CHAPTER XXI
It was with a feeling of repressed excitement and unusual trepidation, that Lord Mulgrave, who had come over by the evening boat, walked into the hotel and inquired for Miss Usher.
“Miss Usher and her ladyship were in,” said the porter; “in fact, they were in the hall.” Yes, he recognised Miss Usher’s black-and-white check gown, and her broad back; the girl with her—could it be Joseline? What a transformation! Undoubtedly clothes had done wonders; but her manners were as pitiably timid and uncouth as ever—she was actually shaking with nervousness. By Lord Mulgrave’s desire the little party dined in a private room, where he and Miss Usher talked, and did their utmost to promote the ease of their companion, who, in spite of her smart white gown and fashionable coiffure, was still the peasant in her heart. She ate but little, and scarcely opened her lips, fearing to be guilty of some awful blunder, and shock this handsome grey-haired gentleman!
After the meal was over Miss Usher effaced herself with a murmured excuse about letters, and left the father and daughter to talk to one another alone.
“Come here, my dear,” he said, drawing up a chair, “and let us endeavour to know one another. Talk to me, won’t you.”
Joseline accepted the seat in trembling silence. What could she talk to him about? The price of calves, the Hennesseys’ wedding, the mission at Glenveigh, her new clothes? Cleverly, and by degrees, her father drew her out, and prevailed on her to thaw—to speak of herself and her upbringing; and as she became more familiar with his presence and the sound of her own voice, she talked a great deal, and unwittingly displayed her simple mind, and simple heart. She was a dear, sweet, good girl—the image of her dead mother; but twenty-one years yawned between him and her, and as he listened to her artless conversation, he felt overcome by the appalling state of her ignorance of what may be called, “life above stairs.”
“Yes, I’ve had good schoolin’,” she was saying. “I can cast up figures, and knit, and mend lace; the nuns taught me.”
“Yes; and anything else?”
“I can sing—I was among the altos, and once I sang at a concert, and many a time at a dance.”
“I’m glad you can sing. Will you sing to me now, my dear?”
“Is it here?” she faltered. “Sure, I’ve no concertina.”
“That is no matter.”
“Oh, I’d be afraid, so I would. Oh”—twisting her hands—“I dare not.”
“Now listen to me, Joseline” (how many years since he had uttered the name!). “If you are going to be afraid of me, I shall be afraid of you, and that will be a terrible misfortune. You have your mother’s face; if you have her nature, I don’t care one straw for accomplishments. I think you may have her voice. Will you not sing to me, my dear, and give me pleasure?”
He pressed her little hand tightly; he felt her trembling; and then, all at once, in the dusky room, the sweet, low, quivering notes began, at first faint and husky, but gaining strength and volume as they went on. Oh, such a heart-piercing, exquisite air! The words were unintelligible, for she was singing a well-known Irish lament, which, rendered into English, was something like:—
Wail, wail, ye, for the mighty one!
Wail, wail, ye, for the dead!
Quench the hearth and hold the breath, with ashes strew the head!
How tenderly we loved him! how deeply we deplore!
Holy Saviour, but to think, we shall never see him more!
Wail, wail him through the island! Weep, weep for our pride!
Ye know that on the battle-field our gallant chief has died.
Weep the Victor of Benn Burb! Weep him, young men and old!
Weep for him, ye women! your beautiful lies cold.
Soft as a woman’s was your voice, O’Neil; bright was your eye.
Oh, why did ye leave us, Owen? Why did you die?
Your troubles are over; you’re at rest with God on high.
But we’re forlorn and sad, Owen. Why did you die?
As she concluded with a low sob of supreme dramatic effect, Lord Mulgrave drew a deep breath, and, carrying the little cold hand to his lips, said, “My dear child, do you know that my name is Owen? Your singing is no mere accomplishment; it is a great gift.”
“Did she sing?” she asked faintly.
“Yes. It was the same voice”; and he sighed as he released her fingers.
“Does Lady Mulgrave sing?” she continued, in a bolder key.
“No”—and he gave a slight start—“but, Tito, her daughter, is fond of music; she is nearly your age, or a little older. You will be, I hope, capital companions for one another; she’s a bit of a rattle, but a good-hearted girl.”
“Is she pretty?” she asked.
