look pensive, as befitted the occasion, and rolled her grey eyes upward with eloquent sadness.
“Oh, dull! Dull does not express my feelings! We are so shut in here, and so little happens, and I know nothing. I have had no chance of learning and finding interests in that way.”
“Why didn’t ye study, then, when ye had the chance? Ye drove Miss Minnitt crazy with your idleness!” interposed Pixie brutally; and Esmeralda flushed and hesitated, momentarily discomfited, then, recovering herself, cast a melancholy glance in Hilliard’s face.
“Our old governess,” she explained resignedly, in the tone of one who might speak volumes, but is restrained from feelings of loyalty and decorum. “A kind old creature, so good to us! She has lived in this village all her life.”
“I understand,” said the model listener. It seemed to him quite natural that this beautiful creature possessed an intellect to match her person, and felt her eagle wings pinioned in the atmosphere of an Irish village. He wished he were only more intellectual himself, so that he might be a fitter companion, and devoutly hoped that he might make no bad slip to betray his ignorance, and so alienate her sweet confidence. “As you say, the more one knows, the less possible it should be to be dull or idle. Amusement can never make up for good solid occupation.”
“Oh, never, never!” cried Miss Esmeralda, with a fervour which brought Pixie’s eyes upon her in a flash of righteous indignation. Esmeralda to talk like this! Esmeralda, who sat at ease while others worked, who groaned aloud if asked to sew on a button, and was at once so dilatory and so inefficient that Bridgie declared it was easier to do a task at once than to unravel it after her vain attempts. Pixie gasped and pranced on ahead, her back towards the direction in which she was going, her face turned upon the culprit in kindling reproach.