The Vicissitudes of Bessie Fairfax | Page 9

Thusy O'Flynn, perched on a
mole-hill, in an attitude of command, waving her parasol and
demonstrating how they were to stand.
"The buns, indeed! It is time, I'm sure," muttered Miss Buff, substantial
in purple silk and a black lace bonnet. Her rival was a pretty, red-haired,
resolute little girl, very prettily dressed, who showed to no
disadvantage on the mole-hill. But Miss Buff could see no charm she
had; she it was who had given leave for a game, to pass the time before
tea. The children had been an hour in the orchard, and the feast was still
delayed.
"Perhaps the kettle does not boil," suggested Miss Wort, indulgently.
"We are kept waiting for Miss O'Flynn's aunt," rejoined Miss Buff.
"Here she comes, with our angelical parson, and Lady Latimer, out in
the cold, walking behind them."
Bessie Fairfax looked up. Lady Latimer was her supreme admiration.
She did not think that another lady so good, so gracious, so beautiful,
enriched the world. If there did, that lady was not the Viscountess
Poldoody. Bessie had a lively sense of fun, and the Irish dame was a
figure to call a smile to a more guarded face than hers--a short squab
figure that waddled, and was surmounted by a negative visage
composed of pulpy, formless features, and a brown wig of false
curls--glaringly false, for they were the first thing about her that fixed
the eye, though there were many matters besides to fascinate an
observer with leisure to look again. She seemed, however, a most free
and cheerful old lady, and talked in a loud, mellow voice, with a
pleasant touch of the brogue. She had been a popular Dublin singer and
actress in her day--a day some forty years ago--but only Lady Latimer
and herself in the rectory garden that afternoon were aware of the fact.
Grand people possessed an irresistible attraction for Mr. Wiley. The

Viscountess Poldoody had taken a house in his parish for the fine
season, and came to his church with her niece; he had called upon her,
and now escorted her to the orchard with a fulsome assiduity which
was betrayed to those who followed by the uneasy writhing of his back
and shoulders. With many complimentary words he invited her to
distribute the prizes to the children.
"If your ladyship will so honor them, it will be a day in their lives to
remember."
"Give away the prizes? Oh yes, if ye'll show me which choild to give
'em to," replied the viscountess with a good-humored readiness. Then,
with a propriety of feeling which was thought very nice in her, she
added, in the same natural, distinct manner, standing and looking round
as she spoke:
"But is it not my Lady Latimer's right? What should I know of your
children, who am only a summer visitor?"
Lady Latimer acknowledged the courteous disclaimer with that
exquisite smile which had been the magic of her loveliness always. The
children would appreciate the kindness of a stranger, she said; and with
a perfect grace yielded the precedence, and at the same time resigned
the opportunity she had always enjoyed before of giving the children a
monition once a year on their duty to God, their parents, their pastors
and masters, elders and betters, and neighbors in general. Whether my
lady felt aggrieved or not nobody could discern; but the people about
were aggrieved for her, and Miss Buff confided to a friend, in a
semi-audible whisper of intense exasperation, that the rector was the
biggest muff and toady that ever it had been her misfortune to know.
Miss Buff, it will be perceived, liked strong terms; but, as she justly
pleaded in extenuation of a taste for which she was reproached, what
was the use of there being strong terms in the language if they were not
to be applied on suitable occasions?
The person, however, on whom this incident made the deepest
impression was Bessie Fairfax. Bessie admired Lady Latimer because
she was admirable. She had listened too often to Mr. Carnegie's radical

talk to have any reverence for rank and title unadorned; but her love of
beauty and goodness made her look up with enthusiastic respect to the
one noble lady she knew, of whom even the doctor spoke as "a great
woman." The children sang their grace and sat down to tea, and Lady
Latimer stood looking on, her countenance changed to a stern gravity;
and Bessie, quite diverted from the active business of the feast, stood
looking at her and feeling sorry. The child's long abstracted gaze ended
by drawing my lady's attention. She spoke to her, and Bessie started out
of her reverie, wide-awake in an instant.
"Is there nothing for you to do, Bessie Fairfax, that you stand musing?
Bring