“Not exactly; but rather attractive and piquante.”
“I never heard that word before; I suppose it means something nice?”
“Yes. You will see for yourself. She and Dudley are great friends; he is my heir, you know, and your cousin; we see a good deal of him.”
“And what is he like?”
“Oh, fairly good-looking, but a lazy beggar. He did well in South Africa, but got enteric, and was laid on his back for so long I believe he fancies he is still there. You have put his nose a bit out of joint, for some of the estates will now go to you.”
“Is it to me? Sure I’m not fit to own land. Once they wanted to make up a match for me with a strong farmer; his people were eager for it, on account of the fifty pounds.”
“But you said no?”
“Bedad, I did—a great fat man, with a bald face, and a pearl on one of his eyes.” She meant cataract.
Lord Mulgrave gave a short laugh; then he said, “So, Joseline, you’ve never had a lover?”
“Is it me? Why I had a couple of dozen or more making shapes at me!”
Her father sat up stiffly in his chair, apprehension in his attitude; the expression of his face was disturbed.
“But sure, I didn’t care a hair for one of them,” she added reassuringly. “I only liked them just for joking and dancing—nothing more, I give ye me word. But I’d fine work keeping them off; they mostly wanted to marry me!”
“You say you had many admirers, my dear. Did you not care for one of them? Come, now, do not be afraid to speak.”
“No. Sorra one of them!”
“And yet you are past one-and-twenty! It is strange that my little girl’s heart has never been touched,” continued Lord Mulgrave, in a meditative tone; “but I think I can explain it. I believe it was a case of like to like, and you instinctively shrank from the claims of a race to which you did not really belong.”
“I expect there was something in that,” assented Joseline. “They said I was too particular, and all for picking and choosing.”
“Now, supposing you had come across a gentleman wooer?”—and Lord Mulgrave paused interrogatively. (Did he notice that Joseline was very pale?) “I wonder how it would have been? Perhaps you and I would not be sitting here to-day, Joseline. I am thankful that you belong only to me!”
A long pause ensued.
Joseline was conscious that her mind was in a tempestuous state of indecision. Should she speak? Should she disinter and lay before her father, the poor little skeleton of her own romance? Should she or not? After all, there is something that belongs to ourselves. And yet—and yet—— Her large eyes gazed into vacancy.
At last she faltered, in a low and shaken voice, “Well, father, there was some one once. You are right. A gentleman—and—he was—a real gentleman. He went away six years ago, when I was but a young slip of a thing, and it nearly broke my heart. And that’s all.”
“What was his name? Who was he?” he asked under his breath.
“Sure there’s no need to tell ye that, for”—and her face quivered—“I’ll never come across him again.”
“Irish, of course?”
She nodded. “There now, I’ve told ye, and ye know all there is to know about me. Promise me ye will never let on.”
“I promise faithfully. Did he give you the red dog?”
“No, he gave him to Mrs. Foley. And now we will never spake of him again.” Here two tears, which had been gathering, fell. “You have me only secret.”
As a servant entered with a telegram and turned up the electric light, her father looked searchingly at Joseline. Her face was white and haggard. “My little girl is tired?” he exclaimed.
“Yes; I feel as if the feet were falling off me. I was standing so long to-day being tried on.”
“Then you must go to bed at once. To-morrow we will do a drive and the theatre. Next day we go home. You are no longer afraid of me, are you, dear?”—and he bent down and kissed the hair over her brow. “You must not. You are my only child; all I have, remember.”
“I will remember, and you will remember”; and she looked up at him with an expression more eloquent than speech. An undivided and implicit trust, spoke in her beautiful eyes.
END OF PART II
PART III
CHAPTER XXII
Although Lord Mulgrave had given Miss Usher a cordial invitation to accompany his daughter to London, that prudent lady excused herself with the plea of one or two engagements in Dublin. She wished to give the father and daughter an opportunity of becoming better acquainted before they joined the family circle. What could be a better occasion than a sea voyage and a railway journey?
“I shall miss you awfully,” sobbed her companion of the last six weeks. “I don’t know what in the living earth I’ll do, all alone. Of course, I have his—his lordship—father; but I mean among the women. And I’ve a notion they are all going to hate me, so they will.”
