Although it was a nice, cloudy day, and the wind perfect for fishing, Mr. Usher sacrificed himself the following afternoon upon the altar of duty. He had slept on his discovery, and had come to the conclusion that it was his office, as Lord Mulgrave’s man of business, to interview this girl, whom fate had, so to speak, flung at his head; and four o’clock found him escorting his sister, Emily Usher (aged fifty, a good soul, and a bit of a blue-stocking), along a high, breezy road which ran above the lake, and at a certain sharp angle plunged into, and was lost among, dense woods which crowned the hill, and spread to the water’s edge. Clouds had gathered, a thin, cold drizzle was descending, when the couple came to the elbow or joint where the long, bluish-white road turned abruptly in order to accompany the lake; they arrived at the same time at a comfortable slated cottage, with geraniums in the windows, and a crimson rambler trained over its walls. The cottage stood back in a little field, and was flanked by several outhouses. At one side was a garden full of straggling hollyhocks, currant bushes, and poultry; at the other the usual substantial turf rick. A heavy wooden gate opened directly from the field into the road—a most excellent talking trap for passers-by, and doubtless the identical gate referred toby Mike Mahon. The general appearance of the place was well-to-do, but thriftless. A couple of pigs were rooting and grunting in the short grass; a speckled hen was perched at her ease upon the half-door; the currant bushes and apple trees exhibited a family washing;—conspicuous among the items were pink petticoats, and black stockings.
The nice soft afternoon and the drizzle was developing into steady rain, and Mr. Usher was by no means sorry to hear his sister exclaim—
“Here it is! This is Foley’s—Foley’s Corner, as they call it. I hope we shall find the girl at home.” And as her brother shoved back the gate she added, “I’ll go in first. Shall I?”
The pigs and geese pressed hospitably round the visitors as they walked up the path, and when they reached the half-door the hen flew off with a loud skwawk of expostulation. Miss Usher gave a genteel little cough—an ineffectual signal, for the room within seemed dim and empty. Presently she supplemented the cough with a timid “Ahem! Isanyone at home?”
No reply. Brother and sister then with one consent peered into the big flagged kitchen. Bacon in solid flitches hung from the rafters. On the well-varnished dresser a lean white cat sat comfortably lapping from a large pan of new milk. The fire was low, but on a girdle on the embers a large soda cake was baking—and burning. Crouched over the fire on a three-legged stool sat a slender, auburn-haired young woman, deeply engrossed in a somewhat tattered volume. Cough and speech, cat or hens, were alike indifferent to her, for at the moment she was living in another world, far awayfrom this gloomy kitchen and this burning cake. In short, the auburn head was buried inMonte Cristo.
As Miss Usher and her brother boldly entered (immediately attended by two geese), Mary Foley started, came back to her own everyday life, and sprang to her feet, greeting Miss Usher with a radiant glance.
“And so,” said her brother to himself, “this was Mary Foley!”
Yes, though not locally credited with “looks,” she was undeniably pretty—nay, even beautiful—with clear-cut, high-bred features, and, for all her peasant’s clothes, anaristocratto the tips of her little pink fingers.
“Ah, sure then, miss, it’s entirely too kind of you to come and bring me the books.” As she spoke her eyes fell on the parcel, and a wonderful smile—her ladyship’s smile—lit up her whole face.
“This is my brother,” explained Miss Usher, introducing him with a gesture.
“I am glad to see your honour”—dropping a curtsey—“and hope your honour has had good sport.”
“Pretty well, I thank you,” he faltered, for he was gazing at the living image of the late Countess of Mulgrave—supposing the countess to be dressed in a short blue calico gown and coarse white apron.
“And how is your mother to-day?” resumed Miss Usher.
“Oh, indeed, she’s only among the middlings, miss, and she’s keeping her bed. Me aunt is gone to the town for some medicine.”
“And you are minding the house?” suggested Mr. Usher.
“And doing it badly, too, sir. Shoo! ye greedy divil!” and she made a dart at the cat. “Out of this wid ye!” and she drove off the geese. “But the truth is I’ve got stuck in a book, and when I do that I clean forget everything—more shame for me.” She still held the book between her fingers, and from the bottom of her heart wished herself alone.
“May I see what it is?” said Miss Usher. Then, as she glanced at it—“oh,Monte Cristo! No wonder you were enthralled!”
“Isn’t it splendid!” she exclaimed. “Oh, it beats Banagher! I’ve just got to where they are dragging him into the boat. Isn’t it grand!”
As she and Miss Usher stood talking, it never seemed to have occurred to Mary Foley, that she was lacking in hospitality or good manners. As she remained discussing the engrossing romance with his sister, it struck Mr. Usher that Mary preferred to lounge against the table descanting and listening, and lacked the true Irish instinct, which instantly offers a welcome, a seat, and, if possible, refreshment. His quick, grey eyes wandered round the room, and noted its contents. It was of a good size; the furniture was strong and useful, but a tub with a half-washed gown stood near the window; the floor was littered with sticks and cabbage leaves. It was plain that Mary’s little hands were incapable of rough work! But he noticed some pathetic attempts at decoration: the dresser exhibited a large bunch of wild flowers; on the walls was a considerable gallery of coloured pictures, cut from the illustrated papers; the window curtains were white, and looped back with strips of pink calico. As the visitor stood staring about the half-door wasthrown back with a kick, and a thin, tall, peevish-looking woman, with a basket on her arm and a shawl over her frilled cap, entered, immediately followed by a red terrier. For a moment she stood aghast, then recovered and said, “Yer servant, ma’am—yer servant, sir,” as she dropped two curtseys, and deposited her load with an air of relief.
“Mary, me girl,” turning to her niece, “where’s yer manners? Won’t the lady take a sate?”
Mary coloured guiltily as she dusted and offered a chair. “Faix, I’m forgetting myself. Rap”—aside to the dog, who was sniffing the visitors—“behave yerself! Ma’am, I beg your pardon, but the house is all upset, and through other, it being washing day.”
“Lord save us! the cakes is a cinder!” cried the new arrival, hurrying to the fire. “Mary, girl, I lay my life you’ve been reading a book. Bedad, ma’am”—turning to Miss Usher—“if she was as good a hand at rearing pigs and calves as she is for reading and rearing flowers, we’d all be in clover. Oh, but she’s the terrible girl for a story——”
As she spoke Mrs. Grogan made a desperate attempt to tidy up the place, carried away the tub, and endeavoured with all the strength of her lungs to rekindle a few sods.
All this time Mary, her niece, with true patrician unconcern, stood knitting and talking to Miss Usher, precisely as if she were receiving her amidst the most luxurious surroundings, and absolutely unconscious of any shortcomings. If she had been a true-born Irishwoman she would have been pouring forth an irrepressible torrent of excellent and plausible excuses. And here, to Mr. Usher, was yet anotherincontrovertible proof that in Mary’s veins ran no Foley blood, but that she was the descendant of a colder race, the daughter of a hundred earls. Whilst Miss Usher made use of her tongue, her brother continued to make use of his eyes. The young woman, leaning against the dresser, with the dog at her feet, was plainly not in keeping with her background; her pose was grace itself, unconscious and unstudied—possibly the heritage of centuries of court life. The short blue cotton skirt revealed a pair of black woollen stockings and cobbler’s shoes; but even these failed to conceal a high-arched instep and slim little feet, and the hands that twinkled among the flying knitting needles might have been painted by Vandyck or Lely, so delicate, taper, and absolutely useless did they look.
