It was with a feeling of repressed excitement and unusual trepidation,
that Lord Mulgrave, who had come over by the evening boat, walked into
the hotel and inquired for Miss Usher.
“Miss Usher and her ladyship were in,” said the porter; “in fact, they
were in the hall.” Yes, he recognised Miss Usher’s black-and-white
check gown, and her broad back; the girl with her--could it be
Joseline? What a transformation! Undoubtedly clothes had done wonders;
but her manners were as pitiably timid and uncouth as ever--she was
actually shaking with nervousness. By Lord Mulgrave’s desire the little
party dined in a private room, where he and Miss Usher talked, and did
their utmost to promote the ease of their companion, who, in spite of
her smart white gown and fashionable coiffure, was still the peasant in
her heart. She ate but little, and scarcely opened her lips, fearing to
be guilty of some awful blunder, and shock this handsome grey-haired
gentleman!
After the meal was over Miss Usher effaced herself with a murmured
excuse about letters, and left the father and daughter to talk to one
another alone.
“Come here, my dear,” he said, drawing up a chair, “and let us
endeavour to know one another. Talk to me, won’t you.”
Joseline accepted the seat in trembling silence. What could she talk to
him about? The price of calves, the Hennesseys’ wedding, the mission
at Glenveigh, her new clothes? Cleverly, and by degrees, her father
drew her out, and prevailed on her to thaw--to speak of herself and
her upbringing; and as she became more familiar with his presence and
the sound of her own voice, she talked a great deal, and unwittingly
displayed her simple mind, and simple heart. She was a dear, sweet,
good girl--the image of her dead mother; but twenty-one years yawned
between him and her, and as he listened to her artless conversation, he
felt overcome by the appalling state of her ignorance of what may be
called, “life above stairs.”
“Yes, I’ve had good schoolin’,” she was saying. “I can cast up figures,
and knit, and mend lace; the nuns taught me.”
“Yes; and anything else?”
“I can sing--I was among the altos, and once I sang at a concert, and
many a time at a dance.”
“I’m glad you can sing. Will you sing to me now, my dear?”
“Is it here?” she faltered. “Sure, I’ve no concertina.”
“That is no matter.”
“Oh, I’d be afraid, so I would. Oh”--twisting her hands--“I dare not.”
“Now listen to me, Joseline” (how many years since he had uttered the
name!). “If you are going to be afraid of _me_, I shall be afraid
of _you_, and that will be a terrible misfortune. You have your
mother’s face; if you have her nature, I don’t care one straw for
accomplishments. I think you may have her voice. Will you not sing to
me, my dear, and give me pleasure?”
He pressed her little hand tightly; he felt her trembling; and then,
all at once, in the dusky room, the sweet, low, quivering notes began,
at first faint and husky, but gaining strength and volume as they
went on. Oh, such a heart-piercing, exquisite air! The words were
unintelligible, for she was singing a well-known Irish lament, which,
rendered into English, was something like:--
Wail, wail, ye, for the mighty one!
Wail, wail, ye, for the dead!
Quench the hearth and hold the breath, with ashes strew the head!
How tenderly we loved him! how deeply we deplore!
Holy Saviour, but to think, we shall never see him more!
Wail, wail him through the island! Weep, weep for our pride!
Ye know that on the battle-field our gallant chief has died.
Weep the Victor of Benn Burb! Weep him, young men and old!
Weep for him, ye women! your beautiful lies cold.
Soft as a woman’s was your voice, O’Neil; bright was your eye.
Oh, why did ye leave us, Owen? Why did you die?
Your troubles are over; you’re at rest with God on high.
But we’re forlorn and sad, Owen. Why did you die?
As she concluded with a low sob of supreme dramatic effect, Lord
Mulgrave drew a deep breath, and, carrying the little cold hand to his
lips, said, “My dear child, do you know that _my_ name is Owen? Your
singing is no mere accomplishment; it is a great gift.”
“Did she sing?” she asked faintly.
“Yes. It was the same voice”; and he sighed as he released her fingers.
“Does Lady Mulgrave sing?” she continued, in a bolder key.
“No”--and he gave a slight start--“but, Tito, her daughter, is fond
of music; she is nearly your age, or a little older. You will be, I
hope, capital companions for one another; she’s a bit of a rattle, but
a good-hearted girl.”
“Is she pretty?” she asked.
“Not exactly; but rather attractive and piquante.”
“I never heard that word before; I suppose it means something nice?”
“Yes. You will see for yourself. She and Dudley are great friends; he
is my heir, you know, and your cousin; we see a good deal of him.”
“And what is he like?”
“Oh, fairly good-looking, but a lazy beggar. He did well in South
Africa, but got enteric, and was laid on his back for so long I believe
he fancies he is still there. You have put his nose a bit out of joint,
for some of the estates will now go to you.”
“Is it to me? Sure I’m not fit to own land. Once they wanted to make up
a match for me with a strong farmer; his people were eager for it, on
account of the fifty pounds.”
“But you said no?”
“Bedad, I did--a great fat man, with a bald face, and a pearl on one of
his eyes.” She meant cataract.
Lord Mulgrave gave a short laugh; then he said, “So, Joseline, you’ve
never had a lover?”
“Is it me? Why I had a couple of dozen or more making shapes at me!”
Her father sat up stiffly in his chair, apprehension in his attitude;
the expression of his face was disturbed.
“But sure, I didn’t care a hair for one of them,” she added
reassuringly. “I only liked them just for joking and dancing--nothing
more, I give ye me word. But I’d fine work keeping them off; they
mostly wanted to marry me!”
“You say you had many admirers, my dear. Did you not care for one of
them? Come, now, do not be afraid to speak.”
“No. Sorra one of them!”
“And yet you are past one-and-twenty! It is strange that my little
girl’s heart has never been touched,” continued Lord Mulgrave, in a
meditative tone; “but I think I can explain it. I believe it was a case
of like to like, and you instinctively shrank from the claims of a race
to which you did not really belong.”
“I expect there was something in that,” assented Joseline. “They said I
was too particular, and all for picking and choosing.”
“Now, supposing you had come across a gentleman wooer?”--and Lord
Mulgrave paused interrogatively. (Did he notice that Joseline was very
pale?) “I wonder how it would have been? Perhaps you and I would not be
sitting here to-day, Joseline. I am thankful that you belong only to
me!”
A long pause ensued.
Joseline was conscious that her mind was in a tempestuous state of
indecision. Should she speak? Should she disinter and lay before her
father, the poor little skeleton of her own romance? Should she or not?
After all, there is something that belongs to ourselves. And yet--and
yet---- Her large eyes gazed into vacancy.
At last she faltered, in a low and shaken voice, “Well, father, there
_was_ some one once. You are right. A gentleman--and--he was--a real
gentleman. He went away six years ago, when I was but a young slip of
a thing, and it nearly broke my heart. And that’s all.”
“What was his name? Who was he?” he asked under his breath.
“Sure there’s no need to tell ye that, for”--and her face
quivered--“I’ll never come across him again.”
“Irish, of course?”
She nodded. “There now, I’ve told ye, and ye know all there is to know
about me. Promise me ye will never let on.”
“I promise faithfully. Did he give you the red dog?”
“No, he gave him to Mrs. Foley. And now we will never spake of him
again.” Here two tears, which had been gathering, fell. “You have me
only secret.”
As a servant entered with a telegram and turned up the electric light,
her father looked searchingly at Joseline. Her face was white and
haggard. “My little girl is tired?” he exclaimed.
“Yes; I feel as if the feet were falling off me. I was standing so long
to-day being tried on.”
“Then you must go to bed at once. To-morrow we will do a drive and the
theatre. Next day we go home. You are no longer afraid of me, are you,
dear?”--and he bent down and kissed the hair over her brow. “You must
not. You are my only child; all I have, remember.”
“I will remember, and you will remember”; and she looked up at him with
an expression more eloquent than speech. An undivided and implicit
trust, spoke in her beautiful eyes.
