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A NINE DAYS’ WONDER
* * * * * *
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
DIANA BARRINGTON
TERENCE
PEGGY OF THE BARTONS
THE CAT’S-PAW
ANGEL
A STATE SECRET
JOHANNA
THE HAPPY VALLEY
THE OLD CANTONMENT
* * * * * *
A NINE DAYS’ WONDER
by
B. M. CROKER
“IL FAUT DE PLUS GRANDE VERTU
POUR SOUTENIR LA BONNE FORTUNE,
QUE LA MAUVAISE.”
Methuen & Co.
36 Essex Street W.C.
London
First Published in 1905
A NINE DAYS’ WONDER
PART I
CHAPTER I
A tall grey-haired soldier, with a professionally straight back, stood
looking out of an upper window in the “Rag” one wet October afternoon.
His hands were buried in his pockets, and his face was clothed with
an expression of almost mediæval gloom. The worldly wise mask their
emotions so that those who run may not read, but Colonel Doran had
lived so many years among a primitive race that he made no effort to
conceal his feelings, and all the world was welcome to see that he
was bored to death. To tell the truth, he had been too long in the
East to appreciate club life. Other men were undoubtedly contented,
interested, occupied; it was different in his case. The palatial
dignity, solemnity, luxury of the place failed to stir his pride; even
its traditions left him as cold as the marble statue on the great
staircase. He would have felt ten times more at home in a Bombay chair,
on a brick verandah, with the old Pioneer in his hands and a “Trichy”
in his mouth.
The big smoking-room below had presented a most animated scene; groups
of old brother officers were discussing various burning questions, and
topics ranged, from the new Hussar boot, to the North-west Frontier.
Colonel Doran knew a good deal about the frontier, but made no effort
to enter the lists. What were possible campaigns to him now? He
wandered aimlessly up to the library, and turned over some books; he
tried to read--it was no use. Ashamed to appear a sort of no man’s
friend, and stray, he made his way to the upper smoking-room, which he
was tolerably certain to find empty at that hour. He sauntered round
it, gazing indifferently at the pictures and mementoes. A sketch of two
elephants in a dust-storm arrested his attention. How he wished himself
on the back of one of the old beggars--dust-storm and all! At last he
strolled over to the window, and as he stood looking out on a dismal
vista of wet slates and an iron-grey sky he heaved an involuntary sigh.
So this was the end of his career--idleness, boredom, solitude!
The career of Ulick Doran had commenced at eighteen, when as a cadet
he had landed in India--that hospitable godmother of younger sons--and
the kindly East had adopted and made him her own for the better part
of thirty-four years. He had been gazetted as a mere boy to a crack
regiment of Bengal cavalry known as “Holland’s Horse,” and in this
corps, his home, he had lived and fought and nearly died: had seen his
comrades come and go, marry, and retire. Now it was his own turn. At
fifty-two his career was ended, and the curtain rung down. Good-bye
to everything he cared for--to the sowars, his children, to the mess,
to the horse lines, aye, to the very horses, half of which he had
selected--good-bye to all that had made life worth living. Naturally
he could not remain in India, that unseemly spectacle, a mere camp
follower of the regiment he had so ably commanded, hovering around
it like a departed spirit. He must return to England, and range
himself decently on the shelf along with most of his contemporaries.
Unfortunately Colonel Doran had but few resources apart from his
profession; he was a fine horseman, a noted swordsman, a keen and
capable officer, and here he stood, a stranded and unhappy pensioner,
the very typical dragoon without his horse! What made his position
still worse, he was alone in the world. His mother had died when he was
a small boy--he scarcely remembered her; his father, on the other hand,
had lived to a great age, a red-faced, irascible old gentleman, whose
eldest son predeceased him by many years; and thus the family place had
come to the Indian officer, after all.
An agent had remitted him spasmodically his somewhat shrunken rents;
and recently he had visited Kilmoran Castle, the home of his ancestors,
a tumbledown old place six miles from a station, with a defective roof,
and a pervading odour of soot and dry rot. He scarcely knew a soul in
the neighbourhood: undoubtedly there was good hunting to be had of a
somewhat rough-and-ready description that would carry him through the
dark winter days; but what of the _evenings_ at home? He recalled the
cavernous dining-room, with black horsehair and mahogany furniture, the
heavy flock paper, the narrow windows, the glowering family portraits,
and, above all, the grim sarcophagus under the sideboard that seemed
to await, not the plate, but a corpse! whilst the drawing-room, which
had been closed for fifty years, was a ghostly apartment, given over to
dust and mice, who played weird tunes among the wires of the ancient
Broadwood piano. Ulick Doran shivered as he pictured the dim flagged
passages, the damp, desolate bedrooms. If he were to live at Kilmoran
alone, he would undoubtedly take to drink or cut his throat! The other
alternative was London and a bedroom near his club, where he would see
the same faces, hear the same arguments, walk the same streets--every
day. Oh, he would soon come to the end of that! This great city had no
attractions for him. As he stood gazing out on the streaming rain and
leaden clouds he was mentally contrasting Pall Mall with the “eye of
his heart”--the Punjaub--and wishing he were back under the deep blue
sky, with the first nip of the cold weather in the air, and his new
Australian thoroughbred between his knees.
Just at this instant the door opened and a brisk little bald man,
with a fair moustache and cheery eye, entered the room. He was Major
Sutton--or Johnny Sutton, as his friends called him--late of Holland’s
Horse, a comrade who had retired, married, and apparently lived happy
ever after.
“I say, old man,” he began, “what are you doing here all by
yourself--eh? What’s the matter? Down on your luck?”
“Not much luck to be down on, as far as I know,” growled the other,
turning from the window and sinking into a capacious chair.
“Of course it’s just raw to you at present; you miss the old regiment,
and, by George! they miss you,” said Johnny Sutton, opening his
cigar-case. “We all have a sort of lost, end-of-all-things feeling,
when we first come home, but we get over it in time and make a fresh
start.”
“That’s all right for the young ’uns, Johnny, but a man of fifty-two
has gone over most of the course.”
“Nonsense, Pat. I see you are affected by this beastly weather, and
your liver--a man of fifty is in his prime! Why, I’m fifty myself, and
can walk and shoot with the best.”
“You were always a great shikari, Johnny.”
“For that matter, so were you.”
“Well, there’s an end of all that now.”
“Why so? Haven’t you shooting on your place in Ireland?”
“Shooting!” he repeated derisively. “About as much as is in St. James’s
Park. Perhaps after a hard day’s work I might bag a brace of rabbits
and one snipe. It’s been poached for years. My father was an old man,
and let things slide----”
“Still, I suppose you will go over there and pull the place together a
bit?”
“No, I could not stand it for more than a week; the loneliness and
dreariness seem to penetrate to one’s very bones.”
“And you are not keen about living in town--eh? You are like a newly
imported remount--everything is strange, and you don’t know what to do
with yourself?”
“Yes, Johnny, you have hit the nail right on the head; and if you can
give me some sort of lead, I’m your man.”
Major Sutton puffed at his cigar, removed it from his mouth, examined
it carefully, and then blurted out--
“I say, why don’t you marry?”
“Marry!” repeated his companion. “What an idea!”
“Yes, man alive, and a good one; people do it every day. You stare as
if you had never heard of the institution. Look at me”--and he tapped
his waistcoat: “I am married.”
“Yes, but I--I am not a ladies’ man.”
“So much the better; _they_ never marry.”
“And I’m too old,” objected Colonel Doran.
“Bosh!”
“No girl would have me.”
“Well, what do you say to a fine young woman of five-and-thirty--or--a
widow?”
“I’m not a society man, or in the way of meeting ladies.”
“Because you won’t go out when you are invited, except among the old
married folk of the regiment. I can introduce you to one or two really
suitable young women, with good looks, a little money, and no nonsense
about them. There is Flora Davey! Why, her father commanded the 25th
Bengal Cavalry. You remember him. She was born in Lahore?”
“Yes; and I was at her christening,” he supplemented grimly. “No, no!
that would never work. Thank you, old man, I believe I’ll stay as I am.”
“But look here, Pat, you remember when I got that crack on my head at
polo and was shunted home--years ago: it nearly broke my heart, but
matrimony cured me. I met Maudie on the Riviera my first winter--and
she took to me and I to her. You see, I was an invalid, and she pitied
me, and talked over her rich old pater. People said nasty things,
and it was a lie; I married Maudie for herself only, though money is
certainly a power. Now the old man is gone, she has a clear three
thousand a year, and I have come into a comfortable legacy. Maudie is a
confirmed match-maker, and tries her best to settle her friends.”
“Yes, like the fox who lost his tail,” remarked the bachelor.
“Bar jokes, come along and dine with us quietly on Friday.”
Colonel Doran hesitated; he knocked the ash off his cigar reflectively
and then began--
“You are very kind, Johnny, old man, but----”
“Oh, no, I’m not going to make up a match for you on the spot--no fear:
but just take a look at me and mine--as a practical illustration of my
argument--no party: I want you and Maudie to get to know one another
better--she likes you so much----”
“All right, then, I’ll come--thanks. Friday did you say?” and he took
out a little pocket-book. “Friday, 13th, at 8 o’clock, 402 Sloane
Street.”
“Now, remember, you are engaged to us to a _tête-à-tête_ dinner. I
must be off; I’m taking the Mem Sahib to a theatre, and we dine early.
You ought to look in yourself; it’s rather fun--_The Old Bachelor’s
Blunder_.”
* * * * *
Major Sutton had been a Benedict for nearly ten years. His wife was a
pretty, fashionable little woman, some months--though few suspected
this--older than himself. She dressed with taste, had a capable maid,
and was, in the eyes of Johnny Sutton, perennially young and beautiful.
He had no secrets from her, and told her, like a good boy, where he had
been, who he had seen, what they had said. The couple were on terms of
delightful good fellowship, and she, for her part, shared with Johnny
all the dearest secrets of her dearest friends.
“I say, Maudie,” he began, when they were settled in their brougham,
“you know my pal, Pat Doran, one of the best fellows who ever
stepped----”
“Yes, of course I do; he looks like an unhappy duke, poor old boy.”
“I met him to-day, alone and evidently rather wretched. You see, he
feels a bit out of it now he is retired; he is like a lost dog. The
regiment was his home; now he is out of it. If he had had a clever
little wife to exploit him he might have become a brigadier and
goodness knows what. Now he is short of a job; he is not even on the
club committee, and he has nothing to do.”
“And Satan finds, etc. etc.; only he is too old to get into mischief, I
should hope. What about him?”
“Well, you see, he doesn’t take kindly to London, and he does not care
to live in Ireland. He has a fine estate and castle over there. His
family goes back to the Flood, and had their own ship.”
“Yes, he looks an aristocrat all over,” agreed Mrs. Sutton, who, being
the daughter of a successful nobody, had a profound respect for blue
blood.
“He is one of the simplest and best of men, but all alone in the world.
After living years in a mess he can’t stand the empty halls of his
ancestors, and I’ve been telling him to-day, that he _must_ marry!”
“Of course,” she eagerly agreed--“certainly he must marry.”
“And you are the proper person to find him a nice wife, Maudie--a
real jewel, you know--no paste. I’ve asked him to come and dine on
Friday--quite by ourselves, and you can talk to him--of course, not
about matrimony--just to find out his tastes. In fact, I know them--he
was desperately in love once, with a quiet fair-haired girl; she had
a soft manner, and a charming smile, and married a drunken boor--who
broke her heart--and----”
“But listen, Johnny,” interrupted his wife, “we have a little dinner on
Friday--don’t you remember? The Colletts and Sir Fred and Lady Hewson.”
“By Jove! Yes--so we have! Then I’ll put him off till Sunday.”
“No, no, you will do nothing of the sort. I will ask a girl specially
to meet him. I know the very one to suit him. What do you say to Julia
Barker?”
“Oh,” doubtfully, “I don’t think she would be his style at all--no--not
one little bit.”
“Why not? She is handsome, agreeable, well connected--the
Hollington-Barkers you know.”
“Yes, but I don’t admire her; she’s too stout and full-blown; too loud,
and _I_ should say, had the devil of a temper.”
“It is not necessary for _you_ to admire her, Johnny. Poor Ju has led a
life to try the temper of a saint. A spendthrift old father, and since
his death she is a sort of wanderer, and wants a home of her own so
badly; her life is spent in visits--and she lives in her boxes. Now the
Barre girls are growing up she cannot be there so much, and she hates
being paying guest.”
“Miss Barker has no money,” objected Major Sutton.
“But Colonel Doran has, and Ju is wonderful, she can make one penny go
as far as two! She will be a capital wife for him, lively, energetic,
and managing--and _so_ well connected.”
“I don’t think she will suit, Maudie. He is a quiet, reserved sort of
chap, and would like some one of his own caste.”
“Not a bit of it: silent men always take talkative wives--every one
chooses their opposite--I believe Ju and the Colonel will be an exact
match--and here we are!”
CHAPTER II
Julia Barker was the youngest daughter of a needy gentleman of good
family who for many years had roamed about the cheaper continental
resorts, bearing in his train two dashing good-looking girls--and
leaving in his track a considerable number of bad debts. Occasionally,
his rich relations came to his assistance; for instance, when Fanny
succeeded in capturing the affection of a wealthy baronet, Sir Herbert
Barre, the connection provided a suitable wedding and trousseau, and
hinted that they looked to Fanny to help her sister in the like manner.
It was really discreditable, the way in which old Fitzroy dragged their
name about in the dust of Europe; they were constantly encountering
people who said, “Oh--we met your cousins the Hollington-Barkers at
Spa or Monte Carlo--they _are_ your cousins, are they not? Rather a
handsome girl, and a thin old gentleman, who gambles a good deal.”
Sometimes it appeared that the thin old gentleman had borrowed money
from these too confiding travellers. However, at last Captain Fitzroy
Hollington-Barker’s wanderings came to an end; he was accorded (for
the sake of the connection) a decent funeral, buried in the ancestral
vault; and Julia his daughter had her liberty, the world before her,
and one hundred and fifty pounds a year. Lady Barre had exerted herself
in every way to “help off poor Ju” as she termed it; but so far her
anxious efforts had proved of no avail: on the contrary, poor Ju had
sustained several crushing disappointments. Yet Julia Barker was a
handsome woman, in a showy dark style; she had bright eyes, a bright,
somewhat fixed colour, a fine carriage, and a sustained supply of
energy and conversation. Also she was granddaughter of the late Earl
of Hollington, and sister to Lady Barre, who entertained so well;
but--Miss Barker had no money--was losing her looks and figure, and
bore the reputation of a temper, and debts! In spite of her clever
manœuvring, and her astonishing aptitude for exacting invitations,
favours, presents, and even the use of their carriages, from her
circle, Miss Barker’s future was becoming somewhat grey. People were
beginning to weary of her company, her stories, her assurance, and
herself! when Maudie Sutton--to her supreme joy--presented to her the
gallant gentleman, whom she subsequently advertised as “her fate.” She
and Maudie, who had been intimates for years, met at the glove-counter
of a well-known shop in Knightsbridge.
“You got my note, Ju?” said Mrs. Sutton. “I hope you are coming on
Friday?”
“No, dearest; I am engaged to the Farmers--charades and a dance----”
“Oh, never mind the Farmers, Ju,” interrupted Mrs. Sutton; “this little
dinner of mine is ten million times more important--and,” she lowered
her voice and concluded her speech in a series of somewhat breathless
whispers.
