The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Nine Days' Wonder, by B. M. (Bithia Mary) Croker

Transcriber’s Note:
A Table of Contents has been added.

A NINE DAYS’ WONDER

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

DIANA BARRINGTON
TERENCE
PEGGY OF THE BARTONS
THE CAT’S-PAW
ANGEL
A STATE SECRET
JOHANNA
THE HAPPY VALLEY
THE OLD CANTONMENT

A NINE DAYS’ WONDER

BY

B. M. CROKER

“IL FAUT DE PLUS GRANDE VERTU POUR SOUTENIR LA BONNE FORTUNE, QUE LA MAUVAISE.”

METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON

First Published in 1905

CONTENTS

A NINE DAYS’ WONDER

PART I

CHAPTER I

A tall grey-haired soldier, with a professionally straight back, stood looking out of an upper window in the “Rag” one wet October afternoon. His hands were buried in his pockets, and his face was clothed with an expression of almost mediæval gloom. The worldly wise mask their emotions so that those who run may not read, but Colonel Doran had lived so many years among a primitive race that he made no effort to conceal his feelings, and all the world was welcome to see that he was bored to death. To tell the truth, he had been too long in the East to appreciate club life. Other men were undoubtedly contented, interested, occupied; it was different in his case. The palatial dignity, solemnity, luxury of the place failed to stir his pride; even its traditions left him as cold as the marble statue on the great staircase. He would have felt ten times more at home in a Bombay chair, on a brick verandah, with the old Pioneer in his hands and a “Trichy” in his mouth.

The big smoking-room below had presented a most animated scene; groups of old brother officers were discussing various burning questions, and topics ranged, from the new Hussar boot, to the North-west Frontier. Colonel Doran knew a good deal about the frontier, but made no effort to enter the lists. What were possible campaigns to him now? He wandered aimlessly up to the library, and turned over some books; he tried to read—it was no use. Ashamed to appear a sort of no man’s friend, and stray, he made his way to the upper smoking-room, which he was tolerably certain to find empty at that hour. He sauntered round it, gazing indifferently at the pictures and mementoes. A sketch of two elephants in a dust-storm arrested his attention. How he wished himself on the back of one of the old beggars—dust-storm and all! At last he strolled over to the window, and as he stood looking out on a dismal vista of wet slates and an iron-grey sky he heaved an involuntary sigh. So this was the end of his career—idleness, boredom, solitude!

The career of Ulick Doran had commenced at eighteen, when as a cadet he had landed in India—that hospitable godmother of younger sons—and the kindly East had adopted and made him her own for the better part of thirty-four years. He had been gazetted as a mere boy to a crack regiment of Bengal cavalry known as “Holland’s Horse,” and in this corps, his home, he had lived and fought and nearly died: had seen his comrades come and go, marry, and retire. Now it was his own turn. At fifty-two his career was ended, and the curtain rung down. Good-bye to everything he cared for—to the sowars, his children, to the mess, to the horse lines, aye, to the very horses, half of which he had selected—good-bye to all that had made life worth living. Naturally he could not remain in India, that unseemly spectacle, a mere camp follower of the regiment he had so ably commanded, hovering around it like a departed spirit. He must return to England, and range himself decently on the shelf along with most of his contemporaries. Unfortunately Colonel Doran had but few resources apart from his profession; he was a fine horseman, a noted swordsman, a keen and capable officer, and here he stood, a stranded and unhappy pensioner, the very typical dragoon without his horse! What made his position still worse, he was alone in the world. His mother had died when he was a small boy—he scarcely remembered her; his father, on the other hand, had lived to a great age, a red-faced, irascible old gentleman, whose eldest son predeceased him by many years; and thus the family place had come to the Indian officer, after all.

An agent had remitted him spasmodically his somewhat shrunken rents; and recently he had visited Kilmoran Castle, the home of his ancestors, a tumbledown old place six miles from a station, with a defective roof, and a pervading odour of soot and dry rot. He scarcely knew a soul in the neighbourhood: undoubtedly there was good hunting to be had of a somewhat rough-and-ready description that would carry him through the dark winter days; but what of the evenings at home? He recalled the cavernous dining-room, with black horsehair and mahogany furniture, the heavy flock paper, the narrow windows, the glowering family portraits, and, above all, the grim sarcophagus under the sideboard that seemed to await, not the plate, but a corpse! whilst the drawing-room, which had been closed for fifty years, was a ghostly apartment, given over to dust and mice, who played weird tunes among the wires of the ancient Broadwood piano. Ulick Doran shivered as he pictured the dim flagged passages, the damp, desolate bedrooms. If he were to live at Kilmoran alone, he would undoubtedly take to drink or cut his throat! The other alternative was London and a bedroom near his club, where he would see the same faces, hear the same arguments, walk the same streets—every day. Oh, he would soon come to the end of that! This great city had no attractions for him. As he stood gazing out on the streaming rain and leaden clouds he was mentally contrasting Pall Mall with the “eye of his heart”—the Punjaub—and wishing he were back under the deep blue sky, with the first nip of the cold weather in the air, and his new Australian thoroughbred between his knees.

Just at this instant the door opened and a brisk little bald man, with a fair moustache and cheery eye, entered the room. He was Major Sutton—or Johnny Sutton, as his friends called him—late of Holland’s Horse, a comrade who had retired, married, and apparently lived happy ever after.

“I say, old man,” he began, “what are you doing here all by yourself—eh? What’s the matter? Down on your luck?”

“Not much luck to be down on, as far as I know,” growled the other, turning from the window and sinking into a capacious chair.

“Of course it’s just raw to you at present; you miss the old regiment, and, by George! they miss you,” said Johnny Sutton, opening his cigar-case. “We all have a sort of lost, end-of-all-things feeling, when we first come home, but we get over it in time and make a fresh start.”

“That’s all right for the young ’uns, Johnny, but a man of fifty-two has gone over most of the course.”

“Nonsense, Pat. I see you are affected by this beastly weather, and your liver—a man of fifty is in his prime! Why, I’m fifty myself, and can walk and shoot with the best.”

“You were always a great shikari, Johnny.”

“For that matter, so were you.”

“Well, there’s an end of all that now.”

“Why so? Haven’t you shooting on your place in Ireland?”

“Shooting!” he repeated derisively. “About as much as is in St. James’s Park. Perhaps after a hard day’s work I might bag a brace of rabbits and one snipe. It’s been poached for years. My father was an old man, and let things slide——”

“Still, I suppose you will go over there and pull the place together a bit?”

“No, I could not stand it for more than a week; the loneliness and dreariness seem to penetrate to one’s very bones.”

“And you are not keen about living in town—eh? You are like a newly imported remount—everything is strange, and you don’t know what to do with yourself?”

“Yes, Johnny, you have hit the nail right on the head; and if you can give me some sort of lead, I’m your man.”

Major Sutton puffed at his cigar, removed it from his mouth, examined it carefully, and then blurted out—

“I say, why don’t you marry?”

“Marry!” repeated his companion. “What an idea!”

“Yes, man alive, and a good one; people do it every day. You stare as if you had never heard of the institution. Look at me”—and he tapped his waistcoat: “I am married.”