END OF PART II
PART III
CHAPTER XXII
Although Lord Mulgrave had given Miss Usher a cordial invitation to
accompany his daughter to London, that prudent lady excused herself
with the plea of one or two engagements in Dublin. She wished to give
the father and daughter an opportunity of becoming better acquainted
before they joined the family circle. What could be a better occasion
than a sea voyage and a railway journey?
“I shall miss you awfully,” sobbed her companion of the last six weeks.
“I don’t know what in the living earth I’ll do, all alone. Of course, I
have his--his lordship--father; but I mean among the women. And I’ve a
notion they are all going to hate me, so they will.”
“That is a foolish idea to start with, my dear. You will find that
if you like people, people will like you. Do not be afraid of your
relations. Be good--tempered and pleasant, and just yourself.”
“Faix, it’s easy talking, Miss Usher dear. But which self? I’ve two,
you see. The one that comes natural--the common country girl, reared,
as ye may say, on the side of the road, and the new self, that’s a
grand lady, and must mind her manners and her talk, and hold up her
nose as if there was a smell under it!”
“Not at all,” protested her counsellor. “I hope you will be gracious
and polite to every one; it is only nobodies who give themselves airs.
Your father has invited me to pay you a visit later, and I shall look
for wonderful improvements and bring you a little prize. You are
improved as it is; you have learnt a great deal.”
“It will all run out of my head the moment I get among strangers,”
declared her pupil, in a tone of deep dejection.
“At any rate they will make allowances.”
“More likely they’ll make fun of me!”
“Nonsense! Now, you must try and remember some of the things you have
learnt. Promise me you will not say ‘Faix,’ ‘Musha,’ and ‘Begorra’; in
fact, my dear child, you should endeavour to cultivate silence.”
“Sure, don’t I know that well! and yet for the life of me I can’t hold
me tongue. I can’t stop myself. I’ve been so encouraged to talk as much
as ever I liked since I could talk at all, the words just slip out of
me mouth before I know they are gone--and often words I never meant
to say at all. I tell the black truth, and let them take it or leave
it--man, woman, or child.”
“You must make up your mind to listen and learn,” said Miss Usher,
soothingly. “You learn quickly. Now, I’ve a little book for you here.”
It was a neat edition of _The Manners of Good Society_. “Read this
over; it won’t tell you everything, but you will find it a help.”
Lord Mulgrave, for his part, had a gift for Miss Usher, and the evening
before he took leave of her he offered her his heartfelt thanks for
her care of his daughter. “I am aware that nothing I could give you,
would be an adequate return,” he said, “but I want you to accept this
as a memento of _Mary Foley_”; and he placed in her hand a blue velvet
case--a case containing a string of pearls, which, as a lady friend
subsequently remarked with bated breath, “must have cost hundreds and
hundreds of pounds.”
The travellers left for Holyhead by the early boat; and as Joseline,
in the dull grey cold morning, took leave of her friend--her very last
tie--she broke down and wept bitterly, and, with her arms tightly
clasped round Miss Usher’s neck, fell into a sudden breathless sobbing.
“May Heaven forgive me, but I _hate_ going, so I do,” she gasped. “Oh,
Miss Usher dear, I wish to God I was on my way back to Glenveigh!”
* * * * *
At Kingstown the waves were tumbling over the west pier; the water
in the harbour was lively. They were likely to experience a bad
crossing--a bit of an October gale.
At first Joseline enjoyed her novel experience of the sea, the stinging
salt air, the unfamiliar up-and-down motion; but once past the “Kish,”
when they caught the full force of the wind, she was compelled to seek
refuge in the ladies’ cabin, where she fell an immediate prey to _mal
de mer_ and terror. Over and over she believed that each lurch was
the end! However, at last Holyhead stack was safely sighted, and a
miserable, white-faced girl was claimed from the stewardess by the Earl
of Mulgrave. Her head was swimming and aching as she crawled up the
gangway, leaving _The Manners and Customs of Good Society_ behind her
on board the _Ireland_.
During the long day’s journey to London Joseline recovered but little,
in spite of her companion’s most anxious solicitude; her interest in
the flying landscape proved feeble, she felt so sick, and so utterly
shattered and desolate.
“Would you prefer to stop in London for the night, and go on
to-morrow?” suggested Lord Mulgrave.
“Oh, no, no! let us do it all at wance.”
“And get it over,” he added, with a faint smile. “You need not be
nervous, Joseline; every one is prepared to give you a warm welcome.”
“But I feel so strange. I know I’ll be like a sort of wild plant that
is pulled up by the roots, and stuck in a greenhouse, and every bit as
much out of place.”
“No, for you belong to the greenhouse,” he answered, “and by-and-by you
will find that you are in your natural atmosphere.”
“God send it!” she murmured, as with a gesture of weariness she closed
her eyes, and presently fell into a comfortable little sleep.
Her father, who sat opposite, studied the pale face anxiously. Here was
the image of his dead wife: her outward form, with the mind, manners,
and habits of an Irish peasant. What an unparalleled situation!
The poor, tired child had some formidable obstacles in her future path.
Lotty and she would have nothing in common--Lotty, with her bridge
and her cigarettes, her society jargon, her _set_, would be terribly
embarrassed by this simple, innocent creature. His wife’s opinions were
decided, her tongue was persuasive, her will inflexible. He had drifted
into allowing her to gently lead, to manage, and to set him a little on
one side, because he had not cared. Now he had something to care for
and protect. He must stand between Lottie, and a girl who embodied many
of Lottie’s especial aversions--a girl who was a mere child of nature,
outspoken, impulsive, uncouth.
Joseline and her father, having dined at the Euston Hotel, made their
way down to Ashstead. It was past nine o’clock, a dark, windy night,
when they arrived outside the gusty station, where a fine equipage,
with two moon-like lamps, awaited them. As she was conducted to her
carriage, the girl felt as if she were a second Cinderella going to
the ball. They drove away rapidly, Joseline sitting erect, her heart
beating with nervousness; her father took her little cold hand, and
held it in silence. When they stopped at a pair of great gates, which
opened noiselessly and swung back of their own accord as the carriage
dashed through, he said--
“This is Ashstead--my dear--your home.”
“Father,” she gasped, “I am mortally in dread. I feel as if I was going
to be killed, or married, when I think of meeting all these grand
strangers. I declare I’d like to get out of the carriage, and run in
and hide under the hedge.”
“My dear, I assure you there is nothing to alarm you.”
“It’s her ladyship and the young lady that terrifies me, when I think
of them.”
“Her ladyship is prepared to welcome you warmly. She is----” (What
could he say to encourage this trembling creature?) “She is--most
sweet-tempered, and full of tact.”
“Tact! What is tact?”
“A--the knack of saying the right thing, and keeping quiet at the right
time.”
“Oh, laws! then she is just the black opposite to me! And the young
one?”
“I feel sure you and Tito will be as sisters; she has often wished for
a companion. She will show you all sorts of things, and tell you what
to do.”
“I suppose she has had a grand education?”
“Yes, chiefly abroad. I am afraid she did not make the most of her
advantages; her spelling is shocking.”
“Oh! Well, anyhow, I can spell,” declared Joseline, with a gulp. “It is
the other things--the tip-top talking, and the sailing about a room,
and the hand-shaking, and looking people over from their shoes up. I
watched the ladies in the hotel. You see, I just clump about, and hitch
myself on to anything, and say, ‘What way are ye the day?’”
“Well, here we are,” he interrupted, as the horses came to a standstill
under a pillared portico. The door was then thrown open, and the light
from a large domed entrance streamed out into the night. Silhouetted
against the yellow glare were three tall men-servants. In a sort of
daze Joseline stumbled out of the brougham and followed Lord Mulgrave
into what seemed to be a royal palace. She paused for a moment, whilst
a footman relieved her of her umbrella and handbag, and, turning to her
father with piteous eyes, exclaimed, in a voice which the great dome
re-echoed--
“I declare to goodness I’m all of a swither!”
To this announcement her parent made no reply, but hastily preceded
her across the hall along a wide red-carpeted corridor, lined with
paintings and cabinets, to where a murmur of voices came through a
half-open door.
