As they swung along homewards, one on each side of a well-hung
jaunting-car, with a slashing four-year-old between the shafts, Miss
Usher and her companion never exchanged a single remark. The elder
lady was reflecting that she had done a capital afternoon’s work in
introducing Mary to her birthplace, and she felt confident that the
words she had heard from old Mike had sunk down into her heart, and
brought the girl to realise what had never yet dawned upon her: that
only by birth--the mere accident of birth--did she belong to this
beautiful, romantic, green and blue country--for if the trees and
pastures were emerald, the mountains were royal blue, the skies cobalt.
The crafty lady determined that she would not break the spell, but give
Mary ample time to meditate on these matters, and presently adjust
herself to her strange circumstances; she must now begin to see about
some suitable clothes for the girl, and to offer, cautiously and by
degrees, a few lessons on manners and deportment. After all, it would
not be an onerous task; in fact, to an old maid with a warm heart,
hitherto centred on her brother and a white cockatoo--it was a pleasure
to interest herself in this young life, for the time entrusted to
her care. Indeed she felt her own youth renewed as an eagle’s! Lord
Mulgrave had left them but one week, and already Mary was a little
less Mary Foley than formerly. She drove out in a hat (swathed in
crêpe), no longer in her “hair.” She had cast off with joy her aprons
and cobbler’s shoes, and taken quite meekly to black thread stockings,
a black silk parasol, and kid gloves; also she often closed the door
when she entered a room, and did not now peel her potato on the
table-cloth, or drink tea out of her saucer. Yes, already there was
an improvement, the girl was adaptable and quick to learn--she never
required to be told anything twice; her personal tastes were curiously
and unexpectedly refined; her petticoats and stockings were certainly
coarse, but as neat and trim as those of any fine lady; and as to
pocket-handkerchiefs, they were almost as fine as Miss Usher’s own.
Whilst the good, kind woman was occupied with these reflections, Mary
was engaged in a similar manner. Her active, imaginative brain was
filled with the picture of the beautiful lady who had died at Lota.
Could she really be _her_ mother? Was it true that she was like her?
She pulled off her glove and gravely considered her hand. Certainly it
was small--too small for dairy work--and the fact had been cast up to
her! If that marvellous beauty were her mother, oh! she was a shocking
falling off; a common, ignorant, low creature, who did not know how to
talk, or walk, or sit, or eat, like the quality--and who was too old
to learn. But if she was this other girl (even to herself, she would
not say “Joseline Dene”)--and people seemed to believe it, and Father
Daly had been very eager about her taking up her birthright, and her
duties--she must learn. With the help of God she was bound to do her
best, not forgetting her old friends, as he had said, nor disgracing
the beautiful lady that had brought her into the world, and whose
place, late as it was, she must endeavour to fill. Oh, but what was
the use of talking or thinking. She never could be anything but Mary
Foley. The driver of the car happened to be a certain Patsie Maguire,
Mary’s former partner, friend, declared (and declined) lover. He too
had his private meditations, which now and then stung him so sharply
that he laid the unnecessary whip, on the sleek and thin-skinned flanks
of the flying chestnut, and almost invited a catastrophe. Here was he,
by the stress of circumstances, actually driving for hire her ladyship,
no less! Mary Foley--the great lord’s daughter, who was soon quitting
Ireland and him. She, his partner, his girl, his intended wife--for of
course if let alone, she’d have come round, and married him. And what
would hinder him now, to let the young red mare run away, accidentally
on purpose, and break their three necks? The present situation was
enough to make a man mad. Was he not attending in the capacity of a
servant, a girl whom hitherto he had considered a little beneath him in
position? His mother, the daughter of a well-to-do publican, rented a
small farm, had been brought up on a carpeted floor, and kept even now
her own cover car. And Mary Foley, was just a good-looking, gay little
creature, with fifty pounds fortune. Of course, every one knew he could
have done far better, but _she_ had such pretty, joking ways with her;
she had made a fool of him, and faix, by all accounts he was in good
company! Then before anything was fixed comes this sort of fairy tale,
and “Mary at the corner” is turned at one stroke into her ladyship, and
he himself driving her like any hired boy. When she got up on the car
she had just nodded at him, her face as long as a ha’porth of bacon,
and said-- “Is that yer self, Pat? How are ye?”
And not another word; and coming home she had never opened her mouth
once. He’d make her do that, if it was only screaming--for a pin’s
head, he’d upset the machine.
Pat--“handsome Pat” as he was called--was about seven-and-twenty,
and certainly as good-looking a fellow as could be met with in a
day’s walk--and not indifferent to the fact. His was the real type
of Celtic face--dark blue eyes, dark hair and brows, well-shaped,
somewhat refined features, white teeth, and eyelashes so long and so
effective, that to a London débutante they might have proved an asset
of extraordinary value.
