CHAPTER XXVII
Joseline and Tito stood together in a window watching the departure of Lord Mulgrave. Last words and farewells had been exchanged in the hall, and the girls had ample time to return to the library before the brougham travelled out of sight. As its polished blue panels disappeared round a clump of trees Tito suddenly flung her arms round her companion and exclaimed—
“Hurrah!”
“Tito!” she remonstrated, thrusting her back with angry force.
“Well, Joe, you know as well as I do how fond I am of the pater; but—when the earl’s away, the family will play—bridge.”
“So you do now.”
“Only in a mild form—a couple of quiet rubbers after dinner, at farthing points. The pater looks upon daylight bridge as undignified and unseemly. Now he has departed, the drawbridge is down.”
“For mercy’s sake will ye talk sense?” cried Joseline.
“Certainly. Don’t I always talk sense? Mother is going to have her innings now, and she has invited a party of kindred spirits to spend a week, including—though she does not suspect it—her future son-in-law! Oh, yes, Joe, you may gape, but he arrives by the four o’clock train!” And Tito began to waltz around the room, with her hands on her hips.
“But who is he?” inquired Joseline, suddenly turning her back on the window, and surveying her companion with grave interest.
“Just what you might expect! A bad match, but everything else that is charming and desirable.”
“What do you call a bad match?”
“One that will make mother furious. Tony is a third son, in the Foreign Office, with only four hundred a year. His name is Anthony Goodrich, and he is good enough for Tito Dawson.”
“But sure, I thought that Dudley——” began Joseline.
“Would kindly throw the handkerchief to me?” continued Tito briskly. “No, no. Wait, and you will see that honour lies elsewhere, between Lady Agnes Shutter and”—with a significant smile—“another girl. Lady Agnes is stupid, but she has good manners, and a very clever mother.”
“Who else is coming?” resumed Joseline.
“Oh, quite a number. Mother has to crowd them all in now, because the pater loathes them; they smoke and gossip and gamble, and treat the house like a hotel. First of all there is the Honourable Gussie Tripp, a tremendous swell at bridge—they say she clears a thousand a year.”
“What, at cards? Ah, you’re humbugging me!”
“Yes, at cards.”
“Holy Saint Bridget!”
“Then there is Lady Boxhill, a very young elderly widow, rich, and fond of play and admiration. Lady Towton, rather pretty, with the most exquisite frocks—dreams! She won’t tell where she gets them in Vienna. And of course Teddy Boltover. Then Senor Bambinetto—an Italian prince, they say; but if I saw him behind an organ and a monkey I should not be a bit surprised; he is looking for a rich wife, age and appearance quite immaterial. I fancy he likes Lady Boxhill. I hate him; he pokes his nose into one’s face, and paws one! Colonel Wildairs, late of the Greens, a most distinguished officer. Sir Harry Coxford. Two cavalry men from Canterbury, and perhaps the great Dudley himself!”
“I’m glad he is coming,” said Joseline. “Anyhow I’ll have some one to speak to.”
“I’m not so sure of that. If Mrs. Folly Fullerton appears, she will talk to Dudley. They have been a good deal talked about. That’s the lot, with power to add to their number.”
“I expect we shall find them plenty.”
“You will, at any rate! They will make you sit up, you little rich and rare specimen from Ireland. However, take my advice, and amuse yourself. I can’t look after you because——”
“You will be looking after Tony!”
“How smart! There is a ball on the fourteenth at the Hamptons’, and we are going to it in full force; it will be enormous fun. Now remember they will all be here at four sharp. The cart that took the pater’s luggage was to wait, also the brougham. Little he knew! Go and get into a smart tea-g. and prepare to receive—shocks.” And as she uttered the last word, Tito waltzed to the door, and exit singing.
By five o’clock the expected guests were assembled in the little drawing-room, enjoying tea and sandwiches, drinks and cigarettes, discussing the weather, the latest news, and above all, bridge. Miss Tripp was a tall, talkative woman, with a high nose, a fine figure, and an air of easy assurance. Little Lady Boxhill, a good deal made up, looked about twenty in a certain light, and wore a chestnut wig, and a complexion. Mrs. Folly Fullerton, fair, sylph-like, languid, and insolent, dressed in flowery, diaphanous robes, with a gold cigarette-case dangling at her side. The Colonel, late of the Greens, a loud-voiced, well-groomed gentleman, who seemed to know every one, and be anxious that they should make themselves thoroughly at home.