“That is a foolish idea to start with, my dear. You will find that if you like people, people will like you. Do not be afraid of your relations. Be good—tempered and pleasant, and just yourself.”
“Faix, it’s easy talking, Miss Usher dear. But which self? I’ve two, you see. The one that comes natural—the common country girl, reared, as ye may say, on the side of the road, and the new self, that’s a grand lady, and must mind her manners and her talk, and hold up her nose as if there was a smell under it!”
“Not at all,” protested her counsellor. “I hope you will be gracious and polite to every one; it is only nobodies who give themselves airs. Your father has invited me to pay you a visit later, and I shall look for wonderful improvements and bring you a little prize. You are improved as it is; you have learnt a great deal.”
“It will all run out of my head the moment I get among strangers,” declared her pupil, in a tone of deep dejection.
“At any rate they will make allowances.”
“More likely they’ll make fun of me!”
“Nonsense! Now, you must try and remember some of the things you have learnt. Promise me you will not say ‘Faix,’ ‘Musha,’ and ‘Begorra’; in fact, my dear child, you should endeavour to cultivate silence.”
“Sure, don’t I know that well! and yet for the life of me I can’t hold me tongue. I can’t stop myself. I’ve been so encouraged to talk as much as ever I liked since I could talk at all, the words just slip out of me mouth before I know they are gone—and often words I never meant to say at all. I tell the black truth, and let them take it or leave it—man, woman, or child.”
“You must make up your mind to listen and learn,” said Miss Usher, soothingly. “You learn quickly. Now, I’ve a little book for you here.” It was a neat edition of The Manners of Good Society. “Read this over; it won’t tell you everything, but you will find it a help.”
Lord Mulgrave, for his part, had a gift for Miss Usher, and the evening before he took leave of her he offered her his heartfelt thanks for her care of his daughter. “I am aware that nothing I could give you, would be an adequate return,” he said, “but I want you to accept this as a memento of Mary Foley”; and he placed in her hand a blue velvet case—a case containing a string of pearls, which, as a lady friend subsequently remarked with bated breath, “must have cost hundreds and hundreds of pounds.”
The travellers left for Holyhead by the early boat; and as Joseline, in the dull grey cold morning, took leave of her friend—her very last tie—she broke down and wept bitterly, and, with her arms tightly clasped round Miss Usher’s neck, fell into a sudden breathless sobbing.
“May Heaven forgive me, but I hate going, so I do,” she gasped. “Oh, Miss Usher dear, I wish to God I was on my way back to Glenveigh!”
* * * * *
At Kingstown the waves were tumbling over the west pier; the water in the harbour was lively. They were likely to experience a bad crossing—a bit of an October gale.
At first Joseline enjoyed her novel experience of the sea, the stinging salt air, the unfamiliar up-and-down motion; but once past the “Kish,” when they caught the full force of the wind, she was compelled to seek refuge in the ladies’ cabin, where she fell an immediate prey to mal de mer and terror. Over and over she believed that each lurch was the end! However, at last Holyhead stack was safely sighted, and a miserable, white-faced girl was claimed from the stewardess by the Earl of Mulgrave. Her head was swimming and aching as she crawled up the gangway, leaving The Manners and Customs of Good Society behind her on board the Ireland.
During the long day’s journey to London Joseline recovered but little, in spite of her companion’s most anxious solicitude; her interest in the flying landscape proved feeble, she felt so sick, and so utterly shattered and desolate.
“Would you prefer to stop in London for the night, and go on to-morrow?” suggested Lord Mulgrave.
“Oh, no, no! let us do it all at wance.”
“And get it over,” he added, with a faint smile. “You need not be nervous, Joseline; every one is prepared to give you a warm welcome.”
“But I feel so strange. I know I’ll be like a sort of wild plant that is pulled up by the roots, and stuck in a greenhouse, and every bit as much out of place.”
“No, for you belong to the greenhouse,” he answered, “and by-and-by you will find that you are in your natural atmosphere.”
“God send it!” she murmured, as with a gesture of weariness she closed her eyes, and presently fell into a comfortable little sleep.
Her father, who sat opposite, studied the pale face anxiously. Here was the image of his dead wife: her outward form, with the mind, manners, and habits of an Irish peasant. What an unparalleled situation!
