style="font-size:15px;"> The two young men devoutly wished that they might not see him again. The man was a confirmed and innate vulgarian. Both he and his sister, no doubt, felt very sore about their social ostracism, but how different were the methods of expression indulged in by the two. She explained the situation with a proud dignity, hiding her chagrin with a show of indifference. He was exposing his gaping wounds to the public eye with an air of ostentation.
“I must ask you to excuse my brother,” said Miss Burton when her ebullient relative had left the room. “He has the true Irish temperament, it is impossible for him to conceal his feelings. He would like to go down the High Street, trailing his coat behind him, and inviting the residents to tread upon it, in real Irish fashion, so that he could indulge in a free fight with them.”
The young men laughed cordially. They felt that a somewhat awkward situation had been saved by her ready tact, her rather humorous explanation.
But Murchison, the more level-headed of the two, looked at her very fixedly, as he said, “But you are Irish, too. How is it that you have learned to control your feelings so successfully?”
At such a direct question, he would have expected her to flush a little; at any rate, show some slight symptoms of embarrassment. But this remarkably self-possessed girl of twenty or thereabouts was as cool as a cucumber. She laughed her little silvery laugh.
“My brother and I are as wide apart as the North and South Poles,” she said lightly. “Many people have commented on the fact. Would you like to know the reason?”
She directed a rather challenging glance in the direction of Pomfret, whom she rightly judged to be more susceptible to feminine influence than his friend.
“I should like to very much,” was the subaltern’s answer. That eloquent glance had completely subjugated the young man.
“Well, listen. My father was a hard-riding, gambling, hard-drinking Irish squire, who squandered his money and left little but debts behind him. My brother takes after him in certain qualities, thank Heaven not his least desirables ones. My mother was an Englishwoman, rather a puritanical sort of woman, who fell in love, perhaps a little injudiciously, and I think wore her life out in the attempt to curb my father’s unhappy propensities. I take after my mother. You understand? George is really my half-brother by my father’s first wife.”
Pomfret nodded his head gravely. “I quite understand,” he said, and his tone was one of conviction. Murchison preserved a benevolent attitude of neutrality. He was still thinking it all out.
Miss Burton was very pretty, nay, more than pretty, very charming, very attractive, gifted with a marvellous self-possession, very clever, very adroit. But was she as genuine and frank as she seemed? Pomfret evidently thought so, but Murchison was not quite sure.
Mr George Burton, who took after his Irish father in several respects, according to his sister’s account, made a re-appearance before the visitors left. There had been just a little suspicion at first that he had been indulging in the hard-drinking habits of his male parent. If so, that suspicion must be at once removed. He was bright, breezy and blusterous, but he was certainly master of himself. He advanced with the most cordial air.
“Gentlemen, I feel I owe you an apology. I had no right to intrude my private grievances upon you, even although I am very possessed with them. Please put it down to my Irish temperament. You will forgive me, I am sure.”
He stretched out appealing hands, the hands of the plebeian as Murchison was quick to notice, nails bitten to the quick, coarse fingers and thumbs.
Murchison quietly ignored the outstretched hand. So did Pomfret, subjugated as he was with the charm and attractiveness of Miss Burton. He did not quite feel that he wanted to shake hands with this very terrible brother, who took after his Irish father.
“I apologise most sincerely, gentlemen,” he repeated, “for my outburst just now. I had no right to inflict upon you a recital of my private grievances against the inhabitants of this wretched town. But I am a wild, excitable Irishman, whatever is in my mind has to come out. Please forgive me; I know my sister Norah never will.”
He looked appealingly at the girl who sat there, calm and self-possessed as always, with a slight expression of contempt upon her charming face.
“I have already made excuses for you to Captain Murchison and Mr Pomfret,” she said coldly.
The visitors were very much embarrassed. What could they say to this dreadful person who seemed so utterly lacking in all the qualities of good breeding? Hugh remained silent, Pomfret opened his lips and murmured something about the whole affair being very regrettable.
But these somewhat incoherent remarks were quite enough to restore Mr Burton to his normal state of easy buoyancy. He smiled affably.
“So that is all over. Well, I am delighted to see you, and it will not be my fault if your first visit is your last. Now, I propose you come round and have a little bit of dinner with us soon, so that we may get to know each other better. Any night that you are at liberty will suit us. We are not overwhelmed with invitations, as you can understand from what I have told you.”
If Murchison had been by himself, he would have politely shelved the invitation. Miss Burton, who took after her English mother, was quite decent and ladylike. The brother was insufferable. Vulgarity, so to speak, oozed from him. He was offensive even in his geniality. In short, he was impossible.
But Pomfret took the wind out of his senior’s sails.
“Sorry we are quite full up this week, but hardly anything on next. Shall we say Monday?”
Miss Burton took the matter out of her brother’s hands by turning directly to Murchison.
“Monday, of course, will suit us. Will it suit you?” she asked him pointedly.
Taken by surprise, the unhappy young man could only mutter a reluctant affirmative. A few minutes later they left, pledged to partake of the Burtons’ hospitality on the following Monday.
When they were safely outside, Murchison spoke severely to his brother officer.
“You’ve let us in for a nice thing. If you had left it to me, I would have got out of that dinner somehow.”
“But I didn’t want to get out of it,” replied the unabashed junior. “We knew the brother was pretty bad all along. I don’t know that on the whole he is much worse than we imagined. But she’s a ripping girl. I want to see more of her.”
“You silly young ass,” growled Murchison; “I believe you’ve fallen head over ears in love with her.”
And Pomfret, one of the most mercurial and light-hearted of subalterns, answered quite gravely:
“I rather fancy I have. I’ve never met a girl who appealed to me in quite the same sort of way.”
Chapter Three
As a result of his visit to Rosemount, Hugh Murchison was very perturbed in his mind. He blamed himself severely for having been tempted into that rather intimate conversation at the tea-shop. Miss Burton was attractive enough, and ladylike enough, to excuse any man for taking advantage of his obvious opportunities, but he had been a fool to go farther. He ought never to have set his foot in the house of people of whom he knew nothing.
It was all Jack Pomfret’s fault, he decided hastily. It was his influence, his keen desire
