man.”
“I--queer? In what way?” he asked, with a touch of hauteur in his tone.
“Oh, rambling about the world, looking for something to kill, same as
a boy birds-nesting, and not doing a hand’s turn, good or bad.”
“Ah, I declare you are a young reformer”--colouring angrily. “And _you_
must know such a jolly lot about the world, and men of the world--don’t
you?” he added ironically.
“There, now you are laughing at me. I’m no reformer. God knows there’s
plenty of faults in me, and I’ve no call to be picking holes in you, or
the likes of you; but I can’t keep me tongue quiet.”
“You can keep it very quiet sometimes--for instance, last night at
dinner.”
“And hard set to do it. I’ve always been a terrible talker. Tell me, is
it true, that, with all the foreign countries you have seen, and the
strange places you have pried into, you have never in your mortal life
been down one of your own mines, nor seen how things is going with men
and beasts that make your money? There! now I see you’re real mad. I
didn’t mean to torment ye!”
Before Dudley could make a fitting and crushing reply, steps approached
from behind them, and a man called out, “Hullo, Deverell, what luck?
You had a hot corner!” But all that Deverell displayed was four brace.
“Ah, you’ve had a young lady with you I see.” As the girl pushed
through the laurels, and fought her way on to a path, she heard the
voice declare, “They are the very deuce out shooting.”
“Yes,” acquiesced her cousin, with unflattering emphasis, “an infernal
nuisance.”
So that was Dudley’s verdict. She was an infernal nuisance! She halted
for a moment to digest this fact. It was now time for the lunch at the
keeper’s cottage, and she encountered most of the party on their way
to the rendezvous as she once more emerged into the open.
* * * * *
“Lady Mulgrave, is it possible that I see you refusing our standing
dish, Irish stew?” said Dudley Deverell.
“I believe I shall have enough elsewhere,” she answered, with
significance. “What do you think of your new cousin?” she continued, as
she helped herself carefully to cutlets.
“I am not prepared to give an opinion at such short notice.”
“Then I gather that it is not a case of love at first sight?”
“I don’t believe in that humbug; and besides, I saw her in Ireland.”
“No!”--suddenly putting down her glass.
“Yes, by chance--as Mary Foley. I had not the smallest idea who she was
then.”
“And what did she look like?”
“Oh, a pretty, saucy, country girl, with lots to say for herself.
I never was so amazed as when I discovered her last night in the
drawing-room! You could have floored me with the traditional feather!”
“She does not talk much now,” said Lady Mulgrave. “Evidently she has
been advised, that silence is best.”
“It must be a trial, for I heard a man describe her as ‘the gabbiest
little divil in the country.’”
“Oh, I expect she will soon find her tongue.”
“And her feet?” supplemented Captain Deverell.
“I’m not so sure of that; it takes some time to rub off twenty-one
years of the cabin.”
“She is not awkward--no, not a bit.”
“Except when she spills things over people, and breaks wine-glasses.
You don’t think her pretty, surely?”
“Yes; very pretty, in an uncommon style.”
“A very uncommon style. What a mixture--French, English--reared in
Ireland!”
“She has some curious ideas.”
“Dear me! I had no notion that she had any ideas at all.”
“Oh, yes; with regard to shooting, and idle young men, who won’t do a
hand’s turn!”
“Nonsense! How amusing! You and she must have become delightfully
confidential among the laurels! She is a frightful flirt; any one can
see that with half an eye.”
“Well, I cannot, with two eyes.”
“Oh, but you will. Oh, she’ll try her prentice hand--and a red hand it
is!--on you, of course!”
“How do she and Tito hit it off?”
“Pretty well. You know Tito has the temper of an angel; so unselfish
and sweet. She and I are running over to Paris to do some shopping for
ten days. Any chance of seeing you, Dudley?”
“Perhaps. The old place, I suppose?”
“Yes; and Joseline and her father will have the house to themselves,
and be able to make much of one another.”
“He seems immensely devoted,” said Dudley.
“Yes. He is full of sentiment, you know. There is, however, one
drawback; she is a Catholic.”
“Well, I agree with the earl. It is something to be anything in the
present day. Personally, I like a woman to have a religion.”
“But we all have,” protested the lady.
“I suppose you think so. At any rate, you worship the Golden Calf.”
“Really, Dudley!” she said, in an offended tone, “you do say the rudest
things! Your manners are not improving.”
“No, wearing a bit thin. Well, I must run over when you are in Paris,
and see if I can’t give them a touch of French polish!”
CHAPTER XXVI
The small family party had dispersed, and as the days went by without
social events, Joseline began seriously and methodically to accustom
herself to the routine, and resolute to become at ease in her new life.
She was painfully conscious of her ignorance of the ways of people in
society. She felt that she shocked Lady Mulgrave ten times a day; and
Lady Mulgrave, for all her sweet smiles, had, as she mentally expressed
it, “a pick on her.” Yet she was making some progress, and from
conversations listened to, she acquired a familiarity with the jargon
of her surroundings, and was learning to manipulate just those turns of
phrase, best calculated to sustain amiable relations.
Joseline was a great reader, and devoured books. With her, this was not
a cultivated taste, but a natural appetite. From books, magazines, and
reviews, she was learning with avidity, humbly conscious of her own
inferiority, and that her father hoped for her to acquire a polish, and
to shine.
When Lady Mulgrave and Tito had departed to Paris she and her father
were thrown into one another’s constant society. Innumerable small
signs of her affection afforded him a happiness such as he had not
known for years. He was becoming reconciled to shocks and to strange
expressions, and all the best that was in Lord Mulgrave was brought to
the surface. Together the pair walked and drove, explored the estate,
and visited the cottagers. The girl’s manner to their inmates was
charming, and many of the elder people remembered and recalled her
mother.
“I cannot imagine where you have acquired it, but you have a wonderful
way with these folk,” exclaimed Lord Mulgrave. “How do you know what is
just the right thing to say?”
“It’s like this, you see: although I am so awkward and flurried in fine
society, and make such awful mistakes--you remember how I shook hands
with the head gamekeeper at Lord Dover’s, and walked out of the room
before the Duchess--I am really at home with the poor. I can enter into
their feelings, for I have lived with them all my life. They are the
same all the world over, only they talk differently.”
“Then in that case you shall be my Lady Bountiful and take on the
cottage hospital, the school, and the almshouses. Her ladyship does
not care for the people; she never visits them; she says they are
uninteresting, grasping, and thankless.”
“Well, some are! They can’t help it. I knew a funny old woman at home;
and once, when a lady gave her a nice stout serge, she just whimpered
and said, ‘And what about the elegant little grey dress ye had in the
spring--where is _that_?’”
Lord Mulgrave laughed and she resumed: “But, after all, we should not
be looking for thanks; some of them have so little, and we have so
much.”
“You talk like your mother, my dear. She was always on the side of the
poor.”
“Oh, father”--and she blushed vividly--“you make me so happy when you
tell me that I am like her in other ways besides looks. Of course I can
talk to the people, because I was one of them for so many years. Yet,
somehow, these English are different--they are _all_ ladies.”
“Good gracious, Joseline! What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain if I can. Now there is Mrs. Gillson, a widow-woman; I
asked her to come up yesterday, and I would find her some warm clothes,
but she said, ‘I cannot come to-morrow, for a lady I’ve worked for
regular every Wednesday this three years will expect me. I do her
washing, and the lady always puts the clothes in soak of a Tuesday, and
gives me a hand herself, so I really could not disoblige her!’”
Lord Mulgrave laughed again.
“Now, you see, in Ireland there’s none of that. You are a lady born, or
you are not. Irish ladies don’t do washing.”
“As yet; but it will come.”
“That’s true. Some of the quality are very short of money; the
Mulligans, of Carlane, have sold all their old silver and pictures,
and the young ladies do lace-work for the shops. I liked the lace-work
myself, but I hadn’t the time for it. I might do it now, I’m idle.”