Joseline gazed at him as he stood with his back to the fire, precisely like the master of the house, and said to one of the cavalry men with an off-hand air—
“Oh, it’s all right, Pierrepont—smoking allowed. Try one of these Havanas?”
She had taken Tito’s advice, and invested herself in a new tea-gown, and an armour of reserve. Nevertheless she felt frightened among the crowd of supercilious strangers, who appeared to look upon the house as a comfortable private hotel; indeed, she heard Lady Boxhill say to Mrs. Fullerton—
“What room have you this time, Bab? Not the corner one I hope?”
“No, I’m on the big landing.”
“That’s right.”
“Yes. I told Lottie I simply would not come unless I had a suite.”
“Oh!”—with a gesture of approval—“when one comes to a country house, the least they can do is to make you comfortable. I’ve brought my masseuse, my secretary, and my dogs.”
The company were still discussing racing odds, shares, divorce cases, Yarborough and little slams, and Joseline sat in the background, completely bewildered. All her newly acquired confidence and manners seemed oozing away amid surroundings of inquisitive eyes and languid patronage! Dudley, who on flying visits had been friendly, was now chilly and unsympathetic, and almost ignored her. Tito was engrossed in the company of a thin, clever-looking young man, and she was left to the mercies of strange women, who stared at her in a way that put her out of countenance, and asked such blunt questions.
“And were you really in a cottage in Ireland only three months ago?” inquired Mrs. Fullerton, contemplating her with a look of languid insolence.
“Yes, only three months ago”—and she sighed.
“And is it true that you actually sold fowls?”
“Yes”—colouring—“and eggs as well.”
“Dear me, how amusing!”—with a sarcastic lifting of the brows; and she replaced her cigarette in her mouth, and took a whiff. “I hear you are tremendous fun,” she drawled.
“Who says so?”
“Oh, some one—Dudley I think; but it does not matter. Would you mind reaching me that cushion? Thanks. Now you might fetch me another of those excellent caviare sandwiches.”
* * * * *
The following morning was wet—a hopeless day; and card-tables were set at eleven. People played till lunch, from lunch till tea, from tea till dinner.
After dinner Lady Boxhill said—
“Lottie my dear, my brain feels in a sort of pulp; my ideas are mixed; I’ve played seventeen rubbers to-day. Do let us have some parlour tricks, or music, as a sort of rest cure.”
“Oh, very well, if you like. Yes, Tito”—turning to her daughter—“go and beat up recruits”—and she once more settled herself comfortably among her cushions.
Presently Tito came back, and proclaimed—
“No performance! The Prince has a cold, Lady Boxhill says, and Mrs. Folly simply won’t; she is sitting in the little back room with Dudley.”
Lady Mulgrave muttered something that may, or may not, have been, “Selfish pig!”
“And,” continued Tito, spreading out her hands, “there is no one else.”
“Unless we have the pianola?” suggested Lady Mulgrave.
“No, no!” cried Sir Harry Coxford, “I like to look at the fair performer. The pianola is so mechanical, and it does not sing.”
“I believe the housekeeper has a gramophone,” put in Tito; “it sings ‘I won’t play in your yard.’”
“Housekeeper and gramophone. That reminds me,” murmured Lady Mulgrave, “where is Joseline? Tito, did not your father say she sang, and had a lovely voice?” Then, with a laugh, she added, “She can borrow the footman’s concertina!”
“Mother,” remonstrated Tito, “please don’t ask her. I am sure she would be too shy. She would hate it!”
“Nonsense! Tell her she must! There is nothing to alarm her. Stay—where is she? The library, I suppose. Then I’ll go myself,” said Lady Mulgrave, rising with unusual energy; and as she swept out of the room in search of her victim, she promised herself that the forthcoming performance would prove a novelty, a draw, and a good joke. Already it was evident to some of her ladyship’s guests, that they might laugh at the wild Irish girl with impunity, and in spite of all Joseline’s efforts in the way of humble conciliation, her stepmother treated her, in private, as a species of domesticated savage. Whatever blandishments or arguments her ladyship had used, proved successful, for in less than ten minutes a white and stricken figure, clutching a concertina, stood up and faced a critical, and secretly scornful audience.
