CHAPTER V
And thus the young couple parted, going in opposite directions, each carrying in their thoughts a poignant memory of the other. Since Mary was a small child, “Master Ulick” had been secretly worshipped as her hero—the natural consequence of hearing on all sides praises of his feats of horsemanship, his courage, and his generosity. Little pitchers have long ears, and what they imbibe they remember. For a girl of her age, and class, Mary Foley was a widely-read young person. Mrs. Hogan at “The Arms” had a fancy for the child, and, knowing she was crazy after books, endowed her with various odds and ends that careless visitors or fishing folk, had left behind them. Mary had a wonderful imagination, and from the germs of her favourite characters, she composed a Paladin of her own. He was the embodiment of the Heir of Redcliff, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, the Black Knight, and Charles O’Malley, and his name she never whispered, but all the same it was some one resembling Master Ulick, whom she crowned with a choice selection of other men’s laurels. It therefore will be seen that if Mary’s little sixteen-year-old heart was free, it was not fancy free!
As soon as Mary reached home and opened the half-door, her mother cried out—
“Mary asthore! What in the living world kep’ ye?”
“Sure I am afther meeting Masther Ulick,” was the breathless reply. “There beyant, in the boreen.”
“Did ye, agra; and what is he like now he’s a grown man?”
“Faix I couldn’t rightly explain, only he is tallish and upstanding, and I got a smell of tobacco off him!”
“Great fathers, child!”
“Yes; an’ he has a small moustache on his upper lip, and a great big smile on him, and grey eyes—his eyes”—and she drew in her breath—“is real beautiful!”
“His eyes! God help us, Mary! that’s the queer sort of chat for a slip of a girl. Sure ye have no call to be looking at the young gentleman’s eyes.”
“An’ how can I help it, mammy, when I’ve eyes of me own! He is not a bit like her ladyship—no, nor Barky, with the great roasted face on him.”
“God be thanked for that same,” exclaimed Mrs. Foley piously. “He is the Colonel’s own boy; but, Mary asthore, ye must know yer place, and not be making free, or be talking to the young Captain. Ye have such funny, queer ways of spaking up to high and low—I tell ye, sometimes ye have me paralysed with fright.”
“Oh, make yer mind easy, mammy; I know me place. Augh! do ye hear the bawls of the calf? I must hurry up with the milking.”
After her mother’s word of warning, Mary Foley merely dropped a hasty curtsey when she encountered the Captain, and then hurried on; and he, manlike, was attracted by this avoidance; the less he saw of Mary, the more he thought of her. The unknown has a wonderful fascination.
Ulick was at present an idler. Cub-hunting had not yet commenced; his home was not particularly congenial. He and Barky had nothing in common; Barky was frankly jealous of his brother’s smart soldier-like air, his knowledge of the world, his manner of speech, his well-cut clothes, and his popularity. Ulick contented himself with schooling young horses, reading, smoking, and making friends with the dogs, whom he overjoyed by taking out for many a long tramp.
One afternoon it came on to drizzle as he was approaching Foley’s corner. He turned up his collar and pulled out his pipe. Alas! he had not a match left: there was nothing for it but to run into Katty’s and ask for a sod of turf. He pushed open the half-door and entered, and found Katty, with horn spectacles on nose, hunched up by the window, patching an old sack.
“I just came in for a light, Katty,” he explained. “I hope you won’t mind the dogs,” as two setters and a terrier followed him.
“Yer honour is welcome, and as many dogs as he likes.”
“There are two more sitting outside, but these have no manners; I hope I see you well, Katty.”
“Well, then, indeed I’m no great shakes, sir, and only among the middins; I’m gettin’ into years, ye see.”
“What nonsense!” stooping to pick up a live sod. “You can’t be more than fifty, if you are that.”
“I am fifty-seven, sir, and it’s a long age for a working woman; still,” and she sighed, “but God is good, and the devil himself not too bad entirely. And Mary is a grand help—and here she comes.”
