“I mind the day. I wish I was a say-gull flying far,For then I’d fly and find you in the West;And I wish I was a little rose—as sweet as roses are,For then you’d maybe wear it on your breast.I wish I could be living near to love you day and night,To let no trouble touch you, or annoy,I wish I could be dyin’ here to rise a spirit light,If them above ’ud let me win you joy.And now I wish no wishes, nor ever fall a tear;Nor take a thought beyond the way I’m led:I mind the day that’s overby, and bless the day that’s near,Then be to come—a day, when we’ll be dead;A longer, lighter day, when we’ll be dead.”
“I mind the day. I wish I was a say-gull flying far,For then I’d fly and find you in the West;And I wish I was a little rose—as sweet as roses are,For then you’d maybe wear it on your breast.I wish I could be living near to love you day and night,To let no trouble touch you, or annoy,I wish I could be dyin’ here to rise a spirit light,If them above ’ud let me win you joy.And now I wish no wishes, nor ever fall a tear;Nor take a thought beyond the way I’m led:I mind the day that’s overby, and bless the day that’s near,Then be to come—a day, when we’ll be dead;A longer, lighter day, when we’ll be dead.”
“I mind the day. I wish I was a say-gull flying far,For then I’d fly and find you in the West;And I wish I was a little rose—as sweet as roses are,For then you’d maybe wear it on your breast.
“I mind the day. I wish I was a say-gull flying far,
For then I’d fly and find you in the West;
And I wish I was a little rose—as sweet as roses are,
For then you’d maybe wear it on your breast.
I wish I could be living near to love you day and night,To let no trouble touch you, or annoy,I wish I could be dyin’ here to rise a spirit light,If them above ’ud let me win you joy.
I wish I could be living near to love you day and night,
To let no trouble touch you, or annoy,
I wish I could be dyin’ here to rise a spirit light,
If them above ’ud let me win you joy.
And now I wish no wishes, nor ever fall a tear;Nor take a thought beyond the way I’m led:I mind the day that’s overby, and bless the day that’s near,Then be to come—a day, when we’ll be dead;A longer, lighter day, when we’ll be dead.”
And now I wish no wishes, nor ever fall a tear;
Nor take a thought beyond the way I’m led:
I mind the day that’s overby, and bless the day that’s near,
Then be to come—a day, when we’ll be dead;
A longer, lighter day, when we’ll be dead.”
Mary read this quickly, with a catch in her breath; then slowly; finally with eyes so dim, that she could scarcely distinguish the words, and her tears pattered down upon the pages.
This pathetic and touching lament reopened the gates of the poor girl’s grief. Misery stalked in, and resumed the seat from which, time, youth, and summer, had almost dislodged her.
Fifteen months previously, a brother officer on the trooper had given the book to Ulick. Ulick, still smarting from his separation, had found that the lines exactly interpreted his own feelings, and in a spasm of imprudent impulse had posted the book to Mary the very day he landed in Bombay.
And now Mary had received it at last. The poem recalled a bygone ecstasy that could never, never return, and in a passion of despair, anguish, and rebellion she cast herself face downwards in the soft June grass. She might have been lifeless, she remained there so long, andlay so still; but the birds in the thorn hedge and the bees among the clover knew better. They heard her low, stifled sobs. It was only a girl who had lost something—or who had been robbed of her all. Well, they had known the experience themselves!
The June evening was five years ago, and Mary, like the birds, had outgrown her heartbreak.
As she stood leaning on the gate for the last time, dreamily reviewing the past years, there was a loud rumbling, whizzing sound, and a red motor shot by, leaving a cloud of dust and a hideous smell of petroleum. This same motor had not travelled half a mile before it broke down. The by-road was covered with sharp, loose stones, and a tyre was punctured.
“It will be nothing much,” announced the chauffeur, “but it will take time.”
“What do you call time?” inquired Sir Harry Coxford.
“About an hour, sir.”
“An hour! How is that hour to be killed?” drawled his companion and host.
“I know”—slapping his leg. “I noticed a pretty girl at a gate about a quarter of a mile back—just below a cottage. Let us go and have a look at her, and a talk.”
“Let us go anywhere and stretch our legs, as long as it is not far.”
“You lazy beggar! I never met your match. You wouldn’t walk half a mile to look at a pretty face, eh?”
“Not five yards to look at the prettiest face in Ireland. Come on. Lead the way to the miraculous beauty at the gate. I bet you a sov. she is ugly, or she has gone.”
