“Faix, he’ll be an elegant souvenir! But every one to his taste, as the monkey said, when he kissed the parrot! Whist now, there’s Bridgie Grogan sitting within the hall a-waiting to see ye. I believe she has all cleared out at the house above already. She’s mad to be off home wid her takings. That wan will talk ye out of yer shoes! Mind, you and me must have a few words together before ye go—for the sake of old times.”
Mary nodded her head in assent, and the frantic chestnut, who had been champing, jumping, and tearing up the ground, was at last suffered to fling herself into the stable yard.
The news of Mary Foley’s sudden transformation flew round the county like wild-fire. Barky heard it in the stables, and brought it to his mother at dinner.
“Now Barky,” she cried, “you’ve been drinking again! and you know you promised me on your honour, not to touch whisky between meals.”
“I’m as sober as a judge, so don’t be flying into one of your tantrums for nothing; it’s the solid truth I’m telling you.”
“What, Mary below, the daughter of Lord Mulgrave! And Kitty bringing her up as her own! Well”—and she gasped—“I don’t believe it.”
“You can please yourself about that, but it’s true.”
“I remember them at the cottage,” she returned, “and I went and called, but they just left cards here. They wanted no visitors. She was a pretty, Frenchy-looking young woman and—yes—Mary has a look of her. I wonder I never noticed it. But who would dream of looking for her child in Katty Foley’s smoky cabin?”
“If for it’s smoky, ’tis your own fault. You never will do a thing to the chimneys—often as you are asked.”
“Yes, I see the likeness. And there was always something queer and independent about Mary, that I could never quite make out; she was never shy, or embarrassed.”