Pat was capable and active when he chose, but innately lazy and
self-indulgent. He liked dancing, he liked horses, and porter, and
singing, and girls. The girls liked him--indeed so did many people, for
when Pat was in the humour, his manner was irresistible. His mother and
eldest sister kept the farm, where at present he was out of favour, and
had taken on a job at the hotel. His mother adored her handsome Pat--so
clever, so well schooled, and so smart! His shirts were invariably
white as snow, his clothes well mended. Once he had taken it into his
head to go to America, where he remained one year, and then returned,
because, as he said, “His mother was dying after him”; also because
(though this he did not divulge) the country did not suit him. It
was true that good money was to be earned, but the work was hard and
continuous, and the price of everything was so high, that it swallowed
up the dollars. It suited him better to have smaller earnings and
easier labour; to live at home, and be a comfort to his mother. Pat
and his sister, an industrious, strong-willed, hot-tempered woman, did
not always agree. Now and then a domestic storm arose. Occasionally
Lizzie’s tongue drove Pat abroad, and he went off and took service.
He enjoyed the bit of change for one thing, and for another, he was
pleasantly alive to the fact that, during his absence, his mother
was leading Lizzie a devil of a life, and paying off his score with
interest.
Having arrived safely at the “Glenveigh Arms,” Miss Usher descended in
a gingerly manner from the car, and walked straight into the hall in
search of letters.
Here was Pat’s opportunity, and leaning over to Mary, he thus addressed
her in a low voice.
“Am I never to have a word with you again, asthore, and you going off
for ever and ever, and taking the heart out of my body along with you?”
“I’m not going yet--no, nor soon. But sure, what’s the good of talking
nonsense about yer heart? To me own knowledge, you’ve given it away
twenty times.”
“It will be a relief to me to spake, anyhow. Are ye going up to the
corner again?”
“Of course I am--to see my aunt Bridgie and the place, and to fetch
away the cat.”
“I’ll bring him down to-night for you. You have only to say the word.”
“Well, then, maybe you might as well, Pat; and you must mind and butter
his feet, and put him in one of the old egg-baskets. I’m taking him to
England.”
“Faix, he’ll be an elegant souvenir! But every one to his taste, as the
monkey said, when he kissed the parrot! Whist now, there’s Bridgie
Grogan sitting within the hall a-waiting to see ye. I believe she has
all cleared out at the house above already. She’s mad to be off home
wid her takings. That wan will talk ye out of yer shoes! Mind, you and
me must have a few words together before ye go--for the sake of old
times.”
Mary nodded her head in assent, and the frantic chestnut, who had been
champing, jumping, and tearing up the ground, was at last suffered to
fling herself into the stable yard.
The news of Mary Foley’s sudden transformation flew round the county
like wild-fire. Barky heard it in the stables, and brought it to his
mother at dinner.
“Now Barky,” she cried, “you’ve been drinking again! and you know you
promised me on your honour, not to touch whisky between meals.”
“I’m as sober as a judge, so don’t be flying into one of your tantrums
for nothing; it’s the solid truth I’m telling you.”
“What, Mary below, the daughter of Lord Mulgrave! And Kitty bringing
her up as her own! Well”--and she gasped--“I don’t believe it.”
“You can please yourself about that, but it’s true.”
“I remember them at the cottage,” she returned, “and I went and called,
but they just left cards here. They wanted no visitors. She was a
pretty, Frenchy-looking young woman and--yes--Mary has a look of her.
I wonder I never noticed it. But who would dream of looking for _her_
child in Katty Foley’s smoky cabin?”
“If for it’s smoky, ’tis your own fault. You never will do a thing to
the chimneys--often as you are asked.”
“Yes, I see the likeness. And there was always something queer and
independent about Mary, that I could never quite make out; she was
never shy, or embarrassed.”
“Now you have it. She’s an aristocrat.”
“And what a match for some one!”
“It’s a pity you snuffed out that affair with Ulick, or she might be
your daughter-in-law this day.”
“Of course she is impossible-a mere ignorant peasant. What an awful
situation for the poor Mulgraves!”
“Oh, she’s a bright enough girl. I daresay she can write, and speak, as
well as any--and hold her own too.”
“Who told you this story?”
“Tom Whelan; he had it from Mrs. Hogan at the ‘Arms’; the lawyer and
his sister are there, and his lordship too.”
“Really! Oh, then, you must leave a card on him to-morrow.”
“You and your card-leaving, mother! Maybe you will go and leave one on
Mary.”
“Of course; as soon as she is established in her new position I shall
certainly call; it will be my duty to do so, considering that she was
reared here, and lived on our land for twenty-one years.”
