Tito’s sketch of Dudley Deverell was not altogether a caricature; he was good-looking, selfish, and popular. Social success and an atmosphere of flattery, stimulated his weaknesses, and encouraged him to display the least attractive side of his nature—a cynical air, an amazing indolence, and a cool indifference to the opinions of other people. Life had been made pleasant for him, and he valued it accordingly. As a guest and attraction he was faithless, and had thrown more than one important hostess into a tempest of indignation, by sending at the eleventh hour a lying wire. He travelled, he shot and fished when his health permitted, and was just as bored as other young men, with no occupation, and great prospects.
Some day he was bound to marry, and possibly Tito would do as well as any one! She knew the place, and it would please her people. Tito was good company, and a ripping dancer, but inclined to be rowdy, and confoundedly plain. If he could not remedy one defect—he would the other.
And now there was another girl in the family—he had bestirred himself so far as to journey to Ashstead, to see what she was like? It was an amazing tale. An introduction to this peasant would afford him a novel sensation. New sensations were rare and precious, and he had run down just for one night, in order tointerview the stranger; and behold! she was no stranger, but the pretty, cheeky girl who had chaffed him by the roadside in Ireland. The new cousin was uncommon; she was amazing; her manners and accent were abominable. However, she had lovely eyes and a saucy tongue, and he foresaw a considerable amount of entertainment.
These were some of Captain Deverell’s reflections as he gazed into his own face and executed a most finished white tie (he had been an Eton boy). Lady Mulgrave, too, had certain thoughts respecting Joseline. She had never seen Dudley so animated and interested, as on this occasion in the drawing-room.
Oh, that would never do! She would nip the intimacy in the bud at once. Dudley rarely remained longer than twenty-four hours, and she would see that he and the girl were kept apart. Captain Deverell slipped into the drawing-room just as dinner was announced, looking the ne plus ultra of the smooth-faced, smooth-headed young men of the period, and was just in time to lead Lady Grizel into the dining-room.
As Lord Mulgrave glanced round the beautifully decorated, well-lined table, he felt secretly vexed that Joseline, who had yet to distinguish between a dinner-knife and a dessert-knife, and to whom a finger-glass was a puzzle, should not have been allowed a little breathing space before being placed on exhibition.
Certainly she looked surprisingly like the rest of the company, save that she was much more attractive. With her wonderful skin, her burnished hair, her fine features, and exquisitely turned throat, it might be her mother come to life. And she was suitably dressed! Miss Usher had proved, indeed, a treasure. Then heconsidered his wife at the head of the table, a fashionable figure, with wonderful hair and complexion, a generous display of her splendid neck and shoulders, a French gown, the family diamonds, and her best society smile.
Lady Mulgrave glanced frequently at Joseline; she was a remarkable object, and Captain Deverell’s eyes strayed to her too. The girl seemed to be both beautiful and discreet. She scarcely spoke, she scarcely ate, but crumbled bread and uttered monosyllables. Once she assured a man-servant that “she wanted no more sauce—she had lashings!” What were lashings? “Oh, if she would only talk!” said Lady Mulgrave to herself. Some one had been advising her to hold her tongue. However, her hands were red; she had upset her neighbour’s champagne, eaten her neighbour’s bread, and dropped her spoon. Yet, when all was said, the peasant girl had undergone the ordeal of her first dinner-party, with respectable self-possession.
After dinner, Joseline was formally presented to various important dowagers in the drawing-room, who found the girl pretty, well turned out, but oh! so stupid! She scarcely opened her lips.
Then the men came crowding in, conversation became general, bridge-tables were set out, and Joseline found her tongue.
“Do you play bridge?” inquired Captain Deverell, sinking into a seat beside Joseline, whilst another man hovered near.
“No, I never heard tell of it till to-day,” she answered; “and is it with a ball, or what?”
“No; with cards.” Then, speaking as to a child, “You know cards—playing cards?”
“Yes, and like them finely too. I’ve never heard ofthe game you mean, but I know ‘spoil fire’ and ‘beating Jack out of town.’”
“That must be a most exciting game,” drawled her cousin. “How many beat him? Not more than one at a time, I hope?”
“As many as likes; it makes no odds.”
“Are you fond of motoring?” inquired a man who did not see why Deverell should engross the beauty.
“Well, I’ll tell ye after I’ve been on one. I once got a lift on a traction-engine—me and a girl—I mean, a girl and myself—and I suppose it’s the same sort of thing?”
“Only the pace is slightly different.”
“Yes; but the noise, and the joggling, and the frightening of horses and cattle, is all one.”
“I daresay you are right there,” he assented.
“What part of Ireland have you lived in?” inquired a smartly dressed lady, who was seated near Joseline.
“The south, near Glenveigh.”
“Oh, yes; a great place for fishing, is it not?”
“I would not say that; but it’s where people comelookingfor fishing.”
“And don’t get it. I see! By the way, does not Mrs. Borrodaile live in that part of the world?”
“She does so, at the Court.”
“I suppose you know her—er—by sight?”
Joseline nodded. “I seen her in the chapel.”
“Do tell me what she is like?”
“Well, some makes out she is handsome; but I’d call her a very streelish lady.”
“Streelish!” she repeated. “You mean stylish?”
“No, no, I do not. She has a great streel on her—long, sweeping things—and looks as if she was falling out of her clothes.”
“Really?” she laughed. “I must inquire into this. I’ve not seen her for ages; she is my cousin.”
“Is she so?” rejoined Joseline imperturbably. “I believe she is very good to the poor. Her kitchen-maid was a friend of mine and thought a power of her. Still and all, shehasa rakish look!”
This newly discovered heiress was a unique creature, with her distinguished face and her extraordinary talk. She was splendid fun; people began to hover near her. Her father watched her with nervous apprehensions. It was too bad of her ladyship to bring the child forward before she had a little experience of society! But her ladyship had her own views; she wished to make her husband uncomfortable and ashamed of his low-bred daughter. He now joined the circle, and with unexpected animation, urged people to seat themselves at bridge.
Bridge, the all-fascinating, soon scattered Joseline’s little court; and presently she and her father stole away together to have a talk in the library. They were not missed.
When Joseline had retired, Lord Mulgrave, as he smoked alone, began to ask himself if he would not have been wise to have accepted Lottie’s broad hint, and sent the child to a school for a few months, just to rub off the rough edges of her vocabulary?
