He was, by one of the strange coincidences (which really occur more frequently than is supposed), Lord Mulgrave’s solicitor, agent, and man of business. Five-and-twenty years previously he had succeeded his father in the same responsible and lucrative billet. Mr. Usher remembered perfectly, and with a poignant regret, the first Lady Mulgrave, a truly exquisite creature. Her reception by the family had been cool and suspicious; she brought but a small fortune, and she was half French: a member of a great race (ruined and scattered by the Terror), the head of which, on small means, and in a contracted circle, still endeavoured to maintain their ancient pride and traditions.
The Duc de Hernoncourt, with much-reduced rental, clung to the home of his ancestors. (The Château de Verbèrie, a famous gem of French architecture, lying remote from cities, and surrounded by a moat, the two wings flanked by turrets, with pointed roofs, is a well-known picture on the local post-card.) He married an English lady, mother of the future Countess Mulgrave. During a tour through the valley of the Oise, Lord Mulgrave had been entertained by the de Hernoncourts—his distant connections—and later, when Madame La Duchesse and Mademoiselle Joseline came to London, he had persuaded the young lady to remain in England, as his wife. Mademoiselle de Hernoncourt had hair the colour of a copper kettle, a mignonne face, a wonderful personal charm, precisely as described by her former gardener. She was a lady of a distinctive appearance—once seen, never forgotten. Even the bloodless little lawyer recalled her with an emotion that he was unable to classify or explain. If this girl Mary Foley was her image, she was undeniably her daughter, and Katty’s ravings were no ravings, but embodied the painful truth.
Oh, yes, the painful truth! Lord Mulgrave was childless; his present wife had been a fascinating little widow with one girl, when he married her, fifteen years previously. Her ladyship was smart, ambitious, devoted to society, dress, and social diplomacy; her daughter was also smart and up-to-date, who shot and danced, acted and smoked; she and her mother managed his lordship, who was a tall, taciturn man of fifty, fond of fishing and of peace—proud, reserved, and ceremonious. What would be the effect of introducing an uneducated Irish peasant girl—a girl celebrated for “sperrits” and “chat” into this aristocratic and exclusive circle? Mary was, of course, a Catholic. She had never been in a carriage, or seen a silver fork, in her life. Yet if all this circumstantial evidence went for anything—not to speak of Katty’s confession—she was Lord Mulgrave’s only child and heiress. It was in a highly perturbed frame of mind that Mr. Usher pursued his way to the hotel. He had so much food for meditation that he made a very poor dinner, and was unusually silent. Questioned by his sister with respect to his excursion, his replies were brief and unsatisfactory. “He had walked about eight miles. Yes, it was a pretty country. No, he had not met any motors.”
Subsequently, as he sat out in the garden after dinner, smoking cigarette after cigarette, his sister, Miss Usher, who knew his moods, came over and took a seat beside him and said—
“Bence, I see you are getting your old London expression, and thinking of some business.”
He nodded assent.
“Can’t you leave it behind even for six weeks, and enjoy yourself like every one else? You know you promised me you would.”
“Yes, Emily, I know I did. It is all very well to say I’ll leave business behind me; but what can I do when it follows me here?”
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “There were no letters for you to-day.”
“Never mind, my dear, I’ve got some hard thinking to do. A most serious case has recently come to my notice.”