CHAPTER XXII

Although Lord Mulgrave had given Miss Usher a cordial invitation to accompany his daughter to London, that prudent lady excused herself with the plea of one or two engagements in Dublin. She wished to give the father and daughter an opportunity of becoming better acquainted before they joined the family circle. What could be a better occasion than a sea voyage and a railway journey?

“I shall miss you awfully,” sobbed her companion of the last six weeks. “I don’t know what in the living earth I’ll do, all alone. Of course, I have his--his lordship--father; but I mean among the women. And I’ve a notion they are all going to hate me, so they will.”

“That is a foolish idea to start with, my dear. You will find that if you like people, people will like you. Do not be afraid of your relations. Be good--tempered and pleasant, and just yourself.”

“Faix, it’s easy talking, Miss Usher dear. But which self? I’ve two, you see. The one that comes natural--the common country girl, reared, as ye may say, on the side of the road, and the new self, that’s a grand lady, and must mind her manners and her talk, and hold up her nose as if there was a smell under it!”

“Not at all,” protested her counsellor. “I hope you will be gracious and polite to every one; it is only nobodies who give themselves airs. Your father has invited me to pay you a visit later, and I shall look for wonderful improvements and bring you a little prize. You are improved as it is; you have learnt a great deal.”

“It will all run out of my head the moment I get among strangers,” declared her pupil, in a tone of deep dejection.

“At any rate they will make allowances.”

“More likely they’ll make fun of me!”

“Nonsense! Now, you must try and remember some of the things you have learnt. Promise me you will not say ‘Faix,’ ‘Musha,’ and ‘Begorra’; in fact, my dear child, you should endeavour to cultivate silence.”

“Sure, don’t I know that well! and yet for the life of me I can’t hold me tongue. I can’t stop myself. I’ve been so encouraged to talk as much as ever I liked since I could talk at all, the words just slip out of me mouth before I know they are gone--and often words I never meant to say at all. I tell the black truth, and let them take it or leave it--man, woman, or child.”

“You must make up your mind to listen and learn,” said Miss Usher, soothingly. “You learn quickly. Now, I’ve a little book for you here.” It was a neat edition of _The Manners of Good Society_. “Read this over; it won’t tell you everything, but you will find it a help.”

Lord Mulgrave, for his part, had a gift for Miss Usher, and the evening before he took leave of her he offered her his heartfelt thanks for her care of his daughter. “I am aware that nothing I could give you, would be an adequate return,” he said, “but I want you to accept this as a memento of _Mary Foley_”; and he placed in her hand a blue velvet case--a case containing a string of pearls, which, as a lady friend subsequently remarked with bated breath, “must have cost hundreds and hundreds of pounds.”

The travellers left for Holyhead by the early boat; and as Joseline, in the dull grey cold morning, took leave of her friend--her very last tie--she broke down and wept bitterly, and, with her arms tightly clasped round Miss Usher’s neck, fell into a sudden breathless sobbing.

“May Heaven forgive me, but I _hate_ going, so I do,” she gasped. “Oh, Miss Usher dear, I wish to God I was on my way back to Glenveigh!”

* * * * *

At Kingstown the waves were tumbling over the west pier; the water in the harbour was lively. They were likely to experience a bad crossing--a bit of an October gale.

At first Joseline enjoyed her novel experience of the sea, the stinging salt air, the unfamiliar up-and-down motion; but once past the “Kish,” when they caught the full force of the wind, she was compelled to seek refuge in the ladies’ cabin, where she fell an immediate prey to _mal de mer_ and terror. Over and over she believed that each lurch was the end! However, at last Holyhead stack was safely sighted, and a miserable, white-faced girl was claimed from the stewardess by the Earl of Mulgrave. Her head was swimming and aching as she crawled up the gangway, leaving _The Manners and Customs of Good Society_ behind her on board the _Ireland_.

During the long day’s journey to London Joseline recovered but little, in spite of her companion’s most anxious solicitude; her interest in the flying landscape proved feeble, she felt so sick, and so utterly shattered and desolate.

“Would you prefer to stop in London for the night, and go on to-morrow?” suggested Lord Mulgrave.

“Oh, no, no! let us do it all at wance.”

“And get it over,” he added, with a faint smile. “You need not be nervous, Joseline; every one is prepared to give you a warm welcome.”

“But I feel so strange. I know I’ll be like a sort of wild plant that is pulled up by the roots, and stuck in a greenhouse, and every bit as much out of place.”