The shooting party were to have a grand battue the following morning. All the ladies who were not sportswomen were to meet the guns at a keeper’s cottage, and there share their luncheon. But some of the women preferred to walk with the guns. Theseincluded Tito, who begged Joseline to accompany her to the neighbourhood of a celebrated warm corner, where they took their stand; but after a very short time Joseline and her dog made their way elsewhere. She had no taste for the spectacle. As she struggled through the undergrowth, she suddenly came upon Dudley Deverell, gun in hand, his loader beside him, awaiting the magic words “Mark over!”
“I say, what in the world are you doing here? and with a dog too! If the governor sees it he will be furious,” he drawled. “If you don’t mind you’ll get shot.”
“The dog will stick to me, and I’m striving to get out of the wood and doing my big best; but wherever I go there are guns and slaughter. Pah!” she exclaimed, “grown-up men shooting tame pheasants! Why don’t you wring their necks, and have done with it!”
Dudley Deverell, who prided himself on being a dead shot and a keen sportsman (when his health permitted), stiffened and coloured with annoyance. What did this girl know of shooting or sport? She reallywasa young savage! “I see you don’t approve of us, which is deplorable; for you will have to remain here till the end of the beat.”
“Who says so?” she demanded.
“I do. You may get shot. Mark over!” He raised his gun. Bang! bang! went two barrels, and a couple of rocketters came crashing heavily down. One of them fluttered about till it was put an end to. “What do you think of that?” he inquired.
“I call it a horrid sight!” was the unexpected reply. “There is no chance or fair play in it. But I suppose the poulterers have to be supplied!”
“Pray what do you know about poulterers?”
“A sight more than I want to! Haven’t I spent all my life, till the last two months, rearing chickens, and selling eggs?”
“Oh! Really! And how did you dispose of them?”
“To the gentry.”
“You did notkillthem I presume?”
“No. I never had the nerve; but I plucked some of them with me own two hands.”
“Still, I suppose you made a good thing of it?”
“No then, I didn’t; though I had one lady, a big customer—till we fell out.”
“About eggs? A bad egg, eh?”
“No. Thereyouare out. My eggs were the best. It was over a gold locket and chain.”
“How was that?”
“She made out as her son had given it to me.”
“And she was wrong?”—smiling. “It was the other fellow?”
“Well, yes, if I’m a fellow, for I gave it to myself.”
“And the lady’s son—washeone of the crowd you——?”
“What does my father do with all the game?” she interrupted brusquely.
“I’m sure I’ve no idea. He has the best coverts in the county, and that’s enough for me. What an odd girl you are!” he said suddenly. “Don’t you feel it yourself?”
“I feel I am the odd one out at present. And you are a queer sort of man.”
“I—queer? In what way?” he asked, with a touch of hauteur in his tone.
“Oh, rambling about the world, looking forsomething to kill, same as a boy birds-nesting, and not doing a hand’s turn, good or bad.”
“Ah, I declare you are a young reformer”—colouring angrily. “Andyoumust know such a jolly lot about the world, and men of the world—don’t you?” he added ironically.
“There, now you are laughing at me. I’m no reformer. God knows there’s plenty of faults in me, and I’ve no call to be picking holes in you, or the likes of you; but I can’t keep me tongue quiet.”
“You can keep it very quiet sometimes—for instance, last night at dinner.”
“And hard set to do it. I’ve always been a terrible talker. Tell me, is it true, that, with all the foreign countries you have seen, and the strange places you have pried into, you have never in your mortal life been down one of your own mines, nor seen how things is going with men and beasts that make your money? There! now I see you’re real mad. I didn’t mean to torment ye!”
Before Dudley could make a fitting and crushing reply, steps approached from behind them, and a man called out, “Hullo, Deverell, what luck? You had a hot corner!” But all that Deverell displayed was four brace. “Ah, you’ve had a young lady with you I see.” As the girl pushed through the laurels, and fought her way on to a path, she heard the voice declare, “They are the very deuce out shooting.”
“Yes,” acquiesced her cousin, with unflattering emphasis, “an infernal nuisance.”
So that was Dudley’s verdict. She was an infernal nuisance! She halted for a moment to digest this fact. It was now time for the lunch at the keeper’s cottage,and she encountered most of the party on their way to the rendezvous as she once more emerged into the open.
* * * * *
“Lady Mulgrave, is it possible that I see you refusing our standing dish, Irish stew?” said Dudley Deverell.
“I believe I shall have enough elsewhere,” she answered, with significance. “What do you think of your new cousin?” she continued, as she helped herself carefully to cutlets.
“I am not prepared to give an opinion at such short notice.”
“Then I gather that it is not a case of love at first sight?”
“I don’t believe in that humbug; and besides, I saw her in Ireland.”
“No!”—suddenly putting down her glass.
“Yes, by chance—as Mary Foley. I had not the smallest idea who she was then.”
“And what did she look like?”
“Oh, a pretty, saucy, country girl, with lots to say for herself. I never was so amazed as when I discovered her last night in the drawing-room! You could have floored me with the traditional feather!”
“She does not talk much now,” said Lady Mulgrave. “Evidently she has been advised, that silence is best.”
“It must be a trial, for I heard a man describe her as ‘the gabbiest little divil in the country.’”
“Oh, I expect she will soon find her tongue.”
“And her feet?” supplemented Captain Deverell.
“I’m not so sure of that; it takes some time to rub off twenty-one years of the cabin.”
“She is not awkward—no, not a bit.”
“Except when she spills things over people, and breaks wine-glasses. You don’t think her pretty, surely?”
“Yes; very pretty, in an uncommon style.”
“A very uncommon style. What a mixture—French, English—reared in Ireland!”
“She has some curious ideas.”
“Dear me! I had no notion that she had any ideas at all.”
“Oh, yes; with regard to shooting, and idle young men, who won’t do a hand’s turn!”
“Nonsense! How amusing! You and she must have become delightfully confidential among the laurels! She is a frightful flirt; any one can see that with half an eye.”
“Well, I cannot, with two eyes.”
“Oh, but you will. Oh, she’ll try her prentice hand—and a red hand it is!—on you, of course!”
“How do she and Tito hit it off?”
“Pretty well. You know Tito has the temper of an angel; so unselfish and sweet. She and I are running over to Paris to do some shopping for ten days. Any chance of seeing you, Dudley?”
“Perhaps. The old place, I suppose?”
“Yes; and Joseline and her father will have the house to themselves, and be able to make much of one another.”
“He seems immensely devoted,” said Dudley.
“Yes. He is full of sentiment, you know. There is, however, one drawback; she is a Catholic.”