“Done!” rejoined Sir Harry, and they strolled along down the straight road towards the corner.
“No; there she is!” cried Sir Harry. “I see her dress.”
There she was indeed, still leaning on the gate, so absorbed in her own thoughts that the two gentlemen were within a few yards of her, when she realised their presence with a violent start.
“Good evening,” said Sir Harry, taking off his cap. He had an affable manner of talking to refreshment-room young ladies. “You seem buried in meditation. I’m afraid we disturbed you.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” she answered briskly. Here were some people to talk and chaff with—her very last visitors.
“I expect you were thinking ofhim,” he suggested, with a significant glance.
She coloured to her hair, and looked haughty.
“Come, come. A pretty girl like you is bound to have a score of lovers.”
“That’s true!” she assented, with a touch of her old sauciness, suddenly resolved to act the part of Mary once more—“butsheneed never trouble her head to think of them.”
“What were you thinking of, then? I say, if you’ll tell me the honest truth I’ll give you a sovereign, or rather, this other gentleman will, for your thoughts.”
“My thoughts are not for sale. They are my own.”
“Very sweet and beautiful they must be.”
“Sometimes.”
“How proudIshould be if I might have a place in them!”
She smiled derisively. Really, for a country girl she had a wonderfully short upper lip.
“Are you often at this gate?”
“I used to be.”
“For any particular reason?”
“Only to see my friends, and pass them the time of day!”
“To see your friends? Yes; but I am sure they found it difficult topass. The road must have been blocked from end to end!”
“Well, there’s not many about now, as you may notice.”
“Is that thing a cat you have beside you?”
“Yes; it’s the newly-invented Chinese breed.”
“Where did you rise it?”
“It came to the house as a stray kitten. A stray cat coming in like that brings luck.”
“Well, it’s more like a dilapidated old weasel.”
“Don’t abuse it, sir, if you please, for it has something in common with your friend, the other gentleman.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, the poor creature is dumb!”
“Ah, ha! There’s a compliment and a challenge for you, Dudley,” he exclaimed, with a boisterous laugh. “You must pick up the gauntlet.”
“May I ask why you suppose I am dumb?” inquired Captain Deverell, in his slow voice, looking her over with supercilious eyes.
“Sure I had no reason to suppose otherwise till now.”
“My friend here invariably talks for both. He enjoys it.”
“Yes, and saves your lazy self, a lot of trouble,” amended Sir Henry.
“Conversation is a fag. Do you live here?” he added, looking straight at Mary.
“I’ve spent my whole life in that cottage.”
“But it looks as if it were unoccupied.”
“It is so.”
“Are you, then, a disembodied spirit or a witch? If so, the cat is the wrong colour.”
“I am not sure what the word ‘disembodied’ means, but I understand the word spirit, because I have one.”
“I am glad to hear that,” broke in Sir Harry. “Tell me where you live; where is your home?”
“My home? Oh, I don’t know where it is, so I cannot oblige ye.”
“Come, come! think again, and I’ll give you a sovereign.”
“You are very free with that sovereign, sir.”
“Yes. This particular one doesn’t happen to be mine. I won it as a bet from the dumb gentleman. He bet you would not be here. I saw you as we passed. And he bet something else, too.”
“What else?”
“That you would not be pretty.”
“Neither I am—no more nor yourselves. Are you the two frights in goggles that went by on the motor? What has become of it?”
“It’s rather delicate just now.”
“Well, then, I’m glad, and I hope it may die. I hate motors!”
“Really. And why?”
“Because they go hooting through the world, nevercaring what they do. One of them killed our neighbour’s old dog Joe, too stiff to clear out of the road; and as to the fowls and ducks they run over, and those no use after, there are scores!”
“Would you permit me to take a photograph?” said Sir Harry, suddenly swinging round a small snapshotting camera.
“Certainly, sir. You may take the cat. Here he is,” pulling him up, “and proud to sit for you”—and she held him in her arms.
A pretty picture! Snap! It was done—“Beauty and the Beast.”
“And now for yourself!”
“What do you want it for, sir?”
“To keep as the portrait of the prettiest Irish girl I’ve ever seen.”
“What would you say, if I told you I was not Irish?”
“Oh, I say! Come”—and he laughed; “you can scarcely expect me to believethat! Now, please stay still for one moment. There! I’ve taken two.”
“What’s going on here?” said a hoarse voice, and Patsie Maguire came suddenly through a gap in the opposite wall. Patsie, in his dark blue Sunday clothes, looking handsome, ill-tempered, and excited.
