CHAPTER XII
From the slated cottage at the corner of a country lane it is a long step to an historical castle in Perthshire. Here the Marquis of Maxwelton is entertaining a large party for the twelfth. His moors are as celebrated as his gaunt old fortress, built after the French fashion, in the time when the Guise family held sway in Scotland. The château has been modernised, and the gardens and grounds are unsurpassed for beauty and originality.
Among the guests are the Earl and Countess of Mulgrave and Miss Tito Dawson—the Countess’s daughter by a former alliance. The ladies are lounging in the gardens, the earl is on the moor with the guns. He is a fine shot and a keen sportsman. A tall, slim man of fifty with clearly cut profile, grizzly hair, and a pair of deep-set, melancholy eyes. He has a polished manner, a pleasant voice, is an agreeable acquaintance and popular landlord; but the real Earl of Mulgrave lives far behind those melancholy eyes, entrenched in an impenetrable reserve. Thus far and no further his guests can go. He is ready to entertain them, to shoot, play billiards, talk politics, and subscribe money; lavish with time and with his fortune, he is niggardly of himself. His life—how little people guess!—has for years been one long disappointment.
After his young wife’s death he became a rover—driven from country to country by his own despair.
One autumn afternoon at Granada he came upon a party of tourists, or rather they came upon him, and among these was a lady who, to his starved heart, brought dim memories of Joseline, his lost idol. Mrs. Dawson was slim and animated. She had brown eyes and mahogany-coloured hair. A free lance, with great ambitions and small possessions, she set herself to lay siege to the handsome, heart-broken parti. Her cue was “sympathy.” Each had known losses—irreparable losses. The departure of Captain Dawson had been hastened by drink. Oh what profanation to bracket him with Joseline Mulgrave!
Mrs. Dawson admired, in a really genuine fashion, the handsome, desolate widower, and he, knowing that he must once more accept the burden of his position, and imagining her to be a sweet, tender-hearted woman, energetic as wise, invited her to be the partner of his sorrows.
The likeness to Joseline had become indistinct and faded, save for the hair-tint (which was duly revived at necessary intervals); but he believed that they would make the best of two sad lives, and face the future sustained by mutual experience, and mutual sympathy. The Countess of Mulgrave, with her carriages, diamonds, town-house, and country-seats, was an entirely different individual to the pretty, pathetic widow his lordship had known in Spain. They were not the same. People talk of children being changed at nurse; it seemed as if Lottie Dawson had been changed at the altar!
She was ambitious, agreeable, and selfish. A luxurious home, crowds of servants, quantities of money, a great name, and a connection, were all delightful in their way, and she was fairly well satisfied with her lot. Certainly Owen was peculiar; she managed him beautifully—yet she stood a little in awe of him, although he had never uttered a sharp word, or denied her any reasonable request. He attended her to functions, he submitted to her friends, he made Tito a generous allowance; and yet somehow they remained strangers.
Of course, they had not identical tastes. A country life, sport, books, and peace, were all he cared for; she enjoyed the racket of town—six engagements of an evening, with races, the opera, Hurlingham wedged in between visiting, charity concerts, and milliners. She had acquired the great art of dress, and was still a pretty woman, with auburn hair, and a brilliant colour, a wonderful faculty of making conversation, a fair amount of tact, and a reputation at bridge.
Her daughter Tito, who was small and dark, with a nez retroussé, found it necessary to live up to her profile, and was as jaunty and impudent as her nose—extravagant in dress and conversation. Tito Dawson had a reputation for being clever, and making the most daring and original remarks.
As a rule, women and girls liked her, and men considered her “good sport.” She had a sharp, amusing tongue, and a capital seat on a horse.
The marquis and his guests were lunching in a glen after a first-rate drive. Long rows of dead grouse were spread in lines near where the beaters were eating their dinner. The guns, twelve in number, reclined under the lee of a rock, discussing cold grouse, cold pie, sandwiches, and cake, when a gillie arrived with the letters. These were those which had come from the south by a second post, and, being the most important of the day, were invariably sent out to the guns, as among Lord Maxwelton’s guests were men high in the political and diplomatic world and the services, to whom the delay of a few hours, meant much in these hurried times. Letters and telegrams were handed about to where their recipients sat lounging or cross-legged, enjoying a pipe or cigar.
“Two for you, Owen,” said his host and brother-in-law, and he handed him a couple of missives in the long, narrow envelopes dedicated to business.