“No, for you belong to the greenhouse,” he answered, “and by-and-by you will find that you are in your natural atmosphere.”

“God send it!” she murmured, as with a gesture of weariness she closed her eyes, and presently fell into a comfortable little sleep.

Her father, who sat opposite, studied the pale face anxiously. Here was the image of his dead wife: her outward form, with the mind, manners, and habits of an Irish peasant. What an unparalleled situation!

The poor, tired child had some formidable obstacles in her future path. Lotty and she would have nothing in common--Lotty, with her bridge and her cigarettes, her society jargon, her _set_, would be terribly embarrassed by this simple, innocent creature. His wife’s opinions were decided, her tongue was persuasive, her will inflexible. He had drifted into allowing her to gently lead, to manage, and to set him a little on one side, because he had not cared. Now he had something to care for and protect. He must stand between Lottie, and a girl who embodied many of Lottie’s especial aversions--a girl who was a mere child of nature, outspoken, impulsive, uncouth.

Joseline and her father, having dined at the Euston Hotel, made their way down to Ashstead. It was past nine o’clock, a dark, windy night, when they arrived outside the gusty station, where a fine equipage, with two moon-like lamps, awaited them. As she was conducted to her carriage, the girl felt as if she were a second Cinderella going to the ball. They drove away rapidly, Joseline sitting erect, her heart beating with nervousness; her father took her little cold hand, and held it in silence. When they stopped at a pair of great gates, which opened noiselessly and swung back of their own accord as the carriage dashed through, he said--

“This is Ashstead--my dear--your home.”

“Father,” she gasped, “I am mortally in dread. I feel as if I was going to be killed, or married, when I think of meeting all these grand strangers. I declare I’d like to get out of the carriage, and run in and hide under the hedge.”

“My dear, I assure you there is nothing to alarm you.”

“It’s her ladyship and the young lady that terrifies me, when I think of them.”

“Her ladyship is prepared to welcome you warmly. She is----” (What could he say to encourage this trembling creature?) “She is--most sweet-tempered, and full of tact.”

“Tact! What is tact?”

“A--the knack of saying the right thing, and keeping quiet at the right time.”

“Oh, laws! then she is just the black opposite to me! And the young one?”

“I feel sure you and Tito will be as sisters; she has often wished for a companion. She will show you all sorts of things, and tell you what to do.”

“I suppose she has had a grand education?”

“Yes, chiefly abroad. I am afraid she did not make the most of her advantages; her spelling is shocking.”

“Oh! Well, anyhow, I can spell,” declared Joseline, with a gulp. “It is the other things--the tip-top talking, and the sailing about a room, and the hand-shaking, and looking people over from their shoes up. I watched the ladies in the hotel. You see, I just clump about, and hitch myself on to anything, and say, ‘What way are ye the day?’”

“Well, here we are,” he interrupted, as the horses came to a standstill under a pillared portico. The door was then thrown open, and the light from a large domed entrance streamed out into the night. Silhouetted against the yellow glare were three tall men-servants. In a sort of daze Joseline stumbled out of the brougham and followed Lord Mulgrave into what seemed to be a royal palace. She paused for a moment, whilst a footman relieved her of her umbrella and handbag, and, turning to her father with piteous eyes, exclaimed, in a voice which the great dome re-echoed--

“I declare to goodness I’m all of a swither!”

To this announcement her parent made no reply, but hastily preceded her across the hall along a wide red-carpeted corridor, lined with paintings and cabinets, to where a murmur of voices came through a half-open door.

Lord Mulgrave had particularly desired an informal reception for his daughter, so romantically restored. Of course, he was aware that the entire neighbourhood were on the _qui vive_ to see her; their curiosity must wait. He expected to find merely his wife and Tito. But Lady Mulgrave had arranged otherwise; she had invited Lady Maxwelton and her girls to come and behold the new niece and cousin, and being in London, they had responded with alacrity. Several smart neighbours were added to her dinner-party; but for these the inducement offered was bridge.

Lady Mulgrave was secretly displeased that her husband was bringing “the hog-trotter” girl home--actually straight to Ashstead. She ought, as a preliminary, to have first been sent to some school or foreign convent. It was most irritating to have her dragged into the family; the whole thing was so melodramatic--a sort of penny novelette story; it had got into all the papers, too. The proper thing to do would have been to send the girl abroad, and permit the episode to evaporate. An uncouth peasant-girl was bound to cut a most ridiculous figure; but since she was really coming, her ladyship had invited a surprise party, as a little punishment for his lordship. The presence of so many critical eyes would intensify his discomfort: in addition to the kind and charitable intention of making him ashamed of his daughter, it was also arranged as an ordeal for the girl herself.