“Yes, but I—I am not a ladies’ man.”

“So much the better; they never marry.”

“And I’m too old,” objected Colonel Doran.

“Bosh!”

“No girl would have me.”

“Well, what do you say to a fine young woman of five-and-thirty—or—a widow?”

“I’m not a society man, or in the way of meeting ladies.”

“Because you won’t go out when you are invited, except among the old married folk of the regiment. I can introduce you to one or two really suitable young women, with good looks, a little money, and no nonsense about them. There is Flora Davey! Why, her father commanded the 25th Bengal Cavalry. You remember him. She was born in Lahore?”

“Yes; and I was at her christening,” he supplemented grimly. “No, no! that would never work. Thank you, old man, I believe I’ll stay as I am.”

“But look here, Pat, you remember when I got that crack on my head at polo and was shunted home—years ago: it nearly broke my heart, but matrimony cured me. I met Maudie on the Riviera my first winter—and she took to me and I to her. You see, I was an invalid, and she pitied me, and talked over her rich old pater. People said nasty things, and it was a lie; I married Maudie for herself only, though money is certainly a power. Now the old man is gone, she has a clear three thousand a year, and I have come into a comfortable legacy. Maudie is a confirmed match-maker, and tries her best to settle her friends.”

“Yes, like the fox who lost his tail,” remarked the bachelor.

“Bar jokes, come along and dine with us quietly on Friday.”

Colonel Doran hesitated; he knocked the ash off his cigar reflectively and then began—

“You are very kind, Johnny, old man, but——”

“Oh, no, I’m not going to make up a match for you on the spot—no fear: but just take a look at me and mine—as a practical illustration of my argument—no party: I want you and Maudie to get to know one another better—she likes you so much——”

“All right, then, I’ll come—thanks. Friday did you say?” and he took out a little pocket-book. “Friday, 13th, at 8 o’clock, 402 Sloane Street.”

“Now, remember, you are engaged to us to a tête-à-tête dinner. I must be off; I’m taking the Mem Sahib to a theatre, and we dine early. You ought to look in yourself; it’s rather fun—The Old Bachelor’s Blunder.”

* * * * *

Major Sutton had been a Benedict for nearly ten years. His wife was a pretty, fashionable little woman, some months—though few suspected this—older than himself. She dressed with taste, had a capable maid, and was, in the eyes of Johnny Sutton, perennially young and beautiful. He had no secrets from her, and told her, like a good boy, where he had been, who he had seen, what they had said. The couple were on terms of delightful good fellowship, and she, for her part, shared with Johnny all the dearest secrets of her dearest friends.

“I say, Maudie,” he began, when they were settled in their brougham, “you know my pal, Pat Doran, one of the best fellows who ever stepped——”

“Yes, of course I do; he looks like an unhappy duke, poor old boy.”

“I met him to-day, alone and evidently rather wretched. You see, he feels a bit out of it now he is retired; he is like a lost dog. The regiment was his home; now he is out of it. If he had had a clever little wife to exploit him he might have become a brigadier and goodness knows what. Now he is short of a job; he is not even on the club committee, and he has nothing to do.”

“And Satan finds, etc. etc.; only he is too old to get into mischief, I should hope. What about him?”

“Well, you see, he doesn’t take kindly to London, and he does not care to live in Ireland. He has a fine estate and castle over there. His family goes back to the Flood, and had their own ship.”

“Yes, he looks an aristocrat all over,” agreed Mrs. Sutton, who, being the daughter of a successful nobody, had a profound respect for blue blood.

“He is one of the simplest and best of men, but all alone in the world. After living years in a mess he can’t stand the empty halls of his ancestors, and I’ve been telling him to-day, that he must marry!”

“Of course,” she eagerly agreed—“certainly he must marry.”

“And you are the proper person to find him a nice wife, Maudie—a real jewel, you know—no paste. I’ve asked him to come and dine on Friday—quite by ourselves, and you can talk to him—of course, not about matrimony—just to find out his tastes. In fact, I know them—he was desperately in love once, with a quiet fair-haired girl; she had a soft manner, and a charming smile, and married a drunken boor—who broke her heart—and——”

“But listen, Johnny,” interrupted his wife, “we have a little dinner on Friday—don’t you remember? The Colletts and Sir Fred and Lady Hewson.”

“By Jove! Yes—so we have! Then I’ll put him off till Sunday.”

“No, no, you will do nothing of the sort. I will ask a girl specially to meet him. I know the very one to suit him. What do you say to Julia Barker?”

“Oh,” doubtfully, “I don’t think she would be his style at all—no—not one little bit.”

“Why not? She is handsome, agreeable, well connected—the Hollington-Barkers you know.”

“Yes, but I don’t admire her; she’s too stout and full-blown; too loud, and I should say, had the devil of a temper.”

“It is not necessary for you to admire her, Johnny. Poor Ju has led a life to try the temper of a saint. A spendthrift old father, and since his death she is a sort of wanderer, and wants a home of her own so badly; her life is spent in visits—and she lives in her boxes. Now the Barre girls are growing up she cannot be there so much, and she hates being paying guest.”

“Miss Barker has no money,” objected Major Sutton.

“But Colonel Doran has, and Ju is wonderful, she can make one penny go as far as two! She will be a capital wife for him, lively, energetic, and managing—and so well connected.”

“I don’t think she will suit, Maudie. He is a quiet, reserved sort of chap, and would like some one of his own caste.”

“Not a bit of it: silent men always take talkative wives—every one chooses their opposite—I believe Ju and the Colonel will be an exact match—and here we are!”

CHAPTER II

Julia Barker was the youngest daughter of a needy gentleman of good family who for many years had roamed about the cheaper continental resorts, bearing in his train two dashing good-looking girls—and leaving in his track a considerable number of bad debts. Occasionally, his rich relations came to his assistance; for instance, when Fanny succeeded in capturing the affection of a wealthy baronet, Sir Herbert Barre, the connection provided a suitable wedding and trousseau, and hinted that they looked to Fanny to help her sister in the like manner. It was really discreditable, the way in which old Fitzroy dragged their name about in the dust of Europe; they were constantly encountering people who said, “Oh—we met your cousins the Hollington-Barkers at Spa or Monte Carlo—they are your cousins, are they not? Rather a handsome girl, and a thin old gentleman, who gambles a good deal.” Sometimes it appeared that the thin old gentleman had borrowed money from these too confiding travellers. However, at last Captain Fitzroy Hollington-Barker’s wanderings came to an end; he was accorded (for the sake of the connection) a decent funeral, buried in the ancestral vault; and Julia his daughter had her liberty, the world before her, and one hundred and fifty pounds a year. Lady Barre had exerted herself in every way to “help off poor Ju” as she termed it; but so far her anxious efforts had proved of no avail: on the contrary, poor Ju had sustained several crushing disappointments. Yet Julia Barker was a handsome woman, in a showy dark style; she had bright eyes, a bright, somewhat fixed colour, a fine carriage, and a sustained supply of energy and conversation. Also she was granddaughter of the late Earl of Hollington, and sister to Lady Barre, who entertained so well; but—Miss Barker had no money—was losing her looks and figure, and bore the reputation of a temper, and debts! In spite of her clever manœuvring, and her astonishing aptitude for exacting invitations, favours, presents, and even the use of their carriages, from her circle, Miss Barker’s future was becoming somewhat grey. People were beginning to weary of her company, her stories, her assurance, and herself! when Maudie Sutton—to her supreme joy—presented to her the gallant gentleman, whom she subsequently advertised as “her fate.” She and Maudie, who had been intimates for years, met at the glove-counter of a well-known shop in Knightsbridge.