“I’m after having my picture took,” explained Mary.
“This is a queer sort of business,” he growled, stepping over the stile, and standing beside her within the gate.
Patsie had “a drop taken,” as the saying is. Raw, bad whisky was working in his veins; his brain was in a state of wild confusion—jealousy and vanity were seething within him, and he had come to the conclusionthat he would not let Mary Foley stir a toe out of the place, dead or alive.
“So yer at yer old games,” he began, in a blustering voice, addressing himself to Mary, “talking at the corner, talking to any one. Faith!”—to the strangers—“she’s the gabbiest little divil in Ireland!”
Mary glanced at him furtively. Patsie Maguire was drunk.
“An’ now she’s pratin’ to gentlemen no less; and for a change—but let me tell ye,”—here he paused and swayed a little—“yer—not—the first gentlemen—that Mary here—has talked to. Aye”—and his wink expressed malicious significance—“Mary knows that I’m telling the holy truth, don’t ye, Mary, me darlin’?”
The girl’s colour had faded; there was a momentary tightening of the lips, but she merely said—
“Patsie, I’ll thank ye to behave yerself! You don’t know what yer saying.” What was the use, she said to herself, in argufying with a man who was not sober? Patsie, when in such a state, was more or less mad. Had he forgotten, that she was not Mary Foley, now?
They were an uncommonly good-looking couple in Sir Harry’s opinion, this Irishman and his sweetheart—the one, so fair, vivacious, and in a way brilliant, with wonderful hair; the other, dark as a Spaniard, with equally wonderful eyes, undeniably well-favoured, and undeniably jealous. So this was the fellow she had been thinking of, and expecting. The gate was their trysting place, and without permission Sir Harry took a joint photograph of the couple.
“Ye’d no call to do that!” cried Pat. “It’s a shame to steal a person’s face unknownst.”
“Do you think so?” rejoined Sir Harry airily. “I’ve not the slightest objection to any one stealing mine.”
“No, for yer quite safe! No one would be at the trouble of taking off your picture; it’s ugly enough to break the plate!”
“I say, my good fellow,” he cried, colouring up, “don’t presume on my good-nature. Don’t go too far!”
“Go back to your motor that’s lying up the road there on its belly, and take a picture of that!” scoffed the Irishman.
“Yes, I suppose”—ignoring this insult, and turning to his companion—“that we ought to be moving.”
Captain Deverell had made himself comfortable on the wall, and was smoking a pipe.
“Before I go, won’t you tell me your name?” said Sir Harry, appealing to Mary. “You are better-looking, and better fun, than half the girls in England.”
“Thank you kindly, sir, for your good opinion”—and she dropped a curtsey. “My name is—a secret.”
“I see”—looking significantly at her; “you are soon going to change it.”
“I am—so.”
“May I be permitted to kiss your pretty little hand?”
“You may, if you please,” and she held it out across the gate.
Sir Harry took it in his, gazed at it in surprise, and pressed his lips on it. Then he turned it about and squeezed the sovereign into its small, rosy palm.
“Throw away his dirty money, Mary!” cried Pat. “Tell him yer able to buy and sell his likes! Throw it in his face, I tell ye!” he shouted passionately, “do ye hear me!”
These men belonged to the very class who wouldnow come between him and Mary; he hated them both furiously.
“I tell you what?” said Sir Harry, who had lost his easily mislaid temper, pushing back the gate as he spoke, “I see that I will have to give you a thrashing; you are spoiling for it, as they say here”—and he seized Pat roughly by the coat.
Pat, nothing loth, tore it out of his hand, flung it on the grass, squared himself, and said: “Come on, me little man! and I’ll soon knock the head off ye.”
Hearing this challenge, Captain Deverell jumped down with unexpected agility, caught hold of his companion, and dragged him through the gate, struggling violently, saying: “For heaven’s sake don’t make an ass of yourself! Come along, come along—leave the fellow alone. Why should you interfere with his girl?—how would you like it yourself?”
And the girl called after him, in a clear voice: “Yes; you take your wan off quietly, sir, and I’ll see, that Patsie Maguire here, keeps himself in bounds!”