Many a time Mary Foley had played and sung to five times their number with the confidence born of appreciation and success. Mary’s singing and playing of old Irish songs was declared “to beat all,” and with her own neighbours she enjoyed a far higher reputation than Madame Melba herself. But here were different listeners, and a different atmosphere. The girl’s heart felt like lead; her hands were so icy cold she could scarcely hold the footman’s concertina. She glanced timidly about her, half hoping that her cousin Dudley would befriend her or beg her off; but Dudley had dined, he was at peace with his digestion—he was not disposed to exert himself, and if Lady Mulgrave did hustle the girl a bit, it would do her good! She struck a few shaky chords and endeavoured to find her voice and courage. What could she give them? “The three-leaved Shamrock”? “The stone outside Dan Murphy’s door”? “The exile of Erin”? Yes. She looked over towards Dudley, hoping for at least his moral support; but there he lounged in the background, with his glass in his eye, sniggering at some remark of Mrs. Fullerton’s. “So much for a cousin!” she thought, with deep resentment. “He would stand by and see her baited, the same as a rabbit among the coursing dogs of a Sunday!” At last she began; her sweet full notes were tremulous, and occasionally inaudible. With painful difficulty she brought out the opening bars:
“There came to the beach, a poor exile of Erin;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.”
The sound of her own voice had given her confidence, and she continued with fuller notes:
“Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and Sire——”
Here an hysterical titter caused her to pause. Miss Tripp held her handkerchief to her mouth, and Lady Towton was convulsed. The girl stood staring for a whole moment; then, with a gesture of unexpected passion, dashed down the unhappy concertina, saying, “Sing for yerselves!” and escaped from the room.
When the commotion, consternation, and amusement, had somewhat subsided, Lady Towton said, in a choked voice—
“I really could not help myself! The cabin door was so appropriate, it was too much for me. I’m really awfully sorry.”
“’Pon my word, I think you ought to be,” interrupted Sir Harry brusquely.
“She has a beautiful voice,” added Colonel Wildairs.
“More than we can say for her accent,” murmured Miss Tripp.
He turned his back on her, and went over to Tito, who was arranging the pianola.
“Won’t you run after her, Miss Dawson, and take her our thanks and apologies, and see what she is doing?”
But Tito found the door locked, and to all her knocking and calling there was no response.
Lady Joseline was Mary Foley once more, and her heart was too sore for even Tito’s sympathy, as she lay on her bed sobbing. She wished herself back at the Corner; she went even further—she wished herself dead.
* * * * *
Dudley took but scant notice of his new cousin; in fact, he avoided her, and maintained a sort of studied aloofness, determined not to be associated with ridicule. He was fastidious, and easily influenced by a woman like Mrs. Folly Fullerton, who did not see anything to admire in Joseline, and made fun of her continually. Dudley, shameful to say, drifted with the stream, too indolent to swim against it. Poor Joseline seemed to find so many adversaries among the company; she became shy and awkward when people addressed her, and appeared to have a genius for saying and doing the wrong thing. She was, moreover, downright unlucky; she knocked down and broke a piece of china, value untold. And Rap had nearly been the death of Lady Mulgrave’s little dog, which he in the heat of the moment had chased, shaken, and mistaken for a rat. Some of her miseries were possibly due to imagination. She was painfully sensitive, and believed the whole of this little world was against her. Certainly she made a few blunders, and two enemies. For instance, one evening, at dessert, there was an animated discussion respecting the conduct of a certain married lady, whose case had been recently in the papers. Her letters had been read to the wide world; her husband had vainly sued for a divorce. Some blamed her, others merely laughed.
“Why, I declare Lady Joseline looks shocked,” said Colonel Wildairs, in a loud, full voice, which would have been a fortune to an orator. “She is not used to the manners and ways of such society, eh?”
“No, thank goodness, I am not,” she answered, with decision.
“Are you Irish so particular?”
“Among the lower orders—yes. I do not know the other lot; they may be as bad as yourselves, but the common people have conduct, and they have to behave themselves. I knew a girl—a married woman—and her husband thought she was speaking too free to a young boy, and he punished her proper.”
“How?” inquired Miss Tripp, leaning forward as she spoke. “Do tell us how he punished her ‘proper’ for improper behaviour.”