“Well, I agree with the earl. It is something to be anything in the present day. Personally, I like a woman to have a religion.”
“But we all have,” protested the lady.
“I suppose you think so. At any rate, you worship the Golden Calf.”
“Really, Dudley!” she said, in an offended tone, “you do say the rudest things! Your manners are not improving.”
“No, wearing a bit thin. Well, I must run over when you are in Paris, and see if I can’t give them a touch of French polish!”
The small family party had dispersed, and as the days went by without social events, Joseline began seriously and methodically to accustom herself to the routine, and resolute to become at ease in her new life. She was painfully conscious of her ignorance of the ways of people in society. She felt that she shocked Lady Mulgrave ten times a day; and Lady Mulgrave, for all her sweet smiles, had, as she mentally expressed it, “a pick on her.” Yet she was making some progress, and from conversations listened to, she acquired a familiarity with the jargon of her surroundings, and was learning to manipulate just those turns of phrase, best calculated to sustain amiable relations.
Joseline was a great reader, and devoured books. With her, this was not a cultivated taste, but a natural appetite. From books, magazines, and reviews, she was learning with avidity, humbly conscious of her own inferiority, and that her father hoped for her to acquire a polish, and to shine.
When Lady Mulgrave and Tito had departed to Paris she and her father were thrown into one another’s constant society. Innumerable small signs of her affection afforded him a happiness such as he had not known for years. He was becoming reconciled toshocks and to strange expressions, and all the best that was in Lord Mulgrave was brought to the surface. Together the pair walked and drove, explored the estate, and visited the cottagers. The girl’s manner to their inmates was charming, and many of the elder people remembered and recalled her mother.
“I cannot imagine where you have acquired it, but you have a wonderful way with these folk,” exclaimed Lord Mulgrave. “How do you know what is just the right thing to say?”
“It’s like this, you see: although I am so awkward and flurried in fine society, and make such awful mistakes—you remember how I shook hands with the head gamekeeper at Lord Dover’s, and walked out of the room before the Duchess—I am really at home with the poor. I can enter into their feelings, for I have lived with them all my life. They are the same all the world over, only they talk differently.”
“Then in that case you shall be my Lady Bountiful and take on the cottage hospital, the school, and the almshouses. Her ladyship does not care for the people; she never visits them; she says they are uninteresting, grasping, and thankless.”
“Well, some are! They can’t help it. I knew a funny old woman at home; and once, when a lady gave her a nice stout serge, she just whimpered and said, ‘And what about the elegant little grey dress ye had in the spring—where isthat?’”
Lord Mulgrave laughed and she resumed: “But, after all, we should not be looking for thanks; some of them have so little, and we have so much.”
“You talk like your mother, my dear. She was always on the side of the poor.”
“Oh, father”—and she blushed vividly—“you make me so happy when you tell me that I am like her in other ways besides looks. Of course I can talk to the people, because I was one of them for so many years. Yet, somehow, these English are different—they areallladies.”
“Good gracious, Joseline! What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain if I can. Now there is Mrs. Gillson, a widow-woman; I asked her to come up yesterday, and I would find her some warm clothes, but she said, ‘I cannot come to-morrow, for a lady I’ve worked for regular every Wednesday this three years will expect me. I do her washing, and the lady always puts the clothes in soak of a Tuesday, and gives me a hand herself, so I really could not disoblige her!’”
Lord Mulgrave laughed again.
“Now, you see, in Ireland there’s none of that. You are a lady born, or you are not. Irish ladies don’t do washing.”
“As yet; but it will come.”
“That’s true. Some of the quality are very short of money; the Mulligans, of Carlane, have sold all their old silver and pictures, and the young ladies do lace-work for the shops. I liked the lace-work myself, but I hadn’t the time for it. I might do it now, I’m idle.”
“Yes, and you seem to be getting on pretty well, and more at your ease.”
“I’m not so flustered and awkward with you, or with the poor, or Tito; it’s only with Lady Mulgrave and the servants I feel that small, ye might put me in your pocket!”
“You will outgrow that by-and-by.”
“I’m awfully afraid of my maid; she is verynoseywith me, and that’s the truth.”
“Then send her away, and get another. You must try and be more self-assured. Do you know that next week you will have to stand alone, for I’m going to the north of England on election business, and will be away a week.”
“Oh, father, couldn’t you takemetoo? I just love elections!”
“No, my dear—impossible.”
“Oh, I wish you would. I’d adore the election and the speechifying, and the fun. We had one down in Glenveigh; they nearly tore one another to flittergigs.”
“That must have been exciting. I’m afraid I could not promise you anything of that description. It will be rather a good thing to leave you to stand alone and rely on yourself. After I return, I intend to take you over to France to see the Hernoncourts. I have promised that you shall pay them a long visit.”
“I wonder if they will like me?”
“I daresay they will, for you have inherited the Hernoncourts’ face, and disposition.”
“What is their disposition?”
“Gay, vivacious, impulsive, sensitive to kindness or ridicule. There is not much of the Mulgrave in you.”
“Oh, what a pity. Is Dudley more of a Mulgrave?”
“Yes. Do you and he hit it off?”
“Oh, pretty well; he is slow.”
“But sure.”
“Perhapstoosure!”
“What do you mean?”
“He takes much for granted—sometimes I fancy he takesmefor granted”—she added with a mischievoussmile. “Now, father, let me race Rap to the little white gate, giving me a start. You must hold him.”
“What a child she was!” thought the earl, as he held the struggling dog—a child in some ways; but in others, her sayings were beyond his comprehension.
Joseline and Tito stood together in a window watching the departure of Lord Mulgrave. Last words and farewells had been exchanged in the hall, and the girls had ample time to return to the library before the brougham travelled out of sight. As its polished blue panels disappeared round a clump of trees Tito suddenly flung her arms round her companion and exclaimed—
“Hurrah!”
“Tito!” she remonstrated, thrusting her back with angry force.
“Well, Joe, you know as well as I do how fond I am of the pater; but—when the earl’s away, the family will play—bridge.”
“So you do now.”
“Only in a mild form—a couple of quiet rubbers after dinner, at farthing points. The pater looks upon daylight bridge as undignified and unseemly. Now he has departed, the drawbridge is down.”
“For mercy’s sake will ye talk sense?” cried Joseline.
“Certainly. Don’t I always talk sense? Mother is going to have her innings now, and she has invited a party of kindred spirits to spend a week, including—though she does not suspect it—her future son-in-law! Oh, yes, Joe, you may gape, but he arrives by the fouro’clock train!” And Tito began to waltz around the room, with her hands on her hips.