After the separation of the would-be combatants, and when the dumb man had, with unlooked-for energy, dragged away his furious struggling companion, Mary found herselftête-à-têtewith Patsie. He had on several occasions waylaid her in the hotel garden; now he had tracked her to “the Corner,” and for what good? If Patsie was not pleasing as a lover in the sight of Mary Foley, how could he expect to be acceptable to the same young woman in a much loftier station? What description of a husband would he make for Lord Mulgrave’s daughter and heiress? Why, the thing was ridiculous on the face of it! He realised this instinctively, and yet he would not suffer her to depart without some sort of interview, even if the interview led to nothing. Pat was impulsive, sensitive, warm-hearted, and very vain. It would satisfy his heart, and gratify his vanity, to have a real sort of storybook parting with his sweetheart, and all the world—that is to say, his own little world—would know that she had talked to him as equal to equal, and bidden him good-bye.
This, encouraged by bad whisky, was Pat’s motive in following Mary. Mary had a patrician horror of scenes. A scene was impending. She read its approach in her suitor’s tragic blue eyes; and she was annoyed, not only with him, but herself. She had been led awayby some impish spirit to fall into temptation, to play the old part of Mary of the gate to two totally strange gentlemen; and the two strange gentlemen had departed, carrying with them, an entirely wrong impression.
“Well, Pat,” she began, on the principle that the first blow is half the battle, “what has brought ye—I mean you”—correcting herself—“up here?”
“To see you, of course. Sure, I never can get a word with you below.”
“An’ why should you?” she asked, with some asperity. “Ye are very big in yerself!”
“See here now,” he began, in a loud, hoarse voice, “which are you at the present moment—Mary, or her ladyship? For I’d like to know where I am.”
“I am always Mary here”—and she glanced back at the cottage, which, even in a short time, had assumed a forlorn and deserted appearance. The poor old place! Already the weeds were flourishing in the garden, and the kitchen, when she entered it, smelt of damp, and soot.
“Then it’s to Mary I’m talking. Mary, wid all your grandeur and money, you won’t buy love, mind youthat, and you will never find any one, if you were to go over the wide world, that will love you the same as I do.”
“Perhaps not, Patsie.”
“Ah!”—and his tone was triumphant.
“But what is the use of it, Pat, when I cannot—never could or would or should—loveyou.”
“Ye never tried!”
“One does nottryto love, I believe. I like you, and as a friend I will not forget you or go agen you. Youare mixed up with all my life here, and I am friendly with yer mother and Lizzie; but if I’d lived here to the end of my days, I’d never have loved you, Patsie.”
“You’ll go off and marry some one else—some one of the pattern of the little red-faced blackguard.”
“No, I think not; I’m not such a fool!”
“Faix, I don’t know about that,” he sneered. “A long while back there was Mr. Ulick—ye were near making a fool of yourself with him!”
“I was not!” she retorted with passion. “How dare you bring in his name—how dare you?” she repeated, and her face was white.
“Oh, I dare most things when me blood is up. And now, I’d like ye to promise me one thing.”
“What is it?” she asked impatiently.
“That ye will never marry any one at all,” he answered, raising his voice, and his eyes blazed into hers, “but be true to Ireland—and tome.”
“True to you—what balderdash! Sure, don’t ye know well I never cared a thraneen about ye?”
She glanced up at him suddenly, and noticed that his dark, expressive face was working with passion. What ailed him? He looked murderous. Was he going to kill her? It was a lonely enough spot. A man had been beaten to death in that very road.
“See now, I’ll promise you one thing, Pat,” she continued, dissembling her fears, “for old times’ sake. If ever you are in any trouble, or want a good friend, I’ll help you. And as to marrying me, ye know there’s a dozen prettier girls in these parts justachingto have you. I can’t think why you are so set onme. Come, Pat, carry the cat for me, and we will be going home.”
Pat turned about; his expression startled her—thehard look in his eyes, the tightness of his lips. Her heart beat convulsively, but she kept a brave front and faced him as she would some dangerous animal, from whom she could not escape, and was therefore bound to overawe. Pat was crazy drunk; the raw whisky had taken effect; there was a mad look in his eyes. Did he mean to murder her? The sudden sound of voices and approaching footsteps filled her with a sense of profound relief. It proved a party of neighbours going towards Glenveigh; and before Pat could interfere, Mary had snatched up Whitey, opened the gate, and darted after them.
And Pat, thus left alone, sat down suddenly on a stone and burst into a passion of maudlin sobs. Why hadn’t he killed her, and then himself? A cheap revolver was in his pocket; it was loaded in four chambers. If the Connors had been three minutes later in coming down past Foley’s Corner, the chronicle of Mary of the Gate would have concluded here.
