When Mary Foley was sixteen, she ceased to attend the local day school, being considered for her station a finished pupil. She wrote a good hand, was fairly well grounded in grammar and arithmetic, had acquired the Irish, and was an excellent needlewoman. Mary was no longer called “Foxy” or “Carrots,” for she was bewitchingly pretty, and her clouds of auburn hair shaded a radiant face. She had also what was described as “a wonderful way with her” and an extraordinary fascination for most of the boys in the barony. John Foley had been dead for some years; his death was no pecuniary loss to his widow, who had him “well insured,” but she gave up most of the land adjoining the farm, only keeping the house, garden, and the grass of a couple of cows, seeing there was, as she explained, “now but Mary and herself in it, and beasts were bothersome.” To tell the truth, Mary was not particularly partial to farm labour; indeed, plain girls, her detractors, openly declared that “there was too much of theladyabout Miss Foley”; but she did her share, as her fond parent bragged, if she was not over keen with regard to the wash-tub, or scouring. She was handy with her needle, and made quite a nice lot of money, sewing for Mrs. Hogan atthe Glenveigh Arms. Also she looked after the fowls and eggs, the cows and calves. “Oh, she was,” her mother declared, “a grand little girl for work.” “Aye,” agreed her enemies, “but it was all gentry’s work. Who ever saw Mary on her knees scrubbing, or washing out the pots? Whilst as for pigs, she set her face entirely against them.” She would neither be said nor led, and since poor Pat died, the stye was standing empty. Was ever the likes known?
There were two roads to the Castle from Foley’s Corner; one lay across the fields, up the boreen, and through the iron gate—this was the fine-weather approach; the other, a long round by the high road, and imposing principal entrance.
One bright September afternoon Mary was returning from Kilmoran, swinging her empty egg-basket, when in the lane she descried a handsome young gentleman in a grey tweed suit and cap, and immediately recognised Mr. Ulick. This was no great feat; she had heard up above that “the Captain” had arrived home now for a good spell, and was a really splendid-looking young officer. But Mr. Doran lacked Mary’s advantages; he had not the slightest suspicion of the identity of this pretty slim girl, in a well-fitting blue cotton dress, who was gradually approaching him from the demesne. He could not even place her. She was not the usual country type; her bones were small, her carriage erect, assured, graceful; and there was a finish about her dress that was unusual. He noticed the little bit of lace at the neck, the trim belt. However, she wore no hat, and was undoubtedly a peasant. As this girl was about to pass him, she dropped a hurried curtsey, and glanced at him timidly, with a pair ofbewildering hazel eyes. Surely he had met those eyes somewhere? A sudden gleam of memory flashed into Ulick’s brain. He halted and exclaimed—
“Is it possible that you are Mary Foley?”
“Yes, your honour.” Another curtsey, and it was difficult to ignore her girlish flutter, her evident joy at seeing him again.
“I declare I scarcely recognised you. How you have grown!”
“Children mostly do,” she rejoined with composure.
“I suppose you consider yourself grown up?”
“Yes, sir, I have left the schoolin’.”
“And so your education is complete?”
“I would not say that, but,” shifting her basket to her other arm, “I learnt all they taught, so I did.”
“Reading, writing, arithmetic. The three R’s.”
“Yes, and grammar, history, and geography. I loved geography.”
“Well, it is a harmless passion. Can you tell me where Malta is?”
“Faix, unless it’s lost, sir, it should be in the Mediterranean Sea.”
“Oh, I see you cannot be puzzled, can you?”
“Oh, then indeed I can, and am, often and many a time.”
“Tell me what puzzles you.”
“No, sir, I really couldn’t make so free”; and she moved a step, as if to pass on.
Two long hours lay between him and dinner. Young Doran had nothing particular to do; his mother was irritable and continually scolding some one. It was rather pleasant, standing in this fragrant lane, talking to this pretty, shy, yet audacious colleen.
“You have been up at the Castle, I presume?” he continued.
“Yes, your honour, selling eggs to her ladyship.”
“I hope you make a good thing out of it?”
“Well,” a pause, “I just bid to take what her ladyship gives me—sixpence the dozen, and young chickens a shilling a couple.”
“A shilling—a—a—couple!” he repeated; and he felt his face becoming warm.
“Well, of course I could get more in the market, or even from the hawkers,” she continued, “but ye see we live on the land, and her ladyship has the first call, and—and—anyhow, though the price is not much, the Castle is convenient-like.”
“Do you remember the last time I saw you?” inquired her ladyship’s shamefaced son, “and the cropper I came, over in that field?” and he pointed in the direction.
“Aye, to be sure I do, sir! What would ail me that I’d forget it? Sure, weren’t you nearly killed dead?”
“Nearly, I suppose. I have not forgotten what you did for me that day.”
“Sure it was nothing, sir, I’d do as much for ye again.”
“I hope you never may have the chance! You were a kind, active little helper. How you did run about, and how you mothered me! I’ve owed you a debt ever since; I’d like to give you a souvenir of some sort even now—better late than never.”
“Thank your honour, but I have one already, and one is all I want.”
“What may it be? Not my hat—you brought that after me!”
“No, I’ve no call for hats. ’Twas the horse’s shoe I found, an elegant, bright new shoe; it was lying on the grass on the other side of the ditch. I have it nailed up, ever since, for luck.”
“Has it brought you any?”
“Well, then, I can’t say much for it so far, yer honour.”
“It may do great things yet.”
“Well, God send it. And now, if your honour pleases, I must be going on. I’m late as it is——”
“Why, where is your hurry?”
“Sure, hasn’t the cows to be milked, and the calf fed?”
“I wish I could help you—for I’m out of a job to-day.”
Mary suddenly broke into laughter and displayed a row of pretty little teeth. “You’d make a poor hand of the milking, I’m thinking,” she said.
