Wail, wail, ye, for the mighty one!Wail, wail, ye, for the dead!Quench the hearth and hold the breath, with ashes strew the head!How tenderly we loved him! how deeply we deplore!Holy Saviour, but to think, we shall never see him more!Wail, wail him through the island! Weep, weep for our pride!Ye know that on the battle-field our gallant chief has died.Weep the Victor of Benn Burb! Weep him, young men and old!Weep for him, ye women! your beautiful lies cold.Soft as a woman’s was your voice, O’Neil; bright was your eye.Oh, why did ye leave us, Owen? Why did you die?Your troubles are over; you’re at rest with God on high.But we’re forlorn and sad, Owen. Why did you die?
Wail, wail, ye, for the mighty one!Wail, wail, ye, for the dead!Quench the hearth and hold the breath, with ashes strew the head!How tenderly we loved him! how deeply we deplore!Holy Saviour, but to think, we shall never see him more!Wail, wail him through the island! Weep, weep for our pride!Ye know that on the battle-field our gallant chief has died.Weep the Victor of Benn Burb! Weep him, young men and old!Weep for him, ye women! your beautiful lies cold.Soft as a woman’s was your voice, O’Neil; bright was your eye.Oh, why did ye leave us, Owen? Why did you die?Your troubles are over; you’re at rest with God on high.But we’re forlorn and sad, Owen. Why did you die?
Wail, wail, ye, for the mighty one!Wail, wail, ye, for the dead!Quench the hearth and hold the breath, with ashes strew the head!How tenderly we loved him! how deeply we deplore!Holy Saviour, but to think, we shall never see him more!Wail, wail him through the island! Weep, weep for our pride!Ye know that on the battle-field our gallant chief has died.Weep the Victor of Benn Burb! Weep him, young men and old!Weep for him, ye women! your beautiful lies cold.Soft as a woman’s was your voice, O’Neil; bright was your eye.Oh, why did ye leave us, Owen? Why did you die?Your troubles are over; you’re at rest with God on high.But we’re forlorn and sad, Owen. Why did you die?
Wail, wail, ye, for the mighty one!
Wail, wail, ye, for the dead!
Quench the hearth and hold the breath, with ashes strew the head!
How tenderly we loved him! how deeply we deplore!
Holy Saviour, but to think, we shall never see him more!
Wail, wail him through the island! Weep, weep for our pride!
Ye know that on the battle-field our gallant chief has died.
Weep the Victor of Benn Burb! Weep him, young men and old!
Weep for him, ye women! your beautiful lies cold.
Soft as a woman’s was your voice, O’Neil; bright was your eye.
Oh, why did ye leave us, Owen? Why did you die?
Your troubles are over; you’re at rest with God on high.
But we’re forlorn and sad, Owen. Why did you die?
As she concluded with a low sob of supreme dramatic effect, Lord Mulgrave drew a deep breath, and, carrying the little cold hand to his lips, said, “My dear child, do you know thatmyname is Owen? Your singing is no mere accomplishment; it is a great gift.”
“Did she sing?” she asked faintly.
“Yes. It was the same voice”; and he sighed as he released her fingers.
“Does Lady Mulgrave sing?” she continued, in a bolder key.
“No”—and he gave a slight start—“but, Tito, herdaughter, is fond of music; she is nearly your age, or a little older. You will be, I hope, capital companions for one another; she’s a bit of a rattle, but a good-hearted girl.”
“Is she pretty?” she asked.
“Not exactly; but rather attractive and piquante.”
“I never heard that word before; I suppose it means something nice?”
“Yes. You will see for yourself. She and Dudley are great friends; he is my heir, you know, and your cousin; we see a good deal of him.”
“And what is he like?”
“Oh, fairly good-looking, but a lazy beggar. He did well in South Africa, but got enteric, and was laid on his back for so long I believe he fancies he is still there. You have put his nose a bit out of joint, for some of the estates will now go to you.”
“Is it to me? Sure I’m not fit to own land. Once they wanted to make up a match for me with a strong farmer; his people were eager for it, on account of the fifty pounds.”
“But you said no?”
“Bedad, I did—a great fat man, with a bald face, and a pearl on one of his eyes.” She meant cataract.
Lord Mulgrave gave a short laugh; then he said, “So, Joseline, you’ve never had a lover?”
“Is it me? Why I had a couple of dozen or more making shapes at me!”
Her father sat up stiffly in his chair, apprehension in his attitude; the expression of his face was disturbed.
“But sure, I didn’t care a hair for one of them,” she added reassuringly. “I only liked them just for jokingand dancing—nothing more, I give ye me word. But I’d fine work keeping them off; they mostly wanted to marry me!”
“You say you had many admirers, my dear. Did you not care for one of them? Come, now, do not be afraid to speak.”
“No. Sorra one of them!”
“And yet you are past one-and-twenty! It is strange that my little girl’s heart has never been touched,” continued Lord Mulgrave, in a meditative tone; “but I think I can explain it. I believe it was a case of like to like, and you instinctively shrank from the claims of a race to which you did not really belong.”
“I expect there was something in that,” assented Joseline. “They said I was too particular, and all for picking and choosing.”
“Now, supposing you had come across a gentleman wooer?”—and Lord Mulgrave paused interrogatively. (Did he notice that Joseline was very pale?) “I wonder how it would have been? Perhaps you and I would not be sitting here to-day, Joseline. I am thankful that you belong only to me!”
A long pause ensued.
Joseline was conscious that her mind was in a tempestuous state of indecision. Should she speak? Should she disinter and lay before her father, the poor little skeleton of her own romance? Should she or not? After all, there is something that belongs to ourselves. And yet—and yet—— Her large eyes gazed into vacancy.
At last she faltered, in a low and shaken voice, “Well, father, therewassome one once. You are right. A gentleman—and—he was—a real gentleman. He wentaway six years ago, when I was but a young slip of a thing, and it nearly broke my heart. And that’s all.”
“What was his name? Who was he?” he asked under his breath.
“Sure there’s no need to tell ye that, for”—and her face quivered—“I’ll never come across him again.”
“Irish, of course?”
She nodded. “There now, I’ve told ye, and ye know all there is to know about me. Promise me ye will never let on.”
“I promise faithfully. Did he give you the red dog?”
“No, he gave him to Mrs. Foley. And now we will never spake of him again.” Here two tears, which had been gathering, fell. “You have me only secret.”
As a servant entered with a telegram and turned up the electric light, her father looked searchingly at Joseline. Her face was white and haggard. “My little girl is tired?” he exclaimed.
“Yes; I feel as if the feet were falling off me. I was standing so long to-day being tried on.”