Lord Mulgrave had particularly desired an informal reception for his
daughter, so romantically restored. Of course, he was aware that the
entire neighbourhood were on the _qui vive_ to see her; their curiosity
must wait. He expected to find merely his wife and Tito. But Lady
Mulgrave had arranged otherwise; she had invited Lady Maxwelton and her
girls to come and behold the new niece and cousin, and being in London,
they had responded with alacrity. Several smart neighbours were added
to her dinner-party; but for these the inducement offered was bridge.
Lady Mulgrave was secretly displeased that her husband was bringing
“the hog-trotter” girl home--actually straight to Ashstead. She ought,
as a preliminary, to have first been sent to some school or foreign
convent. It was most irritating to have her dragged into the family;
the whole thing was so melodramatic--a sort of penny novelette story;
it had got into all the papers, too. The proper thing to do would have
been to send the girl abroad, and permit the episode to evaporate.
An uncouth peasant-girl was bound to cut a most ridiculous figure;
but since she was really coming, her ladyship had invited a surprise
party, as a little punishment for his lordship. The presence of so many
critical eyes would intensify his discomfort: in addition to the kind
and charitable intention of making him ashamed of his daughter, it was
also arranged as an ordeal for the girl herself.
Ten o’clock had struck. The small blue drawing-room was set out with
three bridge-tables, at which sat twelve deeply engrossed players.
Lady Maxwelton occupied a sofa with another lady; they were discussing
missions.
“Mother,” said Tito, suddenly throwing down her hand, “I’m sure I hear
the carriage! Yes; they have come at last!”
“Nonsense! It is the wind. They won’t arrive to-night,” replied Lady
Mulgrave, from another table. “Of course they will stop in London.”
As she spoke, she ceased to sort her cards, and announced, “I make no
trumps.”
“It _is_ them,” persisted Tito, rising. “Mother, aren’t you going out?”
But her mother merely took up her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke.
As she did so the door of the drawing-room was pushed open by some one,
and a graceful girl in a long sable-trimmed cloak and a French toque
came slowly into the room, ghastly pale, and yet so pretty! She looked
distinctly dazed--no wonder, poor alien!--as she contemplated this
brilliantly lighted room, the crowd of gaily dressed people all playing
cards and smoking cigarettes. Even Joseline was sharply sensible of the
strangeness of this new life--so near, yet so unknown. Directly facing
her, a yellow-haired woman--her beautiful bare shoulders emerging from
a hazardously low yellow gown--with a cigarette half-way to her mouth,
stared at the new-comer with eyes of stony incredulity.
For about the space of ten seconds a deadly stillness reigned. The
arrival paused, and in that time Lady Mulgrave saw and realised, the
amazing likeness to a certain picture in the red saloon; also that
this graceful, well-dressed personage was the bog-trotter girl, as she
mentally called her. Her husband, who was now in the room, said--
“Lottie, here is----”
“Oh ... I know.... I see,” she answered quickly, and, putting down her
cigarette, she rustled forward, took her stepdaughter’s hand in hers,
and administered an elaborate embrace. “Dearest, you are welcome--so
welcome. And here is my girl Tito,” she added, in her sweet voice,
waving forward a petite figure in a bright red gown, with bright, dark
eyes.
For a moment Joseline hesitated, and then she stooped and kissed Tito,
murmuring in a soft, broken whisper, “I do hope you will like me, me
dear! and we will be friends.”
Tito was taken completely aback, but from that moment her heart was
enlisted by this sweetly pretty creature, with the lofty air and
ridiculous brogue.
“Elgitha,” said his lordship, “let me present your niece to you,” and
he led her formally to a sofa, on which was seated the stately dowager
in velvet, with her beautiful white hair turned off her face over a
cushion.
The marchioness rose and warmly embraced the girl, and added, in a
subdued aside, “What a _likeness_!”
There were more introductions, a little talk, chiefly carried on by his
lordship, and then he said--
“Tito, will you take your sister away to her room and look after her?
We had a hideous crossing.”
“I’m sure you must be dead,” said Tito, leading the way, “and glad of a
rest and supper. I’ll introduce you to your room and your maid.”
“Maid? Oh, no. For goodness sake----”
“Why, of course a maid! Mother has two--one for her clothes, and one
for her hair! Here we are”--and she ushered Joseline into a lofty
bedroom on the first floor. “Is it not nice?”
“’Tis elegant! ’tis grand”--gazing about at the silk hangings, silver
looking-glass, and French furniture. “Just beautiful.”
“Do let me help you off with your wraps! Dear me! how different you are
to what we expected!”
“Yes?”--sitting down wearily. “What _did_ you expect?”
“Oh, a sort of bare-legged girl, with a turf creel on her back.”
The new-comer laughed hysterically as she removed her hat-pins. “Oh,
well, I never was just as bad as that!”
“I think you have made a most successful first appearance. You carried
the house by storm, and, figuratively speaking, will have splendid
notices in all the morning papers. You don’t understand my jargon?
And you are worn out. Ah! here comes your maid. Justine, this is
her ladyship. I see you have brought up some soup. You will look
after her? She is frightfully tired. What time do you get up in the
morning?”--turning to Joseline.
“Half-past six!” was the prompt reply.
“Half-past--horror! I generally emerge about eleven. To-morrow, I’ll
come and look you up early, and we will go round the grounds together
whilst Justine unpacks. Of course you breakfast in bed!”
“Is it me? Never in my life!”
“Well, I’m really going now. Good night.” Kissing her, she whispered,
“sleep well, and dream happy dreams. I expect they will all come true!”
CHAPTER XXIII
Joseline, who was worn out, both bodily and mentally, slept a sound and
dreamless sleep, from which she was aroused by the sound of careful
footsteps, a rustling of starched petticoats, and a gentle opening of
heavy shutters. She stared about the unfamiliar, lofty room. Where was
she? As her gaze fell on the pale satin counterpane, the dignified
dressing-table, beyond it a tall housemaid in a stiff print gown,
cautiously raising the window-blinds, she closed her eyes. Would she
open them on her own little quarters in the cottage loft?--a room with
a wooden bed and patchwork quilt, a rickety washstand, and one chair?
No, no--and she sat erect among her pillows--it was not a dream; she
was at home--her real home. Sleepily she watched the clever housemaid
arrange her bath, and carry in her tea in a dainty canary-coloured
service.
“At what time will you have your breakfast, my lady? Her ladyship said
you would have it in your room.”
“At nine o’clock. Just a bit of anything that’s going--I’m partial to
stirabout.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Enter Justine the maid, with her smart lace-trimmed apron and air of
critical inquiry, who began to arrange and put away and take out things
in a sort of stealthy silence. Presently she came forward and asked--
“When will your ladyship get up?”
“Oh, now,” she answered, “it’s all hours.”
“When shall I come back?”
“I can dress myself, thank ye.”
“But your hair, my lady?”
“Yes, I always do it meeself.”
“Then you will ring if you want me. I’ve left out your blue cloth;
it”--pause--“fastens up the back.”
As Justine closed the door, her ladyship slid out of bed and ran,
barefooted, to the window. Before her eyes lay a heavily timbered park,
so large, that it gave her the impression of being boundless. A silvery
frost sparkled on the grass. Beneath the window was a pleasure-garden
with gravel walks and marble steps and statues, where three men with
brooms and a barrow were languidly sweeping up the dead leaves. Somehow
the stately spacious outlook, impressed Joseline, even more than the
interior of the house.
When breakfast arrived, she was already dressed, all but the fastening
of her gown, and, unaware of the enormity, she requested the housemaid
“to give her a hook up.” Of course it was not Marston’s business, and
she might get into trouble with Ma’mselle; but the new-comer had no
idea of the hard and fast lines of domestic service--or indeed that
there were any lines at all. After a hearty meal, Joseline ventured
forth into the wide corridors, down a grand staircase, and was
presently lost among the intricacies of an immense, rambling mansion.
