Although it was a nice, cloudy day, and the wind perfect for fishing,
Mr. Usher sacrificed himself the following afternoon upon the altar of
duty. He had slept on his discovery, and had come to the conclusion
that it was his office, as Lord Mulgrave’s man of business, to
interview this girl, whom fate had, so to speak, flung at his head; and
four o’clock found him escorting his sister, Emily Usher (aged fifty,
a good soul, and a bit of a blue-stocking), along a high, breezy road
which ran above the lake, and at a certain sharp angle plunged into,
and was lost among, dense woods which crowned the hill, and spread
to the water’s edge. Clouds had gathered, a thin, cold drizzle was
descending, when the couple came to the elbow or joint where the long,
bluish-white road turned abruptly in order to accompany the lake;
they arrived at the same time at a comfortable slated cottage, with
geraniums in the windows, and a crimson rambler trained over its walls.
The cottage stood back in a little field, and was flanked by several
outhouses. At one side was a garden full of straggling hollyhocks,
currant bushes, and poultry; at the other the usual substantial turf
rick. A heavy wooden gate opened directly from the field into the
road--a most excellent talking trap for passers-by, and doubtless the
identical gate referred to by Mike Mahon. The general appearance of
the place was well-to-do, but thriftless. A couple of pigs were rooting
and grunting in the short grass; a speckled hen was perched at her ease
upon the half-door; the currant bushes and apple trees exhibited a
family washing;--conspicuous among the items were pink petticoats, and
black stockings.
The nice soft afternoon and the drizzle was developing into steady
rain, and Mr. Usher was by no means sorry to hear his sister exclaim--
“Here it is! This is Foley’s--Foley’s Corner, as they call it. I hope
we shall find the girl at home.” And as her brother shoved back the
gate she added, “I’ll go in first. Shall I?”
The pigs and geese pressed hospitably round the visitors as they walked
up the path, and when they reached the half-door the hen flew off
with a loud skwawk of expostulation. Miss Usher gave a genteel little
cough--an ineffectual signal, for the room within seemed dim and empty.
Presently she supplemented the cough with a timid “Ahem! Is _any_ one
at home?”
No reply. Brother and sister then with one consent peered into the big
flagged kitchen. Bacon in solid flitches hung from the rafters. On the
well-varnished dresser a lean white cat sat comfortably lapping from a
large pan of new milk. The fire was low, but on a girdle on the embers
a large soda cake was baking--and burning. Crouched over the fire on
a three-legged stool sat a slender, auburn-haired young woman, deeply
engrossed in a somewhat tattered volume. Cough and speech, cat or
hens, were alike indifferent to her, for at the moment she was living
in another world, far away from this gloomy kitchen and this burning
cake. In short, the auburn head was buried in _Monte Cristo_.
As Miss Usher and her brother boldly entered (immediately attended by
two geese), Mary Foley started, came back to her own everyday life, and
sprang to her feet, greeting Miss Usher with a radiant glance.
“And so,” said her brother to himself, “this was Mary Foley!”
Yes, though not locally credited with “looks,” she was undeniably
pretty--nay, even beautiful--with clear-cut, high-bred features, and,
for all her peasant’s clothes, an _aristocrat_ to the tips of her
little pink fingers.
“Ah, sure then, miss, it’s entirely too kind of you to come and
bring me the books.” As she spoke her eyes fell on the parcel, and a
wonderful smile--her ladyship’s smile--lit up her whole face.
“This is my brother,” explained Miss Usher, introducing him with a
gesture.
“I am glad to see your honour”--dropping a curtsey--“and hope your
honour has had good sport.”
“Pretty well, I thank you,” he faltered, for he was gazing at the
living image of the late Countess of Mulgrave--supposing the countess
to be dressed in a short blue calico gown and coarse white apron.
“And how is your mother to-day?” resumed Miss Usher.
“Oh, indeed, she’s only among the middlings, miss, and she’s keeping
her bed. Me aunt is gone to the town for some medicine.”
“And you are minding the house?” suggested Mr. Usher.
“And doing it badly, too, sir. Shoo! ye greedy divil!” and she made a
dart at the cat. “Out of this wid ye!” and she drove off the geese.
“But the truth is I’ve got stuck in a book, and when I do that I clean
forget everything--more shame for me.” She still held the book between
her fingers, and from the bottom of her heart wished herself alone.
“May I see what it is?” said Miss Usher. Then, as she glanced at
it--“oh, _Monte Cristo_! No wonder you were enthralled!”
“Isn’t it splendid!” she exclaimed. “Oh, it beats Banagher! I’ve just
got to where they are dragging him into the boat. Isn’t it grand!”