Lord Mulgrave glanced at them indifferently. The post had no surprises or pleasures for him. One was from his farm bailiff, no doubt about wire fencing; the other was from Usher, his man of business. Could anything be more prosaic or commonplace?
An interesting young colonel, his next-hand neighbour—a keen soldier and a keen shot—was immersed in a woman’s letter, written in an enormous hand, with violet ink. As he turned the page, the words “My own darling boy” were as plain as a sign-post. Those who sat must read; but the lady’s “darling” was blissfully unconscious.
Lord Mulgrave, about to consign his letters to his pockets, paused. He might as well see what Brown and Usher had to say. He cut the envelopes carefully with a pocket-knife, being the most methodical of men, and drew out first of all Brown’s estimate for so many yards of netting.
Then he examined the other. At the first glance, at the words “astonishing discovery,” he simply lifted his eyebrows. At the second glance, he read on with colourless face to the bottom of the page; he turned it with a trembling hand—he finished the letter, three sides of a sheet—crushed it up, rose abruptly to his feet, and walked away.
“Hullo!” exclaimed the little colonel, looking up suddenly, “I am afraid his lordship has had bad news?” and he turned his head, and watched the tall, active, tweed-clad form, striding towards the banks of a foaming mountain torrent, where the figure seated itself in an attitude which implied, “Leave me alone. I wish for my own company!”
“Perhaps something has disagreed with him,” muttered a man who did not like Lord Mulgrave’s cold and courteous manners.
“Perhaps so,” assented the little colonel; “you have never agreed with him, and I heard you just now abusing his pet scheme for compulsory service.”
“And he jumped down my throat, spurs and all.”
“Well, it must come to that, sooner or later. The world’s conditions are changing. Can a half-armed people survive, when the whole of the rest of the world is trained to arms? The growth of immense foreign armies is introducing new problems into British national life, whilst all the omens point to the probability that England’s position will be challenged in the near future! Diplomacy may do much, but, as Napoleon said, diplomacy without an armed force behind it, is like music without instruments!”
“My dear chap,” sneered the other, “you talk like a newspaper correspondent.”
“I do. I am actually quoting the Press.”
“Oh, I bar these big questions. Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. I suppose we are going to the west beat after this?”
“Yes.”
“I hope to goodness they won’t put me in a butt next old Sir Timothy Quayle. He’s dangerous. Talk of being under fire! He blazed right into me—cannot see a yard. No business on a moor. Never was so frightened in my life! I threw clods at him and yelled, and he thought it was something to do with the coveys. There’ll be an accident some day. I say, why aren’t we moving? Where’s the marquis?”
“Down there by the waterfall, talking to Lord Mulgrave.”
“Well, I’m here to shoot my twenty to forty brace, not to talk”—rising to his feet and stretching himself. “I wish—— Oh, I see, it’s all right. There go the beaters.”
“I say, Owen,” said the marquis, as he joined him, “I hope you have not had bad news, old boy?”
“No,” replied the other, raising a colourless face, “but news that, if it is true, is the best that has come to me for more than twenty years. Here”—and he thrust the letter into his friend’s hand. “You had better read it yourself. To tell you the truth, I’m a bit knocked out of time. Of course, I’m going to Ireland to-night.”
“Ireland!” echoed his companion. “What in the world would take you there?”
“Read that, and you will understand.”
The marquis, who was near-sighted, deliberately fumbled for his pince-nez, stuck it on his nose, and read with provoking leisure.
“Glenveigh Hotel,
“Co. Kerry.“My Lord,
“I have recently come upon an astonishing discovery, and beg to acquaint you with my experience. I must ask you to prepare yourself for a piece of intelligence which must naturally be to you of the nature of a shock.
“By accident I rambled into a ruined place called Lota, of which, many years ago, your lordship was the tenant, where, in short, her ladyship the first Lady Mulgrave died, after having given birth to a little girl. I there met an old man, once your gardener, who disclosed to me the amazing news that your daughter did not, as was supposed, die in infancy, but was kept in place of her dead child by the foster-mother, Katherine Foley, and reared as her own.