“Yes, and you seem to be getting on pretty well, and more at your ease.”
“I’m not so flustered and awkward with you, or with the poor, or Tito;
it’s only with Lady Mulgrave and the servants I feel that small, ye
might put me in your pocket!”
“You will outgrow that by-and-by.”
“I’m awfully afraid of my maid; she is very _nosey_ with me, and that’s
the truth.”
“Then send her away, and get another. You must try and be more
self-assured. Do you know that next week you will have to stand alone,
for I’m going to the north of England on election business, and will be
away a week.”
“Oh, father, couldn’t you take _me_ too? I just love elections!”
“No, my dear--impossible.”
“Oh, I wish you would. I’d adore the election and the speechifying, and
the fun. We had one down in Glenveigh; they nearly tore one another to
flittergigs.”
“That must have been exciting. I’m afraid I could not promise you
anything of that description. It will be rather a good thing to leave
you to stand alone and rely on yourself. After I return, I intend to
take you over to France to see the Hernoncourts. I have promised that
you shall pay them a long visit.”
“I wonder if they will like me?”
“I daresay they will, for you have inherited the Hernoncourts’ face,
and disposition.”
“What is their disposition?”
“Gay, vivacious, impulsive, sensitive to kindness or ridicule. There is
not much of the Mulgrave in you.”
“Oh, what a pity. Is Dudley more of a Mulgrave?”
“Yes. Do you and he hit it off?”
“Oh, pretty well; he is slow.”
“But sure.”
“Perhaps _too_ sure!”
“What do you mean?”
“He takes much for granted--sometimes I fancy he takes _me_ for
granted”--she added with a mischievous smile. “Now, father, let me
race Rap to the little white gate, giving me a start. You must hold
him.”
“What a child she was!” thought the earl, as he held the struggling
dog--a child in some ways; but in others, her sayings were beyond his
comprehension.
CHAPTER XXVII
Joseline and Tito stood together in a window watching the departure
of Lord Mulgrave. Last words and farewells had been exchanged in the
hall, and the girls had ample time to return to the library before
the brougham travelled out of sight. As its polished blue panels
disappeared round a clump of trees Tito suddenly flung her arms round
her companion and exclaimed--
“Hurrah!”
“Tito!” she remonstrated, thrusting her back with angry force.
“Well, Joe, you know as well as I do how fond I am of the pater;
but--when the earl’s away, the family will play--bridge.”
“So you do now.”
“Only in a mild form--a couple of quiet rubbers after dinner, at
farthing points. The pater looks upon daylight bridge as undignified
and unseemly. Now he has departed, the drawbridge is down.”
“For mercy’s sake will ye talk sense?” cried Joseline.
“Certainly. Don’t I always talk sense? Mother is going to have her
innings now, and she has invited a party of kindred spirits to spend a
week, including--though she does not suspect it--her future son-in-law!
Oh, yes, Joe, you may gape, but he arrives by the four o’clock train!”
And Tito began to waltz around the room, with her hands on her hips.
“But who is he?” inquired Joseline, suddenly turning her back on the
window, and surveying her companion with grave interest.
“Just what you might expect! A bad match, but everything else that is
charming and desirable.”
“What do you call a bad match?”
“One that will make mother furious. Tony is a third son, in the Foreign
Office, with only four hundred a year. His name is Anthony Goodrich,
and he is good enough for Tito Dawson.”
“But sure, I thought that Dudley----” began Joseline.
“Would kindly throw the handkerchief to _me_?” continued Tito briskly.
“No, no. Wait, and you will see that honour lies elsewhere, between
Lady Agnes Shutter and”--with a significant smile--“another girl. Lady
Agnes is stupid, but she has good manners, and a very clever mother.”
“Who else is coming?” resumed Joseline.
“Oh, quite a number. Mother has to crowd them all in now, because the
pater loathes them; they smoke and gossip and gamble, and treat the
house like a hotel. First of all there is the Honourable Gussie Tripp,
a tremendous swell at bridge--they say she clears a thousand a year.”
“What, at cards? Ah, you’re humbugging me!”
“Yes, at cards.”
“Holy Saint Bridget!”
“Then there is Lady Boxhill, a very young elderly widow, rich, and
fond of play and admiration. Lady Towton, rather pretty, with the most
exquisite frocks--_dreams_! She won’t tell where she gets them in
Vienna. And of course Teddy Boltover. Then Senor Bambinetto--an Italian
prince, they say; but if I saw him behind an organ and a monkey I
should not be a bit surprised; he is looking for a rich wife, age and
appearance quite immaterial. I fancy he likes Lady Boxhill. I hate him;
he pokes his nose into one’s face, and paws one! Colonel Wildairs, late
of the Greens, a most distinguished officer. Sir Harry Coxford. Two
cavalry men from Canterbury, and perhaps the great Dudley himself!”
“I’m glad he is coming,” said Joseline. “Anyhow I’ll have some one to
speak to.”
“I’m not so sure of that. If Mrs. Folly Fullerton appears, _she_ will
talk to Dudley. They have been a good deal talked about. That’s the
lot, with power to add to their number.”
“I expect we shall find them plenty.”
“You will, at any rate! They will make you sit up, you little rich
and rare specimen from Ireland. However, take my advice, and amuse
yourself. I can’t look after you because----”
“You will be looking after Tony!”
“How smart! There is a ball on the fourteenth at the Hamptons’, and we
are going to it in full force; it will be enormous fun. Now remember
they will all be here at four sharp. The cart that took the pater’s
luggage was to wait, also the brougham. Little he knew! Go and get into
a smart tea-g. and prepare to receive--shocks.” And as she uttered the
last word, Tito waltzed to the door, and exit singing.
By five o’clock the expected guests were assembled in the little
drawing-room, enjoying tea and sandwiches, drinks and cigarettes,
discussing the weather, the latest news, and above all, bridge. Miss
Tripp was a tall, talkative woman, with a high nose, a fine figure,
and an air of easy assurance. Little Lady Boxhill, a good deal made
up, looked about twenty in a certain light, and wore a chestnut wig,
and a complexion. Mrs. Folly Fullerton, fair, sylph-like, languid,
and insolent, dressed in flowery, diaphanous robes, with a gold
cigarette-case dangling at her side. The Colonel, late of the Greens, a
loud-voiced, well-groomed gentleman, who seemed to know every one, and
be anxious that they should make themselves thoroughly at home.
Joseline gazed at him as he stood with his back to the fire, precisely
like the master of the house, and said to one of the cavalry men with
an off-hand air--
“Oh, it’s all right, Pierrepont--smoking allowed. Try one of these
Havanas?”
She had taken Tito’s advice, and invested herself in a new tea-gown,
and an armour of reserve. Nevertheless she felt frightened among the
crowd of supercilious strangers, who appeared to look upon the house as
a comfortable private hotel; indeed, she heard Lady Boxhill say to Mrs.
Fullerton--
“What room have you this time, Bab? Not the corner one I hope?”
“No, I’m on the big landing.”
“That’s right.”
“Yes. I told Lottie I simply would not come unless I had a suite.”
“Oh!”--with a gesture of approval--“when one comes to a country house,
the _least_ they can do is to make you comfortable. I’ve brought my
masseuse, my secretary, and my dogs.”
The company were still discussing racing odds, shares, divorce cases,
Yarborough and little slams, and Joseline sat in the background,
completely bewildered. All her newly acquired confidence and manners
seemed oozing away amid surroundings of inquisitive eyes and languid
patronage! Dudley, who on flying visits had been friendly, was now
chilly and unsympathetic, and almost ignored her. Tito was engrossed in
the company of a thin, clever-looking young man, and she was left to
the mercies of strange women, who stared at her in a way that put her
out of countenance, and asked such blunt questions.
“And were you really in a cottage in Ireland only three months ago?”
inquired Mrs. Fullerton, contemplating her with a look of languid
insolence.