“Anyway, I’ll walk back with you as far as the stone gap, if I may?”
“Sure, the boreen is your honour’s own land, and what’s to hinder you?”
“Old Crock na Bowl looks well this evening,” suddenly remarked the young fellow, as they turned and faced a towering purple peak, on which lay the long afternoon shadows.
“Oh, he’s there right enough,” said Mary, with indifference.
“Now you’d like to see another mountain for a change?”
“Bedad, I would so. I’m always craving to visit the grand places I read about. It’s your honour that has been round the world, and in fine countries, and foreign parts.”
“Only in Spain and Malta so far; but we are going to India the next reliefs. Ah, here is the stone gap you once pulled down for me. Allow me to help you over——”
“Is it, helpme?” and she laughed derisively. “Why there is not a wall or gap in the country to stop me.”
“At least I may hold the basket?”
“No, no, sir,” and she smiled, and stood irresolute, wondering how she was to bid farewell to the young master. Should she curtsey? or would she just take herself off anyhow?
“Before you go, Mary Foley, you might tell me at least one of the things that puzzles you. I’ve nothing to do. Maybe I can guess the riddle! I’m rather good at that sort of thing.”
“Well, then, I just will, sir, since ye have axed me twice. There’s a matter that sticks in my mind, and I cannot get shut of it.”
“Yes, let us have it by all means.”
“Can you tell me,” and she paused, and looked at him steadily, “why some have every mortal blessed thing, and others—have nothing at all?”
“But how do you mean?” he asked, rather taken aback. This description of puzzle was far from what he had anticipated.
“Why look at Miss Cunninghams, and look at me!”
“Yes”; and he looked at her.
“They are ladies born, and live in a park, and wear beautiful dresses, and ride fine hunters, and eat with silver forks; they go away and see the world, with plenty of money in their pockets. And for me, I live in a little weenchie cottage, and work hard, and I will never lay an eye on any sight better than Crock na Bowl,or do anything but cook, and milk, as long as the breath is in me! And I’d just love toseelife. Why were they born one way, and me another?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” he replied.
“Well, ye see, I’ve asked ye my riddle, and ye cannot answer it,” she said with a smile, “so now I’ll be going”; and without another word, Mary Foley clambered lightly over the stone gap (she still wore black stockings, and had remarkably neat ankles), and presently disappeared.
And thus the young couple parted, going in opposite directions, each carrying in their thoughts a poignant memory of the other. Since Mary was a small child, “Master Ulick” had been secretly worshipped as her hero—the natural consequence of hearing on all sides praises of his feats of horsemanship, his courage, and his generosity. Little pitchers have long ears, and what they imbibe they remember. For a girl of her age, and class, Mary Foley was a widely-read young person. Mrs. Hogan at “The Arms” had a fancy for the child, and, knowing she was crazy after books, endowed her with various odds and ends that careless visitors or fishing folk, had left behind them. Mary had a wonderful imagination, and from the germs of her favourite characters, she composed a Paladin of her own. He was the embodiment of the Heir of Redcliff, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, the Black Knight, and Charles O’Malley, and his name she never whispered, but all the same it was some one resembling Master Ulick, whom she crowned with a choice selection of other men’s laurels. It therefore will be seen that if Mary’s little sixteen-year-old heart was free, it was not fancy free!
As soon as Mary reached home and opened the half-door, her mother cried out—
“Mary asthore! What in the living world kep’ ye?”
“Sure I am afther meeting Masther Ulick,” was the breathless reply. “There beyant, in the boreen.”
“Did ye, agra; and what is he like now he’s a grown man?”
“Faix I couldn’t rightly explain, only he is tallish and upstanding, and I got a smell of tobacco off him!”
“Great fathers, child!”
“Yes; an’ he has a small moustache on his upper lip, and a great big smile on him, and grey eyes—his eyes”—and she drew in her breath—“is real beautiful!”
“His eyes! God help us, Mary! that’s the queer sort of chat for a slip of a girl. Sure ye have no call to be looking at the young gentleman’s eyes.”
“An’ how can I help it, mammy, when I’ve eyes of me own! He is not a bit like her ladyship—no, nor Barky, with the great roasted face on him.”
“God be thanked for that same,” exclaimed Mrs. Foley piously. “He is the Colonel’s own boy; but, Mary asthore, ye must know yer place, and not be making free, or be talking to the young Captain. Ye have such funny, queer ways of spaking up to high and low—I tell ye, sometimes ye have me paralysed with fright.”
“Oh, make yer mind easy, mammy; I know me place. Augh! do ye hear the bawls of the calf? I must hurry up with the milking.”
After her mother’s word of warning, Mary Foley merely dropped a hasty curtsey when she encountered the Captain, and then hurried on; and he, manlike, was attracted by this avoidance; the less he saw of Mary, the more he thought of her. The unknown has a wonderful fascination.
Ulick was at present an idler. Cub-hunting had notyet commenced; his home was not particularly congenial. He and Barky had nothing in common; Barky was frankly jealous of his brother’s smart soldier-like air, his knowledge of the world, his manner of speech, his well-cut clothes, and his popularity. Ulick contented himself with schooling young horses, reading, smoking, and making friends with the dogs, whom he overjoyed by taking out for many a long tramp.
One afternoon it came on to drizzle as he was approaching Foley’s corner. He turned up his collar and pulled out his pipe. Alas! he had not a match left: there was nothing for it but to run into Katty’s and ask for a sod of turf. He pushed open the half-door and entered, and found Katty, with horn spectacles on nose, hunched up by the window, patching an old sack.
“I just came in for a light, Katty,” he explained. “I hope you won’t mind the dogs,” as two setters and a terrier followed him.
“Yer honour is welcome, and as many dogs as he likes.”
“There are two more sitting outside, but these have no manners; I hope I see you well, Katty.”