There were long passages, lined with sporting pictures, and covered
with thick red carpets, where she encountered soft-footed men-servants,
who stared and stood aside. She discovered a billiard-room, then,
opening a swing door, a cloak-room, and suddenly found herself in what
appeared to be the butler’s pantry, where two youths in shirt-sleeves
seemed not a little startled by her visit. She had opened the wrong
swing door, and, in beating a nervous retreat, came face to face with
her father in shooting kit. He seemed surprised and pleased, as he
exclaimed--
“Hullo! you early bird, what are you doing in this part of the house?”
“Faix, I believe I’ve lost me way. I wanted to find you, and--all the
other people.”
“At any rate you’ve found _me_. I hope you are rested?”
“Yes, thank you. And where are the rest of them?”
“Scattered about. Some are playing golf, some are in bed. I’ve been
interviewing the steward.” Then, as he ushered her through a doorway,
“Would you like me to show you the house?”
“Yes, indeed; I would love it.”
To introduce Joseline to the home of her forefathers was a task after
Lord Mulgrave’s own heart; he was a man of cultured tastes and a
well-known collector. He had a fine show of old arms, old ivories, old
cloisonné, some exquisite French cabinets, and the finest snuff-boxes
in England. By degrees he piloted Joseline through a suite of
reception-rooms, and showed her many rare and costly objects among his
heirlooms and his treasures; he was eloquent over his relics of the
Armada, his Sèvres cups, “Mary and William” tankards, and was conscious
of a sharp spasm of disappointment, when he found that the object that
claimed his companion’s admiration and awe was the stuffed brown bear,
which held a cigar-tray in the billiard-room! In short, as far as
knowledge and appreciation of art went, Joseline might be a child of
six. In the red saloon, a room panelled with damask and pictures, she
came to a halt before a fine painting of the Madonna and Child, which
Lord Mulgrave had picked up at a curiosity-shop in Pisa; it was said to
be a Raphael--at any rate, it was of his school.
Joseline gazed for some time, and then crossed herself devoutly.
“Oh, it is real beautiful,” she remarked at last--“a deal better than
the one in Glenveigh Chapel. I wish they had the likes of it. An’
wouldn’t Father Daly be the proud man!” She paused, coloured, and
exclaimed, “Oh, I was forgettin’.”
“Forgetting what?” inquired her father.
“I’m afraid my being a Catholic is a shockin’ upset; but I tell ye, for
ye bid to know”--and she surveyed him with solemn eyes--“I’ll never
change my religion.”
“No, of course not, my dear. It is true that our family have always
been Church of England; but I am thankful that you have a religion; it
is an uncommon possession in these days.”
Was he thinking of his wife, with her Sunday card-parties?
As they talked on many subjects, they were moving slowly down the
saloon, and at the end, he came to a standstill. Lord Mulgrave had
instinctively felt that there was no use in exhibiting the priceless
Vandycks, Romneys, and Hoppners, to this uneducated child as yet; but
here was a modern picture, bound to enchain her. Joseline looked up at
a full-length painting of a lovely girl, robed in a filmy white gown,
with delicate touches of blue. The portrait had been taken at a happy
moment, and seemed to exhale the very breath of life and youth. No need
to explain. Instinctively she was aware that she was face to face
with her mother. The picture was a gem, the “chef d’œuvre” of a French
artist who, like his model, had died young. The face was so vivid, so
full of animation, it seemed to stand out from the canvas, as if alive.
A truly speaking likeness! Joseline recognised her own shade of hair,
the colour of her eyes, and brows--her very mouth--she was looking at
herself as in a mirror.
“You are like her,” said Lord Mulgrave, in a low voice. “You can see
it?”
“I am, in face,” she answered, with an effort. “But in mind and ways
I’m just an awkward, common flahoola of a country girl!”
She had spoken the truth; her father could not contradict her. Again
he was penetrated with the conviction that, with the refined face and
figure of his beloved Joseline, the charming daughter beside him, had
the manners and vocabulary of the Irish peasantry. (Unfortunately for
Lord Mulgrave, his nature was dominated by the critical faculty.) Would
she ever outgrow or live down her plebeian youth, and those twenty-one
years of poverty and hardship, which yawned between her and him?
“Oh! you will improve,” he said, with a stifled sigh.
“I’m afraid I’m too old. However, I’ll try.”
“And here,” continued Lord Mulgrave, indicating a patrician individual
in splendid uniform, “is your grandfather, the Duc de Hernoncourt.”
“Holy Moses! Fancy that my grandfather!” she murmured, staring into the
face, “and him a duke, no less!”
“Yes; he had the royal blood of France in his veins. So”--looking at
her steadily--“have you.”
“Is it me?” she repeated, opening her eyes. Then she burst out
laughing. “Well, to think of that now! He looks terribly stiff and
stand-off, does my grandfather, and as if he did not want to know the
likes of me.”
“This is the little boudoir,” announced Lord Mulgrave, suddenly opening
a door into a small, bright room, where a great wood fire blazed up
the chimney. Before it was drawn a sofa, on which a recumbent figure
lay extended at full length, displaying a generous view of red silk
stockings and buckled shoes, the head buried among soft silk cushions;
and when the head turned, it displayed the face of Tito--Tito with a
cigarette between her lips, and a yellow paper-bound book in her hand.
“Hallo!”--suddenly sitting up. “Good morning, pater.” To Joseline: “So
you are down?”
“Yes, long ago,” she replied. “I’m sorry you are sick. What ails you?”
“I sick? Certainly not! Pray why on earth should you think so?”
“Because you are lying stretched.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. I’m taking it easy. The Max girls and the men are
playing a foursome, and I’m off duty”; and she snuggled down again, and
replaced her cigarette.
“Duty reminds me that I’m to meet Ross, the head keeper, at
eleven-thirty,” said Lord Mulgrave, “so I must be off; and I leave you
two girls together. Tito will take you in hand, Joseline, and coach you
a bit. I’ll see you at lunch.” And he went out.
“Sit down in that comfy chair,” said Tito, extending an authoritative
cigarette, “and let us have a talk. I suppose the earl has been doing
the grand tour. Tell me what do you think of the pictures? Aren’t they
splendid?”
“Oh, yes,” she assented, without enthusiasm, “grand.”
“The Cavalier on the black horse is worth ten thousand pounds.”
“Holy saints! Did father pay all that money?”
“No, goosey. The Cavalier is an ancestor--a most valuable one, too. If
he were mine, I’d sell him like a shot. They are all your ancestors.”
“How strange! I never heard the word itself spoken till last week.
Where are the other people?”
“Mother is in bed; she never shows till lunch; she has her toilette,
and her little dog, and her letters. Lady Max is an early bird, but she
breakfasts in her boudoir; she has a mighty correspondence--political
and philanthropic. The girls are out--both golf mad. Griselda is a
champion; the rest of the crowd were only neighbours. There is another
big spread to-night, and a shoot to-morrow.”
“Oh!”--and Joseline relapsed into silence, and sat staring at the fire.
“Now, come, let’s talk, and get to know one another,” said Tito
briskly. “You begin.”
“Faix, it takes a long while to know people,” rejoined the other, in
her soft, musical drawl.
“But in my case I become an intimate, or an enemy, within the first
half-hour.”
“Faix, then, I hope you won’t become my enemy.”
“No--though of course I ought to, after your turning up, and giving me
the back seat!”
Joseline became crimson, and looked uncomfortable and distressed.
“Bar jokes! I mean to do you a good turn, and tell you things.”
“I’ll be thankful to you, for I’m as ignorant as a young crow. What
sort of things?”
“Family news, family politics, family secrets that you would take ages
to discover. Also I’ll be your child’s guide and adviser--for though
I expect you are only a couple of years younger than I am, I am old
enough in worldly ways to be your grandmother. You call me Tito, of
course.”
“Yes, of course. And your mother; what am I to call her?”
“Um,” muttered Tito into the stump of her cigarette.
“Um?” repeated her pupil. “Do you mean _Mum_?”
“No. I’m considering,” she answered, with half-shut eyes. “I’ll let you
know later. Did you do your hair yourself?”
“Yes; av course I did. Why? Is it a holy show?”
“No; ripping! Tell me, has the earl said anything to you about money,
or an allowance?”
“Yes. He said four hundred a year. It’s far too much.”