The young lady over the gloves was curious--evidently something
mysterious was afoot! Miss Barker now became all animation and
interest, and as she took leave of her friend, she kissed her
repeatedly, and said--
“Thank you, dear old Maudie--you are a _real_ friend!”
When Major Sutton received his brother officer at the drawing-room
door, he said, “Look here, Pat, I owe you ever so many apologies--I
guaranteed a family party, and I’ve let you in for a ‘Burra Khana.’
Maudie had arranged it before--better luck next time.”
There was indeed a large party at 402 Sloane Street, and Colonel Doran
was one of the latest arrivals; he looked very distinguished and
soldierly, as he talked to Mrs. Sutton, a vision in yellow and diamonds.
“I know you were told we were to be alone,” she said, smiling; “but
it makes no matter to a man if there are three, or three hundred--not
like us poor women, who have to dress according to numbers. Now I
want to introduce you to a most particular old friend of mine, Miss
Hollington-Barker,” and she towed him over to a sofa, on which was
enthroned a handsome Juno-like form. “Julia--this is Johnny’s comrade,
Colonel Doran; you are to be very nice to him, and he will take you
down to dinner”; and with an affable smile Mrs. Sutton sailed away and
left them.
Colonel Doran stood before Julia, lamely discoursing of the rain and
the east wind--whilst she figuratively proceeded to take his measure.
When she descended the stairs on her cavalier’s arm, Julia Barker had
definitely decided that “he would do.”
He was neither too old, nor too young--he was good-looking, a
gentleman, and a soldier--with a fine property in Ireland; and as to
family, her own was of mushroom growth in comparison! Maudie Sutton had
given her this splendid chance, and Miss Barker meant to seize it. She
had heard all about Major Sutton’s distinguished friend--a man without
relatives, but possessing immense savings and a castle--who was looking
about him for a wife! There was now no occasion for him to seek further
than his present companion. As his partner ate her soup, which he had
declined, Colonel Doran studied her stealthily.
The lady was dark-browed, dark-haired, with brown eyes, a high colour,
a large mouth, and a short straight nose; her age was considerably
over thirty, her figure plump; she was remarkably well dressed (in
one of Lady Barre’s cast-offs), black, with pink velvet, and wore
a handsome old-fashioned necklace. Subsequently his eyes travelled
round the table and he noted Mrs. Sutton--fair and fluffy-haired,
animated and pretty. Sutton was a lucky man! He discovered several
attractive-looking ladies; one opposite had dark auburn hair and an
ivory skin, whom he admired immensely. And now his own partner began
to unmask her fascinations; she was a practised diner-out, and talked
well. Little did he guess that on the present occasion she was talking
for a wedding ring, and straining every nerve to interest this polite,
but unresponsive gentleman. Their conversation really opened with that
disastrous catastrophe, the upsetting of the salt-cellar.
“Yes, and it’s on a Friday!” she exclaimed, with mock tragic
eyes,--“and I’ve upset it towards you, and will bring you sorrow!”
As he looked a little embarrassed by this jaunty speech, she rattled
on to relate the well-known anecdote of an absent-minded gentleman,
who, having spilled some salt, instantly poured a glass of claret over
it--thus transposing the usual remedy. With sundry excellent, and,
to him, perfectly fresh chestnuts, she kept her victim thoroughly
entertained--actually so interested, that he forgot to glance at the
red-headed girl--or even at Mrs. Sutton--and refused two of the most
toothsome _plats_. What a fortunate fellow he was, to have secured
such a charming companion! By turns amusing, sympathetic, or serious;
he had but to listen, to look into her eloquent dark eyes, admire her
white teeth, and her delightful smile. Among other things, she told
him how it had ever been the one dream of her life to go to India, and
how she still devoured ravenously every book about India that came in
her way. She drew him out cleverly about his regiment (his hobby),
his chargers and polo-ponies, his tiger-shooting; and presently he
found himself talking to the lady as if he had known her for years;
they had discovered a mutual Indian friend--one Bobbie Travers, late
of the 170th Bengal Lancers, who was Miss Barker’s own second cousin,
and he--oh, lucky man--now commanded no less a regiment than Holland’s
Horse. Here was a tie indeed! Bobbie proved not merely a link, but a
_chain_, and it was almost in the nature of a shock when Mrs. Sutton
gave the signal, and the two enthralled companions were compelled to
relinquish an absorbing conversation.
As soon as the men appeared in the drawing-room, Miss Barker made a
significant movement of her hand, and as the enchanted veteran ventured
to occupy the seat beside her, she began--
“I am longing for you to finish that story about the old sower, and
the pariah dog--do, please, _do_ go on--you had just got to where
he was lying on the orderly-room steps, when Maudie hustled us all
upstairs”; and so conversation was resumed precisely where it had been
interrupted. “Your experiences are so enthralling!” she remarked, as he
took her coffee-cup. “I only wish my sister could hear them--you really
_ought_ to write a book.”
Colonel Doran looked at her doubtfully for a moment: then he laughed
aloud.
“Lady Barre is my only sister; I live with her,” she resumed. This was
not a fact. Julia happened to be staying with her for a few days; but,
as the Spanish proverb says, “there is no tax on lies.” “Will you come
and have tea with us some afternoon?”
“I--I----” He was about to refuse, but she suddenly looked up at him
with an appeal in her eyes, and he said “Er--I shall be delighted.”
“We live at two hundred and five, Grosvenor Street,--shall we say
Tuesday at four o’clock?”
“Thank you.”
“You won’t forget, will you?” again looking up at him. “If you do, I
shall feel so hurt and disappointed.”
Colonel Doran, though over fifty years of age, blushed as if he were
seventeen; he actually felt his face burning at the implied compliment.
How astonishing it seemed that this handsome, charming woman should be
interested in a battered old soldier. What _did_ she see in him?
* * * * * *
“Fanny,” said Julia, as she opened the door of her sister’s boudoir.
“So you’ve not gone to bed yet! I am so glad. I’ve something to say to
you, and I want you to help me.”
“Yes,” agreed Lady Barre, languidly laying down her book. “The girls
are out, and Tom is down at the house. What has happened? If it’s money
again, I really cannot----”
“I’ve met a man to-night at the Suttons’,” broke in her sister.
Lady Barre nodded.
“And I intend to marry him.”
“Good gracious, Julia----”
“Yes; he is looking for a wife--so Major Sutton told Maudie--and I am
looking for a husband. He is middle-aged, wealthy, of good family--a
colonel in the army--just retired--with enormous savings; he has a fine
estate and castle in Ireland, and not one relation in the wide world!”
“My dear, it sounds too good to be true! Who is he?”
“His name is Doran; he is rather silent and a little shy. I’ve invited
him to tea here on Tuesday. I hope you are not engaged?”
“But I am--yes, to the Lovells; however, I will certainly stay at home
and see your--catch.”
“Yes, it is time I was married; and I do honestly believe Colonel
Doran has taken a fancy to me. He left when I did, and put me into a
cab as if I were something precious and breakable. He has offered me
tiger-claws.”
“What on earth for?”
“To make a necklet, of course.”
“You have fine claws of your own, Ju, if he only _knew_.”
Julia, who had removed her cloak, now reclined in an arm-chair, as if
reposing after some exhausting effort. “To think of it, Fan”--ignoring
this scratch--“I am going to be off your hands--and my own hands--at
last!”
“I know how clever you are, Ju; but there is many a slip. You remember
Eddie Ellis----”
“There will be no slip this time if you will back me up properly. Get
Tom to leave a card at his club; ask him to dinner once or twice, and
be _nice_ to him.”
“Oh, I’ll do all that, of course, with pleasure”--and her ladyship
sincerely meant it. She would strain every nerve to get Julia
settled--a homeless, impecunious sister, always clinging to her--a
sister, too, with endless debts, quarrels, and flirtations. Of course
she was fond of poor old Ju, but she would be truly grateful to the man
who would marry her, and relieve her of an incubus.
Colonel Doran was not kept in the dark respecting Miss Barker’s fine
connections and amiable relations. He dined at Grosvenor Street; he had
a seat in their box at the theatre. Indeed, Julia’s family received him
with open arms, as if he were a long-expected friend; being, indeed, an
eagerly-looked-for, and well approved suitor. Julia’s interest in sport
was unquenchable; secretly she borrowed and read up books on Indian
shikar, and was always radiantly pleased to see him--handsome, well
dressed, and agreeable. In three weeks’ time, Colonel Doran had spoken
the fatal words. Sitting over the fire in the little drawing-room one
dull afternoon Miss Julia described in pitiful tones her own sad and
solitary life. Fanny had her family, who engrossed her. “And I,” she
added in a broken voice, “am really _alone_ in the world. I shall be a
forlorn old maid; no one cares for me.”
And, emboldened by this splendid opening, Colonel Doran figuratively
rushed upon his fate.
* * * * * * *
It was decided that the engagement was to be brief, as the lady frankly
declared--
“We are neither of us young; there is nothing to wait for; and the
wedding can take place before Fanny leaves town. She won’t be back
again till February.”
To this arrangement the happy bridegroom readily agreed. When money
matters came to be discussed, Colonel Doran’s large estate dwindled
down to £1,200 a year. This discovery proved a shock. It appeared that
most of his surplus income had been lavished on his regiment; still,
his pension was considerable, and living was cheap in Ireland. Fanny
generously paid her sister’s debts and presented the trousseau. The
bride-elect talked continually of Kilmoran Castle, and distributed
pressing invitations--among friends unlikely to accept. There was a
brilliant wedding, and showers of presents descended on old Ju Barker,
who had made an unexpectedly good match. After the ceremony the happy
pair left, amid a buzz of congratulations and a shower of rice and
slippers, for Colonel Doran’s Irish seat.
Although he had repeatedly attempted to discount her expectations,
Julia had turned a resolutely deaf ear to her fiancé.
“It is really nothing of a place,” he protested; “the old family
house was burnt down eighty years ago. My ancestors gambled, and
raced through most of the property; and though once we owned miles
of country, we have only about two thousand acres of land--some of
it is bog--and I am the last twig on our family tree. The castle is
merely a house tacked on to an ancient keep; there are no grounds or
conservatories--it is just a gloomy old barrack. But you will brighten
it. I’ve had some of the rooms papered, and sent over a little modern
furniture.”
“But your father and mother lived in it, as it was,” she argued, in a
querulous key.
“Yes, and my grandfather too. I remember him when Nora and I were small
children.”
“By the way, who is, or was, Nora?”
“Don’t you remember? I told you about her. My only sister--such a
pretty girl; but when she was eighteen, she ran away to America--with
the postman.”
“How awful! Has nothing been heard of her?”
“No, not for many years. I used to write to her, and send her money on
the sly; my father would never allow her name to be mentioned.”
“He was right, I think; she behaved disgracefully.”
“My father married late in life, and had no sympathy with young people.
Nora never had a moment’s freedom, and she was a wild, gay sort of
girl--poor Nora! I’ve lost sight of her this twenty years; she was five
years younger than I.”
In spite of her husband’s warning, Kilmoran Castle proved a terrible
disappointment to the bride. First of all a mean little hump-backed
gate lodge, covered with ivy as with a cloak, and a common rusty iron
gate, then a winding weedy drive, and finally, the Castle!--merely a
square grey keep, against which a two-storeyed white house had propped
itself. There were no towers or battlements, there was not even a
pillared porch to hide the vulgarity of a grass-green hall door. The
garden in front was a dreary wilderness of overgrown box and old
fuchsias. In short, the Castle had nothing pretty, noble, or uncommon,
to recommend it; it was not even dignified by a curse, or a ghost.
Within were several large low sitting-rooms, antique furniture, family
pictures, and a smell of soot and dry rot. The bride having ascended
to her room, collapsed on the first chair in floods of tears--bitter,
angry tears. However, Julia Doran was not the sort of woman to sit and
weep, and she soon, to use an American term, “took hold.” She explored
the house, and cleverly appraised its mouldy contents, discovered the
great stable-yard--capable of holding a troop of cavalry--and the huge
garden, remnants of the glories of a former mansion; here, at least,
was a sense of comfort and importance. The demesne was pretty, and
the views lovely. After all, she was Mrs. Doran of Kilmoran Castle,
and matters might be worse. For instance, she might still be Miss
Barker--living on her friends, and her wits, in some cheap suburban
boarding-house. To all important correspondents she despatched glowing
accounts of her home, and on her cards and writing-paper was engraved
“Kilmoran Castle” in clear large type; and as far as people in England
could tell, it might be Chatsworth itself! Then the new lady (there had
not been a Mrs. Doran for more than forty years) began to institute
improvements. Trees were cut down, old lumber carted away, rooms were
opened and aired; she set up a carriage, and taught the immediate
neighbourhood to keep its distance. There was to be no running in and
out of the Castle _now_. Next, she issued an edict, and dismissed
several old servants. Dotards and blood-suckers, she termed them,
and if they had been forty years at Kilmoran, it was twenty years
too long. She set her face sternly against authorised beggars, and
all pensioners; and oh, crowning enormity, she sold the skim milk,
which for a century and more, had been a free gift. Alas, there was
now no picking up of firewood in the plantations, no winking at stray
cattle--or even goats; altogether it was a new régime.
Colonel Doran made a gallant struggle to stem the revolution, but
found himself powerless. His wife had a strong and ruthless will.
Remonstrances merely led to scenes: the lady, with a red face, stormed
and scolded; she assured him that he was a fool, living in an old
barrack, and being ruined by a pack of greedy parasites, and that she
would never stand by and calmly witness such extravagance. So at last,
for the sake of a quiet life, the unhappy gentleman succumbed; he
was alive to the fact that his marriage had been a terrible mistake,
but he bore his sufferings with a patience and resignation that was
almost oriental in its character. He busied himself beyond the scope of
Julia’s operations, became a justice of the peace, farmed, hunted, and
took up the broken links of ancient family friendships.
As far as lay in his power, the Colonel helped his poor dependents: in
secret, and out of his own pocket he remitted rents, or bought on the
sly a cow or an ass; for Mrs. Doran was a woman of business. Precisely
like the model French wife, she kept the keys, the accounts, and all
domestic power, in her own hands, and, but for her streak of hard
greed, was an admirable manager.
The Dorans had two children, both boys--Barker, the elder, was stout,
lumpish, black-eyed,--his mother’s favourite, and a Barker, as she
proudly proclaimed. Ulick, the second, was a slender, delicate
child, with clear-cut features, and large grey eyes. As he resembled
the Dorans, his mother did not care for him; he was strong-willed,
undemonstrative, and passionately attached to his father.
When Ulick was seven years of age, and Barker nine, Colonel Doran
caught a bad cold, which developed into pneumonia, and died suddenly.
Being much respected, he was accorded that final tribute and
compliment, a great funeral; it was more than two miles long, and the
boast among his retainers for many years.
“A nice, quiet kind man. God rest him! A real gentleman,” was his
epitaph; and some went so far as to add--
“Faix, he has had a poor sort of life, and maybe he is glad to be out
of it.”
Ten years had elapsed since the great funeral. The boys were growing
up. Ulick’s godfather, Major Sutton, had sent him to Wellington, and
occasionally invited him to London for a week, but Barker remained in
Ireland, under his mother’s supervision, qualifying for the position of
Master of Kilmoran; he had been a short time at school, and then, in
answer to his fervid representations, his devoted parent had installed
him at home with a resident tutor, whilst Ulick went to Sandhurst; for
Ulick had decided to follow the usual career of a younger son, and was
resolved to be a soldier.