* * * * *
The cold Miss Usher had contracted “held her,” to use an Irish term, for one whole week, and during that time, she had a most tender, thoughtful, and assiduous nurse in her young protegée. Mary was afraid to venture into the garden. Pat might waylay her again; also she experienced a certain shyness with respect to mixing with her old friends, and she spent a good deal of her time in the sick-room, reading aloud to the patient, answering notes—she wrote a fine hand, thanks to the School Board—and concocting drinks, possets, and poultices with much skill. Her attendance was so quiet, her little hands so deft and quick, her soft voiceso sympathetic, that the invalid felt herself becoming warmly attached to this treasure-trove; and as she lay in bed, waited on by Mary, she instilled into the girl’s mind some practical hints, without seeming to be continuing her much-neglected education.
As Mary read aloud the papers Miss Usher threw in remarks and information. It was socially she was so desperately wanting—yes, in the common A B C of deportment and conduct. Otherwise the good lady was surprised to discover how well the girl was posted up in the most unexpected subjects. She had read widely for one of her station. Tennyson, Sir Walter Scott, Thackeray, the Brontës, some of Victor Hugo’s works, Hans Andersen, Macaulay’s history and essays, Carlyle’sFrench Revolution, with a fair knowledge of history, geography, grammar, and arithmetic; she was not too badly equipped. Questioned, she could tell a good deal about the Crusades, the Wars of the Roses, and was eloquent respecting the battle of Clontarf, which was a new name to Miss Usher; but then, she had never studied Irish history.
At last Miss Usher was sufficiently recovered to start for Dublin, where Lord Mulgrave was to meet his daughter and convey her home. Her chaperon had suggested at least a week in the Irish capital, in order that, before she was actually launched into her new life, Mary, the ignorant child of the pastures, might see things; such, for instance, as a large city with its traffic and shops, a fashionable hotel, a regiment marching, a theatre, a picture-gallery, and a good milliner. Before she crossed the Irish Sea she must be suitably dressed. At present she was merely clothed.
As the day of departure approached, Mary’s slenderwardrobe was packed; she had been persuaded to leave the cat as a parting legacy to Mrs. Hogan, but the dog, “Rap,” must accompany her wherever she went. On this subject Lady Joseline showed an amount of decision that had never been evinced by Mary Foley—indeed, she was, as her friends knew, just wrapped up in the creature. No doubt he was a fine, handsome terrier, who had belonged to poor Katty; but Mrs. Hogan’s memory was long; she recalled a time when “Rap” had been the property of a young gentleman. Was Mary still faithful to that first fancy? Now came the final good-byes. Her numerous friends flocked to the hotel to say God-speed to Mary. These included Father Daly, Mr. and Mrs. West, Mary’s schoolfellows, neighbours, and lovers. When it came to the last words and handshakes, Mary broke down and wept unrestrainedly. She wept all the five miles to the station—such a capacity for grief was beyond the bounds of Miss Usher’s experience—indeed, the girl’s condition remained very tearful and subdued throughout the entire journey. Mary had been twice to Cork on a three-shilling cheap excursion, crammed with many others into a third-class little better than a cattle-truck; this was a new conveyance, a carriage with beautiful cushions and “Reserved” printed on the window. Once in Dublin, they drove to the “Shelbourne,” the grandeur of which struck the poor creature dumb; the lift proved a paralysing novelty, also the smart and superior chambermaid who addressed her as “your ladyship.” However, she was completely worn out with her journey, her emotion, and the novelty of everything, and, refusing dinner, retired at once to bed, and in sleep, forgot all her joys, sorrows, and fears.
The next morning the new arrival felt fresh as a lark, and ready to witness any amount of novelty. Concealed in a hired brougham, Miss Usher carried her charge to a well-known establishment, and there spent the flying hours in fitting her out in a manner becoming, not only to her, but to her new position. She was fortunately easily suited, being of a “stock size,” and with slight alterations she became possessed of a smart tailor-made, a black evening gown, a French model, crêpe-de-chine, a travelling cloak, tea-gown, luggage, hats, gloves, shoes, and furbelows. It was almost like buying a small trousseau; but Miss Usher had “carte blanche” from his lordship, he was coming in three days to claim his child, and she was resolved that she should do him credit!
After this morning’s hard work and lunch, the two ladies drove together out to the park, and Mary saw a number of wonderful things; she was strangely quiet, and talked hardly at all, but her glances were in every direction, observant, critical, and amazed.
When they returned, they discovered that some of the purchases had already arrived; in fact, the young lady’s room was half full of cardboard boxes.
“You will have to put on the black gown,” announced Miss Usher. “I’ll dress you myself, and we will dine at the table d’hôte.”