As she and Miss Usher stood talking, it never seemed to have occurred
to Mary Foley, that she was lacking in hospitality or good manners.
As she remained discussing the engrossing romance with his sister,
it struck Mr. Usher that Mary preferred to lounge against the table
descanting and listening, and lacked the true Irish instinct, which
instantly offers a welcome, a seat, and, if possible, refreshment.
His quick, grey eyes wandered round the room, and noted its contents.
It was of a good size; the furniture was strong and useful, but a tub
with a half-washed gown stood near the window; the floor was littered
with sticks and cabbage leaves. It was plain that Mary’s little hands
were incapable of rough work! But he noticed some pathetic attempts
at decoration: the dresser exhibited a large bunch of wild flowers;
on the walls was a considerable gallery of coloured pictures, cut
from the illustrated papers; the window curtains were white, and
looped back with strips of pink calico. As the visitor stood staring
about the half-door was thrown back with a kick, and a thin, tall,
peevish-looking woman, with a basket on her arm and a shawl over her
frilled cap, entered, immediately followed by a red terrier. For
a moment she stood aghast, then recovered and said, “Yer servant,
ma’am--yer servant, sir,” as she dropped two curtseys, and deposited
her load with an air of relief.
“Mary, me girl,” turning to her niece, “where’s yer manners? Won’t the
lady take a sate?”
Mary coloured guiltily as she dusted and offered a chair. “Faix,
I’m forgetting myself. Rap”--aside to the dog, who was sniffing the
visitors--“behave yerself! Ma’am, I beg your pardon, but the house is
all upset, and through other, it being washing day.”
“Lord save us! the cakes is a cinder!” cried the new arrival, hurrying
to the fire. “Mary, girl, I lay my life you’ve been reading a book.
Bedad, ma’am”--turning to Miss Usher--“if she was as good a hand at
rearing pigs and calves as she is for reading and rearing flowers, we’d
all be in clover. Oh, but she’s the terrible girl for a story----”
As she spoke Mrs. Grogan made a desperate attempt to tidy up the place,
carried away the tub, and endeavoured with all the strength of her
lungs to rekindle a few sods.
All this time Mary, her niece, with true patrician unconcern, stood
knitting and talking to Miss Usher, precisely as if she were receiving
her amidst the most luxurious surroundings, and absolutely unconscious
of any shortcomings. If she had been a true-born Irishwoman she
would have been pouring forth an irrepressible torrent of excellent
and plausible excuses. And here, to Mr. Usher, was yet another
incontrovertible proof that in Mary’s veins ran no Foley blood,
but that she was the descendant of a colder race, the daughter of a
hundred earls. Whilst Miss Usher made use of her tongue, her brother
continued to make use of his eyes. The young woman, leaning against
the dresser, with the dog at her feet, was plainly not in keeping
with her background; her pose was grace itself, unconscious and
unstudied--possibly the heritage of centuries of court life. The
short blue cotton skirt revealed a pair of black woollen stockings
and cobbler’s shoes; but even these failed to conceal a high-arched
instep and slim little feet, and the hands that twinkled among the
flying knitting needles might have been painted by Vandyck or Lely, so
delicate, taper, and absolutely useless did they look.
Mary Foley had a sweet voice and a pleasant and melodious brogue; she
and her visitor had much to say to one another on the subject of books,
and the English lady was secretly amazed at the extent and variety of
the Irish girl’s reading.
“Father Daly lends me the _Times Weekly_, and Mrs. Hogan at the hotel
gives me all the stray old books and magazines, and I keep her in
stockings; then I buy books myself in Cork.”
“You don’t get much of a selection do you?”
“Oh, ma’am, sixpenny reprints is not too bad--I wish I knew French!”
“I suppose you only know your language?” put in Mr. Usher.
“The Irish, sir? Yes, I can speak that well, and read it too, they
teach it in the schools now, but it is not much use if one went
travelling--not like French.”
“Do you wish to travel?”
“Sometimes I do. I get a queer roving feeling,--a sort of longing comes
over me; but mostly I am very well content here, and I’ve a notion that
if I ever left this part of the world it would be like tearing the
heart out of me, same as you see the poor people going to America.”
“Well, Mary, me girl, aren’t you going to ask the lady if she has a
mouth on her?” put in the shrill, whining voice of Mrs. Grogan, who had
been busy with a kettle and some cups and saucers.
The hot soda cake, retrieved from the cinders, sent forth an appetising
invitation. Mrs. Grogan had cut it into large chunks, which she split
and buttered with a generous hand.