“Then you must go to bed at once. To-morrow we will do a drive and the theatre. Next day we go home. You are no longer afraid of me, are you, dear?”—and he bent down and kissed the hair over her brow. “You must not. You are my only child; all I have, remember.”
“I will remember, and you will remember”; and she looked up at him with an expression more eloquent than speech. An undivided and implicit trust, spoke in her beautiful eyes.
END OF PART II
Although Lord Mulgrave had given Miss Usher a cordial invitation to accompany his daughter to London, that prudent lady excused herself with the plea of one or two engagements in Dublin. She wished to give the father and daughter an opportunity of becoming better acquainted before they joined the family circle. What could be a better occasion than a sea voyage and a railway journey?
“I shall miss you awfully,” sobbed her companion of the last six weeks. “I don’t know what in the living earth I’ll do, all alone. Of course, I have his—his lordship—father; but I mean among the women. And I’ve a notion they are all going to hate me, so they will.”
“That is a foolish idea to start with, my dear. You will find that if you like people, people will like you. Do not be afraid of your relations. Be good—tempered and pleasant, and just yourself.”
“Faix, it’s easy talking, Miss Usher dear. But which self? I’ve two, you see. The one that comes natural—the common country girl, reared, as ye may say, on the side of the road, and the new self, that’s a grand lady, and must mind her manners and her talk, and hold up her nose as if there was a smell under it!”
“Not at all,” protested her counsellor. “I hope you will be gracious and polite to every one; it is only nobodies who give themselves airs. Your father has invited me to pay you a visit later, and I shall look for wonderful improvements and bring you a little prize. You are improved as it is; you have learnt a great deal.”
“It will all run out of my head the moment I get among strangers,” declared her pupil, in a tone of deep dejection.
“At any rate they will make allowances.”
“More likely they’ll make fun of me!”
“Nonsense! Now, you must try and remember some of the things you have learnt. Promise me you will not say ‘Faix,’ ‘Musha,’ and ‘Begorra’; in fact, my dear child, you should endeavour to cultivate silence.”
“Sure, don’t I know that well! and yet for the life of me I can’t hold me tongue. I can’t stop myself. I’ve been so encouraged to talk as much as ever I liked since I could talk at all, the words just slip out of me mouth before I know they are gone—and often words I never meant to say at all. I tell the black truth, and let them take it or leave it—man, woman, or child.”
“You must make up your mind to listen and learn,” said Miss Usher, soothingly. “You learn quickly. Now, I’ve a little book for you here.” It was a neat edition ofThe Manners of Good Society. “Read this over; it won’t tell you everything, but you will find it a help.”
Lord Mulgrave, for his part, had a gift for Miss Usher, and the evening before he took leave of her he offered her his heartfelt thanks for her care of his daughter. “I am aware that nothing I could give you, would be an adequate return,” he said, “but Iwant you to accept this as a memento ofMary Foley”; and he placed in her hand a blue velvet case—a case containing a string of pearls, which, as a lady friend subsequently remarked with bated breath, “must have cost hundreds and hundreds of pounds.”
The travellers left for Holyhead by the early boat; and as Joseline, in the dull grey cold morning, took leave of her friend—her very last tie—she broke down and wept bitterly, and, with her arms tightly clasped round Miss Usher’s neck, fell into a sudden breathless sobbing.
“May Heaven forgive me, but Ihategoing, so I do,” she gasped. “Oh, Miss Usher dear, I wish to God I was on my way back to Glenveigh!”
* * * * *
At Kingstown the waves were tumbling over the west pier; the water in the harbour was lively. They were likely to experience a bad crossing—a bit of an October gale.
At first Joseline enjoyed her novel experience of the sea, the stinging salt air, the unfamiliar up-and-down motion; but once past the “Kish,” when they caught the full force of the wind, she was compelled to seek refuge in the ladies’ cabin, where she fell an immediate prey tomal de merand terror. Over and over she believed that each lurch was the end! However, at last Holyhead stack was safely sighted, and a miserable, white-faced girl was claimed from the stewardess by the Earl of Mulgrave. Her head was swimming and aching as she crawled up the gangway, leavingThe Manners and Customs of Good Societybehind her on board theIreland.
During the long day’s journey to London Joseline recovered but little, in spite of her companion’s most anxious solicitude; her interest in the flying landscape proved feeble, she felt so sick, and so utterly shattered and desolate.
“Would you prefer to stop in London for the night, and go on to-morrow?” suggested Lord Mulgrave.
“Oh, no, no! let us do it all at wance.”
“And get it over,” he added, with a faint smile. “You need not be nervous, Joseline; every one is prepared to give you a warm welcome.”
“But I feel so strange. I know I’ll be like a sort of wild plant that is pulled up by the roots, and stuck in a greenhouse, and every bit as much out of place.”
“No, for you belong to the greenhouse,” he answered, “and by-and-by you will find that you are in your natural atmosphere.”
“God send it!” she murmured, as with a gesture of weariness she closed her eyes, and presently fell into a comfortable little sleep.
Her father, who sat opposite, studied the pale face anxiously. Here was the image of his dead wife: her outward form, with the mind, manners, and habits of an Irish peasant. What an unparalleled situation!
The poor, tired child had some formidable obstacles in her future path. Lotty and she would have nothing in common—Lotty, with her bridge and her cigarettes, her society jargon, herset, would be terribly embarrassed by this simple, innocent creature. His wife’s opinions were decided, her tongue was persuasive, her will inflexible. He had drifted into allowing her to gently lead, to manage, and to set him a little on one side, because he had not cared. Now he had something tocare for and protect. He must stand between Lottie, and a girl who embodied many of Lottie’s especial aversions—a girl who was a mere child of nature, outspoken, impulsive, uncouth.
Joseline and her father, having dined at the Euston Hotel, made their way down to Ashstead. It was past nine o’clock, a dark, windy night, when they arrived outside the gusty station, where a fine equipage, with two moon-like lamps, awaited them. As she was conducted to her carriage, the girl felt as if she were a second Cinderella going to the ball. They drove away rapidly, Joseline sitting erect, her heart beating with nervousness; her father took her little cold hand, and held it in silence. When they stopped at a pair of great gates, which opened noiselessly and swung back of their own accord as the carriage dashed through, he said—
“This is Ashstead—my dear—your home.”
“Father,” she gasped, “I am mortally in dread. I feel as if I was going to be killed, or married, when I think of meeting all these grand strangers. I declare I’d like to get out of the carriage, and run in and hide under the hedge.”
“My dear, I assure you there is nothing to alarm you.”
“It’s her ladyship and the young lady that terrifies me, when I think of them.”