“You got my note, Ju?” said Mrs. Sutton. “I hope you are coming on Friday?”

“No, dearest; I am engaged to the Farmers—charades and a dance——”

“Oh, never mind the Farmers, Ju,” interrupted Mrs. Sutton; “this little dinner of mine is ten million times more important—and,” she lowered her voice and concluded her speech in a series of somewhat breathless whispers.

The young lady over the gloves was curious—evidently something mysterious was afoot! Miss Barker now became all animation and interest, and as she took leave of her friend, she kissed her repeatedly, and said—

“Thank you, dear old Maudie—you are a real friend!”

When Major Sutton received his brother officer at the drawing-room door, he said, “Look here, Pat, I owe you ever so many apologies—I guaranteed a family party, and I’ve let you in for a ‘Burra Khana.’ Maudie had arranged it before—better luck next time.”

There was indeed a large party at 402 Sloane Street, and Colonel Doran was one of the latest arrivals; he looked very distinguished and soldierly, as he talked to Mrs. Sutton, a vision in yellow and diamonds.

“I know you were told we were to be alone,” she said, smiling; “but it makes no matter to a man if there are three, or three hundred—not like us poor women, who have to dress according to numbers. Now I want to introduce you to a most particular old friend of mine, Miss Hollington-Barker,” and she towed him over to a sofa, on which was enthroned a handsome Juno-like form. “Julia—this is Johnny’s comrade, Colonel Doran; you are to be very nice to him, and he will take you down to dinner”; and with an affable smile Mrs. Sutton sailed away and left them.

Colonel Doran stood before Julia, lamely discoursing of the rain and the east wind—whilst she figuratively proceeded to take his measure. When she descended the stairs on her cavalier’s arm, Julia Barker had definitely decided that “he would do.”

He was neither too old, nor too young—he was good-looking, a gentleman, and a soldier—with a fine property in Ireland; and as to family, her own was of mushroom growth in comparison! Maudie Sutton had given her this splendid chance, and Miss Barker meant to seize it. She had heard all about Major Sutton’s distinguished friend—a man without relatives, but possessing immense savings and a castle—who was looking about him for a wife! There was now no occasion for him to seek further than his present companion. As his partner ate her soup, which he had declined, Colonel Doran studied her stealthily.

The lady was dark-browed, dark-haired, with brown eyes, a high colour, a large mouth, and a short straight nose; her age was considerably over thirty, her figure plump; she was remarkably well dressed (in one of Lady Barre’s cast-offs), black, with pink velvet, and wore a handsome old-fashioned necklace. Subsequently his eyes travelled round the table and he noted Mrs. Sutton—fair and fluffy-haired, animated and pretty. Sutton was a lucky man! He discovered several attractive-looking ladies; one opposite had dark auburn hair and an ivory skin, whom he admired immensely. And now his own partner began to unmask her fascinations; she was a practised diner-out, and talked well. Little did he guess that on the present occasion she was talking for a wedding ring, and straining every nerve to interest this polite, but unresponsive gentleman. Their conversation really opened with that disastrous catastrophe, the upsetting of the salt-cellar.

“Yes, and it’s on a Friday!” she exclaimed, with mock tragic eyes,—“and I’ve upset it towards you, and will bring you sorrow!”

As he looked a little embarrassed by this jaunty speech, she rattled on to relate the well-known anecdote of an absent-minded gentleman, who, having spilled some salt, instantly poured a glass of claret over it—thus transposing the usual remedy. With sundry excellent, and, to him, perfectly fresh chestnuts, she kept her victim thoroughly entertained—actually so interested, that he forgot to glance at the red-headed girl—or even at Mrs. Sutton—and refused two of the most toothsome plats. What a fortunate fellow he was, to have secured such a charming companion! By turns amusing, sympathetic, or serious; he had but to listen, to look into her eloquent dark eyes, admire her white teeth, and her delightful smile. Among other things, she told him how it had ever been the one dream of her life to go to India, and how she still devoured ravenously every book about India that came in her way. She drew him out cleverly about his regiment (his hobby), his chargers and polo-ponies, his tiger-shooting; and presently he found himself talking to the lady as if he had known her for years; they had discovered a mutual Indian friend—one Bobbie Travers, late of the 170th Bengal Lancers, who was Miss Barker’s own second cousin, and he—oh, lucky man—now commanded no less a regiment than Holland’s Horse. Here was a tie indeed! Bobbie proved not merely a link, but a chain, and it was almost in the nature of a shock when Mrs. Sutton gave the signal, and the two enthralled companions were compelled to relinquish an absorbing conversation.

As soon as the men appeared in the drawing-room, Miss Barker made a significant movement of her hand, and as the enchanted veteran ventured to occupy the seat beside her, she began—

“I am longing for you to finish that story about the old sower, and the pariah dog—do, please, do go on—you had just got to where he was lying on the orderly-room steps, when Maudie hustled us all upstairs”; and so conversation was resumed precisely where it had been interrupted. “Your experiences are so enthralling!” she remarked, as he took her coffee-cup. “I only wish my sister could hear them—you really ought to write a book.”

Colonel Doran looked at her doubtfully for a moment: then he laughed aloud.

“Lady Barre is my only sister; I live with her,” she resumed. This was not a fact. Julia happened to be staying with her for a few days; but, as the Spanish proverb says, “there is no tax on lies.” “Will you come and have tea with us some afternoon?”

“I—I——” He was about to refuse, but she suddenly looked up at him with an appeal in her eyes, and he said “Er—I shall be delighted.”

“We live at two hundred and five, Grosvenor Street,—shall we say Tuesday at four o’clock?”

“Thank you.”

“You won’t forget, will you?” again looking up at him. “If you do, I shall feel so hurt and disappointed.”

Colonel Doran, though over fifty years of age, blushed as if he were seventeen; he actually felt his face burning at the implied compliment. How astonishing it seemed that this handsome, charming woman should be interested in a battered old soldier. What did she see in him?

* * * * * *

“Fanny,” said Julia, as she opened the door of her sister’s boudoir. “So you’ve not gone to bed yet! I am so glad. I’ve something to say to you, and I want you to help me.”

“Yes,” agreed Lady Barre, languidly laying down her book. “The girls are out, and Tom is down at the house. What has happened? If it’s money again, I really cannot——”

“I’ve met a man to-night at the Suttons’,” broke in her sister.

Lady Barre nodded.

“And I intend to marry him.”

