CHAPTER XXIV
Lady Mulgrave and her guests were already seated, when two late arrivals joined them with hurried apologies.
“Good morning,” she said, tendering a dainty hand to Joseline, and offering her ear to be kissed.
But this ignorant Irish peasant failed to accept the hint, having no conception that she was being honoured with permission to salute her stepmother’s delicately powdered skin; and she stood for a moment, undecided and embarrassed.
“Well, there, my dear, go and sit down,” said her ladyship, indicating a place next to herself. “I hope you are rested?”
“Thank you, I’m finely to-day.”
“I suppose you have been round the house?”
“Yes. It’s wonderful; it’s grand. I never saw the likes of it.”
Lady Mulgrave smiled faintly, and said, with half malicious emphasis, “No, dear, I should imagine not!”
Her look was significant, though her smile was enchanting. Joseline instantly withdrew into herself and proceeded to eat her lunch in nervous silence. Whatever she said or did was bound to be wrong. She read—she was quick in such matters—criticism and ridicule in the other woman’s eyes.
Those same eyes watched her from time to time with a curious, scrutinising gaze. Seen in the broad light of day, the girl’s extraordinary resemblance to her mother came home to Lady Mulgrave like a shock. She had never ceased to be jealous of that exquisite portrait! And here was the picture alive, a brilliant and emphatic reality, seated beside her at table, and, oh! small sweet consolation! eating French beans with a knife!
Although Mrs. Dawson had secured a splendid position for herself and daughter, her affection for Lord Mulgrave was lukewarm; she had, however, acted her part to perfection. By-and-by it had dawned on her husband that there was no sincerity behind all those honey-sweet words. Gradually he had withdrawn into himself, and they had drifted apart, having nothing whatever in common.
Then there had been disagreements respecting expenditure, arrangements, guests of which he disapproved; but in these little encounters, the lady had invariably the best of it; she never lost her self-command, or her temper; but she wept in a subdued and becoming fashion, and Lord Mulgrave was a coward in the presence of a woman in tears, therefore he relinquished his sceptre for the sake of peace. And yet, though he was indifferent to her, she was jealous—jealous of the beautiful French wife, whose memory he had enshrined, jealous of the poor little treasures which he hoarded, of the miniature that he carried with him whenever he left home, were it but for a day!
Now, like a thunderbolt from the skies, this Frenchwoman’s daughter—her living, breathing image—had crossed the threshold of her life. Already she was sensible of a hot dislike of the girl (though, of course, no one should ever suspect it). She would play her cards cautiously, pose as the sweetest of stepmothers, and, as soon as possible, marry her off. With that face and figure there would be little difficulty, unless the creature was an absolute idiot!
She could see that Joseline was pitiably nervous, and no doubt would have been a thousand times happier in the servants’ hall. It was true she ate but little; and by degrees ventured to look about her. The presence of her father at the foot of the table—of Tito, chattering directly opposite—emboldened her, and she glanced at the company one by one. There was her aunt, handsome, gracious, and stately, with her white hair beautifully waved, her plump hands sparkling with rings; she looked kind. There were her cousins—fresh Scotch girls—wearing tam-o’-shanters and tweeds; three clean-shaven young men, rather like a set; and a pretty dark girl from the Rectory. They were all eagerly talking golf—discussing putting, ties, bunkers. To Joseline it was the purest gibberish, but to the company it seemed a topic of the most vital interest. Even Lady Maxwelton was eloquent, and bragged of “our greens.”
Her immediate neighbours had only addressed one or two remarks to the new importation. They were charitable, Christian people, and realised that it was kinder to leave her unnoticed—and to permit the poor girl “to find herself.”
After lunch, the six ladies adjourned to coffee in the little drawing-room, and here the marchioness and her daughters gathered round and made friends with their new cousin.
Such a pretty, blushing, timid creature, with her soft southern brogue! And what a likeness to her mother!
By-and-by Joseline rose, in hopes of making her escape; but Lady Mulgrave, with an imperative gesture, motioned her to her side, and, looking up with half-closed eyes, exclaimed, “Now you must talk to me a little, dear girl.”
Joseline sat down in embarrassed silence.
“Dearest child, I really do think you so wonderful.” A pause, and she blew a cloud. “Six weeks ago you were in a cabin. It is extraordinary, is it not?”
“It is,” was the humble admission; “but it was not altogether what you might call a cabin.”
“No? And what, then—a hut?”