“Oh, no, no,” protested the other, in an agonised voice, “I dare not.”
“Oh, but yes; you must begin some time, and the sooner the better, and learn how girls of your own rank look and behave themselves. Don’t you wish your father to be pleased when he returns? Don’t you wish him to be proud of you?”
“Is it proud ofme! You’re making fun,” she scoffed.
“Not at all. I want you to do me credit. And you will follow me into the room, and copy what I do as regards knife and fork and wine-glasses.”
“I expect I’ll do something awfully bad—upset the things, I’ll be so nervous, and have all the servants laughing at me.”
“Well-trained servants never laugh; and please remember that you are no longer, as you seem to think, on equal terms with them. They don’t understand familiarity; they have their own dignity. There is a story of a gentleman who had socialistic ideas—all men on an equality sort of thing; he insisted on shaking hands with his butler. The butler did not like it; he gave warning.”
“Ah! I suppose that was why the tall chambermaid stared at me, when I said how nicely her fringe was done!”
“Of course; she must have been horrified! Now go and do your hair, and when you are ready I’ll come and help you into your new gown.”
“The girl has a taste for dress,” reflected Miss Usher, as she arranged her own thick grey locks. “I suppose it comes from her French relations. It was really marvellous, the eye she had for a suitable purchase, considering that everything is as new to her as if she came from another planet. She is wonderful, poor child!”
Before Miss Usher had completed her toilette there was a timid knock at the door, and she gave a faint scream, as her charge trailed into the room. What a transformation! The well-cut bodice set off a willowy and graceful figure; the sweeping skirt lent dignity;the black gown was entrancingly becoming to the soft white skin and ruddy hair of Lady Joseline. Yes, she was Lady Joseline, indeed—an aristocrat every inch, from her neat black velvet shoe, to the crown of her thick hair. Mary Foley, in a clumsy serge, had quitted the apartment half an hour ago for ever, and this graceful young personage, had taken her place!
“Will I do?” she eagerly inquired, in her soft southern brogue.
Yes; outwardly she would do extremely well. She seemed to possess the natural art—a valuable one—the art of knowing how to put on her clothes.
“Yes”—turning round and then standing up—“nothing could be better, Lady Joseline.”
“Oh, for goodness sake——”
Miss Usher made a gesture of interruption, and continued.
“For the future you must remember that such is yourrealname. You have now taken upon you your new character. May you adorn it, be happy, and make others happy, my dear!”
And as she spoke, she went over to the girl, and kissed her on both cheeks, French fashion.
“You are half French, you know,” she explained; “your grandfather was the Duc de Hernoncourt, a French nobleman.”
“My grandfather! Sure I always think of old Joe Foley as that!”
“Yes. You will soon get accustomed to your relations. Mary Foley is gone; we will never see her again; we will forget her, and give her dress and boots and hat and clothes to some poor woman. And now we will go downstairs together, and eat our dinner.”
“Oh, dear me, I’m so frightened, I’m all of a tremble; the legs is giving under me.”
“Your ladyship should say trembling—not all of a tremble; and you need not mention your legs. Come, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“That’s what Mrs. Hogan said; her last words were to hold up my head, and not be afraid of anybody—but sure, talking is easy!”
“You are not afraid of the lift now, are you?”
“No, I like it finely. I love going up and down in it.”
“Everything will be the same in time, my dear girl. Just keep a cool head, and wait.”
“Oh, I declare I feel all goose-flesh!” whispered her charge.
“Never mind; follow me closely. This way. Our table is in a corner”—and as she spoke the chaperon entered the brilliantly lit dining-room—already crowded—and proceeded to steer Lady Joseline into society for the first time.
“I don’t rightly know whether I am on me head or my heels!” declared her ladyship, when she had taken a seat in the corner, with her back against the wall, and proceeded to gaze about her. “What a power of people! I suppose this is a glimpse of what Father Daly calls ‘the world.’ No,” to the ready waiter, “no broth!”
The man, with blank, impassive face, bowed, and offered soup to Miss Usher.
“Dear child,” she murmured, when he had departed, “this issoup; we don’t call it broth.”
“Very well then, I won’t”—taking up the ménu, and looking over it. “I declare to goodness if it isn’t in a foreign language! Will ye tell me, what’s the use of that?”
“I’m sure I cannot give you any reason, but it’s the fashion. You will find it everywhere.”
“And such a lot of things. I can guess at some names: ‘enter’ and ‘relieve’—hunger, I suppose.”