“Well, then, indeed I’m no great shakes, sir, and only among the middins; I’m gettin’ into years, ye see.”
“What nonsense!” stooping to pick up a live sod. “You can’t be more than fifty, if you are that.”
“I am fifty-seven, sir, and it’s a long age for a working woman; still,” and she sighed, “but God is good, and the devil himself not too bad entirely. And Mary is a grand help—and here she comes.”
As the inner door opened, Mary, followed by the dogs with better manners, entered with a tin can on her arm.
“Now go out, every one of you!” shouted their master, authoritatively. “Good evening, Mary.”
“Good evening, sir,” she answered. “Sure, the poor dogs is doing no harm whatever. Me mother loves a dog, and so do I. ’Tis only the cat that’s so particular.”
“And there she is, on the top of the dresser, out of harm’s way. I was sorry for poor John,” he said, addressing himself to Katty; “you must miss him.”
“In troth and I do, at every turn—a sore loss, both outside and in. Mary and me is not aqual to more than a couple of cows, and a few hens, and the potatoes.”
“And who does the digging?” inquired the younger master, who stood with his back to the fire, for all the world as if he were at home—the dogs with manners lying near the door.
“Well, to tell yer honour no lie, Patsie Maguire does the heavy part. When his work is over, he comes and puts in an hour.”
“I know Patsie Maguire—a smart, likely-looking lad”—here he addressed himself to Mary, who stood leaning carelessly against the dresser. “And what does he dig for, Mary—love, or money?”
“Oh, sir!” cried the girl, “now I declare to goodness ye make me laugh! For neither—but just his kindness.”
“Mary is terribly clever with flowers,” put in her mother irrelevantly. “’Tis she has the lucky hand; and as for eggs, hasn’t the hens been laying the whole winter, and them mother naked, and not a feather on them. Winter does be awful lonesome for us now; not a living soul within half a mile. Sometimes, when I think of robbers and house-breakers, I am all of a tremble, and never close an eye.”
“You ought to keep a dog,” suggested the visitor; “he’d be company.”
“He would so,” agreed Mary. “I’d love to have one.”
“Would you like this fellow?” asked Ulick, indicating a red terrier who had made his way to the fire; “he is only a pup, but he will grow!”
“Oh, sir! oh, yer honour! sure we would not expect the likes of him,” protested Mrs. Foley. “Maybe Boland up at the Chapel has a pup he can spare.”
“No, no, mother,” broke in Mary, “I just hate that breed of Boland’s—they are so long and black and deceiving, and, anyhow, are only good for poaching. They are quiet enough on a weekday, but all over the county of a Sunday. Oh——,” and she paused, “Oh faix, I was forgetting Mr. Ulick!” and she laughed, and coloured vividly.
“I’m glad to hear you don’t like poachers, Mary. This little chap here”—and he held him up—“kills rats already, and will keep off tramps. He is a gentleman.”
“Sure,” began Katty, with a wheezy laugh, “what would a gentleman be doing with the likes of us?”
“He will like you, and I know you will like him. See, Pap”—and he led him over to Mary—“this is your new mistress; and here is another”; and he pulled him towards Katty, who, however, held back, saying—
“Oh, sir, it’s too great a condescension for us; entirely too much!”
“What do you say to him, Mary?” turning to her.
“If when you’ll be going away ye would spare him sir, it would be a kindness and a consolation, for me mother is very wake in herself, and in dread of a night if she hears a sound, even of a mouse, let alone one of the cows stirring in the byre; she thinks it’s some onecoming to murder us, so she does. The little dog will be a grand watch, though of course he is above our station.”
“Is any one within?” The voice came from the half-door, and the open space above was amply filled by a stout, elderly woman, wearing a jetted bonnet, a black front, and a blue waterproof.
“There is to be sure,” replied Mary, who liked visitors, darting to the door. “There’s no fear of the dogs, ma’am. I see it’s spilling rain. Come in if ye plase and take a sate.”
The tall, burly figure stalked forward, and shook out her wet umbrella; she stared very hard—first at Katty, then at Ulick—and sank heavily into the proffered chair.
“I am stopping at an hotel below,” she began, with a strong American accent, “and I’ve lost my way. I am a pretty smart walker. Am I far out?”
“About a mile and a half,” replied Mary. “It’s the other side of the Castle-gates—ye know, the place with the two dogs. This is Mr. Ulick Doran, of Kilmoran Castle.”
The woman looked up at him quickly, and said: “I’m in luck to chance on you, sir. I know your aunt, Mrs. Grogan, in Philadelphia; she lives not far from me, and is real well-to-do.”
“There! to think of that now!” ejaculated Katty. “Oh, but Miss Nora was the splendid fine girl, and the grand horse-lady—and how is she, at all?”
“Not much of a horse-lady now, but she keeps her carriage.”
“I am glad to meet any one who knows my father’s sister,” said Ulick. “Is there any chance of her coming over?”
“Well, not just at present; she heard I was to be a dayor so in these parts—my people being buried hereabouts, you see—and I told her I’d go up and see the Castle, and bring her news right away; and she said she believed I’d be made welcome.”
“And she was quite right, ma’am,” replied Ulick. “I know my mother will be delighted to see you; will you come up with me now?”
“No, thank you, I’ll wait till to-morrow; I’m all wet and muddy, and not just fit for Castle company, thanking you all the same.”
The eagerness of Mrs. Doran to welcome the emissary of her sister-in-law requires some explanation. News had come, in the curious way in which it filters through other people’s letters, that Tom Grogan was doing right well for himself in America. After a pause, there was whispered the magic word of “wealth.” When Colonel Doran died, his sister had written to his widow, a timid epistle, full of heartfelt condolence; this had received a most gracious answer, and a correspondence ensued. Mrs. Doran was always good at her pen; she wrote volumes respecting her want of capital, and the extraordinary attractions of her oldest son; the younger she rarely mentioned.