Mary Foley had a sweet voice and a pleasant and melodious brogue; she and her visitor had much to say to one another on the subject of books, and the English lady was secretly amazed at the extent and variety of the Irish girl’s reading.
“Father Daly lends me theTimes Weekly, and Mrs. Hogan at the hotel gives me all the stray old books and magazines, and I keep her in stockings; then I buy books myself in Cork.”
“You don’t get much of a selection do you?”
“Oh, ma’am, sixpenny reprints is not too bad—I wish I knew French!”
“I suppose you only know your language?” put in Mr. Usher.
“The Irish, sir? Yes, I can speak that well, and read it too, they teach it in the schools now, but it is not much use if one went travelling—not like French.”
“Do you wish to travel?”
“Sometimes I do. I get a queer roving feeling,—a sort of longing comes over me; but mostly I am very well content here, and I’ve a notion that if I ever left this part of the world it would be like tearing the heart out of me, same as you see the poor people going to America.”
“Well, Mary, me girl, aren’t you going to ask the lady if she has a mouth on her?” put in the shrill, whining voice of Mrs. Grogan, who had been busy with a kettle and some cups and saucers.
The hot soda cake, retrieved from the cinders, sent forth an appetising invitation. Mrs. Grogan had cut it into large chunks, which she split and buttered with a generous hand.
“Emily, I really think we ought to be going,” protested Mr. Usher, who hated and despised afternoon tea, and would as soon partake of rhinoceros as hot buttered soda cake!
“Oh, but, sir,” pleaded Mary, turning her battery of smiles on him, “my aunt Bridgie would be shockingly disappointed if you won’t honour her, after making the tay and all; she’s the real manager and mistress since me poor mother took bad, and I’m only good, as she’ll tell you, for a little nursing, and minding the hens and the flowers. I hope you will stay?”
Bence Usher was astonished to find himself presently drawn up at a table, spread with a clean coarse cloth, and seated before a steaming slice and a steaming cup,tête-à-têtewith the two peasant women.
“No milk,” he cried, remembering the scene on the dresser.
“No milk,” echoed his sister.
“So it goes in families, misliking milk,” remarkedMrs. Grogan gravely. “I hope the tay is to your taste? I get the best, like me poor sister, four shillings and sixpence the pound. None of yer cheap mixtures!”
(There is no one in the world so particular respecting her tea, as the Irishwoman of the lower middle class.)
Mary, he noticed, was exceedingly dainty about her food, and reduced her share of cake to a mere slice, half of which she shared with the dog.
“That’s a handsome terrier,” he remarked; “he looks thoroughbred. Where did you get him?”
“He was given to me mother as a house watch, when he was a pup.”
“Your people are not from this part of the world?” remarked Miss Usher. “Any one can see that, Mary!”
“Deed then they are, ma’am,” she replied emphatically; “and where else? Why wouldn’t I be Kerry born and bred?”
“Because you are so unlike the other people, who have dark hair and blue or grey eyes, and are more strongly built; and you——”
“Oh, yes,” she interrupted, “I’m aware I’m altogether different—very small-boned, wid red hair and brown eyes, and no colour to spake of, but it’s just a chancey thing, like a piebald horse—or a blue-eyed cat; we can’t all be cut out on the same pattern.”
Mary was doing the honours of the feast; her aunt had undertaken the part of servant, and she now stepped gracefully into the rôle of hostess. Her manners were charming and fascinating; even Mr. Usher, laden as he was with care and apprehension, fell under their spell. In a kind of dream he ate a dangerous supply of soda bread, and disposed of two cups of strong tea;for as this most fascinating creature chattered away to him, he forgot both his digestion and his duties.
“Oh, faix, it’s not every day we have a gentleman to tay, I tell ye! If me poor mother was stirring, she’d be a proud and happy woman to see yer honour sitting here,” declared Mary.
“And how is she?”
“Just dozing now within in the room. She’s had one of her bad turns, but I nursed her out of it. Oh, she’s awfully changed since her mind gave way.”
“And do you think she really is—peculiar?”
“Think!Sure, don’t we know it? She, that used to be the sensiblest woman in the parish, and every one running to her for advice, is now, God help her, teetotally moidered, and wake in herself.” After a pause, “I see you looking at me very constant, sir. May I make so free as to ask if ye get a likeness of any one out of me?”
“Oh, I—I—beg pardon,” stammered Mr. Usher. “I’m a bit near-sighted. I hope you don’t mind. I see you have splendid potatoes,” he remarked suddenly, pointing to a basketful. “I suppose you like them?”
“Is it me? Augh, no!” with a gesture of abhorrence. “I hate potatoes; they just choke me. And when our bag of flour went astray on the train ’ere last week, I was daggin round for something to keep me alive, so I was. I’d die on potatoes.”
“And what did you find?”
“Ned Macarthy gave me a couple of salmon trout and a pigeon.” “Oh, he’s a great poacher!” and she laughed. “So I did finely. I think I hear me mother calling me, if you’ll pardon me”; and she rose and hurried into an adjoining room.
“She keeps you all alive, I am sure,” observed Miss Usher, “so full of life.”
“Aye, you’d never be wanting to go to a theatre or a pantomime as long as ye have Mary in the house,” assented Mrs. Grogan. “The chat out of her is wonderful, and she can talk to any one, as ye may judge! I can’t think how she comes by her freedom, for John and me sister was not a bit gabby themselves; but every one likes Mary, though she’s a poor worker. Half the boys are ready to put their hands under her feet. It’s not the looks, but what ye may call the cleverality of her!”
“Is her mother really no better?” inquired Miss Usher.
“Yes; she’s in her senses—no more foolish rambling, and rousing the priest with mad tales. But the head of her is full of pains. Oh, she’s greatly failed! She’s been lying a good while, and I’m thinking she won’t be long in it.”
“I suppose you don’t remember Lord Mulgrave coming here?” ventured Mr. Usher, who had risen, and, with his back to Mrs. Grogan, was searching for his stick.
“And troth an’ I do, and why wouldn’t I? I remember him well,” she rejoined, in her whinging voice. “I met him in the woods one day, and he gave me a great salute. Such a lovely, tall, fine gentleman! I never seen her ladyship; she never stirred out much. It was at Lota she died. Oh, but she made the lovely corpse!”
“Indeed!” said Miss Usher.
“Yes, that was an awful affair, and unexpected. They do say”—lowering her voice almost to a whisper—“shewalks! Anyway, no one will go near the place after dark.”
“Surely you don’t believe that?” protested the lady.
“Well, ma’am, I’ve seen and heard many a quare tale in me time, and I don’t rightly know what to believe and what not to believe; but it would be more reasonable-like if she’d stop with her own folk, and haunt them, instead of scaring poor Irish people, as are black strangers.”
“Really, Emily, it’s six o’clock,” said her brother, suddenly looking at his watch. “We must not intrude on Mrs. Grogan any longer. You see it has quite cleared up now”; and he made for the door.
