lady o'gara had met stella, had drawn her to her and kissed her warmly and softly.
"your granny will not have it just yet, stella," she said, "so we need not announce it, need we? as though all the world will not read it in terry's eyes!"
it made it easier that mrs. comerford was somewhat unreasonable about the engagement. there was too short an acquaintance, she said. three months,—what was three months? and they had not had three weeks of each other's society. too slender a foundation on which to build a life's happiness. and terry had been obviously in love, or what such children called love, with eileen, when they came. he must be sure of himself before she gave him stella.
she had drawn back in some curious way, lady o'gara felt, for she had seemed pleased when terry openly displayed his infatuation. the most candid creature alive, although for the moment she held a secret, lady o'gara was puzzled by something in grace comerford. once she said that she was sorry she had yielded to the ridiculous irish passion for return: and when mary o'gara had looked at her with a certain pain in her expression she had railed upon the wet irish climate. but the weather was not what she had meant. had she not said that in italy and egypt she had been parched for the atlantic rain-storms and the humid atmosphere of western ireland?
it was a relief that the duck-shooting had begun with the frost: that there was rough shooting in the other days to keep the men out of doors. major evelyn and another man, a cheerful little blonde boy named earnshaw, had got a few days leave from the curragh. their presence imposed a certain restraint upon terry in regard to his love-making—otherwise it must have been obvious even to his father, despite that growing absent-mindedness which enfolded shawn o'gara like a mist.
eileen seemed happy once again. lady o'gara began to reproach herself; doubtless castle talbot in winter was a lonesome place for the young. young earnshaw was obviously épris with stella, while major evelyn, a big, laughing brown man, attached himself to eileen.
eileen, despite her dislike of the sound of a shot,—she would clap her hands over her pretty ears, with their swinging hoops of turquoise, whenever a gun was fired,—went out with the guns when they shot the last of the pheasants, she at least managed to accompany the lunch. in the evenings she sang to the tired happy men—her irish songs, while major evelyn watched her, an admiring light in his brown eyes. he was half-irish, and the sentiment of the songs appealed to him. night after night eileen went through her little repertoire, charming with her soft, veiled voice, and sir shawn was drawn in from his office to listen with the others. only occasionally stella put in an appearance, which was as well in the circumstances, terry was so taken up attending to all possible needs of his c.o., and wondering ingenuously why evelyn had done him the honour to come, that he bore the deprivation imposed upon him by mrs. comerford better than he might otherwise have done.
when she should be alone again with shawn she would tell him, lady o'gara said to herself. she had surprisingly few moments alone with him these days. a few days more and the house would have settled down quietly once more. she would be passing terry's room, with the door standing open revealing its emptiness, as she had had to do many times, always missing the boy sadly.
one of these days eileen went out alone with the lunch while stella came to the meal at castle talbot. sir shawn was absent. lady o'gara had ordered a specially dainty lunch such as a young girl would like. she loved to give stella pleasure, and to draw out the look of adoration from her soft bright eyes, which had something of the shyness and wildness of the woodland creature. terry had complained boyishly that stella ran away from him, was shy of his caresses. he had had to take her by capture, he said, and his mother loved him none the less. they were going to see mrs. wade. stella was already friends with susan horridge at the south lodge and with georgie. she had heard much of mrs. wade from them, and she pitied her loneliness, as she pitied susan's when georgie was at school.
"odd, isn't it, dear?" she asked in her soft deliberate voice: she had lost or nearly lost the slightly foreign way of speaking she had had at first. "odd, isn't it, that those two natural recluses should have found each other? the other day i was talking to susan, when some one shook the gate and there was a rattle of tins. i thought susan would have fainted. i had to go to the gate for her. it was only a procession of tinkers, as patsy calls them, and an impudent fellow asked me if i wanted any pots or pans mended. i asked him did i look like wanting any pots or pans mended, and he nodded his head towards the lodge. 'the good woman of the house there might,' he said. 'she keeps herself to herself. i never knew this gate locked before.' poor susan asked me twenty questions about what the man looked like. i think she was satisfied."
