CHAPTER XI
Although it was a nice, cloudy day, and the wind perfect for fishing, Mr. Usher sacrificed himself the following afternoon upon the altar of duty. He had slept on his discovery, and had come to the conclusion that it was his office, as Lord Mulgrave’s man of business, to interview this girl, whom fate had, so to speak, flung at his head; and four o’clock found him escorting his sister, Emily Usher (aged fifty, a good soul, and a bit of a blue-stocking), along a high, breezy road which ran above the lake, and at a certain sharp angle plunged into, and was lost among, dense woods which crowned the hill, and spread to the water’s edge. Clouds had gathered, a thin, cold drizzle was descending, when the couple came to the elbow or joint where the long, bluish-white road turned abruptly in order to accompany the lake; they arrived at the same time at a comfortable slated cottage, with geraniums in the windows, and a crimson rambler trained over its walls. The cottage stood back in a little field, and was flanked by several outhouses. At one side was a garden full of straggling hollyhocks, currant bushes, and poultry; at the other the usual substantial turf rick. A heavy wooden gate opened directly from the field into the road—a most excellent talking trap for passers-by, and doubtless the identical gate referred to by Mike Mahon. The general appearance of the place was well-to-do, but thriftless. A couple of pigs were rooting and grunting in the short grass; a speckled hen was perched at her ease upon the half-door; the currant bushes and apple trees exhibited a family washing;—conspicuous among the items were pink petticoats, and black stockings.
The nice soft afternoon and the drizzle was developing into steady rain, and Mr. Usher was by no means sorry to hear his sister exclaim—
“Here it is! This is Foley’s—Foley’s Corner, as they call it. I hope we shall find the girl at home.” And as her brother shoved back the gate she added, “I’ll go in first. Shall I?”
The pigs and geese pressed hospitably round the visitors as they walked up the path, and when they reached the half-door the hen flew off with a loud skwawk of expostulation. Miss Usher gave a genteel little cough—an ineffectual signal, for the room within seemed dim and empty. Presently she supplemented the cough with a timid “Ahem! Is any one at home?”
No reply. Brother and sister then with one consent peered into the big flagged kitchen. Bacon in solid flitches hung from the rafters. On the well-varnished dresser a lean white cat sat comfortably lapping from a large pan of new milk. The fire was low, but on a girdle on the embers a large soda cake was baking—and burning. Crouched over the fire on a three-legged stool sat a slender, auburn-haired young woman, deeply engrossed in a somewhat tattered volume. Cough and speech, cat or hens, were alike indifferent to her, for at the moment she was living in another world, far away from this gloomy kitchen and this burning cake. In short, the auburn head was buried in Monte Cristo.
As Miss Usher and her brother boldly entered (immediately attended by two geese), Mary Foley started, came back to her own everyday life, and sprang to her feet, greeting Miss Usher with a radiant glance.
“And so,” said her brother to himself, “this was Mary Foley!”
Yes, though not locally credited with “looks,” she was undeniably pretty—nay, even beautiful—with clear-cut, high-bred features, and, for all her peasant’s clothes, an aristocrat to the tips of her little pink fingers.
“Ah, sure then, miss, it’s entirely too kind of you to come and bring me the books.” As she spoke her eyes fell on the parcel, and a wonderful smile—her ladyship’s smile—lit up her whole face.
“This is my brother,” explained Miss Usher, introducing him with a gesture.
“I am glad to see your honour”—dropping a curtsey—“and hope your honour has had good sport.”
“Pretty well, I thank you,” he faltered, for he was gazing at the living image of the late Countess of Mulgrave—supposing the countess to be dressed in a short blue calico gown and coarse white apron.
“And how is your mother to-day?” resumed Miss Usher.
“Oh, indeed, she’s only among the middlings, miss, and she’s keeping her bed. Me aunt is gone to the town for some medicine.”
“And you are minding the house?” suggested Mr. Usher.
“And doing it badly, too, sir. Shoo! ye greedy divil!” and she made a dart at the cat. “Out of this wid ye!” and she drove off the geese. “But the truth is I’ve got stuck in a book, and when I do that I clean forget everything—more shame for me.” She still held the book between her fingers, and from the bottom of her heart wished herself alone.
“May I see what it is?” said Miss Usher. Then, as she glanced at it—“oh, Monte Cristo! No wonder you were enthralled!”
“Isn’t it splendid!” she exclaimed. “Oh, it beats Banagher! I’ve just got to where they are dragging him into the boat. Isn’t it grand!”
