As she moved off, her brother remained immovable, buried in thought and tobacco-smoke.
“No harm in going to see the young woman, at any rate,” he reflected. It committed him to nothing. After all, perhaps he ought to leave well alone. Apparently the girl was happy; her present home was her natural sphere. She was but a peasant. Why upset her life and the lives of others who were all content with their lot? Yes, to stir in the business would be a grave and responsible action. “Better let sleeping dogs lie”; and having arrived at this conviction, Mr. Usher sought his couch.
CHAPTER XI
Although it was a nice, cloudy day, and the wind perfect for fishing, Mr. Usher sacrificed himself the following afternoon upon the altar of duty. He had slept on his discovery, and had come to the conclusion that it was his office, as Lord Mulgrave’s man of business, to interview this girl, whom fate had, so to speak, flung at his head; and four o’clock found him escorting his sister, Emily Usher (aged fifty, a good soul, and a bit of a blue-stocking), along a high, breezy road which ran above the lake, and at a certain sharp angle plunged into, and was lost among, dense woods which crowned the hill, and spread to the water’s edge. Clouds had gathered, a thin, cold drizzle was descending, when the couple came to the elbow or joint where the long, bluish-white road turned abruptly in order to accompany the lake; they arrived at the same time at a comfortable slated cottage, with geraniums in the windows, and a crimson rambler trained over its walls. The cottage stood back in a little field, and was flanked by several outhouses. At one side was a garden full of straggling hollyhocks, currant bushes, and poultry; at the other the usual substantial turf rick. A heavy wooden gate opened directly from the field into the road—a most excellent talking trap for passers-by, and doubtless the identical gate referred to by Mike Mahon. The general appearance of the place was well-to-do, but thriftless. A couple of pigs were rooting and grunting in the short grass; a speckled hen was perched at her ease upon the half-door; the currant bushes and apple trees exhibited a family washing;—conspicuous among the items were pink petticoats, and black stockings.
The nice soft afternoon and the drizzle was developing into steady rain, and Mr. Usher was by no means sorry to hear his sister exclaim—
“Here it is! This is Foley’s—Foley’s Corner, as they call it. I hope we shall find the girl at home.” And as her brother shoved back the gate she added, “I’ll go in first. Shall I?”
The pigs and geese pressed hospitably round the visitors as they walked up the path, and when they reached the half-door the hen flew off with a loud skwawk of expostulation. Miss Usher gave a genteel little cough—an ineffectual signal, for the room within seemed dim and empty. Presently she supplemented the cough with a timid “Ahem! Is any one at home?”
No reply. Brother and sister then with one consent peered into the big flagged kitchen. Bacon in solid flitches hung from the rafters. On the well-varnished dresser a lean white cat sat comfortably lapping from a large pan of new milk. The fire was low, but on a girdle on the embers a large soda cake was baking—and burning. Crouched over the fire on a three-legged stool sat a slender, auburn-haired young woman, deeply engrossed in a somewhat tattered volume. Cough and speech, cat or hens, were alike indifferent to her, for at the moment she was living in another world, far away from this gloomy kitchen and this burning cake. In short, the auburn head was buried in Monte Cristo.