Lord Mulgrave, having given directions to his man to immediately pack
a portmanteau and order a dog-cart, set out in search of his wife.
The quest proved long. She was not in the boudoir, the hall, the
drawing-room; she was not even playing bridge or croquet. At last he
discovered her in the garden--a most sequestered spot, some distance
from the castle. Two ancient fishponds, surrounded by terraces and
broad grass walks, were its principal features. On an island in one of
the ponds was a pretty clump of trees, in that clump a hammock, in the
hammock a smart lady with a novel, a cigarette, and a tiny “sleeve” dog.
“My dear O,” she cried, as he crossed a footbridge, “what brings
you back? Not an accident! Has anything happened? Any one blown off
anyone’s head?”
“No, not quite; but something has happened. I’ve had a letter.”
“From the duke?”--struggling to sit up. “So he is coming for the
pheasants after all?” Her face was radiant.
“No, I’ve not heard from him”--and he put his hand in his pocket and
drew out the letter.
Lady Mulgrave’s expression changed, as she said, “I really do think
there ought to be a law against all the men going out together. Half
should remain to amuse _us_. It is ghastly dull. Tito and Griselda are
going to walk with the guns this afternoon, but I hate that sort of
thing. Lady Madge and the marchioness, and a whole pack have driven
to see a ruin. They couldn’t see a more splendid ruin than Lady Madge
herself! Some are playing croquet; some are asleep, and I was nearly
off. Oh, you abominable little dog!” suddenly addressing the mite, who
had been chewing her book. “Oh, you little horror!”--and she gave it
several hard cuffs.
“Look here, I want you to read this, Charlotte. I’ve had a most
startling piece of news. I am going to Ireland to-night.”
“Ireland?”--carelessly taking the letter. “Ireland, of all places!
But _why_? It’s not even the horse-show week, and that’s its only
inducement!”
“You will see the why, when you read what Usher has to say.”
Lady Mulgrave glanced over the pages with a puckered, frowning face.
“My dear, what nonsense!” she exclaimed at last. “Surely you don’t
believe such utter rubbish. A common country girl your daughter?”--and
with an impatient jerk she threw away the cigarette which had been
suspended in her fingers.
“I cannot tell you until I’ve seen her. Seeing will be believing, or
disbelieving.”
“My dear man, I can tell you one thing. You will have your journey for
nothing.”
“I sincerely hope not,” he answered gravely.
“If there is anything in it, it will really be awful, Owen. No, I’m not
meaning anything nasty! Awful for the girl, and also for us. I expect
she wears no stockings, and says ‘bedad’ and ‘begorra.’”
“These matters can easily be remedied. You will be good to her, won’t
you, Lottie?”
“Of course. I will be good to any one belonging to you,” she answered.
Then, suddenly getting out of the hammock, with a great display of
orange silk petticoat, and standing before him, she added, “But I feel
confident it is some mistake. And if not, do think of the feelings of
Dudley Deverill, brought up to be your heir.”
“Well, he will have the title and a good share of the property. But we
are travelling a little too fast. I must first go over to Glenveigh.
I might have kept my own counsel till I returned; but I thought you’d
like to know.”
“_Like_ to know!” she repeated, under her breath.
“Pray don’t let it go any further. I’ve not told even Elgitha. Say I’m
called away on urgent business.”
“And the word ‘business,’ like charity, covers a multitude of sins
and secrets!” Lady Mulgrave looked at her husband with an odd smile;
but he was grave--he was even agitated. She could read the signs. He
had been besotted about his first wife, so people declared, though
it seemed incredible, for he was always so cool, self-possessed, and
undemonstrative. Was he going to be as idiotic with respect to his
daughter?
But of course half the evils in the world are those which never happen.
No doubt this creature was a myth.
“At least it will be an adventure,” she exclaimed. “And think of the
scare lines in the morning papers: ‘Long-lost heiress discovered in
Irish cabin.’ ‘Peasant girl, aged twenty, a peer’s daughter.’”
“Well, Charlotte, if any unexpected good luck had fallen to _you_, I
think I’d not have jeered and laughed.”
“Dear old Owen!”--and she patted his arm--“did I jeer and laugh? I beg
your pardon, but the idea is so grotesque I cannot get to face it,
and it all seems so _funny_. You know I’ve an extraordinary sense of
humour; it bubbles up in spite of me, like a kettle on the boil! In my
mind’s eye, when I see you so tall, erect, and dignified, with a wild
and tattered Irish colleen hanging to your arm, I really cannot feel
serious; but you know very well, dear, that my heart is in the right
place! I suppose”--and she paused and looked up in his face--“you would
not like me to go with you?”
This was, as she was well aware, a perfectly safe offer.
“No, no, I must be off. No time to lose. Pray do not mention the
matter to a soul. I’ll write and wire. Good-bye”; and despite her
protestations that she would come with him and help him to pack, he
waved her a denial and a valediction.
As she heard the garden gate click her ladyship scrambled once
more into the hammock, lit a cigarette, and abandoned herself to
contemplation.
No, no; if it really came to anything, if the story were true, if this
journey provided her with a stepdaughter, it would be too detestable.
How she would hate the commotion, the gossip, and--the _girl_!