CHAPTER XXI

It was with a feeling of repressed excitement and unusual trepidation, that Lord Mulgrave, who had come over by the evening boat, walked into the hotel and inquired for Miss Usher.

“Miss Usher and her ladyship were in,” said the porter; “in fact, they were in the hall.” Yes, he recognised Miss Usher’s black-and-white check gown, and her broad back; the girl with her--could it be Joseline? What a transformation! Undoubtedly clothes had done wonders; but her manners were as pitiably timid and uncouth as ever--she was actually shaking with nervousness. By Lord Mulgrave’s desire the little party dined in a private room, where he and Miss Usher talked, and did their utmost to promote the ease of their companion, who, in spite of her smart white gown and fashionable coiffure, was still the peasant in her heart. She ate but little, and scarcely opened her lips, fearing to be guilty of some awful blunder, and shock this handsome grey-haired gentleman!

After the meal was over Miss Usher effaced herself with a murmured excuse about letters, and left the father and daughter to talk to one another alone.

“Come here, my dear,” he said, drawing up a chair, “and let us endeavour to know one another. Talk to me, won’t you.”

Joseline accepted the seat in trembling silence. What could she talk to him about? The price of calves, the Hennesseys’ wedding, the mission at Glenveigh, her new clothes? Cleverly, and by degrees, her father drew her out, and prevailed on her to thaw--to speak of herself and her upbringing; and as she became more familiar with his presence and the sound of her own voice, she talked a great deal, and unwittingly displayed her simple mind, and simple heart. She was a dear, sweet, good girl--the image of her dead mother; but twenty-one years yawned between him and her, and as he listened to her artless conversation, he felt overcome by the appalling state of her ignorance of what may be called, “life above stairs.”

“Yes, I’ve had good schoolin’,” she was saying. “I can cast up figures, and knit, and mend lace; the nuns taught me.”

“Yes; and anything else?”

“I can sing--I was among the altos, and once I sang at a concert, and many a time at a dance.”

“I’m glad you can sing. Will you sing to me now, my dear?”

“Is it here?” she faltered. “Sure, I’ve no concertina.”

“That is no matter.”

“Oh, I’d be afraid, so I would. Oh”--twisting her hands--“I dare not.”

“Now listen to me, Joseline” (how many years since he had uttered the name!). “If you are going to be afraid of _me_, I shall be afraid of _you_, and that will be a terrible misfortune. You have your mother’s face; if you have her nature, I don’t care one straw for accomplishments. I think you may have her voice. Will you not sing to me, my dear, and give me pleasure?”

He pressed her little hand tightly; he felt her trembling; and then, all at once, in the dusky room, the sweet, low, quivering notes began, at first faint and husky, but gaining strength and volume as they went on. Oh, such a heart-piercing, exquisite air! The words were unintelligible, for she was singing a well-known Irish lament, which, rendered into English, was something like:--

Wail, wail, ye, for the mighty one! Wail, wail, ye, for the dead! Quench the hearth and hold the breath, with ashes strew the head! How tenderly we loved him! how deeply we deplore! Holy Saviour, but to think, we shall never see him more! Wail, wail him through the island! Weep, weep for our pride! Ye know that on the battle-field our gallant chief has died. Weep the Victor of Benn Burb! Weep him, young men and old! Weep for him, ye women! your beautiful lies cold. Soft as a woman’s was your voice, O’Neil; bright was your eye. Oh, why did ye leave us, Owen? Why did you die? Your troubles are over; you’re at rest with God on high. But we’re forlorn and sad, Owen. Why did you die?

As she concluded with a low sob of supreme dramatic effect, Lord Mulgrave drew a deep breath, and, carrying the little cold hand to his lips, said, “My dear child, do you know that _my_ name is Owen? Your singing is no mere accomplishment; it is a great gift.”

“Did she sing?” she asked faintly.

“Yes. It was the same voice”; and he sighed as he released her fingers.

