"Oh! Nicholas, it can't be true! it really _can't_!" she says, alluding to the news contained in a letter Sir Nicholas is reading with a puzzled brow.

He is a tall young man, about thirty-two, yet looking younger, with a somewhat sallow complexion, large dreamy brown eyes, and very fine sleek black hair. He wears neither moustache nor whiskers, princ.i.p.ally for the very good reason that Nature has forgotten to supply them. For which perhaps he should be grateful, as it would have been a cruel thing to hide the excessive beauty of his mouth and chin and perfectly-turned jaw. These are his chief charms, being mild and thoughtful, yet a trifle firm, and in perfect accordance with the upper part of his face. He is hardly handsome, but is certainly attractive.

In manner he is somewhat indolent, silent, perhaps lazy. But there is about him a subtle charm that endears him to all who know him. Perhaps it is his innate horror of offending the feelings of any one, be he great or small, and perhaps it is his inborn knowledge of humanity, and the power he possesses (with most other sensitive people) of being able to read the thoughts of those with whom he comes in contact, that enables him to avoid all such offence. Perhaps it is his honesty, and straightforwardness, and general, if inactive, kindliness of disposition.

He takes little trouble about anything, certainly none to make himself popular, yet in all the countryside no man is so well beloved as he is.

It is true that a kindly word here, or a smile in the right place, does more to make a man a social idol than substantial deeds of charity doled out by an unsympathetic hand. This may be unjust; it is certainly beyond dispute the fact.

Just now his forehead is drawn up into a deep frown, as he reads the fatal letter that has reduced his mother to a Niobe. Another young man, his brother, Captain Rodney, who is two or three years younger than he, is looking over his shoulder, while a slight, brown-haired, very aristocratic looking girl is endeavoring, in a soft, modulated voice, to convey comfort to Lady Rodney.

Breakfast is forgotten; the rolls and the toast and the kidneys are growing cold. Even her own special little square of home-made bread is losing its crispness and falling into a dejected state, which shows almost more than anything else could that Lady Rodney is very far gone indeed.

Violet is growing as nearly frightened as good breeding will permit at the protracted sobbing, when Sir Nicholas speaks.

"It is inconceivable!" he says to n.o.body in particular. "What on earth does he mean?" He turns the letter round and round between his fingers as though it were a bombsh.e.l.l; though, indeed, he need not at this stage of the proceedings have been at all afraid of it, as it has gone off long ago and reduced Lady Rodney to atoms. "I shouldn't have thought Geoffrey was that sort of fellow."

"But what is it?" asks Miss Mansergh from behind Lady Rodney's chair, just a little impatiently.

"Why, Geoffrey's been and gone and got married," says Jack Rodney, pulling his long fair moustache, and speaking rather awkwardly. It has been several times hinted to him, since his return from India, that, Violet Mansergh being reserved for his brother Geoffrey, any of his attentions in that quarter will be eyed by the family with disfavor. And now to tell her of her quondam lover's defection is not pleasant.

Nevertheless he watches her calmly as he speaks.

"Is that all?" says Violet, in a tone of surprise certainly, but as certainly in one of relief.

"No, it is _not_ all," breaks in Sir Nicholas. "It appears from this,"

touching the bombsh.e.l.l, "that he has married a--a--young woman of very inferior birth."

"Oh! that is really shocking," says Violet, with a curl of her very short upper lip.

"I do hope she isn't the under-housemaid," said Jack, moodily. "It has grown so awfully common. Three fellows this year married under-housemaids, and people are tired of it now; one can't keep up the excitement always. Anything new might create a diversion in his favor, but he's done for if he has married another under-housemaid."

"It is worse," says Lady Rodney, in a stifled tone, coming out for a brief instant from behind the deluged handkerchief. "He has married a common farmer's niece!"

"Well, you know that's better than a farmer's common niece," says Jack, consolingly.

"What does he say about it?" asks Violet, who shows no sign whatever of meaning to wear the willow for this misguided Benedict, but rather exhibits all a woman's natural curiosity to know exactly what he has said about the interesting event that has taken place.

Sir Nicholas again applies himself to the deciphering of the detested letter. "'He would have written before, but saw no good in making a fuss beforehand,'" he reads slowly.

"Well, there's good deal of sense in that," says Jack.