“Her ladyship is prepared to welcome you warmly. She is——” (What could he say to encourage this trembling creature?) “She is—most sweet-tempered, and full of tact.”
“Tact! What is tact?”
“A—the knack of saying the right thing, and keeping quiet at the right time.”
“Oh, laws! then she is just the black opposite to me! And the young one?”
“I feel sure you and Tito will be as sisters; she has often wished for a companion. She will show you all sorts of things, and tell you what to do.”
“I suppose she has had a grand education?”
“Yes, chiefly abroad. I am afraid she did not make the most of her advantages; her spelling is shocking.”
“Oh! Well, anyhow, I can spell,” declared Joseline, with a gulp. “It is the other things—the tip-top talking, and the sailing about a room, and the hand-shaking, and looking people over from their shoes up. I watched the ladies in the hotel. You see, I just clump about, and hitch myself on to anything, and say, ‘What way are ye the day?’”
“Well, here we are,” he interrupted, as the horses came to a standstill under a pillared portico. The door was then thrown open, and the light from a large domed entrance streamed out into the night. Silhouetted against the yellow glare were three tall men-servants. In a sort of daze Joseline stumbled out of the brougham and followed Lord Mulgrave into what seemed to be a royal palace. She paused for a moment, whilst a footman relieved her of her umbrella and handbag, and, turning to her father with piteous eyes, exclaimed, in a voice which the great dome re-echoed—
“I declare to goodness I’m all of a swither!”
To this announcement her parent made no reply, but hastily preceded her across the hall along a wide red-carpeted corridor, lined with paintings and cabinets, to where a murmur of voices came through a half-open door.
Lord Mulgrave had particularly desired an informalreception for his daughter, so romantically restored. Of course, he was aware that the entire neighbourhood were on thequi viveto see her; their curiosity must wait. He expected to find merely his wife and Tito. But Lady Mulgrave had arranged otherwise; she had invited Lady Maxwelton and her girls to come and behold the new niece and cousin, and being in London, they had responded with alacrity. Several smart neighbours were added to her dinner-party; but for these the inducement offered was bridge.
Lady Mulgrave was secretly displeased that her husband was bringing “the hog-trotter” girl home—actually straight to Ashstead. She ought, as a preliminary, to have first been sent to some school or foreign convent. It was most irritating to have her dragged into the family; the whole thing was so melodramatic—a sort of penny novelette story; it had got into all the papers, too. The proper thing to do would have been to send the girl abroad, and permit the episode to evaporate. An uncouth peasant-girl was bound to cut a most ridiculous figure; but since she was really coming, her ladyship had invited a surprise party, as a little punishment for his lordship. The presence of so many critical eyes would intensify his discomfort: in addition to the kind and charitable intention of making him ashamed of his daughter, it was also arranged as an ordeal for the girl herself.
Ten o’clock had struck. The small blue drawing-room was set out with three bridge-tables, at which sat twelve deeply engrossed players. Lady Maxwelton occupied a sofa with another lady; they were discussing missions.
“Mother,” said Tito, suddenly throwing down herhand, “I’m sure I hear the carriage! Yes; they have come at last!”
“Nonsense! It is the wind. They won’t arrive to-night,” replied Lady Mulgrave, from another table. “Of course they will stop in London.” As she spoke, she ceased to sort her cards, and announced, “I make no trumps.”
“Itisthem,” persisted Tito, rising. “Mother, aren’t you going out?”
But her mother merely took up her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. As she did so the door of the drawing-room was pushed open by some one, and a graceful girl in a long sable-trimmed cloak and a French toque came slowly into the room, ghastly pale, and yet so pretty! She looked distinctly dazed—no wonder, poor alien!—as she contemplated this brilliantly lighted room, the crowd of gaily dressed people all playing cards and smoking cigarettes. Even Joseline was sharply sensible of the strangeness of this new life—so near, yet so unknown. Directly facing her, a yellow-haired woman—her beautiful bare shoulders emerging from a hazardously low yellow gown—with a cigarette half-way to her mouth, stared at the new-comer with eyes of stony incredulity.
For about the space of ten seconds a deadly stillness reigned. The arrival paused, and in that time Lady Mulgrave saw and realised, the amazing likeness to a certain picture in the red saloon; also that this graceful, well-dressed personage was the bog-trotter girl, as she mentally called her. Her husband, who was now in the room, said—
“Lottie, here is——”
“Oh ... I know.... I see,” she answered quickly,and, putting down her cigarette, she rustled forward, took her stepdaughter’s hand in hers, and administered an elaborate embrace. “Dearest, you are welcome—so welcome. And here is my girl Tito,” she added, in her sweet voice, waving forward a petite figure in a bright red gown, with bright, dark eyes.
For a moment Joseline hesitated, and then she stooped and kissed Tito, murmuring in a soft, broken whisper, “I do hope you will like me, me dear! and we will be friends.”
Tito was taken completely aback, but from that moment her heart was enlisted by this sweetly pretty creature, with the lofty air and ridiculous brogue.
“Elgitha,” said his lordship, “let me present your niece to you,” and he led her formally to a sofa, on which was seated the stately dowager in velvet, with her beautiful white hair turned off her face over a cushion.
The marchioness rose and warmly embraced the girl, and added, in a subdued aside, “What alikeness!”
There were more introductions, a little talk, chiefly carried on by his lordship, and then he said—
“Tito, will you take your sister away to her room and look after her? We had a hideous crossing.”
“I’m sure you must be dead,” said Tito, leading the way, “and glad of a rest and supper. I’ll introduce you to your room and your maid.”
“Maid? Oh, no. For goodness sake——”
“Why, of course a maid! Mother has two—one for her clothes, and one for her hair! Here we are”—and she ushered Joseline into a lofty bedroom on the first floor. “Is it not nice?”
“’Tis elegant! ’tis grand”—gazing about at the silkhangings, silver looking-glass, and French furniture. “Just beautiful.”
“Do let me help you off with your wraps! Dear me! how different you are to what we expected!”
“Yes?”—sitting down wearily. “Whatdidyou expect?”
“Oh, a sort of bare-legged girl, with a turf creel on her back.”
The new-comer laughed hysterically as she removed her hat-pins. “Oh, well, I never was just as bad as that!”
“I think you have made a most successful first appearance. You carried the house by storm, and, figuratively speaking, will have splendid notices in all the morning papers. You don’t understand my jargon? And you are worn out. Ah! here comes your maid. Justine, this is her ladyship. I see you have brought up some soup. You will look after her? She is frightfully tired. What time do you get up in the morning?”—turning to Joseline.
“Half-past six!” was the prompt reply.