“Yes, only three months ago”--and she sighed.
“And is it _true_ that you actually sold fowls?”
“Yes”--colouring--“and eggs as well.”
“Dear me, how amusing!”--with a sarcastic lifting of the brows; and she
replaced her cigarette in her mouth, and took a whiff. “I hear you are
tremendous fun,” she drawled.
“Who says so?”
“Oh, some one--Dudley I think; but it does not matter. Would you mind
reaching me that cushion? Thanks. Now you might fetch me another of
those excellent caviare sandwiches.”
* * * * *
The following morning was wet--a hopeless day; and card-tables were set
at eleven. People played till lunch, from lunch till tea, from tea till
dinner.
After dinner Lady Boxhill said--
“Lottie my dear, my brain feels in a sort of pulp; my ideas are mixed;
I’ve played seventeen rubbers to-day. Do let us have some parlour
tricks, or music, as a sort of rest cure.”
“Oh, very well, if you like. Yes, Tito”--turning to her daughter--“go
and beat up recruits”--and she once more settled herself comfortably
among her cushions.
Presently Tito came back, and proclaimed--
“No performance! The Prince has a cold, Lady Boxhill says, and Mrs.
Folly simply won’t; she is sitting in the little back room with Dudley.”
Lady Mulgrave muttered something that may, or may not, have been,
“Selfish pig!”
“And,” continued Tito, spreading out her hands, “there is no one else.”
“Unless we have the pianola?” suggested Lady Mulgrave.
“No, no!” cried Sir Harry Coxford, “I like to look at the fair
performer. The pianola is so mechanical, and it does not _sing_.”
“I believe the housekeeper has a gramophone,” put in Tito; “it sings ‘I
won’t play in your yard.’”
“Housekeeper and gramophone. That reminds me,” murmured Lady Mulgrave,
“where is Joseline? Tito, did not your father say she sang, and had
a lovely voice?” Then, with a laugh, she added, “She can borrow the
footman’s concertina!”
“Mother,” remonstrated Tito, “please don’t ask her. I am sure she would
be too shy. She would hate it!”
“Nonsense! Tell her she must! There is nothing to alarm her.
Stay--where is she? The library, I suppose. Then I’ll go myself,”
said Lady Mulgrave, rising with unusual energy; and as she swept out
of the room in search of her victim, she promised herself that the
forthcoming performance would prove a novelty, a draw, and a good joke.
Already it was evident to some of her ladyship’s guests, that they
might laugh at the wild Irish girl with impunity, and in spite of all
Joseline’s efforts in the way of humble conciliation, her stepmother
treated her, in private, as a species of domesticated savage. Whatever
blandishments or arguments her ladyship had used, proved successful,
for in less than ten minutes a white and stricken figure, clutching
a concertina, stood up and faced a critical, and secretly scornful
audience.
Many a time Mary Foley had played and sung to five times their number
with the confidence born of appreciation and success. Mary’s singing
and playing of old Irish songs was declared “to beat all,” and with her
own neighbours she enjoyed a far higher reputation than Madame Melba
herself. But here were different listeners, and a different atmosphere.
The girl’s heart felt like lead; her hands were so icy cold she could
scarcely hold the footman’s concertina. She glanced timidly about
her, half hoping that her cousin Dudley would befriend her or beg her
off; but Dudley had dined, he was at peace with his digestion--he was
not disposed to exert himself, and if Lady Mulgrave did hustle the
girl a bit, it would do her good! She struck a few shaky chords and
endeavoured to find her voice and courage. What could she give them?
“The three-leaved Shamrock”? “The stone outside Dan Murphy’s door”?
“The exile of Erin”? Yes. She looked over towards Dudley, hoping for at
least his moral support; but there he lounged in the background, with
his glass in his eye, sniggering at some remark of Mrs. Fullerton’s.
“So much for a cousin!” she thought, with deep resentment. “He would
stand by and see her baited, the same as a rabbit among the coursing
dogs of a Sunday!” At last she began; her sweet full notes were
tremulous, and occasionally inaudible. With painful difficulty she
brought out the opening bars:
“There came to the beach, a poor exile of Erin;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.”
The sound of her own voice had given her confidence, and she continued
with fuller notes:
“Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and Sire----”
Here an hysterical titter caused her to pause. Miss Tripp held her
handkerchief to her mouth, and Lady Towton was convulsed. The girl
stood staring for a whole moment; then, with a gesture of unexpected
passion, dashed down the unhappy concertina, saying, “Sing for
yerselves!” and escaped from the room.
When the commotion, consternation, and amusement, had somewhat
subsided, Lady Towton said, in a choked voice--
“I really could not help myself! The _cabin_ door was so appropriate,
it was too much for me. I’m really awfully sorry.”
“’Pon my word, I think you ought to be,” interrupted Sir Harry
brusquely.
“She has a beautiful voice,” added Colonel Wildairs.
“More than we can say for her accent,” murmured Miss Tripp.
He turned his back on her, and went over to Tito, who was arranging the
pianola.
“Won’t you run after her, Miss Dawson, and take her our thanks and
apologies, and see what she is doing?”
But Tito found the door locked, and to all her knocking and calling
there was no response.
Lady Joseline was Mary Foley once more, and her heart was too sore for
even Tito’s sympathy, as she lay on her bed sobbing. She wished herself
back at the Corner; she went even further--she wished herself _dead_.
* * * * *
Dudley took but scant notice of his new cousin; in fact, he avoided
her, and maintained a sort of studied aloofness, determined not to be
associated with ridicule. He was fastidious, and easily influenced by
a woman like Mrs. Folly Fullerton, who did not see anything to admire
in Joseline, and made fun of her continually. Dudley, shameful to say,
drifted with the stream, too indolent to swim against it. Poor Joseline
seemed to find so many adversaries among the company; she became shy
and awkward when people addressed her, and appeared to have a genius
for saying and doing the wrong thing. She was, moreover, downright
unlucky; she knocked down and broke a piece of china, value untold.
And Rap had nearly been the death of Lady Mulgrave’s little dog, which
he in the heat of the moment had chased, shaken, and mistaken for a
rat. Some of her miseries were possibly due to imagination. She was
painfully sensitive, and believed the whole of this little world was
against her. Certainly she made a few blunders, and two enemies. For
instance, one evening, at dessert, there was an animated discussion
respecting the conduct of a certain married lady, whose case had been
recently in the papers. Her letters had been read to the wide world;
her husband had vainly sued for a divorce. Some blamed her, others
merely laughed.
“Why, I declare Lady Joseline looks shocked,” said Colonel Wildairs, in
a loud, full voice, which would have been a fortune to an orator. “She
is not used to the manners and ways of such society, eh?”
“No, thank goodness, I am not,” she answered, with decision.
“Are you Irish so particular?”
“Among the lower orders--yes. I do not know the other lot; they may
be as bad as yourselves, but the common people have conduct, and they
_have_ to behave themselves. I knew a girl--a married woman--and her
husband thought she was speaking too free to a young boy, and he
punished her proper.”
“How?” inquired Miss Tripp, leaning forward as she spoke. “Do tell us
how he punished her ‘proper’ for improper behaviour.”
“Well, he tied her up by her two hands in the cowhouse, and he bet her
with a car-whip till he could stand over her no longer, and she was
half-killed. I heard the screeches of her myself, and it served her
right.”
“You think so?” said Lady Boxhill sarcastically.
“Certainly, and to be sure I do. What does a married woman want with
a sweetheart? Will ye tell me?” Here she inadvertently fixed her eyes
upon Lady Towton, and the question seemed to be shot at her from the
girl’s impetuous lips.
The stupid creature did not know how her arrow hit the goal--the only
one at table who was ignorant of its effect. Lady Towton became white,
then crimson, and Joseline’s bitter enemy to the end of her life.
