While Joy was in the midst of her preparations for departure, Mrs
Connor made her appearance with swollen eyes and red, blistered face.
"And it's the talk of that ould witch of a Baroness, may the divil
run away with her, that is drivin' ye away, is it?" she cried
excitedly; "and it's not Mrs Connor as will consist to the daughter
of your mother, God rest her soul, lavin' my house like this. To
think that I should have had ye here all these years, and never known
ye to be her child till now, and now to see ye driven away by the
divil's own! But if it's the fear of not being able to pay the rint
because ye've lost your position, ye needn't lave for many a long day
to come. It's Mrs Connor would only be as happy as the queen herself
to work her hands to the bone for ye, remembering your darlint of a
mother, and not belavin' one word against her, nor ye."
So soon as Joy could gain possession of her surprised senses, she
calmed the weeping woman and began to question her.
"My good woman," she said, "what are you talking about? Did you ever
know my mother, and where did you know her?"
"In the Palace, to be sure, as they called the house of that imp of
Satan, the Baroness. I was the wash-lady there, for it's not Mrs
Conner the landlady as is above spakin' of the days when she wasn't
as high in the world as she is now; and many is the cheerin' cup of
coffee or tay from your own mother's hand, that I've had in the
forenoon, to chirk me up and put me through my washing, bless her
sweet face; and niver have I forgotten her; and niver have I ceased
to miss her and the fine young man that took such an interest in her
and that I'm as sure loved her, in spite of his marrying the Judge's
spook of a daughter, as I am that the Holy Virgin loves us all; and
it's a foine man that your father must have been, but young Mr Cheney
was foiner.
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