"we are going to bring mrs. wade a gift of a puppy," lady o'gara said.
"you shall select one from judy's family, with the assistance of patsy.
they are a good lot."
"i know the one she shall have," stella said. "it is the one with a few white hairs on his breast. patsy says they'll be a patch as big as a plate when he's older, and tells him he's a disgrace to the litter. he's a darling, much nicer than the others. may i carry him, dear?"
"won't he be rather heavy?"
"he can walk for little bits where it is dry. but he falls over his great big puppy paws. i don't think there ever were such beautiful dogs as your setters, not even my poms or yours."
"i did think of asking you to give mrs. wade a pom, but although they are good watchdogs they would not afford such a sense of protection as a setter. i hope she'll like a setter puppy just as well. we are very proud of our setters. the old shot strain is known everywhere. it has been in the family for at least two hundred years."
lady o'gara could be very eloquent about the dogs, but she refrained. this little daughter of hers was just as much a lover of the little brethren as she was. stella simply could not endure to see anything killed, which was a reason against her going out with the guns. once or twice when she had seen anything shot, although she had not screamed like eileen, she had turned pale, while her dark eyes had dilated as though with fear. lady o'gara, noticing how close and silky the gold nut-brown hair grew, rather like feathers than hair, had said to herself that stella had been a rabbit or a squirrel or perhaps a wild bird in one of her incarnations.
they went off after lunch to see mrs. wade, the waddling puppy following them, now and again tumbling over his paws. they went out by susan's gate, where lady o'gara stopped to admire the garden that was growing up about the lodge.
"you have transfigured it, susan," she said. "it used to be so damp here with the old ragged laurels. they are well away. but i would not have thought there was such good earth under them; the ground always seemed caked so hard."
"so it were, my lady," said susan, colouring prettily. "it were mr. kenny. he has worked so 'ard. him an' georgie've been puttin' in bulbs no end these last few days, when he can spare an half-hour from his horses. it's downright pleasant to watch them do it, knowin' that the dead-lookin' things come forth in glory soon as ever this wet winter's past."
susan had to bring out her michael to be presented to the puppy, who had no name as yet, but michael only growled and disappeared into the lodge as soon as he was released, like an arrow from the bow. jealousy, susan pronounced it, and suggested that the puppy should be called pansy.
"i fancied callin' michael pansy," she said. "but mr. kenny, he fair talked me out of it. his eyes do favour the brown pansies that growed in my old granny's garden in the cotswolds."
a thousand, thousand pities, lady o'gara thought, as they went down the hill towards the river, that patsy kenny, that confirmed bachelor, should apparently have found his ideal in an unhappily married woman.
stella was carrying the puppy, so that he should not arrive muddy at his new mistress's house. she had twined a ridiculous blue ribbon in his russet curls, which he tried to work off whenever he got a chance, desisting only to lick vigorously at her hand.
"he knew me when he was a blind puppy," stella explained. "i had them all in my lap when they were a few hours old. judy let me handle them. you should see eileen's face of disgust as i sat on the horse-block in the stable-yard with my arms full of them."
"i can see it!" lady o'gara said, with a queer little smile.
the day had been one of heavy showers, between which a pale sun came out and gilt the dappled golds and browns of the woods, and set up a rainbow bridge on the rain cloud that had passed over. they had left the house in a fair interval. they were within sight of the waterfall cottage, within hearing of the water as it fell over the weir, when the heavy drops began to patter. they ran the intervening space, lady o'gara laughing like a girl. it was the girlishness in her that made girls love her society, while they adored her in her own proper place.
as they passed the window of mrs. wade's cottage, where it showed beyond the iron railing, lady o'gara glanced that way. the interior of the room was no longer visible to the casual passer-by. curtains were drawn across it, but through the parting of the curtains one caught a glimpse of fire-light. it would be a pleasant rosy window in the desolate road when the lamps were lit. but probably mrs. wade shuttered her window against the night, although the barred opening in the wall, designed to give light to the window, was well protected by its bristling spikes atop.
the gate was padlocked. they remained shaking it long enough to make them fearful that they would have to turn back before mrs. wade came flying down the avenue to open to them.