“Half-past—horror! I generally emerge about eleven. To-morrow, I’ll come and look you up early, and we will go round the grounds together whilst Justine unpacks. Of course you breakfast in bed!”
“Is it me? Never in my life!”
“Well, I’m really going now. Good night.” Kissing her, she whispered, “sleep well, and dream happy dreams. I expect they will all come true!”
Joseline, who was worn out, both bodily and mentally, slept a sound and dreamless sleep, from which she was aroused by the sound of careful footsteps, a rustling of starched petticoats, and a gentle opening of heavy shutters. She stared about the unfamiliar, lofty room. Where was she? As her gaze fell on the pale satin counterpane, the dignified dressing-table, beyond it a tall housemaid in a stiff print gown, cautiously raising the window-blinds, she closed her eyes. Would she open them on her own little quarters in the cottage loft?—a room with a wooden bed and patchwork quilt, a rickety washstand, and one chair? No, no—and she sat erect among her pillows—it was not a dream; she was at home—her real home. Sleepily she watched the clever housemaid arrange her bath, and carry in her tea in a dainty canary-coloured service.
“At what time will you have your breakfast, my lady? Her ladyship said you would have it in your room.”
“At nine o’clock. Just a bit of anything that’s going—I’m partial to stirabout.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Enter Justine the maid, with her smart lace-trimmed apron and air of critical inquiry, who began to arrange and put away and take out things in a sort of stealthy silence. Presently she came forward and asked—
“When will your ladyship get up?”
“Oh, now,” she answered, “it’s all hours.”
“When shall I come back?”
“I can dress myself, thank ye.”
“But your hair, my lady?”
“Yes, I always do it meeself.”
“Then you will ring if you want me. I’ve left out your blue cloth; it”—pause—“fastens up the back.”
As Justine closed the door, her ladyship slid out of bed and ran, barefooted, to the window. Before her eyes lay a heavily timbered park, so large, that it gave her the impression of being boundless. A silvery frost sparkled on the grass. Beneath the window was a pleasure-garden with gravel walks and marble steps and statues, where three men with brooms and a barrow were languidly sweeping up the dead leaves. Somehow the stately spacious outlook, impressed Joseline, even more than the interior of the house.
When breakfast arrived, she was already dressed, all but the fastening of her gown, and, unaware of the enormity, she requested the housemaid “to give her a hook up.” Of course it was not Marston’s business, and she might get into trouble with Ma’mselle; but the new-comer had no idea of the hard and fast lines of domestic service—or indeed that there were any lines at all. After a hearty meal, Joseline ventured forth into the wide corridors, down a grand staircase, and was presently lost among the intricacies of an immense, rambling mansion. There were long passages, lined with sporting pictures, and covered with thick red carpets, where she encountered soft-footed men-servants, who stared and stood aside. She discovered a billiard-room, then, opening a swing door, a cloak-room, and suddenly found herself in what appeared to be the butler’s pantry,where two youths in shirt-sleeves seemed not a little startled by her visit. She had opened the wrong swing door, and, in beating a nervous retreat, came face to face with her father in shooting kit. He seemed surprised and pleased, as he exclaimed—
“Hullo! you early bird, what are you doing in this part of the house?”
“Faix, I believe I’ve lost me way. I wanted to find you, and—all the other people.”
“At any rate you’ve foundme. I hope you are rested?”
“Yes, thank you. And where are the rest of them?”
“Scattered about. Some are playing golf, some are in bed. I’ve been interviewing the steward.” Then, as he ushered her through a doorway, “Would you like me to show you the house?”
“Yes, indeed; I would love it.”
To introduce Joseline to the home of her forefathers was a task after Lord Mulgrave’s own heart; he was a man of cultured tastes and a well-known collector. He had a fine show of old arms, old ivories, old cloisonné, some exquisite French cabinets, and the finest snuff-boxes in England. By degrees he piloted Joseline through a suite of reception-rooms, and showed her many rare and costly objects among his heirlooms and his treasures; he was eloquent over his relics of the Armada, his Sèvres cups, “Mary and William” tankards, and was conscious of a sharp spasm of disappointment, when he found that the object that claimed his companion’s admiration and awe was the stuffed brown bear, which held a cigar-tray in the billiard-room! In short, as far as knowledge and appreciation of art went, Joseline might be a child ofsix. In the red saloon, a room panelled with damask and pictures, she came to a halt before a fine painting of the Madonna and Child, which Lord Mulgrave had picked up at a curiosity-shop in Pisa; it was said to be a Raphael—at any rate, it was of his school.
Joseline gazed for some time, and then crossed herself devoutly.
“Oh, it is real beautiful,” she remarked at last—“a deal better than the one in Glenveigh Chapel. I wish they had the likes of it. An’ wouldn’t Father Daly be the proud man!” She paused, coloured, and exclaimed, “Oh, I was forgettin’.”
“Forgetting what?” inquired her father.
“I’m afraid my being a Catholic is a shockin’ upset; but I tell ye, for ye bid to know”—and she surveyed him with solemn eyes—“I’ll never change my religion.”
“No, of course not, my dear. It is true that our family have always been Church of England; but I am thankful that you have a religion; it is an uncommon possession in these days.”
Was he thinking of his wife, with her Sunday card-parties?
As they talked on many subjects, they were moving slowly down the saloon, and at the end, he came to a standstill. Lord Mulgrave had instinctively felt that there was no use in exhibiting the priceless Vandycks, Romneys, and Hoppners, to this uneducated child as yet; but here was a modern picture, bound to enchain her. Joseline looked up at a full-length painting of a lovely girl, robed in a filmy white gown, with delicate touches of blue. The portrait had been taken at a happy moment, and seemed to exhale the very breath of life and youth. No need to explain. Instinctivelyshe was aware that she was face to face with her mother. The picture was a gem, the “chef d’œuvre” of a French artist who, like his model, had died young. The face was so vivid, so full of animation, it seemed to stand out from the canvas, as if alive. A truly speaking likeness! Joseline recognised her own shade of hair, the colour of her eyes, and brows—her very mouth—she was looking at herself as in a mirror.
“You are like her,” said Lord Mulgrave, in a low voice. “You can see it?”
“I am, in face,” she answered, with an effort. “But in mind and ways I’m just an awkward, common flahoola of a country girl!”
She had spoken the truth; her father could not contradict her. Again he was penetrated with the conviction that, with the refined face and figure of his beloved Joseline, the charming daughter beside him, had the manners and vocabulary of the Irish peasantry. (Unfortunately for Lord Mulgrave, his nature was dominated by the critical faculty.) Would she ever outgrow or live down her plebeian youth, and those twenty-one years of poverty and hardship, which yawned between her and him?