Mrs. Grogan despatched American apples, candies, beautiful books, and furs—undeniably money’s worth; but no money. However, her sister-in-law built largely on Barky’s expectations from his aunt Nora, and talked a good deal about the Colonel’s sister, who was the wife of a millionaire; not a word of the mésalliance, much less of the postman!
“Then since you won’t come with me,” said young Doran, “I must be off. I’ll let my mother know you are at the ‘Glenveigh Arms,’ and no doubt she will writeto you. Good evening, everybody”; and he opened the half-door, and departed with his train of dogs.
“He is after offering us a pup,” said Katty, with complacency; “we are so lonesome here, since I buried me poor husband.”
“I know the names of the folk around from Mrs. Grogan,” said the visitor; “she has the place still at her finger-ends.”
“My name is Katty Foley, ma’am. I sure she will mindmewell; we were the wan age, and she and I had some fine jokes, together; to tell the truth, I was a bit of a go-between. Well that’s all past now. If the old gentleman had known, he’d have had me life! Aye, but he was the proud man. This girlie here is my daughter Mary, the only child I reared out of five, and all I have in the world, except a sister above at the junction!”
“Oh, indeed. Mr. Ulick seems a fine young man,” remarked the stranger.
“That’s true for ye, ma’am, as good as he looks, and the flower of the flock, the very twin of his father, the Colonel, so kind, and so feeling for the poor. Just a real decent clean-living boy!”
“That’s fine news, Mrs. Foley; and what about the other?”
“Oh, bedad, ma’am, I’d like well to say a good word for him too, if I could; but silence is best.”
“What ails him?” she asked peremptorily.
“Sure the mother has him ruinated since he could walk. He is just an eyesore to the township, and a scandal”; and Katty shook her head till the horn spectacles fell into her lap. “Av course, he is young, and may mend, but all I can tell you is, that if I see him coming into heaven, I’ll say, thank God!”
The stranger did not pause to question Mrs. Foley’s confidence in her own future state, but inquired, in a nasal key, “But what does he do, anyhow, my good woman?”
“Everything he ought to leave alone, ma’am. He is fond of low company, and cock-fighting, and betting, and all sorts of devilment. He gets in at night by the pantry window, and his mother thinks he is an archangel.”
“It’s a way mothers have. Poor woman!”
“Poor, is it! Faix, she’s a real rich woman, and small blame, and has the place in tip-top style, and keeps terrible state; but her servants is just starved.”
“Oh, mammy!” remonstrated Mary, “ye shouldn’t be talking so free to strangers.”
“A friend of Miss Nora’s is no stranger tome, and since she wants news, I bid to give her the truth. I know I’m crabbed, but I was reared on the Dorans’ land, and I’d put me hands under the Colonel’s feet. Sure, all the world knows the bad wife he had, and how she scolded him, and shamed him, and sold the buttermilk, and sent the old servants to the poorhouse! Well, well, I’ll say no more, I’ll say no more. Don’t mind me, ma’am. Mrs. Doran will be very sweet toyou, and I’m only a bitter old woman. Oh, I wish ye could have seen the poor Colonel!—such a lovely, fine, tall gentleman, with a beautiful face, as if it was carved. Him and Miss Nora was always very thick!”
“Yes, so I’ve been told,” said the stranger.
“And Tom? Tom Grogan—an’ how is he? He was a fine, fresh-looking boy, and me own second cousin. Faix, if I was to say that to Mrs. Doran, she’d burn the house over me head.”
“Mr. Grogan is well,” replied the visitor; “a little stiff in the joints now; but he is a rich man, and rides in his carriage.”
“Great fathers! to think of that now. Faix, ’tis no wonder as all the Grogans have gone afther him to America! And Miss Nora was the darlin’ girl. Is she changed?”
“Yes. Who would not be in thirty years? She is grey and wrinkled, but I think her heart is young still. And now I see the rain has stopped, and I must be going.”
“But won’t ye condescend to a cup of tea, ma’am? Mary will wet it in a brace of shakes. It’s good tay—Lynche’s—and has a fine grip of the water. I’d like ye to tell Miss Nora ye had a cup of tay with old Katty. She will remember Katty, I’ll go bail.”
“I really must be moving, thank you—I’ll maybe look in again; but if your gal here will set me on my road, I’ll be obliged to her.”
“To be sure, ma’am, with a heart and a half,” said Mary, as she took a shawl and threw it over her head, and then led the way down the path to the gate, and into the main road.
Mary and her guide had a most interesting talk, so much so that they scarcely felt the time passing—the American putting clever questions to the girl, the girl, ever greedy of information, eagerly cross-examining her companion respecting “the sort of life over there”; and they were mutually astonished when they found themselves at the entrance of the “Glenveigh Arms.”
Ulick Doran had lost no time in preparing his mother for a visit from his aunt’s emissary; but Ulick’s friends, or discoveries, were rarely appreciated atKilmoran. Mrs. Doran was proud of her youngest son’s good looks, good manners, and his horsemanship, precisely as she would be proud of a valuable piece of furniture which belonged to her exclusively. But the boy was too like his father; he reminded her at every look and turn of her life’s—well, she would not go so far as to call it remorse; but at any rate, she was not fond of Ulick. Her share of maternal affection was expended on Barker, and she was ashamed to admit to herself, that her indifference to her second son almost amounted to dislike. However, he was home now for six months’ leave, and she must just make the best of him.
“A woman who says she knows your aunt Nora,” she exclaimed, as she set down her glass of cheap sherry. “That is strange. And coming to seeme. How did you come across her?”
“At Foley’s, at the corner.”
“And may I ask what were you doing in there?”
“I just went in to light my pipe.”
“So that’s what hecallsit, eh, mater?” broke in Barky, with a knowing chuckle. “Mary Foley is the prettiest girl in the whole side of the country, and the cockiest, most impudent little devil I ever came across. Sothat’syour taste, is it, my boy!”