Miss Usher, an intelligent woman, who wrote a little, and was particularly anxious to study the Irish peasant, and interiors, would gladly have thrashed out with Mrs. Grogan the subject of ghosts, warnings, and Banshees; but her brother was already at the gate. Should she offer payment? She put her hand to her steel bag, and looked interrogatively at her hostess, but read an invincible “no” in those little twinkling greenish eyes.
“Thank you very much. Please say good-bye to your niece for us.”
“Aye, she’ll be sorry to miss ye; but she is mighty taken up with her mother. She’s a real, good decent girl, for all her funny ways—wan that always satisfies ye, and me sister cannot spare her out of her sight—that is when she’s in her right senses. Well, good-bye, my lady, good-bye. Mind the gander; he’s a bit wicked to strangers”; and she curtseyed her out.
“Well, Bence!” said Miss Usher, as she came up with her brother, “tell me frankly what you think ofthat girl? Is she not beautiful, and has she not an extraordinary air of refinement and distinction?”
“Oh, yes, she’s uncommon-looking,” he muttered, in a peevish tone.
“Did you notice her slow smile? A family smile, I should imagine; and yet, of course, I am talking the most arrant nonsense! Can you believe that her grandmother was some old Kerry woman, who dug potatoes and smoked a pipe! Now,canyou?” she repeated impressively.
“No, I cannot,” he answered doggedly. All the time he was mentally making a draft of a letter.
“And yet there is her aunt, a common, ignorant person, as you see. I rather wanted to give her half a crown as a return for the tea; but Irish hospitality is a thing by itself. As for Mary, the day I lost my way I offered her a shilling, and you should have seen how she coloured up and refused it. I almost felt as if I had offered it to anequal. Really, one would take her for a lady if she were dressed up—a somebody, in fact!”
“In fact, Lady Joseline Dene,” her listener mentally added, as they walked on for some time in silence. The Mulgraves were a notoriously proud family; ancient, exclusive, wealthy, now dwindled down to one last branch. What would Owen, Earl of Mulgrave, say to this Irish heiress who fed pigs, washed and cooked (very badly), and had adopted the religion, language, prejudices, and accomplishments of a Kerry peasant? Could she ever be educated, transformed, and fitted for her high degree?
“Come, come, Bence, you have not opened your lips for half a mile,” remonstrated his sister. “A penny for your thoughts. What are you thinking about?”
“That I hope we may have cranberry tart for dinner,” was the mendacious reply.
“Oh, you greedy person. I fancied you might be puzzling out the enigma of that red-haired girl. I must confess that she bafflesme. She’s a physiological freak; she’s a white crow. What business has she to feed pigs with those little taper hands? Tell me that?”
But her cautious companion was not prepared to tell her anything as yet; he would keep his discovery to himself. Emily had an active mind, a healthy curiosity, a world-wide correspondence, and in answer to her question, “Tell me that?” he merely shook his head, in token of hopeless ignorance.
Personally, he had no shadow of doubt as to the girl’s identity, and as he strolled up and down the road in front of the hotel after dinner, he held a long debate as to what he ought to do. Should he hold his peace, leave Lady Mary to her wash-tub and her gate, or should he write the wonderful news to the earl, her father?
From the slated cottage at the corner of a country lane it is a long step to an historical castle in Perthshire. Here the Marquis of Maxwelton is entertaining a large party for the twelfth. His moors are as celebrated as his gaunt old fortress, built after the French fashion, in the time when the Guise family held sway in Scotland. The château has been modernised, and the gardens and grounds are unsurpassed for beauty and originality.
Among the guests are the Earl and Countess of Mulgrave and Miss Tito Dawson—the Countess’s daughter by a former alliance. The ladies are lounging in the gardens, the earl is on the moor with the guns. He is a fine shot and a keen sportsman. A tall, slim man of fifty with clearly cut profile, grizzly hair, and a pair of deep-set, melancholy eyes. He has a polished manner, a pleasant voice, is an agreeable acquaintance and popular landlord; but the real Earl of Mulgrave lives far behind those melancholy eyes, entrenched in an impenetrable reserve. Thus far and no further his guests can go. He is ready to entertain them, to shoot, play billiards, talk politics, and subscribe money; lavish with time and with his fortune, he is niggardly of himself. His life—how little people guess!—has for years been one long disappointment.
After his young wife’s death he became a rover—driven from country to country by his own despair.
One autumn afternoon at Granada he came upon a party of tourists, or rather they came upon him, and among these was a lady who, to his starved heart, brought dim memories of Joseline, his lost idol. Mrs. Dawson was slim and animated. She had brown eyes and mahogany-coloured hair. A free lance, with great ambitions and small possessions, she set herself to lay siege to the handsome, heart-brokenparti. Her cue was “sympathy.” Each had known losses—irreparable losses. The departure of Captain Dawson had been hastened by drink. Oh what profanation to brackethimwith Joseline Mulgrave!
Mrs. Dawson admired, in a really genuine fashion, the handsome, desolate widower, and he, knowing that he must once more accept the burden of his position, and imagining her to be a sweet, tender-hearted woman, energetic as wise, invited her to be the partner of his sorrows.
The likeness to Joseline had become indistinct and faded, save for the hair-tint (which was duly revived at necessary intervals); but he believed that they would make the best of two sad lives, and face the future sustained by mutual experience, and mutual sympathy. The Countess of Mulgrave, with her carriages, diamonds, town-house, and country-seats, was an entirely different individual to the pretty, pathetic widow his lordship had known in Spain. They were not the same. People talk of children being changed at nurse; it seemed as if Lottie Dawson had been changed at the altar!
She was ambitious, agreeable, and selfish. Aluxurious home, crowds of servants, quantities of money, a great name, and a connection, were all delightful in their way, and she was fairly well satisfied with her lot. Certainly Owen was peculiar; she managed him beautifully—yet she stood a little in awe of him, although he had never uttered a sharp word, or denied her any reasonable request. He attended her to functions, he submitted to her friends, he made Tito a generous allowance; and yet somehow they remained strangers.
Of course, they had not identical tastes. A country life, sport, books, and peace, were all he cared for; she enjoyed the racket of town—six engagements of an evening, with races, the opera, Hurlingham wedged in between visiting, charity concerts, and milliners. She had acquired the great art of dress, and was still a pretty woman, with auburn hair, and a brilliant colour, a wonderful faculty of making conversation, a fair amount of tact, and a reputation at bridge.
Her daughter Tito, who was small and dark, with anez retroussé, found it necessary to live up to her profile, and was as jaunty and impudent as her nose—extravagant in dress and conversation. Tito Dawson had a reputation for being clever, and making the most daring and original remarks.
As a rule, women and girls liked her, and men considered her “good sport.” She had a sharp, amusing tongue, and a capital seat on a horse.
The marquis and his guests were lunching in a glen after a first-rate drive. Long rows of dead grouse were spread in lines near where the beaters were eating their dinner. The guns, twelve in number, reclined under the lee of a rock, discussing cold grouse, cold pie, sandwiches, and cake, when a gillie arrived with theletters. These were those which had come from the south by a second post, and, being the most important of the day, were invariably sent out to the guns, as among Lord Maxwelton’s guests were men high in the political and diplomatic world and the services, to whom the delay of a few hours, meant much in these hurried times. Letters and telegrams were handed about to where their recipients sat lounging or cross-legged, enjoying a pipe or cigar.
