CHAPTER XIX
After the separation of the would-be combatants, and when the dumb man had, with unlooked-for energy, dragged away his furious struggling companion, Mary found herself tête-à-tête with Patsie. He had on several occasions waylaid her in the hotel garden; now he had tracked her to “the Corner,” and for what good? If Patsie was not pleasing as a lover in the sight of Mary Foley, how could he expect to be acceptable to the same young woman in a much loftier station? What description of a husband would he make for Lord Mulgrave’s daughter and heiress? Why, the thing was ridiculous on the face of it! He realised this instinctively, and yet he would not suffer her to depart without some sort of interview, even if the interview led to nothing. Pat was impulsive, sensitive, warm-hearted, and very vain. It would satisfy his heart, and gratify his vanity, to have a real sort of storybook parting with his sweetheart, and all the world—that is to say, his own little world—would know that she had talked to him as equal to equal, and bidden him good-bye.
This, encouraged by bad whisky, was Pat’s motive in following Mary. Mary had a patrician horror of scenes. A scene was impending. She read its approach in her suitor’s tragic blue eyes; and she was annoyed, not only with him, but herself. She had been led away by some impish spirit to fall into temptation, to play the old part of Mary of the gate to two totally strange gentlemen; and the two strange gentlemen had departed, carrying with them, an entirely wrong impression.
“Well, Pat,” she began, on the principle that the first blow is half the battle, “what has brought ye—I mean you”—correcting herself—“up here?”
“To see you, of course. Sure, I never can get a word with you below.”
“An’ why should you?” she asked, with some asperity. “Ye are very big in yerself!”
“See here now,” he began, in a loud, hoarse voice, “which are you at the present moment—Mary, or her ladyship? For I’d like to know where I am.”
“I am always Mary here”—and she glanced back at the cottage, which, even in a short time, had assumed a forlorn and deserted appearance. The poor old place! Already the weeds were flourishing in the garden, and the kitchen, when she entered it, smelt of damp, and soot.
“Then it’s to Mary I’m talking. Mary, wid all your grandeur and money, you won’t buy love, mind you that, and you will never find any one, if you were to go over the wide world, that will love you the same as I do.”
“Perhaps not, Patsie.”
“Ah!”—and his tone was triumphant.
“But what is the use of it, Pat, when I cannot—never could or would or should—love you.”
“Ye never tried!”
“One does not try to love, I believe. I like you, and as a friend I will not forget you or go agen you. You are mixed up with all my life here, and I am friendly with yer mother and Lizzie; but if I’d lived here to the end of my days, I’d never have loved you, Patsie.”
“You’ll go off and marry some one else—some one of the pattern of the little red-faced blackguard.”
“No, I think not; I’m not such a fool!”
“Faix, I don’t know about that,” he sneered. “A long while back there was Mr. Ulick—ye were near making a fool of yourself with him!”
“I was not!” she retorted with passion. “How dare you bring in his name—how dare you?” she repeated, and her face was white.
“Oh, I dare most things when me blood is up. And now, I’d like ye to promise me one thing.”
“What is it?” she asked impatiently.
“That ye will never marry any one at all,” he answered, raising his voice, and his eyes blazed into hers, “but be true to Ireland—and to me.”
“True to you—what balderdash! Sure, don’t ye know well I never cared a thraneen about ye?”
She glanced up at him suddenly, and noticed that his dark, expressive face was working with passion. What ailed him? He looked murderous. Was he going to kill her? It was a lonely enough spot. A man had been beaten to death in that very road.
“See now, I’ll promise you one thing, Pat,” she continued, dissembling her fears, “for old times’ sake. If ever you are in any trouble, or want a good friend, I’ll help you. And as to marrying me, ye know there’s a dozen prettier girls in these parts just aching to have you. I can’t think why you are so set on me. Come, Pat, carry the cat for me, and we will be going home.”
Pat turned about; his expression startled her—the hard look in his eyes, the tightness of his lips. Her heart beat convulsively, but she kept a brave front and faced him as she would some dangerous animal, from whom she could not escape, and was therefore bound to overawe. Pat was crazy drunk; the raw whisky had taken effect; there was a mad look in his eyes. Did he mean to murder her? The sudden sound of voices and approaching footsteps filled her with a sense of profound relief. It proved a party of neighbours going towards Glenveigh; and before Pat could interfere, Mary had snatched up Whitey, opened the gate, and darted after them.