Here Miss Usher leant across and carefully explained the meaning of ‘entrée’ and ‘relève’—the names of the courses; whilst the girl listened, with both elbows firmly planted on the table.
“You should not sit like that, my child,” suggested the teacher of manners.
“No? But there’s a girl doing it over there,” arguedthe pupil; and, pointing with a taper finger, she indicated a young woman in a loud tea-gown with a towzled head and arms bare to the shoulder, who was holding forth to a shiny-faced, dissipated-looking man.
“Never mind, my dear, you need not take her for a model. Look at those two nice girls in white. Now have some fish?”
“Claret or Chablis, my lady?”
“No, thank ye,” she responded, “I never drink wine at all; but I’d be glad of a glass of spring water, or”—as an afterthought—“if ye have such a thing as a sup of fresh buttermilk?”
Without relaxing a muscle, the waiter replied: “We don’t supply buttermilk, my lady, but the water is the best.”
Lady Joseline ate little dinner, but devoured the company with a pair of eager, childish eyes. One lady she stigmatised as “a play actress,” another as “an old show, with feathers in her hair and scarcely a tack to her back.” Most of the men were “as like the waiters as two peas.” Then, to their special attendant—
“No meat whatever. Sure, man alive, ’tis a fast day!”
“My dear, there is no occasion for an explanation,” remonstrated hervis-à-vis, when the waiter had retired.
“Sure, won’t he think it uncivil, just to say no or yes?”
“Not if you add ‘please.’ The salad is nice and fresh, but you should not eat it with your fingers.”
“It tastes more natural like!”
“Possibly; but you don’t wish to be remarkable, do you?”
“No, indeed. Am I? Tell me, please, is thereanythingonme? or queer about me? Is anything sticking in me hair?”
“Why, certainly not. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve noticed quite a lot of people staring over at me, as if they knew I was no great shakes, and had no call to be here; and there’s a man near the pillar that has a pair of eyes like two big black slugs. I declare they make me curl all over!”
Miss Usher was agreeably conscious of the fact that her charge had made considerable sensation in their neighbourhood. No one could look more elegant and distinguished, than the pretty girl in the corner. There had been whispers, glances, and a turning of heads. These admirers had not heard the beauty’s soft common brogue, nor witnessed her difficulties with forks and wine-glasses. “But, considering all things, she was wonderful,” said the chaperon to herself, as she rose from the table, and ordered coffee in the hall. The more her ladyship rubbed off the raw edge of ignorance, and the sooner she encountered and vanquished startling first impressions, the better for her, and her kinsfolk.
As they sat down at a little table, and the coffee made its appearance, the girl said in a loud voice—
“I’m not partial to coffee. I’d sooner have a cup of tay!”
“But coffee is better at this hour. No one drinks tea immediately after dinner; and, my dear, you really must begin to drop such words as ‘tay.’ Now sit here quietly, and listen to the way other girls speak.”
“And take a lesson for nothing?”
“Yes, and profit by it. Remember that your father arrives to-morrow.”
“Oh, Miss Usher dear, I’m terribly scared of him!”
“You must put that feeling out of your mind, and you will soon learn to love him; he loves you already.”
“What? Oh, balderdash! Now, how could he love one that he’s only set eyes on a few times.”
“Quite naturally, as a matter of course, for your mother’s sake.”
“You mane, because”—lowering her voice—“I’m so like her?”
“Yes, in appearance; and you must strive hard to resemble her in other ways.”
“I will so if I can. But what ways?”
“She was most unselfish and thoughtful, good to the poor and the aged, kind to animals, very gay and gracious in her manners, sweet-tempered, clever, and fascinating.”
“Oh, but fancy the likes of me being clever, and fascinating!”
“Why not? But you will soon begin to learn to speak like other people. To-morrow I shall write down a list of expressions you are not to use. You are not to say ‘ould’ for old, ‘ye’ for you, ‘the likes of,’ ‘sure now,’ and ‘by your leave.’ Talk but little, listen, and read a great deal.”
“I see what you mean; I’m to keep my ears cocked. I’m not too bad to look at, but when I open my lips I am like the girl in the fairy tale, and my mouth drops toads and serpents.”
“There are no toads or serpents in Ireland you know. Still, just at present, until you see and hear a little more, I think you will find that, except between you and me, silence is golden.”
After a considerably long silence, during which MissUsher knitted steadily and her charge stared about her, the latter said—
“Well, I’ve been listening to those two girls in blue carrying on with the nosey young man; and the little one told him he was ‘a rotter’ and the other said he was ‘pulling her leg.’ What sort of chat, do ye call that?”
