CHAPTER XXVIII
In spite of all her excuses, protestations, and pleadings, Joseline found herself en route to the Hamptons’ ball, packed into the omnibus along with seven others, and being carried to the scene of action as fast as a pair of fine steppers could take her. Figuratively speaking, the vehicle was almost bursting with high spirits; the clatter of chaffing tongues was incessant, and, as some so-called “wit” had extinguished the lamp, semi-darkness promoted hilarity.
Joseline sat at the far end next to the Prince, who made a gallant attempt to hold and squeeze her hand, under the impression that she was Lady Boxhill—which endearments she forcibly returned by a sharp and vicious pinch. Now and then she was drawn into the conversation, and forced to reply to questions.
“Will you give me a dance, Lady Joe?” said Colonel Wildairs, who was her vis-à-vis.
“Thank ye, but I can’t dance—only jigs and reels.”
“Well, I cannot imagine any one going to a ball that can only dance jigs,” said Gussie Tripp, “especially when she is not old enough to care for supper.”
“Signs on it, I agree with you with all my heart,” declared the brogue in the corner. “I wanted to stay at home. I don’t know why Lady Mulgrave was set on bringing me, seeing I can’t dance a step, and I never eat supper.”
“There is such a thing as looking on,” suggested Sir Henry Coxford.
“And—sitting out,” supplemented Tito.
“That’s true,” said Sir Henry. “Lady Joe, you and I will sit out a couple of dances, eh? Here we are, and a bit late too,” he added, as they drove under an illuminated porch, descended, and joined the rest of their company—a party of no less than twelve.
“Quite an invading force, are we not, dear Mrs. Hampton?” said Lady Mulgrave, as she shook hands with her hostess. “I think you know most of them, except my stepdaughter, Lady Joseline, and Prince Bambinetto”—presenting them as she spoke. “I am afraid we are a little late.”
“The third waltz; but you do not dance, I know. There is bridge—in the end room, and you will, I hope, get a rubber.”
The party moved on and presently dissolved among the gay company. Joseline, who was not sorry for Sir Henry’s escort, made her way with him into a wide corridor hung with tapestry lined with splendid furniture, and priceless inlaid cabinets.
“This is as good a perch as any; I know the house well,” he said. “You can see and be seen; they all pass by in review order”; and he nodded or bowed to several acquaintances. Finally, he got up to speak to a lady in reply to an imperative summons, and Joseline for the moment was alone. How strange! She did not see one familiar face. How different to her former dances: when she took the floor—a mud floor—with Tom Kelly or Patsy Malone, an enthusiastic audience of friends and admirers lined the room, and greeted their performance with uproarious applause—applause so vigorous and infectious, that the very soot came tumbling down the chimney!
As she sat a little aloof and distrait, looking vacantly before her, her mind filled with other images, she recalled her sole previous experience of a society gathering—the great concert at Kilmoran, and Mr. Ulick singing the bull-fighter’s song. These reflections were interrupted by her hostess, who had been attracted by her lovely face, and now approached her, followed by a tall, soldierly-looking man.
“I hope you are dancing?” she said. “I have brought you a partner—Major Doran.”
Behold the hour and the man!
Had Joseline’s thoughts summoned him?
Since we last came across Ulick Doran he had served in India and South Africa, had won laurels, and seen the world. With many matters to occupy his attention and fill his time, he had never forgotten Mary Foley—she held her own against the various pretty visitors who had knocked and rung at the door of his heart. From the animated Indian spin; the South African grass widow; the charming American girls;—his thought invariably turned to a slender red-haired maiden, with a soft, insinuating brogue, and a pair of bewitching brown eyes.
The astonishing history of her exaltation had recently come to his knowledge. It sounded like a fairy tale! Well, she was now nearly as much out of his reach as before—and for an exactly contrary reason.
When Mrs. Hampton (an active and admirable hostess) had said, “I want to introduce you to a beauty,” Major Doran, who had no idea of what was in store for him, obediently accompanied her into a gallery, where sat a young lady in a high-backed chair, with her eyes bent on the ground.
As Mrs. Hampton addressed her, she lifted them and looked from the image in her thoughts on the real man, Ulick Doran—browner, graver, older, otherwise unchanged. In a moment her face became transfigured, and wore a smile of radiant surprise and joy. The recognition was not mutual, until Mrs. Hampton added—
“Major Doran—Lady Joseline Dene.”