“Well, he tied her up by her two hands in the cowhouse, and he bet her with a car-whip till he could stand over her no longer, and she was half-killed. I heard the screeches of her myself, and it served her right.”
“You think so?” said Lady Boxhill sarcastically.
“Certainly, and to be sure I do. What does a married woman want with a sweetheart? Will ye tell me?” Here she inadvertently fixed her eyes upon Lady Towton, and the question seemed to be shot at her from the girl’s impetuous lips.
The stupid creature did not know how her arrow hit the goal—the only one at table who was ignorant of its effect. Lady Towton became white, then crimson, and Joseline’s bitter enemy to the end of her life.
Dudley Deverell had witnessed the scene with a mixture of dismay and amusement. What a dangerous young woman. She seemed to have a knack of dropping bomb-shells into people’s laps! The very same evening she surpassed her previous effects. She was looking on at a game of roulette—indeed, she was actually playing, and occasionally placing a timid shilling here and there (as no knowledge or practice is required). Suddenly Lady Boxhill announced—
“Well, now I’m going to plunge and put a sovereign on my age!” And she surveyed the circle with her crafty, made-up old eyes.
“But you can’t do that! How can you?” remonstrated Joseline, in her soft, sonorous tone. “Your age is not on the board within twenty years. Why, the highest is thirty-eight.”
Joseline’s protest and faux pas were immediately drowned in a loud buzz, and she felt herself severely pinched by Tito. The miserable girl had made another enemy, and Lady Boxhill in future spoke of her as “that fearful Yahoo,” and snubbed her ruthlessly whenever it lay in her power.
“The fearful Yahoo” was painfully sensitive. She knew that she was unpopular, and was quick-witted in her own unpolished fashion. She caught stealthy looks and smiles exchanged on her account. Lady Mulgrave frankly ignored her (unless she found occasion to exhibit her as a curiosity). Dudley held aloof, in chilling disapproval; he was a coward, and ashamed to be identified with the public laughing-stock, whose ignorance of the social code was displayed at every turn. Sir Harry Coxford, however, paid her many stupid compliments; Colonel Wildairs assumed bluff, fatherly airs. Yes, these two were her friends; but Teddy Boltover was stolidly rude, and the Prince pursued her with detestable attentions; he brought his face so close to hers when he addressed her, and surveyed her with such a detestable expression that she hated him.
Naturally, Joseline was gregarious and fond of life and company; had she not for many years been “Mary of the Corner,” accustomed to continual homage, and acclamation? Better be a success in a cottage, than a failure in a castle! Gradually she withdrew into her own company; she went for long walks with Rap, or sat up in her little boudoir, keeping the fire warm as she crouched over it, meditating on her many blunders and the hostility, or indifference of her associates. She did not play bridge, she disliked motoring, she had no friends or tastes in common with the party, nor any claim to be remembered or considered; her heart was filled with bitterness and revolt. Oh, if her father were at home!—never, never again would she remain behind alone as an experiment, and for the sole benefit of her education.
But her enemies within the gate had a strong case against Joseline, and Lady Boxhill voiced the sentiments of her friends when she said—
“Did you ever notice the way that girl sits huddled over the fire on a low stool, as if she were still in her kitchen? What a frightful trial to poor Lottie! She plants her elbows on the table, her hands on her hips, she pushes before people, and in her clumsy haste to be obliging she gets flustered, drops things, falls over footstools, and treads on every one’s toes.”
“Yes,” put in Lady Towton, “and asks such odd questions; and I declare her scarlet blushes, are positively indecent.”
Alas! Poor Joseline was, in some respects, an Ishmaelite; her hand against her associates, and their hands against her.
One afternoon, as Joseline sat by her fire knitting a sock, with Rap, the criminal, luxuriously extended beside her, the door opened quickly, and Tito entered. She looked rather pale and agitated. Without preamble she came up to the hearthrug, spread out her hands before the blaze, and said—
“I’ve had an awful time!”
“How? Where? What is the matter?”
“I’ve been playing bridge since two o’clock, and my brain is buzzing. My partner was Colonel Wildairs, against Sir Harry and Gussie Tripp. She is a beast; she riles me! So hatefully sharp and on the make. The way she slaps down a good card, with a sort of jerk, is just maddening, even when I knew she had it all the time. She made me lose my temper, and what’s worse—my money. Joe, you will have to lend me thirty pounds?”