“Oh! you will improve,” he said, with a stifled sigh.
“I’m afraid I’m too old. However, I’ll try.”
“And here,” continued Lord Mulgrave, indicating a patrician individual in splendid uniform, “is your grandfather, the Duc de Hernoncourt.”
“Holy Moses! Fancy that my grandfather!” she murmured, staring into the face, “and him a duke, no less!”
“Yes; he had the royal blood of France in his veins. So”—looking at her steadily—“have you.”
“Is it me?” she repeated, opening her eyes. Then she burst out laughing. “Well, to think of that now! He looks terribly stiff and stand-off, does my grandfather, and as if he did not want to know the likes of me.”
“This is the little boudoir,” announced Lord Mulgrave, suddenly opening a door into a small, bright room, where a great wood fire blazed up the chimney. Before it was drawn a sofa, on which a recumbent figure lay extended at full length, displaying a generous view of red silk stockings and buckled shoes, the head buried among soft silk cushions; and when the head turned, it displayed the face of Tito—Tito with a cigarette between her lips, and a yellow paper-bound book in her hand.
“Hallo!”—suddenly sitting up. “Good morning, pater.” To Joseline: “So you are down?”
“Yes, long ago,” she replied. “I’m sorry you are sick. What ails you?”
“I sick? Certainly not! Pray why on earth should you think so?”
“Because you are lying stretched.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. I’m taking it easy. The Max girls and the men are playing a foursome, and I’m off duty”; and she snuggled down again, and replaced her cigarette.
“Duty reminds me that I’m to meet Ross, the head keeper, at eleven-thirty,” said Lord Mulgrave, “so I must be off; and I leave you two girls together. Tito will take you in hand, Joseline, and coach you a bit. I’ll see you at lunch.” And he went out.
“Sit down in that comfy chair,” said Tito, extending an authoritative cigarette, “and let us have a talk. Isuppose the earl has been doing the grand tour. Tell me what do you think of the pictures? Aren’t they splendid?”
“Oh, yes,” she assented, without enthusiasm, “grand.”
“The Cavalier on the black horse is worth ten thousand pounds.”
“Holy saints! Did father pay all that money?”
“No, goosey. The Cavalier is an ancestor—a most valuable one, too. If he were mine, I’d sell him like a shot. They are all your ancestors.”
“How strange! I never heard the word itself spoken till last week. Where are the other people?”
“Mother is in bed; she never shows till lunch; she has her toilette, and her little dog, and her letters. Lady Max is an early bird, but she breakfasts in her boudoir; she has a mighty correspondence—political and philanthropic. The girls are out—both golf mad. Griselda is a champion; the rest of the crowd were only neighbours. There is another big spread to-night, and a shoot to-morrow.”
“Oh!”—and Joseline relapsed into silence, and sat staring at the fire.
“Now, come, let’s talk, and get to know one another,” said Tito briskly. “You begin.”
“Faix, it takes a long while to know people,” rejoined the other, in her soft, musical drawl.
“But in my case I become an intimate, or an enemy, within the first half-hour.”
“Faix, then, I hope you won’t become my enemy.”
“No—though of course I ought to, after your turning up, and giving me the back seat!”
Joseline became crimson, and looked uncomfortable and distressed.
“Bar jokes! I mean to do you a good turn, and tell you things.”
“I’ll be thankful to you, for I’m as ignorant as a young crow. What sort of things?”
“Family news, family politics, family secrets that you would take ages to discover. Also I’ll be your child’s guide and adviser—for though I expect you are only a couple of years younger than I am, I am old enough in worldly ways to be your grandmother. You call me Tito, of course.”
“Yes, of course. And your mother; what am I to call her?”
“Um,” muttered Tito into the stump of her cigarette.
“Um?” repeated her pupil. “Do you meanMum?”
“No. I’m considering,” she answered, with half-shut eyes. “I’ll let you know later. Did you do your hair yourself?”
“Yes; av course I did. Why? Is it a holy show?”
“No; ripping! Tell me, has the earl said anything to you about money, or an allowance?”
“Yes. He said four hundred a year. It’s far too much.”
“Too much!” suddenly sitting erect. “Not half enough. You could never do with it—that is, if you are to be dressed. Why, look at me!”—gesticulating. “Do you see this serge gown I’ve on? It cost twenty guineas—not paid for yet. My shoes”—she flourished her pretty feet—“three guineas. As to my evening gowns, that wretch ‘Du Du’ won’t let me have anything under thirty-five pounds, and then it’s sham lace, and looks like a rag in a week! Do you know that mywinter coat cost one hundred and twenty pounds? That makes a big hole in four hundred pounds. I’ve the same allowance too, and I’m drowned in debt.”
“Youin debt? Why I thought it was only poor people that owed!”
“Well, I’m poor. I’ve nothing of my own but a hundred a year. Oh, I owe bills I simply dare not think of. Such piles—especially in Paris. Mother is even worse; she owes thousands! Of course, then there’s her bridge losings, and her new motor, and Monte Carlo and all that. When she married his lordship she had a thousand a year, and a little girl. She has the little girl still—but the thousand a year has departed.”
“But is not father rich?”
“Yes. Nothing much for all he has to keep up. He says he is a poor rich man. Lots of the farms are on his hands. There is the big London house, the villa at Cannes, this place, with fifty servants. And mother is a bad manager, and frightfully extravagant.”
“Well, av course I’ve always been poor, and twenty pounds seems a fortune. Tell me, Tito, why do ye spend so much on yer back?”
“Because I must be in the swim. One cannot be seen over and over in the same gown. When I go on a three days’ visit, I take at least a dozen frocks. Then, I’m plain—I require dressing. Nowyoucould wear anything.”
“Is that so? or are ye joking?”
“Why, you know you are most awfully pretty! I say”—and she pulled up a cushion with a tug and selected a fresh cigarette—“don’t you feel a bit funny? Outside you look all right”—she paused and surveyedher companion critically, then resumed, “but how is your mind? How are youinside?”
“Faix, then I’ll tell you! I feel just as you would if, after being reared in grandeur all your life, you were suddenly struck down below stairs, among a pack of strangers, and told to scour the pots, and wash up dishes.”
“I’d be bound to smash everything before me.”
“That’s just how I feel,” said Joseline with fervour. “I’m sure to break lots of things.”
“You mean the laws of good manners. Well, you will soon learn; you see, you are a lady born.”
“But I’ve lived all my life as a working girl”—and she held out her hands. “I may be Lady Joseline to look at, but I’m just Mary Foley dressed up.”
“There is one thing you’ll break, my dear, and that is hearts.”
“Arrah, go on with you, and your blarney!”