“Just a decent slated house with two good bedrooms, forby, a loft, and a fine kitchen and scullery.”
“Where did you sleep?”
“In the loft.”
“But, dearest, you said there were two bedrooms.”
“Yes, but we kept potatoes in one, and I liked being up high. And now, with your leave, I’d like to go away and write a few letters.”
“So then”—with a playful air—“you can write?”
“Oh yes, and read, and cipher. I had good schooling.”
“And what are your accomplishments, Joseline?”
“Not much to brag about.”
“Still, I’m confident you are clever at some things.”
“I can sing, and play the concertina.”
“Oh, the concertina!” repeated Lady Mulgrave, with a faint shudder.
“And I can knit and dance; and I’m a good milker—if that counts.”
“So, then, you had a cow? Any pigs?”
“No. We had three, and sometimes four, cows. We kept the Rectory in milk, and the police barracks as well.”
“Did you do all this yourself—no assistants?”
“Me mother—that’s”—becoming scarlet—“Mrs. Foley,—wasn’t up to much, and I used to have a girl in on weekdays to lend a hand, and a boy of a Sunday—but I got shut of him.”
“And where did you shut him? And why?”
“Oh, because he was always in a hurry to be off, tearing at the cows at two o’clock, instead of six, because, being Sunday, he wanted to do the bona fide on his bicycle.”
“Dearest, what do you mean?”
“The bona fide traveller, you know, is allowed refreshments. He would take a spin of six or seven miles—get a drink at a public-house. May I go now, please?”
“Yes, of course, dear.” And as the girl crossed the room and disappeared, Lady Mulgrave turned to the marchioness and said, with a shrug, “Is she not too quaint for words! playing the concertina, and the boy doing—what was it?—the bona fide on a bicycle!”
“I think she is a sweet, simple, good girl,” declared her aunt—“just one of nature’s ladies.”
“Oh, she is simple enough,” acquiesced the other; but in her voice there was a belittling and malicious note.
Joseline spent an hour in writing letters to Miss Usher, Peggy Carroll, and Mrs. Hogan—letters written on beautiful thick paper, and ornamented with a neat gold crown. After these had been despatched, she accompanied her father on a tour of inspection round the grounds, the gardens, and the stable-yard. It was a bright, frosty afternoon, and she felt invigorated and even gay. The two made steady progress in intimacy; her awe of him had entirely abated, and she talked freely, expressing her delight in the greenhouses and horses and dogs with truly Irish enthusiasm. As they walked away from the golf links he said, “You must learn to play golf and billiards. I will teach you—yes, and to ride too.”
“I’ve everything to learn—and that’s the truth.”
“I am glad you and Tito seem to hit it off.”
“Yes, indeed; she’s queer notions, but she is real kind-hearted. I’ve asked her to correct me when I’m doing the wrong thing.”
“She’s so feather-headed, you must not rely on her; better come to me.”
“So I will, with a heart and a half.”
“You will soon become accustomed to us and our ways. Be yourself—be gay, my dear; another young voice in the house is a great pleasure to me.”
“But not a South Cork brogue! Ye can’t call that nice?”
“Yes, I can; it reminds me of old days. Your mother had most wonderful spirits; she was the happiest——” he stopped. “Well, here I see her ladyship coming in her motor; you had better go and get ready for tea; she likes young people to be punctual—remember that, dear.”
“Yes; and we were so late for lunch! But I had to tidy my hair; it was like a furze bush. I won’t have any tea. I must unpack, and tidy up my things; but I’ll come down early.”
“If you do, then we can have a talk. Dinner is at eight. I believe Dudley is expected.”
Joseline, having arranged her belongings in her own way, dressed early, and descended to the yellow drawing-room, in order to have a good half-hour with the magazines, and the promised talk with her father, before the crowd came.
Absorbed in a story, she did not hear the door open.
Captain Deverell entered; he had just arrived by train. At first he supposed the room was empty, but, seeing a white skirt billowing round the sides of an arm-chair near the fire, he called out, “Hullo, Tito! Is that you? Has the wild Irish girl arrived?”
The figure sat up, rose slowly to her feet, and confronted him. No, it was not Tito, but a far better-looking young lady, wearing a white gown and a turquoise necklace, who replied, “Yes, she has come—in fact, here she is!” dropping a curtsey. “But she’s not very, very wild at present.”
He surveyed her gravely. “I beg your pardon. So you must be Lady Joseline?”
She nodded.