CHAPTER III
Mrs. Doran, generally called Mrs. “Colonel” Doran, and by her retainers
“the ould wan,” was well known to fame in the immediate region of her
personal influence--that is to say, within a visiting distance of
fifteen Irish miles from her own door. The lady cherished a delusion
that she was one of the most prominent figures in the province, and
if she had been persuaded to whisper her claims to this distinction,
would have announced, “high birth, good breeding, and benevolence.” But
alas! how differently do others see us! The reputation she bore was in
startling contradiction to her illusions. People talked openly of Mrs.
Doran’s arrogance, rudeness, and parsimony, and the lower orders boldly
proclaimed her to be “a holy terror.” Her blustering tyranny, her
meanness, and inflexible resolve to get more than her money’s worth,
revolted the souls of her miserable retainers, whilst among the upper
ten her systematic assumption of superiority, and barefaced endeavours
to make use of every one, added to a malignant tongue, caused the lady
to be not merely disliked, but feared. As for her benevolence, no one
denied that she was a most indefatigable beggar. She begged boldly for
money, blankets, and cast-off garments, and distributed the alms of
other people; but she never contributed herself--indeed, the malicious
went so far as to say that Mrs. Doran embezzled certain of these
moneys, and put them in her pocket, believing that charity began in her
_own_ home; also, they declared that she gave the collected flannel,
and blankets, to her servants, and wore the pick of the clothes
herself! In fact, a certain class detested Mrs. Doran so intensely that
they were ready to say or believe anything to her disadvantage.
Since the days when she came to Kilmoran, a showy and self-possessed
bride, the lady was much changed, and was now a stout, red-faced
matron, with a bustling gait, incredible energy, and a large balance
at her banker’s. To give her her due, she had worked hard, and nursed
the estate for her beloved Barky, who loafed through life, whilst his
active mother held the reins of government. But even her bitterest
foe could not deny that the Englishwoman had wrought improvements.
There was now an imposing entrance, with gilded gates; on either pier
sat a great stone wolf-hound (the crest of the once noble Dorans); a
pretty pleasure-ground lay before the Castle; and a smart man-servant
(on board wages), opened the door; but unfortunately nothing could
be done for the Castle itself!--nothing short of razing it to the
ground, and rebuilding it. The rooms were all suitably furnished, with
the most modern antique treasures, including tapestry. A flag waved
languidly from the roof of the ancient tower. Certainly the place
looked both prosperous and pretentious. Mrs. Doran, in a smart landau
with a pair of fine bays, scoured the country, and established intimate
relations with all the people of wealth and position. To these she was
affectionate, sympathetic, and even confidential; but she was not given
to hospitality, and preferred to see her friends in their own homes.
Two garden-parties per summer, and a couple of hunting luncheons,
were the limit of her efforts. With the professional class Mrs. Doran
was stand-off, and “an Earl’s grand-daughter” (unless she required a
legal opinion, or a prescription), and she was a wonderful woman to
borrow! The lower orders she simply looked upon as slaves. They were
a race apart, and to these she was an autocrat, and a tyrant. Those
who were unluckily her workmen, and born on the property, had to work
longer than elsewhere. The bell clanged at six o’clock in the morning,
and at six in the evening. The payment was one shilling a day--a penny
an hour! And the active lady tramped round the fields herself, and
saw that there was no idling. She did not trust her steward, in fact,
she trusted no one, except Barky--it was for him she was toiling and
saving; he should be a wealthy man yet, and marry into the peerage!
Everything that made an outside show was properly maintained; but where
matters were not open to the public eye, it was otherwise. There was
a stinting in fires, in lamp-oil, in the servants’ food, in matches,
yea, and in washing! Time, which had wrought changes in the property,
had not improved its future owner. Barky, as he was called, had been
firmly secured to his mother’s apron-strings and spoiled to his heart’s
content. He was naturally a lazy, self-indulgent boor, stupid and
stubborn, with an enormous conception of his own importance. Much of
this might have been eliminated at a good public school--where he would
have been compelled to bestir himself, yield to others, and realise his
own true value. In appearance he was thick-set, with short legs, and a
long body: naturally no horseman. He had cunning little dark eyes, a
high colour, a thick neck, and slouched as he walked. He spoke with a
common accent, and rarely opened a book or wrote a letter; but he was
fond of smoking, and as devoted to cards and gambling as his unworthy
ancestors. He enjoyed low company, yet had a most exalted idea of
his own status. Ulick, at the age of seventeen, presented a complete
contrast to his brother; he was tall and slender, and spoke with an
English accent, until he became roused or excited, which was seldom;
like his father, he was a born horseman--in fact, he resembled him in
many ways, and inherited his parent’s popularity among the country
people. Although Barker would unbend, and borrow sporting-papers
from the coachman, and play “spoil fire” with stable-boys in the
harness-room, yet for all this condescension his companions were never
_sure_ of him--he would “round on them” at a moment’s notice, no longer
the jovial comrade, but the blustering, cursing master; whilst Mr.
Ulick, who made no freedom, was always the same, and a gentleman!
Mrs. Doran was a keen woman of business, and by no means a bad
farmer, save that she grudged a proper supply of manure, got all that
she could off the land, and put but little back. Young horses were
one of her adventures, and as a rule, though they are considered a
risky investment, they paid her well. In the first place, she had
an invaluable head groom, an ancient retainer, who, for the sake of
the old master, stayed on, receiving small wages and enduring many
indignities; no better judge of a three-year-old long-tail than Peter
Duffy ever stood in an Irish fair. These he brought home, handled,
rode, and sold, with most satisfactory results.
Latterly, Peter was getting too heavy to ride to hounds, or school the
young ones, and Master Ulick, when at home, took his place. All the
world agreed that he was “the darling on a colt, with the loveliest
hands in the world, and as bold as a young lion.” It is unnecessary to
mention that none of his admirers had ever seen a young lion following
the foxhounds; but their praise, though ignorant, was heartfelt and
sincere.
Ulick loved animals, especially horses; he was crazy about hunting,
and when he was at Kilmoran spent most of his time in the saddle. His
mother made no objection; she was alive to the pecuniary value of a
light-weight rider, and knew that after a month or two of Ulick’s
training the young hunters’ prices were sensibly increased.
Even from the time he was twelve years old, this light-weight boy,
with light hands, a bold heart, and mounted on an animal as youthful
and eager as himself, caused many a pang of envy, and memory of the
“has-been days,” to the veteran followers of the Harkaway hounds.
When Ulick was seventeen, and a cadet at Sandhurst, he met with an
accident that nearly brought his career, and his neck, to an untimely
end. One raw winter afternoon the hounds were running not far from
Kilmoran. It had been a grand scenting day. Sport was good, and Ulick
was out on a new investment--a fine upstanding four-year-old, with
grand legs and quarters, but with an ugly fiddle-head and a small
pig-like eye. He had, however, a famous pedigree--and with that same
pedigree was allied a temper. At first he went kindly, taking all
before him with extraordinary flippancy, sailing over places big or
little, in a manner that it was a pleasure to witness. A hard-riding
cavalry man had already bought him (mentally) and entered him for
a couple of steeplechases at Punchestown and Sandown. Suddenly,
something put the brown horse out--one never quite knows what upsets a
hunter’s temper. Leading the field, he came thundering down to a big
boundary-fence, wheeled about sharp on the edge, as if on a pivot--in
short, balked before the whole hunt, knocked fifty pounds off his
price, and all but shot his rider into the next field. The thrusting
followers of the Harkaways stormed the obstacle and galloped on, and
Ulick made another effort, put the horse at the ditch, which he again
refused; and he not only refused, but reared, and snorted. As the
hounds were now far ahead, his rider was determined to get the horse
over, so to speak, dead or alive; the brown colt was as positively
resolved not to jump. Each, boy and beast, was furious with the other;
their blood was up, and it was now a frantic personal affair between
them. The beast stood planted, with tucked-in tail, ears laid back, in
a lather of sweat and foam, the picture of stubborn strength; the boy,
with set white face, was equally dogged, and used every means in his
power to conquer the brute--whip, spurs, voice. These were answered
by plunges, rearings, and loud snorts of angry defiance. Then Ulick
Doran tried peaceful methods, soothing and coaxing, and gentle walkings
to and fro. But all to no purpose. The contest had lasted for twenty
minutes. The field was empty, save for an old white goat, who stared
her astonishment at the proceedings, and a little girl of ten years
old, who had been watching the hunt from the top of the boundary-fence,
and was the only human witness of the struggle--rather a pretty,
slender child, with an amazing quantity of bright red hair; she wore no
cap or hat, and was out, so to speak, in her pinafore.
It was a raw December afternoon, and little Mary Foley, her bare arms
wrapped in her bib, waited on the top of the big ditch with breathless
interest to see which would win, man or horse; and if Master Ulick
would get the better of the baste? Her curiosity and anxiety were
equally kindled. All the country knew, to use a local expression, “that
Master Ulick’s riding bet all.” But, on the other hand, the horse
looked a real savage, and the poor young gentleman might be hurted or
killed. Anyhow, the Gripe was a terrible big lep.
The Gripe was a huge, deep ditch at the taking-off side. The landing
was on a big sound bank, the top of which was only a few feet above the
level of the next field; it was a wide, but otherwise perfectly safe
up-jump, and the brown horse had negotiated several others of the same
description with ease; he could, and he would--and--he would _not_.
During his exertions Ulick became aware of a figure in a fluttering
blue pinafore, who was the sole spectator--a little girl, with a pair
of remarkably neat black legs, who capered about on the top of the bank
at a safe and discreet distance. It was the Foley child; he recognised
her carroty head; she was not in the way at all, but what was she
waiting for? He hated to see her watching him; he wished to goodness
she would go home--indeed, he would be thankful to go home himself. As
a last desperate expedient, he struck spurs into the sulky colt, and
sent him round the field full gallop; wheeled suddenly, and brought him
down to the fence at a pace that was terrific. The horse was taken
unawares. No time now for stopping or propping: it was a case of in,
or over; his own impetus carried him sheer off his legs; he made a
spring--landed on the bank----
The little girl’s irrepressible yell of triumph died away on her lips
when she beheld the hunter, after landing, stumble, lose his legs, and
roll helplessly into the field, with his rider beneath him. At first
she was too horrified to scream, or even stir. Surely to goodness they
were both dead!
Presently the brown colt scrambled to his feet, shook himself, sniffed
at his prostrate rider, then trotted off with high knee action,
trailing reins, and proudly waving tail, as much as to say, “I think I
got the best of _that_!”
Meanwhile, Ulick Doran lay in a motionless heap, precisely as if he
were lifeless--in fact, as the child said to herself, “There was not a
stir out of him! and what was to be done at all, at all?” Not a soul
was likely to come near them; her father’s cottage was four fields
away, and he and her mother were out, it being market day, and there
was not a creature within but the cat. She crept down from the bank,
and cautiously approached the still form. Master Ulick was as white as
a sheet; his eyes were closed, and from a deep cut in his forehead the
blood was oozing. Mary Foley, an only child, was unusually sharp and
self-confident for her age; her mother, a delicate woman, was given to
“weak turns” and long faints, and on some of these occasions little
Mary had tended her without assistance. Perhaps Master Ulick was only
overcome with the same kind of strong weakness as her mother? She eyed
him critically for a moment, then boldly filched his handkerchief from
his pocket, and darted off to the Holy Well, which lay within a couple
of hundred yards. Returning breathless, she dabbed his temples and
forehead with ice-cold water; and still he never moved, but lay like
a stone. Then she sat down on the grass and raised his head, and laid
it on her small lap; and as she resumed her operations with the wet
handkerchief, some salt tears became mingled with the water from St.
Bridget’s Well. In a short time she was weeping bitterly.
All at once Ulick Doran opened his eyes. Where was he? His head was
reeling round, but he grasped that above him was a watery, wintry sky,
beneath him the hard, damp earth, behind his head something small!
What? He turned his glance upwards, and beheld a pair of streaming
hazel eyes, and a mop of rough red hair. Was it a fairy? For a moment
he lay motionless, and wondered; then, as his senses gradually returned
to him, he recollected the child on the ditch. Yes, he had come a
tremendous cropper! Was the horse killed? He struggled to a sitting
posture. No, the brute was all right, grazing away in the corner of the
field. The effort cost him agony, and he realised that he was badly
hurt; his shoulder seemed twisted, and altogether he felt sick and
faint, and as if he had been recently passed under a steam-roller.
“Holy Mary be praised! And ye are not killed all out, Mr. Ulick?” piped
a small voice, and the child rose to her feet.
“No. Do I look like it?” he answered cheerily.
“And ye got the better of him after all!”
“I’m not so sure of that. Anyhow, he has the best of it _now_”;
and his eyes wandered to the hunter, who was cropping grass along a
headland with the zest of a gourmand.
“Are ye much hurted?” she asked. Generally, when her mother “came to,”
she was all right!
“My head feels a bit buzzy, and I believe I’ve put my shoulder out, and
broken some bones.”
“What’s to be done?” she asked, wringing her little red hands. “What’s
to be done at all? Shall I run up to the Castle?”
“No, it’s a good mile off, and I don’t fancy sitting here; and besides,
I don’t want to frighten them.” He was talking to this bare headed imp
as if she were a grown-up woman. “If I could get on the horse--I know
there’s a lane hereabouts--I’d manage all right.”
He made a violent effort and rose to his feet, but quickly collapsed
again. “I can’t walk, that’s sure”; and he looked over at the brown
colt.
“Shall I catch him for your honour?”
“You!” he repeated sarcastically. “What a chance you’d have!”
“Yes, faix, and I would,” she rejoined stoutly.
“Are you not afraid?”
“Is it me! I’m afraid of no horse or man, or any sort of beast
whatever. Wasn’t it _me_, that bested Colgan’s old savage sow! I’m not
used to horses--but I’m fine and handy with cows.”
“All right then, go and try your luck.” And as young Doran sat on the
ground endeavouring to stanch the blood which trickled into his eyes,
he was amazed and amused at the manœuvres of the child in the blue
pinafore. First she walked boldly forward, then she stood as if meaning
nothing at all; next she stalked warily; finally she pounced almost
imperceptibly on the reins, and before the big sixteen-hander could
jerk back his head and snatch them and his liberty, she had him by the
bit. Her very boldness and audacity astonished her captive as much
as her captive’s master. She soothed and patted the big, upstanding
hunter, and he, being now full of grass, and also a little sobered and
lamed by his recent fall, actually suffered himself to be led forward
like the traditional lamb.
“Why, you are a regular horse-tamer!” cried Ulick, as she approached.
“I have a way with animals, they say,” she replied; “they are tame
enough with me.”
“He has given himself a bad over-reach I see! Well, now little Foley,
will you put your hand in my pocket--this one--and pull out a flask,
and uncork it, as I’ve only one hand?”
She instantly did as requested, and with nimble, red fingers fished out
a small silver flask.
“Whisky?” she suggested, as she unscrewed the stopper.
“No, sherry. I shall want some jumping powder to get on the fellow’s
back”; and he took a long draught. As he handed the flask to her to
be replaced, he said, “Hullo! little Foley, what’s this? You’ve been
blubbering; there are two great dirty streaks down your cheeks! What
were you crying for?”
“Well, then, Mr. Ulick,” getting very red, “sure, didn’t I think you
were dead?”