The poor, tired child had some formidable obstacles in her future path. Lotty and she would have nothing in common—Lotty, with her bridge and her cigarettes, her society jargon, her set, would be terribly embarrassed by this simple, innocent creature. His wife’s opinions were decided, her tongue was persuasive, her will inflexible. He had drifted into allowing her to gently lead, to manage, and to set him a little on one side, because he had not cared. Now he had something to care for and protect. He must stand between Lottie, and a girl who embodied many of Lottie’s especial aversions—a girl who was a mere child of nature, outspoken, impulsive, uncouth.
Joseline and her father, having dined at the Euston Hotel, made their way down to Ashstead. It was past nine o’clock, a dark, windy night, when they arrived outside the gusty station, where a fine equipage, with two moon-like lamps, awaited them. As she was conducted to her carriage, the girl felt as if she were a second Cinderella going to the ball. They drove away rapidly, Joseline sitting erect, her heart beating with nervousness; her father took her little cold hand, and held it in silence. When they stopped at a pair of great gates, which opened noiselessly and swung back of their own accord as the carriage dashed through, he said—
“This is Ashstead—my dear—your home.”
“Father,” she gasped, “I am mortally in dread. I feel as if I was going to be killed, or married, when I think of meeting all these grand strangers. I declare I’d like to get out of the carriage, and run in and hide under the hedge.”
“My dear, I assure you there is nothing to alarm you.”
“It’s her ladyship and the young lady that terrifies me, when I think of them.”
“Her ladyship is prepared to welcome you warmly. She is——” (What could he say to encourage this trembling creature?) “She is—most sweet-tempered, and full of tact.”
“Tact! What is tact?”
“A—the knack of saying the right thing, and keeping quiet at the right time.”
“Oh, laws! then she is just the black opposite to me! And the young one?”
“I feel sure you and Tito will be as sisters; she has often wished for a companion. She will show you all sorts of things, and tell you what to do.”
“I suppose she has had a grand education?”
“Yes, chiefly abroad. I am afraid she did not make the most of her advantages; her spelling is shocking.”
“Oh! Well, anyhow, I can spell,” declared Joseline, with a gulp. “It is the other things—the tip-top talking, and the sailing about a room, and the hand-shaking, and looking people over from their shoes up. I watched the ladies in the hotel. You see, I just clump about, and hitch myself on to anything, and say, ‘What way are ye the day?’”
“Well, here we are,” he interrupted, as the horses came to a standstill under a pillared portico. The door was then thrown open, and the light from a large domed entrance streamed out into the night. Silhouetted against the yellow glare were three tall men-servants. In a sort of daze Joseline stumbled out of the brougham and followed Lord Mulgrave into what seemed to be a royal palace. She paused for a moment, whilst a footman relieved her of her umbrella and handbag, and, turning to her father with piteous eyes, exclaimed, in a voice which the great dome re-echoed—
“I declare to goodness I’m all of a swither!”
To this announcement her parent made no reply, but hastily preceded her across the hall along a wide red-carpeted corridor, lined with paintings and cabinets, to where a murmur of voices came through a half-open door.
Lord Mulgrave had particularly desired an informal reception for his daughter, so romantically restored. Of course, he was aware that the entire neighbourhood were on the qui vive to see her; their curiosity must wait. He expected to find merely his wife and Tito. But Lady Mulgrave had arranged otherwise; she had invited Lady Maxwelton and her girls to come and behold the new niece and cousin, and being in London, they had responded with alacrity. Several smart neighbours were added to her dinner-party; but for these the inducement offered was bridge.
Lady Mulgrave was secretly displeased that her husband was bringing “the hog-trotter” girl home—actually straight to Ashstead. She ought, as a preliminary, to have first been sent to some school or foreign convent. It was most irritating to have her dragged into the family; the whole thing was so melodramatic—a sort of penny novelette story; it had got into all the papers, too. The proper thing to do would have been to send the girl abroad, and permit the episode to evaporate. An uncouth peasant-girl was bound to cut a most ridiculous figure; but since she was really coming, her ladyship had invited a surprise party, as a little punishment for his lordship. The presence of so many critical eyes would intensify his discomfort: in addition to the kind and charitable intention of making him ashamed of his daughter, it was also arranged as an ordeal for the girl herself.