“Good gracious, Julia——”

“Yes; he is looking for a wife—so Major Sutton told Maudie—and I am looking for a husband. He is middle-aged, wealthy, of good family—a colonel in the army—just retired—with enormous savings; he has a fine estate and castle in Ireland, and not one relation in the wide world!”

“My dear, it sounds too good to be true! Who is he?”

“His name is Doran; he is rather silent and a little shy. I’ve invited him to tea here on Tuesday. I hope you are not engaged?”

“But I am—yes, to the Lovells; however, I will certainly stay at home and see your—catch.”

“Yes, it is time I was married; and I do honestly believe Colonel Doran has taken a fancy to me. He left when I did, and put me into a cab as if I were something precious and breakable. He has offered me tiger-claws.”

“What on earth for?”

“To make a necklet, of course.”

“You have fine claws of your own, Ju, if he only knew.”

Julia, who had removed her cloak, now reclined in an arm-chair, as if reposing after some exhausting effort. “To think of it, Fan”—ignoring this scratch—“I am going to be off your hands—and my own hands—at last!”

“I know how clever you are, Ju; but there is many a slip. You remember Eddie Ellis——”

“There will be no slip this time if you will back me up properly. Get Tom to leave a card at his club; ask him to dinner once or twice, and be nice to him.”

“Oh, I’ll do all that, of course, with pleasure”—and her ladyship sincerely meant it. She would strain every nerve to get Julia settled—a homeless, impecunious sister, always clinging to her—a sister, too, with endless debts, quarrels, and flirtations. Of course she was fond of poor old Ju, but she would be truly grateful to the man who would marry her, and relieve her of an incubus.

Colonel Doran was not kept in the dark respecting Miss Barker’s fine connections and amiable relations. He dined at Grosvenor Street; he had a seat in their box at the theatre. Indeed, Julia’s family received him with open arms, as if he were a long-expected friend; being, indeed, an eagerly-looked-for, and well approved suitor. Julia’s interest in sport was unquenchable; secretly she borrowed and read up books on Indian shikar, and was always radiantly pleased to see him—handsome, well dressed, and agreeable. In three weeks’ time, Colonel Doran had spoken the fatal words. Sitting over the fire in the little drawing-room one dull afternoon Miss Julia described in pitiful tones her own sad and solitary life. Fanny had her family, who engrossed her. “And I,” she added in a broken voice, “am really alone in the world. I shall be a forlorn old maid; no one cares for me.”

And, emboldened by this splendid opening, Colonel Doran figuratively rushed upon his fate.

* * * * * * *

It was decided that the engagement was to be brief, as the lady frankly declared—

“We are neither of us young; there is nothing to wait for; and the wedding can take place before Fanny leaves town. She won’t be back again till February.”

To this arrangement the happy bridegroom readily agreed. When money matters came to be discussed, Colonel Doran’s large estate dwindled down to £1,200 a year. This discovery proved a shock. It appeared that most of his surplus income had been lavished on his regiment; still, his pension was considerable, and living was cheap in Ireland. Fanny generously paid her sister’s debts and presented the trousseau. The bride-elect talked continually of Kilmoran Castle, and distributed pressing invitations—among friends unlikely to accept. There was a brilliant wedding, and showers of presents descended on old Ju Barker, who had made an unexpectedly good match. After the ceremony the happy pair left, amid a buzz of congratulations and a shower of rice and slippers, for Colonel Doran’s Irish seat.

Although he had repeatedly attempted to discount her expectations, Julia had turned a resolutely deaf ear to her fiancé.

“It is really nothing of a place,” he protested; “the old family house was burnt down eighty years ago. My ancestors gambled, and raced through most of the property; and though once we owned miles of country, we have only about two thousand acres of land—some of it is bog—and I am the last twig on our family tree. The castle is merely a house tacked on to an ancient keep; there are no grounds or conservatories—it is just a gloomy old barrack. But you will brighten it. I’ve had some of the rooms papered, and sent over a little modern furniture.”

“But your father and mother lived in it, as it was,” she argued, in a querulous key.

“Yes, and my grandfather too. I remember him when Nora and I were small children.”

“By the way, who is, or was, Nora?”

“Don’t you remember? I told you about her. My only sister—such a pretty girl; but when she was eighteen, she ran away to America—with the postman.”

“How awful! Has nothing been heard of her?”

“No, not for many years. I used to write to her, and send her money on the sly; my father would never allow her name to be mentioned.”

“He was right, I think; she behaved disgracefully.”

“My father married late in life, and had no sympathy with young people. Nora never had a moment’s freedom, and she was a wild, gay sort of girl—poor Nora! I’ve lost sight of her this twenty years; she was five years younger than I.”

In spite of her husband’s warning, Kilmoran Castle proved a terrible disappointment to the bride. First of all a mean little hump-backed gate lodge, covered with ivy as with a cloak, and a common rusty iron gate, then a winding weedy drive, and finally, the Castle!—merely a square grey keep, against which a two-storeyed white house had propped itself. There were no towers or battlements, there was not even a pillared porch to hide the vulgarity of a grass-green hall door. The garden in front was a dreary wilderness of overgrown box and old fuchsias. In short, the Castle had nothing pretty, noble, or uncommon, to recommend it; it was not even dignified by a curse, or a ghost. Within were several large low sitting-rooms, antique furniture, family pictures, and a smell of soot and dry rot. The bride having ascended to her room, collapsed on the first chair in floods of tears—bitter, angry tears. However, Julia Doran was not the sort of woman to sit and weep, and she soon, to use an American term, “took hold.” She explored the house, and cleverly appraised its mouldy contents, discovered the great stable-yard—capable of holding a troop of cavalry—and the huge garden, remnants of the glories of a former mansion; here, at least, was a sense of comfort and importance. The demesne was pretty, and the views lovely. After all, she was Mrs. Doran of Kilmoran Castle, and matters might be worse. For instance, she might still be Miss Barker—living on her friends, and her wits, in some cheap suburban boarding-house. To all important correspondents she despatched glowing accounts of her home, and on her cards and writing-paper was engraved “Kilmoran Castle” in clear large type; and as far as people in England could tell, it might be Chatsworth itself! Then the new lady (there had not been a Mrs. Doran for more than forty years) began to institute improvements. Trees were cut down, old lumber carted away, rooms were opened and aired; she set up a carriage, and taught the immediate neighbourhood to keep its distance. There was to be no running in and out of the Castle now. Next, she issued an edict, and dismissed several old servants. Dotards and blood-suckers, she termed them, and if they had been forty years at Kilmoran, it was twenty years too long. She set her face sternly against authorised beggars, and all pensioners; and oh, crowning enormity, she sold the skim milk, which for a century and more, had been a free gift. Alas, there was now no picking up of firewood in the plantations, no winking at stray cattle—or even goats; altogether it was a new régime.

Colonel Doran made a gallant struggle to stem the revolution, but found himself powerless. His wife had a strong and ruthless will. Remonstrances merely led to scenes: the lady, with a red face, stormed and scolded; she assured him that he was a fool, living in an old barrack, and being ruined by a pack of greedy parasites, and that she would never stand by and calmly witness such extravagance. So at last, for the sake of a quiet life, the unhappy gentleman succumbed; he was alive to the fact that his marriage had been a terrible mistake, but he bore his sufferings with a patience and resignation that was almost oriental in its character. He busied himself beyond the scope of Julia’s operations, became a justice of the peace, farmed, hunted, and took up the broken links of ancient family friendships.