“Two for you, Owen,” said his host and brother-in-law, and he handed him a couple of missives in the long, narrow envelopes dedicated to business.
Lord Mulgrave glanced at them indifferently. The post had no surprises or pleasures for him. One was from his farm bailiff, no doubt about wire fencing; the other was from Usher, his man of business. Could anything be more prosaic or commonplace?
An interesting young colonel, his next-hand neighbour—a keen soldier and a keen shot—was immersed in a woman’s letter, written in an enormous hand, with violet ink. As he turned the page, the words “My own darling boy” were as plain as a sign-post. Those who sat must read; but the lady’s “darling” was blissfully unconscious.
Lord Mulgrave, about to consign his letters to his pockets, paused. He might as well see what Brown and Usher had to say. He cut the envelopes carefully with a pocket-knife, being the most methodical of men, and drew out first of all Brown’s estimate for so many yards of netting.
Then he examined the other. At the first glance, at the words “astonishing discovery,” he simply lifted his eyebrows. At the second glance, he read on withcolourless face to the bottom of the page; he turned it with a trembling hand—he finished the letter, three sides of a sheet—crushed it up, rose abruptly to his feet, and walked away.
“Hullo!” exclaimed the little colonel, looking up suddenly, “I am afraid his lordship has had bad news?” and he turned his head, and watched the tall, active, tweed-clad form, striding towards the banks of a foaming mountain torrent, where the figure seated itself in an attitude which implied, “Leave me alone. I wish for my own company!”
“Perhaps something has disagreed with him,” muttered a man who did not like Lord Mulgrave’s cold and courteous manners.
“Perhaps so,” assented the little colonel; “youhave never agreed with him, and I heard you just now abusing his pet scheme for compulsory service.”
“And he jumped down my throat, spurs and all.”
“Well, it must come to that, sooner or later. The world’s conditions are changing. Can a half-armed people survive, when the whole of the rest of the world is trained to arms? The growth of immense foreign armies is introducing new problems into British national life, whilst all the omens point to the probability that England’s position will be challenged in the near future! Diplomacy may do much, but, as Napoleon said, diplomacy without an armed force behind it, is like music without instruments!”
“My dear chap,” sneered the other, “you talk like a newspaper correspondent.”
“I do. I am actually quoting the Press.”
“Oh, I bar these big questions. Sufficient to the dayis the evil thereof. I suppose we are going to the west beat after this?”
“Yes.”
“I hope to goodness they won’t putmein a butt next old Sir Timothy Quayle. He’s dangerous. Talk of being under fire! He blazed right into me—cannot see a yard. No business on a moor. Never was so frightened in my life! I threw clods at him and yelled, and he thought it was something to do with the coveys. There’ll be an accident some day. I say, why aren’t we moving? Where’s the marquis?”
“Down there by the waterfall, talking to Lord Mulgrave.”
“Well, I’m here to shoot my twenty to forty brace, not to talk”—rising to his feet and stretching himself. “I wish—— Oh, I see, it’s all right. There go the beaters.”
“I say, Owen,” said the marquis, as he joined him, “I hope you have not had bad news, old boy?”
“No,” replied the other, raising a colourless face, “but news that, if it istrue, is the best that has come to me for more than twenty years. Here”—and he thrust the letter into his friend’s hand. “You had better read it yourself. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit knocked out of time. Of course, I’m going to Ireland to-night.”
“Ireland!” echoed his companion. “What in the world would take you there?”
“Read that, and you will understand.”
The marquis, who was near-sighted, deliberately fumbled for his pince-nez, stuck it on his nose, and read with provoking leisure.
“Glenveigh Hotel,“Co. Kerry.“My Lord,“I have recently come upon an astonishing discovery, and beg to acquaint you with my experience. I must ask you to prepare yourself for a piece of intelligence which must naturally be to you of the nature of a shock.“By accident I rambled into a ruined place called Lota, of which, many years ago, your lordship was the tenant, where, in short, her ladyship the first Lady Mulgrave died, after having given birth to a little girl. I there met an old man, once your gardener, who disclosed to me the amazing news that your daughter did not, as was supposed, die in infancy, but was kept in place of her dead child by the foster-mother, Katherine Foley, and reared as her own.“Recently remorse, illness, and age, have overtaken Mrs. Foley, now a widow, and she has made the extraordinary confession that Mary Foley, a girl of one-and-twenty, is no child of hers, but the child of the Earl of Mulgrave. Of course, no one credits this statement, for Mary is a Kerry girl, with all a Kerry girl’s tastes. Every one, including the priest and doctor, believe the poor old woman to be suffering from a delusion, and crazy. Mary herself has no doubt whatever of her antecedents. Hearing from the old gardener that her appearance was remarkable, I made my way to Foley’s farm and interviewed the young woman, and I have come to the conclusion that the ravings of old Katty are thetruth. The girl’s likeness to the late Countess of Mulgrave is so extraordinary, that for my own part I believe the relationship to be undeniable, and I am confident that this girl is your lordship’s daughter and heiress.“I am afraid my information may be unwelcome, forseveral reasons: the girl has been brought up as an Irish peasant; she has had but little education, and is, of course, a Roman Catholic. On the other hand, she is remarkably intelligent, has read all the books that she could lay hands on, and has a natural grace and charm of manner, that is lacking in many young ladies that have had ten times her advantages. If I might venture to make a suggestion, I think your lordship should come over andseethe girl and judge for yourself. I have not breathed my conviction to a soul, and, should I be mistaken, at least no harm is done. I am staying at the Glenveigh Hotel, where fairly comfortable quarters are available. It is within an easy distance of Foley’s farm, and five miles from a station. I have debated with myself whether to disturb your lordship with my discovery or to pass over the event in silence. I am aware what a change in the girl’s circumstances, and in other people’s expectations, such a revelation will occasion. At present Mary Foley is happy, satisfied with her lot in life, devoted to her mother, and full of high spirits, vivacity, and contentment. It will be foryouto judge, for you to speak the word, and to break the spell.“Awaiting instructions, I remain,“Your lordship’s obedient servant,“Bence Usher.”
“Glenveigh Hotel,“Co. Kerry.
“My Lord,
“I have recently come upon an astonishing discovery, and beg to acquaint you with my experience. I must ask you to prepare yourself for a piece of intelligence which must naturally be to you of the nature of a shock.
“By accident I rambled into a ruined place called Lota, of which, many years ago, your lordship was the tenant, where, in short, her ladyship the first Lady Mulgrave died, after having given birth to a little girl. I there met an old man, once your gardener, who disclosed to me the amazing news that your daughter did not, as was supposed, die in infancy, but was kept in place of her dead child by the foster-mother, Katherine Foley, and reared as her own.
