“I don’t rightly know whether I am on me head or my heels!” declared
her ladyship, when she had taken a seat in the corner, with her back
against the wall, and proceeded to gaze about her. “What a power of
people! I suppose this is a glimpse of what Father Daly calls ‘the
world.’ No,” to the ready waiter, “no broth!”
The man, with blank, impassive face, bowed, and offered soup to Miss
Usher.
“Dear child,” she murmured, when he had departed, “this is _soup_; we
don’t call it broth.”
“Very well then, I won’t”--taking up the ménu, and looking over it. “I
declare to goodness if it isn’t in a foreign language! Will ye tell me,
what’s the use of that?”
“I’m sure I cannot give you any reason, but it’s the fashion. You will
find it everywhere.”
“And such a lot of things. I can guess at some names: ‘enter’ and
‘relieve’--hunger, I suppose.”
Here Miss Usher leant across and carefully explained the meaning of
‘entrée’ and ‘relève’--the names of the courses; whilst the girl
listened, with both elbows firmly planted on the table.
“You should not sit like that, my child,” suggested the teacher of
manners.
“No? But there’s a girl doing it over there,” argued the pupil; and,
pointing with a taper finger, she indicated a young woman in a loud
tea-gown with a towzled head and arms bare to the shoulder, who was
holding forth to a shiny-faced, dissipated-looking man.
“Never mind, my dear, you need not take her for a model. Look at those
two nice girls in white. Now have some fish?”
“Claret or Chablis, my lady?”
“No, thank ye,” she responded, “I never drink wine at all; but I’d be
glad of a glass of spring water, or”--as an afterthought--“if ye have
such a thing as a sup of fresh buttermilk?”
Without relaxing a muscle, the waiter replied: “We don’t supply
buttermilk, my lady, but the water is the best.”
Lady Joseline ate little dinner, but devoured the company with a pair
of eager, childish eyes. One lady she stigmatised as “a play actress,”
another as “an old show, with feathers in her hair and scarcely a tack
to her back.” Most of the men were “as like the waiters as two peas.”
Then, to their special attendant--
“No meat whatever. Sure, man alive, ’tis a fast day!”
“My dear, there is no occasion for an explanation,” remonstrated her
_vis-à-vis_, when the waiter had retired.
“Sure, won’t he think it uncivil, just to say no or yes?”
“Not if you add ‘please.’ The salad is nice and fresh, but you should
not eat it with your fingers.”
“It tastes more natural like!”
“Possibly; but you don’t wish to be remarkable, do you?”
“No, indeed. Am I? Tell me, please, is there anything _on_ me? or
queer about me? Is anything sticking in me hair?”
“Why, certainly not. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve noticed quite a lot of people staring over at me, as if they knew
I was no great shakes, and had no call to be here; and there’s a man
near the pillar that has a pair of eyes like two big black slugs. I
declare they make me curl all over!”
Miss Usher was agreeably conscious of the fact that her charge had
made considerable sensation in their neighbourhood. No one could look
more elegant and distinguished, than the pretty girl in the corner.
There had been whispers, glances, and a turning of heads. These
admirers had not heard the beauty’s soft common brogue, nor witnessed
her difficulties with forks and wine-glasses. “But, considering all
things, she was wonderful,” said the chaperon to herself, as she rose
from the table, and ordered coffee in the hall. The more her ladyship
rubbed off the raw edge of ignorance, and the sooner she encountered
and vanquished startling first impressions, the better for her, and her
kinsfolk.
As they sat down at a little table, and the coffee made its appearance,
the girl said in a loud voice--
“I’m not partial to coffee. I’d sooner have a cup of tay!”
“But coffee is better at this hour. No one drinks tea immediately after
dinner; and, my dear, you really must begin to drop such words as
‘tay.’ Now sit here quietly, and listen to the way other girls speak.”
“And take a lesson for nothing?”
“Yes, and profit by it. Remember that your father arrives to-morrow.”
“Oh, Miss Usher dear, I’m terribly scared of him!”
“You must put that feeling out of your mind, and you will soon learn to
love him; he loves you already.”
“What? Oh, balderdash! Now, how could he love one that he’s only set
eyes on a few times.”
“Quite naturally, as a matter of course, for your mother’s sake.”
“You mane, because”--lowering her voice--“I’m so like her?”
“Yes, in appearance; and you must strive hard to resemble her in other
ways.”
“I will so if I can. But what ways?”
“She was most unselfish and thoughtful, good to the poor and the aged,
kind to animals, very gay and gracious in her manners, sweet-tempered,
clever, and fascinating.”
“Oh, but fancy the likes of me being clever, and fascinating!”
“Why not? But you will soon begin to learn to speak like other people.
To-morrow I shall write down a list of expressions you are not to use.
You are not to say ‘ould’ for old, ‘ye’ for you, ‘the likes of,’ ‘sure
now,’ and ‘by your leave.’ Talk but little, listen, and read a great
deal.”
“I see what you mean; I’m to keep my ears cocked. I’m not too bad to
look at, but when I open my lips I am like the girl in the fairy tale,
and my mouth drops toads and serpents.”
“There are no toads or serpents in Ireland you know. Still, just at
present, until you see and hear a little more, I think you will find
that, except between you and me, silence is golden.”
After a considerably long silence, during which Miss Usher knitted
steadily and her charge stared about her, the latter said--
“Well, I’ve been listening to those two girls in blue carrying on with
the nosey young man; and the little one told him he was ‘a rotter’ and
the other said he was ‘pulling her leg.’ What sort of chat, do ye call
that?”
“Oh, they are not ladies,” explained Miss Usher, who was distinctly
disconcerted.
“Yes; but how am I to know the differ between the talk of ladies and
the talk of them as is not?--not being a lady meself.”
“Oh, you will soon understand.”
“But those two are dressed as well as I am, and better,” protested the
girl, “and how----”
“Dress reminds me,” interrupted Miss Usher, “that you have several
fittings to-morrow, and a busy day”; and, suddenly rising to her feet,
she added, “It is getting on for ten o’clock. Shall we retire?”
On the way to their rooms, the two paused on a landing before a great
mirror; they halted involuntarily, and gazed at themselves as they
stood side by side; or rather, they both gazed at the reflection of
Lady Joseline Dene.
“I’m just a daw in peacock’s feathers!” she exclaimed at last. “It’s
all mighty fine, my beautiful dress, and my hair done up in the
fashion. Oh, dear me! I’m a regular take-in. I shall never be as nice
as I look.”
“Yes, you will,” said her companion, leading her into her room; “and
remember, dear child, that you are nice to your father when he comes
to-morrow.”
“I’m all in a tremble, when I think of it. How can I be nice?”
“By not being shy and shrinking and plainly afraid of him. He is a shy
man himself--people call it reserve. For years he has shut up his real
self, and no one has seen it. I believe that you hold the key.”
“But I shall never dare to turn it in the lock.”
“Why not? You are his daughter, a gift given back to him to cheer and
brighten the end of his life. Mind that you do it.”
“I’ll try. Anyway, I’ll put it in my prayers.”
“Do,” replied Miss Usher, as she closed the door.