Ulick flung his brother an indignant glance, and went on. “The woman was there sheltering, and asking her way.”
“What sort of a person is she?” inquired Mrs. Doran.
“It is not easy to describe her.”
“No; it’s easier to describe little Mary, with her red poll,” interrupted Barky facetiously.
“But,” resumed the narrator, “she is stout and elderly, talks with a strong American accent, and looks like a prosperous housekeeper.”
“I suppose she has a letter of introduction from your aunt?”
“She did not say, and I did not ask her.”
“No, solikeyou! But I shall ask her,” announced Mrs. Doran, with an air of stern decision.
Mrs. Aron, as she was called, did not appear at the Castle for nearly a week. She had caught a wetting, and a cold, and remained at “The Arms” under the ministrations of Mrs. Hogan, imbibing gruel and a wonderful assortment of local gossip. At last, one afternoon, she presented herself at Kilmoran, but at an unfortunate moment: Mrs. Doran was in a bad temper; the cook and two other servants had given notice. Also she was momentarily expecting Lady Borrisokane, and various notables to tea. She sat enthroned in an arm-chair, pretending to read, clad in her best black satin. (Her toilettes now were rich satin, or silk for best, her everyday garment a black serge, with velveteen sleeves, which had long seen its best years.)
Suddenly the man-servant flung open the door, and announced “Mrs. Aron,” and a tall, self-possessed, elderly woman stalked in.
Mrs. Doran sat still and stared; she never uttered a word, and looked really formidable, for she had been composing the character she was about to give her cook.
“I am speaking to Mrs. Doran, I believe,” began the stranger.
Mrs. Doran nodded shortly; her expression was distinctly grim.
“I am a great friend of Mrs. Grogan—Miss Doran that was; she lives near me in Philadelphia, and as I was coming home to these parts she asked me to step in and see you, and bring her your news.”
“Oh, indeed,” drily. “I presume she sent a letter to introduce you?”
“No, ma’am, she did not.”
“That was strange!”
“I don’t believe she ever gave it a thought, nor that it would be expected or asked for.”
“Why not? I might have half America giving me a call!”
“I’m sure I don’t seewhythey should?” rejoined Mrs. Aron brusquely. “However, Mrs. Grogan, she told me that you’d be right glad to see me! In short, she said that most likely, for her sake, you’d give me house-room for a week or so.” After a short pause she added, “My box is at the ho-tell.”
“I’m positively certain Nora never said anything of the sort,” burst out Mrs. Doran. “I prefer to invite my own guests. Surely you are not in her class of life?” looking her slowly up and down.
Mrs. Aron’s clothes were cheap, and a little shabby: a long blue waterproof, a mock fur tie, black thread gloves, and a bonnet that had suffered from the weather.
“Yes I am, and just in her own class,” she answered sharply.
“But Mrs. Grogan is a wealthy woman.”
“Oh, is she?”
“I expect you were her—servant, were you not? Come now, tell me the truth.”
Mrs. Aron, who had been standing all the time, looked about her—and coolly took a seat.
“Were you her servant?” repeated Mrs. Doran.
“Well, I won’t deny that Ihavecooked for her; yes, and for Mr. Grogan, too; but it was many years ago.”
“And you dare pretend to me that she told you to come here on a visit? My good woman, you are a humbug! Don’t tell me that Nora Grogan associates with her servants; she is a Doran, and has the Doran pride in her blood—although she did disgrace herself. And you are an impostor.”
“No, ma’am, I really am not: I am a respectable woman. Mrs. Grogan would tell you so——”
“But she hasnottold me so!” interrupted Mrs. Doran angrily. The Countess and party might enter at any moment and find hertête-à-têtewith this person, who would probably disclose all manner of tales of Nora, and her husband, and disinter a buried and forgotten scandal!
“Mrs. Grogan told me a great deal about this beautiful place and her own country,” continued the intruder, in a meeker key. “I seem to know it as well as if I had seen it before. I expect she would see wonderful changes——”
“No doubt,” agreed Mrs. Doran, rising. Then she added with savage insolence: “Now I must really ask you to go. I am expecting friends. I firmly believe you are a fraud. There are too many frauds going”; and she rang the bell with energy.
“I’m not that, indeed!” protested Mrs. Aron, tremulously, also rising to her feet, “but I am in want—that is to say, I’d be thankful if you could spare me a little assistance to pay my way to Queenstown.”
“Well, you will not get it here,” replied Mrs. Doranwith biting emphasis. “I’ve suspected what you wanted all along—money. You are a begging impostor. Thomson!”—to her man-servant—“show this person out, and do not admit her again on any consideration.”
“And so, is this what I’m to tell your sister?” cried the American, suddenly confronting her hostess, “that you turned me out of the house!”
“You may, for all I care—I don’t believe for a moment that you know her!”
“If I don’t”—a pause, during which she seemed to struggle for an expression—“I know you—and well—for a hard, avaricious, cruel woman, that grinds the poor, and that drove your husband into his grave.”
“There, that’s enough!” interrupted Mrs. Doran, whose face had assumed the colour of beetroot. “Another word and I send for the police, you abusive old vagabond!”
A clang at the hall door announced the Countess, and Mrs. Aron was hurried into the hall. Thus the coming and the parting guest came face to face. The parting guest walked slowly down the avenue, every now and then pausing to look back. As she stood for a last glance, she was overtaken by Ulick Doran on a prancing bay filly.
“Hullo!” he said, “what’s the matter?” He noticed that she had been crying. “Have you been up to see my mother?”
“Say!” she said in a choked voice, “I don’t feel like talking to—to any one just now—” and she moved on, evidently struggling with some overpowering emotion.