“And I have the honour to present your cousin, once removed, Dudley Deverell”; and he made a profound, half-ironical inclination.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about you from Tito”; and she sat down and took up her book with an air of calm detachment.
“I’ve seen you before somewhere, I think,” he announced, after a puzzled silence.
“Have you really?” And again her eyes wandered to the page.
“It is not considered polite to read—er—when you have some one to talk to.”
She closed her book, and said, “Excuse me, please, I have not learnt manners yet. I will not read, but I am awfully interested in the story.”
“And not in the least in me, eh? How crushing!”
She coloured up to her hair.
“I have it!” he shouted triumphantly.
“What have you caught?” she demanded, with brisk curiosity.
“You, bless my soul!” Here he sat down. “Why, you are the girl at the gate. Yes, I recognise your eyes, though you are dressed up. You cannot have forgotten us—the motor people! And my friend Harry Coxford had a row with your young man. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, indeed, I remember it well enough! And you were the dummy! Patsie had drink taken, and I got a queer fright, I declare, when the two were in handy grips.”
“What were you doing there, that day?”
“I went up just to fetch back the cat, and to say good-bye to the old place. ’Twas there I was reared.”
“Were you? Well, I must say you do it credit. So that was your home, until old Usher ferreted you out?”
She nodded.
“And how do you like your new quarters?”
“Well enough so far, thank you.”
“By Jove!”—looking her over—“she is a cool card—might have been here for years”; and he took in the well-cut gown, the dainty little shoe, the turquoise necklace, which so well became her dazzling white throat. Yes, the girl had evidently begun well, and made what is known on the turf, as a “flying start.”
It was a singular circumstance that whereas her tone and speech were distinctly common, she had nevertheless an indescribable air of good breeding—the strange, inimitable stamp of social superiority that cannot be acquired by any known process of education.
“And what became of the uproarious young man?” he inquired.
“Oh, he’s all right, for all I know,” she answered, with supreme indifference.
“Or care,” drawled Captain Deverell.
“Yes,” she answered coldly, “or care.”
“There’s a pretty confession.”
“Sure! the likes of him was nothing whatever to me,” she announced, with an air of serene repudiation.
“No, but you seemed to be a good deal whatever, to him.”
“How could I help that? Aren’t they all the same?”
“Oh, are they? Does your father know of this Pat, or Mike?”
“No; why should he be bothered with the likes of such nonsense?”
“Nonsense! Well, you are amazing. The man was madly in love with you, and you call it ‘nonsense’!”
“People in love are mostly foolish.”
“How do you know?”
“Why, from seeing plenty of them,” was the unabashed reply.
“In your own case?”
“Yes, they tormented the life out of me, and I was tired of insulting them. But I’ll tell you one thing—Patsie only fancied he liked me; it was just because I was going off, and his contrariness. If I’d been stopping on, I don’t believe he’d have bothered me, for he is looking for a fortune.”
“Yes”—drawing his chair a little closer. “This is most interesting. Please go on.”
But Joseline was gazing at the door, which opened cautiously, and admitted Lady Mulgrave in an evening toilette of sea green and diamonds. She rustled forward with empressement.
“There now, and I’ll tell ye the rest when we are by ourselves.”
Her ladyship distinctly overheard this promise. What a bold creature!—a girl who had met Dudley for the first time. So this was her simple, innocent little Irish peasant! Already spreading her nets for her father’s heir. How truly abominable!
“My dear boy, I’d no idea you had arrived,” she said, coming over with extended hands. “I see that I needn’t introduce you to Joseline”—and she looked contemptuously amused. “Have you been here long?”
“Only about five minutes.”
She glanced interrogatively at the girl, who turned towards the mantelpiece, and said, “Fifteen, by the clock.”
“Well, it seemed like five,” he said; “my new cousin had so many curious things to tell me. Now I must be off and dress”; and he departed, leaving Joseline and her stepmother tête-à-tête.
“But, dearest child, I was given to understand that you were painfully shy,” she was beginning, when, to the girl’s immense relief, the door opened again, and several of the guests came into the room, followed by her father.
“And how has my little girl been getting on?” he asked, as he joined her.
“Oh, very well so far, and I’ve just made acquaintance with Dudley Deverell.”
“And what do you think of him?”
“I cannot answer that just yet; but I can tell you what he thinks—of me.”
“Really!”
“That I am a new sort of foreign curiosity. I may be gold, or I may be brass! I’m sure he suspects there’s a bit of brass about me!”