Dudley Deverell had witnessed the scene with a mixture of dismay and
amusement. What a dangerous young woman. She seemed to have a knack
of dropping bomb-shells into people’s laps! The very same evening
she surpassed her previous effects. She was looking on at a game of
roulette--indeed, she was actually playing, and occasionally placing
a timid shilling here and there (as no knowledge or practice is
required). Suddenly Lady Boxhill announced--
“Well, now I’m going to plunge and put a sovereign on my _age_!” And
she surveyed the circle with her crafty, made-up old eyes.
“But you can’t do that! How can you?” remonstrated Joseline, in her
soft, sonorous tone. “Your age is not on the board within twenty years.
Why, the highest is thirty-eight.”
Joseline’s protest and faux pas were immediately drowned in a loud
buzz, and she felt herself severely pinched by Tito. The miserable girl
had made another enemy, and Lady Boxhill in future spoke of her as
“that fearful Yahoo,” and snubbed her ruthlessly whenever it lay in her
power.
“The fearful Yahoo” was painfully sensitive. She knew that she was
unpopular, and was quick-witted in her own unpolished fashion. She
caught stealthy looks and smiles exchanged on her account. Lady
Mulgrave frankly ignored her (unless she found occasion to exhibit her
as a curiosity). Dudley held aloof, in chilling disapproval; he was a
coward, and ashamed to be identified with the public laughing-stock,
whose ignorance of the social code was displayed at every turn. Sir
Harry Coxford, however, paid her many stupid compliments; Colonel
Wildairs assumed bluff, fatherly airs. Yes, these two were her friends;
but Teddy Boltover was stolidly rude, and the Prince pursued her with
detestable attentions; he brought his face so close to hers when he
addressed her, and surveyed her with such a detestable expression that
she hated him.
Naturally, Joseline was gregarious and fond of life and company;
had she not for many years been “Mary of the Corner,” accustomed to
continual homage, and acclamation? Better be a success in a cottage,
than a failure in a castle! Gradually she withdrew into her own
company; she went for long walks with Rap, or sat up in her little
boudoir, keeping the fire warm as she crouched over it, meditating on
her many blunders and the hostility, or indifference of her associates.
She did not play bridge, she disliked motoring, she had no friends or
tastes in common with the party, nor any claim to be remembered or
considered; her heart was filled with bitterness and revolt. Oh, if her
father were at home!--never, never again would she remain behind alone
as an experiment, and for the sole benefit of her education.
But her enemies within the gate had a strong case against Joseline, and
Lady Boxhill voiced the sentiments of her friends when she said--
“Did you ever notice the way that girl sits huddled over the fire on a
low stool, as if she were still in her kitchen? What a frightful trial
to poor Lottie! She plants her elbows on the table, her hands on her
hips, she pushes before people, and in her clumsy haste to be obliging
she gets flustered, drops things, falls over footstools, and treads on
every one’s toes.”
“Yes,” put in Lady Towton, “and asks such odd questions; and I declare
her scarlet blushes, are positively indecent.”
Alas! Poor Joseline was, in some respects, an Ishmaelite; her hand
against her associates, and their hands against her.
One afternoon, as Joseline sat by her fire knitting a sock, with Rap,
the criminal, luxuriously extended beside her, the door opened quickly,
and Tito entered. She looked rather pale and agitated. Without preamble
she came up to the hearthrug, spread out her hands before the blaze,
and said--
“I’ve had an awful time!”
“How? Where? What is the matter?”
“I’ve been playing bridge since two o’clock, and my brain is buzzing.
My partner was Colonel Wildairs, against Sir Harry and Gussie Tripp.
She _is_ a beast; she riles me! So hatefully sharp and on the make. The
way she slaps down a good card, with a sort of jerk, is just maddening,
even when I _knew_ she had it all the time. She made me lose my temper,
and what’s worse--my money. Joe, you will have to lend me thirty
pounds?”
“Arrah! Is it for card-playing? Go on with ye!”
“It’s true. I’ve lost forty pounds.”
“The saints preserve us!”--lifting her hands and eyes in protest.
“Yes, it’s a fact. I went no trumps, and she redoubled: my partner had
nothing, and I was weak in diamonds. She got in with her ace, and made
the little slam. Colonel Wildairs was furious; he pays Sir Harry, and
I pay _her_; she was so nasty about it, too. She said--‘Forty pounds,
dear Tito! You should _never_ double until you are more experienced.
It is a shocking sum, but I won’t press you. Pay me next week.’ And of
course, I’ll settle up this very night.”
“I don’t understand the quarter of what you are saying; only that you
are short of money.”
“Yes. I’ve only ten pounds. I should hate Tony to think I was a
defaulter, and she is so mean, and would talk at the Women’s Clubs, and
say awful things of me.”
“Oh, would she?”
“Yes. She has her knife into most people.”
“I’ve not much money left,” said Joseline, “but whatever I have you are
welcome to”; and she rose and went to a writing-table.
“But my dear, what _have_ you done with it? The other day you said you
had a hundred pounds.”
“Well, ye see, being near Christmas I sent some over to Father Daly to
lay out; they’d take it kinder from him, than me.”
“Take what?”
“Well, my old friends. Mikey Mahon would be the better of an ass and
car, I know, and Mrs. Curran is lost for a good pig, and Larry Duff’s
cow went and died on him, so I’ve told them to buy a nice little young
Kerry; and there was coals badly wanted, and I sent Peggy Curran a
dress piece, and Mrs. Hogan a weather-glass and a visitors’ book, for
the last one was spoiled on her, and full of impudence and poetry.”
“What have you left?” interrupted Tito impatiently.
“Here it is--twenty-five pounds”--and she held it out. “I am sorry I’m
short. What will you do for the rest?”
“I’ll borrow from Robins the butler.”
“Goodness, girl alive! Isn’t that queer doings?”
“Oh, Robins knows me; he is a family friend, and rolling in tips. Well,
Joe, you _are_ decent. I’ll pay you next quarter.”
“No, no, let me give you the money; I really don’t want it. I wish you
would promise me not to--I won’t say play bridge--I’m not a born fool;
but not to play for so much.”
“I’ll promise farthing points with pleasure; I will indeed,” said Tito
emphatically. “I’m sick of the whole thing. I love the game, but I
loathe losing my money, and I’m not a very good player, for I’m too
hasty and emotional, like you! By the way, why do you sit up here all
by your little lone?”
“Where else would you have me sit? They are not missing me downstairs,
are they?” she asked, with a sarcastic laugh. “And when I’m here, I’m
not making a show of myself.”
“They _are_ a horrid pack, most of them! Old Lady Boxhill--I
suppose she’ll take the Prince--Lady Towton, Mrs. Folly, and Gussie
Tripp--hateful! But you should not let them draw you out about wakes,
and dances, and your schooling, and so on.”
“Sure, I see that, and I’m getting wiser now. I thought they wanted
information, they all seemed so eager with questions. Now, I know ’twas
only laughing they were.”
“Tony disapproves of them; says they are--well, no matter; and he was
horrified at my losing this money”; and she held up the notes. “He
never plays high now; he simply refuses anything more than half a crown
a hundred. You can lose quite enough at that.”
“Can ye now?”
“Once, he told me, he played with a very smart woman, who said, ‘What
shall we have on?’ And she named quite a big stake--something like
half-crown points. He was ashamed to refuse. However, he won, and won,
and had great luck. He won about a hundred, and they stopped. She said,
‘I’ll settle at once.’ ‘Oh, no, no hurry,’ he said, thinking it was
such a big sum, he would give her time. ‘I always pay money down,’ she
said, and handed him ten shillings. ‘What is this for?’ he asked. ‘What
I’ve lost to you,’ she answered, as bold as brass, naming some decimal
points. He was struck dumb. Of course, being a woman, he could not
argue with her. Afterwards, he heard, that it was a habit of hers to
play this trick, and that if he had _lost_, she would have come down on
him for her hundred pounds.”
“Then she is a cheat!” cried Joseline.
