CHAPTER XIII
Lord Mulgrave, having given directions to his man to immediately pack a portmanteau and order a dog-cart, set out in search of his wife. The quest proved long. She was not in the boudoir, the hall, the drawing-room; she was not even playing bridge or croquet. At last he discovered her in the garden—a most sequestered spot, some distance from the castle. Two ancient fishponds, surrounded by terraces and broad grass walks, were its principal features. On an island in one of the ponds was a pretty clump of trees, in that clump a hammock, in the hammock a smart lady with a novel, a cigarette, and a tiny “sleeve” dog.
“My dear O,” she cried, as he crossed a footbridge, “what brings you back? Not an accident! Has anything happened? Any one blown off anyone’s head?”
“No, not quite; but something has happened. I’ve had a letter.”
“From the duke?”—struggling to sit up. “So he is coming for the pheasants after all?” Her face was radiant.
“No, I’ve not heard from him”—and he put his hand in his pocket and drew out the letter.
Lady Mulgrave’s expression changed, as she said, “I really do think there ought to be a law against all the men going out together. Half should remain to amuse us. It is ghastly dull. Tito and Griselda are going to walk with the guns this afternoon, but I hate that sort of thing. Lady Madge and the marchioness, and a whole pack have driven to see a ruin. They couldn’t see a more splendid ruin than Lady Madge herself! Some are playing croquet; some are asleep, and I was nearly off. Oh, you abominable little dog!” suddenly addressing the mite, who had been chewing her book. “Oh, you little horror!”—and she gave it several hard cuffs.
“Look here, I want you to read this, Charlotte. I’ve had a most startling piece of news. I am going to Ireland to-night.”
“Ireland?”—carelessly taking the letter. “Ireland, of all places! But why? It’s not even the horse-show week, and that’s its only inducement!”
“You will see the why, when you read what Usher has to say.”
Lady Mulgrave glanced over the pages with a puckered, frowning face.
“My dear, what nonsense!” she exclaimed at last. “Surely you don’t believe such utter rubbish. A common country girl your daughter?”—and with an impatient jerk she threw away the cigarette which had been suspended in her fingers.
“I cannot tell you until I’ve seen her. Seeing will be believing, or disbelieving.”
“My dear man, I can tell you one thing. You will have your journey for nothing.”
“I sincerely hope not,” he answered gravely.
“If there is anything in it, it will really be awful, Owen. No, I’m not meaning anything nasty! Awful for the girl, and also for us. I expect she wears no stockings, and says ‘bedad’ and ‘begorra.’”
“These matters can easily be remedied. You will be good to her, won’t you, Lottie?”
“Of course. I will be good to any one belonging to you,” she answered. Then, suddenly getting out of the hammock, with a great display of orange silk petticoat, and standing before him, she added, “But I feel confident it is some mistake. And if not, do think of the feelings of Dudley Deverill, brought up to be your heir.”
“Well, he will have the title and a good share of the property. But we are travelling a little too fast. I must first go over to Glenveigh. I might have kept my own counsel till I returned; but I thought you’d like to know.”
“Like to know!” she repeated, under her breath.
“Pray don’t let it go any further. I’ve not told even Elgitha. Say I’m called away on urgent business.”
“And the word ‘business,’ like charity, covers a multitude of sins and secrets!” Lady Mulgrave looked at her husband with an odd smile; but he was grave—he was even agitated. She could read the signs. He had been besotted about his first wife, so people declared, though it seemed incredible, for he was always so cool, self-possessed, and undemonstrative. Was he going to be as idiotic with respect to his daughter?
But of course half the evils in the world are those which never happen. No doubt this creature was a myth.
“At least it will be an adventure,” she exclaimed. “And think of the scare lines in the morning papers: ‘Long-lost heiress discovered in Irish cabin.’ ‘Peasant girl, aged twenty, a peer’s daughter.’”
“Well, Charlotte, if any unexpected good luck had fallen to you, I think I’d not have jeered and laughed.”
“Dear old Owen!”—and she patted his arm—“did I jeer and laugh? I beg your pardon, but the idea is so grotesque I cannot get to face it, and it all seems so funny. You know I’ve an extraordinary sense of humour; it bubbles up in spite of me, like a kettle on the boil! In my mind’s eye, when I see you so tall, erect, and dignified, with a wild and tattered Irish colleen hanging to your arm, I really cannot feel serious; but you know very well, dear, that my heart is in the right place! I suppose”—and she paused and looked up in his face—“you would not like me to go with you?”
This was, as she was well aware, a perfectly safe offer.
“No, no, I must be off. No time to lose. Pray do not mention the matter to a soul. I’ll write and wire. Good-bye”; and despite her protestations that she would come with him and help him to pack, he waved her a denial and a valediction.
As she heard the garden gate click her ladyship scrambled once more into the hammock, lit a cigarette, and abandoned herself to contemplation.
No, no; if it really came to anything, if the story were true, if this journey provided her with a stepdaughter, it would be too detestable. How she would hate the commotion, the gossip, and—the girl!