As she and Miss Usher stood talking, it never seemed to have occurred to Mary Foley, that she was lacking in hospitality or good manners. As she remained discussing the engrossing romance with his sister, it struck Mr. Usher that Mary preferred to lounge against the table descanting and listening, and lacked the true Irish instinct, which instantly offers a welcome, a seat, and, if possible, refreshment. His quick, grey eyes wandered round the room, and noted its contents. It was of a good size; the furniture was strong and useful, but a tub with a half-washed gown stood near the window; the floor was littered with sticks and cabbage leaves. It was plain that Mary’s little hands were incapable of rough work! But he noticed some pathetic attempts at decoration: the dresser exhibited a large bunch of wild flowers; on the walls was a considerable gallery of coloured pictures, cut from the illustrated papers; the window curtains were white, and looped back with strips of pink calico. As the visitor stood staring about the half-door was thrown back with a kick, and a thin, tall, peevish-looking woman, with a basket on her arm and a shawl over her frilled cap, entered, immediately followed by a red terrier. For a moment she stood aghast, then recovered and said, “Yer servant, ma’am—yer servant, sir,” as she dropped two curtseys, and deposited her load with an air of relief.
“Mary, me girl,” turning to her niece, “where’s yer manners? Won’t the lady take a sate?”
Mary coloured guiltily as she dusted and offered a chair. “Faix, I’m forgetting myself. Rap”—aside to the dog, who was sniffing the visitors—“behave yerself! Ma’am, I beg your pardon, but the house is all upset, and through other, it being washing day.”
“Lord save us! the cakes is a cinder!” cried the new arrival, hurrying to the fire. “Mary, girl, I lay my life you’ve been reading a book. Bedad, ma’am”—turning to Miss Usher—“if she was as good a hand at rearing pigs and calves as she is for reading and rearing flowers, we’d all be in clover. Oh, but she’s the terrible girl for a story——”
As she spoke Mrs. Grogan made a desperate attempt to tidy up the place, carried away the tub, and endeavoured with all the strength of her lungs to rekindle a few sods.
All this time Mary, her niece, with true patrician unconcern, stood knitting and talking to Miss Usher, precisely as if she were receiving her amidst the most luxurious surroundings, and absolutely unconscious of any shortcomings. If she had been a true-born Irishwoman she would have been pouring forth an irrepressible torrent of excellent and plausible excuses. And here, to Mr. Usher, was yet another incontrovertible proof that in Mary’s veins ran no Foley blood, but that she was the descendant of a colder race, the daughter of a hundred earls. Whilst Miss Usher made use of her tongue, her brother continued to make use of his eyes. The young woman, leaning against the dresser, with the dog at her feet, was plainly not in keeping with her background; her pose was grace itself, unconscious and unstudied—possibly the heritage of centuries of court life. The short blue cotton skirt revealed a pair of black woollen stockings and cobbler’s shoes; but even these failed to conceal a high-arched instep and slim little feet, and the hands that twinkled among the flying knitting needles might have been painted by Vandyck or Lely, so delicate, taper, and absolutely useless did they look.
Mary Foley had a sweet voice and a pleasant and melodious brogue; she and her visitor had much to say to one another on the subject of books, and the English lady was secretly amazed at the extent and variety of the Irish girl’s reading.
“Father Daly lends me the Times Weekly, and Mrs. Hogan at the hotel gives me all the stray old books and magazines, and I keep her in stockings; then I buy books myself in Cork.”
“You don’t get much of a selection do you?”
“Oh, ma’am, sixpenny reprints is not too bad—I wish I knew French!”
“I suppose you only know your language?” put in Mr. Usher.
“The Irish, sir? Yes, I can speak that well, and read it too, they teach it in the schools now, but it is not much use if one went travelling—not like French.”
“Do you wish to travel?”
“Sometimes I do. I get a queer roving feeling,—a sort of longing comes over me; but mostly I am very well content here, and I’ve a notion that if I ever left this part of the world it would be like tearing the heart out of me, same as you see the poor people going to America.”
“Well, Mary, me girl, aren’t you going to ask the lady if she has a mouth on her?” put in the shrill, whining voice of Mrs. Grogan, who had been busy with a kettle and some cups and saucers.
The hot soda cake, retrieved from the cinders, sent forth an appetising invitation. Mrs. Grogan had cut it into large chunks, which she split and buttered with a generous hand.