“Oh, they are not ladies,” explained Miss Usher, who was distinctly disconcerted.
“Yes; but how am I to know the differ between the talk of ladies and the talk of them as is not?—not being a lady meself.”
“Oh, you will soon understand.”
“But those two are dressed as well as I am, and better,” protested the girl, “and how——”
“Dress reminds me,” interrupted Miss Usher, “that you have several fittings to-morrow, and a busy day”; and, suddenly rising to her feet, she added, “It is getting on for ten o’clock. Shall we retire?”
On the way to their rooms, the two paused on a landing before a great mirror; they halted involuntarily, and gazed at themselves as they stood side by side; or rather, they both gazed at the reflection of Lady Joseline Dene.
“I’m just a daw in peacock’s feathers!” she exclaimed at last. “It’s all mighty fine, my beautiful dress, and my hair done up in the fashion. Oh, dear me! I’m a regular take-in. I shall never be as nice as I look.”
“Yes, you will,” said her companion, leading her into her room; “and remember, dear child, that you are nice to your father when he comes to-morrow.”
“I’m all in a tremble, when I think of it. How can I be nice?”
“By not being shy and shrinking and plainly afraid of him. He is a shy man himself—people call it reserve. For years he has shut up his real self, and no one has seen it. I believe that you hold the key.”
“But I shall never dare to turn it in the lock.”
“Why not? You are his daughter, a gift given back to him to cheer and brighten the end of his life. Mind that you do it.”
“I’ll try. Anyway, I’ll put it in my prayers.”
“Do,” replied Miss Usher, as she closed the door.
It was with a feeling of repressed excitement and unusual trepidation, that Lord Mulgrave, who had come over by the evening boat, walked into the hotel and inquired for Miss Usher.
“Miss Usher and her ladyship were in,” said the porter; “in fact, they were in the hall.” Yes, he recognised Miss Usher’s black-and-white check gown, and her broad back; the girl with her—could it be Joseline? What a transformation! Undoubtedly clothes had done wonders; but her manners were as pitiably timid and uncouth as ever—she was actually shaking with nervousness. By Lord Mulgrave’s desire the little party dined in a private room, where he and Miss Usher talked, and did their utmost to promote the ease of their companion, who, in spite of her smart white gown and fashionable coiffure, was still the peasant in her heart. She ate but little, and scarcely opened her lips, fearing to be guilty of some awful blunder, and shock this handsome grey-haired gentleman!
After the meal was over Miss Usher effaced herself with a murmured excuse about letters, and left the father and daughter to talk to one another alone.
“Come here, my dear,” he said, drawing up a chair, “and let us endeavour to know one another. Talk to me, won’t you.”
Joseline accepted the seat in trembling silence. What could she talk to him about? The price of calves, the Hennesseys’ wedding, the mission at Glenveigh, her new clothes? Cleverly, and by degrees, her father drew her out, and prevailed on her to thaw—to speak of herself and her upbringing; and as she became more familiar with his presence and the sound of her own voice, she talked a great deal, and unwittingly displayed her simple mind, and simple heart. She was a dear, sweet, good girl—the image of her dead mother; but twenty-one years yawned between him and her, and as he listened to her artless conversation, he felt overcome by the appalling state of her ignorance of what may be called, “life above stairs.”
“Yes, I’ve had good schoolin’,” she was saying. “I can cast up figures, and knit, and mend lace; the nuns taught me.”
“Yes; and anything else?”
“I can sing—I was among the altos, and once I sang at a concert, and many a time at a dance.”
“I’m glad you can sing. Will you sing to me now, my dear?”
“Is it here?” she faltered. “Sure, I’ve no concertina.”
“That is no matter.”
“Oh, I’d be afraid, so I would. Oh”—twisting her hands—“I dare not.”
“Now listen to me, Joseline” (how many years since he had uttered the name!). “If you are going to be afraid ofme, I shall be afraid ofyou, and that will be a terrible misfortune. You have your mother’s face; if you have her nature, I don’t care one straw for accomplishments. I think you may have her voice. Will you not sing to me, my dear, and give me pleasure?”
He pressed her little hand tightly; he felt her trembling; and then, all at once, in the dusky room, the sweet, low, quivering notes began, at first faint and husky, but gaining strength and volume as they went on. Oh, such a heart-piercing, exquisite air! The words were unintelligible, for she was singing a well-known Irish lament, which, rendered into English, was something like:—