As the inner door opened, Mary, followed by the dogs with better manners, entered with a tin can on her arm.
“Now go out, every one of you!” shouted their master, authoritatively. “Good evening, Mary.”
“Good evening, sir,” she answered. “Sure, the poor dogs is doing no harm whatever. Me mother loves a dog, and so do I. ’Tis only the cat that’s so particular.”
“And there she is, on the top of the dresser, out of harm’s way. I was sorry for poor John,” he said, addressing himself to Katty; “you must miss him.”
“In troth and I do, at every turn—a sore loss, both outside and in. Mary and me is not aqual to more than a couple of cows, and a few hens, and the potatoes.”
“And who does the digging?” inquired the younger master, who stood with his back to the fire, for all the world as if he were at home—the dogs with manners lying near the door.
“Well, to tell yer honour no lie, Patsie Maguire does the heavy part. When his work is over, he comes and puts in an hour.”
“I know Patsie Maguire—a smart, likely-looking lad”—here he addressed himself to Mary, who stood leaning carelessly against the dresser. “And what does he dig for, Mary—love, or money?”
“Oh, sir!” cried the girl, “now I declare to goodness ye make me laugh! For neither—but just his kindness.”
“Mary is terribly clever with flowers,” put in her mother irrelevantly. “’Tis she has the lucky hand; and as for eggs, hasn’t the hens been laying the whole winter, and them mother naked, and not a feather on them. Winter does be awful lonesome for us now; not a living soul within half a mile. Sometimes, when I think of robbers and house-breakers, I am all of a tremble, and never close an eye.”
“You ought to keep a dog,” suggested the visitor; “he’d be company.”
“He would so,” agreed Mary. “I’d love to have one.”
“Would you like this fellow?” asked Ulick, indicating a red terrier who had made his way to the fire; “he is only a pup, but he will grow!”
“Oh, sir! oh, yer honour! sure we would not expect the likes of him,” protested Mrs. Foley. “Maybe Boland up at the Chapel has a pup he can spare.”
“No, no, mother,” broke in Mary, “I just hate that breed of Boland’s—they are so long and black and deceiving, and, anyhow, are only good for poaching. They are quiet enough on a weekday, but all over the county of a Sunday. Oh——,” and she paused, “Oh faix, I was forgetting Mr. Ulick!” and she laughed, and coloured vividly.
“I’m glad to hear you don’t like poachers, Mary. This little chap here”—and he held him up—“kills rats already, and will keep off tramps. He is a gentleman.”
“Sure,” began Katty, with a wheezy laugh, “what would a gentleman be doing with the likes of us?”
“He will like you, and I know you will like him. See, Pap”—and he led him over to Mary—“this is your new mistress; and here is another”; and he pulled him towards Katty, who, however, held back, saying—
“Oh, sir, it’s too great a condescension for us; entirely too much!”
“What do you say to him, Mary?” turning to her.
“If when you’ll be going away ye would spare him sir, it would be a kindness and a consolation, for me mother is very wake in herself, and in dread of a night if she hears a sound, even of a mouse, let alone one of the cows stirring in the byre; she thinks it’s some one coming to murder us, so she does. The little dog will be a grand watch, though of course he is above our station.”
“Is any one within?” The voice came from the half-door, and the open space above was amply filled by a stout, elderly woman, wearing a jetted bonnet, a black front, and a blue waterproof.
“There is to be sure,” replied Mary, who liked visitors, darting to the door. “There’s no fear of the dogs, ma’am. I see it’s spilling rain. Come in if ye plase and take a sate.”
The tall, burly figure stalked forward, and shook out her wet umbrella; she stared very hard—first at Katty, then at Ulick—and sank heavily into the proffered chair.
“I am stopping at an hotel below,” she began, with a strong American accent, “and I’ve lost my way. I am a pretty smart walker. Am I far out?”
“About a mile and a half,” replied Mary. “It’s the other side of the Castle-gates—ye know, the place with the two dogs. This is Mr. Ulick Doran, of Kilmoran Castle.”
