Rossmoyne Part 67

"A nun demure, of lowly port."

"She has prophesied truly," says Kelly, in a low tone, turning to Mrs.

Herrick. "I fear _my_ Galatea will never wake to life for _me_."

A subdued bell tinkles in the distance.

"Our summons," says Mrs. Herrick, hastily, as though grateful to it; and presently she is standing upon a pedestal, pale motionless, with a rapt Pygmalion at her feet, and some Pompeian vases and jugs (confiscated from the drawing-room) in the background.

And then follow the other tableaux, and then the stage is deserted, and, music sounding in the distant ballroom, every one rises and makes a step in its direction, the hearts of some of the younger guests beating in time to it.

"Where are you going?" says Ulic Ronayne, seeing Olga about to mount the stairs once more.

"To help the others to get into civilized garb,--Hermia and Monica, I mean. Lady Teazle I consider capable of looking after herself."

"H'm! you say that? I thought Miss Fitzgerald was a friend of yours."

"Then you thought like the baby you are. No! Women, like princes, find few real friends. But one in a hundred can fill that character gracefully, and Bella is _not_ that one."

She turns to run up the stairs. "Well, don't be long," says Mr. Ronayne.

"I'll be ready in a minute," she says; and in twenty-five she really _is_.

Monica, who has had Kit to help her,--such an admiring, enthusiastic, flattering Kit,--is soon redressed, and has run down stairs, and nearly into Desmond's arms, who, of course, is waiting on the lowest step to receive her. She is now waltzing with him, with a heart as light as her feet.

Hermia's progress has been slow, but Miss Fitzgerald's slowest of all, the elaborate toilet and its accessories taking some time to arrange themselves; she has been annoyed, too, by Olga Bohun, during the earlier part of the evening, and consequently feels it her duty to stay in her room for a while and take it out of her maid. So long is she, indeed, that Madam O'Connor (most attentive of hostesses) feels it her duty to come upstairs to find her.

She _does_ find her, giving way to diatribes of the most virulent, that have Olga Bohun for their theme. Mrs. Fitzgerald, standing by, is listening to, and a.s.sisting in, the defamatory speeches.

"Hey-day! what's the matter now?" says Madam, with a _bonhommie_ completely thrown away. Miss Fitzgerald has given the reins to her mortification, and is prepared to hunt Olga to the death.

"I think it is disgraceful the license Mrs. Bohun allows her tongue,"

she says, angrily, still smarting under the speech she had goaded Olga into making her an hour ago. "We have just been talking about it. She says the most wounding things, and accuses people openly of thoughts and actions of which they would scorn to be guilty. And this, too, when her own actions are so hopelessly faulty, so _sure_ to be animadverted upon by all decent people."

"Yes, yes, indeed," chimes in her mother, as in duty bound. Her voice is feeble, but her manner vicious.

"The shameful way in which she employs nasty unguents of all kinds, and tries by every artificial means to heighten any beauty she may possess, is too absurdly transparent not to be known by all the world," goes on the irate Bella. "Who run may read the rouge and veloutine that cover her face. And as for her lids, they are so blackened that they are positively _dirty_! Yet she pretends she has handsome eyes and lashes!"

"But, my dear, she may well lay claim to her lashes. All the Egyptian charcoal in the world could not make them long and curly. Nature is to be thanked for them."

"You can defend her if you like," says Bella, hysterically, "but to my mind her conduct is--is positively _immoral_. It is cheating the public into the belief that she has a skin when she hasn't."

"But I'm sure she has: we can all see it," says Madam O'Connor, somewhat bewildered by this sweeping remark.

"No, you can't. I defy you to see it, it is so covered with pastes and washes, and everything; she uses every art you can conceive."

"Well, supposing she does, what then?" says Madam, stoutly. She is dressed in black velvet and diamonds, and is looking twice as important and rather more good-humored than usual. "I see nothing in it. My grandmother always rouged,--put on patches as regularly as her gown.

Every one did it in those days, I suppose. And quite right, too. Why shouldn't a woman make herself look as attractive as she can?"

