Within the next five minutes the man in the frieze coat was pioneering
the man in the grey tweed through the jungle of fuchsias and arbutus
which smothered the steep footpath leading down to the lake. A broken
gate lying on the ground marked the extreme limit of Lota. Presently
the lawyer and labourer were striding by the water’s edge side by side,
and Mike resumed the relation of his story, precisely as if the thread
had never been snapped.
“Ye see, old John Foley, who was terribly proud of Mary, was took off
of a sudden in a fit, and of late his wife got queer in her head.
They do say her mother was the same, though some made out it was
tay-drinking; sure enough, she never had the taypot out of her hand.
Whatever it was, she turned so mortal strange that Mary had to get her
aunt Bridgie, Katty’s sister, to come over and help mind her; but it
wasn’t better, but worse, she got-shockingly unaisy and restless and
worrying in herself, or else sitting and never speaking, all as wan as
some stone image. At long last she bid them send for the priest, as she
had something on her soul. And when he come, she ups and she told him,
and she told Mary, and she told any one that would listen, what I’m
about to tell _you_.”
Here Mike cleared his throat energetically, and continued--
“And _what_ do ye think Katty giv’ out? That her child died; it was
always droopy, and she could not bear to part wid the other. She loved
it as her own. Its father hated it, and would marry again, and rear a
family, and never grudge _her_ the pretty little girlie at all! And so
she sent off her own dead baby to the grand place in England, and she
kept the stranger, who has grown up fine and strong and clever, and
everything that is surprising for quickness and talk.”
As Mike related this audacious case of child stealing, his companion’s
expression changed from the countenance of the tolerant, easily amused
listener, to that of a keen man of business, who is suddenly made
acquainted with a most serious piece of intelligence. He removed his
pipe, his lips set in one grim line, and his face was slightly flushed,
as he glanced at his guide with a penetrating sidelong look.
No, the man was no garrulous “Ananias,” but an Irish peasant of a
faithful and romantic nature, who still, year after year, week after
week, haunted the place which had once held his ideal. To the best of
his ability he was telling what he believed to be the truth.
“Katty took great pride out of the child, and soon forgot as she wasn’t
her own flesh and blood; and as for John, he never knew, and he just
lived for his daughter. Well, now Katty was growing old, and her sin
rose up and faced her, her conscience tormented her, and she said she
must ease her mind before she died. She made out she felt awful bad,
and when Mary looked in her face with her ladyship’s own two eyes, when
she smiled at her the same as her mother, she just stiffened in the
bed!”
“And how did every one receive this amazing news? What did they say to
it?” demanded Mr. Usher, in a sharp legal key.
“Oh, bedad, Mary laughed at it for pure nonsense. She was a country
girl born and bred. To be an English countess with a castle and
servants, and to wear a gold crown on her head, would just kill her,
if it was true; but it was only a fairy tale, and she was her mammy’s
daughter, and no one else----”
“What did the priest say?”
“Faix, his reverence give it against Mrs. Foley, too! Anyhow, she was
too late; twenty-wan years had passed, and there was no call to go
and upset a grand English family, and maybe for nothing. Katty, ye
see, had no proof beyond her bare word; no papers, no witnesses. Every
one jeered at Mrs. Foley’s queer notion, and treated the story as an
elegant fine joke. Mary is no Englisher, and there’s not a lighter foot
to dance a jig, or a better warrant to sing an old Irish lament, in all
the country.”
“And is that the end of it? Eh?” said the lawyer briskly.
“’Tis in a way; howsomever, Katty still whinges and whimpers and moans,
begging and praying them to make restitution--sometimes beating on the
walls with her two bare hands, and crying by the hour; she can’t stir
now, having lost the use of herself; and her legs being crippled with
rheumatism, she sits in her chair all day. Whiles, she’s reasonable
enough; but about Mary she is properly mad. She says she’s no child of
hers--and calls her _Lady_ Mary. Ye see the head of Katty is not right,
and her own mother went the same way, so people just humours her; they
are all very good to the poor crazy creature, she being a sort of
‘innocent’ in her old age.”
“I suppose they never imagine there is any foundation for her
delusion,” inquired Mr. Usher.
“No; and if there was they’d hold Mary Foley hard and fast, and keep
her, I believe, against all the lords in England; for she is one of
themselves.”
“And what do you think yourself?”
Mike made no immediate reply, but took one or two loud sucks at his
pipe. At last he said: “I believe, on me solemn oath, that there _is_
something in the story all the same.”