“And so you were weeping over my remains? That was very kind of you,
little Foley.”
“And wouldn’t any one cry after you, Master Ulick?” she demanded with
an air of friendly wonder.
“Would they? Well I hope I shan’t give them a chance for some years.
Now, do you stand by his head, and I’ll do my big best to get on his
back.”
Apparently the effort was not merely protracted, but agonising. When
Mary looked up at the rider, she was startled at what she saw; his face
seemed drawn and grey, like that of an old man; the skin looked clammy.
“Now run along”--he spoke between his shut teeth--“and try and break
down the stone gap into the boreen.”
This feat Mary accomplished without difficulty, and Ulick and his lame
hunter passed through into the lane. All up the lane, they were closely
attended by the child, who seemed to consider them both under her care.
At last they reached a black wooden gate leading into the so-called
demesne; as she opened it, she halted, and so did Ulick Doran.
“Well, little Foley, you are a queer little devil, and a real brick. I
wish I’d something to give you, but I can’t get at my pocket, as you
know.”
“Sure, I wouldn’t take anything, thank your honour,” she answered, with
amusing hauteur, “not if it was gold itself.”
He stared down hard into the serious, uplifted eyes, and asked--
“But are you not Pat Foley’s girl; the one I see with the red head
peeping through the gate at Foley’s corner?”
“Yes, ye’ honour, I am so.”
“You have done a good job for me to-day: you know that I’d like to do
something for you. What would you say to a nice big doll?”
“Is it a doll? No, no!” reddening, “nothing, nothing.”
“Then I’m in your debt, and I hate to be in any one’s debt. You’ve got
my hat, I see; I can’t put it on just now.”
“No, sir, I’ll take it up this evening; ye may be wanting it.”
“Well, good-bye. I must try and get on home, before I fall off;” and as
he gave the limping brown his head, the pair moved painfully away.
It was many a day before Ulick Doran wanted his hat. He had had a bad
fall--broken his arm, and two of his ribs; it was a miracle how he had
ever mounted his hunter and ridden home. The doctors agreed that he was
a boy of incredible fortitude and resolution, and as a man, he would be
bound to go far.
Ulick explained to his family the scene of the accident, and how
Foley’s little girl had come to his assistance.
“Only for her I suppose I might have lain there a week. She is a
wonderful child, and has her head screwed on the right way. I daresay
you know her?” he added, turning to his mother.
“Oh, yes, the little foxy thing,” she rejoined indifferently.
“She’s uncommonly plucky and handy,” urged her son.
“I hope you did not praise her to her face! She is spoiled enough as it
is,” declared Mrs. Doran. “Being the only child Katty ever reared, they
think the world does not hold her equal. Katty dresses her almost like
a lady!--gets her shoes from Cork, and knits her long black stockings,
just the same as the Rectory children wear. It’s a sin to be giving
the brat a taste for dress. For my part I think she is just a flighty,
impudent little monkey, and whenever I come across her I take right
good care to give her a setting down.”
Little Mary often recalled the day of the hunt, and one event in her
life. She had of course frequently related the incident to her mother
and father, and even escorted them to the field, and shown them the
very marks of the horse’s hoofs on the bank, and explained how he fell,
and where Mr. Ulick lay, as if stone dead.
“Faix, if it had been the other,” muttered Pat to his wife, “he’d have
been no great loss. But poor Mr. Ulick, thank God he was spared; he is
the very spit of his father, the old Colonel.”
As soon as he was convalescent, Ulick Doran joined the regiment to
which he had been gazetted, and was not seen again at Kilmoran for some
years.
CHAPTER IV
When Mary Foley was sixteen, she ceased to attend the local day school,
being considered for her station a finished pupil. She wrote a good
hand, was fairly well grounded in grammar and arithmetic, had acquired
the Irish, and was an excellent needlewoman. Mary was no longer called
“Foxy” or “Carrots,” for she was bewitchingly pretty, and her clouds of
auburn hair shaded a radiant face. She had also what was described as
“a wonderful way with her” and an extraordinary fascination for most of
the boys in the barony. John Foley had been dead for some years; his
death was no pecuniary loss to his widow, who had him “well insured,”
but she gave up most of the land adjoining the farm, only keeping the
house, garden, and the grass of a couple of cows, seeing there was,
as she explained, “now but Mary and herself in it, and beasts were
bothersome.” To tell the truth, Mary was not particularly partial to
farm labour; indeed, plain girls, her detractors, openly declared that
“there was too much of the _lady_ about Miss Foley”; but she did her
share, as her fond parent bragged, if she was not over keen with regard
to the wash-tub, or scouring. She was handy with her needle, and made
quite a nice lot of money, sewing for Mrs. Hogan at the Glenveigh
Arms. Also she looked after the fowls and eggs, the cows and calves.
“Oh, she was,” her mother declared, “a grand little girl for work.”
“Aye,” agreed her enemies, “but it was all gentry’s work. Who ever saw
Mary on her knees scrubbing, or washing out the pots? Whilst as for
pigs, she set her face entirely against them.” She would neither be
said nor led, and since poor Pat died, the stye was standing empty. Was
ever the likes known?
There were two roads to the Castle from Foley’s Corner; one lay across
the fields, up the boreen, and through the iron gate--this was the
fine-weather approach; the other, a long round by the high road, and
imposing principal entrance.
One bright September afternoon Mary was returning from Kilmoran,
swinging her empty egg-basket, when in the lane she descried a
handsome young gentleman in a grey tweed suit and cap, and immediately
recognised Mr. Ulick. This was no great feat; she had heard up above
that “the Captain” had arrived home now for a good spell, and was a
really splendid-looking young officer. But Mr. Doran lacked Mary’s
advantages; he had not the slightest suspicion of the identity of
this pretty slim girl, in a well-fitting blue cotton dress, who was
gradually approaching him from the demesne. He could not even place
her. She was not the usual country type; her bones were small, her
carriage erect, assured, graceful; and there was a finish about her
dress that was unusual. He noticed the little bit of lace at the neck,
the trim belt. However, she wore no hat, and was undoubtedly a peasant.
As this girl was about to pass him, she dropped a hurried curtsey, and
glanced at him timidly, with a pair of bewildering hazel eyes. Surely
he had met those eyes somewhere? A sudden gleam of memory flashed into
Ulick’s brain. He halted and exclaimed--
“Is it possible that you are Mary Foley?”
“Yes, your honour.” Another curtsey, and it was difficult to ignore her
girlish flutter, her evident joy at seeing him again.
“I declare I scarcely recognised you. How you have grown!”
“Children mostly do,” she rejoined with composure.
“I suppose you consider yourself grown up?”
“Yes, sir, I have left the schoolin’.”
“And so your education is complete?”
“I would not say that, but,” shifting her basket to her other arm, “I
learnt all they taught, so I did.”
“Reading, writing, arithmetic. The three R’s.”
“Yes, and grammar, history, and geography. I loved geography.”
“Well, it is a harmless passion. Can you tell me where Malta is?”
“Faix, unless it’s lost, sir, it should be in the Mediterranean Sea.”
“Oh, I see you cannot be puzzled, can you?”
“Oh, then indeed I can, and am, often and many a time.”
“Tell me what puzzles you.”
“No, sir, I really couldn’t make so free”; and she moved a step, as if
to pass on.
Two long hours lay between him and dinner. Young Doran had nothing
particular to do; his mother was irritable and continually scolding
some one. It was rather pleasant, standing in this fragrant lane,
talking to this pretty, shy, yet audacious colleen.
“You have been up at the Castle, I presume?” he continued.
“Yes, your honour, selling eggs to her ladyship.”
“I hope you make a good thing out of it?”
“Well,” a pause, “I just bid to take what her ladyship gives
me--sixpence the dozen, and young chickens a shilling a couple.”
“A shilling--a--a--couple!” he repeated; and he felt his face becoming
warm.
“Well, of course I could get more in the market, or even from the
hawkers,” she continued, “but ye see we live on the land, and her
ladyship has the first call, and--and--anyhow, though the price is not
much, the Castle is convenient-like.”
“Do you remember the last time I saw you?” inquired her ladyship’s
shamefaced son, “and the cropper I came, over in that field?” and he
pointed in the direction.
“Aye, to be sure I do, sir! What would ail me that I’d forget it? Sure,
weren’t you nearly killed dead?”
“Nearly, I suppose. I have not forgotten what you did for me that day.”
“Sure it was nothing, sir, I’d do as much for ye again.”
“I hope you never may have the chance! You were a kind, active little
helper. How you did run about, and how you mothered me! I’ve owed you
a debt ever since; I’d like to give you a souvenir of some sort even
now--better late than never.”
“Thank your honour, but I have one already, and one is all I want.”
“What may it be? Not my hat--you brought that after me!”
“No, I’ve no call for hats. ’Twas the horse’s shoe I found, an elegant,
bright new shoe; it was lying on the grass on the other side of the
ditch. I have it nailed up, ever since, for luck.”
“Has it brought you any?”
“Well, then, I can’t say much for it so far, yer honour.”
“It may do great things yet.”
“Well, God send it. And now, if your honour pleases, I must be going
on. I’m late as it is----”
“Why, where is your hurry?”
“Sure, hasn’t the cows to be milked, and the calf fed?”
“I wish I could help you--for I’m out of a job to-day.”
Mary suddenly broke into laughter and displayed a row of pretty little
teeth. “You’d make a poor hand of the milking, I’m thinking,” she said.
“Anyway, I’ll walk back with you as far as the stone gap, if I may?”
“Sure, the boreen is your honour’s own land, and what’s to hinder you?”
“Old Crock na Bowl looks well this evening,” suddenly remarked the
young fellow, as they turned and faced a towering purple peak, on which
lay the long afternoon shadows.
“Oh, he’s there right enough,” said Mary, with indifference.
“Now you’d like to see another mountain for a change?”
“Bedad, I would so. I’m always craving to visit the grand places I read
about. It’s your honour that has been round the world, and in fine
countries, and foreign parts.”
“Only in Spain and Malta so far; but we are going to India the next
reliefs. Ah, here is the stone gap you once pulled down for me. Allow
me to help you over----”
“Is it, help _me_?” and she laughed derisively. “Why there is not a
wall or gap in the country to stop me.”
“At least I may hold the basket?”
“No, no, sir,” and she smiled, and stood irresolute, wondering how she
was to bid farewell to the young master. Should she curtsey? or would
she just take herself off anyhow?
“Before you go, Mary Foley, you might tell me at least one of the
things that puzzles you. I’ve nothing to do. Maybe I can guess the
riddle! I’m rather good at that sort of thing.”
“Well, then, I just will, sir, since ye have axed me twice. There’s a
matter that sticks in my mind, and I cannot get shut of it.”
“Yes, let us have it by all means.”
“Can you tell me,” and she paused, and looked at him steadily, “why
some have every mortal blessed thing, and others--have nothing at all?”
“But how do you mean?” he asked, rather taken aback. This description
of puzzle was far from what he had anticipated.
“Why look at Miss Cunninghams, and look at me!”
“Yes”; and he looked at her.
“They are ladies born, and live in a park, and wear beautiful dresses,
and ride fine hunters, and eat with silver forks; they go away and see
the world, with plenty of money in their pockets. And for me, I live in
a little weenchie cottage, and work hard, and I will never lay an eye
on any sight better than Crock na Bowl, or do anything but cook, and
milk, as long as the breath is in me! And I’d just love to _see_ life.
Why were they born one way, and me another?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” he replied.
“Well, ye see, I’ve asked ye my riddle, and ye cannot answer it,” she
said with a smile, “so now I’ll be going”; and without another word,
Mary Foley clambered lightly over the stone gap (she still wore black
stockings, and had remarkably neat ankles), and presently disappeared.
CHAPTER V
And thus the young couple parted, going in opposite directions, each
carrying in their thoughts a poignant memory of the other. Since Mary
was a small child, “Master Ulick” had been secretly worshipped as her
hero--the natural consequence of hearing on all sides praises of his
feats of horsemanship, his courage, and his generosity. Little pitchers
have long ears, and what they imbibe they remember. For a girl of her
age, and class, Mary Foley was a widely-read young person. Mrs. Hogan
at “The Arms” had a fancy for the child, and, knowing she was crazy
after books, endowed her with various odds and ends that careless
visitors or fishing folk, had left behind them. Mary had a wonderful
imagination, and from the germs of her favourite characters, she
composed a Paladin of her own. He was the embodiment of the Heir of
Redcliff, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, the Black Knight, and Charles O’Malley,
and his name she never whispered, but all the same it was some one
resembling Master Ulick, whom she crowned with a choice selection of
other men’s laurels. It therefore will be seen that if Mary’s little
sixteen-year-old heart was free, it was not fancy free!
As soon as Mary reached home and opened the half-door, her mother cried
out--
“Mary asthore! What in the living world kep’ ye?”
“Sure I am afther meeting Masther Ulick,” was the breathless reply.
“There beyant, in the boreen.”
“Did ye, agra; and what is he like now he’s a grown man?”
“Faix I couldn’t rightly explain, only he is tallish and upstanding,
and I got a smell of tobacco off him!”
“Great fathers, child!”
“Yes; an’ he has a small moustache on his upper lip, and a great big
smile on him, and grey eyes--his eyes”--and she drew in her breath--“is
real beautiful!”
“His eyes! God help us, Mary! that’s the queer sort of chat for a slip
of a girl. Sure ye have no call to be looking at the young gentleman’s
eyes.”
“An’ how can I help it, mammy, when I’ve eyes of me own! He is not a
bit like her ladyship--no, nor Barky, with the great roasted face on
him.”
“God be thanked for that same,” exclaimed Mrs. Foley piously. “He is
the Colonel’s own boy; but, Mary asthore, ye must know yer place, and
not be making free, or be talking to the young Captain. Ye have such
funny, queer ways of spaking up to high and low--I tell ye, sometimes
ye have me paralysed with fright.”
“Oh, make yer mind easy, mammy; I know me place. Augh! do ye hear the
bawls of the calf? I must hurry up with the milking.”
After her mother’s word of warning, Mary Foley merely dropped a hasty
curtsey when she encountered the Captain, and then hurried on; and he,
manlike, was attracted by this avoidance; the less he saw of Mary, the
more he thought of her. The unknown has a wonderful fascination.
Ulick was at present an idler. Cub-hunting had not yet commenced;
his home was not particularly congenial. He and Barky had nothing in
common; Barky was frankly jealous of his brother’s smart soldier-like
air, his knowledge of the world, his manner of speech, his well-cut
clothes, and his popularity. Ulick contented himself with schooling
young horses, reading, smoking, and making friends with the dogs, whom
he overjoyed by taking out for many a long tramp.
One afternoon it came on to drizzle as he was approaching Foley’s
corner. He turned up his collar and pulled out his pipe. Alas! he had
not a match left: there was nothing for it but to run into Katty’s and
ask for a sod of turf. He pushed open the half-door and entered, and
found Katty, with horn spectacles on nose, hunched up by the window,
patching an old sack.
“I just came in for a light, Katty,” he explained. “I hope you won’t
mind the dogs,” as two setters and a terrier followed him.
“Yer honour is welcome, and as many dogs as he likes.”
“There are two more sitting outside, but these have no manners; I hope
I see you well, Katty.”
“Well, then, indeed I’m no great shakes, sir, and only among the
middins; I’m gettin’ into years, ye see.”
