As Lord Mulgrave’s eyes met those of his companion, he said--
“Yes, Usher, she is my child, and her mother’s daughter. Oh, what a blessing and happiness to come so suddenly, when I thought that life held no more--that nothing lay before me but the long, monotonous road that leads to the gate of death. Now I have something to----” He paused abruptly, and remembered himself. “You see how it is. The discovery of an unexpected treasure has been a shock, and I’m rambling, from sheer happiness. I will never forget, Usher, that I owe it chiefly to _you_.”
A frightened face now appeared at the half-door, and Mary said--
“Oh, sir, me mother is took awful bad in her breathing. Will ye go and send some one for Doctor Manns? I’ve no red ticket,--but we can pay him.”
The two visitors set off at once, and despatched a doctor post-haste from Glenveigh, with instructions that no exertions or expense were to be spared on behalf of Mrs. Foley.
The sick woman remained unconscious for twenty-four hours, and then rallied; but on the morning of the third day, when Lord Mulgrave walked over early in order to make his usual inquiries, he was met by Mary at the gate. Her eyes were red, and her face was sodden with crying.
“Oh, sir,” she began, “sure I see you can guess!” She sobbed aloud, and the tears poured down her pale cheeks. “She was took off in her sleep about sunrise. Me mother is dead!”
The letter (for it was altogether too serious and strange a story to telegraph) which reached Lady Mulgrave, relating the fact that Mary Foley was Joseline Dene, disturbed her to such a degree that she was compelled to plead a shocking headache, and lunch as well as breakfast, in her own apartments.
It took her some time to attempt to realise a stepdaughter, aged twenty-one, Irish, uneducated, vulgar, and tawdry. _What_ could she do with the creature? A social atrocity, a well-born deformity! A girl with the best blood of France and England in her veins, and the ideas, aspirations, and deportment of a kitchen-maid! Oh, she felt as if the foundations of her position, were being upheaved.
If it were only possible to marry the creature, and get her out of the way! But who would care to be the husband of a horror who spoke with a common brogue, probably took sevens in gloves, dressed in emerald green, and had a passion for turf and potatoes?