He stared at her blankly, incredulously, as she sat in the ancient chair, with its great carved crown showing above the masses of sunny hair, her delicate hands resting on its massive arms, her graceful slimness thrown out into relief by its broad leather back.
She looked dazzling in her mother’s pearls and a silver spangled gown. Almost like some stately young sovereign, enthroned among her subjects.
And yet it was the same little face that had haunted him all these years—the same that had been pressed against the window-pane one April night, in passionate farewell.
“May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he asked, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Thank you, I don’t dance,” she answered inarticulately, as she pressed on the knobs of the arm-chair with trembling hands.
“Then may we sit it out?”
She bowed, without raising her eyes.
“What a queer, nervous sort of girl!” thought Mrs. Hampton, as she moved away.
To Major Doran it seemed almost incredible. But these delicate patrician features, and the rich, soft brogue, both belonged to Mary Foley. She was curiously reserved, and cold. Had her sudden uprise turned her head? Did Lady Joseline Mulgrave hate to recall the old days, when she was the inferior, and dropped curtseys to him?
“Lady Joseline,” he said, on a sudden impulse, “may I ask you a question?”
“You may if you like,” she answered, almost under her breath.
“Do we meet now for the first time? or—have we known one another all our lives. It is for you to say?”
“Me to say,” she repeated, raising her eyes to where he stood, humbly awaiting her decision. “Why, to say the truth, and what else?—wasn’t I your mother’s egg-huxter?”
“Well, perhaps we need not recall that—only—other things?”—and he studied her pale, uplifted face, and her brilliant eyes, with a keen and intimate interest. “Do you know that I’ve always had a presentiment, that we should come across one another some day. Of course I have heard your story.”
“Yes,” she answered, with regal equanimity, “I believe it was on the papers.”
“I was not as much surprised as other people. You were always different to your surroundings.”
“I suppose I was,” she acquiesced. “I never had much heart for work.”
“But you had for play. You seem to have left your spirits in Ireland?”
As he spoke he took a seat and continued.
“It is six years since we met. A good deal of water has run under the bridge——”
“Oh, for the Lord’s sake,” she interrupted, with unexpected passion, “will ye not be talking of bridge! I’m fair sick of it!”
“I am not alluding to cards, but to events. Many things have happened since we said good-bye to one another.”
Did she recall the episode? Yes, for her face flamed.
“You remember?”
She moved slightly in her regal chair, and made no reply.
“Do you?” he urged, with low persistence.
“Oh, I’ve a pretty good memory,” she answered at last, her face aglow, as she raised her eyes to his with a glance of proud defiance. “There’s been changes—the death of Mrs. Foley; the break-up at the Corner; some going to America, and some getting married.”
“I was told that you were going to be married,” he said.
“I?”—and she laughed derisively. “I might be married years ago, if I’d liked.”
“I don’t mean over in Ireland,” he protested; and his glance wandered to where Dudley was permitting a pretty woman to entertain him.
“Oh, that!” A pause; and she added, with a touch of her natural impulsiveness, “I wouldn’t marry him if he was hung in diamonds, nor he me; he is afraid of his life of me.”
“Why, what have you been doing to frighten him?”
“Always saying and doing the wrong thing. You see, I’m so ignorant, and when people make signs at me, ’tis worse I get.”
“What do you call the wrong thing? Can you give me a specimen?”
“Well, talking to Lady Boxhill of wigs, and age, and to Mrs. Fullerton of divorce, and to Sir Harry Coxford of debt and people owing money. I mean no harm, God knows! but I frighten people, and I make them hate me”; and her lip trembled, and her eyes were brimming.
“I am sure no one could do that,” he protested.
“Oh, but they can! I’m such a clumsy fool. And faix, your own mother wasn’t too fond of me! All the same, I hope she is getting her health?”
“Yes; but I’m sorry to say Barker is giving her a lot of trouble.”
“Well, she has him as she reared him! I suppose about the big lump of a girl that’s barmaid over in Killarney?”
“He has married her.”
“I am glad he had that much decency.”
“And he insists on bringing her home. It’s a terrible trial to my mother.”
“Well, if I’m not mistaken there will be two of them in that trial. And what have you been doing with yourself?”