As far as lay in his power, the Colonel helped his poor dependents: in secret, and out of his own pocket he remitted rents, or bought on the sly a cow or an ass; for Mrs. Doran was a woman of business. Precisely like the model French wife, she kept the keys, the accounts, and all domestic power, in her own hands, and, but for her streak of hard greed, was an admirable manager.

The Dorans had two children, both boys—Barker, the elder, was stout, lumpish, black-eyed,—his mother’s favourite, and a Barker, as she proudly proclaimed. Ulick, the second, was a slender, delicate child, with clear-cut features, and large grey eyes. As he resembled the Dorans, his mother did not care for him; he was strong-willed, undemonstrative, and passionately attached to his father.

When Ulick was seven years of age, and Barker nine, Colonel Doran caught a bad cold, which developed into pneumonia, and died suddenly. Being much respected, he was accorded that final tribute and compliment, a great funeral; it was more than two miles long, and the boast among his retainers for many years.

“A nice, quiet kind man. God rest him! A real gentleman,” was his epitaph; and some went so far as to add—

“Faix, he has had a poor sort of life, and maybe he is glad to be out of it.”

Ten years had elapsed since the great funeral. The boys were growing up. Ulick’s godfather, Major Sutton, had sent him to Wellington, and occasionally invited him to London for a week, but Barker remained in Ireland, under his mother’s supervision, qualifying for the position of Master of Kilmoran; he had been a short time at school, and then, in answer to his fervid representations, his devoted parent had installed him at home with a resident tutor, whilst Ulick went to Sandhurst; for Ulick had decided to follow the usual career of a younger son, and was resolved to be a soldier.

CHAPTER III

Mrs. Doran, generally called Mrs. “Colonel” Doran, and by her retainers “the ould wan,” was well known to fame in the immediate region of her personal influence—that is to say, within a visiting distance of fifteen Irish miles from her own door. The lady cherished a delusion that she was one of the most prominent figures in the province, and if she had been persuaded to whisper her claims to this distinction, would have announced, “high birth, good breeding, and benevolence.” But alas! how differently do others see us! The reputation she bore was in startling contradiction to her illusions. People talked openly of Mrs. Doran’s arrogance, rudeness, and parsimony, and the lower orders boldly proclaimed her to be “a holy terror.” Her blustering tyranny, her meanness, and inflexible resolve to get more than her money’s worth, revolted the souls of her miserable retainers, whilst among the upper ten her systematic assumption of superiority, and barefaced endeavours to make use of every one, added to a malignant tongue, caused the lady to be not merely disliked, but feared. As for her benevolence, no one denied that she was a most indefatigable beggar. She begged boldly for money, blankets, and cast-off garments, and distributed the alms of other people; but she never contributed herself—indeed, the malicious went so far as to say that Mrs. Doran embezzled certain of these moneys, and put them in her pocket, believing that charity began in her own home; also, they declared that she gave the collected flannel, and blankets, to her servants, and wore the pick of the clothes herself! In fact, a certain class detested Mrs. Doran so intensely that they were ready to say or believe anything to her disadvantage.

Since the days when she came to Kilmoran, a showy and self-possessed bride, the lady was much changed, and was now a stout, red-faced matron, with a bustling gait, incredible energy, and a large balance at her banker’s. To give her her due, she had worked hard, and nursed the estate for her beloved Barky, who loafed through life, whilst his active mother held the reins of government. But even her bitterest foe could not deny that the Englishwoman had wrought improvements. There was now an imposing entrance, with gilded gates; on either pier sat a great stone wolf-hound (the crest of the once noble Dorans); a pretty pleasure-ground lay before the Castle; and a smart man-servant (on board wages), opened the door; but unfortunately nothing could be done for the Castle itself!—nothing short of razing it to the ground, and rebuilding it. The rooms were all suitably furnished, with the most modern antique treasures, including tapestry. A flag waved languidly from the roof of the ancient tower. Certainly the place looked both prosperous and pretentious. Mrs. Doran, in a smart landau with a pair of fine bays, scoured the country, and established intimate relations with all the people of wealth and position. To these she was affectionate, sympathetic, and even confidential; but she was not given to hospitality, and preferred to see her friends in their own homes. Two garden-parties per summer, and a couple of hunting luncheons, were the limit of her efforts. With the professional class Mrs. Doran was stand-off, and “an Earl’s grand-daughter” (unless she required a legal opinion, or a prescription), and she was a wonderful woman to borrow! The lower orders she simply looked upon as slaves. They were a race apart, and to these she was an autocrat, and a tyrant. Those who were unluckily her workmen, and born on the property, had to work longer than elsewhere. The bell clanged at six o’clock in the morning, and at six in the evening. The payment was one shilling a day—a penny an hour! And the active lady tramped round the fields herself, and saw that there was no idling. She did not trust her steward, in fact, she trusted no one, except Barky—it was for him she was toiling and saving; he should be a wealthy man yet, and marry into the peerage! Everything that made an outside show was properly maintained; but where matters were not open to the public eye, it was otherwise. There was a stinting in fires, in lamp-oil, in the servants’ food, in matches, yea, and in washing! Time, which had wrought changes in the property, had not improved its future owner. Barky, as he was called, had been firmly secured to his mother’s apron-strings and spoiled to his heart’s content. He was naturally a lazy, self-indulgent boor, stupid and stubborn, with an enormous conception of his own importance. Much of this might have been eliminated at a good public school—where he would have been compelled to bestir himself, yield to others, and realise his own true value. In appearance he was thick-set, with short legs, and a long body: naturally no horseman. He had cunning little dark eyes, a high colour, a thick neck, and slouched as he walked. He spoke with a common accent, and rarely opened a book or wrote a letter; but he was fond of smoking, and as devoted to cards and gambling as his unworthy ancestors. He enjoyed low company, yet had a most exalted idea of his own status. Ulick, at the age of seventeen, presented a complete contrast to his brother; he was tall and slender, and spoke with an English accent, until he became roused or excited, which was seldom; like his father, he was a born horseman—in fact, he resembled him in many ways, and inherited his parent’s popularity among the country people. Although Barker would unbend, and borrow sporting-papers from the coachman, and play “spoil fire” with stable-boys in the harness-room, yet for all this condescension his companions were never sure of him—he would “round on them” at a moment’s notice, no longer the jovial comrade, but the blustering, cursing master; whilst Mr. Ulick, who made no freedom, was always the same, and a gentleman!

Mrs. Doran was a keen woman of business, and by no means a bad farmer, save that she grudged a proper supply of manure, got all that she could off the land, and put but little back. Young horses were one of her adventures, and as a rule, though they are considered a risky investment, they paid her well. In the first place, she had an invaluable head groom, an ancient retainer, who, for the sake of the old master, stayed on, receiving small wages and enduring many indignities; no better judge of a three-year-old long-tail than Peter Duffy ever stood in an Irish fair. These he brought home, handled, rode, and sold, with most satisfactory results.