“Recently remorse, illness, and age, have overtaken Mrs. Foley, now a widow, and she has made the extraordinary confession that Mary Foley, a girl of one-and-twenty, is no child of hers, but the child of the Earl of Mulgrave. Of course, no one credits this statement, for Mary is a Kerry girl, with all a Kerry girl’s tastes. Every one, including the priest and doctor, believe the poor old woman to be suffering from a delusion, and crazy. Mary herself has no doubt whatever of her antecedents. Hearing from the old gardener that her appearance was remarkable, I made my way to Foley’s farm and interviewed the young woman, and I have come to the conclusion that the ravings of old Katty are thetruth. The girl’s likeness to the late Countess of Mulgrave is so extraordinary, that for my own part I believe the relationship to be undeniable, and I am confident that this girl is your lordship’s daughter and heiress.
“I am afraid my information may be unwelcome, forseveral reasons: the girl has been brought up as an Irish peasant; she has had but little education, and is, of course, a Roman Catholic. On the other hand, she is remarkably intelligent, has read all the books that she could lay hands on, and has a natural grace and charm of manner, that is lacking in many young ladies that have had ten times her advantages. If I might venture to make a suggestion, I think your lordship should come over andseethe girl and judge for yourself. I have not breathed my conviction to a soul, and, should I be mistaken, at least no harm is done. I am staying at the Glenveigh Hotel, where fairly comfortable quarters are available. It is within an easy distance of Foley’s farm, and five miles from a station. I have debated with myself whether to disturb your lordship with my discovery or to pass over the event in silence. I am aware what a change in the girl’s circumstances, and in other people’s expectations, such a revelation will occasion. At present Mary Foley is happy, satisfied with her lot in life, devoted to her mother, and full of high spirits, vivacity, and contentment. It will be foryouto judge, for you to speak the word, and to break the spell.
“Awaiting instructions, I remain,“Your lordship’s obedient servant,“Bence Usher.”
“Well,” exclaimed the marquis, as he deliberately folded the letter, “this is a nice thing to spring on a man after twenty-one years!”
“Nice! Yes. Oh, Max,”—and his voice shook—“I hope to God it is no mirage, and that it may be true.”
“Then you are glad?” he asked sharply.
“Yes, I should think so. Why not?”
“But it is such an outrageous event—so unnatural and impossible. Of course, I’m aware that you and poorJoseline were all in all to one another—a sort of fairy tale, your marriage; but that is over. You are no longer a young man; you have other ties.”
“But no child?”
“No; and this one, if she is your own flesh and blood, will be an alien, a stranger in ideas, prejudices, and religion—nothing more or less than a pretty Irish peasant, eh?”
“He said she was the image of her mother.”
Lord Maxwelton looked incredulous. Then he resumed—
“The likeness may be accidental. Such things do happen. Just think of the horror of the present Lady Mulgrave to have a girl less refined than her own kitchen-maid thrust into her intimate society—in fact, bound to accept and chaperone the stranger as her daughter! And as to that story of a baby changed at nurse, I don’t quite believe that; it sounds too much like a shilling shocker. Your man Usher is, no doubt, a romantic old bachelor; he has been captivated by a pretty girl—I canseehe has—and found a mare’s nest. If I were you, I should do nothing hastily; in fact, I’m not sure thatIshould do anything at all.”
“Max, I’m amazed to hear you talk in this cold-blooded fashion.”
“Cold-blooded! No, but prudent and far-seeing, my dear fellow. Do you realise the results of bringing over this Irish girl? She will be Baroness of Marchlyde in her own right. She will inherit a certain amount of the family property—she, an uncouth, raw, country girl! You could do nothing with her. Of course her character is formed by now. She will probably make your present quiet life most sensational andwretched. She is happy where she is—youare happy where you are.”
“No, Max, you know very well that I have never been happy since her mother left me. But oh! if fortune were to give me back Joseline in our daughter, I’d ask no more.”
“Then what do you propose to do?” inquired his listener, in a sharper key.
“Return at once to the castle, get a few things put together, and leave by the six o’clock from the junction. I’ll go alone, and not take my man, and you will make my excuses to every one, and say that I was called away by important business.”
“All right—though in my opinion it’s all wrong. Shall you tell Lady Mulgrave and Elgitha?”
“Only my wife just yet.”
“If you are wise, you will wait.”
“Wait! For what? If this girl is my daughter, I shall bring her back with me.”
“And if it is a wild-goose chase, how foolish you will look!”
“Yes; one has to take risks, and I’m ready to chance that. Now I see all the others anxious to start and I must not detain you. Good-bye, old man”—wringing his hand—“I leave you to explain everything. Wish me luck.”
“I wish youluck,” rejoined the other, putting his own construction on the word; and in another minute the two had separated.
Lord Mulgrave, having given directions to his man to immediately pack a portmanteau and order a dog-cart, set out in search of his wife. The quest proved long. She was not in the boudoir, the hall, the drawing-room; she was not even playing bridge or croquet. At last he discovered her in the garden—a most sequestered spot, some distance from the castle. Two ancient fishponds, surrounded by terraces and broad grass walks, were its principal features. On an island in one of the ponds was a pretty clump of trees, in that clump a hammock, in the hammock a smart lady with a novel, a cigarette, and a tiny “sleeve” dog.
“My dear O,” she cried, as he crossed a footbridge, “what brings you back? Not an accident! Has anything happened? Any one blown off anyone’s head?”
“No, not quite; but something has happened. I’ve had a letter.”
“From the duke?”—struggling to sit up. “So he is coming for the pheasants after all?” Her face was radiant.
“No, I’ve not heard from him”—and he put his hand in his pocket and drew out the letter.
Lady Mulgrave’s expression changed, as she said, “I really do think there ought to be a law against all themen going out together. Half should remain to amuseus. It is ghastly dull. Tito and Griselda are going to walk with the guns this afternoon, but I hate that sort of thing. Lady Madge and the marchioness, and a whole pack have driven to see a ruin. They couldn’t see a more splendid ruin than Lady Madge herself! Some are playing croquet; some are asleep, and I was nearly off. Oh, you abominable little dog!” suddenly addressing the mite, who had been chewing her book. “Oh, you little horror!”—and she gave it several hard cuffs.
“Look here, I want you to read this, Charlotte. I’ve had a most startling piece of news. I am going to Ireland to-night.”
“Ireland?”—carelessly taking the letter. “Ireland, of all places! Butwhy? It’s not even the horse-show week, and that’s its only inducement!”
“You will see the why, when you read what Usher has to say.”
Lady Mulgrave glanced over the pages with a puckered, frowning face.
“My dear, what nonsense!” she exclaimed at last. “Surely you don’t believe such utter rubbish. A common country girl your daughter?”—and with an impatient jerk she threw away the cigarette which had been suspended in her fingers.
“I cannot tell you until I’ve seen her. Seeing will be believing, or disbelieving.”
“My dear man, I can tell you one thing. You will have your journey for nothing.”
“I sincerely hope not,” he answered gravely.
“If there is anything in it, it will really be awful, Owen. No, I’m not meaning anything nasty! Awfulfor the girl, and also for us. I expect she wears no stockings, and says ‘bedad’ and ‘begorra.’”
“These matters can easily be remedied. You will be good to her, won’t you, Lottie?”
“Of course. I will be good to any one belonging to you,” she answered. Then, suddenly getting out of the hammock, with a great display of orange silk petticoat, and standing before him, she added, “But I feel confident it is some mistake. And if not, do think of the feelings of Dudley Deverill, brought up to be your heir.”