“Go where?”—laughing. “I really wonder you were not married long ago.”
“Faix, there is more nor you wonders at that,” she answered sedately.
“Who pray?”
“Why, the boys I would not take!”
“Do tell me about them?”
“Augh, sure, they were only just common chaps.”
“What a providential mercy you did nottakeone of them! That would have been a fine complication!”
“Have you any chap, Tito?”
“Oh, heaps of a sort. Of course, I’ve played about.”
“What’s that?”
“Sitting in corners and writing little notes and having jokes, but nothing serious. Mother thinks it istime therewassomething serious; you see, I’m twenty-three”—and she blew a cloud. “And I’ve no looks or money; I’m only smart and bright and well turned out, and an A1 dancer and bridger.”
“What’s a bridger?”
“Oh, you poor dear innocent, you’ll soon know! Well, as I was saying, I’m not a very marketable article, and here you come and take all the wind out of my little sails.”
“There’s no fear of that! You can’t understand the dread I’m in of all the strange grand folk. When I think of things I’m scared; and as to the servants, I declare they just paralyse me!”
“How ridiculous! You must really learn to hold up your head and be self-confident.”
“I never could. Now, there’s your mother; she’s a real lady; any one can see that with half an eye.”
“Of course, mother comes of a good old family, and is proud; but she was only a parson’s daughter—second son—family living, you know?”
“No, I know nothing. I’ve heard of a living family, never of a family living. I’m afraid her ladyship will mislike me.”
“Oh no, she never mislikes any one; and don’t call her her ladyship, for mercy’s sake!”
“No; and I’ll be very thankful to you if you’ll correct me when I’m wrong. Now, tell me, what my father likes?”
“Peace, with a big P, and sport and books and pictures and curios. I am happy to add, he likesme.”
“And your mother?”
“Society, society, and again society—lots of nice boys, and smart married women without their husbands,married men without their wives. She adores bridge and cigarettes, motoring, and pretty clothes; she likes to give the best house-parties, and to feel that she is very popular. By-the-by, I wonder what Dudley will say toyou?”
“Dudley? Oh, yes, I remember—father’s cousin. Do you like him?”
“Pretty well: he is decent enough. Mother adores him.”
“Why? Sure she is no relation!”
“No, if he were she might loathe him. She likes him because he is rich, and run after, and good-looking, and the next heir—and so deliciously casual and cool; and because”—here she took the pillow from beneath her head and thumped it vigorously—“she wishes him to marry”—a violent thump—“me!”
“Well, and why not?” inquired Joseline, in her tranquil voice. “I see they do draw down matches over here, with all their laughing at us in Ireland.”
“Us, in Ireland!”—throwing herself back. “You have no more to say to Ireland than the parrot or your terrier. By the way, why did you import him?”
“I was lonesome like.”
“I believe he has chased the housekeeper’s best cat; and that cat is a personage, I can assure you.”
“I’m sorry; but he was always a terror for cats.”
“What a funny expression!”
“Well, when I’m too funny entirely, will you, for the love of goodness, give me a wink or a pinch. I know I just talk like the purest commonality—I’m not fit to be a lady.”
“You can’t help yourself; youarea lady.”
“I’m better than I was, thanks be to Miss Usher; shemade me read aloud to her every day. Now, do tell me, when are you going to be married to my cousin?”
“Most probably never—though it would be a splendid match for me.”
“Then why not give in to it?”
“I expect there would be two words to the bargain. Dudley is in no hurry; he knows his value, and that he could marry almost any girl in England. Perhaps he may take it into his head to marry you! I’m sure your father would fall in with that arrangement.”
“And what aboutme?”
“Oh, you! It would be like a political marriage; you’d have to consider yourself highly honoured. He is the most fastidious creature I’ve ever seen.”
“Tell me some more about him,” urged Joseline, suddenly sinking on to the big white rug, and clasping her arms around her knees.
“Yes, with pleasure, if you will wait till I light a fresh cigarette.”
“But you have smoked two already,” remonstrated her companion.
“Oh, that’s nothing”—carelessly striking a match. “Why, mother smokes dozens a day, although the doctors have forbidden her to smoke atall, she has such a weak heart; and they declare she will kill herself, but she does not believe them. As for Dudley, he has been in the army—the Duke’s Lancers; he was out in South Africa, and got enteric, and nearly died; he is awfully faddy about his health, and takes a real interest in his tongue and his temperature; then, he is shockingly flattered and run after, for, besides being heir to the pater, he has a big property in mines, which, needless to say, he never goes near; he is supposed to havetremendous taste in some ways, and sets fashions—he was the first man to wear a silk muffler with the point outside, and to lunch at his club on bread and milk. Now I hear that bread and milk is the rage!”
“And what else does he do besides eating slops?”
“Oh, he travels, and motors, and shoots, and sleeps, and nurses himself, and says nasty, cynical things—and sometimes does kind ones. He is rather decent—the earl likes him; by all the laws of propriety he ought to hate his heir, but they get on capitally; they neither of them talk much; they just sit and smoke, or walk and smoke. Dudley is accustomed to be talked to and amused; you see, he is a great catch.”
“Does he flirt, or play, as you call it?”
“Yes; but only with married women.”
Joseline stared; her face expressed shame and disapproval.
“Oh, my dear little lambkin, it’s all right. No scandal! Just a few dresses, and a kiss or two.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, but you will, darling. Now tell me, between ourselves, have you ever had a real lover?”
No answer. Joseline’s eyes fell, and her colour rose.
“Look here, we will exchange experiences. I will tell you my secrets; you shall reveal yours. Come now; has a man ever kissed you?”
Joseline’s colour increased, and crept up to her temples.
“Ah, ha! I see! Oh, your face is a shocking telltale!”
“Then it’s telling a big lie!” she protested with energy.
“It looks to me like the truth.Some onehas kissed you. Come now, own up!”
“If I do, you will swear”—and she rose to her knees, and leant against the sofa—“to keep my secret?”
“Yes, I swear—a million times over!”
“Well—I’ve no call to be ashamed; it was six years ago, and I was only a slip of a thing; but a man did kiss me, and I kissed him”—a pause—“through a pane of glass!”
Tito sat erect, stared incredulously, and burst into a scream of laughter; it rang through the room, peal after peal. At that moment Lady Grizel appeared in the doorway, where she stood for a moment in startled silence.
“Why, Tito, you have nearly drowned the luncheon gong!” she said. “Whatisthe joke?”
Tito, still gasping for breath, scrambled off the sofa and replied: “The best joke I’ve heard for years!” and drying her eyes, she repeated, “The best I’ve heard for years! I must refer you to Joseline!”