Latterly, Peter was getting too heavy to ride to hounds, or school the young ones, and Master Ulick, when at home, took his place. All the world agreed that he was “the darling on a colt, with the loveliest hands in the world, and as bold as a young lion.” It is unnecessary to mention that none of his admirers had ever seen a young lion following the foxhounds; but their praise, though ignorant, was heartfelt and sincere.

Ulick loved animals, especially horses; he was crazy about hunting, and when he was at Kilmoran spent most of his time in the saddle. His mother made no objection; she was alive to the pecuniary value of a light-weight rider, and knew that after a month or two of Ulick’s training the young hunters’ prices were sensibly increased.

Even from the time he was twelve years old, this light-weight boy, with light hands, a bold heart, and mounted on an animal as youthful and eager as himself, caused many a pang of envy, and memory of the “has-been days,” to the veteran followers of the Harkaway hounds.

When Ulick was seventeen, and a cadet at Sandhurst, he met with an accident that nearly brought his career, and his neck, to an untimely end. One raw winter afternoon the hounds were running not far from Kilmoran. It had been a grand scenting day. Sport was good, and Ulick was out on a new investment—a fine upstanding four-year-old, with grand legs and quarters, but with an ugly fiddle-head and a small pig-like eye. He had, however, a famous pedigree—and with that same pedigree was allied a temper. At first he went kindly, taking all before him with extraordinary flippancy, sailing over places big or little, in a manner that it was a pleasure to witness. A hard-riding cavalry man had already bought him (mentally) and entered him for a couple of steeplechases at Punchestown and Sandown. Suddenly, something put the brown horse out—one never quite knows what upsets a hunter’s temper. Leading the field, he came thundering down to a big boundary-fence, wheeled about sharp on the edge, as if on a pivot—in short, balked before the whole hunt, knocked fifty pounds off his price, and all but shot his rider into the next field. The thrusting followers of the Harkaways stormed the obstacle and galloped on, and Ulick made another effort, put the horse at the ditch, which he again refused; and he not only refused, but reared, and snorted. As the hounds were now far ahead, his rider was determined to get the horse over, so to speak, dead or alive; the brown colt was as positively resolved not to jump. Each, boy and beast, was furious with the other; their blood was up, and it was now a frantic personal affair between them. The beast stood planted, with tucked-in tail, ears laid back, in a lather of sweat and foam, the picture of stubborn strength; the boy, with set white face, was equally dogged, and used every means in his power to conquer the brute—whip, spurs, voice. These were answered by plunges, rearings, and loud snorts of angry defiance. Then Ulick Doran tried peaceful methods, soothing and coaxing, and gentle walkings to and fro. But all to no purpose. The contest had lasted for twenty minutes. The field was empty, save for an old white goat, who stared her astonishment at the proceedings, and a little girl of ten years old, who had been watching the hunt from the top of the boundary-fence, and was the only human witness of the struggle—rather a pretty, slender child, with an amazing quantity of bright red hair; she wore no cap or hat, and was out, so to speak, in her pinafore.

It was a raw December afternoon, and little Mary Foley, her bare arms wrapped in her bib, waited on the top of the big ditch with breathless interest to see which would win, man or horse; and if Master Ulick would get the better of the baste? Her curiosity and anxiety were equally kindled. All the country knew, to use a local expression, “that Master Ulick’s riding bet all.” But, on the other hand, the horse looked a real savage, and the poor young gentleman might be hurted or killed. Anyhow, the Gripe was a terrible big lep.

The Gripe was a huge, deep ditch at the taking-off side. The landing was on a big sound bank, the top of which was only a few feet above the level of the next field; it was a wide, but otherwise perfectly safe up-jump, and the brown horse had negotiated several others of the same description with ease; he could, and he would—and—he would not.

During his exertions Ulick became aware of a figure in a fluttering blue pinafore, who was the sole spectator—a little girl, with a pair of remarkably neat black legs, who capered about on the top of the bank at a safe and discreet distance. It was the Foley child; he recognised her carroty head; she was not in the way at all, but what was she waiting for? He hated to see her watching him; he wished to goodness she would go home—indeed, he would be thankful to go home himself. As a last desperate expedient, he struck spurs into the sulky colt, and sent him round the field full gallop; wheeled suddenly, and brought him down to the fence at a pace that was terrific. The horse was taken unawares. No time now for stopping or propping: it was a case of in, or over; his own impetus carried him sheer off his legs; he made a spring—landed on the bank——

The little girl’s irrepressible yell of triumph died away on her lips when she beheld the hunter, after landing, stumble, lose his legs, and roll helplessly into the field, with his rider beneath him. At first she was too horrified to scream, or even stir. Surely to goodness they were both dead!

Presently the brown colt scrambled to his feet, shook himself, sniffed at his prostrate rider, then trotted off with high knee action, trailing reins, and proudly waving tail, as much as to say, “I think I got the best of that!”

Meanwhile, Ulick Doran lay in a motionless heap, precisely as if he were lifeless—in fact, as the child said to herself, “There was not a stir out of him! and what was to be done at all, at all?” Not a soul was likely to come near them; her father’s cottage was four fields away, and he and her mother were out, it being market day, and there was not a creature within but the cat. She crept down from the bank, and cautiously approached the still form. Master Ulick was as white as a sheet; his eyes were closed, and from a deep cut in his forehead the blood was oozing. Mary Foley, an only child, was unusually sharp and self-confident for her age; her mother, a delicate woman, was given to “weak turns” and long faints, and on some of these occasions little Mary had tended her without assistance. Perhaps Master Ulick was only overcome with the same kind of strong weakness as her mother? She eyed him critically for a moment, then boldly filched his handkerchief from his pocket, and darted off to the Holy Well, which lay within a couple of hundred yards. Returning breathless, she dabbed his temples and forehead with ice-cold water; and still he never moved, but lay like a stone. Then she sat down on the grass and raised his head, and laid it on her small lap; and as she resumed her operations with the wet handkerchief, some salt tears became mingled with the water from St. Bridget’s Well. In a short time she was weeping bitterly.

All at once Ulick Doran opened his eyes. Where was he? His head was reeling round, but he grasped that above him was a watery, wintry sky, beneath him the hard, damp earth, behind his head something small! What? He turned his glance upwards, and beheld a pair of streaming hazel eyes, and a mop of rough red hair. Was it a fairy? For a moment he lay motionless, and wondered; then, as his senses gradually returned to him, he recollected the child on the ditch. Yes, he had come a tremendous cropper! Was the horse killed? He struggled to a sitting posture. No, the brute was all right, grazing away in the corner of the field. The effort cost him agony, and he realised that he was badly hurt; his shoulder seemed twisted, and altogether he felt sick and faint, and as if he had been recently passed under a steam-roller.

“Holy Mary be praised! And ye are not killed all out, Mr. Ulick?” piped a small voice, and the child rose to her feet.

“No. Do I look like it?” he answered cheerily.

“And ye got the better of him after all!”