“Well, he will have the title and a good share of the property. But we are travelling a little too fast. I must first go over to Glenveigh. I might have kept my own counsel till I returned; but I thought you’d like to know.”
“Liketo know!” she repeated, under her breath.
“Pray don’t let it go any further. I’ve not told even Elgitha. Say I’m called away on urgent business.”
“And the word ‘business,’ like charity, covers a multitude of sins and secrets!” Lady Mulgrave looked at her husband with an odd smile; but he was grave—he was even agitated. She could read the signs. He had been besotted about his first wife, so people declared, though it seemed incredible, for he was always so cool, self-possessed, and undemonstrative. Was he going to be as idiotic with respect to his daughter?
But of course half the evils in the world are those which never happen. No doubt this creature was a myth.
“At least it will be an adventure,” she exclaimed. “And think of the scare lines in the morning papers: ‘Long-lost heiress discovered in Irish cabin.’ ‘Peasant girl, aged twenty, a peer’s daughter.’”
“Well, Charlotte, if any unexpected good luck had fallen toyou, I think I’d not have jeered and laughed.”
“Dear old Owen!”—and she patted his arm—“did I jeer and laugh? I beg your pardon, but the idea is so grotesque I cannot get to face it, and it all seems sofunny. You know I’ve an extraordinary sense of humour; it bubbles up in spite of me, like a kettle on the boil! In my mind’s eye, when I see you so tall, erect, and dignified, with a wild and tattered Irish colleen hanging to your arm, I really cannot feel serious; but you know very well, dear, that my heart is in the right place! I suppose”—and she paused and looked up in his face—“you would not like me to go with you?”
This was, as she was well aware, a perfectly safe offer.
“No, no, I must be off. No time to lose. Pray do not mention the matter to a soul. I’ll write and wire. Good-bye”; and despite her protestations that she would come with him and help him to pack, he waved her a denial and a valediction.
As she heard the garden gate click her ladyship scrambled once more into the hammock, lit a cigarette, and abandoned herself to contemplation.
No, no; if it really came to anything, if the story were true, if this journey provided her with a stepdaughter, it would be too detestable. How she would hate the commotion, the gossip, and—thegirl!
It was a soft and exquisite autumn afternoon. A delicate blue haze lay over the hills; the dense, dark woods were steeped in breathless silence, and the only sound that caught the ear, was the rattle of a reaping machine. As Lord Mulgrave and Mr. Usher turned down the long, straight road leading to Foley’s Corner, the earl was livid, his expression was set; evidently he was struggling in the grip of some vehement emotion, and the name of this disturbing element was “suspense.” Would it be true? or false? Would it be Joseline’s daughter? or some raw, uncouth stranger? Was it the wild-goose chase his wife had predicted, or the pursuit and capture of happiness? Oh, these next ten minutes would mean so much to him; he almost felt, this self-contained man, as if he were treading on the very boundaries of life and death.
“Joseline’s daughter,” he was saying to himself. “Joseline’s daughter.”
Mr. Usher, instinctively aware that his companion was in a highly strung and nervous condition, like the wise little man he was, held his peace; yes, even when they came within full view of the slated house, with its commonplace white face half hidden by a veil of crimson roses.
“There she is!” he exclaimed abruptly.
Yes; standing at the farthest side from them, attended by a terrier, feeding a multitude of bold and presumptuous poultry, stood Mary herself.
“See, now! that’s all I have for ye,” she declared, as she tossed the last crumbs away, and a race ensued between a strong-limbed cochin and a dissipated-looking hen turkey. The bang of the gate caused her to turn her head, and she beheld, to her surprise, the “little grey man,” as she called him, and a fine, tall gentleman; and little did she guess how deeply he was agitated.
“Here I am again, Mary!” announced Mr. Usher, with an off-hand air. “I thought, as we were just passing, we would look in and bid you the time of the day!”
“And kindly welcome.” As she spoke she glanced up at the stranger; he was awfully white, and his eyes, as he looked into hers, seemed to pierce down to her very heart. “What ailed the poor gentleman?” she wondered; “was he taken bad?” Yes; he suddenly sat down on a bench outside the door, and, in a husky tone, asked for a “glass of water.”
He really seemed faint and come over, and Mary hastened into the house, and presently returned with a brimming tin porringer.
As he sipped it, the hand which held the porringer shook visibly, and Mr. Usher, in order to make a diversion, inquired—
“How is your mother to-day, Mary?”
Lord Mulgrave started violently.
“Deed then, your honour,” she replied, “she is in a way better. She is sitting up, and the pains are gone, but her head is bothersome.”
From within a shrill old voice called out querulously:
“What are you after? Who is it that’s talking to your ladyship?”
“There it is!” she ejaculated. “The head of the poor thing is not right. Maybe”—hesitating—“you’ll come inside? or will the other gentleman?”
“Thank you,” he interrupted, “yes—yes, if you will permit me, I should like to see your—Mrs. Foley.”
Mary instantly pushed back the half-door, and ushered in the visitors.
Old Katty was seated in a comfortable chair near the window. On her lap lay a peculiarly complacent white cat, whose loud purrings testified to its supreme satisfaction, although she had the fur half singed off one side, and was in appearance the very lowest of the lower order of the great tribe, with a thin, pointed head, and a disgracefully dirty face.
Mrs. Foley, on the other hand, presented the remains of remarkably good breeding and good looks—slender and erect, with well-cut features, wavy black hair, but slightly powdered with grey, and dark, deep-set, tragic eyes. She bore but scant resemblance to her half-sister—the sandy, mealy-skinned, peevish Mrs. Grogan—and had made the more successful match of the two sisters.
“Here’s two gentlemen, mother!” was Mary’s somewhat vague introduction.
Mrs. Foley slowly turned her great melancholy eyes, first on Mr. Usher and then on his companion. As she gazed she suddenly seized the arms of her chair, rose to her feet and cried, “God help me! ’tis the earl himself!” and she trembled violently from head to foot.
“Now, can’t ye sit down, mother,” protested Mary,“and don’t be exciting yourself. Sure, ’tis only a chance friend of the visitors from the ‘Glenveigh’ as has looked in.”
Mrs. Foley threw herself back in her chair, and, rocking to and fro, began to wail and sob.
“Oh, my sin has found me out. Wirrah, wirrah, asthue! My sin has found me out! You’ve come to put me in jail and take her away at last.”
“Katty Foley,” he replied, “I will do you no injury in any way, you may be certain of that”—and his voice was strong and encouraging. “But I implore you to tell me the truth.”
“Aye, your honour,” she moaned, “I will so, and sure, haven’t I been telling it this twelvemonth, and not a soul will believe me!”
“I will believe you, I promise you on my honour.”
“Ye may think I am mad, but it was onlybadI was; yer lordship will remember when I was sent for to take the poor little motherless babe?”
He nodded his head gravely.