“You do!” cried Mr. Usher, coming to an abrupt halt, and fixing his
sharp eyes on his companion.
“In troth I do,” rejoined the old man doggedly.
“What grounds have you to go upon for supposing there is something in
it?” asked the lawyer.
“Faix, it’s no sacret,” he answered, with an air of sullen resolution;
“any one would see it that had eyes in their head. John and Katty was
as black as two crows. Mary has hair like a copper kettle, a white
swan throat, a dancing eye, and a little weenchie hand. Oh, I declare
she’s the born image of her ladyship. Now, is not that strange?” and he
turned and looked fixedly at his companion’s hard-set, wizened face.
“Not if she is her daughter!”
“Whisht!” he cried, turning about, as if he feared that the very trees
had ears. “Never let _that_ pass yer lips; I only whisper it in my
heart, when I go there alone, and sit on the terrace of a Sunday--and
to you, a black stranger, it makes no matter what I say; and somehow
it’s a relief to give out me thoughts to another creature, whether a
gentleman or a man.”
“Has this strange likeness struck other people?” inquired Mr. Usher, in
his cool, judicial tone.
“No, sir!”--now drawing up his bent back, and speaking with
overwhelming dignity. “You see none of the neighbours had much chance
of seeing the Countess. She was mostly out boating, or staying at home.
It’s twenty-wan years ago, ye know, and not a sowl remembers whether
her hair was black or yellow. Now, _I_ saw her every day, and I can
never forget her, for I never saw any wan like her, and never will
again.”
“Except Mary Foley,” amended his listener. “Is she not admired, and
remarked all over the country?”
“No, I can’t say rightly that she is, though the young men does be wild
about her; the old people and the women says she’s no great shakes;
she’s too slim and small-made for the Kerry folk, and has no colour;
they talk of her sperrit, and her singing and dancing, and her clever,
smart chat, within three parishes: but they don’t say much of Mary’s
_looks_, bekase, sir, they are a rough sort of ignorant people, and
she’s out of the common.”
“I must confess I should like to see her!” exclaimed Mr. Usher.
“An’, sure, what’s to hinder ye? That’s aisy enough, if ye will give
yerself the trouble to walk up some afternoon to Foley’s farm; there
ye will see Mary herself standing in the doorway, ready for a word and
a joke, and the house behind her just anyhow! She has no great heart
for work, though she has a kind heart for the poor, and all the dumb
creatures.”
“Well, you have told me a most interesting story,” said Mr. Usher, as
he came to a halt, “and I shall do my best to make the acquaintance of
Mary Foley. Look here!” he added, as if struck by a sudden thought,
“don’t say a word of what you’ve been telling me, to your wife. Women
talk.”
“Sure, man alive, don’t I know that, when I’ve buried three!”
“Three wives?” repeated the old bachelor incredulously. “Three?”
“Yes, faix--and all had a bit in the bank.”
“Then you must be what they call a warm man.”
“Augh, not at all”--with a gesture of repudiation--“what with bringing
them home, and putting them out, they cost me a sight of money! As
for what I’m after telling ye, sir, ’tis Bible truth, and here our
roads goes different ways. Augh, not at all!” he exclaimed. “Sure, I
would not be taking your silver, sor--it was a relief to me to spake.
Well, well, then, I’ll not say agin the tobacco! I’m thankful fer your
company and yer kindness to a bothered old man, listening to his quare,
foolish talk”; and, with a hasty nod, Mike turned his back on Mr. Usher
and hobbled away.
“But was it all quare, foolish talk?” the lawyer asked himself, as he
stood gazing after the retreating figure. “Was it one of two things: a
mere ‘mare’s nest,’ or ‘a pretty kettle of fish’?”
He was, by one of the strange coincidences (which really occur more
frequently than is supposed), Lord Mulgrave’s solicitor, agent, and
man of business. Five-and-twenty years previously he had succeeded
his father in the same responsible and lucrative billet. Mr. Usher
remembered perfectly, and with a poignant regret, the first Lady
Mulgrave, a truly exquisite creature. Her reception by the family had
been cool and suspicious; she brought but a small fortune, and she was
half French: a member of a great race (ruined and scattered by the
Terror), the head of which, on small means, and in a contracted circle,
still endeavoured to maintain their ancient pride and traditions.