“Soldiering in India, and other places—and twice to America, to see my aunt Nora. I am going over again immediately. She is a widow now.”
“That was she that came in one soft evening in the old blue cloak. I took her down to ‘The Arms.’ Mrs. Hogan told me about her. She must have got a queer sort of shock when your mother chased her out of the Castle.”
“I think she has forgiven and forgotten. Now would you like to take a turn, and see the other rooms and the dancing?”
“Yes, I would”—rising with graceful alacrity.
“I suppose this is your first ball?” he continued, as they stepped into the stream of moving figures, a remarkably distinguished-looking pair. Joseline held herself well, and looked every inch the daughter of a hundred earls. Not a few people remarked her, and asked, “Who was the beauty?” In fact, she made a sort of triumphal progress, as she moved about the rooms, the loveliest of visions. The fame of her remarkable story, and the presence of her beauty, filled the air. No one who saw Lady Joseline, would believe that she was stupid, common, uneducated, and muddleheaded.
Ulick Doran, her escort, was conscious of the sensation caused by his companion. Admirers crowded about Mrs. Hampton, clamouring for an introduction to the charming heroine of a romantic tale; but among them her cavalier still held his ground, and would not yield his place.
“I say, what a find for Mulgrave!” muttered one county magnate to a neighbour.
“Yes. I’m not sure that Lady M. is delighted with his discovery. Where is she?”
“Need you ask? In the bridge-room, of course.”
“I wonder what she would say to the stir the girl is making? By gad!”—watching her as she passed by. “And who is the fellow with her?”
“Lady Barre’s nephew; his name is Doran.”
“Irish! Well, no Irish need apply—her ladyship is booked for Dudley Deverell. By the way, I see him here playing the fool with the Fullerton woman.”
Dudley Deverell observed from afar, and marvelled. So Joseline had got hold of Doran. Such a smart, good-looking chap—and Joseline was undeniably admired. Oh, yes, she was all very well—until she began to talk!
“It is a pity you can’t waltz,” remarked Ulick, as they looked on; “but you will learn in no time.”
“I’m no good. I can do nothing like other people. I can’t ride, or dance, or play bridge, or tell pleasant lies to people’s faces without turning a hair, or even pretend I like those I can’t bear.”
“Oh, all those things will come easy to you, bar the hypocrisy. It was strange our meeting here to-night,” he said.
“Our meeting—and parting,” she added quickly.
“Why parting?”
“Because you are going to America, and I am going to France. Yes”—in answer to his look—“as soon as my father returns, next week, I believe. You know, I’m half French and half English.”
“Yes, and half-hearted.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you don’t seem happy.”
“That’s true. Ye see how it is; I’m neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. Too fine for the folks in Ireland, and not up to the mark over here. I was twenty-one years too long in a cottage. I will never be a lady.”
“Would you like to return to the Corner, and be Mary Foley?”
“Oh no, I could never go back to that,” she answered with emphasis. “There is my father, who is more than good to me; and Tito too. But I’m not denying, that I don’t care very much for the crowd in the house.”
“I daresay not. I know the set; you are a bit out of it?”
“I am so—and so best! In Ireland the people laughed with me. Here they laugh at me. Oh, it’s a sore change!” she concluded, in a miserable voice.
“Surely you need not trouble your head, or think about them.”
“But I’ve not much else to think of just now, being hand-idle. Tell me,” she added eagerly, “what did you think now, when you saw me?”
“My first impression when I caught sight of you was, ‘Splendid isolation.’ Then I had a curious sense, of something foreseen.”
“I can’t understand them grand words.”
“Are you aware, Major Doran, that you have cut my dance?” said a sharp voice, and there was Miss Tripp and her partner standing beside them.
“Number eleven, I think,” he faltered, hurriedly pulling out his programme.
“No, number ten. I see that you agree with Lady Joseline, who simply came to the ball to sit out”; and she accorded the girl a deadly glance.
“I’m sorry, Miss Tripp,” he said. “Pray accept my most abject apologies.”
“Oh, well, if you really are repentant, you may have the next instead,” said the lady, releasing her cavalier with a nod. “It’s going to begin, so come along—I hate to miss even a bar.”
“But—Lady Joseline”; and he looked at Joseline, resolved that he would not desert her.
“Oh, she will be all right! Here comes Colonel Wildairs, only too pleased to take her off your hands”; and before Major Doran could remonstrate, the tall, masterful lady had carried him away.