“But who is he?” inquired Joseline, suddenly turning her back on the window, and surveying her companion with grave interest.
“Just what you might expect! A bad match, but everything else that is charming and desirable.”
“What do you call a bad match?”
“One that will make mother furious. Tony is a third son, in the Foreign Office, with only four hundred a year. His name is Anthony Goodrich, and he is good enough for Tito Dawson.”
“But sure, I thought that Dudley——” began Joseline.
“Would kindly throw the handkerchief tome?” continued Tito briskly. “No, no. Wait, and you will see that honour lies elsewhere, between Lady Agnes Shutter and”—with a significant smile—“another girl. Lady Agnes is stupid, but she has good manners, and a very clever mother.”
“Who else is coming?” resumed Joseline.
“Oh, quite a number. Mother has to crowd them all in now, because the pater loathes them; they smoke and gossip and gamble, and treat the house like a hotel. First of all there is the Honourable Gussie Tripp, a tremendous swell at bridge—they say she clears a thousand a year.”
“What, at cards? Ah, you’re humbugging me!”
“Yes, at cards.”
“Holy Saint Bridget!”
“Then there is Lady Boxhill, a very young elderly widow, rich, and fond of play and admiration. Lady Towton, rather pretty, with the most exquisite frocks—dreams! She won’t tell where she gets them in Vienna. And of course Teddy Boltover. Then Senor Bambinetto—an Italian prince, they say; but if I saw him behind an organ and a monkey I should not be a bit surprised; he is looking for a rich wife, age and appearance quite immaterial. I fancy he likes Lady Boxhill. I hate him; he pokes his nose into one’s face, and paws one! Colonel Wildairs, late of the Greens, a most distinguished officer. Sir Harry Coxford. Two cavalry men from Canterbury, and perhaps the great Dudley himself!”
“I’m glad he is coming,” said Joseline. “Anyhow I’ll have some one to speak to.”
“I’m not so sure of that. If Mrs. Folly Fullerton appears,shewill talk to Dudley. They have been a good deal talked about. That’s the lot, with power to add to their number.”
“I expect we shall find them plenty.”
“You will, at any rate! They will make you sit up, you little rich and rare specimen from Ireland. However, take my advice, and amuse yourself. I can’t look after you because——”
“You will be looking after Tony!”
“How smart! There is a ball on the fourteenth at the Hamptons’, and we are going to it in full force; it will be enormous fun. Now remember they will all be here at four sharp. The cart that took the pater’s luggage was to wait, also the brougham. Little he knew! Go and get into a smart tea-g. and prepare to receive—shocks.” And as she uttered the last word, Tito waltzed to the door, and exit singing.
By five o’clock the expected guests were assembled in the little drawing-room, enjoying tea and sandwiches,drinks and cigarettes, discussing the weather, the latest news, and above all, bridge. Miss Tripp was a tall, talkative woman, with a high nose, a fine figure, and an air of easy assurance. Little Lady Boxhill, a good deal made up, looked about twenty in a certain light, and wore a chestnut wig, and a complexion. Mrs. Folly Fullerton, fair, sylph-like, languid, and insolent, dressed in flowery, diaphanous robes, with a gold cigarette-case dangling at her side. The Colonel, late of the Greens, a loud-voiced, well-groomed gentleman, who seemed to know every one, and be anxious that they should make themselves thoroughly at home.
Joseline gazed at him as he stood with his back to the fire, precisely like the master of the house, and said to one of the cavalry men with an off-hand air—
“Oh, it’s all right, Pierrepont—smoking allowed. Try one of these Havanas?”
She had taken Tito’s advice, and invested herself in a new tea-gown, and an armour of reserve. Nevertheless she felt frightened among the crowd of supercilious strangers, who appeared to look upon the house as a comfortable private hotel; indeed, she heard Lady Boxhill say to Mrs. Fullerton—
“What room have you this time, Bab? Not the corner one I hope?”
“No, I’m on the big landing.”
“That’s right.”
“Yes. I told Lottie I simply would not come unless I had a suite.”
“Oh!”—with a gesture of approval—“when one comes to a country house, theleastthey can do is to make you comfortable. I’ve brought my masseuse, my secretary, and my dogs.”
The company were still discussing racing odds, shares, divorce cases, Yarborough and little slams, and Joseline sat in the background, completely bewildered. All her newly acquired confidence and manners seemed oozing away amid surroundings of inquisitive eyes and languid patronage! Dudley, who on flying visits had been friendly, was now chilly and unsympathetic, and almost ignored her. Tito was engrossed in the company of a thin, clever-looking young man, and she was left to the mercies of strange women, who stared at her in a way that put her out of countenance, and asked such blunt questions.
“And were you really in a cottage in Ireland only three months ago?” inquired Mrs. Fullerton, contemplating her with a look of languid insolence.
“Yes, only three months ago”—and she sighed.
“And is ittruethat you actually sold fowls?”
“Yes”—colouring—“and eggs as well.”
“Dear me, how amusing!”—with a sarcastic lifting of the brows; and she replaced her cigarette in her mouth, and took a whiff. “I hear you are tremendous fun,” she drawled.
“Who says so?”
“Oh, some one—Dudley I think; but it does not matter. Would you mind reaching me that cushion? Thanks. Now you might fetch me another of those excellent caviare sandwiches.”
* * * * *
The following morning was wet—a hopeless day; and card-tables were set at eleven. People played till lunch, from lunch till tea, from tea till dinner.
After dinner Lady Boxhill said—
“Lottie my dear, my brain feels in a sort of pulp; my ideas are mixed; I’ve played seventeen rubbers to-day. Do let us have some parlour tricks, or music, as a sort of rest cure.”
“Oh, very well, if you like. Yes, Tito”—turning to her daughter—“go and beat up recruits”—and she once more settled herself comfortably among her cushions.
Presently Tito came back, and proclaimed—
“No performance! The Prince has a cold, Lady Boxhill says, and Mrs. Folly simply won’t; she is sitting in the little back room with Dudley.”
Lady Mulgrave muttered something that may, or may not, have been, “Selfish pig!”
“And,” continued Tito, spreading out her hands, “there is no one else.”
“Unless we have the pianola?” suggested Lady Mulgrave.
“No, no!” cried Sir Harry Coxford, “I like to look at the fair performer. The pianola is so mechanical, and it does notsing.”
“I believe the housekeeper has a gramophone,” put in Tito; “it sings ‘I won’t play in your yard.’”