“Too much!” suddenly sitting erect. “Not half enough. You could
never do with it--that is, if you are to be dressed. Why, look at
me!”--gesticulating. “Do you see this serge gown I’ve on? It cost
twenty guineas--not paid for yet. My shoes”--she flourished her pretty
feet--“three guineas. As to my evening gowns, that wretch ‘Du Du’ won’t
let me have anything under thirty-five pounds, and then it’s sham lace,
and looks like a rag in a week! Do you know that my winter coat cost
one hundred and twenty pounds? That makes a big hole in four hundred
pounds. I’ve the same allowance too, and I’m drowned in debt.”
“_You_ in debt? Why I thought it was only poor people that owed!”
“Well, I’m poor. I’ve nothing of my own but a hundred a year. Oh, I
owe bills I simply dare not think of. Such piles--especially in Paris.
Mother is even worse; she owes thousands! Of course, then there’s her
bridge losings, and her new motor, and Monte Carlo and all that. When
she married his lordship she had a thousand a year, and a little girl.
She has the little girl still--but the thousand a year has departed.”
“But is not father rich?”
“Yes. Nothing much for all he has to keep up. He says he is a poor rich
man. Lots of the farms are on his hands. There is the big London house,
the villa at Cannes, this place, with fifty servants. And mother is a
bad manager, and frightfully extravagant.”
“Well, av course I’ve always been poor, and twenty pounds seems a
fortune. Tell me, Tito, why do ye spend so much on yer back?”
“Because I must be in the swim. One cannot be seen over and over in
the same gown. When I go on a three days’ visit, I take at least a
dozen frocks. Then, I’m plain--I require dressing. Now _you_ could wear
anything.”
“Is that so? or are ye joking?”
“Why, you know you are most awfully pretty! I say”--and she pulled up
a cushion with a tug and selected a fresh cigarette--“don’t you feel a
bit funny? Outside you look all right”--she paused and surveyed her
companion critically, then resumed, “but how is your mind? How are you
_inside_?”
“Faix, then I’ll tell you! I feel just as you would if, after being
reared in grandeur all your life, you were suddenly struck down below
stairs, among a pack of strangers, and told to scour the pots, and wash
up dishes.”
“I’d be bound to smash everything before me.”
“That’s just how I feel,” said Joseline with fervour. “I’m sure to
break lots of things.”
“You mean the laws of good manners. Well, you will soon learn; you see,
you are a lady born.”
“But I’ve lived all my life as a working girl”--and she held out her
hands. “I may be Lady Joseline to look at, but I’m just Mary Foley
dressed up.”
“There is one thing you’ll break, my dear, and that is hearts.”
“Arrah, go on with you, and your blarney!”
“Go where?”--laughing. “I really wonder you were not married long ago.”
“Faix, there is more nor you wonders at that,” she answered sedately.
“Who pray?”
“Why, the boys I would not take!”
“Do tell me about them?”
“Augh, sure, they were only just common chaps.”
“What a providential mercy you did not _take_ one of them! That would
have been a fine complication!”
“Have you any chap, Tito?”
“Oh, heaps of a sort. Of course, I’ve played about.”
“What’s that?”
“Sitting in corners and writing little notes and having jokes, but
nothing serious. Mother thinks it is time there _was_ something
serious; you see, I’m twenty-three”--and she blew a cloud. “And I’ve no
looks or money; I’m only smart and bright and well turned out, and an
A1 dancer and bridger.”
“What’s a bridger?”
“Oh, you poor dear innocent, you’ll soon know! Well, as I was saying,
I’m not a very marketable article, and here you come and take all the
wind out of my little sails.”
“There’s no fear of that! You can’t understand the dread I’m in of all
the strange grand folk. When I think of things I’m scared; and as to
the servants, I declare they just paralyse me!”
“How ridiculous! You must really learn to hold up your head and be
self-confident.”
“I never could. Now, there’s your mother; she’s a real lady; any one
can see that with half an eye.”
“Of course, mother comes of a good old family, and is proud; but she
was only a parson’s daughter--second son--family living, you know?”
“No, I know nothing. I’ve heard of a living family, never of a family
living. I’m afraid her ladyship will mislike me.”
“Oh no, she never mislikes any one; and don’t call her her ladyship,
for mercy’s sake!”
“No; and I’ll be very thankful to you if you’ll correct me when I’m
wrong. Now, tell me, what my father likes?”
“Peace, with a big P, and sport and books and pictures and curios. I am
happy to add, he likes _me_.”
“And your mother?”
“Society, society, and again society--lots of nice boys, and smart
married women without their husbands, married men without their wives.
She adores bridge and cigarettes, motoring, and pretty clothes; she
likes to give the best house-parties, and to feel that she is very
popular. By-the-by, I wonder what Dudley will say to _you_?”
“Dudley? Oh, yes, I remember--father’s cousin. Do you like him?”
“Pretty well: he is decent enough. Mother adores him.”
“Why? Sure she is no relation!”
“No, if he were she might loathe him. She likes him because he is rich,
and run after, and good-looking, and the next heir--and so deliciously
casual and cool; and because”--here she took the pillow from beneath
her head and thumped it vigorously--“she wishes him to marry”--a
violent thump--“_me_!”
“Well, and why not?” inquired Joseline, in her tranquil voice. “I see
they do draw down matches over here, with all their laughing at us in
Ireland.”
“_Us_, in Ireland!”--throwing herself back. “You have no more to say to
Ireland than the parrot or your terrier. By the way, why did you import
him?”
“I was lonesome like.”
“I believe he has chased the housekeeper’s best cat; and that cat is a
personage, I can assure you.”
“I’m sorry; but he was always a terror for cats.”
“What a funny expression!”
“Well, when I’m too funny entirely, will you, for the love of goodness,
give me a wink or a pinch. I know I just talk like the purest
commonality--I’m not fit to be a lady.”
“You can’t help yourself; you _are_ a lady.”
“I’m better than I was, thanks be to Miss Usher; she made me read
aloud to her every day. Now, do tell me, when are you going to be
married to my cousin?”
“Most probably never--though it would be a splendid match for me.”
“Then why not give in to it?”
“I expect there would be two words to the bargain. Dudley is in no
hurry; he knows his value, and that he could marry almost any girl in
England. Perhaps he may take it into his head to marry you! I’m sure
your father would fall in with that arrangement.”
“And what about _me_?”
“Oh, you! It would be like a political marriage; you’d have to consider
yourself highly honoured. He is the most fastidious creature I’ve ever
seen.”
“Tell me some more about him,” urged Joseline, suddenly sinking on to
the big white rug, and clasping her arms around her knees.
“Yes, with pleasure, if you will wait till I light a fresh cigarette.”
“But you have smoked two already,” remonstrated her companion.
“Oh, that’s nothing”--carelessly striking a match. “Why, mother
smokes dozens a day, although the doctors have forbidden her to smoke
at _all_, she has such a weak heart; and they declare she will kill
herself, but she does not believe them. As for Dudley, he has been
in the army--the Duke’s Lancers; he was out in South Africa, and got
enteric, and nearly died; he is awfully faddy about his health, and
takes a real interest in his tongue and his temperature; then, he is
shockingly flattered and run after, for, besides being heir to the
pater, he has a big property in mines, which, needless to say, he never
goes near; he is supposed to have tremendous taste in some ways, and
sets fashions--he was the first man to wear a silk muffler with the
point outside, and to lunch at his club on bread and milk. Now I hear
that bread and milk is the rage!”
“And what else does he do besides eating slops?”
“Oh, he travels, and motors, and shoots, and sleeps, and nurses
himself, and says nasty, cynical things--and sometimes does kind ones.
He is rather decent--the earl likes him; by all the laws of propriety
he ought to hate his heir, but they get on capitally; they neither of
them talk much; they just sit and smoke, or walk and smoke. Dudley is
accustomed to be talked to and amused; you see, he is a great catch.”
“Does he flirt, or play, as you call it?”
“Yes; but only with married women.”
Joseline stared; her face expressed shame and disapproval.