“Emily, I really think we ought to be going,” protested Mr. Usher,
who hated and despised afternoon tea, and would as soon partake of
rhinoceros as hot buttered soda cake!
“Oh, but, sir,” pleaded Mary, turning her battery of smiles on him, “my
aunt Bridgie would be shockingly disappointed if you won’t honour her,
after making the tay and all; she’s the real manager and mistress since
me poor mother took bad, and I’m only good, as she’ll tell you, for a
little nursing, and minding the hens and the flowers. I hope you will
stay?”
Bence Usher was astonished to find himself presently drawn up at a
table, spread with a clean coarse cloth, and seated before a steaming
slice and a steaming cup, _tête-à-tête_ with the two peasant women.
“No milk,” he cried, remembering the scene on the dresser.
“No milk,” echoed his sister.
“So it goes in families, misliking milk,” remarked Mrs. Grogan
gravely. “I hope the tay is to your taste? I get the best, like me
poor sister, four shillings and sixpence the pound. None of yer cheap
mixtures!”
(There is no one in the world so particular respecting her tea, as the
Irishwoman of the lower middle class.)
Mary, he noticed, was exceedingly dainty about her food, and reduced
her share of cake to a mere slice, half of which she shared with the
dog.
“That’s a handsome terrier,” he remarked; “he looks thoroughbred. Where
did you get him?”
“He was given to me mother as a house watch, when he was a pup.”
“Your people are not from this part of the world?” remarked Miss Usher.
“Any one can see that, Mary!”
“Deed then they are, ma’am,” she replied emphatically; “and where else?
Why wouldn’t I be Kerry born and bred?”
“Because you are so unlike the other people, who have dark hair and
blue or grey eyes, and are more strongly built; and you----”
“Oh, yes,” she interrupted, “I’m aware I’m altogether different--very
small-boned, wid red hair and brown eyes, and no colour to spake of,
but it’s just a chancey thing, like a piebald horse--or a blue-eyed
cat; we can’t all be cut out on the same pattern.”
Mary was doing the honours of the feast; her aunt had undertaken the
part of servant, and she now stepped gracefully into the rôle of
hostess. Her manners were charming and fascinating; even Mr. Usher,
laden as he was with care and apprehension, fell under their spell. In
a kind of dream he ate a dangerous supply of soda bread, and disposed
of two cups of strong tea; for as this most fascinating creature
chattered away to him, he forgot both his digestion and his duties.
“Oh, faix, it’s not every day we have a gentleman to tay, I tell ye! If
me poor mother was stirring, she’d be a proud and happy woman to see
yer honour sitting here,” declared Mary.
“And how is she?”
“Just dozing now within in the room. She’s had one of her bad turns,
but I nursed her out of it. Oh, she’s awfully changed since her mind
gave way.”
“And do you think she really is--peculiar?”
“_Think!_ Sure, don’t we know it? She, that used to be the sensiblest
woman in the parish, and every one running to her for advice, is now,
God help her, teetotally moidered, and wake in herself.” After a pause,
“I see you looking at me very constant, sir. May I make so free as to
ask if ye get a likeness of any one out of me?”
“Oh, I--I--beg pardon,” stammered Mr. Usher. “I’m a bit near-sighted.
I hope you don’t mind. I see you have splendid potatoes,” he remarked
suddenly, pointing to a basketful. “I suppose you like them?”
“Is it me? Augh, no!” with a gesture of abhorrence. “I hate potatoes;
they just choke me. And when our bag of flour went astray on the train
’ere last week, I was daggin round for something to keep me alive, so I
was. I’d die on potatoes.”
“And what did you find?”
“Ned Macarthy gave me a couple of salmon trout and a pigeon.” “Oh, he’s
a great poacher!” and she laughed. “So I did finely. I think I hear me
mother calling me, if you’ll pardon me”; and she rose and hurried into
an adjoining room.
“She keeps you all alive, I am sure,” observed Miss Usher, “so full of
life.”
“Aye, you’d never be wanting to go to a theatre or a pantomime as long
as ye have Mary in the house,” assented Mrs. Grogan. “The chat out of
her is wonderful, and she can talk to any one, as ye may judge! I can’t
think how she comes by her freedom, for John and me sister was not a
bit gabby themselves; but every one likes Mary, though she’s a poor
worker. Half the boys are ready to put their hands under her feet. It’s
not the looks, but what ye may call the cleverality of her!”
“Is her mother really no better?” inquired Miss Usher.
“Yes; she’s in her senses--no more foolish rambling, and rousing the
priest with mad tales. But the head of her is full of pains. Oh, she’s
greatly failed! She’s been lying a good while, and I’m thinking she
won’t be long in it.”