“Housekeeper and gramophone. That reminds me,” murmured Lady Mulgrave, “where is Joseline? Tito, did not your father say she sang, and had a lovely voice?” Then, with a laugh, she added, “She can borrow the footman’s concertina!”
“Mother,” remonstrated Tito, “please don’t ask her. I am sure she would be too shy. She would hate it!”
“Nonsense! Tell her she must! There is nothing to alarm her. Stay—where is she? The library, I suppose. Then I’ll go myself,” said Lady Mulgrave, rising with unusual energy; and as she swept out of the room insearch of her victim, she promised herself that the forthcoming performance would prove a novelty, a draw, and a good joke. Already it was evident to some of her ladyship’s guests, that they might laugh at the wild Irish girl with impunity, and in spite of all Joseline’s efforts in the way of humble conciliation, her stepmother treated her, in private, as a species of domesticated savage. Whatever blandishments or arguments her ladyship had used, proved successful, for in less than ten minutes a white and stricken figure, clutching a concertina, stood up and faced a critical, and secretly scornful audience.
Many a time Mary Foley had played and sung to five times their number with the confidence born of appreciation and success. Mary’s singing and playing of old Irish songs was declared “to beat all,” and with her own neighbours she enjoyed a far higher reputation than Madame Melba herself. But here were different listeners, and a different atmosphere. The girl’s heart felt like lead; her hands were so icy cold she could scarcely hold the footman’s concertina. She glanced timidly about her, half hoping that her cousin Dudley would befriend her or beg her off; but Dudley had dined, he was at peace with his digestion—he was not disposed to exert himself, and if Lady Mulgrave did hustle the girl a bit, it would do her good! She struck a few shaky chords and endeavoured to find her voice and courage. What could she give them? “The three-leaved Shamrock”? “The stone outside Dan Murphy’s door”? “The exile of Erin”? Yes. She looked over towards Dudley, hoping for at least his moral support; but there he lounged in the background, with his glass in his eye, sniggering at some remark of Mrs. Fullerton’s.“So much for a cousin!” she thought, with deep resentment. “He would stand by and see her baited, the same as a rabbit among the coursing dogs of a Sunday!” At last she began; her sweet full notes were tremulous, and occasionally inaudible. With painful difficulty she brought out the opening bars:
“There came to the beach, a poor exile of Erin;The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairingTo wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.”
“There came to the beach, a poor exile of Erin;The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairingTo wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.”
“There came to the beach, a poor exile of Erin;The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairingTo wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.”
“There came to the beach, a poor exile of Erin;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.”
The sound of her own voice had given her confidence, and she continued with fuller notes:
“Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood?Sisters and Sire——”
“Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood?Sisters and Sire——”
“Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood?Sisters and Sire——”
“Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and Sire——”
Here an hysterical titter caused her to pause. Miss Tripp held her handkerchief to her mouth, and Lady Towton was convulsed. The girl stood staring for a whole moment; then, with a gesture of unexpected passion, dashed down the unhappy concertina, saying, “Sing for yerselves!” and escaped from the room.
When the commotion, consternation, and amusement, had somewhat subsided, Lady Towton said, in a choked voice—
“I really could not help myself! Thecabindoor was so appropriate, it was too much for me. I’m really awfully sorry.”
“’Pon my word, I think you ought to be,” interrupted Sir Harry brusquely.
“She has a beautiful voice,” added Colonel Wildairs.
“More than we can say for her accent,” murmured Miss Tripp.
He turned his back on her, and went over to Tito, who was arranging the pianola.
“Won’t you run after her, Miss Dawson, and take her our thanks and apologies, and see what she is doing?”
But Tito found the door locked, and to all her knocking and calling there was no response.
Lady Joseline was Mary Foley once more, and her heart was too sore for even Tito’s sympathy, as she lay on her bed sobbing. She wished herself back at the Corner; she went even further—she wished herselfdead.
* * * * *
Dudley took but scant notice of his new cousin; in fact, he avoided her, and maintained a sort of studied aloofness, determined not to be associated with ridicule. He was fastidious, and easily influenced by a woman like Mrs. Folly Fullerton, who did not see anything to admire in Joseline, and made fun of her continually. Dudley, shameful to say, drifted with the stream, too indolent to swim against it. Poor Joseline seemed to find so many adversaries among the company; she became shy and awkward when people addressed her, and appeared to have a genius for saying and doing the wrong thing. She was, moreover, downright unlucky; she knocked down and broke a piece of china, value untold. And Rap had nearly been the death of Lady Mulgrave’s little dog, which he in the heat of the moment had chased, shaken, and mistaken for a rat. Some of her miseries were possibly due to imagination. She was painfully sensitive, and believed the whole of this little world was against her. Certainly she made a few blunders, and two enemies. For instance, oneevening, at dessert, there was an animated discussion respecting the conduct of a certain married lady, whose case had been recently in the papers. Her letters had been read to the wide world; her husband had vainly sued for a divorce. Some blamed her, others merely laughed.
“Why, I declare Lady Joseline looks shocked,” said Colonel Wildairs, in a loud, full voice, which would have been a fortune to an orator. “She is not used to the manners and ways of such society, eh?”
“No, thank goodness, I am not,” she answered, with decision.
“Are you Irish so particular?”
“Among the lower orders—yes. I do not know the other lot; they may be as bad as yourselves, but the common people have conduct, and theyhaveto behave themselves. I knew a girl—a married woman—and her husband thought she was speaking too free to a young boy, and he punished her proper.”
“How?” inquired Miss Tripp, leaning forward as she spoke. “Do tell us how he punished her ‘proper’ for improper behaviour.”
“Well, he tied her up by her two hands in the cowhouse, and he bet her with a car-whip till he could stand over her no longer, and she was half-killed. I heard the screeches of her myself, and it served her right.”
“You think so?” said Lady Boxhill sarcastically.
“Certainly, and to be sure I do. What does a married woman want with a sweetheart? Will ye tell me?” Here she inadvertently fixed her eyes upon Lady Towton, and the question seemed to be shot at her from the girl’s impetuous lips.
The stupid creature did not know how her arrow hit the goal—the only one at table who was ignorant of its effect. Lady Towton became white, then crimson, and Joseline’s bitter enemy to the end of her life.
Dudley Deverell had witnessed the scene with a mixture of dismay and amusement. What a dangerous young woman. She seemed to have a knack of dropping bomb-shells into people’s laps! The very same evening she surpassed her previous effects. She was looking on at a game of roulette—indeed, she was actually playing, and occasionally placing a timid shilling here and there (as no knowledge or practice is required). Suddenly Lady Boxhill announced—
“Well, now I’m going to plunge and put a sovereign on myage!” And she surveyed the circle with her crafty, made-up old eyes.