“What nonsense!” stooping to pick up a live sod. “You can’t be more
than fifty, if you are that.”
“I am fifty-seven, sir, and it’s a long age for a working woman;
still,” and she sighed, “but God is good, and the devil himself not too
bad entirely. And Mary is a grand help--and here she comes.”
As the inner door opened, Mary, followed by the dogs with better
manners, entered with a tin can on her arm.
“Now go out, every one of you!” shouted their master, authoritatively.
“Good evening, Mary.”
“Good evening, sir,” she answered. “Sure, the poor dogs is doing no
harm whatever. Me mother loves a dog, and so do I. ’Tis only the cat
that’s so particular.”
“And there she is, on the top of the dresser, out of harm’s way. I was
sorry for poor John,” he said, addressing himself to Katty; “you must
miss him.”
“In troth and I do, at every turn--a sore loss, both outside and in.
Mary and me is not aqual to more than a couple of cows, and a few hens,
and the potatoes.”
“And who does the digging?” inquired the younger master, who stood with
his back to the fire, for all the world as if he were at home--the dogs
with manners lying near the door.
“Well, to tell yer honour no lie, Patsie Maguire does the heavy part.
When his work is over, he comes and puts in an hour.”
“I know Patsie Maguire--a smart, likely-looking lad”--here he addressed
himself to Mary, who stood leaning carelessly against the dresser. “And
what does he dig for, Mary--love, or money?”
“Oh, sir!” cried the girl, “now I declare to goodness ye make me laugh!
For neither--but just his kindness.”
“Mary is terribly clever with flowers,” put in her mother irrelevantly.
“’Tis she has the lucky hand; and as for eggs, hasn’t the hens been
laying the whole winter, and them mother naked, and not a feather
on them. Winter does be awful lonesome for us now; not a living
soul within half a mile. Sometimes, when I think of robbers and
house-breakers, I am all of a tremble, and never close an eye.”
“You ought to keep a dog,” suggested the visitor; “he’d be company.”
“He would so,” agreed Mary. “I’d love to have one.”
“Would you like this fellow?” asked Ulick, indicating a red terrier who
had made his way to the fire; “he is only a pup, but he will grow!”
“Oh, sir! oh, yer honour! sure we would not expect the likes of him,”
protested Mrs. Foley. “Maybe Boland up at the Chapel has a pup he can
spare.”
“No, no, mother,” broke in Mary, “I just hate that breed of
Boland’s--they are so long and black and deceiving, and, anyhow, are
only good for poaching. They are quiet enough on a weekday, but all
over the county of a Sunday. Oh----,” and she paused, “Oh faix, I was
forgetting Mr. Ulick!” and she laughed, and coloured vividly.
“I’m glad to hear you don’t like poachers, Mary. This little chap
here”--and he held him up--“kills rats already, and will keep off
tramps. He is a gentleman.”
“Sure,” began Katty, with a wheezy laugh, “what would a gentleman be
doing with the likes of us?”
“He will like you, and I know you will like him. See, Pap”--and he led
him over to Mary--“this is your new mistress; and here is another”; and
he pulled him towards Katty, who, however, held back, saying--
“Oh, sir, it’s too great a condescension for us; entirely too much!”
“What do you say to him, Mary?” turning to her.
“If when you’ll be going away ye would spare him sir, it would be a
kindness and a consolation, for me mother is very wake in herself, and
in dread of a night if she hears a sound, even of a mouse, let alone
one of the cows stirring in the byre; she thinks it’s some one coming
to murder us, so she does. The little dog will be a grand watch, though
of course he is above our station.”
“Is any one within?” The voice came from the half-door, and the open
space above was amply filled by a stout, elderly woman, wearing a
jetted bonnet, a black front, and a blue waterproof.
“There is to be sure,” replied Mary, who liked visitors, darting to the
door. “There’s no fear of the dogs, ma’am. I see it’s spilling rain.
Come in if ye plase and take a sate.”
The tall, burly figure stalked forward, and shook out her wet umbrella;
she stared very hard--first at Katty, then at Ulick--and sank heavily
into the proffered chair.
“I am stopping at an hotel below,” she began, with a strong American
accent, “and I’ve lost my way. I am a pretty smart walker. Am I far
out?”
“About a mile and a half,” replied Mary. “It’s the other side of the
Castle-gates--ye know, the place with the two dogs. This is Mr. Ulick
Doran, of Kilmoran Castle.”
The woman looked up at him quickly, and said: “I’m in luck to chance on
you, sir. I know your aunt, Mrs. Grogan, in Philadelphia; she lives not
far from me, and is real well-to-do.”
“There! to think of that now!” ejaculated Katty. “Oh, but Miss Nora was
the splendid fine girl, and the grand horse-lady--and how is she, at
all?”
“Not much of a horse-lady now, but she keeps her carriage.”
“I am glad to meet any one who knows my father’s sister,” said Ulick.
“Is there any chance of her coming over?”
“Well, not just at present; she heard I was to be a day or so in these
parts--my people being buried hereabouts, you see--and I told her I’d
go up and see the Castle, and bring her news right away; and she said
she believed I’d be made welcome.”
“And she was quite right, ma’am,” replied Ulick. “I know my mother will
be delighted to see you; will you come up with me now?”
“No, thank you, I’ll wait till to-morrow; I’m all wet and muddy, and
not just fit for Castle company, thanking you all the same.”
The eagerness of Mrs. Doran to welcome the emissary of her
sister-in-law requires some explanation. News had come, in the curious
way in which it filters through other people’s letters, that Tom
Grogan was doing right well for himself in America. After a pause,
there was whispered the magic word of “_wealth_.” When Colonel Doran
died, his sister had written to his widow, a timid epistle, full of
heartfelt condolence; this had received a most gracious answer, and
a correspondence ensued. Mrs. Doran was always good at her pen; she
wrote volumes respecting her want of capital, and the extraordinary
attractions of her oldest son; the younger she rarely mentioned.
Mrs. Grogan despatched American apples, candies, beautiful books,
and furs--undeniably money’s worth; but no money. However, her
sister-in-law built largely on Barky’s expectations from his aunt Nora,
and talked a good deal about the Colonel’s sister, who was the wife of
a millionaire; not a word of the mésalliance, much less of the postman!
“Then since you won’t come with me,” said young Doran, “I must be off.
I’ll let my mother know you are at the ‘Glenveigh Arms,’ and no doubt
she will write to you. Good evening, everybody”; and he opened the
half-door, and departed with his train of dogs.
“He is after offering us a pup,” said Katty, with complacency; “we are
so lonesome here, since I buried me poor husband.”
“I know the names of the folk around from Mrs. Grogan,” said the
visitor; “she has the place still at her finger-ends.”
“My name is Katty Foley, ma’am. I sure she will mind _me_ well; we
were the wan age, and she and I had some fine jokes, together; to tell
the truth, I was a bit of a go-between. Well that’s all past now. If
the old gentleman had known, he’d have had me life! Aye, but he was
the proud man. This girlie here is my daughter Mary, the only child I
reared out of five, and all I have in the world, except a sister above
at the junction!”
“Oh, indeed. Mr. Ulick seems a fine young man,” remarked the stranger.
“That’s true for ye, ma’am, as good as he looks, and the flower of
the flock, the very twin of his father, the Colonel, so kind, and so
feeling for the poor. Just a real decent clean-living boy!”
“That’s fine news, Mrs. Foley; and what about the other?”
“Oh, bedad, ma’am, I’d like well to say a good word for him too, if I
could; but silence is best.”
“What ails him?” she asked peremptorily.
“Sure the mother has him ruinated since he could walk. He is just an
eyesore to the township, and a scandal”; and Katty shook her head till
the horn spectacles fell into her lap. “Av course, he is young, and may
mend, but all I can tell you is, that if I see him coming into heaven,
I’ll say, thank God!”
The stranger did not pause to question Mrs. Foley’s confidence in her
own future state, but inquired, in a nasal key, “But what does he do,
anyhow, my good woman?”
“Everything he ought to leave alone, ma’am. He is fond of low company,
and cock-fighting, and betting, and all sorts of devilment. He gets
in at night by the pantry window, and his mother thinks he is an
archangel.”
“It’s a way mothers have. Poor woman!”
“Poor, is it! Faix, she’s a real rich woman, and small blame, and has
the place in tip-top style, and keeps terrible state; but her servants
is just starved.”
“Oh, mammy!” remonstrated Mary, “ye shouldn’t be talking so free to
strangers.”
“A friend of Miss Nora’s is no stranger to _me_, and since she wants
news, I bid to give her the truth. I know I’m crabbed, but I was reared
on the Dorans’ land, and I’d put me hands under the Colonel’s feet.
Sure, all the world knows the bad wife he had, and how she scolded him,
and shamed him, and sold the buttermilk, and sent the old servants to
the poorhouse! Well, well, I’ll say no more, I’ll say no more. Don’t
mind me, ma’am. Mrs. Doran will be very sweet to _you_, and I’m only a
bitter old woman. Oh, I wish ye could have seen the poor Colonel!--such
a lovely, fine, tall gentleman, with a beautiful face, as if it was
carved. Him and Miss Nora was always very thick!”
“Yes, so I’ve been told,” said the stranger.
“And Tom? Tom Grogan--an’ how is he? He was a fine, fresh-looking boy,
and me own second cousin. Faix, if I was to say that to Mrs. Doran,
she’d burn the house over me head.”
“Mr. Grogan is well,” replied the visitor; “a little stiff in the
joints now; but he is a rich man, and rides in his carriage.”
“Great fathers! to think of that now. Faix, ’tis no wonder as all the
Grogans have gone afther him to America! And Miss Nora was the darlin’
girl. Is she changed?”
“Yes. Who would not be in thirty years? She is grey and wrinkled, but I
think her heart is young still. And now I see the rain has stopped, and
I must be going.”
“But won’t ye condescend to a cup of tea, ma’am? Mary will wet it in
a brace of shakes. It’s good tay--Lynche’s--and has a fine grip of
the water. I’d like ye to tell Miss Nora ye had a cup of tay with old
Katty. She will remember Katty, I’ll go bail.”
“I really must be moving, thank you--I’ll maybe look in again; but if
your gal here will set me on my road, I’ll be obliged to her.”
“To be sure, ma’am, with a heart and a half,” said Mary, as she took a
shawl and threw it over her head, and then led the way down the path to
the gate, and into the main road.
Mary and her guide had a most interesting talk, so much so that
they scarcely felt the time passing--the American putting clever
questions to the girl, the girl, ever greedy of information, eagerly
cross-examining her companion respecting “the sort of life over there”;
and they were mutually astonished when they found themselves at the
entrance of the “Glenveigh Arms.”
Ulick Doran had lost no time in preparing his mother for a visit from
his aunt’s emissary; but Ulick’s friends, or discoveries, were rarely
appreciated at Kilmoran. Mrs. Doran was proud of her youngest son’s
good looks, good manners, and his horsemanship, precisely as she
would be proud of a valuable piece of furniture which belonged to her
exclusively. But the boy was too like his father; he reminded her at
every look and turn of her life’s--well, she would not go so far as
to call it remorse; but at any rate, she was not fond of Ulick. Her
share of maternal affection was expended on Barker, and she was ashamed
to admit to herself, that her indifference to her second son almost
amounted to dislike. However, he was home now for six months’ leave,
and she must just make the best of him.
“A woman who says she knows your aunt Nora,” she exclaimed, as she set
down her glass of cheap sherry. “That is strange. And coming to see
_me_. How did you come across her?”
“At Foley’s, at the corner.”
“And may I ask what were you doing in there?”
“I just went in to light my pipe.”
“So that’s what he _calls_ it, eh, mater?” broke in Barky, with a
knowing chuckle. “Mary Foley is the prettiest girl in the whole side of
the country, and the cockiest, most impudent little devil I ever came
across. So _that’s_ your taste, is it, my boy!”
Ulick flung his brother an indignant glance, and went on. “The woman
was there sheltering, and asking her way.”
“What sort of a person is she?” inquired Mrs. Doran.
“It is not easy to describe her.”
“No; it’s easier to describe little Mary, with her red poll,”
interrupted Barky facetiously.
“But,” resumed the narrator, “she is stout and elderly, talks with a
strong American accent, and looks like a prosperous housekeeper.”
“I suppose she has a letter of introduction from your aunt?”
“She did not say, and I did not ask her.”
“No, so _like_ you! But I shall ask her,” announced Mrs. Doran, with an
air of stern decision.
Mrs. Aron, as she was called, did not appear at the Castle for nearly a
week. She had caught a wetting, and a cold, and remained at “The Arms”
under the ministrations of Mrs. Hogan, imbibing gruel and a wonderful
assortment of local gossip. At last, one afternoon, she presented
herself at Kilmoran, but at an unfortunate moment: Mrs. Doran was in a
bad temper; the cook and two other servants had given notice. Also she
was momentarily expecting Lady Borrisokane, and various notables to
tea. She sat enthroned in an arm-chair, pretending to read, clad in her
best black satin. (Her toilettes now were rich satin, or silk for best,
her everyday garment a black serge, with velveteen sleeves, which had
long seen its best years.)
Suddenly the man-servant flung open the door, and announced “Mrs.
Aron,” and a tall, self-possessed, elderly woman stalked in.
Mrs. Doran sat still and stared; she never uttered a word, and looked
really formidable, for she had been composing the character she was
about to give her cook.
“I am speaking to Mrs. Doran, I believe,” began the stranger.
Mrs. Doran nodded shortly; her expression was distinctly grim.
“I am a great friend of Mrs. Grogan--Miss Doran that was; she lives
near me in Philadelphia, and as I was coming home to these parts she
asked me to step in and see you, and bring her your news.”
“Oh, indeed,” drily. “I presume she sent a letter to introduce you?”
“No, ma’am, she did not.”
“That was strange!”
“I don’t believe she ever gave it a thought, nor that it would be
expected or asked for.”
“Why not? I might have half America giving me a call!”
“I’m sure I don’t see _why_ they should?” rejoined Mrs. Aron brusquely.
“However, Mrs. Grogan, she told me that you’d be right glad to see
me! In short, she said that most likely, for her sake, you’d give me
house-room for a week or so.” After a short pause she added, “My box is
at the ho-tell.”
“I’m positively certain Nora never said anything of the sort,” burst
out Mrs. Doran. “I prefer to invite my own guests. Surely you are not
in her class of life?” looking her slowly up and down.
Mrs. Aron’s clothes were cheap, and a little shabby: a long blue
waterproof, a mock fur tie, black thread gloves, and a bonnet that had
suffered from the weather.
“Yes I am, and just in her own class,” she answered sharply.
“But Mrs. Grogan is a wealthy woman.”
“Oh, is she?”
“I expect you were her--servant, were you not? Come now, tell me the
truth.”
Mrs. Aron, who had been standing all the time, looked about her--and
coolly took a seat.
“Were you her servant?” repeated Mrs. Doran.
“Well, I won’t deny that I _have_ cooked for her; yes, and for Mr.
Grogan, too; but it was many years ago.”
“And you dare pretend to me that she told you to come here on a visit?
My good woman, you are a humbug! Don’t tell me that Nora Grogan
associates with her servants; she is a Doran, and has the Doran pride
in her blood--although she did disgrace herself. And you are an
impostor.”
“No, ma’am, I really am not: I am a respectable woman. Mrs. Grogan
would tell you so----”
“But she has _not_ told me so!” interrupted Mrs. Doran angrily. The
Countess and party might enter at any moment and find her _tête-à-tête_
with this person, who would probably disclose all manner of tales of
Nora, and her husband, and disinter a buried and forgotten scandal!