“Emily, I really think we ought to be going,” protested Mr. Usher, who hated and despised afternoon tea, and would as soon partake of rhinoceros as hot buttered soda cake!
“Oh, but, sir,” pleaded Mary, turning her battery of smiles on him, “my aunt Bridgie would be shockingly disappointed if you won’t honour her, after making the tay and all; she’s the real manager and mistress since me poor mother took bad, and I’m only good, as she’ll tell you, for a little nursing, and minding the hens and the flowers. I hope you will stay?”
Bence Usher was astonished to find himself presently drawn up at a table, spread with a clean coarse cloth, and seated before a steaming slice and a steaming cup, tête-à-tête with the two peasant women.
“No milk,” he cried, remembering the scene on the dresser.
“No milk,” echoed his sister.
“So it goes in families, misliking milk,” remarked Mrs. Grogan gravely. “I hope the tay is to your taste? I get the best, like me poor sister, four shillings and sixpence the pound. None of yer cheap mixtures!”
(There is no one in the world so particular respecting her tea, as the Irishwoman of the lower middle class.)
Mary, he noticed, was exceedingly dainty about her food, and reduced her share of cake to a mere slice, half of which she shared with the dog.
“That’s a handsome terrier,” he remarked; “he looks thoroughbred. Where did you get him?”
“He was given to me mother as a house watch, when he was a pup.”
“Your people are not from this part of the world?” remarked Miss Usher. “Any one can see that, Mary!”
“Deed then they are, ma’am,” she replied emphatically; “and where else? Why wouldn’t I be Kerry born and bred?”
“Because you are so unlike the other people, who have dark hair and blue or grey eyes, and are more strongly built; and you——”
“Oh, yes,” she interrupted, “I’m aware I’m altogether different—very small-boned, wid red hair and brown eyes, and no colour to spake of, but it’s just a chancey thing, like a piebald horse—or a blue-eyed cat; we can’t all be cut out on the same pattern.”
Mary was doing the honours of the feast; her aunt had undertaken the part of servant, and she now stepped gracefully into the rôle of hostess. Her manners were charming and fascinating; even Mr. Usher, laden as he was with care and apprehension, fell under their spell. In a kind of dream he ate a dangerous supply of soda bread, and disposed of two cups of strong tea; for as this most fascinating creature chattered away to him, he forgot both his digestion and his duties.
“Oh, faix, it’s not every day we have a gentleman to tay, I tell ye! If me poor mother was stirring, she’d be a proud and happy woman to see yer honour sitting here,” declared Mary.
“And how is she?”
“Just dozing now within in the room. She’s had one of her bad turns, but I nursed her out of it. Oh, she’s awfully changed since her mind gave way.”
“And do you think she really is—peculiar?”
“Think! Sure, don’t we know it? She, that used to be the sensiblest woman in the parish, and every one running to her for advice, is now, God help her, teetotally moidered, and wake in herself.” After a pause, “I see you looking at me very constant, sir. May I make so free as to ask if ye get a likeness of any one out of me?”
“Oh, I—I—beg pardon,” stammered Mr. Usher. “I’m a bit near-sighted. I hope you don’t mind. I see you have splendid potatoes,” he remarked suddenly, pointing to a basketful. “I suppose you like them?”
“Is it me? Augh, no!” with a gesture of abhorrence. “I hate potatoes; they just choke me. And when our bag of flour went astray on the train ’ere last week, I was daggin round for something to keep me alive, so I was. I’d die on potatoes.”
“And what did you find?”
“Ned Macarthy gave me a couple of salmon trout and a pigeon.” “Oh, he’s a great poacher!” and she laughed. “So I did finely. I think I hear me mother calling me, if you’ll pardon me”; and she rose and hurried into an adjoining room.
“She keeps you all alive, I am sure,” observed Miss Usher, “so full of life.”
“Aye, you’d never be wanting to go to a theatre or a pantomime as long as ye have Mary in the house,” assented Mrs. Grogan. “The chat out of her is wonderful, and she can talk to any one, as ye may judge! I can’t think how she comes by her freedom, for John and me sister was not a bit gabby themselves; but every one likes Mary, though she’s a poor worker. Half the boys are ready to put their hands under her feet. It’s not the looks, but what ye may call the cleverality of her!”
“Is her mother really no better?” inquired Miss Usher.
“Yes; she’s in her senses—no more foolish rambling, and rousing the priest with mad tales. But the head of her is full of pains. Oh, she’s greatly failed! She’s been lying a good while, and I’m thinking she won’t be long in it.”