The woman looked up at him quickly, and said: “I’m in luck to chance on you, sir. I know your aunt, Mrs. Grogan, in Philadelphia; she lives not far from me, and is real well-to-do.”
“There! to think of that now!” ejaculated Katty. “Oh, but Miss Nora was the splendid fine girl, and the grand horse-lady—and how is she, at all?”
“Not much of a horse-lady now, but she keeps her carriage.”
“I am glad to meet any one who knows my father’s sister,” said Ulick. “Is there any chance of her coming over?”
“Well, not just at present; she heard I was to be a day or so in these parts—my people being buried hereabouts, you see—and I told her I’d go up and see the Castle, and bring her news right away; and she said she believed I’d be made welcome.”
“And she was quite right, ma’am,” replied Ulick. “I know my mother will be delighted to see you; will you come up with me now?”
“No, thank you, I’ll wait till to-morrow; I’m all wet and muddy, and not just fit for Castle company, thanking you all the same.”
The eagerness of Mrs. Doran to welcome the emissary of her sister-in-law requires some explanation. News had come, in the curious way in which it filters through other people’s letters, that Tom Grogan was doing right well for himself in America. After a pause, there was whispered the magic word of “wealth.” When Colonel Doran died, his sister had written to his widow, a timid epistle, full of heartfelt condolence; this had received a most gracious answer, and a correspondence ensued. Mrs. Doran was always good at her pen; she wrote volumes respecting her want of capital, and the extraordinary attractions of her oldest son; the younger she rarely mentioned.
Mrs. Grogan despatched American apples, candies, beautiful books, and furs—undeniably money’s worth; but no money. However, her sister-in-law built largely on Barky’s expectations from his aunt Nora, and talked a good deal about the Colonel’s sister, who was the wife of a millionaire; not a word of the mésalliance, much less of the postman!
“Then since you won’t come with me,” said young Doran, “I must be off. I’ll let my mother know you are at the ‘Glenveigh Arms,’ and no doubt she will write to you. Good evening, everybody”; and he opened the half-door, and departed with his train of dogs.
“He is after offering us a pup,” said Katty, with complacency; “we are so lonesome here, since I buried me poor husband.”
“I know the names of the folk around from Mrs. Grogan,” said the visitor; “she has the place still at her finger-ends.”
“My name is Katty Foley, ma’am. I sure she will mind me well; we were the wan age, and she and I had some fine jokes, together; to tell the truth, I was a bit of a go-between. Well that’s all past now. If the old gentleman had known, he’d have had me life! Aye, but he was the proud man. This girlie here is my daughter Mary, the only child I reared out of five, and all I have in the world, except a sister above at the junction!”
“Oh, indeed. Mr. Ulick seems a fine young man,” remarked the stranger.
“That’s true for ye, ma’am, as good as he looks, and the flower of the flock, the very twin of his father, the Colonel, so kind, and so feeling for the poor. Just a real decent clean-living boy!”
“That’s fine news, Mrs. Foley; and what about the other?”
“Oh, bedad, ma’am, I’d like well to say a good word for him too, if I could; but silence is best.”
“What ails him?” she asked peremptorily.
“Sure the mother has him ruinated since he could walk. He is just an eyesore to the township, and a scandal”; and Katty shook her head till the horn spectacles fell into her lap. “Av course, he is young, and may mend, but all I can tell you is, that if I see him coming into heaven, I’ll say, thank God!”
The stranger did not pause to question Mrs. Foley’s confidence in her own future state, but inquired, in a nasal key, “But what does he do, anyhow, my good woman?”
“Everything he ought to leave alone, ma’am. He is fond of low company, and cock-fighting, and betting, and all sorts of devilment. He gets in at night by the pantry window, and his mother thinks he is an archangel.”
“It’s a way mothers have. Poor woman!”
“Poor, is it! Faix, she’s a real rich woman, and small blame, and has the place in tip-top style, and keeps terrible state; but her servants is just starved.”