“And has kept you going in your trade of eggs and chickens. This is no
doubt one of her chickens I’m eating this minute.”
“I wish you would marry her, Barky.”
“And I don’t. In the first place, she wouldn’t look at me; she is
accustomed to refusing; and in the second, she’s too much coxy and
fiery. I tried to kiss her once, and she left the print of her five
fingers on my face.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Barky.”
“Why? I’d kiss any girl that would let me. Now if I’d been Ulick, it
would have been _all right_”.
“Maybe it will be Ulick--yet.”
“No, mammy. Use your common sense. She’s as much above him now, as he
was above her before; it’s like a see-saw. Now I’m up, now you are
down.”
“Ulick is good enough for any one!”
“Faith! you don’t think so when he is here; he is not nearly good
enough for you. You have always a pick out of him!”
“I mean as a match!”
“Such as an earl’s only daughter, with, say, ten thousand a year--oh,
stop coddin, now!”
“Barky, where _do_ you get hold of such horrible expressions?”
“Anyhow, Ulick is in India,” he continued. “Shall I telegraph out to
him, ‘Come home at once--Mary Foley is a peeress’?”
“No, she is not a peeress--and you’re an unmannerly boor!” As she
spoke, Mrs. Doran got up and pushed back her chair; and as she walked
to the door, Barky gave a loud, unfilial laugh,--
“If ye were more civil to common folk, mammy, and less civil to the
big ones, it would be better for us. Look at Aunt Nora, and the fine
fortune you lost _me_! And now Mary Foley, and the great match you lost
_Ulick_!”
“How was I to know that the old bagwoman was your aunt herself, coming
to spy on me?” she demanded passionately. “And would _any_ mother, in
her senses, allow her son to marry a common country girl off the side
of the road? Tell me that? When you talk such nonsense you drive me
mad!” and she went out and slammed the door with violence.
Mrs. Doran called in due state on Mary and Miss Usher. She sent up her
cards in proper form.
“Oh, it’s Mrs. Doran,” cried Mary. “Oh, miss, I don’t want to see her.
I can’t _bear_ her; she makes me tingle all over, ever since I was a
young one. ’Tis she is the hard bitter woman.”
“Still, she is coming to start a fresh acquaintance, with a new Mary
Foley, and you must receive her as one lady receives another.”
“She’s no lady! and I told her so to her face!”
The door opened as she spoke, and Mrs. Doran, in her best beaded mantle
and feathered toque, sailed in, now all smiles and affability.
“Well, Mary”--offering two hands--“this is indeed _great_ news. I
am so glad, and I have come as your oldest friend, to offer my warm
congratulations, and good wishes.”
“Thank you, yer ladyship!” said the girl faintly.
“Oh, _you_ are the ladyship now, Mary,” she rejoined, with an affable
smile, “and this is, I presume, Miss Usher?” And as Miss Usher was only
a legal woman, she bowed stiffly, and subsided into a chair.
“And now do tell me all about it, my dear? No one can be more
interested than I am, who have seen you all your life, and have met
your own mother.”
“It’s just this, yer ladyship--that I am not Mrs. Foley’s daughter at
all, but a nurse child she kept, and made out was her own--and buried
her girlie instead of me; and now it’s all come out.”
“And are you immensely delighted?”
“No, I am not; I’d sooner stay as I am, except for a few things. I’m
not educated, nor fit to be a lady.”
“Oh, you will soon learn, Lady Joseline,” put in Miss Usher. “It will
all come quite easy; it is so much pleasanter to go up, than down.”
Mrs. Doran stared at the speaker, and said, “And what are the few
things you wish for most?”
“Nice dresses, and books, and pretty things, and not having to wash
clothes, and scour.”
“Still, you were fond of poultry?”
“No, I never wish to see another hen; but I do love flowers.”
“I suppose you have no plans as yet?”
Mary paused and looked interrogatively at Miss Usher. “I believe we are
going to England soon.”
“Never to return, eh, Mary?” She asked persuasively, with her head on
one side.
“I don’t know.”
“I presume Lord Mulgrave has a London house?”
“That’s more than I can tell ye.”
“Because if so, my sister, Lady Barre, will call upon you at once. Will
you come up to tea to-morrow? I’ll send the carriage for you?”
Mary became scarlet. “Thank you ma’am, no.”
“No?” she repeated, in a tone of angry incredulity.
“You see,” said Miss Usher, coming to the rescue, “Mary is a little
strange as yet, and is very shy and awkward.”
“I suppose it’s only natural”--appeased. “Well, you won’t forget your
old friends, will you, my dear?”--rising to go.
“No, Mrs. Doran”--and she looked her in the face--“I won’t forget my
old--friends.”