The Duc de Hernoncourt, with much-reduced rental, clung to the home
of his ancestors. (The Château de Verbèrie, a famous gem of French
architecture, lying remote from cities, and surrounded by a moat, the
two wings flanked by turrets, with pointed roofs, is a well-known
picture on the local post-card.) He married an English lady, mother of
the future Countess Mulgrave. During a tour through the valley of the
Oise, Lord Mulgrave had been entertained by the de Hernoncourts--his
distant connections--and later, when Madame La Duchesse and
Mademoiselle Joseline came to London, he had persuaded the young lady
to remain in England, as his wife. Mademoiselle de Hernoncourt had hair
the colour of a copper kettle, a mignonne face, a wonderful personal
charm, precisely as described by her former gardener. She was a lady
of a distinctive appearance--once seen, never forgotten. Even the
bloodless little lawyer recalled her with an emotion that he was unable
to classify or explain. If this girl Mary Foley was her image, she
was undeniably her daughter, and Katty’s ravings were no ravings, but
embodied the painful truth.
Oh, yes, the painful truth! Lord Mulgrave was childless; his present
wife had been a fascinating little widow with one girl, when he married
her, fifteen years previously. Her ladyship was smart, ambitious,
devoted to society, dress, and social diplomacy; her daughter was
also smart and up-to-date, who shot and danced, acted and smoked; she
and her mother managed his lordship, who was a tall, taciturn man of
fifty, fond of fishing and of peace--proud, reserved, and ceremonious.
What would be the effect of introducing an uneducated Irish peasant
girl--a girl celebrated for “sperrits” and “chat” into this
aristocratic and exclusive circle? Mary was, of course, a Catholic. She
had never been in a carriage, or seen a silver fork, in her life. Yet
if all this circumstantial evidence went for anything--not to speak of
Katty’s confession--she was Lord Mulgrave’s only child and heiress. It
was in a highly perturbed frame of mind that Mr. Usher pursued his way
to the hotel. He had so much food for meditation that he made a very
poor dinner, and was unusually silent. Questioned by his sister with
respect to his excursion, his replies were brief and unsatisfactory.
“He had walked about eight miles. Yes, it was a pretty country. No, he
had not met any motors.”
Subsequently, as he sat out in the garden after dinner, smoking
cigarette after cigarette, his sister, Miss Usher, who knew his moods,
came over and took a seat beside him and said--
“Bence, I see you are getting your old London expression, and thinking
of some business.”
He nodded assent.
“Can’t you leave it behind even for six weeks, and enjoy yourself like
every one else? You know you promised me you would.”
“Yes, Emily, I know I did. It is all very well to say I’ll leave
business behind me; but what can I do when it _follows_ me here?”
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “There were no letters for you
to-day.”
“Never mind, my dear, I’ve got some hard thinking to do. A most
serious case has recently come to my notice.”
“Well, I suppose”--rising as she spoke--“I’d better leave you to do
your thinking alone. I can be no help, can I?”
“No--or--By the way! You poke about the neighbourhood a good deal, and
are in and out of the houses, looking for bits of china, and studying
the people, as you call it. Have you ever come across a place called
Foley’s farm?”
“Foley’s farm,” she repeated. “Yes, at Foley’s Corner. Quite a small
farmer lives in it, I believe. I stopped there the other day to ask the
way, and saw a beautiful girl.”
“Oh, that’s a common sight in these parts.”
“Yes, I know--of a certain style; black hair and grey eyes put in with
a dirty finger. But this one is of another type. Chestnut locks, a
graceful figure; she carries her head like royalty, and Vandyck would
have been proud to have painted her hands, though they _are_ rather red
I must confess. I have promised to lend her some magazines, and will
take them up to her one of these days.”
“Take me, too--will you?”
“But, Bence, you are not in earnest? Why, you grudge every hour you
have not a rod in your hands.”
“I’ll give the fish a holiday. I should like to see something of the
natives--the Irish at home, and that sort of thing.”
“All right, then, I will escort you up to ‘Foley’s’ as they call it;
only too happy to have your company. Well, good night.”
As she moved off, her brother remained immovable, buried in thought and
tobacco-smoke.
“No harm in going to see the young woman, at any rate,” he reflected.
It committed him to nothing. After all, perhaps he ought to leave
well alone. Apparently the girl was happy; her present home was her
natural sphere. She was but a peasant. Why upset her life and the lives
of others who were all content with their lot? Yes, to stir in the
business would be a grave and responsible action. “Better let sleeping
dogs lie”; and having arrived at this conviction, Mr. Usher sought his
couch.