“Does Lady Mulgrave sing?” she continued, in a bolder key.

“No”--and he gave a slight start--“but, Tito, her daughter, is fond of music; she is nearly your age, or a little older. You will be, I hope, capital companions for one another; she’s a bit of a rattle, but a good-hearted girl.”

“Is she pretty?” she asked.

“Not exactly; but rather attractive and piquante.”

“I never heard that word before; I suppose it means something nice?”

“Yes. You will see for yourself. She and Dudley are great friends; he is my heir, you know, and your cousin; we see a good deal of him.”

“And what is he like?”

“Oh, fairly good-looking, but a lazy beggar. He did well in South Africa, but got enteric, and was laid on his back for so long I believe he fancies he is still there. You have put his nose a bit out of joint, for some of the estates will now go to you.”

“Is it to me? Sure I’m not fit to own land. Once they wanted to make up a match for me with a strong farmer; his people were eager for it, on account of the fifty pounds.”

“But you said no?”

“Bedad, I did--a great fat man, with a bald face, and a pearl on one of his eyes.” She meant cataract.

Lord Mulgrave gave a short laugh; then he said, “So, Joseline, you’ve never had a lover?”

“Is it me? Why I had a couple of dozen or more making shapes at me!”

Her father sat up stiffly in his chair, apprehension in his attitude; the expression of his face was disturbed.

“But sure, I didn’t care a hair for one of them,” she added reassuringly. “I only liked them just for joking and dancing--nothing more, I give ye me word. But I’d fine work keeping them off; they mostly wanted to marry me!”

“You say you had many admirers, my dear. Did you not care for one of them? Come, now, do not be afraid to speak.”

“No. Sorra one of them!”

“And yet you are past one-and-twenty! It is strange that my little girl’s heart has never been touched,” continued Lord Mulgrave, in a meditative tone; “but I think I can explain it. I believe it was a case of like to like, and you instinctively shrank from the claims of a race to which you did not really belong.”

“I expect there was something in that,” assented Joseline. “They said I was too particular, and all for picking and choosing.”

“Now, supposing you had come across a gentleman wooer?”--and Lord Mulgrave paused interrogatively. (Did he notice that Joseline was very pale?) “I wonder how it would have been? Perhaps you and I would not be sitting here to-day, Joseline. I am thankful that you belong only to me!”

A long pause ensued.

Joseline was conscious that her mind was in a tempestuous state of indecision. Should she speak? Should she disinter and lay before her father, the poor little skeleton of her own romance? Should she or not? After all, there is something that belongs to ourselves. And yet--and yet---- Her large eyes gazed into vacancy.

At last she faltered, in a low and shaken voice, “Well, father, there _was_ some one once. You are right. A gentleman--and--he was--a real gentleman. He went away six years ago, when I was but a young slip of a thing, and it nearly broke my heart. And that’s all.”

“What was his name? Who was he?” he asked under his breath.

“Sure there’s no need to tell ye that, for”--and her face quivered--“I’ll never come across him again.”

“Irish, of course?”

She nodded. “There now, I’ve told ye, and ye know all there is to know about me. Promise me ye will never let on.”

“I promise faithfully. Did he give you the red dog?”

“No, he gave him to Mrs. Foley. And now we will never spake of him again.” Here two tears, which had been gathering, fell. “You have me only secret.”

As a servant entered with a telegram and turned up the electric light, her father looked searchingly at Joseline. Her face was white and haggard. “My little girl is tired?” he exclaimed.

“Yes; I feel as if the feet were falling off me. I was standing so long to-day being tried on.”

“Then you must go to bed at once. To-morrow we will do a drive and the theatre. Next day we go home. You are no longer afraid of me, are you, dear?”--and he bent down and kissed the hair over her brow. “You must not. You are my only child; all I have, remember.”

“I will remember, and you will remember”; and she looked up at him with an expression more eloquent than speech. An undivided and implicit trust, spoke in her beautiful eyes.

END OF PART II