“Oh, now,” suddenly dismounting, “I’m not going to let you off like this! Won’t you tell me what is the trouble? Come now.”
“Well, your mother told me I was just an impostor and a fraud, and turned me out. Your aunt had certainly forgotten her people, for she assured me I’d have a warm welcome, and be asked to stay.”
“My mother is a bit hasty sometimes,” he murmured, “and as to visitors—she is dreadfully worried with servants; she never even asks over her own relations.”
“Do you believe I’m telling truth or lies,” demanded Mrs. Aron suddenly.
“The truth. Yes I do! I think you have it in your face. And it was kind of you to come and look us up. I’d like to know my aunt Nora. Mind you give her my love.”
“Yes, I will. She has not many to love her.”
“Why so?”
“Because she is so rich; now”—and she hesitated. “I am myself a bit pressed for money for the price of my hotel bill and a second-class ticket to Queenstown.” She paused, and looked at him interrogatively, “and—you see for yourself I’ve no friends here!”
The young man reddened as he answered—
“I’m not to say flush just now, but I think I can scrape up ten pounds.”
“That will be as much as I shall want; and you shall have it back on my word of honour. I suppose you have not got it about you?”
“No, but I will send or bring it over myself this evening.”
“Is this your brother?” she inquired—“the stout young man with the gun coming in at the gate.”
“Yes, my brother Barker—he has been out after hares.”
“Hullo, Ulick!” he began, as he came within earshot. “I say, who is your lady friend?”
“Mrs. Aron, a friend of Mrs. Grogan in America—our aunt, you know.”
“No, I don’t know her, thank goodness, and don’t want to. A lady who disgraced the family, and made a scandal and went off with a blackguard postman!”
“He was not a blackguard, sir,” she broke in indignantly, “and he was the son of a respectable farmer. By all accounts, she was kept very strict, and had no young society of her own class.”
“She doesn’t seem to be keeping much societynow, if you are a specimen of her acquaintances,” scoffed Barky, with deliberate insolence, as he stared at her weather-beaten waterproof and old-fashioned bonnet. “Iwas always against my mother making it up with her, and you may tell her that if you like—from me. As to her money, I’ll believe it when I see it! America is a queer sort of place!”
“Is it? And yet, by all accounts, some one sent off a girl there last month who was arealdisgrace to her family.”
Barky became crimson as she looked him steadily in the face, and added, “I see you are your mother’s own son!”
“Well, so I have been given to understand.”
“And she has a right to be proud of you!”
“I am glad you think so”; and Mr. Barker Doran turned on his heel and stalked away, carrying with him all the eclat which is supposed to be conferred by the last word.
The conversation between his brother and Mrs. Aron was not overheard by Ulick. As the nervous young mare was cold and impatient, he had hastily mounted, and ridden away through the demesne. After an hour’s exercise he returned home, hurried up to his room, hunted out his money, and, taking what was called “the dairy pony,” galloped off to “The Arms.” He told himself that he could just do it, and be back in time for dinner at eight o’clock, for Mrs. Doran kept fashionable hours. Fashionable hours cost nothing; a chop at six is the same price as a chop two hours later.
When Ulick arrived at “The Arms,” a comfortable family hotel, the resort of tourists in search of fishing and scenery—the fishing a fiction, the scenery a delightful fact—he went to the bar and asked for Mrs. Aron. The landlady replied in person.
“Sure she is upstairs, after packing, and a bit tired, sir. If you will come along with me I will let her know”; and Mrs. Hogan conducted him into the best sitting-room.
In a few minutes Mrs. Aron entered, still wearing her bonnet and cloak.
“So you have brought it, I suppose?” she began abruptly.
“Yes. I’m awfully sorry: it’s only nine pounds after all.”
“Oh, I’ll make it do, and I am ever so much obliged to you; you’ll be no loser by me,” she added with emphasis.
“I am sorry my people were—were—a bit rough, and I hope you won’t tell my aunt more than you can possibly help. I know my mother has been bothered lately with several things, and I daresay my aunt would be vexed if she heard that she had not——well, you know what I mean: ignorance is bliss.”
“Young man, you never said a truer word!” declared Mrs. Aron, with unexpected emphasis. As she spoke she rose and walked over to the glass above the chimney-piece, leaving the money on the table. Ulick sat for a moment buried in thought; then he turned about to look for his cap. It was on the floor. He stooped for it, and when he raised his head Mrs. Aron had disappeared. In her place stood a tall, rather elegant woman with a slight figure and quantities of grey hair.
Ulick Doran started to his feet, and stared at the lady in stupefied silence. The stranger was the first to speak.
“Come here and give me a kiss, Ulick; I am your aunt Nora.”
“But why—and where?” he stammered, and held back.
“Oh, ever so many whys! As to where? Here is Mrs. Aron—my own name backwards;” and she lifted the wadded cloak from the sofa, then held up the bonnet and front. “It was a capital disguise, was it not?”
“Surely quite unnecessary—and why?”
“That is the second time you have askedwhy? Sit down there, and you shall hear all there is to it. I wished to see your mother, your brother, and yourself—what you called ‘unknownst’—and find out what you were like.”
“And, by Jove, you have been most unfortunately successful!”
“Not altogether unfortunate——”
“But I don’t think it was fair, Aunt Nora,” he protested; “I don’t think it was playing the game!”
“Well, there we differ. I am a rich woman. Tom agreed that our money is to go to the Dorans, my brother’s children, and I naturally wanted to discover what sort of people the Dorans were? As a girl, I was wild, and fond of fun and dancing; but my father, who was a very stern old man, kept me all but locked up. He had forgotten his own youth, poor man, and even his middle age. He married, you know, late in life. I was full of spirits, and daring, and once I got out and dressed up in Katty Foley’s clothes and went to a wake as her cousin, a strange young woman from Dublin. I was glad to see Katty. That’s a nice bright girl of hers; she has some notions, and is real well-looking. Well, to go on with my story, I had a great success. I could take off the brogue to the life, and at the wake I met Tom, and that was the beginning of the end.”