“Arrah! Is it for card-playing? Go on with ye!”
“It’s true. I’ve lost forty pounds.”
“The saints preserve us!”—lifting her hands and eyes in protest.
“Yes, it’s a fact. I went no trumps, and she redoubled: my partner had nothing, and I was weak in diamonds. She got in with her ace, and made the little slam. Colonel Wildairs was furious; he pays Sir Harry, and I pay her; she was so nasty about it, too. She said—‘Forty pounds, dear Tito! You should never double until you are more experienced. It is a shocking sum, but I won’t press you. Pay me next week.’ And of course, I’ll settle up this very night.”
“I don’t understand the quarter of what you are saying; only that you are short of money.”
“Yes. I’ve only ten pounds. I should hate Tony to think I was a defaulter, and she is so mean, and would talk at the Women’s Clubs, and say awful things of me.”
“Oh, would she?”
“Yes. She has her knife into most people.”
“I’ve not much money left,” said Joseline, “but whatever I have you are welcome to”; and she rose and went to a writing-table.
“But my dear, what have you done with it? The other day you said you had a hundred pounds.”
“Well, ye see, being near Christmas I sent some over to Father Daly to lay out; they’d take it kinder from him, than me.”
“Take what?”
“Well, my old friends. Mikey Mahon would be the better of an ass and car, I know, and Mrs. Curran is lost for a good pig, and Larry Duff’s cow went and died on him, so I’ve told them to buy a nice little young Kerry; and there was coals badly wanted, and I sent Peggy Curran a dress piece, and Mrs. Hogan a weather-glass and a visitors’ book, for the last one was spoiled on her, and full of impudence and poetry.”
“What have you left?” interrupted Tito impatiently.
“Here it is—twenty-five pounds”—and she held it out. “I am sorry I’m short. What will you do for the rest?”
“I’ll borrow from Robins the butler.”
“Goodness, girl alive! Isn’t that queer doings?”
“Oh, Robins knows me; he is a family friend, and rolling in tips. Well, Joe, you are decent. I’ll pay you next quarter.”
“No, no, let me give you the money; I really don’t want it. I wish you would promise me not to—I won’t say play bridge—I’m not a born fool; but not to play for so much.”
“I’ll promise farthing points with pleasure; I will indeed,” said Tito emphatically. “I’m sick of the whole thing. I love the game, but I loathe losing my money, and I’m not a very good player, for I’m too hasty and emotional, like you! By the way, why do you sit up here all by your little lone?”
“Where else would you have me sit? They are not missing me downstairs, are they?” she asked, with a sarcastic laugh. “And when I’m here, I’m not making a show of myself.”
“They are a horrid pack, most of them! Old Lady Boxhill—I suppose she’ll take the Prince—Lady Towton, Mrs. Folly, and Gussie Tripp—hateful! But you should not let them draw you out about wakes, and dances, and your schooling, and so on.”
“Sure, I see that, and I’m getting wiser now. I thought they wanted information, they all seemed so eager with questions. Now, I know ’twas only laughing they were.”
“Tony disapproves of them; says they are—well, no matter; and he was horrified at my losing this money”; and she held up the notes. “He never plays high now; he simply refuses anything more than half a crown a hundred. You can lose quite enough at that.”
“Can ye now?”
“Once, he told me, he played with a very smart woman, who said, ‘What shall we have on?’ And she named quite a big stake—something like half-crown points. He was ashamed to refuse. However, he won, and won, and had great luck. He won about a hundred, and they stopped. She said, ‘I’ll settle at once.’ ‘Oh, no, no hurry,’ he said, thinking it was such a big sum, he would give her time. ‘I always pay money down,’ she said, and handed him ten shillings. ‘What is this for?’ he asked. ‘What I’ve lost to you,’ she answered, as bold as brass, naming some decimal points. He was struck dumb. Of course, being a woman, he could not argue with her. Afterwards, he heard, that it was a habit of hers to play this trick, and that if he had lost, she would have come down on him for her hundred pounds.”
“Then she is a cheat!” cried Joseline.
“Oh, yes,” rejoined Tito triumphantly, “of course she is! and I only hope she will be run in some day. Now I must fly and dress.”