“I am delighted to step into his shoes, Lady Joe,” declared the gallant officer, who was keenly alive to the fact that he was escorting the beauty of the evening—a beauty, too, who had no honour in her own home.
“I see you know Doran,” he added, as they made their way into the ball-room.
“Yes.”
“He is a good sort. I knew him in Natal; he did very well in the mounted infantry—a nailing rider.”
“Oh, he rides well,” she assented, as she watched him dancing with his captor.
“And is able to keep fine horses; he is rich.”
“Oh, no, indeed.”
“Sorry to contradict, but he is a wealthy man; an uncle in America left him tons of dollars. I’m surprised he stays in the service; but money is useful everywhere. It was rather amusing the way Miss Gussie carried him off; perhaps she will manage it for good and all!”
Joseline was enjoying the scene; the fact was written in her speaking eyes, and brilliant colour, also she was aware that many glances followed her; she knew that she was discussed and admired. The knowledge that she was a success restored her shattered self-confidence; her spirits rose to their former pitch, and her heart throbbed with alternations of hope and fear. Mr. Ulick!—Ulick! Oh, she could hardly believe that she had seen him and spoken to him! Old recollections came surging through mind and memory, and beating in her brain; everything connected with that poignant, uncertain, happy, and agonised time was coming back. Joseline realised that she was unchanged. Was he?
As she stood beside a pillar, surrounded by a little court, which now included Colonel Wildairs and Sir Harry, distributing smiles and “Ah, sures,” and “I don’t rightly knows” among her circle, all the time she was in a state of seething impatience; a voice was muttering, “Will he come back? Shall I see him again to-night? Yes”—he had effected his escape, and joined the group. Her face kindled and looked radiant as their eyes met, and he said—
“Lady Joseline, I have come to carry you off to supper.”
Was it but an excuse to release her? No; they proceeded towards the supper-room in real earnest, (followed by the attentive observation of the crowd,) where he secured a little table and the services of a brisk waiter.
“I’m not a bit hungry,” she protested, refusing several proffered delicacies.
“But I am,” he said, “and I hope you will keep me in countenance. Let me help you to some of this salmi. My cousin, Freddy Barre, and I motored over here, thirty miles, after dinner.”
“That was a long way.”
“So I thought, and I wanted to cry off; but then I’d no idea I was coming to meet you. Have some champagne?” he added.
“No, no, please; I do not care for it.”
“Just a little”—pouring it out as he spoke—“to drink to ourselves and old times”; and he lifted his glass and touched hers. “But,” he added, seeing that she had suddenly become extremely pale, “perhaps we should forget! Now that you know your place in the world, and I may be presuming on mine.”
Joseline’s face expressed bewilderment; and then, as her eyes were drawn to his, the colour flowed back into her checks, for she had divined, by some infallible instinct, that Mr. Ulick had not changed. It was the same Mr. Ulick who had sent her the poetry, and kissed her through the pane.
“Miss Tripp introduced me to Lady Mulgrave,” he continued; “she knows my aunt, Lady Barre, and she has asked Freddy and me over to-morrow for a bridge drive, to dine and sleep.”
“Are you coming?”
“Yes, we will motor over—forty miles.”
“Just to play cards?”
“That may be Freddy’s inducement; mine, you know, is to see you.”
“And Rap?” she added. “I wonder if he will know you?”
“Rap”—colouring—“the red terrier? Why, you don’t mean to say you have him still?”
“Sure, six years isn’t long for a dog to live!”
“And you brought him over?”
“How could I leave him after me, when I knew he’d never be happy with any one else?”
Major Doran nodded. “And how does he like the change?”
“Oh, finely; he is very proud in himself, and great company for me just now—him and books.”
“You got the one I sent you?”
“Yes, I did so. Oh, it was beautiful poetry; I have it off by heart.”
“Do you mind the day that’s over,
And bless the day that’s here?”
he quoted, leaning suddenly towards her, and lowering his voice.
She was on the point of answering, when she caught sight of Lady Mulgrave approaching.
“Joseline,” she said, “we have been looking for you everywhere. What have you been doing with yourself?”—and she gave Major Doran a quick, sarcastic glance. “We are going at once. Now, don’t sit staring, my dearest girl,” she added peremptorily, “but run away and get your cloak.”