“Mrs. Grogan told me a great deal about this beautiful place and her
own country,” continued the intruder, in a meeker key. “I seem to know
it as well as if I had seen it before. I expect she would see wonderful
changes----”
“No doubt,” agreed Mrs. Doran, rising. Then she added with savage
insolence: “Now I must really ask you to go. I am expecting friends. I
firmly believe you are a fraud. There are too many frauds going”; and
she rang the bell with energy.
“I’m not that, indeed!” protested Mrs. Aron, tremulously, also rising
to her feet, “but I am in want--that is to say, I’d be thankful if you
could spare me a little assistance to pay my way to Queenstown.”
“Well, you will not get it here,” replied Mrs. Doran with biting
emphasis. “I’ve suspected what you wanted all along--money. You are a
begging impostor. Thomson!”--to her man-servant--“show this person out,
and do not admit her again on any consideration.”
“And so, is this what I’m to tell your sister?” cried the American,
suddenly confronting her hostess, “that you turned me out of the house!”
“You may, for all I care--I don’t believe for a moment that you know
her!”
“If I don’t”--a pause, during which she seemed to struggle for an
expression--“I know you--and well--for a hard, avaricious, cruel woman,
that grinds the poor, and that drove your husband into his grave.”
“There, that’s enough!” interrupted Mrs. Doran, whose face had assumed
the colour of beetroot. “Another word and I send for the police, you
abusive old vagabond!”
A clang at the hall door announced the Countess, and Mrs. Aron was
hurried into the hall. Thus the coming and the parting guest came face
to face. The parting guest walked slowly down the avenue, every now
and then pausing to look back. As she stood for a last glance, she was
overtaken by Ulick Doran on a prancing bay filly.
“Hullo!” he said, “what’s the matter?” He noticed that she had been
crying. “Have you been up to see my mother?”
“Say!” she said in a choked voice, “I don’t feel like talking to--to
any one just now--” and she moved on, evidently struggling with some
overpowering emotion.
“Oh, now,” suddenly dismounting, “I’m not going to let you off like
this! Won’t you tell me what is the trouble? Come now.”
“Well, your mother told me I was just an impostor and a fraud, and
turned me out. Your aunt had certainly forgotten her people, for she
assured me I’d have a warm welcome, and be asked to stay.”
“My mother is a bit hasty sometimes,” he murmured, “and as to
visitors--she is dreadfully worried with servants; she never even asks
over her own relations.”
“Do you believe I’m telling truth or lies,” demanded Mrs. Aron suddenly.
“The truth. Yes I do! I think you have it in your face. And it was kind
of you to come and look us up. I’d like to know my aunt Nora. Mind you
give her my love.”
“Yes, I will. She has not many to love her.”
“Why so?”
“Because she is so rich; now”--and she hesitated. “I am myself a bit
pressed for money for the price of my hotel bill and a second-class
ticket to Queenstown.” She paused, and looked at him interrogatively,
“and--you see for yourself I’ve no friends here!”
The young man reddened as he answered--
“I’m not to say flush just now, but I think I can scrape up ten pounds.”
“That will be as much as I shall want; and you shall have it back on my
word of honour. I suppose you have not got it about you?”
“No, but I will send or bring it over myself this evening.”
“Is this your brother?” she inquired--“the stout young man with the gun
coming in at the gate.”
“Yes, my brother Barker--he has been out after hares.”
“Hullo, Ulick!” he began, as he came within earshot. “I say, who is
your lady friend?”
“Mrs. Aron, a friend of Mrs. Grogan in America--our aunt, you know.”
“No, I don’t know her, thank goodness, and don’t want to. A lady who
disgraced the family, and made a scandal and went off with a blackguard
postman!”
“He was not a blackguard, sir,” she broke in indignantly, “and he was
the son of a respectable farmer. By all accounts, she was kept very
strict, and had no young society of her own class.”
“She doesn’t seem to be keeping much society _now_, if you are a
specimen of her acquaintances,” scoffed Barky, with deliberate
insolence, as he stared at her weather-beaten waterproof and
old-fashioned bonnet. “_I_ was always against my mother making it up
with her, and you may tell her that if you like--from me. As to her
money, I’ll believe it when I see it! America is a queer sort of place!”
“Is it? And yet, by all accounts, some one sent off a girl there last
month who was a _real_ disgrace to her family.”
Barky became crimson as she looked him steadily in the face, and added,
“I see you are your mother’s own son!”
“Well, so I have been given to understand.”
“And she has a right to be proud of you!”
“I am glad you think so”; and Mr. Barker Doran turned on his heel and
stalked away, carrying with him all the eclat which is supposed to be
conferred by the last word.
CHAPTER VI
The conversation between his brother and Mrs. Aron was not overheard by
Ulick. As the nervous young mare was cold and impatient, he had hastily
mounted, and ridden away through the demesne. After an hour’s exercise
he returned home, hurried up to his room, hunted out his money, and,
taking what was called “the dairy pony,” galloped off to “The Arms.” He
told himself that he could just do it, and be back in time for dinner
at eight o’clock, for Mrs. Doran kept fashionable hours. Fashionable
hours cost nothing; a chop at six is the same price as a chop two hours
later.
When Ulick arrived at “The Arms,” a comfortable family hotel, the
resort of tourists in search of fishing and scenery--the fishing a
fiction, the scenery a delightful fact--he went to the bar and asked
for Mrs. Aron. The landlady replied in person.
“Sure she is upstairs, after packing, and a bit tired, sir. If you will
come along with me I will let her know”; and Mrs. Hogan conducted him
into the best sitting-room.
In a few minutes Mrs. Aron entered, still wearing her bonnet and cloak.
“So you have brought it, I suppose?” she began abruptly.
“Yes. I’m awfully sorry: it’s only nine pounds after all.”
“Oh, I’ll make it do, and I am ever so much obliged to you; you’ll be
no loser by me,” she added with emphasis.
“I am sorry my people were--were--a bit rough, and I hope you won’t
tell my aunt more than you can possibly help. I know my mother has
been bothered lately with several things, and I daresay my aunt would
be vexed if she heard that she had not----well, you know what I mean:
ignorance is bliss.”
“Young man, you never said a truer word!” declared Mrs. Aron, with
unexpected emphasis. As she spoke she rose and walked over to the glass
above the chimney-piece, leaving the money on the table. Ulick sat for
a moment buried in thought; then he turned about to look for his cap.
It was on the floor. He stooped for it, and when he raised his head
Mrs. Aron had disappeared. In her place stood a tall, rather elegant
woman with a slight figure and quantities of grey hair.
Ulick Doran started to his feet, and stared at the lady in stupefied
silence. The stranger was the first to speak.
“Come here and give me a kiss, Ulick; I am your aunt Nora.”
“But why--and where?” he stammered, and held back.
“Oh, ever so many whys! As to where? Here is Mrs. Aron--my own name
backwards;” and she lifted the wadded cloak from the sofa, then held up
the bonnet and front. “It was a capital disguise, was it not?”
“Surely quite unnecessary--and why?”
“That is the second time you have asked _why_? Sit down there, and
you shall hear all there is to it. I wished to see your mother, your
brother, and yourself--what you called ‘unknownst’--and find out what
you were like.”
“And, by Jove, you have been most unfortunately successful!”
“Not altogether unfortunate----”
“But I don’t think it was fair, Aunt Nora,” he protested; “I don’t
think it was playing the game!”
“Well, there we differ. I am a rich woman. Tom agreed that our money is
to go to the Dorans, my brother’s children, and I naturally wanted to
discover what sort of people the Dorans were? As a girl, I was wild,
and fond of fun and dancing; but my father, who was a very stern old
man, kept me all but locked up. He had forgotten his own youth, poor
man, and even his middle age. He married, you know, late in life. I
was full of spirits, and daring, and once I got out and dressed up in
Katty Foley’s clothes and went to a wake as her cousin, a strange young
woman from Dublin. I was glad to see Katty. That’s a nice bright girl
of hers; she has some notions, and is real well-looking. Well, to go on
with my story, I had a great success. I could take off the brogue to
the life, and at the wake I met Tom, and that was the beginning of the
end.”
“But did you never go out at all, in your own rank of life--meet
people?”
“Never, except to church, and now and then after the hounds. The only
pleasure I had at all, was through your father, and you see he went to
India. Tom Grogan was handsome and steady, and well enough educated.
He had a place offered him in the States. I was just crazy to see the
world. I loved Tom, and I ran away with him, and never regretted it,
which is more than some can say. He has always been just lovely to me.
We have worked hard and done well, and out there we are as good as
any--being respectable, self-respecting, and real rich. I often longed
to come over and see the old place, but I was ashamed to face people
and the _talk_. However, then Tom had a sudden call to London, and I
came with him--almost at a moment’s notice. The idea was his to start
with: I got a hustle on, and felt I’d just got to do it, and that was
all there was to it, and fixed myself up as you see, a week and more
ago; and then I was laid up with a real bad cold. Mrs. Hogan herself
nursed me. _She_ knows--she actually knew me when the bonnet was off.
But she can keep my secret, and she will. Of course, my dear boy, I’m
not going to take your money. I was only trying and testing you, like
an old witch in a fairy tale. I’m real glad I met you in the avenue
this evening, for to tell you the truth I felt so discouraged I was
going right away, never wishing to see a Doran again.”
“I don’t know what my mother will say, and Barky, when I tell them,”
said Ulick, after a pause.
“That is immaterial, Ulick. I wish you would come over to Queenstown
with me to-morrow, and meet Tom; he would be real glad to know you.”
Ulick shook his head.
“Thank you, Aunt Nora, but I could not get away now. I’ve ever so many
young hunters on hand. Duffy is sick.”
“Why, it sounds like old times to hear his name! Do you know that we
once had a boy called Ulick; he was killed in a lift accident when
he was eleven years of age, and now we have no one belonging to us
whatever.”
“I’m awfully sorry for you, Aunt Nora, and for your disappointment
here. I am not much good at talking, but----”
“But better at doing.”
“And I had better be going.”
“No, no; here is Mrs. Hogan with the tray. You will just stay and keep
your aunt Nora company, and let us get to know one another a bit, my
dear boy.”
So Ulick was persuaded, and he and his aunt made friends; he was so
like her dear brother, not only in appearance, but ways, that she
almost felt that it was she and the Ulick of her young days, once
more _tête-à-tête_, and it was an easy matter to take his boy into
her heart. The poor fellow, she knew, had a scanty allowance, and yet
he had brought his little all, to his aunt’s old begging friend; she
secretly resolved that that kindly meant loan, should be repaid by a
great fortune. Mrs. Grogan drew the lad out about his regiment, his
comrades, his plans, and tastes. She made him promise to write her long
letters, to keep her well posted in his affairs, and ultimately to go
over, and visit them. At ten o’clock she rose, and said--
“Now I must turn you out, for I’ve an early start to-morrow.”
“You won’t think too badly of my mother and Barky, will you?” he
pleaded.
“My dear, I am not going to think of _them_, one mite! At first I felt
mad: now I’m as cool as a cucumber. _You_ are enough for me. You may
tell them it’s no matter, and they have got no need to worry. Now,
good-bye, my dear Ulick, and bless you. Keep a corner in your heart for
your old American auntie”; and she kissed him affectionately on both
cheeks.
Two or three minutes later the patient dairy pony was on his way
home. It was considerably after ten o’clock when Ulick entered the
dining-room and found his mother and Barky still sitting there. (For
one thing it economised candle-light, and for another, Barky could
smoke to his heart’s content.)
“Ulick, this is a pretty hour for you to be coming home!” began his
mother, in a high, excited key, “and you never told me you were dining
out. I suppose these are military manners? Where have you been, pray?”
“At ‘The Arms.’ I’ve had my dinner. I did not intend to stay, and I had
no way of letting you know. I am sorry you waited.”
“Oh, oh! I expect you were hob-nobbing with some _lady_, if the truth
were known, you sly fox,” cried Barky.
“Well, yes, you’ve made a good shot. I was dining with a lady. Now for
it,” said Ulick to himself.
“I know! The old bag-woman! Ha, ha, ha!”
“Yes. And the old bag-woman turns out to be--who do you think? Our aunt
Nora herself!”
“Ah, man alive, you’re drunk,” shouted Barky, pushing back his chair.
“Not I. I met her in the avenue this afternoon. I went down with
a small loan I promised her, and after I got there, and saw her,
she suddenly slipped off bonnet, wig, and cloak, and turned into a
handsome, well-dressed, elderly lady!”
Mrs. Doran, for once in her life, was too horrified to speak; her
feelings were beyond the power of expression. Words failed her, and she
simply sat glaring at her youngest son, as if he were some horrible
monster.
“She said she had long wished to come home and see us all, and what we
were like?” he resumed, “but could not face the situation. At last,
as her husband was over on business, she accompanied him, and explored
about here, as you saw.”
“Good-bye to her money!” roared Barky. “Mother, you’ve done me out of a
million dollars, if all you told me that you said to her is true!”
Mrs. Doran’s face had become mottled with red patches.
“Just what comes of associating with low company. A _lady_ would never
have played us such a trick,” she said, when she had at last found her
voice. “Is she going away early to-morrow?”
“Yes, to Queenstown, to catch the American boat.”
“Then I’ll write a line at once”--rising as she spoke.
“Mother,” protested Barky, “_don’t_.”
“Yes, I certainly will. I’ll apologise, and explain. After all, she has
only herself to thank for her cool reception. Your aunt had no business
to come home as a masquerader, and she really got what she deserved;
but I will send her a nice letter. Tom shall take the dairy pony and
ride down.”
Once again the dairy pony carried an errand to Mrs. Aron at “The Arms,”
but on the last occasion he had his journey for nothing--to Mrs.
Doran’s note there was no reply.
CHAPTER VII
As winter advanced, the outlook for hunting was excellent, but, on the
other hand, the prospects of the poor were lamentable. It had been
a miserably wet harvest; there was a blight on most of the potato
crops. Altogether, times were bad, and many decent, respectable old
people were just struggling to keep the workhouse at arm’s length. The
upper class in this part of the world were not wealthy; times were
bad with them also, but they did what they could, and started a fund
to provide firing, blankets, soup, and tea. In order to augment this
subscription, Mrs. Doran, the ever bustling and benevolent, suggested
holding a concert in the big drawing-room of the old part of the
Castle, which, with one or two small passages, a cavernous kitchen,
and pantries, was all of the dwelling that remained from the fire.
This drawing-room lay at the opposite end of the yard from the present
somewhat jerry-built mansion, and was utilised as a sort of general
lumber- and store-room. It proved, when emptied, capable of holding
three or four hundred people, and Mrs. Doran generously offered it
free of charge. Decorations, she declared, were easy; chairs and forms
could be borrowed; she would lend her piano--yes, and her youngest
son should be one of the performers; for Ulick, as most people knew,
had a delightful voice. The eager lady drove about the country and
expounded her scheme to her neighbours with convincing eloquence. The
concert, of course, to be undenominational: the schoolmistress could
get up glees, Lady Tandragee would play the violin, Father Daly, the
parish priest, should sing, and the rectory girls perform on the piano;
kind friends must contribute their talents, and the public their money.