But Joseline had already sprung to her feet, and fled.
Lady Mulgrave and her guests were already seated, when two late arrivals joined them with hurried apologies.
“Good morning,” she said, tendering a dainty hand to Joseline, and offering her ear to be kissed.
But this ignorant Irish peasant failed to accept the hint, having no conception that she was being honoured with permission to salute her stepmother’s delicately powdered skin; and she stood for a moment, undecided and embarrassed.
“Well, there, my dear, go and sit down,” said her ladyship, indicating a place next to herself. “I hope you are rested?”
“Thank you, I’m finely to-day.”
“I suppose you have been round the house?”
“Yes. It’s wonderful; it’s grand. I never saw the likes of it.”
Lady Mulgrave smiled faintly, and said, with half malicious emphasis, “No, dear, I should imaginenot!”
Her look was significant, though her smile was enchanting. Joseline instantly withdrew into herself and proceeded to eat her lunch in nervous silence. Whatever she said or did was bound to be wrong. She read—she was quick in such matters—criticism and ridicule in the other woman’s eyes.
Those same eyes watched her from time to time witha curious, scrutinising gaze. Seen in the broad light of day, the girl’s extraordinary resemblance to her mother came home to Lady Mulgrave like a shock. She had never ceased to be jealous of that exquisite portrait! And here was the picture alive, a brilliant and emphatic reality, seated beside her at table, and, oh! small sweet consolation! eating French beans with a knife!
Although Mrs. Dawson had secured a splendid position for herself and daughter, her affection for Lord Mulgrave was lukewarm; she had, however, acted her part to perfection. By-and-by it had dawned on her husband that there was no sincerity behind all those honey-sweet words. Gradually he had withdrawn into himself, and they had drifted apart, having nothing whatever in common.
Then there had been disagreements respecting expenditure, arrangements, guests of which he disapproved; but in these little encounters, the lady had invariably the best of it; she never lost her self-command, or her temper; but she wept in a subdued and becoming fashion, and Lord Mulgrave was a coward in the presence of a woman in tears, therefore he relinquished his sceptre for the sake of peace. And yet, though he was indifferent to her, she was jealous—jealous of the beautiful French wife, whose memory he had enshrined, jealous of the poor little treasures which he hoarded, of the miniature that he carried with him whenever he left home, were it but for a day!
Now, like a thunderbolt from the skies, this Frenchwoman’s daughter—her living, breathing image—had crossed the threshold of her life. Already she was sensible of a hot dislike of the girl (though, of course, no one should ever suspect it). She would play hercards cautiously, pose as the sweetest of stepmothers, and, as soon as possible, marry her off. With that face and figure there would be little difficulty, unless the creature was an absolute idiot!
She could see that Joseline was pitiably nervous, and no doubt would have been a thousand times happier in the servants’ hall. It was true she ate but little; and by degrees ventured to look about her. The presence of her father at the foot of the table—of Tito, chattering directly opposite—emboldened her, and she glanced at the company one by one. There was her aunt, handsome, gracious, and stately, with her white hair beautifully waved, her plump hands sparkling with rings; she looked kind. There were her cousins—fresh Scotch girls—wearing tam-o’-shanters and tweeds; three clean-shaven young men, rather like a set; and a pretty dark girl from the Rectory. They were all eagerly talking golf—discussing putting, ties, bunkers. To Joseline it was the purest gibberish, but to the company it seemed a topic of the most vital interest. Even Lady Maxwelton was eloquent, and bragged of “our greens.”
Her immediate neighbours had only addressed one or two remarks to the new importation. They were charitable, Christian people, and realised that it was kinder to leave her unnoticed—and to permit the poor girl “to find herself.”
After lunch, the six ladies adjourned to coffee in the little drawing-room, and here the marchioness and her daughters gathered round and made friends with their new cousin.
Such a pretty, blushing, timid creature, with her soft southern brogue! And what a likeness to her mother!
By-and-by Joseline rose, in hopes of making her escape; but Lady Mulgrave, with an imperative gesture, motioned her to her side, and, looking up with half-closed eyes, exclaimed, “Now you must talk tomea little, dear girl.”
Joseline sat down in embarrassed silence.
“Dearest child, I really do think you so wonderful.” A pause, and she blew a cloud. “Six weeks ago you were in a cabin. It is extraordinary, is it not?”
“It is,” was the humble admission; “but it was not altogether what you might call a cabin.”
“No? And what, then—a hut?”
“Just a decent slated house with two good bedrooms, forby, a loft, and a fine kitchen and scullery.”
“Where didyousleep?”
“In the loft.”
“But, dearest, you said there were two bedrooms.”
“Yes, but we kept potatoes in one, and I liked being up high. And now, with your leave, I’d like to go away and write a few letters.”
“So then”—with a playful air—“you can write?”
“Oh yes, and read, and cipher. I had good schooling.”
“And what are your accomplishments, Joseline?”
“Not much to brag about.”
“Still, I’m confident you are clever at some things.”
“I can sing, and play the concertina.”
“Oh, the concertina!” repeated Lady Mulgrave, with a faint shudder.
“And I can knit and dance; and I’m a good milker—if that counts.”
“So, then, you had a cow? Any pigs?”
“No. We had three, and sometimes four, cows. Wekept the Rectory in milk, and the police barracks as well.”
“Did you do all this yourself—no assistants?”
“Me mother—that’s”—becoming scarlet—“Mrs. Foley,—wasn’t up to much, and I used to have a girl in on weekdays to lend a hand, and a boy of a Sunday—but I got shut of him.”
“And where did you shut him? And why?”
“Oh, because he was always in a hurry to be off, tearing at the cows at two o’clock, instead of six, because, being Sunday, he wanted to do the bona fide on his bicycle.”
“Dearest, whatdoyou mean?”
“The bona fide traveller, you know, is allowed refreshments. He would take a spin of six or seven miles—get a drink at a public-house. May I go now, please?”
“Yes, of course, dear.” And as the girl crossed the room and disappeared, Lady Mulgrave turned to the marchioness and said, with a shrug, “Is she nottooquaint for words! playing the concertina, and the boy doing—what was it?—the bona fide on a bicycle!”
“I think she is a sweet, simple, good girl,” declared her aunt—“just one of nature’s ladies.”
“Oh, she is simple enough,” acquiesced the other; but in her voice there was a belittling and malicious note.