“Oh, my dear little lambkin, it’s all right. No scandal! Just a few
dresses, and a kiss or two.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, but you will, darling. Now tell me, between ourselves, have you
ever had a real lover?”
No answer. Joseline’s eyes fell, and her colour rose.
“Look here, we will exchange experiences. I will tell you my secrets;
you shall reveal yours. Come now; has a man ever kissed you?”
Joseline’s colour increased, and crept up to her temples.
“Ah, ha! I see! Oh, your face is a shocking telltale!”
“Then it’s telling a big lie!” she protested with energy.
“It looks to me like the truth. _Some one_ has kissed you. Come now,
own up!”
“If I do, you will swear”--and she rose to her knees, and leant against
the sofa--“to keep my secret?”
“Yes, I swear--a million times over!”
“Well--I’ve no call to be ashamed; it was six years ago, and I was
only a slip of a thing; but a man did kiss me, and I kissed him”--a
pause--“through a pane of glass!”
Tito sat erect, stared incredulously, and burst into a scream of
laughter; it rang through the room, peal after peal. At that moment
Lady Grizel appeared in the doorway, where she stood for a moment in
startled silence.
“Why, Tito, you have nearly drowned the luncheon gong!” she said. “What
_is_ the joke?”
Tito, still gasping for breath, scrambled off the sofa and replied:
“The best joke I’ve heard for years!” and drying her eyes, she
repeated, “The best I’ve heard for years! I must refer you to Joseline!”
But Joseline had already sprung to her feet, and fled.
CHAPTER XXIV
Lady Mulgrave and her guests were already seated, when two late
arrivals joined them with hurried apologies.
“Good morning,” she said, tendering a dainty hand to Joseline, and
offering her ear to be kissed.
But this ignorant Irish peasant failed to accept the hint, having no
conception that she was being honoured with permission to salute her
stepmother’s delicately powdered skin; and she stood for a moment,
undecided and embarrassed.
“Well, there, my dear, go and sit down,” said her ladyship, indicating
a place next to herself. “I hope you are rested?”
“Thank you, I’m finely to-day.”
“I suppose you have been round the house?”
“Yes. It’s wonderful; it’s grand. I never saw the likes of it.”
Lady Mulgrave smiled faintly, and said, with half malicious emphasis,
“No, dear, I should imagine _not_!”
Her look was significant, though her smile was enchanting. Joseline
instantly withdrew into herself and proceeded to eat her lunch in
nervous silence. Whatever she said or did was bound to be wrong. She
read--she was quick in such matters--criticism and ridicule in the
other woman’s eyes.
Those same eyes watched her from time to time with a curious,
scrutinising gaze. Seen in the broad light of day, the girl’s
extraordinary resemblance to her mother came home to Lady Mulgrave like
a shock. She had never ceased to be jealous of that exquisite portrait!
And here was the picture alive, a brilliant and emphatic reality,
seated beside her at table, and, oh! small sweet consolation! eating
French beans with a knife!
Although Mrs. Dawson had secured a splendid position for herself and
daughter, her affection for Lord Mulgrave was lukewarm; she had,
however, acted her part to perfection. By-and-by it had dawned on her
husband that there was no sincerity behind all those honey-sweet words.
Gradually he had withdrawn into himself, and they had drifted apart,
having nothing whatever in common.
Then there had been disagreements respecting expenditure, arrangements,
guests of which he disapproved; but in these little encounters, the
lady had invariably the best of it; she never lost her self-command, or
her temper; but she wept in a subdued and becoming fashion, and Lord
Mulgrave was a coward in the presence of a woman in tears, therefore
he relinquished his sceptre for the sake of peace. And yet, though
he was indifferent to her, she was jealous--jealous of the beautiful
French wife, whose memory he had enshrined, jealous of the poor little
treasures which he hoarded, of the miniature that he carried with him
whenever he left home, were it but for a day!
Now, like a thunderbolt from the skies, this Frenchwoman’s
daughter--her living, breathing image--had crossed the threshold
of her life. Already she was sensible of a hot dislike of the girl
(though, of course, no one should ever suspect it). She would play her
cards cautiously, pose as the sweetest of stepmothers, and, as soon
as possible, marry her off. With that face and figure there would be
little difficulty, unless the creature was an absolute idiot!
She could see that Joseline was pitiably nervous, and no doubt would
have been a thousand times happier in the servants’ hall. It was true
she ate but little; and by degrees ventured to look about her. The
presence of her father at the foot of the table--of Tito, chattering
directly opposite--emboldened her, and she glanced at the company one
by one. There was her aunt, handsome, gracious, and stately, with her
white hair beautifully waved, her plump hands sparkling with rings;
she looked kind. There were her cousins--fresh Scotch girls--wearing
tam-o’-shanters and tweeds; three clean-shaven young men, rather like
a set; and a pretty dark girl from the Rectory. They were all eagerly
talking golf--discussing putting, ties, bunkers. To Joseline it was
the purest gibberish, but to the company it seemed a topic of the most
vital interest. Even Lady Maxwelton was eloquent, and bragged of “our
greens.”
Her immediate neighbours had only addressed one or two remarks to the
new importation. They were charitable, Christian people, and realised
that it was kinder to leave her unnoticed--and to permit the poor girl
“to find herself.”
After lunch, the six ladies adjourned to coffee in the little
drawing-room, and here the marchioness and her daughters gathered round
and made friends with their new cousin.
Such a pretty, blushing, timid creature, with her soft southern brogue!
And what a likeness to her mother!
By-and-by Joseline rose, in hopes of making her escape; but Lady
Mulgrave, with an imperative gesture, motioned her to her side, and,
looking up with half-closed eyes, exclaimed, “Now you must talk to _me_
a little, dear girl.”
Joseline sat down in embarrassed silence.
“Dearest child, I really do think you so wonderful.” A pause, and she
blew a cloud. “Six weeks ago you were in a cabin. It is extraordinary,
is it not?”
“It is,” was the humble admission; “but it was not altogether what you
might call a cabin.”
“No? And what, then--a hut?”
“Just a decent slated house with two good bedrooms, forby, a loft, and
a fine kitchen and scullery.”
“Where did _you_ sleep?”
“In the loft.”
“But, dearest, you said there were two bedrooms.”
“Yes, but we kept potatoes in one, and I liked being up high. And now,
with your leave, I’d like to go away and write a few letters.”
“So then”--with a playful air--“you can write?”
“Oh yes, and read, and cipher. I had good schooling.”
“And what are your accomplishments, Joseline?”
“Not much to brag about.”
“Still, I’m confident you are clever at some things.”
“I can sing, and play the concertina.”
“Oh, the concertina!” repeated Lady Mulgrave, with a faint shudder.
“And I can knit and dance; and I’m a good milker--if that counts.”
“So, then, you had a cow? Any pigs?”
“No. We had three, and sometimes four, cows. We kept the Rectory in
milk, and the police barracks as well.”
“Did you do all this yourself--no assistants?”
“Me mother--that’s”--becoming scarlet--“Mrs. Foley,--wasn’t up to much,
and I used to have a girl in on weekdays to lend a hand, and a boy of a
Sunday--but I got shut of him.”
“And where did you shut him? And why?”
“Oh, because he was always in a hurry to be off, tearing at the cows at
two o’clock, instead of six, because, being Sunday, he wanted to do the
bona fide on his bicycle.”
“Dearest, what _do_ you mean?”
“The bona fide traveller, you know, is allowed refreshments. He would
take a spin of six or seven miles--get a drink at a public-house. May I
go now, please?”
“Yes, of course, dear.” And as the girl crossed the room and
disappeared, Lady Mulgrave turned to the marchioness and said, with a
shrug, “Is she not _too_ quaint for words! playing the concertina, and
the boy doing--what was it?--the bona fide on a bicycle!”
“I think she is a sweet, simple, good girl,” declared her aunt--“just
one of nature’s ladies.”
“Oh, she is simple enough,” acquiesced the other; but in her voice
there was a belittling and malicious note.