“I suppose you don’t remember Lord Mulgrave coming here?” ventured Mr. Usher, who had risen, and, with his back to Mrs. Grogan, was searching for his stick.
“And troth an’ I do, and why wouldn’t I? I remember him well,” she rejoined, in her whinging voice. “I met him in the woods one day, and he gave me a great salute. Such a lovely, tall, fine gentleman! I never seen her ladyship; she never stirred out much. It was at Lota she died. Oh, but she made the lovely corpse!”
“Indeed!” said Miss Usher.
“Yes, that was an awful affair, and unexpected. They do say”—lowering her voice almost to a whisper—“she walks! Anyway, no one will go near the place after dark.”
“Surely you don’t believe that?” protested the lady.
“Well, ma’am, I’ve seen and heard many a quare tale in me time, and I don’t rightly know what to believe and what not to believe; but it would be more reasonable-like if she’d stop with her own folk, and haunt them, instead of scaring poor Irish people, as are black strangers.”
“Really, Emily, it’s six o’clock,” said her brother, suddenly looking at his watch. “We must not intrude on Mrs. Grogan any longer. You see it has quite cleared up now”; and he made for the door.
Miss Usher, an intelligent woman, who wrote a little, and was particularly anxious to study the Irish peasant, and interiors, would gladly have thrashed out with Mrs. Grogan the subject of ghosts, warnings, and Banshees; but her brother was already at the gate. Should she offer payment? She put her hand to her steel bag, and looked interrogatively at her hostess, but read an invincible “no” in those little twinkling greenish eyes.
“Thank you very much. Please say good-bye to your niece for us.”
“Aye, she’ll be sorry to miss ye; but she is mighty taken up with her mother. She’s a real, good decent girl, for all her funny ways—wan that always satisfies ye, and me sister cannot spare her out of her sight—that is when she’s in her right senses. Well, good-bye, my lady, good-bye. Mind the gander; he’s a bit wicked to strangers”; and she curtseyed her out.
“Well, Bence!” said Miss Usher, as she came up with her brother, “tell me frankly what you think of that girl? Is she not beautiful, and has she not an extraordinary air of refinement and distinction?”
“Oh, yes, she’s uncommon-looking,” he muttered, in a peevish tone.
“Did you notice her slow smile? A family smile, I should imagine; and yet, of course, I am talking the most arrant nonsense! Can you believe that her grandmother was some old Kerry woman, who dug potatoes and smoked a pipe! Now, can you?” she repeated impressively.
“No, I cannot,” he answered doggedly. All the time he was mentally making a draft of a letter.
“And yet there is her aunt, a common, ignorant person, as you see. I rather wanted to give her half a crown as a return for the tea; but Irish hospitality is a thing by itself. As for Mary, the day I lost my way I offered her a shilling, and you should have seen how she coloured up and refused it. I almost felt as if I had offered it to an equal. Really, one would take her for a lady if she were dressed up—a somebody, in fact!”
“In fact, Lady Joseline Dene,” her listener mentally added, as they walked on for some time in silence. The Mulgraves were a notoriously proud family; ancient, exclusive, wealthy, now dwindled down to one last branch. What would Owen, Earl of Mulgrave, say to this Irish heiress who fed pigs, washed and cooked (very badly), and had adopted the religion, language, prejudices, and accomplishments of a Kerry peasant? Could she ever be educated, transformed, and fitted for her high degree?
“Come, come, Bence, you have not opened your lips for half a mile,” remonstrated his sister. “A penny for your thoughts. What are you thinking about?”
“That I hope we may have cranberry tart for dinner,” was the mendacious reply.
“Oh, you greedy person. I fancied you might be puzzling out the enigma of that red-haired girl. I must confess that she baffles me. She’s a physiological freak; she’s a white crow. What business has she to feed pigs with those little taper hands? Tell me that?”
But her cautious companion was not prepared to tell her anything as yet; he would keep his discovery to himself. Emily had an active mind, a healthy curiosity, a world-wide correspondence, and in answer to her question, “Tell me that?” he merely shook his head, in token of hopeless ignorance.
Personally, he had no shadow of doubt as to the girl’s identity, and as he strolled up and down the road in front of the hotel after dinner, he held a long debate as to what he ought to do. Should he hold his peace, leave Lady Mary to her wash-tub and her gate, or should he write the wonderful news to the earl, her father?