“I’m not so sure of that. Anyhow, he has the best of it now”; and his eyes wandered to the hunter, who was cropping grass along a headland with the zest of a gourmand.

“Are ye much hurted?” she asked. Generally, when her mother “came to,” she was all right!

“My head feels a bit buzzy, and I believe I’ve put my shoulder out, and broken some bones.”

“What’s to be done?” she asked, wringing her little red hands. “What’s to be done at all? Shall I run up to the Castle?”

“No, it’s a good mile off, and I don’t fancy sitting here; and besides, I don’t want to frighten them.” He was talking to this bare headed imp as if she were a grown-up woman. “If I could get on the horse—I know there’s a lane hereabouts—I’d manage all right.”

He made a violent effort and rose to his feet, but quickly collapsed again. “I can’t walk, that’s sure”; and he looked over at the brown colt.

“Shall I catch him for your honour?”

“You!” he repeated sarcastically. “What a chance you’d have!”

“Yes, faix, and I would,” she rejoined stoutly.

“Are you not afraid?”

“Is it me! I’m afraid of no horse or man, or any sort of beast whatever. Wasn’t it me, that bested Colgan’s old savage sow! I’m not used to horses—but I’m fine and handy with cows.”

“All right then, go and try your luck.” And as young Doran sat on the ground endeavouring to stanch the blood which trickled into his eyes, he was amazed and amused at the manœuvres of the child in the blue pinafore. First she walked boldly forward, then she stood as if meaning nothing at all; next she stalked warily; finally she pounced almost imperceptibly on the reins, and before the big sixteen-hander could jerk back his head and snatch them and his liberty, she had him by the bit. Her very boldness and audacity astonished her captive as much as her captive’s master. She soothed and patted the big, upstanding hunter, and he, being now full of grass, and also a little sobered and lamed by his recent fall, actually suffered himself to be led forward like the traditional lamb.

“Why, you are a regular horse-tamer!” cried Ulick, as she approached.

“I have a way with animals, they say,” she replied; “they are tame enough with me.”

“He has given himself a bad over-reach I see! Well, now little Foley, will you put your hand in my pocket—this one—and pull out a flask, and uncork it, as I’ve only one hand?”

She instantly did as requested, and with nimble, red fingers fished out a small silver flask.

“Whisky?” she suggested, as she unscrewed the stopper.

“No, sherry. I shall want some jumping powder to get on the fellow’s back”; and he took a long draught. As he handed the flask to her to be replaced, he said, “Hullo! little Foley, what’s this? You’ve been blubbering; there are two great dirty streaks down your cheeks! What were you crying for?”

“Well, then, Mr. Ulick,” getting very red, “sure, didn’t I think you were dead?”

“And so you were weeping over my remains? That was very kind of you, little Foley.”

“And wouldn’t any one cry after you, Master Ulick?” she demanded with an air of friendly wonder.

“Would they? Well I hope I shan’t give them a chance for some years. Now, do you stand by his head, and I’ll do my big best to get on his back.”

Apparently the effort was not merely protracted, but agonising. When Mary looked up at the rider, she was startled at what she saw; his face seemed drawn and grey, like that of an old man; the skin looked clammy.

“Now run along”—he spoke between his shut teeth—“and try and break down the stone gap into the boreen.”

This feat Mary accomplished without difficulty, and Ulick and his lame hunter passed through into the lane. All up the lane, they were closely attended by the child, who seemed to consider them both under her care. At last they reached a black wooden gate leading into the so-called demesne; as she opened it, she halted, and so did Ulick Doran.

“Well, little Foley, you are a queer little devil, and a real brick. I wish I’d something to give you, but I can’t get at my pocket, as you know.”

“Sure, I wouldn’t take anything, thank your honour,” she answered, with amusing hauteur, “not if it was gold itself.”

He stared down hard into the serious, uplifted eyes, and asked—

“But are you not Pat Foley’s girl; the one I see with the red head peeping through the gate at Foley’s corner?”

“Yes, ye’ honour, I am so.”

“You have done a good job for me to-day: you know that I’d like to do something for you. What would you say to a nice big doll?”

“Is it a doll? No, no!” reddening, “nothing, nothing.”

“Then I’m in your debt, and I hate to be in any one’s debt. You’ve got my hat, I see; I can’t put it on just now.”

“No, sir, I’ll take it up this evening; ye may be wanting it.”

“Well, good-bye. I must try and get on home, before I fall off;” and as he gave the limping brown his head, the pair moved painfully away.

It was many a day before Ulick Doran wanted his hat. He had had a bad fall—broken his arm, and two of his ribs; it was a miracle how he had ever mounted his hunter and ridden home. The doctors agreed that he was a boy of incredible fortitude and resolution, and as a man, he would be bound to go far.

Ulick explained to his family the scene of the accident, and how Foley’s little girl had come to his assistance.

“Only for her I suppose I might have lain there a week. She is a wonderful child, and has her head screwed on the right way. I daresay you know her?” he added, turning to his mother.

“Oh, yes, the little foxy thing,” she rejoined indifferently.

“She’s uncommonly plucky and handy,” urged her son.

“I hope you did not praise her to her face! She is spoiled enough as it is,” declared Mrs. Doran. “Being the only child Katty ever reared, they think the world does not hold her equal. Katty dresses her almost like a lady!—gets her shoes from Cork, and knits her long black stockings, just the same as the Rectory children wear. It’s a sin to be giving the brat a taste for dress. For my part I think she is just a flighty, impudent little monkey, and whenever I come across her I take right good care to give her a setting down.”

Little Mary often recalled the day of the hunt, and one event in her life. She had of course frequently related the incident to her mother and father, and even escorted them to the field, and shown them the very marks of the horse’s hoofs on the bank, and explained how he fell, and where Mr. Ulick lay, as if stone dead.

“Faix, if it had been the other,” muttered Pat to his wife, “he’d have been no great loss. But poor Mr. Ulick, thank God he was spared; he is the very spit of his father, the old Colonel.”

As soon as he was convalescent, Ulick Doran joined the regiment to which he had been gazetted, and was not seen again at Kilmoran for some years.

CHAPTER IV

When Mary Foley was sixteen, she ceased to attend the local day school, being considered for her station a finished pupil. She wrote a good hand, was fairly well grounded in grammar and arithmetic, had acquired the Irish, and was an excellent needlewoman. Mary was no longer called “Foxy” or “Carrots,” for she was bewitchingly pretty, and her clouds of auburn hair shaded a radiant face. She had also what was described as “a wonderful way with her” and an extraordinary fascination for most of the boys in the barony. John Foley had been dead for some years; his death was no pecuniary loss to his widow, who had him “well insured,” but she gave up most of the land adjoining the farm, only keeping the house, garden, and the grass of a couple of cows, seeing there was, as she explained, “now but Mary and herself in it, and beasts were bothersome.” To tell the truth, Mary was not particularly partial to farm labour; indeed, plain girls, her detractors, openly declared that “there was too much of the lady about Miss Foley”; but she did her share, as her fond parent bragged, if she was not over keen with regard to the wash-tub, or scouring. She was handy with her needle, and made quite a nice lot of money, sewing for Mrs. Hogan at the Glenveigh Arms. Also she looked after the fowls and eggs, the cows and calves. “Oh, she was,” her mother declared, “a grand little girl for work.” “Aye,” agreed her enemies, “but it was all gentry’s work. Who ever saw Mary on her knees scrubbing, or washing out the pots? Whilst as for pigs, she set her face entirely against them.” She would neither be said nor led, and since poor Pat died, the stye was standing empty. Was ever the likes known?