Joseline spent an hour in writing letters to Miss Usher, Peggy Carroll, and Mrs. Hogan—letters written on beautiful thick paper, and ornamented with a neat gold crown. After these had been despatched, she accompanied her father on a tour of inspection round the grounds, the gardens, and the stable-yard. It was abright, frosty afternoon, and she felt invigorated and even gay. The two made steady progress in intimacy; her awe of him had entirely abated, and she talked freely, expressing her delight in the greenhouses and horses and dogs with truly Irish enthusiasm. As they walked away from the golf links he said, “You must learn to play golf and billiards. I will teach you—yes, and to ride too.”
“I’ve everything to learn—and that’s the truth.”
“I am glad you and Tito seem to hit it off.”
“Yes, indeed; she’s queer notions, but she is real kind-hearted. I’ve asked her to correct me when I’m doing the wrong thing.”
“She’s so feather-headed, you must not rely on her; better come tome.”
“So I will, with a heart and a half.”
“You will soon become accustomed to us and our ways. Be yourself—be gay, my dear; another young voice in the house is a great pleasure to me.”
“But not a South Cork brogue! Ye can’t callthatnice?”
“Yes, I can; it reminds me of old days. Your mother had most wonderful spirits; she was the happiest——” he stopped. “Well, here I see her ladyship coming in her motor; you had better go and get ready for tea; she likes young people to be punctual—remember that, dear.”
“Yes; and we were so late for lunch! But I had to tidy my hair; it was like a furze bush. I won’t have any tea. I must unpack, and tidy up my things; but I’ll come down early.”
“If you do, then we can have a talk. Dinner is at eight. I believe Dudley is expected.”
Joseline, having arranged her belongings in her own way, dressed early, and descended to the yellow drawing-room, in order to have a good half-hour with the magazines, and the promised talk with her father, before the crowd came.
Absorbed in a story, she did not hear the door open.
Captain Deverell entered; he had just arrived by train. At first he supposed the room was empty, but, seeing a white skirt billowing round the sides of an arm-chair near the fire, he called out, “Hullo, Tito! Is that you? Has the wild Irish girl arrived?”
The figure sat up, rose slowly to her feet, and confronted him. No, it was not Tito, but a far better-looking young lady, wearing a white gown and a turquoise necklace, who replied, “Yes, she has come—in fact, here she is!” dropping a curtsey. “But she’s not very, very wild at present.”
He surveyed her gravely. “I beg your pardon. So you must be Lady Joseline?”
She nodded.
“And I have the honour to present your cousin, once removed, Dudley Deverell”; and he made a profound, half-ironical inclination.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about you from Tito”; and she sat down and took up her book with an air of calm detachment.
“I’ve seen you before somewhere, I think,” he announced, after a puzzled silence.
“Have you really?” And again her eyes wandered to the page.
“It is not considered polite to read—er—when you have some one to talk to.”
She closed her book, and said, “Excuse me, please, Ihave not learnt manners yet. I will not read, but I am awfully interested in the story.”
“And not in the least inme, eh? How crushing!”
She coloured up to her hair.
“I have it!” he shouted triumphantly.
“What have you caught?” she demanded, with brisk curiosity.
“You, bless my soul!” Here he sat down. “Why, you are the girl at the gate. Yes, I recognise your eyes, though you are dressed up. You cannot have forgotten us—the motor people! And my friend Harry Coxford had a row with your young man. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, indeed, I remember it well enough! And you were the dummy! Patsie had drink taken, and I got a queer fright, I declare, when the two were in handy grips.”
“What were you doing there, that day?”
“I went up just to fetch back the cat, and to say good-bye to the old place. ’Twas there I was reared.”
“Were you? Well, I must say you do it credit. So that was your home, until old Usher ferreted you out?”
She nodded.
“And how do you like your new quarters?”
“Well enough so far, thank you.”
“By Jove!”—looking her over—“she is a cool card—might have been here for years”; and he took in the well-cut gown, the dainty little shoe, the turquoise necklace, which so well became her dazzling white throat. Yes, the girl had evidently begun well, and made what is known on the turf, as a “flying start.”
It was a singular circumstance that whereas her tone and speech were distinctly common, she hadnevertheless an indescribable air of good breeding—the strange, inimitable stamp of social superiority that cannot be acquired by any known process of education.
“And what became of the uproarious young man?” he inquired.
“Oh, he’s all right, for all I know,” she answered, with supreme indifference.
“Or care,” drawled Captain Deverell.
“Yes,” she answered coldly, “or care.”
“There’s a pretty confession.”
“Sure! the likes of him was nothing whatever to me,” she announced, with an air of serene repudiation.
“No, but you seemed to be a good deal whatever, to him.”
“How could I help that? Aren’t they all the same?”
“Oh, are they? Does your father know of this Pat, or Mike?”
“No; why should he be bothered with the likes of such nonsense?”
“Nonsense! Well, you are amazing. The man was madly in love with you, and you call it ‘nonsense’!”
“People in love are mostly foolish.”
“How do you know?”
“Why, from seeing plenty of them,” was the unabashed reply.
“In your own case?”
“Yes, they tormented the life out of me, and I was tired of insulting them. But I’ll tell you one thing—Patsie only fancied he liked me; it was just because I was going off, and his contrariness. If I’d been stopping on, I don’t believe he’d have bothered me, for he is looking for a fortune.”
“Yes”—drawing his chair a little closer. “This is most interesting. Please go on.”
But Joseline was gazing at the door, which opened cautiously, and admitted Lady Mulgrave in an evening toilette of sea green and diamonds. She rustled forward with empressement.
“There now, and I’ll tell ye the rest when we are by ourselves.”
Her ladyship distinctly overheard this promise. What a bold creature!—a girl who had met Dudley for the first time. So this was her simple, innocent little Irish peasant! Already spreading her nets for her father’s heir. How truly abominable!
“My dear boy, I’d no idea you had arrived,” she said, coming over with extended hands. “I see that I needn’t introduce you to Joseline”—and she looked contemptuously amused. “Have you been here long?”
“Only about five minutes.”
She glanced interrogatively at the girl, who turned towards the mantelpiece, and said, “Fifteen, by the clock.”
“Well, it seemed like five,” he said; “my new cousin had so many curious things to tell me. Now I must be off and dress”; and he departed, leaving Joseline and her stepmothertête-à-tête.
“But, dearest child, I was given to understand that you were painfullyshy,” she was beginning, when, to the girl’s immense relief, the door opened again, and several of the guests came into the room, followed by her father.
“And how has my little girl been getting on?” he asked, as he joined her.
“Oh, very well so far, and I’ve just made acquaintance with Dudley Deverell.”
“And what do you think of him?”
“I cannot answer that just yet; but I can tell you what he thinks—of me.”
“Really!”
“That I am a new sort of foreign curiosity. I may be gold, or I may bebrass! I’m sure he suspects there’s a bit of brass about me!”