“I suppose you don’t remember Lord Mulgrave coming here?” ventured Mr.
Usher, who had risen, and, with his back to Mrs. Grogan, was searching
for his stick.
“And troth an’ I do, and why wouldn’t I? I remember him well,” she
rejoined, in her whinging voice. “I met him in the woods one day, and
he gave me a great salute. Such a lovely, tall, fine gentleman! I never
seen her ladyship; she never stirred out much. It was at Lota she died.
Oh, but she made the lovely corpse!”
“Indeed!” said Miss Usher.
“Yes, that was an awful affair, and unexpected. They do say”--lowering
her voice almost to a whisper--“she _walks_! Anyway, no one will go
near the place after dark.”
“Surely you don’t believe that?” protested the lady.
“Well, ma’am, I’ve seen and heard many a quare tale in me time, and
I don’t rightly know what to believe and what not to believe; but
it would be more reasonable-like if she’d stop with her own folk,
and haunt them, instead of scaring poor Irish people, as are black
strangers.”
“Really, Emily, it’s six o’clock,” said her brother, suddenly looking
at his watch. “We must not intrude on Mrs. Grogan any longer. You see
it has quite cleared up now”; and he made for the door.
Miss Usher, an intelligent woman, who wrote a little, and was
particularly anxious to study the Irish peasant, and interiors, would
gladly have thrashed out with Mrs. Grogan the subject of ghosts,
warnings, and Banshees; but her brother was already at the gate. Should
she offer payment? She put her hand to her steel bag, and looked
interrogatively at her hostess, but read an invincible “no” in those
little twinkling greenish eyes.
“Thank you very much. Please say good-bye to your niece for us.”
“Aye, she’ll be sorry to miss ye; but she is mighty taken up with her
mother. She’s a real, good decent girl, for all her funny ways--wan
that always satisfies ye, and me sister cannot spare her out of her
sight--that is when she’s in her right senses. Well, good-bye, my lady,
good-bye. Mind the gander; he’s a bit wicked to strangers”; and she
curtseyed her out.
“Well, Bence!” said Miss Usher, as she came up with her brother, “tell
me frankly what you think of that girl? Is she not beautiful, and has
she not an extraordinary air of refinement and distinction?”
“Oh, yes, she’s uncommon-looking,” he muttered, in a peevish tone.
“Did you notice her slow smile? A family smile, I should imagine; and
yet, of course, I am talking the most arrant nonsense! Can you believe
that her grandmother was some old Kerry woman, who dug potatoes and
smoked a pipe! Now, _can_ you?” she repeated impressively.
“No, I cannot,” he answered doggedly. All the time he was mentally
making a draft of a letter.
“And yet there is her aunt, a common, ignorant person, as you see. I
rather wanted to give her half a crown as a return for the tea; but
Irish hospitality is a thing by itself. As for Mary, the day I lost my
way I offered her a shilling, and you should have seen how she coloured
up and refused it. I almost felt as if I had offered it to an _equal_.
Really, one would take her for a lady if she were dressed up--a
somebody, in fact!”
“In fact, Lady Joseline Dene,” her listener mentally added, as they
walked on for some time in silence. The Mulgraves were a notoriously
proud family; ancient, exclusive, wealthy, now dwindled down to one
last branch. What would Owen, Earl of Mulgrave, say to this Irish
heiress who fed pigs, washed and cooked (very badly), and had adopted
the religion, language, prejudices, and accomplishments of a Kerry
peasant? Could she ever be educated, transformed, and fitted for her
high degree?
“Come, come, Bence, you have not opened your lips for half a mile,”
remonstrated his sister. “A penny for your thoughts. What are you
thinking about?”
“That I hope we may have cranberry tart for dinner,” was the mendacious
reply.
“Oh, you greedy person. I fancied you might be puzzling out the enigma
of that red-haired girl. I must confess that she baffles _me_. She’s a
physiological freak; she’s a white crow. What business has she to feed
pigs with those little taper hands? Tell me that?”
But her cautious companion was not prepared to tell her anything as
yet; he would keep his discovery to himself. Emily had an active mind,
a healthy curiosity, a world-wide correspondence, and in answer to
her question, “Tell me that?” he merely shook his head, in token of
hopeless ignorance.
Personally, he had no shadow of doubt as to the girl’s identity, and as
he strolled up and down the road in front of the hotel after dinner, he
held a long debate as to what he ought to do. Should he hold his peace,
leave Lady Mary to her wash-tub and her gate, or should he write the
wonderful news to the earl, her father?