Mrs. Doran returned the gaze with observant scrutiny--she read in
Mary’s eyes, hostility and dislike. Evidently there was nothing to be
made out of her; and presently she went rustling downstairs.
As the carriage rolled off, the girl ran to the window and said: “To
think of me! Offered a seat in that! I’d as soon have expected to be
asked to take a seat on a throne. Well, there goes the last of Mrs.
Doran, please God!”
* * * * *
The “Glenveigh Arms” was an unpretentious hostelry, standing close to
the roadside, from which a narrow strip of gravel and a low laurel
hedge divided it--a long, plain, whitewashed house, with nothing
attractive in its appearance. Strangers little guessed how comfortable
it was within, and what a really beautiful old garden lay concealed
behind it.
Motors whirled by in a cloud of dust and ignorance, making for a fine
new tourist hotel some miles ahead. Mrs. Hogan did not approve of these
“mad” cars, that went racking and tearing through the country, killing
dogs and poultry and scaring the cattle out of their seven senses!
and made no attempt to secure their custom. The word “Garage” was not
advertised along with “Mary Hogan, Livery and Bait Stables.”
All the same, about a week after Mary’s expedition to Lota, a smart
bright red Mercédès car, containing four passengers, halted and
palpitated outside the hotel.
It contained two men in motoring coats and goggles, the chauffeur in
black leather; a valet sat beside him, and there was a certain amount
of luggage, indicating that the party was making an extensive tour. The
two gentlemen got out and went into the hotel. The tallest of them,
when he removed his mask, proved to be a man of about thirty, with a
dark, handsome face, a clean-cut profile, and a pair of sleepy eyes.
He was Captain Dudley Deverell, Lord Mulgrave’s cousin, and heir. His
companion, Sir Harry Coxford, was a tubby little round-faced man with a
red moustache and many freckles. The two travellers were ceremoniously
ushered into the drawing-room.
“No, we don’t want rooms, thanks,” said Captain Deverell, in a pleasant
drawl. “Want to see Lord Mulgrave--heard he was here.”
“His lordship left ten days ago,” said a trim, black-whiskered waiter,
who looked like a Methodist parson in evening dress. “We don’t expect
his lordship back at present.”
“No”--looking round superciliously--“I should think _not_.”
“But a--any message or letter to his lordship, will a--be forwarded to
his lordship?”
“Oh, it’s of no consequence. We were in this part of the world and
happened to hear he’d been here, and we looked in on chance, that’s
all.”
“Can I get you two gentlemen any refreshment?”
“No”--looking round the low sitting-room with narrow windows and
old-fashioned furniture.
“Lord, how it smells of musty hay!” exclaimed Sir Harry.
“And flowers,” added his friend. “I say, what roses!--yes, and a garden
at the back”--walking over. “I wonder what sort of people come here?”
and, staring out at the unexpectedly large pleasance, with its wide
gravel walks, and old-fashioned benches, “I say,” to the waiter, “what
sort of people stay here?”
“The _best_ sort, sir,” replied the waiter, who had been secretly
indignant at the bold, cheap air of these motoring gents. “People comes
here that like comfort and quiet. No cheap trippers. There’s some took
in at other hotels as Mrs. Hogan would have the hall washed after, if
they had the impudence to put a foot in it! We have our own farm, the
finest poultry in the country, fruit and vegetables, good cars and
horses on hire, and”--as a grand climax--“a _bath_-room.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Sir Harry, putting up his eyeglass.
“Yes. At present we have his lordship’s sister’s man of business here.
I mean the man of business’ sister of his lordship.”
“The man of business’ sister of his lordship,” drawled Captain
Deverell. “What the dickens _do_ you mean?”
The cool, superior air of the “young high flyer,” as he mentally termed
him, inflamed the waiter’s wrath; his Celtic temper rose fast; he
resolved to give this contemptuous inquirer one for his nob.
“Miss Usher, sir, I mean.”
“Oh, old Usher’s sister,” said the captain, turning to his friend.
“Then”--to the waiter--“is Mr. Usher staying here too?”
“No, sir; he left with his lordship some time back.”
“Leaving Miss Usher alone?”
“Oh, no, sir. It’s not giv’ out yet exactly on the papers; but she’s
keeping company with her ladyship, his lordship’s daughter.”
Captain Deverell stared hard at the waiter, then looked at his friend
and laughed. As he resumed his goggles, he exclaimed: “This Ireland is
a funny place, isn’t it, Coxy? The land of romance, eh?”
“Yes, one must come to the back of the world for news, I see. Well, now
we really must get on. It is past four o’clock.”
And the pair tramped noisily through the hall; and presently the motor
departed with a triumphant “Tuff, tuff, tuff!”