From the slated cottage at the corner of a country lane it is a long
step to an historical castle in Perthshire. Here the Marquis of
Maxwelton is entertaining a large party for the twelfth. His moors
are as celebrated as his gaunt old fortress, built after the French
fashion, in the time when the Guise family held sway in Scotland.
The château has been modernised, and the gardens and grounds are
unsurpassed for beauty and originality.
Among the guests are the Earl and Countess of Mulgrave and Miss Tito
Dawson--the Countess’s daughter by a former alliance. The ladies are
lounging in the gardens, the earl is on the moor with the guns. He is a
fine shot and a keen sportsman. A tall, slim man of fifty with clearly
cut profile, grizzly hair, and a pair of deep-set, melancholy eyes. He
has a polished manner, a pleasant voice, is an agreeable acquaintance
and popular landlord; but the real Earl of Mulgrave lives far behind
those melancholy eyes, entrenched in an impenetrable reserve. Thus far
and no further his guests can go. He is ready to entertain them, to
shoot, play billiards, talk politics, and subscribe money; lavish with
time and with his fortune, he is niggardly of himself. His life--how
little people guess!--has for years been one long disappointment.
After his young wife’s death he became a rover--driven from country to
country by his own despair.
One autumn afternoon at Granada he came upon a party of tourists, or
rather they came upon him, and among these was a lady who, to his
starved heart, brought dim memories of Joseline, his lost idol. Mrs.
Dawson was slim and animated. She had brown eyes and mahogany-coloured
hair. A free lance, with great ambitions and small possessions, she set
herself to lay siege to the handsome, heart-broken _parti_. Her cue was
“sympathy.” Each had known losses--irreparable losses. The departure
of Captain Dawson had been hastened by drink. Oh what profanation to
bracket _him_ with Joseline Mulgrave!
Mrs. Dawson admired, in a really genuine fashion, the handsome,
desolate widower, and he, knowing that he must once more accept the
burden of his position, and imagining her to be a sweet, tender-hearted
woman, energetic as wise, invited her to be the partner of his sorrows.
The likeness to Joseline had become indistinct and faded, save for
the hair-tint (which was duly revived at necessary intervals); but
he believed that they would make the best of two sad lives, and face
the future sustained by mutual experience, and mutual sympathy. The
Countess of Mulgrave, with her carriages, diamonds, town-house, and
country-seats, was an entirely different individual to the pretty,
pathetic widow his lordship had known in Spain. They were not the same.
People talk of children being changed at nurse; it seemed as if Lottie
Dawson had been changed at the altar!
She was ambitious, agreeable, and selfish. A luxurious home, crowds
of servants, quantities of money, a great name, and a connection, were
all delightful in their way, and she was fairly well satisfied with
her lot. Certainly Owen was peculiar; she managed him beautifully--yet
she stood a little in awe of him, although he had never uttered a
sharp word, or denied her any reasonable request. He attended her
to functions, he submitted to her friends, he made Tito a generous
allowance; and yet somehow they remained strangers.
Of course, they had not identical tastes. A country life, sport, books,
and peace, were all he cared for; she enjoyed the racket of town--six
engagements of an evening, with races, the opera, Hurlingham wedged in
between visiting, charity concerts, and milliners. She had acquired the
great art of dress, and was still a pretty woman, with auburn hair, and
a brilliant colour, a wonderful faculty of making conversation, a fair
amount of tact, and a reputation at bridge.
Her daughter Tito, who was small and dark, with a _nez retroussé_,
found it necessary to live up to her profile, and was as jaunty and
impudent as her nose--extravagant in dress and conversation. Tito
Dawson had a reputation for being clever, and making the most daring
and original remarks.
As a rule, women and girls liked her, and men considered her “good
sport.” She had a sharp, amusing tongue, and a capital seat on a horse.
The marquis and his guests were lunching in a glen after a first-rate
drive. Long rows of dead grouse were spread in lines near where the
beaters were eating their dinner. The guns, twelve in number, reclined
under the lee of a rock, discussing cold grouse, cold pie, sandwiches,
and cake, when a gillie arrived with the letters. These were those
which had come from the south by a second post, and, being the most
important of the day, were invariably sent out to the guns, as among
Lord Maxwelton’s guests were men high in the political and diplomatic
world and the services, to whom the delay of a few hours, meant much in
these hurried times. Letters and telegrams were handed about to where
their recipients sat lounging or cross-legged, enjoying a pipe or cigar.
“Two for you, Owen,” said his host and brother-in-law, and he handed
him a couple of missives in the long, narrow envelopes dedicated to
business.
