For, as may be guessed, Private Juxon had proposed, and been rejected. Standing very stiff and red and upright on the passage door mat, he had confessed his sense of responsibility and explained his views.
“The general run of feelin’ in the regiment bein’ the same, Miss, as her own, that I’m bound as a man to keep my promise to Peggy Donohoe, whether she’s you or you are ’er. I’ve took the freedom of callin’ to say as wot I’m ready,� said Juxon. “An’ the weddin’ was to come off in June; but you’ve only got to name an earlier day, Miss, an’ I’ll ’ave the banns put up, you not bein’ a Catholic, like Peggy—which I ought to call ’er Miss Rufford now, as owing to ’er station, Miss. But if you think I’ll ever come short in duty an’ respect to the Major’s daughter, because she’s turned out to be only the Sergeant’s, you’re wrong, Miss, you’re wrong—upon my bloo——upon my ’tarnal soul!�
And then it was that Emmie Rufford conferred upon Private Juxon the title of nobility, which made him a proud man—and unconditionally refused his offer, making him a happy one.
She is now married to Captain Gerry Garthside, who yet fulfilled his engagement to the Senior Major’s daughter in leading her to the altar. For within a week the bubble had burst, topsy-turvydom reigned no more, the barracks ceased to seethe like one of its own mess cauldrons, and Peggy Donohoe was compelled to relinquish the privilege of calling Major Rufford “Papa.� For old Aunt Biddy Kinsella had been discovered in the smokiest corner of her grandson’s cottage at Carricknaclee, in Aher, by a smart young solicitor’s clerk; and her sworn deposition, duly marked with her cross and attested by her parish priest, dispersed the clouds of doubt from the Major’s horizon, relieved Sir Alured’s moustache from an unusual strain, and proved the deceased Mrs. Donohoe to have been the victim of a delusion.
“For ’twas at Buttevant Barracks where the regiment was stationed nineteen years ago, an’ me stayin’ on a visit wid me niece, that I saw her—Maggie Donohoe—rest her unaisy soul, the misfortnit craythur!—I saw her change the children’s clothes wid the two eyes I have in my head,� said Aunt Biddy Kinsella, “barrin’ that only wan av thim was at the keyhole. ‘Och, murdher!’ sez I, lettin’ a screech an’ flyin’ in on her—for I had the use av me legs in thim days—‘what have you done, woman, asthore?’ ‘Made a lady av little Peggy,’ says she, wid the fingers av her hooked like claws ready to fly at me, ‘an’ I dar’ you to bethray me.’ ‘Bethray!’ sez I. ‘It’s bethrayed her to the divil, you mane—that she’ll be brought up a black Prodesdan’, and not a dacent Catholic, as a Donohoe should be by rights.’ ‘Holy Virgin, forgive me! Sure, I never thought av that!’ sez herself, and all thrimblin’ we undhressed the children an’ changed the clothes again. An’ a day or so afther the Major’s baby was waned an’ wint back to uts mother. But Maggie Donohoe was niver the same in her mind afther that day. Sit an’ brood she would, an’ hour by hour; an’ creep out av her own bed an’ into mine night afther night, and wake me wid her cowld hand upon me mouth an’ the whisper in me ear to know had she given little Peggy’s sowl to the divil or changed the childhren back afther all! An’ as years wint on she kem to a quieter mind, but on her dyin’ bed the ould fear and thrimblin’ got hould av her ag’in, an’ she tould Donohoe—not what she’d done at all, at all!—but what she wanst had the intintion av doin’, but that her heart failed her; an’ so made a fool av the man that owned her, as many another woman has done before!�
Thus Aunt Biddy Kinsella, who, having spoken, may be dismissed to her smoky corner under the turf thatch, where a greasy parcel reached her in the middle of the following June, containing, not an olive branch, but a concrete slab of wedding cake, with the joint compliments of Mr. and Mrs. Dancey Juxon. For “the general run of feelin’ in the regiment� was in favor of Private Juxon’s renewing his matrimonial engagements to Peggy Donohoe, now that she had been proved, past all doubt, to be herself. And by the last advices received from headquarters it appears that Mrs. Lance-Corporal Juxon is acting at this moment as nurse to the Garthside baby.
PONSONBY AND THE PANTHERESS
I HAVE called this story “Ponsonby and the Pantheress,� because Ponsonby’s nocturnal visitor undoubtedly belonged to the genus Carnaria, species F. pardus, the Pardalis of the ancients. The whole thing hinges on Ponsonby’s getting a ticket of invitation to a mighty dinner given by one of the great City Livery Companies. Had he refused the invitation, and stayed at home with Mrs. Ponsonby, it would have been better for him—and for her. He would not to-day have been a silent, atrabilious man, who goes upon his way in loneliness—that mated loneliness which is of all desolate conditions on this earth the most desolate—with a vampire gnawing underneath his waistcoat. She would not have been a much-wronged, cruelly neglected woman—or the other type of sufferer, the woman who has been found out; and for ever robbed of that which women hold dearest in life—the power to create illusions.
It was a great dinner at that City Hall—a feast both succulent and juicy, and upon a scale so prodigious as to put it utterly beyond the power of a single-stomached man to do justice thereto. Many of the guests had thoughtfully provided themselves with several of these necessary organs, but Ponsonby—who had recently sold out of the Army, and invested his commission money in business, and settled down with Mrs. Ponsonby in a neat little house in Sloane Street—was still young, and fairly slim.
The baked meats and confectionery were excellent, and “the drinks�—as Betsey Prig might have observed—“was good.� It was revealed to Ponsonby that he had absorbed a considerable quantity only by the swollen condition of his latchkey when he tried to fit it into the door of the little house in Sloane Street. But after a short struggle the door opened, and Ponsonby paused a moment on the doorstep to take some observations on the weather. It was just one o’clock as he looked at his watch in the moonlight. Ponsonby was reminded of Indian moons by the lucent brightness of the broad silver orb that floated so majestically on the calm bosom of the dark overhead. She was getting near her wane, but only notifying it by an exaggerated handsomeness, like a professional Society beauty. Ponsonby thought of that simile—all by himself—and was proud of it, as he had always been a man more celebrated for his moustache than his intellect. He tied a knot in his mental pocket handkerchief to remember it by, and, facing round to go into the house, was a little disconcerted to find the hall door gaping to receive him.