“But did you never go out at all, in your own rank of life—meet people?”
“Never, except to church, and now and then after the hounds. The only pleasure I had at all, was through your father, and you see he went to India. Tom Grogan was handsome and steady, and well enough educated. He had a place offered him in the States. I was just crazy to see the world. I loved Tom, and I ran away with him, and never regretted it, which is more than some can say. He has always been just lovely to me.We have worked hard and done well, and out there we are as good as any—being respectable, self-respecting, and real rich. I often longed to come over and see the old place, but I was ashamed to face people and thetalk. However, then Tom had a sudden call to London, and I came with him—almost at a moment’s notice. The idea was his to start with: I got a hustle on, and felt I’d just got to do it, and that was all there was to it, and fixed myself up as you see, a week and more ago; and then I was laid up with a real bad cold. Mrs. Hogan herself nursed me.Sheknows—she actually knew me when the bonnet was off. But she can keep my secret, and she will. Of course, my dear boy, I’m not going to take your money. I was only trying and testing you, like an old witch in a fairy tale. I’m real glad I met you in the avenue this evening, for to tell you the truth I felt so discouraged I was going right away, never wishing to see a Doran again.”
“I don’t know what my mother will say, and Barky, when I tell them,” said Ulick, after a pause.
“That is immaterial, Ulick. I wish you would come over to Queenstown with me to-morrow, and meet Tom; he would be real glad to know you.”
Ulick shook his head.
“Thank you, Aunt Nora, but I could not get away now. I’ve ever so many young hunters on hand. Duffy is sick.”
“Why, it sounds like old times to hear his name! Do you know that we once had a boy called Ulick; he was killed in a lift accident when he was eleven years of age, and now we have no one belonging to us whatever.”
“I’m awfully sorry for you, Aunt Nora, and for yourdisappointment here. I am not much good at talking, but——”
“But better at doing.”
“And I had better be going.”
“No, no; here is Mrs. Hogan with the tray. You will just stay and keep your aunt Nora company, and let us get to know one another a bit, my dear boy.”
So Ulick was persuaded, and he and his aunt made friends; he was so like her dear brother, not only in appearance, but ways, that she almost felt that it was she and the Ulick of her young days, once moretête-à-tête, and it was an easy matter to take his boy into her heart. The poor fellow, she knew, had a scanty allowance, and yet he had brought his little all, to his aunt’s old begging friend; she secretly resolved that that kindly meant loan, should be repaid by a great fortune. Mrs. Grogan drew the lad out about his regiment, his comrades, his plans, and tastes. She made him promise to write her long letters, to keep her well posted in his affairs, and ultimately to go over, and visit them. At ten o’clock she rose, and said—
“Now I must turn you out, for I’ve an early start to-morrow.”
“You won’t think too badly of my mother and Barky, will you?” he pleaded.
“My dear, I am not going to think ofthem, one mite! At first I felt mad: now I’m as cool as a cucumber.Youare enough for me. You may tell them it’s no matter, and they have got no need to worry. Now, good-bye, my dear Ulick, and bless you. Keep a corner in your heart for your old American auntie”; and she kissed him affectionately on both cheeks.
Two or three minutes later the patient dairy pony wason his way home. It was considerably after ten o’clock when Ulick entered the dining-room and found his mother and Barky still sitting there. (For one thing it economised candle-light, and for another, Barky could smoke to his heart’s content.)
“Ulick, this is a pretty hour for you to be coming home!” began his mother, in a high, excited key, “and you never told me you were dining out. I suppose these are military manners? Where have you been, pray?”
“At ‘The Arms.’ I’ve had my dinner. I did not intend to stay, and I had no way of letting you know. I am sorry you waited.”
“Oh, oh! I expect you were hob-nobbing with somelady, if the truth were known, you sly fox,” cried Barky.
“Well, yes, you’ve made a good shot. I was dining with a lady. Now for it,” said Ulick to himself.
“I know! The old bag-woman! Ha, ha, ha!”
“Yes. And the old bag-woman turns out to be—who do you think? Our aunt Nora herself!”
“Ah, man alive, you’re drunk,” shouted Barky, pushing back his chair.
“Not I. I met her in the avenue this afternoon. I went down with a small loan I promised her, and after I got there, and saw her, she suddenly slipped off bonnet, wig, and cloak, and turned into a handsome, well-dressed, elderly lady!”
Mrs. Doran, for once in her life, was too horrified to speak; her feelings were beyond the power of expression. Words failed her, and she simply sat glaring at her youngest son, as if he were some horrible monster.
“She said she had long wished to come home and see us all, and what we were like?” he resumed, “butcould not face the situation. At last, as her husband was over on business, she accompanied him, and explored about here, as you saw.”
“Good-bye to her money!” roared Barky. “Mother, you’ve done me out of a million dollars, if all you told me that you said to her is true!”
Mrs. Doran’s face had become mottled with red patches.
“Just what comes of associating with low company. Aladywould never have played us such a trick,” she said, when she had at last found her voice. “Is she going away early to-morrow?”
“Yes, to Queenstown, to catch the American boat.”
“Then I’ll write a line at once”—rising as she spoke.
“Mother,” protested Barky, “don’t.”
“Yes, I certainly will. I’ll apologise, and explain. After all, she has only herself to thank for her cool reception. Your aunt had no business to come home as a masquerader, and she really got what she deserved; but I will send her a nice letter. Tom shall take the dairy pony and ride down.”
Once again the dairy pony carried an errand to Mrs. Aron at “The Arms,” but on the last occasion he had his journey for nothing—to Mrs. Doran’s note there was no reply.