“Oh, it was a fair and lovely darlin’, and so fine and healthy; but my own little girl grew droopy and pined—I’ve had four, and I never reared one. It killed me to see them just fading off and my heart withering along with them. When my little Mary—God rest her!—died, quite sudden, I was nearly crazy, but that other little one was a consolation, and as I lay in the bed I made up my mind I’d keep her for my own. Oh, wasn’t I the wicked woman? I had no scruple. Oh, may the saints pity me! But the little live warm child just caught me by the heart”—her voice rose to a wail of agony; “howcould I send her away, and sit again by the empty cradle?”
She came to a pause, fighting for breath and overcome by the violence of her emotion.
“And how did you do it?” he inquired in a low voice.
“I kep’ my own baby well covered up, and the room within dark; and John telegraphed over, and there was a great stir, and a mighty gay little funeral; and no one knew—for young babies is so similar—that it was my own little girlie, I laid in the beautiful white and silver coffin under the flowers.”
“Tell me”—leaning forward as he spoke—“did no one ever suspect you?”
“Sorra a wan, but Mike over beyant at Lota. When he saw the child growing up he would come to the gate there and just stand and look over at her and then atme, in a way that put the fear of death in me. You see, he had worked for her ladyship; he saw thelikeness; he saw her walking, living, talking image. Sure, don’t you see it, sir, yourself?”
“Yes, I do,” he asserted gravely.
“And what are you going to do with me and her?” she asked, in a broken voice.
“I intend to take her home,” he said quietly.
“Sir, if I’d suspicioned you’d have cared, I’d never have kep her from ye all these years. I surely believed ye thought yerself well shut of her. For you will remember as you were terribly bitter against her, and wouldn’t so much as lay an eye on her.”
“That is true, Katty; but if I had known, she would have been a wonderful comfort to me.”
As these two talked together, Mary herself listened in white-faced, petrified silence. Surely she was dreaming! Either that or going out of her mind! During a sudden pause in the conversation there was not a sound to beheard, but the distant reaping machine, and the immediate purring of the white cat.
“Mary,” said the earl, suddenly turning to her, and speaking in a husky voice, as he took her hand in his. “Do you understand that all your foster-mother tells us is true, and that you aremydaughter?”
Here he looked hard at the little fingers which lay so limply in his grasp, and Mary, having thrown her apron over her head, burst into a violent storm of sobbings.
“Oh, no! Faix, I couldn’t face it! No, no, I’m not going out of this,” she stammered in gasps behind the apron. “Sure, sir, I was born and reared here; my life is here—not among grand folks.”
“They are your own folks, Mary,” he said gently.
“Well, anyhow”—and she flung down her screen, and flashed upon him a pair of challenging wet eyes—“I’m no lady, and I’m dog ignorant; so what can you do with me?”
“Love you, my dear,” he answered, in a low voice.
“Arrah, how could you? and you and me strangers—you a grand lord, and me just a common girl with no manners, and very foolish and unhandy in myself? I can’t even do a day’s washing; and the bread I bake turns out like leather! I’m no good whatever here, and sure I’d be a million times worse in a strange country!”
“You’re making an awful poor mouth about yourself, Mary asthore,” put in the high, complaining treble of Mrs. Grogan. “Why don’t ye up and tell his lordship how good ye are at learning—how ye were in the sixth book, and if there’d have been a seventh, you’d be inthattoo?—and that learning and reading and singing and dancing comes as easy to you as kiss me hand?”
“Sir,” said Mary, suddenly drawing herself up andconfronting him—did she but know it, with the very face and form of her mother—“I’m no credit to ye. For God’s sake leave me here, where you found me. It will be better for both you and me. Think of the awful scandal and talk it will raise in this parish” (and what of the great Mulgrave connection?), “and my mother always so respected—when people thought it was only raving and wake in the head she was. Now, if it istruewhat she’s after telling us, they will be saying she’d a right to be jailed up in Tralee!”
“My dear girl,” he said, “since Mrs. Foley has declared before witnesses and a lawyer, that you are no relation to her, but a very near relation tome, do you suppose I will leave you among people to whom you have no ties whatever? No; I am much too thankful to have found a daughter.”
“O God! What ails Katty?” screamed Mrs. Grogan. “Glory! she’s come over, and she’s going off in a faint and a wakeness!”
This was true. The recent scene and excitement had been too much for the poor frail woman, and after a few weak gasps she fell back in her chair insensible.
Cold water was procured immediately, also whisky (Mr. Usher, who looked the last man in the world to carry a flask, produced one), and then he and his employer went out of the cottage, leaving the women to attend on the invalid.
As Lord Mulgrave’s eyes met those of his companion, he said—
“Yes, Usher, she is my child, and her mother’s daughter. Oh, what a blessing and happiness to come so suddenly, when I thought that life held no more—that nothing lay before me but the long, monotonousroad that leads to the gate of death. Now I have something to——” He paused abruptly, and remembered himself. “You see how it is. The discovery of an unexpected treasure has been a shock, and I’m rambling, from sheer happiness. I will never forget, Usher, that I owe it chiefly toyou.”
A frightened face now appeared at the half-door, and Mary said—
“Oh, sir, me mother is took awful bad in her breathing. Will ye go and send some one for Doctor Manns? I’ve no red ticket,—but we can pay him.”
The two visitors set off at once, and despatched a doctor post-haste from Glenveigh, with instructions that no exertions or expense were to be spared on behalf of Mrs. Foley.
The sick woman remained unconscious for twenty-four hours, and then rallied; but on the morning of the third day, when Lord Mulgrave walked over early in order to make his usual inquiries, he was met by Mary at the gate. Her eyes were red, and her face was sodden with crying.
“Oh, sir,” she began, “sure I see you can guess!” She sobbed aloud, and the tears poured down her pale cheeks. “She was took off in her sleep about sunrise. Me mother is dead!”
The letter (for it was altogether too serious and strange a story to telegraph) which reached Lady Mulgrave, relating the fact that Mary Foley was Joseline Dene, disturbed her to such a degree that she was compelled to plead a shocking headache, and lunch as well as breakfast, in her own apartments.
It took her some time to attempt to realise a stepdaughter, aged twenty-one, Irish, uneducated, vulgar, and tawdry.Whatcould she do with the creature? A social atrocity, a well-born deformity! A girl with the best blood of France and England in her veins, and the ideas, aspirations, and deportment of a kitchen-maid! Oh, she felt as if the foundations of her position, were being upheaved.
If it were only possible to marry the creature, and get her out of the way! But who would care to be the husband of a horror who spoke with a common brogue, probably took sevens in gloves, dressed in emerald green, and had a passion for turf and potatoes?
This discovery was crushing. It seemed to threaten a hopeless state of affairs—a lifelong incubus! Yes, and an incubus who would take the precedence of Tito, and perhaps engage the somewhat flickering attentions of Tito’s cavaliers!—not because of what she was, but of what she would ultimately be—Baroness Marchlyde in her own right, and heiress of many thousands perannum. Apparently there was no mistake about the matter. A sworn information, a legal witness! Alas! there was no escape in that direction. If the girl had been brought up under her father’s roof it would have been a different affair; but twenty-one years in a dirty Irish mud cabin (impossible to dissociate the idea of mud and dirt from anything Irish)—it was too awful to contemplate. The abominable old foster-mother deserved to be hanged; but hanging and capital punishment she had cleverly evaded by death!