“Oh, mammy!” remonstrated Mary, “ye shouldn’t be talking so free to strangers.”
“A friend of Miss Nora’s is no stranger to me, and since she wants news, I bid to give her the truth. I know I’m crabbed, but I was reared on the Dorans’ land, and I’d put me hands under the Colonel’s feet. Sure, all the world knows the bad wife he had, and how she scolded him, and shamed him, and sold the buttermilk, and sent the old servants to the poorhouse! Well, well, I’ll say no more, I’ll say no more. Don’t mind me, ma’am. Mrs. Doran will be very sweet to you, and I’m only a bitter old woman. Oh, I wish ye could have seen the poor Colonel!—such a lovely, fine, tall gentleman, with a beautiful face, as if it was carved. Him and Miss Nora was always very thick!”
“Yes, so I’ve been told,” said the stranger.
“And Tom? Tom Grogan—an’ how is he? He was a fine, fresh-looking boy, and me own second cousin. Faix, if I was to say that to Mrs. Doran, she’d burn the house over me head.”
“Mr. Grogan is well,” replied the visitor; “a little stiff in the joints now; but he is a rich man, and rides in his carriage.”
“Great fathers! to think of that now. Faix, ’tis no wonder as all the Grogans have gone afther him to America! And Miss Nora was the darlin’ girl. Is she changed?”
“Yes. Who would not be in thirty years? She is grey and wrinkled, but I think her heart is young still. And now I see the rain has stopped, and I must be going.”
“But won’t ye condescend to a cup of tea, ma’am? Mary will wet it in a brace of shakes. It’s good tay—Lynche’s—and has a fine grip of the water. I’d like ye to tell Miss Nora ye had a cup of tay with old Katty. She will remember Katty, I’ll go bail.”
“I really must be moving, thank you—I’ll maybe look in again; but if your gal here will set me on my road, I’ll be obliged to her.”
“To be sure, ma’am, with a heart and a half,” said Mary, as she took a shawl and threw it over her head, and then led the way down the path to the gate, and into the main road.
Mary and her guide had a most interesting talk, so much so that they scarcely felt the time passing—the American putting clever questions to the girl, the girl, ever greedy of information, eagerly cross-examining her companion respecting “the sort of life over there”; and they were mutually astonished when they found themselves at the entrance of the “Glenveigh Arms.”
Ulick Doran had lost no time in preparing his mother for a visit from his aunt’s emissary; but Ulick’s friends, or discoveries, were rarely appreciated at Kilmoran. Mrs. Doran was proud of her youngest son’s good looks, good manners, and his horsemanship, precisely as she would be proud of a valuable piece of furniture which belonged to her exclusively. But the boy was too like his father; he reminded her at every look and turn of her life’s—well, she would not go so far as to call it remorse; but at any rate, she was not fond of Ulick. Her share of maternal affection was expended on Barker, and she was ashamed to admit to herself, that her indifference to her second son almost amounted to dislike. However, he was home now for six months’ leave, and she must just make the best of him.
“A woman who says she knows your aunt Nora,” she exclaimed, as she set down her glass of cheap sherry. “That is strange. And coming to see me. How did you come across her?”
“At Foley’s, at the corner.”
“And may I ask what were you doing in there?”
“I just went in to light my pipe.”
“So that’s what he calls it, eh, mater?” broke in Barky, with a knowing chuckle. “Mary Foley is the prettiest girl in the whole side of the country, and the cockiest, most impudent little devil I ever came across. So that’s your taste, is it, my boy!”
Ulick flung his brother an indignant glance, and went on. “The woman was there sheltering, and asking her way.”
“What sort of a person is she?” inquired Mrs. Doran.
“It is not easy to describe her.”
“No; it’s easier to describe little Mary, with her red poll,” interrupted Barky facetiously.
“But,” resumed the narrator, “she is stout and elderly, talks with a strong American accent, and looks like a prosperous housekeeper.”