Joseline spent an hour in writing letters to Miss Usher, Peggy
Carroll, and Mrs. Hogan--letters written on beautiful thick paper, and
ornamented with a neat gold crown. After these had been despatched,
she accompanied her father on a tour of inspection round the grounds,
the gardens, and the stable-yard. It was a bright, frosty afternoon,
and she felt invigorated and even gay. The two made steady progress
in intimacy; her awe of him had entirely abated, and she talked
freely, expressing her delight in the greenhouses and horses and dogs
with truly Irish enthusiasm. As they walked away from the golf links
he said, “You must learn to play golf and billiards. I will teach
you--yes, and to ride too.”
“I’ve everything to learn--and that’s the truth.”
“I am glad you and Tito seem to hit it off.”
“Yes, indeed; she’s queer notions, but she is real kind-hearted. I’ve
asked her to correct me when I’m doing the wrong thing.”
“She’s so feather-headed, you must not rely on her; better come to
_me_.”
“So I will, with a heart and a half.”
“You will soon become accustomed to us and our ways. Be yourself--be
gay, my dear; another young voice in the house is a great pleasure to
me.”
“But not a South Cork brogue! Ye can’t call _that_ nice?”
“Yes, I can; it reminds me of old days. Your mother had most wonderful
spirits; she was the happiest----” he stopped. “Well, here I see her
ladyship coming in her motor; you had better go and get ready for tea;
she likes young people to be punctual--remember that, dear.”
“Yes; and we were so late for lunch! But I had to tidy my hair; it was
like a furze bush. I won’t have any tea. I must unpack, and tidy up my
things; but I’ll come down early.”
“If you do, then we can have a talk. Dinner is at eight. I believe
Dudley is expected.”
Joseline, having arranged her belongings in her own way, dressed early,
and descended to the yellow drawing-room, in order to have a good
half-hour with the magazines, and the promised talk with her father,
before the crowd came.
Absorbed in a story, she did not hear the door open.
Captain Deverell entered; he had just arrived by train. At first he
supposed the room was empty, but, seeing a white skirt billowing round
the sides of an arm-chair near the fire, he called out, “Hullo, Tito!
Is that you? Has the wild Irish girl arrived?”
The figure sat up, rose slowly to her feet, and confronted him. No, it
was not Tito, but a far better-looking young lady, wearing a white gown
and a turquoise necklace, who replied, “Yes, she has come--in fact,
here she is!” dropping a curtsey. “But she’s not very, very wild at
present.”
He surveyed her gravely. “I beg your pardon. So you must be Lady
Joseline?”
She nodded.
“And I have the honour to present your cousin, once removed, Dudley
Deverell”; and he made a profound, half-ironical inclination.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about you from Tito”; and she sat down and
took up her book with an air of calm detachment.
“I’ve seen you before somewhere, I think,” he announced, after a
puzzled silence.
“Have you really?” And again her eyes wandered to the page.
“It is not considered polite to read--er--when you have some one to
talk to.”
She closed her book, and said, “Excuse me, please, I have not learnt
manners yet. I will not read, but I am awfully interested in the story.”
“And not in the least in _me_, eh? How crushing!”
She coloured up to her hair.
“I have it!” he shouted triumphantly.
“What have you caught?” she demanded, with brisk curiosity.
“You, bless my soul!” Here he sat down. “Why, you are the girl at the
gate. Yes, I recognise your eyes, though you are dressed up. You cannot
have forgotten us--the motor people! And my friend Harry Coxford had a
row with your young man. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, indeed, I remember it well enough! And you were the dummy! Patsie
had drink taken, and I got a queer fright, I declare, when the two were
in handy grips.”
“What were you doing there, that day?”
“I went up just to fetch back the cat, and to say good-bye to the old
place. ’Twas there I was reared.”
“Were you? Well, I must say you do it credit. So that was your home,
until old Usher ferreted you out?”
She nodded.
“And how do you like your new quarters?”
“Well enough so far, thank you.”
“By Jove!”--looking her over--“she is a cool card--might have been here
for years”; and he took in the well-cut gown, the dainty little shoe,
the turquoise necklace, which so well became her dazzling white throat.
Yes, the girl had evidently begun well, and made what is known on the
turf, as a “flying start.”
It was a singular circumstance that whereas her tone and speech were
distinctly common, she had nevertheless an indescribable air of good
breeding--the strange, inimitable stamp of social superiority that
cannot be acquired by any known process of education.
“And what became of the uproarious young man?” he inquired.
“Oh, he’s all right, for all I know,” she answered, with supreme
indifference.
“Or care,” drawled Captain Deverell.
“Yes,” she answered coldly, “or care.”
“There’s a pretty confession.”
“Sure! the likes of him was nothing whatever to me,” she announced,
with an air of serene repudiation.
“No, but you seemed to be a good deal whatever, to him.”
“How could I help that? Aren’t they all the same?”
“Oh, are they? Does your father know of this Pat, or Mike?”
“No; why should he be bothered with the likes of such nonsense?”
“Nonsense! Well, you are amazing. The man was madly in love with you,
and you call it ‘nonsense’!”
“People in love are mostly foolish.”
“How do you know?”
“Why, from seeing plenty of them,” was the unabashed reply.
“In your own case?”
“Yes, they tormented the life out of me, and I was tired of insulting
them. But I’ll tell you one thing--Patsie only fancied he liked me; it
was just because I was going off, and his contrariness. If I’d been
stopping on, I don’t believe he’d have bothered me, for he is looking
for a fortune.”
“Yes”--drawing his chair a little closer. “This is most interesting.
Please go on.”
But Joseline was gazing at the door, which opened cautiously, and
admitted Lady Mulgrave in an evening toilette of sea green and
diamonds. She rustled forward with empressement.
“There now, and I’ll tell ye the rest when we are by ourselves.”
Her ladyship distinctly overheard this promise. What a bold
creature!--a girl who had met Dudley for the first time. So this was
her simple, innocent little Irish peasant! Already spreading her nets
for her father’s heir. How truly abominable!
“My dear boy, I’d no idea you had arrived,” she said, coming over with
extended hands. “I see that I needn’t introduce you to Joseline”--and
she looked contemptuously amused. “Have you been here long?”
“Only about five minutes.”
She glanced interrogatively at the girl, who turned towards the
mantelpiece, and said, “Fifteen, by the clock.”
“Well, it seemed like five,” he said; “my new cousin had so many
curious things to tell me. Now I must be off and dress”; and he
departed, leaving Joseline and her stepmother _tête-à-tête_.
“But, dearest child, I was given to understand that you were painfully
_shy_,” she was beginning, when, to the girl’s immense relief, the door
opened again, and several of the guests came into the room, followed by
her father.
“And how has my little girl been getting on?” he asked, as he joined
her.
“Oh, very well so far, and I’ve just made acquaintance with Dudley
Deverell.”
“And what do you think of him?”
“I cannot answer that just yet; but I can tell you what he thinks--of
me.”
“Really!”
“That I am a new sort of foreign curiosity. I may be gold, or I may be
_brass_! I’m sure he suspects there’s a bit of brass about me!”
CHAPTER XXV
Tito’s sketch of Dudley Deverell was not altogether a caricature;
he was good-looking, selfish, and popular. Social success and an
atmosphere of flattery, stimulated his weaknesses, and encouraged
him to display the least attractive side of his nature--a cynical
air, an amazing indolence, and a cool indifference to the opinions
of other people. Life had been made pleasant for him, and he valued
it accordingly. As a guest and attraction he was faithless, and had
thrown more than one important hostess into a tempest of indignation,
by sending at the eleventh hour a lying wire. He travelled, he shot and
fished when his health permitted, and was just as bored as other young
men, with no occupation, and great prospects.
Some day he was bound to marry, and possibly Tito would do as well
as any one! She knew the place, and it would please her people. Tito
was good company, and a ripping dancer, but inclined to be rowdy, and
confoundedly plain. If he could not remedy one defect--he would the
other.
And now there was another girl in the family--he had bestirred himself
so far as to journey to Ashstead, to see what she was like? It was an
amazing tale. An introduction to this peasant would afford him a novel
sensation. New sensations were rare and precious, and he had run down
just for one night, in order to interview the stranger; and behold!
she was no stranger, but the pretty, cheeky girl who had chaffed him
by the roadside in Ireland. The new cousin was uncommon; she was
amazing; her manners and accent were abominable. However, she had
lovely eyes and a saucy tongue, and he foresaw a considerable amount of
entertainment.