As winter advanced, the outlook for hunting was excellent, but, on the other hand, the prospects of the poor were lamentable. It had been a miserably wet harvest; there was a blight on most of the potato crops. Altogether, times were bad, and many decent, respectable old people were just struggling to keep the workhouse at arm’s length. The upper class in this part of the world were not wealthy; times were bad with them also, but they did what they could, and started a fund to provide firing, blankets, soup, and tea. In order to augment this subscription, Mrs. Doran, the ever bustling and benevolent, suggested holding a concert in the big drawing-room of the old part of the Castle, which, with one or two small passages, a cavernous kitchen, and pantries, was all of the dwelling that remained from the fire. This drawing-room lay at the opposite end of the yard from the present somewhat jerry-built mansion, and was utilised as a sort of general lumber- and store-room. It proved, when emptied, capable of holding three or four hundred people, and Mrs. Doran generously offered it free of charge. Decorations, she declared, were easy; chairs and forms could be borrowed; she would lend her piano—yes, and her youngest son should be one of the performers; for Ulick, as most people knew, had a delightful voice. The eager lady drove about the countryand expounded her scheme to her neighbours with convincing eloquence. The concert, of course, to be undenominational: the schoolmistress could get up glees, Lady Tandragee would play the violin, Father Daly, the parish priest, should sing, and the rectory girls perform on the piano; kind friends must contribute their talents, and the public their money. Tickets were to be ten shillings, five shillings, and two shillings, and there were to be—oh, marvel!—refreshments, which would be served in the Castle dining-room and servants’ hall, according to the rank of the ticket-holders. For, as Mrs. Doran declared, people could not be expected to come for miles and sit out two mortal hours and more, and then go away hungry. Her hearers listened and approved. But was this really Mrs. Doran who was setting forth such an innovation?—she, of all people, who suffered acquaintances to come and visit her from many miles distant, and rarely “put up” a horse, or offered the caller a cup of tea! What had come to her? Possibly now that her youngest son was at home, he had wisely prevailed on his mother to be less penurious, and more like other people. At any rate, Mrs. Doran was in her element; she was a born organiser; arranged a stage, wall-lamps, programmes, chairs, forms, and collected a really capital company. She borrowed far and she borrowed near; her pen, as she said herself, was never out of her hand! and, thanks to her exertions, which were prodigious, every ticket was sold. Lady Borrisokane was coming, weather permitting, with a large party, and General and Mrs. Haverstock were bringing a houseful of guests. For many days the grand concert and little but the concert was discussed in cabin, cottage, andCastle. The schoolmistress drilled a selection of girls to sing in the glees, and among the chosen was Mary Foley. The others were the daughters of strong farmers, or of people of the shopkeeping class; but Mary had a deliciously sweet treble, and could not well be overlooked; although her companions were a bit above her station, her voice soared above theirs, as a lark’s above the twittering of finches. All were commanded to appear in white, and Mary’s dress for her first communion came in nicely for the splendid occasion.
A full moon and a hard frost, made locomotion easy on the eventful evening, and by seven o’clock the yard of the Castle was packed with every description of vehicle, from an ass’s car to a smart private omnibus, and a bicycle to a mourning coach; “the house,” so to speak, was crammed to the door, the farmers and tradespeople gladly paid five shillings for a good charity, which combined songs, a supper, and a sight of all the quality in the country! The poorer folk expended two shillings, to show they could afford it, and were not coming on the parish; the boys also paid for the girls. There was much to see: the old drawing-room did not know itself; its walls were decorated with holly and pink paper, lit up by flaring wall-lamps. At the upper end was a platform (covered and draped in turkey red, rising from a forest of palms and exotic plants) on which stood a grand piano, chairs, and yet more palms. Behind this platform hung the doctor’s best drawing-room curtains, concealing the exit and entrance to the green-room (down three rickety steps and into a mouldy pantry), where was a lamp and a couple of kitchen chairs. By the time the five- and two-shilling seats had digested all these splendid details,the ten-shilling places began to arrive. It was the first time that many of the simple crowd had seen a real diamond necklace, or a black velvet dress. Lady Borrisokane’s head was covered with white plumes, “for all the world,” as some one said, “like a child’s hearse!” There was his lordship, bent in the shoulders, bald on the head, and furious in the face! Undoubtedly he was here against his will. Lady Tandragee, smart and showy in spangled pink satin, with a low body and pearls—the sight of her was worth at least one shilling. Next came Sir Thomas, in his pink coat, the honourable Mrs. Fagan and three daughters, all heiresses, but as plain as a heap of stones. The general, very gay-looking, with grand company; the rector of the parish; the parish priest. Each party or individual was loudly clapped as they entered; some were embarrassed, some laughed, others accepted the demonstration as their due, and indeed, Mrs. Fagan went so far as to scatter half a dozen stately bows! By the time they had all found seats, the doors were closed. The room was full—even the window-sills were occupied, and no less than five boys were seated (half-price) upon the chimney-piece.
It is perhaps scarcely necessary to mention that the concert opened with a duet—the Overture toZampa! After this the comic man sang a capital song, “Lannigan’s Ball.” The next item was a solo on the violin by Lady Tandragee, much appreciated by the ten-shilling places, but the performance was rather over the heads of the others; she gave a concerto delightfully. The farmer folk thought it most amazing to see a lady playing the fiddle; the working of her arms was a real wonder, but she was not getting out much tune!However, when she concluded, they clapped and stamped from politeness, and a good-natured appreciation of her desperate exertions. After an encore, there was a humorous recitation by the rector; and the last item on the first part was a song by Ulick Doran, Esq. When he stepped forward in his evening-dress clothes, looking remarkably handsome and well groomed, there was a loud burst of applause, and a noisy shuffling of feet under the cheap forms. Mr. Doran was entirely at his ease, the result of a long apprenticeship to soldiers’ sing-songs, and he sang in a fine, clear voice the well-known melody—