“No, but of you, you double-faced schemer—you odious little red-haired flirt. You will come to a bad end!” and Mrs. Doran passed on, now breathless, and completely exhausted by the violence of her own emotions.
Mary had solemnly promised her mother and the priest that she would never speak again with Mr. Ulick, and somehow the little scandal (and it was a small one) was scotched and smothered. The girl kept out of her lover’s way with conscientious avoidance; once, indeed, she met him riding with a beautiful young lady on a grey horse, and he had nodded gaily to her; but when they were out of sight, the miserable girl had crept into a field close by, pulled her shawl over her head, and wept, oh! such hot, painful, jealous tears. Shortly afterwards Mr. Ulick went away to England, and his admiration for Mary Foley was forgotten; the little Foley girl now took her eggs to market town—she never went near the Castle. This stubborn defection was a disagreeable experience to Mrs. Doran, who drove a thriving trade with a considerable egg connection—friends to whom she offered the surplus of her hen-house, posting many boxes at a clear profit of sixpence a dozen. Mary’s supply was regular—such nice, large brown eggs! Unfortunately the recent scene on the road had actually cost poor Mrs. Doran several shillings a week!
It was noticed that Mary had grown rather white and “dawnchie” looking; some people said the poor angashore was losing her good looks, whilst others declared she was going into a decline, same as Kathleen Kelly when her boy died in America, and eagerly recommended a strong infusion of cat-nip tea.
One evening late, Katty was in bed; Mary still sat up working—what was the use of lying down, she asked herself, when she could not sleep? She was knitting close to the kitchen window, by the light of a fine April moon; outside it was nearly as bright as day. She intended to finish the stocking that night; she liked knitting, for she could both knit and—think.
All at once something interposed between the moon and herself—a face, a man’s face, was pressed against the window. Mary rose with a half-stifled scream, and then recognised, with a violent thrill and shock of joy, the well-cut features of Mr. Ulick.
“Mary!” he said, “Mary! Come quite close to the window, will you?”
“Whist,” she answered sharply. “I must not speak to you; I’ve promised my mother and the priest.” But she approached nearer to the window all the same.
“You may speak to me this once, Mary, for I’ve come to bid you good-bye. I am off to India to-morrow.”
“Is it to India?” she repeated mechanically.