These were some of Captain Deverell’s reflections as he gazed into his
own face and executed a most finished white tie (he had been an Eton
boy). Lady Mulgrave, too, had certain thoughts respecting Joseline. She
had never seen Dudley so animated and interested, as on this occasion
in the drawing-room.
Oh, that would never do! She would nip the intimacy in the bud at once.
Dudley rarely remained longer than twenty-four hours, and she would see
that he and the girl were kept apart. Captain Deverell slipped into the
drawing-room just as dinner was announced, looking the ne plus ultra of
the smooth-faced, smooth-headed young men of the period, and was just
in time to lead Lady Grizel into the dining-room.
As Lord Mulgrave glanced round the beautifully decorated, well-lined
table, he felt secretly vexed that Joseline, who had yet to distinguish
between a dinner-knife and a dessert-knife, and to whom a finger-glass
was a puzzle, should not have been allowed a little breathing space
before being placed on exhibition.
Certainly she looked surprisingly like the rest of the company, save
that she was much more attractive. With her wonderful skin, her
burnished hair, her fine features, and exquisitely turned throat, it
might be her mother come to life. And she was suitably dressed! Miss
Usher had proved, indeed, a treasure. Then he considered his wife at
the head of the table, a fashionable figure, with wonderful hair and
complexion, a generous display of her splendid neck and shoulders, a
French gown, the family diamonds, and her best society smile.
Lady Mulgrave glanced frequently at Joseline; she was a remarkable
object, and Captain Deverell’s eyes strayed to her too. The girl seemed
to be both beautiful and discreet. She scarcely spoke, she scarcely
ate, but crumbled bread and uttered monosyllables. Once she assured a
man-servant that “she wanted no more sauce--she had lashings!” What
were lashings? “Oh, if she would only talk!” said Lady Mulgrave to
herself. Some one had been advising her to hold her tongue. However,
her hands were red; she had upset her neighbour’s champagne, eaten her
neighbour’s bread, and dropped her spoon. Yet, when all was said, the
peasant girl had undergone the ordeal of her first dinner-party, with
respectable self-possession.
After dinner, Joseline was formally presented to various important
dowagers in the drawing-room, who found the girl pretty, well turned
out, but oh! so stupid! She scarcely opened her lips.
Then the men came crowding in, conversation became general,
bridge-tables were set out, and Joseline found her tongue.
“Do you play bridge?” inquired Captain Deverell, sinking into a seat
beside Joseline, whilst another man hovered near.
“No, I never heard tell of it till to-day,” she answered; “and is it
with a ball, or what?”
“No; with cards.” Then, speaking as to a child, “You know
cards--playing cards?”
“Yes, and like them finely too. I’ve never heard of the game you mean,
but I know ‘spoil fire’ and ‘beating Jack out of town.’”
“That must be a most exciting game,” drawled her cousin. “How many beat
him? Not more than one at a time, I hope?”
“As many as likes; it makes no odds.”
“Are you fond of motoring?” inquired a man who did not see why Deverell
should engross the beauty.
“Well, I’ll tell ye after I’ve been on one. I once got a lift on a
traction-engine--me and a girl--I mean, a girl and myself--and I
suppose it’s the same sort of thing?”
“Only the pace is slightly different.”
“Yes; but the noise, and the joggling, and the frightening of horses
and cattle, is all one.”
“I daresay you are right there,” he assented.
“What part of Ireland have you lived in?” inquired a smartly dressed
lady, who was seated near Joseline.
“The south, near Glenveigh.”
“Oh, yes; a great place for fishing, is it not?”
“I would not say that; but it’s where people come _looking_ for
fishing.”
“And don’t get it. I see! By the way, does not Mrs. Borrodaile live in
that part of the world?”
“She does so, at the Court.”
“I suppose you know her--er--by sight?”
Joseline nodded. “I seen her in the chapel.”
“Do tell me what she is like?”
“Well, some makes out she is handsome; but I’d call her a very
streelish lady.”
“Streelish!” she repeated. “You mean stylish?”
“No, no, I do not. She has a great streel on her--long, sweeping
things--and looks as if she was falling out of her clothes.”
“Really?” she laughed. “I must inquire into this. I’ve not seen her for
ages; she is my cousin.”
“Is she so?” rejoined Joseline imperturbably. “I believe she is very
good to the poor. Her kitchen-maid was a friend of mine and thought a
power of her. Still and all, she _has_ a rakish look!”
This newly discovered heiress was a unique creature, with her
distinguished face and her extraordinary talk. She was splendid fun;
people began to hover near her. Her father watched her with nervous
apprehensions. It was too bad of her ladyship to bring the child
forward before she had a little experience of society! But her ladyship
had her own views; she wished to make her husband uncomfortable and
ashamed of his low-bred daughter. He now joined the circle, and with
unexpected animation, urged people to seat themselves at bridge.
Bridge, the all-fascinating, soon scattered Joseline’s little court;
and presently she and her father stole away together to have a talk in
the library. They were not missed.
When Joseline had retired, Lord Mulgrave, as he smoked alone, began to
ask himself if he would not have been wise to have accepted Lottie’s
broad hint, and sent the child to a school for a few months, just to
rub off the rough edges of her vocabulary?
The shooting party were to have a grand battue the following morning.
All the ladies who were not sportswomen were to meet the guns at a
keeper’s cottage, and there share their luncheon. But some of the
women preferred to walk with the guns. These included Tito, who
begged Joseline to accompany her to the neighbourhood of a celebrated
warm corner, where they took their stand; but after a very short time
Joseline and her dog made their way elsewhere. She had no taste for the
spectacle. As she struggled through the undergrowth, she suddenly came
upon Dudley Deverell, gun in hand, his loader beside him, awaiting the
magic words “Mark over!”
“I say, what in the world are you doing here? and with a dog too! If
the governor sees it he will be furious,” he drawled. “If you don’t
mind you’ll get shot.”
“The dog will stick to me, and I’m striving to get out of the wood and
doing my big best; but wherever I go there are guns and slaughter.
Pah!” she exclaimed, “grown-up men shooting tame pheasants! Why don’t
you wring their necks, and have done with it!”
Dudley Deverell, who prided himself on being a dead shot and a keen
sportsman (when his health permitted), stiffened and coloured with
annoyance. What did this girl know of shooting or sport? She really
_was_ a young savage! “I see you don’t approve of us, which is
deplorable; for you will have to remain here till the end of the beat.”
“Who says so?” she demanded.
“I do. You may get shot. Mark over!” He raised his gun. Bang! bang!
went two barrels, and a couple of rocketters came crashing heavily
down. One of them fluttered about till it was put an end to. “What do
you think of that?” he inquired.
“I call it a horrid sight!” was the unexpected reply. “There is no
chance or fair play in it. But I suppose the poulterers have to be
supplied!”
“Pray what do you know about poulterers?”
“A sight more than I want to! Haven’t I spent all my life, till the
last two months, rearing chickens, and selling eggs?”
“Oh! Really! And how did you dispose of them?”
“To the gentry.”
“You did not _kill_ them I presume?”
“No. I never had the nerve; but I plucked some of them with me own two
hands.”
“Still, I suppose you made a good thing of it?”
“No then, I didn’t; though I had one lady, a big customer--till we fell
out.”
“About eggs? A bad egg, eh?”
“No. There _you_ are out. My eggs were the best. It was over a gold
locket and chain.”
“How was that?”
“She made out as her son had given it to me.”
“And she was wrong?”--smiling. “It was the other fellow?”
“Well, yes, if I’m a fellow, for I gave it to myself.”
“And the lady’s son--was _he_ one of the crowd you----?”
“What does my father do with all the game?” she interrupted brusquely.
“I’m sure I’ve no idea. He has the best coverts in the county, and
that’s enough for me. What an odd girl you are!” he said suddenly.
“Don’t you feel it yourself?”