“Recently remorse, illness, and age, have overtaken Mrs. Foley, now a widow, and she has made the extraordinary confession that Mary Foley, a girl of one-and-twenty, is no child of hers, but the child of the Earl of Mulgrave. Of course, no one credits this statement, for Mary is a Kerry girl, with all a Kerry girl’s tastes. Every one, including the priest and doctor, believe the poor old woman to be suffering from a delusion, and crazy. Mary herself has no doubt whatever of her antecedents. Hearing from the old gardener that her appearance was remarkable, I made my way to Foley’s farm and interviewed the young woman, and I have come to the conclusion that the ravings of old Katty are the truth. The girl’s likeness to the late Countess of Mulgrave is so extraordinary, that for my own part I believe the relationship to be undeniable, and I am confident that this girl is your lordship’s daughter and heiress.
“I am afraid my information may be unwelcome, for several reasons: the girl has been brought up as an Irish peasant; she has had but little education, and is, of course, a Roman Catholic. On the other hand, she is remarkably intelligent, has read all the books that she could lay hands on, and has a natural grace and charm of manner, that is lacking in many young ladies that have had ten times her advantages. If I might venture to make a suggestion, I think your lordship should come over and see the girl and judge for yourself. I have not breathed my conviction to a soul, and, should I be mistaken, at least no harm is done. I am staying at the Glenveigh Hotel, where fairly comfortable quarters are available. It is within an easy distance of Foley’s farm, and five miles from a station. I have debated with myself whether to disturb your lordship with my discovery or to pass over the event in silence. I am aware what a change in the girl’s circumstances, and in other people’s expectations, such a revelation will occasion. At present Mary Foley is happy, satisfied with her lot in life, devoted to her mother, and full of high spirits, vivacity, and contentment. It will be for you to judge, for you to speak the word, and to break the spell.
“Awaiting instructions, I remain,
“Your lordship’s obedient servant,
“Bence Usher.”
“Well,” exclaimed the marquis, as he deliberately folded the letter, “this is a nice thing to spring on a man after twenty-one years!”
“Nice! Yes. Oh, Max,”—and his voice shook—“I hope to God it is no mirage, and that it may be true.”
“Then you are glad?” he asked sharply.
“Yes, I should think so. Why not?”
“But it is such an outrageous event—so unnatural and impossible. Of course, I’m aware that you and poor Joseline were all in all to one another—a sort of fairy tale, your marriage; but that is over. You are no longer a young man; you have other ties.”
“But no child?”
“No; and this one, if she is your own flesh and blood, will be an alien, a stranger in ideas, prejudices, and religion—nothing more or less than a pretty Irish peasant, eh?”
“He said she was the image of her mother.”
Lord Maxwelton looked incredulous. Then he resumed—
“The likeness may be accidental. Such things do happen. Just think of the horror of the present Lady Mulgrave to have a girl less refined than her own kitchen-maid thrust into her intimate society—in fact, bound to accept and chaperone the stranger as her daughter! And as to that story of a baby changed at nurse, I don’t quite believe that; it sounds too much like a shilling shocker. Your man Usher is, no doubt, a romantic old bachelor; he has been captivated by a pretty girl—I can see he has—and found a mare’s nest. If I were you, I should do nothing hastily; in fact, I’m not sure that I should do anything at all.”
“Max, I’m amazed to hear you talk in this cold-blooded fashion.”
“Cold-blooded! No, but prudent and far-seeing, my dear fellow. Do you realise the results of bringing over this Irish girl? She will be Baroness of Marchlyde in her own right. She will inherit a certain amount of the family property—she, an uncouth, raw, country girl! You could do nothing with her. Of course her character is formed by now. She will probably make your present quiet life most sensational and wretched. She is happy where she is—you are happy where you are.”
“No, Max, you know very well that I have never been happy since her mother left me. But oh! if fortune were to give me back Joseline in our daughter, I’d ask no more.”
“Then what do you propose to do?” inquired his listener, in a sharper key.
“Return at once to the castle, get a few things put together, and leave by the six o’clock from the junction. I’ll go alone, and not take my man, and you will make my excuses to every one, and say that I was called away by important business.”
“All right—though in my opinion it’s all wrong. Shall you tell Lady Mulgrave and Elgitha?”
“Only my wife just yet.”
“If you are wise, you will wait.”
“Wait! For what? If this girl is my daughter, I shall bring her back with me.”
“And if it is a wild-goose chase, how foolish you will look!”
“Yes; one has to take risks, and I’m ready to chance that. Now I see all the others anxious to start and I must not detain you. Good-bye, old man”—wringing his hand—“I leave you to explain everything. Wish me luck.”
“I wish you luck,” rejoined the other, putting his own construction on the word; and in another minute the two had separated.