Chapter XVII

AM I TO BE INVITED TO THE MASQUE-BALL AT CASTLE-HALL?

When the old housekeeper led the Count through the mysterious opening from the blue drawing-room into the old bed-room, which happened to be her own (only she had another approach by which she and others always entered), she had seen the Countess and Carlo walking beneath the windows, and from previous experience knew they were going into the orangery. She had seen them often there before, and so, unfortunately, had some of the housemaids, who had peeped through the creepers which covered the window, and then had spread about scandalous reports among their fellow-servants.

As soon as Mrs. Lacy had seen with her own eyes that the Countess and Carlo used often to come there, she allowed no one to enter her room, and kept the key of it in her pocket. But it occurred to her, as the Count was talking with her about his beautiful lost bride, that he had better know the state of affairs about his present wife, so she suddenly resolved to give him the opportunity.

It was a terrible moment, for he could not avoid overhearing words spoken of himself, to which his wife should not have assentingly listened; and although, without waiting for more, he immediately quitted the room with the housekeeper, he caught a glimpse of them as he turned away, just as Carlo was endeavouring, with a tender embrace, to atone for having frightened the Countess by his words.

“Of course you allow no one to enter that room,” he said to the housekeeper with as much calmness as he could command.

“Here is the key of the only door that is ever used,” she said, as she took it out of her pocket, “and as for this entrance,” (through which they were now passing into the blue drawing-room), “there is not a human being that has known of it for more than fifty years. ’Twas in that room--but now I must return to the housekeeper’s room at once, or they will go wrong.”

The dear old tactful housekeeper had not ventured to look at the Count since the scene she gave him the means of observing, and she indeed felt that he must be left quite alone.

It just occurred to her, as she was leaving the drawing-room, that perhaps he might not wish the great fête to take place; but on second thoughts she felt that nothing could be done at present.

She was right in her surmises, for he had determined not to let this cause, at the last hour, deprive the whole county of their intended amusement; so he resolved to wait till the morning after the ball, when the whole party were to break up, to speak on the subject to his wife.

He did not return home till late in the afternoon of the fête day, only just in time to see the guests before dinner, for he felt quite unequal to play the part of a civil host for an instant more than could be helped.

The ladies had all gone already to make their grand toilettes, so he found only the Duke of Dromoland, and four or five other gentlemen. Though not personally known to them, their good-breeding and pleasant manners did not clash unpleasantly with the sad pre-occupation of his mind.

The Duke observed to his good-humoured wife, he supposed it must be a great bore for a foreigner to have to undergo these kind of country gatherings.

“House turned topsy-turvy,” he said to the Count, as they passed up the great hall; “you only do this kind of thing in towns abroad, I suppose; and your climate, too, is so delightful, you can’t well have much lack of amusement. I remember a Summer we spent at Sorrento some years ago, and I never enjoyed anything more. By-the-by, what has become of that splendid beauty who came from Sorrento, who set everyone mad last season when she went out with Lady Horatia Somerton?”

“Miss Vivian?”

“Yes; by-the-by, your friend Lord Lorrington is breaking his heart because she refused him.”

“Ah, yes,” said the Count, “I did meet her in London, and indeed her mother is a relation of ours; but I don’t know where she is now. I know she had a kind friend in Lady Horatia, but I never heard of her since.”

“Why, don’t you know,” interrupted Mr. Taylour, one of the last arrivals, “she is staying down here with an old lady who is very eccentric, and never goes out or sees anybody at all, and the poor girl is buried alive there?”

“And she is not coming here to-night then?” eagerly inquired the Duke.

“I do not think the Countess was aware of her being in our neighbourhood,” said Count Rossi, “otherwise of course she would have certainly been invited.”

“What a pity, for she is the most beautiful girl I ever saw. Could nothing be done now?”

Mr. Taylour, who overheard this, was on the point of saying that he himself had informed Cunigunda of the presence of her cousin in the next village; but that she most strangely turned a deaf ear to the news, which of course he attributed to jealousy; but not liking to make mischief, he said nothing.

“Could nothing be done?” continued the Duke; “ought not the Countess to be told? But perhaps you would not wish to disturb her,” continued the good-natured Duke, when he saw a look of perplexity on the Count’s face.

“Where’s the Duchess? I’ll tell her, and no doubt she will manage it, for it would never do to lose the presence of such a beauty at the fête.”