“I’m afraid my being a Catholic is a shockin’ upset; but I tell ye, for ye bid to know”—and she surveyed him with solemn eyes—“I’ll never change my religion.”
“No, of course not, my dear. It is true that our family have always been Church of England; but I am thankful that you have a religion; it is an uncommon possession in these days.”
Was he thinking of his wife, with her Sunday card-parties?
As they talked on many subjects, they were moving slowly down the saloon, and at the end, he came to a standstill. Lord Mulgrave had instinctively felt that there was no use in exhibiting the priceless Vandycks, Romneys, and Hoppners, to this uneducated child as yet; but here was a modern picture, bound to enchain her. Joseline looked up at a full-length painting of a lovely girl, robed in a filmy white gown, with delicate touches of blue. The portrait had been taken at a happy moment, and seemed to exhale the very breath of life and youth. No need to explain. Instinctively she was aware that she was face to face with her mother. The picture was a gem, the “chef d’œuvre” of a French artist who, like his model, had died young. The face was so vivid, so full of animation, it seemed to stand out from the canvas, as if alive. A truly speaking likeness! Joseline recognised her own shade of hair, the colour of her eyes, and brows—her very mouth—she was looking at herself as in a mirror.
“You are like her,” said Lord Mulgrave, in a low voice. “You can see it?”
“I am, in face,” she answered, with an effort. “But in mind and ways I’m just an awkward, common flahoola of a country girl!”
She had spoken the truth; her father could not contradict her. Again he was penetrated with the conviction that, with the refined face and figure of his beloved Joseline, the charming daughter beside him, had the manners and vocabulary of the Irish peasantry. (Unfortunately for Lord Mulgrave, his nature was dominated by the critical faculty.) Would she ever outgrow or live down her plebeian youth, and those twenty-one years of poverty and hardship, which yawned between her and him?
“Oh! you will improve,” he said, with a stifled sigh.
“I’m afraid I’m too old. However, I’ll try.”
“And here,” continued Lord Mulgrave, indicating a patrician individual in splendid uniform, “is your grandfather, the Duc de Hernoncourt.”