Lord Mulgrave glanced at them indifferently. The post had no surprises
or pleasures for him. One was from his farm bailiff, no doubt about
wire fencing; the other was from Usher, his man of business. Could
anything be more prosaic or commonplace?
An interesting young colonel, his next-hand neighbour--a keen soldier
and a keen shot--was immersed in a woman’s letter, written in an
enormous hand, with violet ink. As he turned the page, the words “My
own darling boy” were as plain as a sign-post. Those who sat must read;
but the lady’s “darling” was blissfully unconscious.
Lord Mulgrave, about to consign his letters to his pockets, paused. He
might as well see what Brown and Usher had to say. He cut the envelopes
carefully with a pocket-knife, being the most methodical of men, and
drew out first of all Brown’s estimate for so many yards of netting.
Then he examined the other. At the first glance, at the words
“astonishing discovery,” he simply lifted his eyebrows. At the second
glance, he read on with colourless face to the bottom of the page; he
turned it with a trembling hand--he finished the letter, three sides of
a sheet--crushed it up, rose abruptly to his feet, and walked away.
“Hullo!” exclaimed the little colonel, looking up suddenly, “I am
afraid his lordship has had bad news?” and he turned his head, and
watched the tall, active, tweed-clad form, striding towards the banks
of a foaming mountain torrent, where the figure seated itself in an
attitude which implied, “Leave me alone. I wish for my own company!”
“Perhaps something has disagreed with him,” muttered a man who did not
like Lord Mulgrave’s cold and courteous manners.
“Perhaps so,” assented the little colonel; “_you_ have never agreed
with him, and I heard you just now abusing his pet scheme for
compulsory service.”
“And he jumped down my throat, spurs and all.”
“Well, it must come to that, sooner or later. The world’s conditions
are changing. Can a half-armed people survive, when the whole of the
rest of the world is trained to arms? The growth of immense foreign
armies is introducing new problems into British national life, whilst
all the omens point to the probability that England’s position will be
challenged in the near future! Diplomacy may do much, but, as Napoleon
said, diplomacy without an armed force behind it, is like music without
instruments!”
“My dear chap,” sneered the other, “you talk like a newspaper
correspondent.”
“I do. I am actually quoting the Press.”
“Oh, I bar these big questions. Sufficient to the day is the evil
thereof. I suppose we are going to the west beat after this?”
“Yes.”
“I hope to goodness they won’t put _me_ in a butt next old Sir Timothy
Quayle. He’s dangerous. Talk of being under fire! He blazed right into
me--cannot see a yard. No business on a moor. Never was so frightened
in my life! I threw clods at him and yelled, and he thought it was
something to do with the coveys. There’ll be an accident some day. I
say, why aren’t we moving? Where’s the marquis?”
“Down there by the waterfall, talking to Lord Mulgrave.”
“Well, I’m here to shoot my twenty to forty brace, not to talk”--rising
to his feet and stretching himself. “I wish---- Oh, I see, it’s all
right. There go the beaters.”
“I say, Owen,” said the marquis, as he joined him, “I hope you have not
had bad news, old boy?”
“No,” replied the other, raising a colourless face, “but news that,
if it is _true_, is the best that has come to me for more than twenty
years. Here”--and he thrust the letter into his friend’s hand. “You had
better read it yourself. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit knocked out
of time. Of course, I’m going to Ireland to-night.”
“Ireland!” echoed his companion. “What in the world would take you
there?”
“Read that, and you will understand.”
The marquis, who was near-sighted, deliberately fumbled for his
pince-nez, stuck it on his nose, and read with provoking leisure.
“GLENVEIGH HOTEL,
“CO. KERRY.
“MY LORD,
“I have recently come upon an astonishing discovery, and beg
to acquaint you with my experience. I must ask you to prepare
yourself for a piece of intelligence which must naturally be to
you of the nature of a shock.
“By accident I rambled into a ruined place called Lota, of which,
many years ago, your lordship was the tenant, where, in short, her
ladyship the first Lady Mulgrave died, after having given birth
to a little girl. I there met an old man, once your gardener, who
disclosed to me the amazing news that your daughter did not, as
was supposed, die in infancy, but was kept in place of her dead
child by the foster-mother, Katherine Foley, and reared as her own.