“Oh, yes,” rejoined Tito triumphantly, “of course she is! and I only
hope she will be run in some day. Now I must fly and dress.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
In spite of all her excuses, protestations, and pleadings, Joseline
found herself _en route_ to the Hamptons’ ball, packed into the omnibus
along with seven others, and being carried to the scene of action as
fast as a pair of fine steppers could take her. Figuratively speaking,
the vehicle was almost bursting with high spirits; the clatter of
chaffing tongues was incessant, and, as some so-called “wit” had
extinguished the lamp, semi-darkness promoted hilarity.
Joseline sat at the far end next to the Prince, who made a gallant
attempt to hold and squeeze her hand, under the impression that she was
Lady Boxhill--which endearments she forcibly returned by a sharp and
vicious pinch. Now and then she was drawn into the conversation, and
forced to reply to questions.
“Will you give me a dance, Lady Joe?” said Colonel Wildairs, who was
her _vis-à-vis_.
“Thank ye, but I can’t dance--only jigs and reels.”
“Well, I cannot imagine any one going to a ball that can only dance
jigs,” said Gussie Tripp, “especially when she is not old enough to
care for supper.”
“Signs on it, I agree with you with all my heart,” declared the brogue
in the corner. “I wanted to stay at home. I don’t know why Lady
Mulgrave was set on bringing me, seeing I can’t dance a step, and I
never eat supper.”
“There is such a thing as looking on,” suggested Sir Henry Coxford.
“And--sitting out,” supplemented Tito.
“That’s true,” said Sir Henry. “Lady Joe, you and I will sit out a
couple of dances, eh? Here we are, and a bit late too,” he added, as
they drove under an illuminated porch, descended, and joined the rest
of their company--a party of no less than twelve.
“Quite an invading force, are we not, dear Mrs. Hampton?” said Lady
Mulgrave, as she shook hands with her hostess. “I think you know
most of them, except my stepdaughter, Lady Joseline, and Prince
Bambinetto”--presenting them as she spoke. “I am afraid we are a little
late.”
“The third waltz; but you do not dance, I know. There is bridge--in the
end room, and you will, I hope, get a rubber.”
The party moved on and presently dissolved among the gay company.
Joseline, who was not sorry for Sir Henry’s escort, made her way
with him into a wide corridor hung with tapestry lined with splendid
furniture, and priceless inlaid cabinets.
“This is as good a perch as any; I know the house well,” he said. “You
can see and be seen; they all pass by in review order”; and he nodded
or bowed to several acquaintances. Finally, he got up to speak to a
lady in reply to an imperative summons, and Joseline for the moment was
alone. How strange! She did not see one familiar face. How different
to her former dances: when she took the floor--a mud floor--with
Tom Kelly or Patsy Malone, an enthusiastic audience of friends and
admirers lined the room, and greeted their performance with uproarious
applause--applause so vigorous and infectious, that the very soot came
tumbling down the chimney!
As she sat a little aloof and distrait, looking vacantly before her,
her mind filled with other images, she recalled her sole previous
experience of a society gathering--the great concert at Kilmoran, and
Mr. Ulick singing the bull-fighter’s song. These reflections were
interrupted by her hostess, who had been attracted by her lovely face,
and now approached her, followed by a tall, soldierly-looking man.
“I hope you are dancing?” she said. “I have brought you a
partner--Major Doran.”
Behold the hour and the man!
Had Joseline’s thoughts summoned him?
Since we last came across Ulick Doran he had served in India and South
Africa, had won laurels, and seen the world. With many matters to
occupy his attention and fill his time, he had never forgotten Mary
Foley--she held her own against the various pretty visitors who had
knocked and rung at the door of his heart. From the animated Indian
spin; the South African grass widow; the charming American girls;--his
thought invariably turned to a slender red-haired maiden, with a soft,
insinuating brogue, and a pair of bewitching brown eyes.
The astonishing history of her exaltation had recently come to his
knowledge. It sounded like a fairy tale! Well, she was now nearly as
much out of his reach as before--and for an exactly contrary reason.
When Mrs. Hampton (an active and admirable hostess) had said, “I want
to introduce you to a beauty,” Major Doran, who had no idea of what was
in store for him, obediently accompanied her into a gallery, where sat
a young lady in a high-backed chair, with her eyes bent on the ground.
As Mrs. Hampton addressed her, she lifted them and looked from the
image in her thoughts on the real man, Ulick Doran--browner, graver,
older, otherwise unchanged. In a moment her face became transfigured,
and wore a smile of radiant surprise and joy. The recognition was not
mutual, until Mrs. Hampton added--
“Major Doran--Lady Joseline Dene.”
He stared at her blankly, incredulously, as she sat in the ancient
chair, with its great carved crown showing above the masses of sunny
hair, her delicate hands resting on its massive arms, her graceful
slimness thrown out into relief by its broad leather back.
She looked dazzling in her mother’s pearls and a silver spangled gown.
Almost like some stately young sovereign, enthroned among her subjects.
And yet it was the same little face that had haunted him all these
years--the same that had been pressed against the window-pane one April
night, in passionate farewell.
“May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he asked, after a moment’s
hesitation.
“Thank you, I don’t dance,” she answered inarticulately, as she pressed
on the knobs of the arm-chair with trembling hands.
“Then may we sit it out?”
She bowed, without raising her eyes.
“What a queer, nervous sort of girl!” thought Mrs. Hampton, as she
moved away.
To Major Doran it seemed almost incredible. But these delicate
patrician features, and the rich, soft brogue, both belonged to Mary
Foley. She was curiously reserved, and cold. Had her sudden uprise
turned her head? Did Lady Joseline Mulgrave hate to recall the old
days, when she was the inferior, and dropped curtseys to _him_?
“Lady Joseline,” he said, on a sudden impulse, “may I ask you a
question?”
“You may if you like,” she answered, almost under her breath.
“Do we meet now for the first time? or--have we known one another all
our lives. It is for you to say?”
“Me to say,” she repeated, raising her eyes to where he stood, humbly
awaiting her decision. “Why, to say the truth, and what else?--wasn’t I
your mother’s egg-huxter?”
“Well, perhaps we need not recall _that_--only--other things?”--and
he studied her pale, uplifted face, and her brilliant eyes, with
a keen and intimate interest. “Do you know that I’ve always had a
presentiment, that we should come across one another some day. Of
course I have heard your story.”
“Yes,” she answered, with regal equanimity, “I believe it was on the
papers.”
“I was not as much surprised as other people. You were always different
to your surroundings.”
“I suppose I was,” she acquiesced. “I never had much heart for work.”
“But you had for play. You seem to have left your spirits in Ireland?”
As he spoke he took a seat and continued.
“It is six years since we met. A good deal of water has run under the
bridge----”
“Oh, for the Lord’s sake,” she interrupted, with unexpected passion,
“will ye not be talking of bridge! I’m fair sick of it!”
“I am not alluding to cards, but to events. Many things have happened
since we said good-bye to one another.”
Did she recall the episode? Yes, for her face flamed.
“You remember?”
She moved slightly in her regal chair, and made no reply.
“Do you?” he urged, with low persistence.
“Oh, I’ve a pretty good memory,” she answered at last, her face aglow,
as she raised her eyes to his with a glance of proud defiance. “There’s
been changes--the death of Mrs. Foley; the break-up at the Corner; some
going to America, and some getting married.”
“I was told that you were going to be married,” he said.
“I?”--and she laughed derisively. “I might be married years ago, if I’d
liked.”
“I don’t mean over in Ireland,” he protested; and his glance wandered
to where Dudley was permitting a pretty woman to entertain him.
“Oh, that!” A pause; and she added, with a touch of her natural
impulsiveness, “I wouldn’t marry him if he was hung in diamonds, nor he
me; he is afraid of his life of me.”
“Why, what have you been doing to frighten him?”
“Always saying and doing the wrong thing. You see, I’m so ignorant, and
when people make signs at me, ’tis worse I get.”