There was one small consolation: this new, uneducated person would be easily kept in the background; she resembled the horse and elephant, and was entirely ignorant of her own power, and ignorant she should remain. Lady Mulgrave was a woman who had acquired a special gift for repressing people. In the sweetest and most charming and smiling fashion she could administer the cruellest snubs; her rudeness of speech and manner at times bordered on brutality. To those whom she wished to “put down” or cast out from her circle, to any pushing nouveau riche, or dangerous rival, her affronts were as terrible and as ferocious, in their way, as if she were an East End virago, battering an enemy with a chair or a saucepan.
Lady Mulgrave sent off a charming, sympathetic letter to her husband, declaring that she was longing to welcome the dear child (lies aresoeasy on paper!), and that in a day or two she would move south and prepare to receive her at Westlands. She wrote the news to intimate friends as a dead secret, and would leave it to them to break it to all their acquaintance. “The old stock plot of a child changed at nurse has actually been flung as a bombshell into our quiet and everyday littlefamily.” (This is how she began her epistle.) “Imagine poor dear Owen, most conventional and practical of men, having a strange grown-up daughter, Irish and uneducated, suddenly thrust into his arms! Of course he has recognised her, claimed her, and brings her to England very shortly; but please, dear, keep this to yourself. We don’t want anytalk.” When her ladyship had despatched her correspondence and her lunch, she summoned Miss Tito to her presence. Tito came in with a dishevelled appearance and a flushed face. She had been disturbed in a game of tennis—a match but half decided.
“Well, mum,” she began, “are you better? What is it? Please don’t keep me; I’m having such a ripping game, and they are waiting—Lord Bobby, Mr. Beaufort, Julia Legge, two sets all.”
“I must detain you a few minutes to tell you a piece of family news”—and she took up her husband’s letter, two sheets closely written. “What do you say to a sister?”—and she looked over at Tito.
“A sister!” repeated the girl, with a laugh, “a sister-in-law you mean; I suppose she will be a necessary evil?”
“No, but ‘necessary evil’ is a capital name for the new addition to our family”—and in a few pungent and rapid sentences, Miss Dawson was made acquainted with the facts.
First she opened her eyes, and then her mouth, and stood staring dumbfounded, and totally unable to speak. Next she tore off her hat, flung it on a table, and cast herself into a chair.
“It’s not a joke, is it, mummy?”
“No indeed, but deadly earnest. Could anything bemore unexpected, inconvenient andodious? Is not it too awful?”
“Yes; but I cannot get it into my head. What shall you do?”
“Make the best of it, of course.”
“Fancy a common, low, Irish creature! Oh, I hope she won’t expect me to kiss her, or to be seen about with her!”
“You had better be civil to her, Tito, though I grant you it is hard to have an interloper forced on one. She will make us three women—such an uncomfortable number in the carriage and at the opera; and, of course, she takes precedence of you.”
“Well, anyway, she won’t take any pals from me, or any partners. I should think she cannot come out, or be in the least presentable, until she has learnt how to dress and behave herself. I suppose she has never owned a pocket-handkerchief or a tooth-brush. Can she read and write?”
“Of course. Your father is delighted. Well, it is only natural. But——”
“But we arenot. And it’s only natural, eh, mum? There! they are calling me. I must fly. Shall I tell them?”
“No-o; only Lady Maxwelton and the girls privately. She is her aunt! It will ooze out presently. There will be the usual nine days’ wonder. We must put up with that.”
Tito picked up her hat and went over to a glass, settled her ruffled hair with both hands, and pinned on the picturesque pink muslin headgear, and stared at herself with a critical expression.
No—although her eyes were good and her dark hairthick, and curly, her nose, as she said herself, was all wrong—she was not pretty, only fascinating and fetching. She had no fear that the coming companion would supplant her. She felt serenely confident that no one would compare her with an awkward, ignorant country girl, even although shewasan earl’s daughter.
“I suppose I shall have to sit with my back to the horses in future,” she exclaimed, “and walk behind her ladyship into a room! But I haven’t got to share my allowance, or my maid, or partners. After all, perhaps I may like her very much; there’s nothing bad that might not be worse. Yes,” to a servant who had entered, “I’m coming—coming this moment.”
Meanwhile, Mary—she could not get accustomed to her new name—had left Foley’s farm the evening of Katty’s death, and had been carried off to the “Glenveigh Arms” by her father. Here Miss Usher had been her true and kind friend, and endeavoured to comfort and console her, in what, in the lady’s experience, was an unparalleled situation.
The girl was heart-broken at the death of a woman who was no relation, who had actually stolen her and brought her up in a station different to the one in which she was born; who had robbed her for years of her patrimony and her parent, as well as her position and wealth; yet Mary had no desire to be claimed. She shrank from “his lordship,” as she called him, and earnestly pleaded to be permitted “to live for the rest of her life, according,” as the Prayer-book says, “to its beginning.” Her bewildered father was at his wits’ end. All his newly-found daughter did, when in his society, was to weep, and weep, and weep! She most urgently desired to attend the wake, and passionatelyprotested that if she were not present, people would “talk,” and it would raise a terrible scandal in the county!
But no. Lord Mulgrave, although exceedingly anxious to please her in every way, was firm. It was not befitting that his daughter should be present at a wake. In every possible manner Mrs. Foley’s funeral would be conducted with respect—the Foley family should be benefited; but Mary must endeavour to remember that she had no real connection with them—and was Lady Joseline Dene.
“Lady Joseline Dene!” cried she. “I justhatethe likes of her!”—and she got up precipitately! and rushed away to her own room, where she buried her head in the bedclothes.
“There, you see. And what can I do?” he cried, appealing to Miss Usher; and his tone expressed despair.
“Leave her to Mrs. Hogan of the hotel,” replied the lady; “she will talk to her in her own fashion, and by-and-by, when she has had a good rest—you know she has been sitting up nursing Katty for three whole nights—she will be different. At present she is overwrought and out of herself. It is a startling change for a girl—much less one of her impulsive and passionate nature—to lose an identity and a mother, and to find a father, all within the same week. Give her time, a good sleep, and some nourishing food. I should certainly permit her to attend the funeral, and I would arrange for her to have a long interview with Mike Mahon; he has been haunting the hotel. By-and-by he will turn her thoughts to her own mother in a manner, and in speech, we could never emulate.”
“That is an excellent idea. Yes, she must then begin to realise things a little. At present, of course, she is suffering from want of rest, from grief, and from the first sad wrench. At present——”
“At present she is like some newly-caught bird,” continued Miss Usher, “most miserably unhappy.”
“I suppose every bliss has its drawback. This, which has been a supreme joy to me, is agony to her!”
“Leave her to herself for two or three days, and you will see a difference; her own friends will be your strongest allies. They will be so proud of her rank and uplifting that no matterhowshe desired it, they would never suffer her to return to Foley’s Corner, and live among them as Mary of the gate.”
“Thank you, Miss Usher; you give me wonderful comfort and encouragement, and I will take your advice—do all you say: go with her to the funeral, and allow her to remain here for a time. Ihadhoped to carry her off to-morrow. Of course, I have a great deal to do, as your brother points out. I must immediately make a new will, and I have to prepare my friends, and——”