There were two roads to the Castle from Foley’s Corner; one lay across the fields, up the boreen, and through the iron gate—this was the fine-weather approach; the other, a long round by the high road, and imposing principal entrance.

One bright September afternoon Mary was returning from Kilmoran, swinging her empty egg-basket, when in the lane she descried a handsome young gentleman in a grey tweed suit and cap, and immediately recognised Mr. Ulick. This was no great feat; she had heard up above that “the Captain” had arrived home now for a good spell, and was a really splendid-looking young officer. But Mr. Doran lacked Mary’s advantages; he had not the slightest suspicion of the identity of this pretty slim girl, in a well-fitting blue cotton dress, who was gradually approaching him from the demesne. He could not even place her. She was not the usual country type; her bones were small, her carriage erect, assured, graceful; and there was a finish about her dress that was unusual. He noticed the little bit of lace at the neck, the trim belt. However, she wore no hat, and was undoubtedly a peasant. As this girl was about to pass him, she dropped a hurried curtsey, and glanced at him timidly, with a pair of bewildering hazel eyes. Surely he had met those eyes somewhere? A sudden gleam of memory flashed into Ulick’s brain. He halted and exclaimed—

“Is it possible that you are Mary Foley?”

“Yes, your honour.” Another curtsey, and it was difficult to ignore her girlish flutter, her evident joy at seeing him again.

“I declare I scarcely recognised you. How you have grown!”

“Children mostly do,” she rejoined with composure.

“I suppose you consider yourself grown up?”

“Yes, sir, I have left the schoolin’.”

“And so your education is complete?”

“I would not say that, but,” shifting her basket to her other arm, “I learnt all they taught, so I did.”

“Reading, writing, arithmetic. The three R’s.”

“Yes, and grammar, history, and geography. I loved geography.”

“Well, it is a harmless passion. Can you tell me where Malta is?”

“Faix, unless it’s lost, sir, it should be in the Mediterranean Sea.”

“Oh, I see you cannot be puzzled, can you?”

“Oh, then indeed I can, and am, often and many a time.”

“Tell me what puzzles you.”

“No, sir, I really couldn’t make so free”; and she moved a step, as if to pass on.

Two long hours lay between him and dinner. Young Doran had nothing particular to do; his mother was irritable and continually scolding some one. It was rather pleasant, standing in this fragrant lane, talking to this pretty, shy, yet audacious colleen.

“You have been up at the Castle, I presume?” he continued.

“Yes, your honour, selling eggs to her ladyship.”

“I hope you make a good thing out of it?”

“Well,” a pause, “I just bid to take what her ladyship gives me—sixpence the dozen, and young chickens a shilling a couple.”

“A shilling—a—a—couple!” he repeated; and he felt his face becoming warm.

“Well, of course I could get more in the market, or even from the hawkers,” she continued, “but ye see we live on the land, and her ladyship has the first call, and—and—anyhow, though the price is not much, the Castle is convenient-like.”

“Do you remember the last time I saw you?” inquired her ladyship’s shamefaced son, “and the cropper I came, over in that field?” and he pointed in the direction.

“Aye, to be sure I do, sir! What would ail me that I’d forget it? Sure, weren’t you nearly killed dead?”

“Nearly, I suppose. I have not forgotten what you did for me that day.”

“Sure it was nothing, sir, I’d do as much for ye again.”

“I hope you never may have the chance! You were a kind, active little helper. How you did run about, and how you mothered me! I’ve owed you a debt ever since; I’d like to give you a souvenir of some sort even now—better late than never.”

“Thank your honour, but I have one already, and one is all I want.”

“What may it be? Not my hat—you brought that after me!”

“No, I’ve no call for hats. ’Twas the horse’s shoe I found, an elegant, bright new shoe; it was lying on the grass on the other side of the ditch. I have it nailed up, ever since, for luck.”

“Has it brought you any?”

“Well, then, I can’t say much for it so far, yer honour.”

“It may do great things yet.”

“Well, God send it. And now, if your honour pleases, I must be going on. I’m late as it is——”

“Why, where is your hurry?”

“Sure, hasn’t the cows to be milked, and the calf fed?”

“I wish I could help you—for I’m out of a job to-day.”

Mary suddenly broke into laughter and displayed a row of pretty little teeth. “You’d make a poor hand of the milking, I’m thinking,” she said.

“Anyway, I’ll walk back with you as far as the stone gap, if I may?”

“Sure, the boreen is your honour’s own land, and what’s to hinder you?”

“Old Crock na Bowl looks well this evening,” suddenly remarked the young fellow, as they turned and faced a towering purple peak, on which lay the long afternoon shadows.

“Oh, he’s there right enough,” said Mary, with indifference.

“Now you’d like to see another mountain for a change?”

“Bedad, I would so. I’m always craving to visit the grand places I read about. It’s your honour that has been round the world, and in fine countries, and foreign parts.”

“Only in Spain and Malta so far; but we are going to India the next reliefs. Ah, here is the stone gap you once pulled down for me. Allow me to help you over——”

“Is it, help me?” and she laughed derisively. “Why there is not a wall or gap in the country to stop me.”

“At least I may hold the basket?”

“No, no, sir,” and she smiled, and stood irresolute, wondering how she was to bid farewell to the young master. Should she curtsey? or would she just take herself off anyhow?

“Before you go, Mary Foley, you might tell me at least one of the things that puzzles you. I’ve nothing to do. Maybe I can guess the riddle! I’m rather good at that sort of thing.”

“Well, then, I just will, sir, since ye have axed me twice. There’s a matter that sticks in my mind, and I cannot get shut of it.”

“Yes, let us have it by all means.”

“Can you tell me,” and she paused, and looked at him steadily, “why some have every mortal blessed thing, and others—have nothing at all?”

“But how do you mean?” he asked, rather taken aback. This description of puzzle was far from what he had anticipated.

“Why look at Miss Cunninghams, and look at me!”

“Yes”; and he looked at her.

“They are ladies born, and live in a park, and wear beautiful dresses, and ride fine hunters, and eat with silver forks; they go away and see the world, with plenty of money in their pockets. And for me, I live in a little weenchie cottage, and work hard, and I will never lay an eye on any sight better than Crock na Bowl, or do anything but cook, and milk, as long as the breath is in me! And I’d just love to see life. Why were they born one way, and me another?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” he replied.

“Well, ye see, I’ve asked ye my riddle, and ye cannot answer it,” she said with a smile, “so now I’ll be going”; and without another word, Mary Foley clambered lightly over the stone gap (she still wore black stockings, and had remarkably neat ankles), and presently disappeared.