Ten o’clock had struck. The small blue drawing-room was set out with three bridge-tables, at which sat twelve deeply engrossed players. Lady Maxwelton occupied a sofa with another lady; they were discussing missions.

“Mother,” said Tito, suddenly throwing down her hand, “I’m sure I hear the carriage! Yes; they have come at last!”

“Nonsense! It is the wind. They won’t arrive to-night,” replied Lady Mulgrave, from another table. “Of course they will stop in London.” As she spoke, she ceased to sort her cards, and announced, “I make no trumps.”

“It _is_ them,” persisted Tito, rising. “Mother, aren’t you going out?”

But her mother merely took up her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. As she did so the door of the drawing-room was pushed open by some one, and a graceful girl in a long sable-trimmed cloak and a French toque came slowly into the room, ghastly pale, and yet so pretty! She looked distinctly dazed--no wonder, poor alien!--as she contemplated this brilliantly lighted room, the crowd of gaily dressed people all playing cards and smoking cigarettes. Even Joseline was sharply sensible of the strangeness of this new life--so near, yet so unknown. Directly facing her, a yellow-haired woman--her beautiful bare shoulders emerging from a hazardously low yellow gown--with a cigarette half-way to her mouth, stared at the new-comer with eyes of stony incredulity.

For about the space of ten seconds a deadly stillness reigned. The arrival paused, and in that time Lady Mulgrave saw and realised, the amazing likeness to a certain picture in the red saloon; also that this graceful, well-dressed personage was the bog-trotter girl, as she mentally called her. Her husband, who was now in the room, said--

“Lottie, here is----”

“Oh ... I know.... I see,” she answered quickly, and, putting down her cigarette, she rustled forward, took her stepdaughter’s hand in hers, and administered an elaborate embrace. “Dearest, you are welcome--so welcome. And here is my girl Tito,” she added, in her sweet voice, waving forward a petite figure in a bright red gown, with bright, dark eyes.

For a moment Joseline hesitated, and then she stooped and kissed Tito, murmuring in a soft, broken whisper, “I do hope you will like me, me dear! and we will be friends.”

Tito was taken completely aback, but from that moment her heart was enlisted by this sweetly pretty creature, with the lofty air and ridiculous brogue.

“Elgitha,” said his lordship, “let me present your niece to you,” and he led her formally to a sofa, on which was seated the stately dowager in velvet, with her beautiful white hair turned off her face over a cushion.

The marchioness rose and warmly embraced the girl, and added, in a subdued aside, “What a _likeness_!”

There were more introductions, a little talk, chiefly carried on by his lordship, and then he said--

“Tito, will you take your sister away to her room and look after her? We had a hideous crossing.”

“I’m sure you must be dead,” said Tito, leading the way, “and glad of a rest and supper. I’ll introduce you to your room and your maid.”

“Maid? Oh, no. For goodness sake----”

“Why, of course a maid! Mother has two--one for her clothes, and one for her hair! Here we are”--and she ushered Joseline into a lofty bedroom on the first floor. “Is it not nice?”

“’Tis elegant! ’tis grand”--gazing about at the silk hangings, silver looking-glass, and French furniture. “Just beautiful.”

“Do let me help you off with your wraps! Dear me! how different you are to what we expected!”

“Yes?”--sitting down wearily. “What _did_ you expect?”

“Oh, a sort of bare-legged girl, with a turf creel on her back.”

The new-comer laughed hysterically as she removed her hat-pins. “Oh, well, I never was just as bad as that!”

“I think you have made a most successful first appearance. You carried the house by storm, and, figuratively speaking, will have splendid notices in all the morning papers. You don’t understand my jargon? And you are worn out. Ah! here comes your maid. Justine, this is her ladyship. I see you have brought up some soup. You will look after her? She is frightfully tired. What time do you get up in the morning?”--turning to Joseline.

“Half-past six!” was the prompt reply.

“Half-past--horror! I generally emerge about eleven. To-morrow, I’ll come and look you up early, and we will go round the grounds together whilst Justine unpacks. Of course you breakfast in bed!”

“Is it me? Never in my life!”

“Well, I’m really going now. Good night.” Kissing her, she whispered, “sleep well, and dream happy dreams. I expect they will all come true!”