“What do you call the wrong thing? Can you give me a specimen?”
“Well, talking to Lady Boxhill of wigs, and age, and to Mrs. Fullerton
of divorce, and to Sir Harry Coxford of debt and people owing money. I
mean no harm, God knows! but I frighten people, and I make them hate
me”; and her lip trembled, and her eyes were brimming.
“I am sure no one could do that,” he protested.
“Oh, but they can! I’m such a clumsy fool. And faix, your own mother
wasn’t too fond of me! All the same, I hope she is getting her health?”
“Yes; but I’m sorry to say Barker is giving her a lot of trouble.”
“Well, she has him as she reared him! I suppose about the big lump of a
girl that’s barmaid over in Killarney?”
“He has married her.”
“I am glad he had that much decency.”
“And he insists on bringing her home. It’s a terrible trial to my
mother.”
“Well, if I’m not mistaken there will be two of them in that trial. And
what have you been doing with yourself?”
“Soldiering in India, and other places--and twice to America, to see my
aunt Nora. I am going over again immediately. She is a widow now.”
“That was she that came in one soft evening in the old blue cloak. I
took her down to ‘The Arms.’ Mrs. Hogan told me about her. She must
have got a queer sort of shock when your mother chased her out of the
Castle.”
“I think she has forgiven and forgotten. Now would you like to take a
turn, and see the other rooms and the dancing?”
“Yes, I would”--rising with graceful alacrity.
“I suppose this is your first ball?” he continued, as they stepped into
the stream of moving figures, a remarkably distinguished-looking pair.
Joseline held herself well, and looked every inch the daughter of a
hundred earls. Not a few people remarked her, and asked, “Who was the
beauty?” In fact, she made a sort of triumphal progress, as she moved
about the rooms, the loveliest of visions. The fame of her remarkable
story, and the presence of her beauty, filled the air. No one who saw
Lady Joseline, would believe that she was stupid, common, uneducated,
and muddleheaded.
Ulick Doran, her escort, was conscious of the sensation caused by his
companion. Admirers crowded about Mrs. Hampton, clamouring for an
introduction to the charming heroine of a romantic tale; but among them
her cavalier still held his ground, and would not yield his place.
“I say, what a find for Mulgrave!” muttered one county magnate to a
neighbour.
“Yes. I’m not sure that Lady M. is delighted with his discovery. Where
is she?”
“Need you ask? In the bridge-room, of course.”
“I wonder what she would say to the stir the girl is making? By
gad!”--watching her as she passed by. “And who is the fellow with her?”
“Lady Barre’s nephew; his name is Doran.”
“Irish! Well, no Irish need apply--her ladyship is booked for Dudley
Deverell. By the way, I see him here playing the fool with the
Fullerton woman.”
Dudley Deverell observed from afar, and marvelled. So Joseline had
got hold of Doran. Such a smart, good-looking chap--and Joseline was
undeniably admired. Oh, yes, she was all very well--until she began to
talk!
“It is a pity you can’t waltz,” remarked Ulick, as they looked on; “but
you will learn in no time.”
“I’m no good. I can do nothing like other people. I can’t ride, or
dance, or play bridge, or tell pleasant lies to people’s faces without
turning a hair, or even pretend I like those I can’t bear.”
“Oh, all those things will come easy to you, bar the hypocrisy. It was
strange our meeting here to-night,” he said.
“Our meeting--and parting,” she added quickly.
“Why parting?”
“Because you are going to America, and I am going to France. Yes”--in
answer to his look--“as soon as my father returns, next week, I
believe. You know, I’m half French and half English.”
“Yes, and half-hearted.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you don’t seem happy.”
“That’s true. Ye see how it is; I’m neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. Too
fine for the folks in Ireland, and not up to the mark over here. I was
twenty-one years too long in a cottage. I will never be a lady.”
“Would you like to return to the Corner, and be Mary Foley?”
“Oh no, I could never go back to that,” she answered with emphasis.
“There is my father, who is more than good to me; and Tito too. But I’m
not denying, that I don’t care very much for the crowd in the house.”
“I daresay not. I know the set; you are a bit out of it?”
“I am so--and so best! In Ireland the people laughed with me. Here
they laugh _at_ me. Oh, it’s a sore change!” she concluded, in a
miserable voice.
“Surely you need not trouble your head, or think about them.”
“But I’ve not much else to think of just now, being hand-idle. Tell
me,” she added eagerly, “what did _you_ think now, when you saw me?”
“My first impression when I caught sight of you was, ‘Splendid
isolation.’ Then I had a curious sense, of something foreseen.”
“I can’t understand them grand words.”
“Are you aware, Major Doran, that you have cut my dance?” said a sharp
voice, and there was Miss Tripp and her partner standing beside them.
“Number eleven, I think,” he faltered, hurriedly pulling out his
programme.
“No, number ten. I see that you agree with Lady Joseline, who simply
came to the ball to sit out”; and she accorded the girl a deadly glance.
“I’m sorry, Miss Tripp,” he said. “Pray accept my most abject
apologies.”
“Oh, well, if you really are repentant, you may have the next instead,”
said the lady, releasing her cavalier with a nod. “It’s going to begin,
so come along--I hate to miss even a bar.”
“But--Lady Joseline”; and he looked at Joseline, resolved that he would
not desert her.
“Oh, _she_ will be all right! Here comes Colonel Wildairs, only too
pleased to take her off your hands”; and before Major Doran could
remonstrate, the tall, masterful lady had carried him away.
“I am delighted to step into his shoes, Lady Joe,” declared the gallant
officer, who was keenly alive to the fact that he was escorting the
beauty of the evening--a beauty, too, who had no honour in her own home.
“I see you know Doran,” he added, as they made their way into the
ball-room.
“Yes.”
“He is a good sort. I knew him in Natal; he did very well in the
mounted infantry--a nailing rider.”
“Oh, he rides well,” she assented, as she watched him dancing with his
captor.
“And is able to keep fine horses; he is rich.”
“Oh, no, indeed.”
“Sorry to contradict, but he is a wealthy man; an uncle in America left
him tons of dollars. I’m surprised he stays in the service; but money
is useful everywhere. It was rather amusing the way Miss Gussie carried
him off; perhaps she will manage it for good and all!”
Joseline was enjoying the scene; the fact was written in her
speaking eyes, and brilliant colour, also she was aware that many
glances followed her; she knew that she was discussed and admired.
The knowledge that she was a success restored her shattered
self-confidence; her spirits rose to their former pitch, and her heart
throbbed with alternations of hope and fear. Mr. Ulick!--_Ulick!_ Oh,
she could hardly believe that she had seen him and spoken to him! Old
recollections came surging through mind and memory, and beating in
her brain; everything connected with that poignant, uncertain, happy,
and agonised time was coming back. Joseline realised that she was
unchanged. Was he?
As she stood beside a pillar, surrounded by a little court, which now
included Colonel Wildairs and Sir Harry, distributing smiles and “Ah,
sures,” and “I don’t rightly knows” among her circle, all the time she
was in a state of seething impatience; a voice was muttering, “Will he
come back? Shall I see him again to-night? Yes”--he had effected his
escape, and joined the group. Her face kindled and looked radiant as
their eyes met, and he said--
“Lady Joseline, I have come to carry you off to supper.”
Was it but an excuse to release her? No; they proceeded towards the
supper-room in real earnest, (followed by the attentive observation of
the crowd,) where he secured a little table and the services of a brisk
waiter.
“I’m not a bit hungry,” she protested, refusing several proffered
delicacies.
“But I am,” he said, “and I hope you will keep me in countenance. Let
me help you to some of this salmi. My cousin, Freddy Barre, and I
motored over here, thirty miles, after dinner.”
“That was a long way.”
“So I thought, and I wanted to cry off; but then I’d no idea I was
coming to meet you. Have some champagne?” he added.