“I suppose she has a letter of introduction from your aunt?”
“She did not say, and I did not ask her.”
“No, so like you! But I shall ask her,” announced Mrs. Doran, with an air of stern decision.
Mrs. Aron, as she was called, did not appear at the Castle for nearly a week. She had caught a wetting, and a cold, and remained at “The Arms” under the ministrations of Mrs. Hogan, imbibing gruel and a wonderful assortment of local gossip. At last, one afternoon, she presented herself at Kilmoran, but at an unfortunate moment: Mrs. Doran was in a bad temper; the cook and two other servants had given notice. Also she was momentarily expecting Lady Borrisokane, and various notables to tea. She sat enthroned in an arm-chair, pretending to read, clad in her best black satin. (Her toilettes now were rich satin, or silk for best, her everyday garment a black serge, with velveteen sleeves, which had long seen its best years.)
Suddenly the man-servant flung open the door, and announced “Mrs. Aron,” and a tall, self-possessed, elderly woman stalked in.
Mrs. Doran sat still and stared; she never uttered a word, and looked really formidable, for she had been composing the character she was about to give her cook.
“I am speaking to Mrs. Doran, I believe,” began the stranger.
Mrs. Doran nodded shortly; her expression was distinctly grim.
“I am a great friend of Mrs. Grogan—Miss Doran that was; she lives near me in Philadelphia, and as I was coming home to these parts she asked me to step in and see you, and bring her your news.”
“Oh, indeed,” drily. “I presume she sent a letter to introduce you?”
“No, ma’am, she did not.”
“That was strange!”
“I don’t believe she ever gave it a thought, nor that it would be expected or asked for.”
“Why not? I might have half America giving me a call!”
“I’m sure I don’t see why they should?” rejoined Mrs. Aron brusquely. “However, Mrs. Grogan, she told me that you’d be right glad to see me! In short, she said that most likely, for her sake, you’d give me house-room for a week or so.” After a short pause she added, “My box is at the ho-tell.”
“I’m positively certain Nora never said anything of the sort,” burst out Mrs. Doran. “I prefer to invite my own guests. Surely you are not in her class of life?” looking her slowly up and down.
Mrs. Aron’s clothes were cheap, and a little shabby: a long blue waterproof, a mock fur tie, black thread gloves, and a bonnet that had suffered from the weather.
“Yes I am, and just in her own class,” she answered sharply.
“But Mrs. Grogan is a wealthy woman.”
“Oh, is she?”
“I expect you were her—servant, were you not? Come now, tell me the truth.”
Mrs. Aron, who had been standing all the time, looked about her—and coolly took a seat.
“Were you her servant?” repeated Mrs. Doran.
“Well, I won’t deny that I have cooked for her; yes, and for Mr. Grogan, too; but it was many years ago.”
“And you dare pretend to me that she told you to come here on a visit? My good woman, you are a humbug! Don’t tell me that Nora Grogan associates with her servants; she is a Doran, and has the Doran pride in her blood—although she did disgrace herself. And you are an impostor.”
“No, ma’am, I really am not: I am a respectable woman. Mrs. Grogan would tell you so——”
“But she has not told me so!” interrupted Mrs. Doran angrily. The Countess and party might enter at any moment and find her tête-à-tête with this person, who would probably disclose all manner of tales of Nora, and her husband, and disinter a buried and forgotten scandal!
“Mrs. Grogan told me a great deal about this beautiful place and her own country,” continued the intruder, in a meeker key. “I seem to know it as well as if I had seen it before. I expect she would see wonderful changes——”
“No doubt,” agreed Mrs. Doran, rising. Then she added with savage insolence: “Now I must really ask you to go. I am expecting friends. I firmly believe you are a fraud. There are too many frauds going”; and she rang the bell with energy.
“I’m not that, indeed!” protested Mrs. Aron, tremulously, also rising to her feet, “but I am in want—that is to say, I’d be thankful if you could spare me a little assistance to pay my way to Queenstown.”