“Recently remorse, illness, and age, have overtaken Mrs. Foley,
now a widow, and she has made the extraordinary confession that
Mary Foley, a girl of one-and-twenty, is no child of hers, but
the child of the Earl of Mulgrave. Of course, no one credits this
statement, for Mary is a Kerry girl, with all a Kerry girl’s
tastes. Every one, including the priest and doctor, believe the
poor old woman to be suffering from a delusion, and crazy. Mary
herself has no doubt whatever of her antecedents. Hearing from
the old gardener that her appearance was remarkable, I made my
way to Foley’s farm and interviewed the young woman, and I have
come to the conclusion that the ravings of old Katty are the
_truth_. The girl’s likeness to the late Countess of Mulgrave is
so extraordinary, that for my own part I believe the relationship
to be undeniable, and I am confident that this girl is your
lordship’s daughter and heiress.
“I am afraid my information may be unwelcome, for several
reasons: the girl has been brought up as an Irish peasant; she has
had but little education, and is, of course, a Roman Catholic.
On the other hand, she is remarkably intelligent, has read all
the books that she could lay hands on, and has a natural grace
and charm of manner, that is lacking in many young ladies that
have had ten times her advantages. If I might venture to make a
suggestion, I think your lordship should come over and _see_ the
girl and judge for yourself. I have not breathed my conviction to
a soul, and, should I be mistaken, at least no harm is done. I am
staying at the Glenveigh Hotel, where fairly comfortable quarters
are available. It is within an easy distance of Foley’s farm, and
five miles from a station. I have debated with myself whether to
disturb your lordship with my discovery or to pass over the event
in silence. I am aware what a change in the girl’s circumstances,
and in other people’s expectations, such a revelation will
occasion. At present Mary Foley is happy, satisfied with her
lot in life, devoted to her mother, and full of high spirits,
vivacity, and contentment. It will be for _you_ to judge, for you
to speak the word, and to break the spell.
“Awaiting instructions, I remain,
“Your lordship’s obedient servant,
“BENCE USHER.”
“Well,” exclaimed the marquis, as he deliberately folded the letter,
“this is a nice thing to spring on a man after twenty-one years!”
“Nice! Yes. Oh, Max,”--and his voice shook--“I hope to God it is no
mirage, and that it may be true.”
“Then you are glad?” he asked sharply.
“Yes, I should think so. Why not?”
“But it is such an outrageous event--so unnatural and impossible. Of
course, I’m aware that you and poor Joseline were all in all to one
another--a sort of fairy tale, your marriage; but that is over. You are
no longer a young man; you have other ties.”
“But no child?”
“No; and this one, if she is your own flesh and blood, will be an
alien, a stranger in ideas, prejudices, and religion--nothing more or
less than a pretty Irish peasant, eh?”
“He said she was the image of her mother.”
Lord Maxwelton looked incredulous. Then he resumed--
“The likeness may be accidental. Such things do happen. Just think of
the horror of the present Lady Mulgrave to have a girl less refined
than her own kitchen-maid thrust into her intimate society--in fact,
bound to accept and chaperone the stranger as her daughter! And as to
that story of a baby changed at nurse, I don’t quite believe that; it
sounds too much like a shilling shocker. Your man Usher is, no doubt,
a romantic old bachelor; he has been captivated by a pretty girl--I
can _see_ he has--and found a mare’s nest. If I were you, I should do
nothing hastily; in fact, I’m not sure that _I_ should do anything at
all.”
“Max, I’m amazed to hear you talk in this cold-blooded fashion.”
“Cold-blooded! No, but prudent and far-seeing, my dear fellow. Do you
realise the results of bringing over this Irish girl? She will be
Baroness of Marchlyde in her own right. She will inherit a certain
amount of the family property--she, an uncouth, raw, country girl! You
could do nothing with her. Of course her character is formed by now.
She will probably make your present quiet life most sensational and
wretched. She is happy where she is--_you_ are happy where you are.”
“No, Max, you know very well that I have never been happy since her
mother left me. But oh! if fortune were to give me back Joseline in our
daughter, I’d ask no more.”
“Then what do you propose to do?” inquired his listener, in a sharper
key.
“Return at once to the castle, get a few things put together, and leave
by the six o’clock from the junction. I’ll go alone, and not take my
man, and you will make my excuses to every one, and say that I was
called away by important business.”
“All right--though in my opinion it’s all wrong. Shall you tell Lady
Mulgrave and Elgitha?”
“Only my wife just yet.”
“If you are wise, you will wait.”
“Wait! For what? If this girl is my daughter, I shall bring her back
with me.”
“And if it is a wild-goose chase, how foolish you will look!”
“Yes; one has to take risks, and I’m ready to chance that. Now I see
all the others anxious to start and I must not detain you. Good-bye,
old man”--wringing his hand--“I leave you to explain everything. Wish
me luck.”
“I wish you _luck_,” rejoined the other, putting his own construction
on the word; and in another minute the two had separated.