“But you can’t do that! How can you?” remonstrated Joseline, in her soft, sonorous tone. “Your age is not on the board within twenty years. Why, the highest is thirty-eight.”
Joseline’s protest and faux pas were immediately drowned in a loud buzz, and she felt herself severely pinched by Tito. The miserable girl had made another enemy, and Lady Boxhill in future spoke of her as “that fearful Yahoo,” and snubbed her ruthlessly whenever it lay in her power.
“The fearful Yahoo” was painfully sensitive. She knew that she was unpopular, and was quick-witted in her own unpolished fashion. She caught stealthy looks and smiles exchanged on her account. Lady Mulgrave frankly ignored her (unless she found occasion to exhibit her as a curiosity). Dudley held aloof, in chilling disapproval; he was a coward, and ashamedto be identified with the public laughing-stock, whose ignorance of the social code was displayed at every turn. Sir Harry Coxford, however, paid her many stupid compliments; Colonel Wildairs assumed bluff, fatherly airs. Yes, these two were her friends; but Teddy Boltover was stolidly rude, and the Prince pursued her with detestable attentions; he brought his face so close to hers when he addressed her, and surveyed her with such a detestable expression that she hated him.
Naturally, Joseline was gregarious and fond of life and company; had she not for many years been “Mary of the Corner,” accustomed to continual homage, and acclamation? Better be a success in a cottage, than a failure in a castle! Gradually she withdrew into her own company; she went for long walks with Rap, or sat up in her little boudoir, keeping the fire warm as she crouched over it, meditating on her many blunders and the hostility, or indifference of her associates. She did not play bridge, she disliked motoring, she had no friends or tastes in common with the party, nor any claim to be remembered or considered; her heart was filled with bitterness and revolt. Oh, if her father were at home!—never, never again would she remain behind alone as an experiment, and for the sole benefit of her education.
But her enemies within the gate had a strong case against Joseline, and Lady Boxhill voiced the sentiments of her friends when she said—
“Did you ever notice the way that girl sits huddled over the fire on a low stool, as if she were still in her kitchen? What a frightful trial to poor Lottie! She plants her elbows on the table, her hands on her hips,she pushes before people, and in her clumsy haste to be obliging she gets flustered, drops things, falls over footstools, and treads on every one’s toes.”
“Yes,” put in Lady Towton, “and asks such odd questions; and I declare her scarlet blushes, are positively indecent.”
Alas! Poor Joseline was, in some respects, an Ishmaelite; her hand against her associates, and their hands against her.
One afternoon, as Joseline sat by her fire knitting a sock, with Rap, the criminal, luxuriously extended beside her, the door opened quickly, and Tito entered. She looked rather pale and agitated. Without preamble she came up to the hearthrug, spread out her hands before the blaze, and said—
“I’ve had an awful time!”
“How? Where? What is the matter?”
“I’ve been playing bridge since two o’clock, and my brain is buzzing. My partner was Colonel Wildairs, against Sir Harry and Gussie Tripp. Sheisa beast; she riles me! So hatefully sharp and on the make. The way she slaps down a good card, with a sort of jerk, is just maddening, even when Iknewshe had it all the time. She made me lose my temper, and what’s worse—my money. Joe, you will have to lend me thirty pounds?”
“Arrah! Is it for card-playing? Go on with ye!”
“It’s true. I’ve lost forty pounds.”
“The saints preserve us!”—lifting her hands and eyes in protest.
“Yes, it’s a fact. I went no trumps, and she redoubled: my partner had nothing, and I was weak in diamonds. She got in with her ace, and made thelittle slam. Colonel Wildairs was furious; he pays Sir Harry, and I payher; she was so nasty about it, too. She said—‘Forty pounds, dear Tito! You shouldneverdouble until you are more experienced. It is a shocking sum, but I won’t press you. Pay me next week.’ And of course, I’ll settle up this very night.”
“I don’t understand the quarter of what you are saying; only that you are short of money.”
“Yes. I’ve only ten pounds. I should hate Tony to think I was a defaulter, and she is so mean, and would talk at the Women’s Clubs, and say awful things of me.”
“Oh, would she?”
“Yes. She has her knife into most people.”
“I’ve not much money left,” said Joseline, “but whatever I have you are welcome to”; and she rose and went to a writing-table.
“But my dear, whathaveyou done with it? The other day you said you had a hundred pounds.”
“Well, ye see, being near Christmas I sent some over to Father Daly to lay out; they’d take it kinder from him, than me.”
“Take what?”
“Well, my old friends. Mikey Mahon would be the better of an ass and car, I know, and Mrs. Curran is lost for a good pig, and Larry Duff’s cow went and died on him, so I’ve told them to buy a nice little young Kerry; and there was coals badly wanted, and I sent Peggy Curran a dress piece, and Mrs. Hogan a weather-glass and a visitors’ book, for the last one was spoiled on her, and full of impudence and poetry.”
“What have you left?” interrupted Tito impatiently.
“Here it is—twenty-five pounds”—and she held it out. “I am sorry I’m short. What will you do for the rest?”
“I’ll borrow from Robins the butler.”
“Goodness, girl alive! Isn’t that queer doings?”
“Oh, Robins knows me; he is a family friend, and rolling in tips. Well, Joe, youaredecent. I’ll pay you next quarter.”
“No, no, let me give you the money; I really don’t want it. I wish you would promise me not to—I won’t say play bridge—I’m not a born fool; but not to play for so much.”
“I’ll promise farthing points with pleasure; I will indeed,” said Tito emphatically. “I’m sick of the whole thing. I love the game, but I loathe losing my money, and I’m not a very good player, for I’m too hasty and emotional, like you! By the way, why do you sit up here all by your little lone?”
“Where else would you have me sit? They are not missing me downstairs, are they?” she asked, with a sarcastic laugh. “And when I’m here, I’m not making a show of myself.”
“Theyarea horrid pack, most of them! Old Lady Boxhill—I suppose she’ll take the Prince—Lady Towton, Mrs. Folly, and Gussie Tripp—hateful! But you should not let them draw you out about wakes, and dances, and your schooling, and so on.”
“Sure, I see that, and I’m getting wiser now. I thought they wanted information, they all seemed so eager with questions. Now, I know ’twas only laughing they were.”