“Well, you will not get it here,” replied Mrs. Doran with biting emphasis. “I’ve suspected what you wanted all along—money. You are a begging impostor. Thomson!”—to her man-servant—“show this person out, and do not admit her again on any consideration.”
“And so, is this what I’m to tell your sister?” cried the American, suddenly confronting her hostess, “that you turned me out of the house!”
“You may, for all I care—I don’t believe for a moment that you know her!”
“If I don’t”—a pause, during which she seemed to struggle for an expression—“I know you—and well—for a hard, avaricious, cruel woman, that grinds the poor, and that drove your husband into his grave.”
“There, that’s enough!” interrupted Mrs. Doran, whose face had assumed the colour of beetroot. “Another word and I send for the police, you abusive old vagabond!”
A clang at the hall door announced the Countess, and Mrs. Aron was hurried into the hall. Thus the coming and the parting guest came face to face. The parting guest walked slowly down the avenue, every now and then pausing to look back. As she stood for a last glance, she was overtaken by Ulick Doran on a prancing bay filly.
“Hullo!” he said, “what’s the matter?” He noticed that she had been crying. “Have you been up to see my mother?”
“Say!” she said in a choked voice, “I don’t feel like talking to—to any one just now—” and she moved on, evidently struggling with some overpowering emotion.
“Oh, now,” suddenly dismounting, “I’m not going to let you off like this! Won’t you tell me what is the trouble? Come now.”
“Well, your mother told me I was just an impostor and a fraud, and turned me out. Your aunt had certainly forgotten her people, for she assured me I’d have a warm welcome, and be asked to stay.”
“My mother is a bit hasty sometimes,” he murmured, “and as to visitors—she is dreadfully worried with servants; she never even asks over her own relations.”
“Do you believe I’m telling truth or lies,” demanded Mrs. Aron suddenly.
“The truth. Yes I do! I think you have it in your face. And it was kind of you to come and look us up. I’d like to know my aunt Nora. Mind you give her my love.”
“Yes, I will. She has not many to love her.”
“Why so?”
“Because she is so rich; now”—and she hesitated. “I am myself a bit pressed for money for the price of my hotel bill and a second-class ticket to Queenstown.” She paused, and looked at him interrogatively, “and—you see for yourself I’ve no friends here!”
The young man reddened as he answered—
“I’m not to say flush just now, but I think I can scrape up ten pounds.”
“That will be as much as I shall want; and you shall have it back on my word of honour. I suppose you have not got it about you?”
“No, but I will send or bring it over myself this evening.”
“Is this your brother?” she inquired—“the stout young man with the gun coming in at the gate.”
“Yes, my brother Barker—he has been out after hares.”
“Hullo, Ulick!” he began, as he came within earshot. “I say, who is your lady friend?”
“Mrs. Aron, a friend of Mrs. Grogan in America—our aunt, you know.”
“No, I don’t know her, thank goodness, and don’t want to. A lady who disgraced the family, and made a scandal and went off with a blackguard postman!”
“He was not a blackguard, sir,” she broke in indignantly, “and he was the son of a respectable farmer. By all accounts, she was kept very strict, and had no young society of her own class.”
“She doesn’t seem to be keeping much society now, if you are a specimen of her acquaintances,” scoffed Barky, with deliberate insolence, as he stared at her weather-beaten waterproof and old-fashioned bonnet. “I was always against my mother making it up with her, and you may tell her that if you like—from me. As to her money, I’ll believe it when I see it! America is a queer sort of place!”
“Is it? And yet, by all accounts, some one sent off a girl there last month who was a real disgrace to her family.”
Barky became crimson as she looked him steadily in the face, and added, “I see you are your mother’s own son!”
“Well, so I have been given to understand.”
“And she has a right to be proud of you!”
“I am glad you think so”; and Mr. Barker Doran turned on his heel and stalked away, carrying with him all the eclat which is supposed to be conferred by the last word.