And Pat, thus left alone, sat down suddenly on a stone and burst into a passion of maudlin sobs. Why hadn’t he killed her, and then himself? A cheap revolver was in his pocket; it was loaded in four chambers. If the Connors had been three minutes later in coming down past Foley’s Corner, the chronicle of Mary of the Gate would have concluded here.
* * * * *
The cold Miss Usher had contracted “held her,” to use an Irish term, for one whole week, and during that time, she had a most tender, thoughtful, and assiduous nurse in her young protegée. Mary was afraid to venture into the garden. Pat might waylay her again; also she experienced a certain shyness with respect to mixing with her old friends, and she spent a good deal of her time in the sick-room, reading aloud to the patient, answering notes—she wrote a fine hand, thanks to the School Board—and concocting drinks, possets, and poultices with much skill. Her attendance was so quiet, her little hands so deft and quick, her soft voice so sympathetic, that the invalid felt herself becoming warmly attached to this treasure-trove; and as she lay in bed, waited on by Mary, she instilled into the girl’s mind some practical hints, without seeming to be continuing her much-neglected education.
As Mary read aloud the papers Miss Usher threw in remarks and information. It was socially she was so desperately wanting—yes, in the common A B C of deportment and conduct. Otherwise the good lady was surprised to discover how well the girl was posted up in the most unexpected subjects. She had read widely for one of her station. Tennyson, Sir Walter Scott, Thackeray, the Brontës, some of Victor Hugo’s works, Hans Andersen, Macaulay’s history and essays, Carlyle’s French Revolution, with a fair knowledge of history, geography, grammar, and arithmetic; she was not too badly equipped. Questioned, she could tell a good deal about the Crusades, the Wars of the Roses, and was eloquent respecting the battle of Clontarf, which was a new name to Miss Usher; but then, she had never studied Irish history.
At last Miss Usher was sufficiently recovered to start for Dublin, where Lord Mulgrave was to meet his daughter and convey her home. Her chaperon had suggested at least a week in the Irish capital, in order that, before she was actually launched into her new life, Mary, the ignorant child of the pastures, might see things; such, for instance, as a large city with its traffic and shops, a fashionable hotel, a regiment marching, a theatre, a picture-gallery, and a good milliner. Before she crossed the Irish Sea she must be suitably dressed. At present she was merely clothed.
As the day of departure approached, Mary’s slender wardrobe was packed; she had been persuaded to leave the cat as a parting legacy to Mrs. Hogan, but the dog, “Rap,” must accompany her wherever she went. On this subject Lady Joseline showed an amount of decision that had never been evinced by Mary Foley—indeed, she was, as her friends knew, just wrapped up in the creature. No doubt he was a fine, handsome terrier, who had belonged to poor Katty; but Mrs. Hogan’s memory was long; she recalled a time when “Rap” had been the property of a young gentleman. Was Mary still faithful to that first fancy? Now came the final good-byes. Her numerous friends flocked to the hotel to say God-speed to Mary. These included Father Daly, Mr. and Mrs. West, Mary’s schoolfellows, neighbours, and lovers. When it came to the last words and handshakes, Mary broke down and wept unrestrainedly. She wept all the five miles to the station—such a capacity for grief was beyond the bounds of Miss Usher’s experience—indeed, the girl’s condition remained very tearful and subdued throughout the entire journey. Mary had been twice to Cork on a three-shilling cheap excursion, crammed with many others into a third-class little better than a cattle-truck; this was a new conveyance, a carriage with beautiful cushions and “Reserved” printed on the window. Once in Dublin, they drove to the “Shelbourne,” the grandeur of which struck the poor creature dumb; the lift proved a paralysing novelty, also the smart and superior chambermaid who addressed her as “your ladyship.” However, she was completely worn out with her journey, her emotion, and the novelty of everything, and, refusing dinner, retired at once to bed, and in sleep, forgot all her joys, sorrows, and fears.
The next morning the new arrival felt fresh as a lark, and ready to witness any amount of novelty. Concealed in a hired brougham, Miss Usher carried her charge to a well-known establishment, and there spent the flying hours in fitting her out in a manner becoming, not only to her, but to her new position. She was fortunately easily suited, being of a “stock size,” and with slight alterations she became possessed of a smart tailor-made, a black evening gown, a French model, crêpe-de-chine, a travelling cloak, tea-gown, luggage, hats, gloves, shoes, and furbelows. It was almost like buying a small trousseau; but Miss Usher had “carte blanche” from his lordship, he was coming in three days to claim his child, and she was resolved that she should do him credit!