Tickets were to be ten shillings, five shillings, and two shillings,
and there were to be--oh, marvel!--refreshments, which would be served
in the Castle dining-room and servants’ hall, according to the rank of
the ticket-holders. For, as Mrs. Doran declared, people could not be
expected to come for miles and sit out two mortal hours and more, and
then go away hungry. Her hearers listened and approved. But was this
really Mrs. Doran who was setting forth such an innovation?--she, of
all people, who suffered acquaintances to come and visit her from many
miles distant, and rarely “put up” a horse, or offered the caller a cup
of tea! What had come to her? Possibly now that her youngest son was at
home, he had wisely prevailed on his mother to be less penurious, and
more like other people. At any rate, Mrs. Doran was in her element; she
was a born organiser; arranged a stage, wall-lamps, programmes, chairs,
forms, and collected a really capital company. She borrowed far and she
borrowed near; her pen, as she said herself, was never out of her hand!
and, thanks to her exertions, which were prodigious, every ticket was
sold. Lady Borrisokane was coming, weather permitting, with a large
party, and General and Mrs. Haverstock were bringing a houseful of
guests. For many days the grand concert and little but the concert was
discussed in cabin, cottage, and Castle. The schoolmistress drilled a
selection of girls to sing in the glees, and among the chosen was Mary
Foley. The others were the daughters of strong farmers, or of people
of the shopkeeping class; but Mary had a deliciously sweet treble,
and could not well be overlooked; although her companions were a bit
above her station, her voice soared above theirs, as a lark’s above
the twittering of finches. All were commanded to appear in white, and
Mary’s dress for her first communion came in nicely for the splendid
occasion.
A full moon and a hard frost, made locomotion easy on the eventful
evening, and by seven o’clock the yard of the Castle was packed with
every description of vehicle, from an ass’s car to a smart private
omnibus, and a bicycle to a mourning coach; “the house,” so to speak,
was crammed to the door, the farmers and tradespeople gladly paid five
shillings for a good charity, which combined songs, a supper, and a
sight of all the quality in the country! The poorer folk expended
two shillings, to show they could afford it, and were not coming on
the parish; the boys also paid for the girls. There was much to see:
the old drawing-room did not know itself; its walls were decorated
with holly and pink paper, lit up by flaring wall-lamps. At the upper
end was a platform (covered and draped in turkey red, rising from
a forest of palms and exotic plants) on which stood a grand piano,
chairs, and yet more palms. Behind this platform hung the doctor’s
best drawing-room curtains, concealing the exit and entrance to the
green-room (down three rickety steps and into a mouldy pantry), where
was a lamp and a couple of kitchen chairs. By the time the five- and
two-shilling seats had digested all these splendid details, the
ten-shilling places began to arrive. It was the first time that many of
the simple crowd had seen a real diamond necklace, or a black velvet
dress. Lady Borrisokane’s head was covered with white plumes, “for all
the world,” as some one said, “like a child’s hearse!” There was his
lordship, bent in the shoulders, bald on the head, and furious in the
face! Undoubtedly he was here against his will. Lady Tandragee, smart
and showy in spangled pink satin, with a low body and pearls--the
sight of her was worth at least one shilling. Next came Sir Thomas,
in his pink coat, the honourable Mrs. Fagan and three daughters,
all heiresses, but as plain as a heap of stones. The general, very
gay-looking, with grand company; the rector of the parish; the parish
priest. Each party or individual was loudly clapped as they entered;
some were embarrassed, some laughed, others accepted the demonstration
as their due, and indeed, Mrs. Fagan went so far as to scatter half
a dozen stately bows! By the time they had all found seats, the
doors were closed. The room was full--even the window-sills were
occupied, and no less than five boys were seated (half-price) upon the
chimney-piece.
It is perhaps scarcely necessary to mention that the concert opened
with a duet--the Overture to _Zampa_! After this the comic man sang a
capital song, “Lannigan’s Ball.” The next item was a solo on the violin
by Lady Tandragee, much appreciated by the ten-shilling places, but
the performance was rather over the heads of the others; she gave a
concerto delightfully. The farmer folk thought it most amazing to see a
lady playing the fiddle; the working of her arms was a real wonder, but
she was not getting out much tune! However, when she concluded, they
clapped and stamped from politeness, and a good-natured appreciation
of her desperate exertions. After an encore, there was a humorous
recitation by the rector; and the last item on the first part was a
song by Ulick Doran, Esq. When he stepped forward in his evening-dress
clothes, looking remarkably handsome and well groomed, there was a loud
burst of applause, and a noisy shuffling of feet under the cheap forms.
Mr. Doran was entirely at his ease, the result of a long apprenticeship
to soldiers’ sing-songs, and he sang in a fine, clear voice the
well-known melody--
“Rich and rare were the gems she wore.”
This being wildly encored, he gave them “Father O’Flynn,” and
subsequently, without waiting for an uproarious demonstration,
descended headlong into the so-called green-room--which he had named
“the black hole.”
The interval lasted ten minutes only, and during the time people talked
to one another, some even leaving their places, and visiting about;
their voices sounded like the buzzing of a great swarm of bees; so far
every one agreed that the concert was a wonderful success.
The second part of the entertainment opened with a glee. Ten young
girls trooped up, and bashfully took their places on the stage, and
sang “The Hunting Morn,” no doubt in compliment to the members of the
Harkaway pack, who were present. The glee went capitally, and was
loudly encored; the ten maidens were duly prepared, and sang another
with equal success.
Among the group, Mary Foley was supreme; she had a brilliant colour,
her eyes shone with excitement, her voice was clear and high, she was
not the least self-conscious, although the gaze of all her little world
was concentrated on her, including the gaze of Mr. Ulick Doran--for,
owing to the exigencies of space already indicated, performers who
had played their parts, immediately resumed their seats among the
audience. The girl created a sensation, not merely in the cheap, but
the ten-shilling places. Her neighbours and friends asked one another
if Mary didn’t look for all the world like a lady born? as good as the
best! and twice as natural as some that were there?
“An will ye luck at the turn of her neck,” said Mrs. Hogan of “The
Arms,” “and the grand set of her head. She might well be somebody,
instead of just a working girl, the daughter of John Foley.”
Among the upper ten she was prodigiously admired; but Mrs. Doran did
her utmost to damp all enthusiasm and extinguish curiosity, and was
uncommonly sorry she had allowed the Foley girl to appear. She was far
too conspicuous.
“Oh, she was just taken in to make up the dozen,” she explained, “and
is only the daughter of one of our cottagers; indeed, she lives in a
humble way, and is not in the same class as the rest.”
“Now, I should have said it was the other way about,” exclaimed Lady
Borrisokane. “It shows one should not judge by appearances. She really
looks almost ladylike--have you noticed her hands?”
“No!” impatiently, “I never looked at them, though she is my egg-girl
this six years. She is inclined to be a bit above her station, and I
make a point of keeping her in her place. It is the really _truest_
kindness.”
“She is most awfully pretty and jolly-looking,” put in a young man. “I
only wish----”
“_Hussh!_” interrupted the presiding lady. “Father Daly is going to
sing.”
And the parish priest, who was a general favourite, emerged from the
curtain, and gave them “Killarney” in a fine mellow voice, which
was clapped to the echo by his parishioners. After a violin solo,
and another glee, and a duet on the grand piano (Irish melodies and
fireworks), there was a considerable delay. The lamp in the black hole
had gone out, and an embarrassing collision occurred between coming and
going performers. Then Ulick Doran stepped up on the platform; on this
occasion carrying a much-beribboned guitar. He fetched a chair forward,
sat down, deliberately tuned up the instrument, struck one or two rich
chords, and then broke into “Torear por lo fino” (“The song of the
Spanish bull-fighter”).
“El tipo mas flamena que hayen
Espa-ña.”
he sang--
“Es este cuerpecito con tanta
Gra-cia.
Con tanta gracia y este cuerpecito
Y este cuerpecito, Salero!
Con tanta gracia.
Olé con, olé ola, y olé, barbian de
Mas gracia no habra visto uste!”
Not one word could his audience understand; they could, however,
realise that a remarkably good-looking young man, playing a guitar,
decorated with beautiful crimson and yellow ribbons, was singing
a catching and delightful melody with extraordinary spirit and
expression; so much so, they felt fired with an almost irrepressible
desire to join in the inspiriting refrain--
“Olé con, olé ola, y olé barbian de
Mas gracia no habra visto uste!”
Indeed, for many a day the boys in the neighbourhood might be heard
whistling the air, or bursting suddenly into--
“Olé con, olé ola,”
for the Irish peasant is naturally musical, and has a true ear.
The audience, by the end of the third verse, were completely carried
away. Something in the Toreador song stirred them. And if the general
audience were thus touched, what of an impressionable girl? Something
in the voice and the air seemed to call forth a sudden joy in the heart
of Mary Foley--a joy, an ecstasy, that thrilled her. “Olé con, olé
ola!” rang in her ears for months!
After the bull-fighter’s song burst a wild hurricane of applause. Mrs.
Doran trembled for the poor old cracked ceiling. And then with “God
Save the Queen” the concert came to an end. People began to talk, to
criticise, to collect wraps, and to wonder, “what sort of refreshments
would be forthcoming?”
The light supper in the dining-room was excellent, as far as it
went--hot soup, sandwiches, tea, coffee, claret-cup, jelly, cakes.
In the servants’ hall were buns, bread and jam, tea, roasted potatoes,
and cold corned beef. “A great spread entirely,” agreed the company.
Barky and Ulick looked in, in order to see how the guests were looked
after, Barky from curiosity and a profound sense of his own importance,
Ulick carried there by an overwhelming desire to speak to Mary Foley.
They found an immense crush, and a merry, noisy, hungry crew. People
were standing, sitting, eating, drinking, and enjoying themselves just
anyhow. At last he discovered Mary in a corner, hemmed in by a circle
of admirers, which included Patsie Maguire. She seemed to stand out
from her entourage in the most extraordinary way. Certainly Mary had
a wonderful personality, and an intangible quality of refinement and
piquancy. As her circle suddenly fell back, in order to make room for
Mr. Ulick, she coloured vividly.
“Well, Mary, I congratulate you,” he said. “You did splendidly.”
“I--I,” she stammered, “ah, sure it was nothing at all; but oh,
sir”--and her eyes shone--“your song, although I did not know the
language, it gave me a sort of wild feeling, a queer longing: I don’t
believe I’ll ever get it out of my head”--here she caught Katty’s eye,
and added hastily, “humbly begging your honour’s pardon for speaking so
free.”
“Not at all,” he rejoined. “I’m only too flattered. I picked up some
Spanish songs at Gib--Spanish music has a charm of its own, half
Arab, half I don’t know what. Don’t you think the concert was a great
success?”
“Yes, sir, I do, indeed. I wish we had one once a week.”
“Ah!” he rejoined, “you’d soon get tired of it: the second of a thing
is never the same as the first.”
“I don’t think I could give in to that, sir,” and she smiled. “What
about second thoughts?”
He was about to retort, “What about first love?” but prudently
refrained, and said, “I suppose this is the first function of the sort
you have ever been to?”
“Yes, sir, and I’m afraid it will be the last.”
“No fear of that,” he answered gaily.
As he looked at the girl in her dainty white muslin, with her delicate
features and wonderful hair, he could have imagined he was addressing
one of his own class; then he noticed the surrounding faces, the
grooms, gardeners, and labouring men, and their families, and realised
that Mary was one of _these_. She was unaccountably shy, and would only
say yes or no, being aware that her mother was watching her keenly;
so was Mrs. Hogan, and, to tell the truth, also the jealous eyes of a
dozen other girls and young men were wondering to see Mr. Ulick making
so much of little Mary Foley! Possibly the situation struck him as
somewhat _prononcé_, and he hastened to distribute greetings and nods
among a number of the crowd, in his pleasant off-hand manner; then he
took himself away to his proper sphere, among the somewhat dull quality
in the dining-room!
Mary walked home, one of a large and merry party that clear frosty
night, silent herself, but listening to the “talk” about the
gentry--their grand dress and looks--the quality of the refreshments,
Father Daly’s singing, and Mr. Ulick’s, which “just beat all.” “Begob,
’tis him could sing the heart out of a girl’s breast,” declared one
admirer, and in this opinion Mary silently concurred; his song was
still ringing in her ears. How different he was to the young men and
boys, with his white glossy shirt-front, and beautiful little neat tie,
the faint scent of cigars about him, and his nice clean hands--how
superior to Patsie Maguire, with his coarse hair, broken nails, and
atmosphere of turf and tallow. Even in his new tweeds, Patsie looked
nothing at all, and had a great slouch on him. Undoubtedly it was hard
on poor Patsie thus to draw comparisons between him and his master, who
had the advantage of a drill-sergeant and a first-rate tailor; but at
any rate Ulick Doran had unwittingly accomplished one feat.
He had “sung the heart out of Mary Foley’s breast.”
CHAPTER VIII
After the concert came a day of reckoning; that is to say, a winding
up of the financial part of the performance. The parish complacently
expected a substantial sum for coal and blankets, tea and sugar. Boots?
Certainly there would be boots; and they were badly wanted. The simple
folk had made their calculation something after this fashion: three
hundred shillings was fifteen pounds, anyhow; the room was free. Take
an average of five shillings all round, was not that seventy-five
pounds? The neighbourhood nodded, and grinned, and figuratively
rubbed its hands. But unfortunately the neighbourhood had reckoned
without Mrs. Doran and her little bills for carting, hiring, lighting,
decorations, printing, and refreshments--the amount came to £57 11_s._
6_d._--and when she handed the small balance to the Rector and the
Rev. Father Daly, their countenances expressed the blankest dismay.
The lady was in her own house, entrenched in a business-like attitude
behind her writing-table, as she tendered the cheque with an air of
bold assurance, not unflavoured with patronage. For a moment there was
an awful silence. Mr. West took the bit of paper, stared at it as if he
could not credit his faculties, cleared his throat, and passed it on to
the priest.
Father Daly became red in the face (he was a man of full habit and of
somewhat impetuous temper). He spoke at last, in his deep rich brogue.
“Goodness preserve us, Mrs. Doran! what does this mean? What has become
of all the money for our poor people?”
“Become?” she repeated. “Some was spent in their interest; the balance
is in your hand--a cheque on the Munster Bank.”
“But surely to goodness----” he reiterated.
“There are my accounts,” she interrupted angrily. The lady was not
prepared for this inquisition, and believed that the two men would
thankfully accept her largesse and so depart.
“I certainly understood that the refreshments were provided gratis,”
put in Mr. West, with unprecedented courage.
“Pray who said so? I’m sure _I_ never did. See, it is merely stated,”
snatching up a programme, “_There will be refreshments_.”
A pause. Yes; the fact was patent; the statement had involved no
promise; the matter had been understood, taken for granted, but Mrs.
Doran never permitted anything to be _taken_ from her.
“Surely you don’t suppose for a moment,” she resumed, with rising
temper, “that _I_ was to feed three hundred people, out of my own
pocket, now do you?” and she threw herself back in her chair, and
contemplated her visitors with her hard black eyes.
“Well, yes, ma’am,” rejoined the priest, “I must declare that I was
under that impression. After all, it was only once in a way.”
“What nonsense!” she exclaimed. “Why, I was the only person who _gave_
anything. The room, the piano, my servants’ time, my own time and
exertions, all the trouble. However”--and here she gave a sniff of
definite resolve--“it will be a lesson to me not to put myself out
another time.”