"i am so sorry i kept you waiting," she said, panting: "i had just gone into the house when you came. i have been so busy getting my garden into order."
she was stooping in the act of unlocking the gate. a pale shaft of watery sunlight came and lay on her hair, showing how thick and soft it was, how closely it grew. the sun was in her eyes, dazzling, and on her cheek, making it pale. she took the hand lady o'gara extended to her, without looking at stella.
"this is your little dog, mrs. wade," stella said, not waiting to be introduced. "now isn't he a darling? i think myself he's the pick of the basket, although patsy kenny says he's a disgrace to the place, with that old white waistcoat making a holy show of him."
mrs. wade looked at her, shading her eyes with her hand.
"thank you, miss," she said humbly. "i'm sure he'll be a dear little dog and a great companion."
she had a fluttered, flustered look. her breath came short. lady
o'gara wondered if her heart was strong.
"i've been expecting you any day at all, m'lady," she went on. "you didn't say when you'd come, but you said you'd come and i've been expecting you, though i used to say to myself, 'she won't come yet: it's too soon to be expecting her. maybe 'tis in a month's time or six weeks she'd be coming, with the little dog and the young lady. she wouldn't be remembering. hasn't she her beautiful son at home?'"
lady o'gara was touched. she had forgotten how very lonely mrs. wade's lot must be. after all, susan horridge could not be very much of a companion to mrs. wade, who, despite the humility of her manner, was evidently a person of some education and refinement.
"we shall come oftener now," she said. "it has been a rather busy time. i am sure stella will come often to see you and the dog. we must find a name for him. i once knew a man who called his dog, dog,—just that. we must find something better than that."
she was talking to set mrs. wade at her ease. mrs. wade lit the lamp; apologizing for the darkness of the firelit room. the deep pink shade flooded the room with rosy light. there was a tea-table set in the background. lady o'gara had a passing wonder as to whether the table had been set daily in expectation of their visit.
"now, what do you think of your dog?" stella asked, as soon as the lamp was lit. "see how he has made himself at home already, lying on his side on the hearthrug as though he was a big dog, and not a ridiculous tumbling-over puppy." mrs. wade knelt down obediently to receive the puppy's large paw, with more than a suspicion of white about the toes, which stella laid in her hand. as the two heads met together it occurred to lady o'gara that the hair grew similarly on the two heads, close, silken, rippling.
she watched mrs. wade take the dog's paws and hold them against her breast. a very lonely woman, she said to herself. there had been something of passion in the little act and in the way she laid her cheek against the dog's head.
"i can see he's going to have a most lovely time," said stella approvingly. "we'll call him terry, i think, after mr. terry o'gara. all my dogs are called after my friends. i haven't a terry yet, though."
"oh, no, not that name, please," mrs. wade said. "let me call him keep, if you don't mind, miss. he's going to keep me and the house, and we'll keep together."
"oh, certainly," said stella, a little surprised at mrs. wade's manner. "i know some people don't like dogs called after people. there was a dear old man in rome, count raimondi, carlo raimondi. i had a dear king charles spaniel then. he died of distemper, poor darling! count raimondi did not like carlo's being called after him. he had just the same mouth and eyes, and both were rather fond of their food. so i had to change carlo for golliwog, poor darling."
mrs. wade laughed, a sweet fresh laugh. lady o'gara was glad she could laugh. she asked to be excused while she made the tea, and in her absence stella went round the room, exclaiming at the prettiness of everything.
"only i do not like her to be so lonely," she said. "i must come very often to see her. she is a darling, is she not? don't you feel drawn to love her? think of her having to depend on susan for society—nice as susan is!"
mrs. wade came back with a dainty tea. she was with difficulty persuaded to share it, saying that she had had her tea earlier. but even when she yielded to persuasion she did not make much of a tea. she had picked up a fan and sat shading her eyes with it from the lamp. from the shadow her eyes doated on stella.