After this morning’s hard work and lunch, the two ladies drove together out to the park, and Mary saw a number of wonderful things; she was strangely quiet, and talked hardly at all, but her glances were in every direction, observant, critical, and amazed.
When they returned, they discovered that some of the purchases had already arrived; in fact, the young lady’s room was half full of cardboard boxes.
“You will have to put on the black gown,” announced Miss Usher. “I’ll dress you myself, and we will dine at the table d’hôte.”
“Oh, no, no,” protested the other, in an agonised voice, “I dare not.”
“Oh, but yes; you must begin some time, and the sooner the better, and learn how girls of your own rank look and behave themselves. Don’t you wish your father to be pleased when he returns? Don’t you wish him to be proud of you?”
“Is it proud of me! You’re making fun,” she scoffed.
“Not at all. I want you to do me credit. And you will follow me into the room, and copy what I do as regards knife and fork and wine-glasses.”
“I expect I’ll do something awfully bad—upset the things, I’ll be so nervous, and have all the servants laughing at me.”
“Well-trained servants never laugh; and please remember that you are no longer, as you seem to think, on equal terms with them. They don’t understand familiarity; they have their own dignity. There is a story of a gentleman who had socialistic ideas—all men on an equality sort of thing; he insisted on shaking hands with his butler. The butler did not like it; he gave warning.”
“Ah! I suppose that was why the tall chambermaid stared at me, when I said how nicely her fringe was done!”
“Of course; she must have been horrified! Now go and do your hair, and when you are ready I’ll come and help you into your new gown.”
“The girl has a taste for dress,” reflected Miss Usher, as she arranged her own thick grey locks. “I suppose it comes from her French relations. It was really marvellous, the eye she had for a suitable purchase, considering that everything is as new to her as if she came from another planet. She is wonderful, poor child!”
Before Miss Usher had completed her toilette there was a timid knock at the door, and she gave a faint scream, as her charge trailed into the room. What a transformation! The well-cut bodice set off a willowy and graceful figure; the sweeping skirt lent dignity; the black gown was entrancingly becoming to the soft white skin and ruddy hair of Lady Joseline. Yes, she was Lady Joseline, indeed—an aristocrat every inch, from her neat black velvet shoe, to the crown of her thick hair. Mary Foley, in a clumsy serge, had quitted the apartment half an hour ago for ever, and this graceful young personage, had taken her place!
“Will I do?” she eagerly inquired, in her soft southern brogue.
Yes; outwardly she would do extremely well. She seemed to possess the natural art—a valuable one—the art of knowing how to put on her clothes.
“Yes”—turning round and then standing up—“nothing could be better, Lady Joseline.”
“Oh, for goodness sake——”
Miss Usher made a gesture of interruption, and continued.
“For the future you must remember that such is your real name. You have now taken upon you your new character. May you adorn it, be happy, and make others happy, my dear!”
And as she spoke, she went over to the girl, and kissed her on both cheeks, French fashion.
“You are half French, you know,” she explained; “your grandfather was the Duc de Hernoncourt, a French nobleman.”
“My grandfather! Sure I always think of old Joe Foley as that!”
“Yes. You will soon get accustomed to your relations. Mary Foley is gone; we will never see her again; we will forget her, and give her dress and boots and hat and clothes to some poor woman. And now we will go downstairs together, and eat our dinner.”
“Oh, dear me, I’m so frightened, I’m all of a tremble; the legs is giving under me.”
“Your ladyship should say trembling—not all of a tremble; and you need not mention your legs. Come, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“That’s what Mrs. Hogan said; her last words were to hold up my head, and not be afraid of anybody—but sure, talking is easy!”
“You are not afraid of the lift now, are you?”
“No, I like it finely. I love going up and down in it.”
“Everything will be the same in time, my dear girl. Just keep a cool head, and wait.”
“Oh, I declare I feel all goose-flesh!” whispered her charge.
“Never mind; follow me closely. This way. Our table is in a corner”—and as she spoke the chaperon entered the brilliantly lit dining-room—already crowded—and proceeded to steer Lady Joseline into society for the first time.