“Well, I suppose there is no more to be said!” exclaimed Mr. West,
turning to his companion with an expression of despair.
“Except, perhaps, the little word _thank_ you?” sneered Mrs. Doran, who
was trembling with suppressed rage.
“Well, I don’t know about thanks,” observed the priest, turning
squarely on the lady, “but I’ll just say the _little word_”; and he
paused. “God forgive me if I am wrong, but I believe, woman, you have
cheated the poor! Yes”--with uplifted hand--“you got up this concert
for them, and have put the earnings into your own hungry pocket. I am
not a fool. You need not tell me that a few gallons of tea, and soup,
and a couple of tins of kerosene oil, would cost nearly sixty pounds!
And see, now I’ll punish you.”
“What? You will punish me!” she screamed hysterically. “I’d like to see
you attempt it.”
“Yes, I’ll publish an account of the grand concert, and its takings,
and all your little bills”--here he stretched out his big hand and
gathered them up--“in the Cork paper and the _Irish Times_. This I will
do at my own expense, and so let the world know what you are made of.
If the Colonel were alive, I would never do it, nor shame him, good,
innocent man; but as for you, you avaricious cormorant, you have no
shame whatever--you do not know the name. Come away, West; this is no
place for the servants of God!” and before Mrs. Doran could recover her
senses and speech she was alone.
When the amount of the balance became known, naturally there was a
terrible outcry. “The old wan” had surpassed herself this time! The
lady had beaten every record. Some people laughed, others were furious,
and as for the poor, they said, “Arrah! what could ye expect from Mrs.
Doran? When did she give away bite or sup? She only gives trouble.
Faix, the ould wan has it in for her.”
The particulars of the great scene in the study were imparted to Barky
and Ulick. Barky, who was, of course, on his mother’s side, swore a
terrible vengeance on Father Daly, but his brother was overwhelmed
with shame. He wrote to his banker’s, and he rode down to Mr. West and
had a good square talk with him; and the result of the conversation
was that Father Daly withdrew his threatened exposure when he received
an anonymous contribution of sixty pounds. Well, he knew where the
money came from--generous young Ulick was his father’s own son; and
accordingly, the scandal respecting “refreshments” was quickly hushed
up, and not suffered to spread, though in the immediate neighbourhood
of the Castle “Mrs. Doran’s concert” is talked of to the present day!
* * * * *
The frost did not last long. Hunting was speedily resumed, and Ulick
was in his element. He had three capital horses, and rode them in the
first flight. As the meets were early, and at a distance, and it was
dark when he jogged home, he had not much chance of prosecuting his
acquaintance with Mary Foley; now and then he came across her; once
he met her on Sunday, just outside the Castle gates, coming from
mass, with her prayer-book neatly wrapped in a clean handkerchief, and
accosted her.
“So you’ve been saying your prayers?” he began.
“Yes, yer honour”--a curtsey--“but there was a sermon too.”
“Was it a good one?”
“It was so, sir.”
“Tell me what is your idea of a good sermon, Mary?”
“Oh, well, one that makes yer blood creep. Father Dunne is a nice quiet
man, but he never frightens ye, or puts the fear of death in ye, not
like Father Daly. ’Twas him as preached to-day.”
“Yes. Tell me all about it?”
“Then, sir, I declare ye might have heard the people breathing! They
were just paralysed!”
“Ah! And were you frightened?”
“I cannot say I was all out--just a bit disheartened with myself. I
know I’m a black sinner.”
“I wish to God my soul was as white as yours, Mary!”
“O Lord, sir!” she ejaculated, aghast, “you must not say the like of
these things to _me_, and--and----” Colouring up, and taking a firm
hold of her resolution, she curtseyed herself off.
One afternoon, some weeks later, Ulick Doran overtook the pretty
egg-girl on her way from market. Her mother was beginning to feel the
distance long, unless she could get a lift, and Mary was alone.
The young man dismounted from his weary horse, and walked beside
her with the bridle over his arm for three whole happy miles. The
afternoon was clear; there was a slim young moon. A red coat is
somewhat conspicuous, and the couple were passed by one or two of
the neighbours, and descried from a distance by Father Daly himself!
All the same, their conversation was absolutely harmless--it was even
stupid (but they could subsequently recall each precious syllable); and
yet, with every step they took, they fell deeper and deeper into love
(but with a frightened consciousness, like--as R. L. Stevenson says--a
pair of children venturing together into a dark room). Sixteen and
twenty-three--how could they help it?
They were both sensible of an indescribable something that drew them
irresistibly towards one another. He appealed to her, because he was
just Mr. Ulick--and a gentleman. She to him by her strange magnetic
personality; she was totally different to any girl he had ever
seen--coarsely clad yet dainty, bold yet shy; as for her face, it
recalled the exquisite miniature of some piquante beauty at the court
of Louis XIV., and Ulick Doran was poignantly aware of her soft low
voice, her sweet eyes, her hair, and her upturned, questioning gaze.
But Mary was Mary, a peasant’s daughter, and, being a girl of the
people, his lips were locked. Nevertheless, he adored her.
By-and-by, with the spring weather, a little “talk” began to circulate.
It was whispered that Mr. Ulick had given Mary Foley his red pup, and
that more than once he had been seen walking out with her! The news
came to the ears of Father Daly, who had indeed beheld the couple with
his own two eyes, and promptly descended upon Mrs. Foley and Mary, and
gave them an impressive, never-to-be-forgotten lecture. The gossip also
reached Mrs. Doran, who was furious. She made no remark to her son,
but she went to Foley’s corner, and enacted a great scene with Katty,
having discovered that unhappy woman alone. The lady strode into the
cottage, and began without any preamble, such as “How are you?” or “A
fine day!” “Katty Foley, only you have a lease here, do you know that
I’d throw you into the road!” Long residence in Ireland had infected
the matron’s vocabulary.
“Ah, for why, me lady?” rising stiffly as she spoke.
“Why? Because of your daughter’s brazen behaviour with my son, Mr.
Ulick. It’s the scandal of the county.”
“Mary is a good girl,” responded Katty, in a tremulous voice. “God
knows there’s no harm in her, whativer.”
“Is there not? She is going the right way about losing her character,
walking the roads with a gentleman.”
“She never did no such thing! Once I’ll allow he overtook her; on
another time she overtook him--it was a pure accident.”
“An accident on purpose!” said Mrs. Doran venomously. “She waylaid
him. And I suppose he has not lent her books; that’s not his dog lying
there?”
“Sure, Mr. Ulick gave him to me, because the house is so lonesome, me
lady,” she answered, with submissive deprecation. “No one in the house
since I buried poor John, so Mr. Ulick, he says, ‘Would you like a dog,
Katty?’ and there he is.”
“There he is, indeed! Love me, love my dog. You could have got one
anywhere; pups are as common as kittens. He gave that terrier to
Mary--a prize one, that cost him three guineas.”
As Mrs. Foley could not combat this statement, her visitor resumed:
“I’ve just come to say one word, and it is my last. If you encourage
my son here, and he ever darkens your door, you never enter my gates,
and I will make it very unpleasant for you, Mrs. Foley. Look after your
daughter, forbid her to speak to him, or you will be sorry yet. You
don’t suppose that he would marry her, do you?”
“God knows I never thought of such a thing, my lady; I’d never wish my
girl to be looked down on. I would not let him put a ring on her; I
have my pride.”
“_Your_ pride!” cried Mrs. Doran. “Well, that is a good joke. Your
pride!” she repeated hysterically, as she swept out of the kitchen,
like a tornado in black petticoats.
Not long after this raid, the lady of the castle came suddenly on
the culprit herself. It was a fine March afternoon, and, wearing her
best merino frock and her Sunday shoes, Mary was on her way to drink
a cup of tea with her friend Bridget Curran, and show her the elegant
fine-drawn work she was after doing for Mrs. Hogan. Suddenly, at a
corner, she found herself face to face with the person she most dreaded
in the whole world, who deliberately halted, stared hard, and then
burst out, “Where did you get that gold locket and chain? But I need
not ask; you have a bold face to be going about the country, wearing
my son’s presents”; and before the girl was aware Mrs. Doran suddenly
stretched out her hand, broke the chain with a violent snap, and flung
it and the little locket, into the middle of the road.
“What are ye doing, ma’am?” cried the girl, roused to passion.
“I’m tearing my son’s presents off you, you wicked, scheming little
hussy!”
“’Tis none of your son’s presents,” rejoined Mary, with her face
aflame. “I’m not that sort; I take nothing from a gentleman.”
“You took his dog!” retorted the other triumphantly.
“I did not,” replied Mary, quivering with antagonism; “and I bought the
locket with my own money”; and she held up her head and surveyed Mrs.
Doran with fierce, if unspoken defiance.
“You’re a liar! a liar! a liar!” screamed her enemy, now abandoning all
self-control.
“I am not, and it’s as true as if I was to be judged, that I bought it
with my egg money; and God knows it took me long enough to gather--six
mortal years; but it came out of his mother’s meanness, and not out of
Mr. Ulick’s purse.” And when she concluded, Mary stooped and picked up
the battered little gewgaw, which had cost her three pounds.
“As for being a liar,” she resumed, “them’s queer sort of words for a
lady to use--but then _you_ are no lady.”
“If you don’t take care, I’ll box your ears!” screamed the matron.
Father Daly had called her “shameless.” This chit of an egg-girl
declared she was no “lady.” Was the world coming to an end? “Mind”--and
she seized the girl’s arm in a grip of passion--“if ever you dare to
speak to my son again, it will be worse for you.”
“I see ye have a poor opinion of Mr. Ulick, ma’am,” she answered,
wrenching herself out of Mrs. Doran’s grasp.
“No, but of you, you double-faced schemer--you odious little red-haired
flirt. You will come to a bad end!” and Mrs. Doran passed on, now
breathless, and completely exhausted by the violence of her own
emotions.
Mary had solemnly promised her mother and the priest that she would
never speak again with Mr. Ulick, and somehow the little scandal (and
it was a small one) was scotched and smothered. The girl kept out of
her lover’s way with conscientious avoidance; once, indeed, she met him
riding with a beautiful young lady on a grey horse, and he had nodded
gaily to her; but when they were out of sight, the miserable girl had
crept into a field close by, pulled her shawl over her head, and wept,
oh! such hot, painful, jealous tears. Shortly afterwards Mr. Ulick
went away to England, and his admiration for Mary Foley was forgotten;
the little Foley girl now took her eggs to market town--she never went
near the Castle. This stubborn defection was a disagreeable experience
to Mrs. Doran, who drove a thriving trade with a considerable egg
connection--friends to whom she offered the surplus of her hen-house,
posting many boxes at a clear profit of sixpence a dozen. Mary’s supply
was regular--such nice, large brown eggs! Unfortunately the recent
scene on the road had actually cost poor Mrs. Doran several shillings a
week!
It was noticed that Mary had grown rather white and “dawnchie” looking;
some people said the poor angashore was losing her good looks, whilst
others declared she was going into a decline, same as Kathleen Kelly
when her boy died in America, and eagerly recommended a strong infusion
of cat-nip tea.
One evening late, Katty was in bed; Mary still sat up working--what was
the use of lying down, she asked herself, when she could not sleep? She
was knitting close to the kitchen window, by the light of a fine April
moon; outside it was nearly as bright as day. She intended to finish
the stocking that night; she liked knitting, for she could both knit
and--think.
All at once something interposed between the moon and herself--a
face, a man’s face, was pressed against the window. Mary rose with a
half-stifled scream, and then recognised, with a violent thrill and
shock of joy, the well-cut features of Mr. Ulick.
“Mary!” he said, “Mary! Come quite close to the window, will you?”
“Whist,” she answered sharply. “I must not speak to you; I’ve promised
my mother and the priest.” But she approached nearer to the window all
the same.
“You may speak to me this once, Mary, for I’ve come to bid you
good-bye. I am off to India to-morrow.”
“Is it to India?” she repeated mechanically.
“Yes, and I ran across the mountains just to try and catch a sight of
you before I start, for the chances are----” He stopped, and his lips
twitched.
“Yes?” she asked.
“That we shall never see one another again.”
“Oh, Mr. Ulick! Oh, Mr. Ulick!” She broke down, her thoughts filled
with the terror of separation, and tears ran from her eyes. “Don’t say
that. Don’t.”
“Yes. There is nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,
and it has been very sweet. Mary, although I’ve never said one word to
you that I might not have addressed to your mother, I’m sure you have
_guessed_. Now I came here to tell you the truth; I felt that before I
went away, I must speak. I love you, Mary, and I know my own mind. I
shall never forget you to my dying day. Yet we can never be anything to
one another.”
Mary gazed at his face--white in the moonlight--and made a sudden
shivering gesture, pierced with a sense of something tragic and
irreparable. She moaned, “Oh, I wish I was dead, that I do.”
“Oh, no, don’t say that. You will have many happy years before you.
Why, you are only sixteen. You will soon forget me, and it will be
better for you.”
“If you can remember, so can I,” she answered proudly.
“It is hard lines, Mary. I wish I was just a labouring boy for your
sake; but you know that unequal matches bring no luck. There is a
barrier between us, like this pane of glass.”
“Yes, that’s true,” she murmured.
“Open the window, Mary,” he urged. “Just an inch.”
“Sure I can’t; it’s nailed fast! Are ye up at the Castle?”
“Up at the Castle they think I am in Queenstown. My mother was very
rude to you, I’m afraid; she has a hot temper, poor woman, and she
believes the Dorans are next door to royalty. She would like me to
marry an earl’s daughter. I’ll never marry now, and I must go. God
bless you. I wish I could shake you by the hand, but I won’t ask to
come in----” He paused, and stared hard at her. “Mary, look here. Will
you kiss me through the window? It won’t be a _real_ kiss, you know,
but it will be something for me to carry away, and a sign you cared for
me--here, just on this little star.”
As she nodded quickly, he bent his head, removed his cap, and pressed
his lips on the pane. Mary too leant forward, and deliberately laid
hers on the self-same spot. Then he stepped back and looked at her
with misty eyes that said farewell. Suddenly he, with a vehement and
pathetic gesture, waved his hand, and vanished.
Mary Foley spent the remainder of that unhappy night rocking to and fro
and sobbing in a chair. Her heart was broken, she told herself--broken,
broken, broken! What was the good of living at all, when she could
never again lay an eye on Mr. Ulick, and Mr. Ulick loved her!
Struggling through the eclipse of grief, that truth shone like a fixed
star.
Meanwhile a light, active figure might be seen, running or walking by
turns along a short cut which led to a junction over the hills nine
miles away. Ulick Doran had to catch a mail train at one o’clock. If
he missed it, he would forfeit his passage in the trooper lying at
Queenstown, and be reported absent without leave.
He had dallied too long with his love, and now it became a race for his
commission, and his career. In the still cool night he fancied he heard
the train approaching miles away, the faint, muffled rumble becoming
more and more distinct. He ran the last mile downhill at extraordinary
speed, and dashed into the junction just as the signal was lowered, and
the night mail to Cork came thundering over the points.
“It had been a narrow shave, and he had only just done it,” Ulick said
to himself, as he sat in a corner of an empty smoking carriage. When
the express moved on, he seemed every now and then to see Mary Foley’s
beautiful wistful face gazing at him from the other side of the glass.
But no; it was a mirage--a mere mocking fancy! All that was visible
through the clear pane, was the flying landscape, the high full moon,
and the melancholy dark mountains of his native land.
END OF PART I
PART II