Ten o’clock had struck. The small blue drawing-room was set out with three bridge-tables, at which sat twelve deeply engrossed players. Lady Maxwelton occupied a sofa with another lady; they were discussing missions.
“Mother,” said Tito, suddenly throwing down her hand, “I’m sure I hear the carriage! Yes; they have come at last!”
“Nonsense! It is the wind. They won’t arrive to-night,” replied Lady Mulgrave, from another table. “Of course they will stop in London.” As she spoke, she ceased to sort her cards, and announced, “I make no trumps.”
“It is them,” persisted Tito, rising. “Mother, aren’t you going out?”
But her mother merely took up her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. As she did so the door of the drawing-room was pushed open by some one, and a graceful girl in a long sable-trimmed cloak and a French toque came slowly into the room, ghastly pale, and yet so pretty! She looked distinctly dazed—no wonder, poor alien!—as she contemplated this brilliantly lighted room, the crowd of gaily dressed people all playing cards and smoking cigarettes. Even Joseline was sharply sensible of the strangeness of this new life—so near, yet so unknown. Directly facing her, a yellow-haired woman—her beautiful bare shoulders emerging from a hazardously low yellow gown—with a cigarette half-way to her mouth, stared at the new-comer with eyes of stony incredulity.
For about the space of ten seconds a deadly stillness reigned. The arrival paused, and in that time Lady Mulgrave saw and realised, the amazing likeness to a certain picture in the red saloon; also that this graceful, well-dressed personage was the bog-trotter girl, as she mentally called her. Her husband, who was now in the room, said—
“Lottie, here is——”
“Oh ... I know.... I see,” she answered quickly, and, putting down her cigarette, she rustled forward, took her stepdaughter’s hand in hers, and administered an elaborate embrace. “Dearest, you are welcome—so welcome. And here is my girl Tito,” she added, in her sweet voice, waving forward a petite figure in a bright red gown, with bright, dark eyes.
For a moment Joseline hesitated, and then she stooped and kissed Tito, murmuring in a soft, broken whisper, “I do hope you will like me, me dear! and we will be friends.”
Tito was taken completely aback, but from that moment her heart was enlisted by this sweetly pretty creature, with the lofty air and ridiculous brogue.
“Elgitha,” said his lordship, “let me present your niece to you,” and he led her formally to a sofa, on which was seated the stately dowager in velvet, with her beautiful white hair turned off her face over a cushion.
The marchioness rose and warmly embraced the girl, and added, in a subdued aside, “What a likeness!”
There were more introductions, a little talk, chiefly carried on by his lordship, and then he said—
“Tito, will you take your sister away to her room and look after her? We had a hideous crossing.”
“I’m sure you must be dead,” said Tito, leading the way, “and glad of a rest and supper. I’ll introduce you to your room and your maid.”
“Maid? Oh, no. For goodness sake——”
“Why, of course a maid! Mother has two—one for her clothes, and one for her hair! Here we are”—and she ushered Joseline into a lofty bedroom on the first floor. “Is it not nice?”
“’Tis elegant! ’tis grand”—gazing about at the silk hangings, silver looking-glass, and French furniture. “Just beautiful.”
“Do let me help you off with your wraps! Dear me! how different you are to what we expected!”
“Yes?”—sitting down wearily. “What did you expect?”
“Oh, a sort of bare-legged girl, with a turf creel on her back.”
The new-comer laughed hysterically as she removed her hat-pins. “Oh, well, I never was just as bad as that!”
“I think you have made a most successful first appearance. You carried the house by storm, and, figuratively speaking, will have splendid notices in all the morning papers. You don’t understand my jargon? And you are worn out. Ah! here comes your maid. Justine, this is her ladyship. I see you have brought up some soup. You will look after her? She is frightfully tired. What time do you get up in the morning?”—turning to Joseline.
“Half-past six!” was the prompt reply.
“Half-past—horror! I generally emerge about eleven. To-morrow, I’ll come and look you up early, and we will go round the grounds together whilst Justine unpacks. Of course you breakfast in bed!”
“Is it me? Never in my life!”
“Well, I’m really going now. Good night.” Kissing her, she whispered, “sleep well, and dream happy dreams. I expect they will all come true!”