“Tony disapproves of them; says they are—well, no matter; and he was horrified at my losing this money”; and she held up the notes. “He never plays high now; he simply refuses anything more than half a crown a hundred. You can lose quite enough at that.”
“Can ye now?”
“Once, he told me, he played with a very smart woman, who said, ‘What shall we have on?’ And she named quite a big stake—something like half-crown points. He was ashamed to refuse. However, he won, and won, and had great luck. He won about a hundred, and they stopped. She said, ‘I’ll settle at once.’ ‘Oh, no, no hurry,’ he said, thinking it was such a big sum, he would give her time. ‘I always pay money down,’ she said, and handed him ten shillings. ‘What is this for?’ he asked. ‘What I’ve lost to you,’ she answered, as bold as brass, naming some decimal points. He was struck dumb. Of course, being a woman, he could not argue with her. Afterwards, he heard, that it was a habit of hers to play this trick, and that if he hadlost, she would have come down on him for her hundred pounds.”
“Then she is a cheat!” cried Joseline.
“Oh, yes,” rejoined Tito triumphantly, “of course she is! and I only hope she will be run in some day. Now I must fly and dress.”
In spite of all her excuses, protestations, and pleadings, Joseline found herselfen routeto the Hamptons’ ball, packed into the omnibus along with seven others, and being carried to the scene of action as fast as a pair of fine steppers could take her. Figuratively speaking, the vehicle was almost bursting with high spirits; the clatter of chaffing tongues was incessant, and, as some so-called “wit” had extinguished the lamp, semi-darkness promoted hilarity.
Joseline sat at the far end next to the Prince, who made a gallant attempt to hold and squeeze her hand, under the impression that she was Lady Boxhill—which endearments she forcibly returned by a sharp and vicious pinch. Now and then she was drawn into the conversation, and forced to reply to questions.
“Will you give me a dance, Lady Joe?” said Colonel Wildairs, who was hervis-à-vis.
“Thank ye, but I can’t dance—only jigs and reels.”
“Well, I cannot imagine any one going to a ball that can only dance jigs,” said Gussie Tripp, “especially when she is not old enough to care for supper.”
“Signs on it, I agree with you with all my heart,” declared the brogue in the corner. “I wanted to stay at home. I don’t know why Lady Mulgrave was set on bringing me, seeing I can’t dance a step, and I never eat supper.”
“There is such a thing as looking on,” suggested Sir Henry Coxford.
“And—sitting out,” supplemented Tito.
“That’s true,” said Sir Henry. “Lady Joe, you and I will sit out a couple of dances, eh? Here we are, and a bit late too,” he added, as they drove under an illuminated porch, descended, and joined the rest of their company—a party of no less than twelve.
“Quite an invading force, are we not, dear Mrs. Hampton?” said Lady Mulgrave, as she shook hands with her hostess. “I think you know most of them, except my stepdaughter, Lady Joseline, and Prince Bambinetto”—presenting them as she spoke. “I am afraid we are a little late.”
“The third waltz; but you do not dance, I know. There is bridge—in the end room, and you will, I hope, get a rubber.”
The party moved on and presently dissolved among the gay company. Joseline, who was not sorry for Sir Henry’s escort, made her way with him into a wide corridor hung with tapestry lined with splendid furniture, and priceless inlaid cabinets.
“This is as good a perch as any; I know the house well,” he said. “You can see and be seen; they all pass by in review order”; and he nodded or bowed to several acquaintances. Finally, he got up to speak to a lady in reply to an imperative summons, and Joseline for the moment was alone. How strange! She did not see one familiar face. How different to her former dances: when she took the floor—a mud floor—with Tom Kelly or Patsy Malone, an enthusiastic audience of friends and admirers lined the room, and greeted their performance with uproarious applause—applause so vigorous and infectious, that the very soot came tumbling down the chimney!
As she sat a little aloof and distrait, looking vacantly before her, her mind filled with other images, she recalled her sole previous experience of a society gathering—the great concert at Kilmoran, and Mr. Ulick singing the bull-fighter’s song. These reflections were interrupted by her hostess, who had been attracted by her lovely face, and now approached her, followed by a tall, soldierly-looking man.
“I hope you are dancing?” she said. “I have brought you a partner—Major Doran.”
Behold the hour and the man!
Had Joseline’s thoughts summoned him?
Since we last came across Ulick Doran he had served in India and South Africa, had won laurels, and seen the world. With many matters to occupy his attention and fill his time, he had never forgotten Mary Foley—she held her own against the various pretty visitors who had knocked and rung at the door of his heart. From the animated Indian spin; the South African grass widow; the charming American girls;—his thought invariably turned to a slender red-haired maiden, with a soft, insinuating brogue, and a pair of bewitching brown eyes.
The astonishing history of her exaltation had recently come to his knowledge. It sounded like a fairy tale! Well, she was now nearly as much out of his reach as before—and for an exactly contrary reason.
When Mrs. Hampton (an active and admirable hostess) had said, “I want to introduce you to a beauty,” Major Doran, who had no idea of what was in store for him, obediently accompanied her into agallery, where sat a young lady in a high-backed chair, with her eyes bent on the ground.
As Mrs. Hampton addressed her, she lifted them and looked from the image in her thoughts on the real man, Ulick Doran—browner, graver, older, otherwise unchanged. In a moment her face became transfigured, and wore a smile of radiant surprise and joy. The recognition was not mutual, until Mrs. Hampton added—
“Major Doran—Lady Joseline Dene.”
He stared at her blankly, incredulously, as she sat in the ancient chair, with its great carved crown showing above the masses of sunny hair, her delicate hands resting on its massive arms, her graceful slimness thrown out into relief by its broad leather back.
She looked dazzling in her mother’s pearls and a silver spangled gown. Almost like some stately young sovereign, enthroned among her subjects.
And yet it was the same little face that had haunted him all these years—the same that had been pressed against the window-pane one April night, in passionate farewell.
“May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he asked, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Thank you, I don’t dance,” she answered inarticulately, as she pressed on the knobs of the arm-chair with trembling hands.
“Then may we sit it out?”
She bowed, without raising her eyes.
“What a queer, nervous sort of girl!” thought Mrs. Hampton, as she moved away.
To Major Doran it seemed almost incredible. But these delicate patrician features, and the rich, softbrogue, both belonged to Mary Foley. She was curiously reserved, and cold. Had her sudden uprise turned her head? Did Lady Joseline Mulgrave hate to recall the old days, when she was the inferior, and dropped curtseys tohim?
