“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.”
CHAPTER XXIX
It was the last day of Lady Mulgrave’s house-party. They were to scatter on the morrow—and the assemblage was to conclude with a brilliant finish: a gathering of neighbours at lunch, skating on the ornamental water, a festive dinner, and a bridge drive—such was the programme. Captain Barre and his cousin were among the guests, and the latter naturally singled out Lady Joseline for his companion when they all set out for the lake. She was accompanied by Rap, who, though he failed to recognise his former owner, accorded a searching investigation, and a civil reception. With her bright colour—the complexion of a true country girl—and her becoming sables, Lady Joseline confirmed the sensation she had created at Mrs. Hampton’s ball. Unfortunately she did not skate, and was left among the dowagers and lookers-on, whilst most of the company took to the ice, figuratively, as young ducks do to water. Here was an opportunity of which Ulick Doran was not slow to avail himself. Together (and attended by Rap) they accompanied a self-conducted party in a brisk walk across the park, explored the frost-bound gardens and the sultry stoves. On the present occasion their talk was confined to the commonplace, and to old times; it never once soared into the region of Romance, for Ulick Doran had taken himself sternly to task, and his inner mind was filled with anxious debate. Years ago he had kept aloof because he had loved the girl too well to drag the poor child into a position which would entail misery—a ceaseless combat with prejudice, with his mother, and the world at large. Now, by a strange stroke of fortune, she was elevated to a position above his own. Did it not seem mean and despicable to ask her to descend to his level? On the other hand, he was well born, he was rich, he had been first in the field; why should he not take his chance? If Joseline was of the same mind as Mary Foley, why should they not both be happy? He honestly believed that he would make her a better husband than that faineant, Dudley Deverell, with his drawl and his dyspepsia.
As they walked in the wake of others he talked of his travels in Asia, Africa, and America, remembering her keen interest in foreign countries. He told her many amusing anecdotes, gave little sketches of people, and one or two sensational experiences. For her part, she described the chief local events (as seen from Foley’s Corner). She also surprised him by her shrewd comments on her new life, intelligent criticism on books she had read, and questions she had heard debated. One moment she was Lady Joseline discussing “Helbeck of Banisdale”; the next, as Mary Foley, she accosted a gardener’s kitten as a “poor angashore” whom she eloquently harangued in Irish.
After dinner the bridge drive was arranged in the great drawing-room; a few repaired to billiards, but most people declared for cards.
“Of course you’ll play, Major Doran?” said Lady Mulgrave. “We will make up six tables.”
“No thanks,” he rejoined. “I am rather out of form, and if you will allow me, I’ll just have a look round the pictures. I’ve heard so much of the Ashstead Romneys.”
“Oh, of course”—and she raised her eyebrows in apparent amusement. “I daresay Joseline will be pleased to introduce you to some of the ancestors. Mr. Baines will take your place—he is very keen.”