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Tempest-Driven: A Romance (Vol. 3 of 3)
CHAPTER XXXII
SALMON AND COWS
Luncheon that day at Carlingford House was a quiet, subdued meal. Edith Paulton, who was very small and vivacious, better-looking than Madge, and distinguished by shrewd discontent rather than the amiability which radiated from her elder sister, was the only one at the table that made an effort at being sprightly. Although she was not unsympathetic, she had a much more keen appreciation of her own annoyances and troubles than those of others. She took great liberties with her good-natured father and mother, and treated her brother as if he were a useless compound of slave, fool, and magnanimous mastiff. She was by no means wanting in affection, but she hated displays of sentiment, and felt desperately inclined to laugh on grave occasions.
That day, when the two girls left the back room, they went straight to Madge's, where they talked over the arrival of Jerry O'Brien, for whom Edith strongly suspected Madge had a warmer feeling than friendship, and who, she felt morally certain, greatly to her secret delight, was over head and ears in love with Madge. The only human being in whom she had infinite faith was Madge. She did not consider any hero or conqueror of history good enough for her sister. To her mind, there was only one flaw in Madge: Madge would not worship Madge. Madge thought every one else in the world of consequence but herself. Edith thought Madge the only absolutely perfect person living, or that ever had lived-leaving out, of course, the important defect just mentioned. The younger girl had, in human affairs, a certain hardness and common-sense plainness which shocked the more sensitive sister. For instance, she could not see anything at all pathetic in Mrs. Davenport's situation.
Before the bell rang for luncheon, she said to her sister:
"I can't for the life of me see what is so terribly melancholy in Mrs. Davenport's case. I think she got out of it rather well. She didn't care anything for that dreadful old man who poisoned himself out of some horrid kind of spite. She hasn't been put in prison, and he left her a whole lot of money. So that as she isn't exactly an old maid, or a grandmother, she can marry any other horrid old man she likes. Oh, yes; I know she's very beautiful, and what you call young, Madge. She's not fifty yet, I suppose. Every woman is young now until she's forty or fifty; and as to men, they don't seem to grow old now at any age. As long as a man doesn't use crutches, they say he is in the full vigour of manhood-that he's not marriageable until he's gray, and bald, and deaf of one ear, or can't read even with glasses. I suppose father will make her stop for dinner. I thought I'd laugh outright when I saw him go to her and call her 'child.' Child! Fancy calling a widow child! If ever he calls me child again, I'll tell him, as far as I know, I have not buried any husband yet. But, Madge, if she does stop for dinner, I'm not going to sit there and learn the very latest thing in the manners of widows. I'll go out for a walk after luncheon. Do you know, I think Jerry O'Brien is half in love with this beautiful widow! I'll ask him to come with me, I will; and you, good-natured fool, may sit within and catch the airs and graces of early widowhood, though I don't think they'll ever be of any use to you. You're certain to die an old maid. Alfred can't keep his eyes off her. It's a pity we haven't that nice Mr. Blake here-her old sweetheart. There, Madge, I don't mean a word I say, especially about Jerry O'Brien. I know he's madly in love with me. I'm going to give him a chance of proposing this evening. We'll walk as far as the Palace, and if you get separated from us, and see me holding my umbrella out from my side on two fingers-this way-just don't come near us, and you shall be my bridesmaid, and Jerry shall give you a present of a bracelet representing a brazen widow sitting on a silver salmon. There's the bell! Madge, love, I'm not a beast, only a brute. There! – I won't be rude again, and I'll try and rather like Mrs. Davenport. She'll be a neighbour of mine, you know, when I'm married to Jerry. I think I'll call him Jer then."
After luncheon, Mrs. Paulton suggested that Mrs. Davenport should lie down, as she must be quite worn out. But the latter would not consent to this. She said she felt quite refreshed, and in no need of rest, as she had slept well the previous night-although some memory of the Channel passage was in her brain, and the sound of the railway journey in her ears.
The evening was fine. Neither Mrs. Davenport nor Alfred cared for a walk when it was suggested by Edith, but Jerry said he would like it of all things; so he and the two sisters set off down the fine, broad, prosperous-looking Dulwich Road, in the direction of the Crystal Palace.
It is proverbially a small world, and the three pedestrians had not gone many hundred yards when whom should they see but Nellie Cahill, one of the firm friends and confidantes of the Paulton girls. Before the three came up with Miss Cahill, Edith gave a brief and graphic sketch of her to Jerry, who had not had the pleasure of meeting her before. She was good-looking, good-humoured, jolly, a dear old thing, mad as a March hare, true as steel, and last, though not least, interesting to him-a fellow country-woman of his, as her name betokened.
He must be introduced to her. He must like her awfully. He must love her, if it came to that, unless, indeed, that slow coach Alfred had been before him-in which case he, Jerry, was to be exceedingly obliging and deferential; for any one would rather have a nice girl like Nellie for a sister-in-law than a thousand widows.
Jerry was duly introduced, and said civil things and silly things, and the four walked on all abreast, until Edith suddenly remembered that she had to tell Nellie all about the reappearance of Mrs. Davenport, and a lot of other matters, in which two sober, steady-going, middle-aged people like Madge and Jerry could, by no stress of imagination, be supposed to take a sensible and hilarious interest. So the younger division of the party, comprised of Nellie Cahill and Edith Paulton, fell to the rear, and the other division kept the front. And thus, in spite of all Edith's designs on Jerry both for herself and Nellie, these two enterprising and eminently desirable and lovable young ladies lost all chance of his offering marriage to either that afternoon.
A long story of the detestable villainy of the Fishery Commissioners had to be first and foremost related to Madge. Considering that she did not know what a weir was, and had never seen a salmon except on the table or the marble slab of a fish-shop, and that according to her notion the appearance of a Commissioner was something between a beefeater of the Tower of London and a Brighton boatman, she listened with great patience, and made remarks which caused Jerry to laugh sometimes, and plunge into profound technicalities at others. But it became quite plain that Jerry himself did not take any consuming interest in his own wrongs and the refined ruffianism of the Commissioners; for at a most bewildering description of the channel, and the draught of water, and the set of tides, and the idiosyncrasies of coal barges, he looked over his shoulder and, finding Edith and her friend a good way behind, stopped suddenly in his discourse and said:
"Madge, I've been reeling off a lot of rubbish to you just to drop the others a good bit astern. I now want to say something very serious to you. Are you listening?"
"Yes; but look at that cow! Did you ever see a more contented-looking creature in all your life?"
She kept her face turned towards the hedge.
"Confound the cow!" he cried. "Do you think I am going to give up talking of Bawn salmon and barges, and talk about Dulwich cows? Are you listening?"
"I am. But did you-now-did you ever see such a lovely cow?"
"Look here, Madge: If this is reprisal for my harangue about my miserable salmon weirs, I'll not say another word about them. Are you going to be friends with me?"
"Yes-of course."
Still the cow occupied her eyes, to judge by the way her head was turned.
"I came out expressly to have a most serious talk with you on a most important matter-"
"I am sure I was very sorry to hear about your salmon nets-"
"Nets! Nets! Good heavens, Madge! – I never said a word about nets the whole time. I'm not a cot-man. Look here: you know it's only a few of the greatest minds that can attend to two things at the one time. You can't give your soul to fish and yet devote yourself to cows at the one moment, except you are a person like Julius Cæsar. He could dictate and write completely different things at the one time."
"Could he? He must have been very clever."
"Will