"But the barefaced fashion in which she hunts down that wretched young Ronayne," says Mrs. Fitzgerald, "is dreadful! You can't defend that, Gertrude. I quite pity the poor lad,--drawn thus, _against his will_, into the toils of an enchantress." Mrs. Fitzgerald pauses after this ornate and strictly original speech, as if overcome by her own eloquence. "I think he should be warned," she goes on presently. "A woman like that should not be permitted to entrap a mere boy into a marriage he will regret all his life afterwards, by means of abominable coquetries and painted cheeks and eyes. It is horrible!"

"I never thought you were such a fool, Edith," says Madam O'Connor, with the greatest sweetness.

"You may think as you will, Gertrude," responds Mrs. Fitzgerald, with her faded air of juvenility sadly lost in her agitation, and shaking her head nervously, as though afflicted with a sudden touch of palsy that accords dismally with her youthful attire. "But I shall cling to my own opinions. And I utterly disapprove of Mrs. Bohun."

"For me," says Bella, vindictively, "I believe her capable of _anything_. I can't bear those women who laugh at nothing, and powder themselves every half-hour."

"You shouldn't throw stones, Bella," says honest Madam O'Connor, now nearly at the end of her patience. "Your gla.s.s house will be shivered if you do. Before I took to censuring other people I'd look in a mirror, if I were you."

"I don't understand you," says Miss Fitzgerald, turning rather pale.

"That's because you won't look in a mirror. Why, there's enough powder on your right ear to whiten a Moor!"

"I never----" begins Bella, in a stricken tone; but Madam O'Connor stops her.

"Nonsense! sure I'm looking at it," she says.

This hanging evidence is not to be confuted. For a moment the fair Bella feels crushed; then she rallies n.o.bly, and, after withering her terrified mother with a glance, sweeps from the room, followed at a respectful distance by Mrs. Fitzgerald, and quite closely by Madam, who declines to see she has given offence in any way.

As they go, Mrs. Fitzgerald keeps up a gentle twitter, in the hope of propitiating the wrathful G.o.ddess on before.

"Yes, yes, I still think young Ronayne should be warned; she is very designing, very, and he is very soft-hearted." She had believed in young Ronayne at one time, and had brought herself to look upon him as a possible son-in-law, until this terrible Mrs. Bohun had cast a glamour over him. "Yes, yes, one feels it quite one's duty to let him know how she gets herself up. His eyes should be opened to the rouge and the Egyptian eye-stuff."

While she is mumbling all this, they come into a square landing, off which two rooms open. Both are brilliantly lighted and have been turned into cosey boudoirs for the occasion.

In one of them, only half concealed by a looped curtain from those without, stand two figures, Olga Bohun and the "poor lad" who is to have his eyes opened.

They are as wide open at present as any one can desire, and are staring thoughtfully at the wily widow, who is gazing back just as earnestly into them. Both he and Olga are standing very close together beneath the chandelier, and seem to be scanning each other's features with the keenest scrutiny.

So remarkable is their demeanor, that not only Bella but her mother and Madam O'Connor refrain from further motion, to gaze at them with growing curiosity.

There is nothing sentimental about their att.i.tude; far from it; nothing even vaguely suggestive of tenderness. There is only an unmistakable anxiety that deepens every instant.

"You are sure?" says Olga, solemnly. "Certain? Don't decide in a hurry.

Look again."

He looks again.

"Well, _perhaps_! A _very_ little less would be sufficient," he says, with hesitation, standing back to examine her countenance more safely.

"There! see how careless you can be," says Olga, reproachfully. "Now, take it off with this, but lightly, _very_ lightly."

As she speaks, she hands him her handkerchief, and, to the consternation of the three watchers outside, he takes it, and with the gentlest touch rubs her cheeks with it, first the one, and then the other.

When he had finished this performance, both he and she stared at the handkerchief meditatively.

"I doubt you have taken it _all_ off," she says, plaintively. "I couldn't have put more than that on, and surely the handkerchief has no need of a complexion; whilst I----It must be all gone now, and I was whiter than this bit of cambric when I put it on. Had I better run up to my room again, or----"

"Oh, no. You are all right; indeed you are. I'd say so at once if you weren't," says Ronayne, rea.s.suringly. "You are looking as lovely as a dream."