“No, no, please; I do not care for it.”
“Just a little”--pouring it out as he spoke--“to drink to ourselves
and old times”; and he lifted his glass and touched hers. “But,” he
added, seeing that she had suddenly become extremely pale, “perhaps we
should forget! Now that you know your place in the world, and I may be
presuming on mine.”
Joseline’s face expressed bewilderment; and then, as her eyes were
drawn to his, the colour flowed back into her checks, for she had
divined, by some infallible instinct, that Mr. Ulick had not changed.
It was the same Mr. Ulick who had sent her the poetry, and kissed her
through the pane.
“Miss Tripp introduced me to Lady Mulgrave,” he continued; “she knows
my aunt, Lady Barre, and she has asked Freddy and me over to-morrow for
a bridge drive, to dine and sleep.”
“Are you coming?”
“Yes, we will motor over--forty miles.”
“Just to play cards?”
“That may be Freddy’s inducement; mine, you know, is to see you.”
“And Rap?” she added. “I wonder if he will know you?”
“Rap”--colouring--“the red terrier? Why, you don’t mean to say you have
him still?”
“Sure, six years isn’t long for a dog to live!”
“And you brought him over?”
“How could I leave him after me, when I knew he’d never be happy with
any one else?”
Major Doran nodded. “And how does he like the change?”
“Oh, finely; he is very proud in himself, and great company for me just
now--him and books.”
“You got the one I sent you?”
“Yes, I did so. Oh, it was beautiful poetry; I have it off by heart.”
“Do you mind the day that’s over,
And bless the day that’s here?”
he quoted, leaning suddenly towards her, and lowering his voice.
She was on the point of answering, when she caught sight of Lady
Mulgrave approaching.
“Joseline,” she said, “we have been looking for you everywhere. What
_have_ you been doing with yourself?”--and she gave Major Doran a
quick, sarcastic glance. “We are going at once. Now, don’t sit staring,
my dearest girl,” she added peremptorily, “but run away and get your
cloak.”
CHAPTER XXIX
It was the last day of Lady Mulgrave’s house-party. They were to
scatter on the morrow--and the assemblage was to conclude with a
brilliant finish: a gathering of neighbours at lunch, skating on the
ornamental water, a festive dinner, and a bridge drive--such was the
programme. Captain Barre and his cousin were among the guests, and
the latter naturally singled out Lady Joseline for his companion
when they all set out for the lake. She was accompanied by Rap, who,
though he failed to recognise his former owner, accorded a searching
investigation, and a civil reception. With her bright colour--the
complexion of a true country girl--and her becoming sables, Lady
Joseline confirmed the sensation she had created at Mrs. Hampton’s
ball. Unfortunately she did not skate, and was left among the
dowagers and lookers-on, whilst most of the company took to the ice,
figuratively, as young ducks do to water. Here was an opportunity of
which Ulick Doran was not slow to avail himself. Together (and attended
by Rap) they accompanied a self-conducted party in a brisk walk across
the park, explored the frost-bound gardens and the sultry stoves. On
the present occasion their talk was confined to the commonplace, and
to old times; it never once soared into the region of Romance, for
Ulick Doran had taken himself sternly to task, and his inner mind was
filled with anxious debate. Years ago he had kept aloof because he
had loved the girl too well to drag the poor child into a position
which would entail misery--a ceaseless combat with prejudice, with his
mother, and the world at large. Now, by a strange stroke of fortune,
she was elevated to a position above his own. Did it not seem mean and
despicable to ask her to descend to his level? On the other hand, he
was well born, he was rich, he had been first in the field; why should
he not take his chance? If Joseline was of the same mind as Mary Foley,
why should they not both be happy? He honestly believed that he would
make her a better husband than that faineant, Dudley Deverell, with his
drawl and his dyspepsia.
As they walked in the wake of others he talked of his travels in
Asia, Africa, and America, remembering her keen interest in foreign
countries. He told her many amusing anecdotes, gave little sketches
of people, and one or two sensational experiences. For her part, she
described the chief local events (as seen from Foley’s Corner). She
also surprised him by her shrewd comments on her new life, intelligent
criticism on books she had read, and questions she had heard debated.
One moment she was Lady Joseline discussing “Helbeck of Banisdale”;
the next, as Mary Foley, she accosted a gardener’s kitten as a “poor
angashore” whom she eloquently harangued in Irish.
After dinner the bridge drive was arranged in the great drawing-room; a
few repaired to billiards, but most people declared for cards.
“Of course you’ll play, Major Doran?” said Lady Mulgrave. “We will make
up six tables.”
“No thanks,” he rejoined. “I am rather out of form, and if you will
allow me, I’ll just have a look round the pictures. I’ve heard so much
of the Ashstead Romneys.”
“Oh, of course”--and she raised her eyebrows in apparent amusement.
“I daresay Joseline will be pleased to introduce you to some of the
ancestors. Mr. Baines will take your place--_he_ is very keen.”
It flashed through her mind, what a good thing it would be if this
Major Doran, who was Irish and rich, would relieve her for life of “her
young girl from over the sea.”
Presently everybody in the drawing-room resolved into silence, and
tricks; whilst Joseline and her companion strolled through the empty
reception-rooms into the little boudoir. Ulick Doran was turning over
in his mind how he would approach the subject, when Joseline herself
made an opening.
“To think of all the travelling you have done,” she exclaimed, “and the
countries you’ve seen, and your never once coming home!”
“But I did return once, just for a couple of days.”
“Yes, but never to stop. Why was that?”
“Surely you need not ask. You know the reason.”
“I--Mr. Ulick?” she exclaimed, thrown off her guard.
“Don’t call me Mr. Ulick.”
“Well, what will I call ye? Oh, of course--Major.”
“I know what I hope you’ll call me,” he interrupted; “but I daresay you
won’t.”
“Ah, what’s that?”
“Ulick.”
“Oh”--colouring--“how could I do that? Oh, no, I really
couldn’t--never.”
“Do you really mean--_never?_”--and his face was serious.
She hesitated for so long, his expectation became intense; at last it
was positively painful. “Well”--drawing a quick breath--“any way--not
yet.”
“And when?” he persisted.
She made no answer.
“In six months?”
“Ah, sure ye know I’m not fit,” she faltered, and her eyes were filled
with tears. “Although I’m dressed up like this”--and she glanced at her
dainty gown of white chiffon--“I’m only a common girl, and faix, no one
knows that, better than yerself.”
“Once upon a time you were very fond of me, and I have never forgotten
you. Mary, I believe you have been constant to that time.”
“In a way, only,” she said, rising suddenly, “I tried my big best to
put you out of my mind, and I’ll tell ye no lie, but you would not
stir--no, strive as I would, I could not get shut of ye, for three long
years. Then I began to think ... I was a fool”--and she paused and put
her hand to her long, slim throat--“and if any boy I fancied, had asked
me to marry him, I’d have said ‘Yes’; but I never did see one I could
like in the same way as you--no one that made my heart ache, and kept
me pining and fretting, and wishing I was dead--the same as _you_ did,
Mr. Ulick.”
“Ulick!”
“Well, then, Ulick.”
“And I believe people will say it is tremendous presumption to lift my
eyes to your father’s daughter. You know I’m only just a major in the
service, and he will expect you to make a splendid match.”
“I don’t think he wishes me to marry at all--any way, for a long while.
You see, he has only _had_ me for a few months.”
“Yes; it would be hard lines on him--and I will wait, if you will marry
me in the end.--Mary, will you?”
“Ye were always terribly set in getting your own way, Mr. Ulick”;
and she looked up at him with a tremulous smile. “I remember it with
horses, and how once the black hunter stood with ye on the road for
five mortal hours--and ye waited, and won the day.”
“I’ll wait on you for five years if necessary. May I speak to your
father when he returns?”
“About what?”
“Why, about you, of course. I shall ask him to give you to me.”
