“And doing it badly, too, sir. Shoo! ye greedy divil!” and she made a dart at the cat. “Out of this wid ye!” and she drove off the geese. “But the truth is I’ve got stuck in a book, and when I do that I clean forget everything—more shame for me.” She still held the book between her fingers, and from the bottom of her heart wished herself alone.
“May I see what it is?” said Miss Usher. Then, as she glanced at it—“oh, Monte Cristo! No wonder you were enthralled!”
“Isn’t it splendid!” she exclaimed. “Oh, it beats Banagher! I’ve just got to where they are dragging him into the boat. Isn’t it grand!”
As she and Miss Usher stood talking, it never seemed to have occurred to Mary Foley, that she was lacking in hospitality or good manners. As she remained discussing the engrossing romance with his sister, it struck Mr. Usher that Mary preferred to lounge against the table descanting and listening, and lacked the true Irish instinct, which instantly offers a welcome, a seat, and, if possible, refreshment. His quick, grey eyes wandered round the room, and noted its contents. It was of a good size; the furniture was strong and useful, but a tub with a half-washed gown stood near the window; the floor was littered with sticks and cabbage leaves. It was plain that Mary’s little hands were incapable of rough work! But he noticed some pathetic attempts at decoration: the dresser exhibited a large bunch of wild flowers; on the walls was a considerable gallery of coloured pictures, cut from the illustrated papers; the window curtains were white, and looped back with strips of pink calico. As the visitor stood staring about the half-door was thrown back with a kick, and a thin, tall, peevish-looking woman, with a basket on her arm and a shawl over her frilled cap, entered, immediately followed by a red terrier. For a moment she stood aghast, then recovered and said, “Yer servant, ma’am—yer servant, sir,” as she dropped two curtseys, and deposited her load with an air of relief.
“Mary, me girl,” turning to her niece, “where’s yer manners? Won’t the lady take a sate?”
Mary coloured guiltily as she dusted and offered a chair. “Faix, I’m forgetting myself. Rap”—aside to the dog, who was sniffing the visitors—“behave yerself! Ma’am, I beg your pardon, but the house is all upset, and through other, it being washing day.”
“Lord save us! the cakes is a cinder!” cried the new arrival, hurrying to the fire. “Mary, girl, I lay my life you’ve been reading a book. Bedad, ma’am”—turning to Miss Usher—“if she was as good a hand at rearing pigs and calves as she is for reading and rearing flowers, we’d all be in clover. Oh, but she’s the terrible girl for a story——”
As she spoke Mrs. Grogan made a desperate attempt to tidy up the place, carried away the tub, and endeavoured with all the strength of her lungs to rekindle a few sods.
All this time Mary, her niece, with true patrician unconcern, stood knitting and talking to Miss Usher, precisely as if she were receiving her amidst the most luxurious surroundings, and absolutely unconscious of any shortcomings. If she had been a true-born Irishwoman she would have been pouring forth an irrepressible torrent of excellent and plausible excuses. And here, to Mr. Usher, was yet another incontrovertible proof that in Mary’s veins ran no Foley blood, but that she was the descendant of a colder race, the daughter of a hundred earls. Whilst Miss Usher made use of her tongue, her brother continued to make use of his eyes. The young woman, leaning against the dresser, with the dog at her feet, was plainly not in keeping with her background; her pose was grace itself, unconscious and unstudied—possibly the heritage of centuries of court life. The short blue cotton skirt revealed a pair of black woollen stockings and cobbler’s shoes; but even these failed to conceal a high-arched instep and slim little feet, and the hands that twinkled among the flying knitting needles might have been painted by Vandyck or Lely, so delicate, taper, and absolutely useless did they look.