"'Quite the loveliest girl in the world,' with a heavy stroke under the 'quite.' That's always so, you know: nothing new or striking about that." Sir Nicholas all through is speaking in a tone uniformly moody and disgusted.

"It is a point in her favor nevertheless," says Jack, who is again looking over his shoulder at the letter.

"'She is charming at all points,'" goes on Sir Nicholas deliberately s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his gla.s.s into his eye, "'with a mind as sweet as her face.'

Oh, it is absurd!" says Sir Nicholas, impatiently. "He is evidently in the last stage of imbecility. Hopelessly bewitched."

"And a very good thing, too," puts in Jack, tolerantly: "it won't last, you know, so he may as well have it strong while he is about it."

"What do you know about it?" says Sir Nicholas, turning the tables in the most unexpected fashion upon his brother, and looking decidedly ruffled, for no reason that one can see, considering it is he himself is condemning the whole matter so heartily. "As he is married to her, I sincerely trust his affection for her may be deep and lasting, and not misplaced. She may be a very charming girl."

"She may," says Jack. "Well go on. What more does he say?"

"'He will write again. And he is sure we shall all love her when we see her.' That is another sentence that goes without telling. They are always sure of that beforehand. They absolutely arrange our feelings for us! I hope he will be as certain of it this time six months, for all our sakes."

"Poor girl! I feel honestly sorry for her," says Jack, with a mild sigh.

"What an awful a.s.s he has made of himself!"

"And 'he is happier now than he has ever been in all his life before.'

Pshaw!" exclaims Sir Nicholas, shutting up the letter impatiently. "He is mad!"

"Where does he write from?" asks Violet.

"From the Louvre. They are in Paris."

"He has been married a whole fortnight and never deigned to tell his own mother of it until now," says Lady Rodney, hysterically.

"A whole fortnight! And he is as much in love with her as ever! Oh! she can't be half bad," says Captain Rodney, hopefully.

"Misfortunes seem to crowd upon us," says Lady Rodney, bitterly.

"I suppose she is a Roman Catholic," says Sir Nicholas musingly.

At this Lady Rodney sits quite upright, and turns appealingly to Violet.

"Oh, Violet, I do hope not," she says.

"Nearly all the Irish farmers are," returns Miss Mansergh, reluctantly.

"When I stay with Uncle Wilfrid in Westmeath, I see them all going to ma.s.s every Sunday morning. Of course"--kindly--"there are a few Protestants, but they are very few."

"This is too dreadful!" moans Lady Rodney, sinking back again in her chair, utterly overcome by this last crowning blow. She clasps her hands with a deplorable gesture, and indeed looks the very personification of disgusted woe.

"Dear Lady Rodney, I shouldn't take that so much to heart," says Violet, gently leaning over her. "Quite good people are Catholics now, you know.

It is, indeed, the fashionable religion, and rather a nice one when you come to think of it."

"I don't want to think of it," says her friend, desperately.

"But do," goes on Violet, in her soft, even monotone, that is so exactly suited to her face. "It is rather pleasant thinking. Confession, you know, is so soothing; and then there are always the dear saints, with their delightful tales of roses and lilies, and tears that turn into drops of healing balm, and their bones that lie in little gla.s.s cases in the churches abroad. It is all so picturesque and pretty, like an Italian landscape. And it is so comfortable, too, to know that, no matter how naughty we may be here, we can still get to heaven at last by doing some great and charitable deed."

"There is something in that, certainly," says Captain Rodney, with feeling. "I wonder, now, what great and charitable deed I could do."

"And then isn't it sweet to think," continues Violet, warming to her subject, "that when one's friends are dead one can still be of some service to them, in praying for their souls? It seems to keep them always with one. They don't seem so lost to us as they would otherwise."

"Violet, please do not talk like that; I forbid it," says Lady Rodney, in a horrified tone. "Nothing could make me think well of anything connected with this--this odious girl; and when you speak like that you quite upset me. You will be having your name put in that horrid list of perverts in the 'Whitehall Review' if you don't take care."

"You really will, you know," says Captain Rodney, warningly; then, as though ambitious of piling up the agony, he says, _sotto voce_, yet loud enough to be heard, "I wonder if Geoff will go to ma.s.s with her?"

"It is exactly what I expect to hear next," says Geoff's mother, with the calmness of despair.