“Lady Joseline,” he said, on a sudden impulse, “may I ask you a question?”
“You may if you like,” she answered, almost under her breath.
“Do we meet now for the first time? or—have we known one another all our lives. It is for you to say?”
“Me to say,” she repeated, raising her eyes to where he stood, humbly awaiting her decision. “Why, to say the truth, and what else?—wasn’t I your mother’s egg-huxter?”
“Well, perhaps we need not recallthat—only—other things?”—and he studied her pale, uplifted face, and her brilliant eyes, with a keen and intimate interest. “Do you know that I’ve always had a presentiment, that we should come across one another some day. Of course I have heard your story.”
“Yes,” she answered, with regal equanimity, “I believe it was on the papers.”
“I was not as much surprised as other people. You were always different to your surroundings.”
“I suppose I was,” she acquiesced. “I never had much heart for work.”
“But you had for play. You seem to have left your spirits in Ireland?”
As he spoke he took a seat and continued.
“It is six years since we met. A good deal of water has run under the bridge——”
“Oh, for the Lord’s sake,” she interrupted, withunexpected passion, “will ye not be talking of bridge! I’m fair sick of it!”
“I am not alluding to cards, but to events. Many things have happened since we said good-bye to one another.”
Did she recall the episode? Yes, for her face flamed.
“You remember?”
She moved slightly in her regal chair, and made no reply.
“Do you?” he urged, with low persistence.
“Oh, I’ve a pretty good memory,” she answered at last, her face aglow, as she raised her eyes to his with a glance of proud defiance. “There’s been changes—the death of Mrs. Foley; the break-up at the Corner; some going to America, and some getting married.”
“I was told that you were going to be married,” he said.
“I?”—and she laughed derisively. “I might be married years ago, if I’d liked.”
“I don’t mean over in Ireland,” he protested; and his glance wandered to where Dudley was permitting a pretty woman to entertain him.
“Oh, that!” A pause; and she added, with a touch of her natural impulsiveness, “I wouldn’t marry him if he was hung in diamonds, nor he me; he is afraid of his life of me.”
“Why, what have you been doing to frighten him?”
“Always saying and doing the wrong thing. You see, I’m so ignorant, and when people make signs at me, ’tis worse I get.”
“What do you call the wrong thing? Can you give me a specimen?”
“Well, talking to Lady Boxhill of wigs, and age, andto Mrs. Fullerton of divorce, and to Sir Harry Coxford of debt and people owing money. I mean no harm, God knows! but I frighten people, and I make them hate me”; and her lip trembled, and her eyes were brimming.
“I am sure no one could do that,” he protested.
“Oh, but they can! I’m such a clumsy fool. And faix, your own mother wasn’t too fond of me! All the same, I hope she is getting her health?”
“Yes; but I’m sorry to say Barker is giving her a lot of trouble.”
“Well, she has him as she reared him! I suppose about the big lump of a girl that’s barmaid over in Killarney?”
“He has married her.”
“I am glad he had that much decency.”
“And he insists on bringing her home. It’s a terrible trial to my mother.”
“Well, if I’m not mistaken there will be two of them in that trial. And what have you been doing with yourself?”
“Soldiering in India, and other places—and twice to America, to see my aunt Nora. I am going over again immediately. She is a widow now.”
“That was she that came in one soft evening in the old blue cloak. I took her down to ‘The Arms.’ Mrs. Hogan told me about her. She must have got a queer sort of shock when your mother chased her out of the Castle.”
“I think she has forgiven and forgotten. Now would you like to take a turn, and see the other rooms and the dancing?”
“Yes, I would”—rising with graceful alacrity.
“I suppose this is your first ball?” he continued, as they stepped into the stream of moving figures, a remarkably distinguished-looking pair. Joseline held herself well, and looked every inch the daughter of a hundred earls. Not a few people remarked her, and asked, “Who was the beauty?” In fact, she made a sort of triumphal progress, as she moved about the rooms, the loveliest of visions. The fame of her remarkable story, and the presence of her beauty, filled the air. No one who saw Lady Joseline, would believe that she was stupid, common, uneducated, and muddleheaded.
Ulick Doran, her escort, was conscious of the sensation caused by his companion. Admirers crowded about Mrs. Hampton, clamouring for an introduction to the charming heroine of a romantic tale; but among them her cavalier still held his ground, and would not yield his place.
“I say, what a find for Mulgrave!” muttered one county magnate to a neighbour.
“Yes. I’m not sure that Lady M. is delighted with his discovery. Where is she?”
“Need you ask? In the bridge-room, of course.”
“I wonder what she would say to the stir the girl is making? By gad!”—watching her as she passed by. “And who is the fellow with her?”
“Lady Barre’s nephew; his name is Doran.”
“Irish! Well, no Irish need apply—her ladyship is booked for Dudley Deverell. By the way, I see him here playing the fool with the Fullerton woman.”
Dudley Deverell observed from afar, and marvelled. So Joseline had got hold of Doran. Such a smart, good-looking chap—and Joseline was undeniablyadmired. Oh, yes, she was all very well—until she began to talk!
“It is a pity you can’t waltz,” remarked Ulick, as they looked on; “but you will learn in no time.”
“I’m no good. I can do nothing like other people. I can’t ride, or dance, or play bridge, or tell pleasant lies to people’s faces without turning a hair, or even pretend I like those I can’t bear.”
“Oh, all those things will come easy to you, bar the hypocrisy. It was strange our meeting here to-night,” he said.
“Our meeting—and parting,” she added quickly.
“Why parting?”
“Because you are going to America, and I am going to France. Yes”—in answer to his look—“as soon as my father returns, next week, I believe. You know, I’m half French and half English.”
“Yes, and half-hearted.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you don’t seem happy.”
“That’s true. Ye see how it is; I’m neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. Too fine for the folks in Ireland, and not up to the mark over here. I was twenty-one years too long in a cottage. I will never be a lady.”
“Would you like to return to the Corner, and be Mary Foley?”
“Oh no, I could never go back to that,” she answered with emphasis. “There is my father, who is more than good to me; and Tito too. But I’m not denying, that I don’t care very much for the crowd in the house.”
“I daresay not. I know the set; you are a bit out of it?”
“I am so—and so best! In Ireland the peoplelaughed with me. Here they laughatme. Oh, it’s a sore change!” she concluded, in a miserable voice.
“Surely you need not trouble your head, or think about them.”
“But I’ve not much else to think of just now, being hand-idle. Tell me,” she added eagerly, “what didyouthink now, when you saw me?”