“Yes; but not for a good while--I am so awkward, and ignorant, I’d
shame ye.”
“No, never. I shall always be proud of you!”
“An’ ye may think it strange, but he is real fond of me.”
“Not as fond of you as I am, Mary”; and he slipped his arm round her
waist, and kissed her--this time without the intervening pane of glass.
Five minutes later, and the door was pushed open, and Lord Mulgrave
entered, in the act of taking off his muffler.
He started when he saw Major Doran and Joseline standing together by
the fire; and, unless he was losing his wits, the fellow’s arm was
round her waist. In a flash he recalled a whispered secret one dim
evening in the “Shelbourne”--the _real_ gentleman, who was Irish, and
had given Mrs. Foley a dog.
Here they were, the very trio--the red terrier, the lover, and the girl.
As Doran was no stranger to him he came forward, with a rather
constrained “Hullo, Doran!”
“Oh, father!” cried Joseline, “we did not expect you till to-morrow.
How did you come?”
“In a fly from the station, my dear. I got away earlier than usual. Not
playing bridge, eh?”--turning to the man.
“No. The fact is, Lady Joseline was good enough to offer to show me the
pictures; but we--er”--and as he glanced at his companion, she vanished
through the door.
“I see, you had forgotten all about them,” said Lord Mulgrave, hastily
finishing the speech.
Well, there was no time like the present moment; here was his
opportunity. Lord Mulgrave was not allowed to take off his top-coat,
much less to think of his supper, before Ulick Doran was in full career.
In two or three pithy sentences he told his story. For a few vital
moments they talked squarely, man to man. Lord Mulgrave knew all about
Major Doran--his reputation and his fortune.
When he had divested himself of his great-coat, he said, “I will not
part with Joseline yet, and we will take no one into the secret for
six months. The girl has seen nothing so far, but Joseline is not
like young women of her rank. She has a past of twenty-one years
behind her. She loved you in that other life; you belong to it, and, I
suppose,--she belongs to you.”
* * * * *
“I say!” said Tito, as she encountered Joseline in a corridor, “what
has happened to you? Why this radiant air of ‘I fear no foe in shining
armour’?”
Joseline did not wait to be cross-examined, but threw over her shoulder
the misleading statement, “The pater is home!”
Lord Mulgrave escorted his daughter to France, and presented her to her
mother’s family, who received her with open arms, and were enchanted
with l’Irlandaise, their kinswoman. Here the brogue and her occasional
solecisms did not matter, since the child had her mother’s face, and
her mother’s heart. She spent six months in the valley of the Oise, and
returned to Ashstead Park a much improved and polished young woman;
for her cousins had found her a ready pupil, and had taught her ease,
self-confidence, and fluent French.
* * * * *
Ashstead always looked its best in August. The gardens were perfect,
the green sward like rich velvet, the old trees dense, massive, and
picturesque, and the surroundings silent and restful. On a certain
warm afternoon, the sound of croquet-balls and voices woke the sleepy
grounds. A game had just been concluded, and Joseline strolled off
towards the shade, followed by her cousin and partner; they had been
defeated by one stroke.
“What is the meaning of ‘Bad scran to ye’?” he asked. “I heard you
addressing the blue ball in those terms.”
“Oh, it means ‘bother take it!’ and is just one of the old expressions
I want to forget. I was so vexed that I lost the game. The words
slipped out. I hope Miss Usher did not hear me.”
“What matter if she did? Come and let us find a seat.”
“Tired?” she asked. “Oh, poor cousin Dudley!”
“Tired? Yes, of a good many things.”
“If I am one of them, please don’t hesitate to say so.”
“No, I’m never tired of you, Joseline. On the contrary, I should like
to have more of your society.”
She turned, and made him a little curtsey.
“And so Tito is going to marry young Goodrich?” he remarked.
“Yes, father has consented at last.”
“Which means he has given Tito a dot.”
“It means that he likes Tony, and so do I.”
“You will miss Tito, won’t you? You and she pulled together from the
first.”
“Yes, I shall miss her, but, of course, they will often run down.”
“By the way, talking of ‘running down,’ you seem to see a good deal of
that fellow Doran. How does he get leave?”
“Oh, pending retirement.”
“Ah, so he is going. I wonder what he will do with himself? It’s rather
a bore to be a rich man with nothing to do.”
“Like yourself, for instance?”
“Yes.”
“But, cousin Dudley, you have lots to do if you like; you could go
about your property, and see things for yourself. You’d really like it
after a bit; you would know what to do, and what to give, and what to
take away.”
“Yes, yes,” impatiently, “I know. You are always preaching.”
“And you won’t practise!”
“Well, perhaps, your sermons may do me good; but I can’t say there is
much jam in the powder! I am aware I’m an absentee landlord, but not a
hard one.”
“Pray, how can you tell?” she asked.
“Well, I let fellows off, and I subscribe to things that are necessary.”
“That costs you little!”
“There now, don’t go on rubbing it in,” he said resentfully. “I’ve told
you often that Harrowside is a great big black rookery of a place. I
can’t stand it! No, I never go near it.”
“It is your duty; you have responsibilities. ‘Noblesse oblige.’”
“Since I’ve been in bad health----”
“That’s an old story,” she interposed. “You are as strong as a horse
now.”
“Well, Joseline, you talk of my responsibilities; what would you think
of taking charge of them, and me?” He turned his head suddenly and
looked at his companion with a complacent, proprietary air. Then he
added, in his usual drawl--
“What would you say if we were to get married?”
“Say!”--and she dug her mallet into the turf. “That we would lead a
cat-and-dog life!”
“And which”--sitting erect--“would be the cat?”
“I--I suppose a woman is always a cat! You never call a man a cat, or
an old cat.”
“No, I’m a dog--the unlucky dog.”
“No, a lazy dog,” she corrected. “There are always puppies, and
lap-dogs.”
“Do you infer that I am one of these?”
“Well, you are petted enough. You live in the lap of luxury--I believe
you don’t even shave, or open your own letters.”
“What else?” he demanded shortly.
“You won’t take the trouble to, what’s called make love! You say to a
girl, ‘Shall we get married?’ and the girl says, No.”
Dudley again turned his head, and looked at her steadily. Was she in
earnest? Of course not! She was smiling. To her, everything was a joke;
it was one of her silly habits imported from Ireland, and not yet
abandoned.
Well, he was in no hurry; he did not wish to settle down at present.
Joseline was amazingly improved--a handsome, amusing, much-admired
girl, clever in her way; even Lady Mulgrave was reconciled to her.
To suppose that any sane young woman would seriously refuse him, Dudley
Deverell, never dawned on his mind. He decided to postpone the question.
“I say, here is your father coming over with that fellow Doran,” he
announced. “I hear his brother has married a dairy-maid, who turned his
mother out of doors.”
“I’m sure she could not manage that,--from what I knew of her.”
“Do you mean that _you_ knew Mrs. Doran?” he asked, with quickened
interest.
“Yes, I was reared on the land.”
“I declare, one would suppose you were talking of a lamb.”
“I _am_ a lamb--sometimes. I sold her eggs.”
“Ah, now I begin to see light,” exclaimed Dudley--“to see--many things.”
“To see further than your nose?”
“Yes”--rising to his feet--“I have it! Lady Mulgrave gave me a hint,
but I laughed at her. Is this Doran the son who did _not_ present you
with the locket and chain?”
“He is,” and she sat up abruptly.
“And perhaps he would like to offer you something instead; for
instance, a ring?”
Joseline coloured, and nodded assent.
“Ah! I understand where I’ve been remiss, and he has been successful.
These Irish fellows are tremendous hands at making love!”
He paused, momentarily overwhelmed with the shock of his discovery.
“Well, as to making love,” said Joseline at last; “love should be
real--and grow. But it is right that I should tell you, that Ulick has
cared for me for seven long years, and that I have loved him--ever
since I was in pinafores.”
PLYMOUTH
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.
PRINTERS