“I tried them, one and all, colleen,” he said, “and never were fellows more taken aback. 'Is it you to lose your property, O'Shanaghgan?' they said. They wouldn't believe me at first.”
“Well, father, and will they help?” said Nora.
“Bless you, they would if they could. There's not a better-natured man in the length and breadth of Ireland than Fin O'Hara; and as to John Fitzgerald, I believe he would take us all into his barrack of a house; but they can't help with money, Nora, because, bedad, they haven't got it. A man can't turn stones into money, even for his best and dearest friends.”
“Then what is to be done, father?”
“Oh, I'll manage somehow,” said Squire O'Shanaghgan; “and we have three months all but a week to turn round in. We'll manage by hook or by crook. Don't you fret your pretty little head. I wouldn't have a frown on the brow of my colleen for fifty O'Shanaghgans, and that's plain enough. I couldn't say more, could I?”
“No, father dear,” answered Nora a little sadly.
“And tell me what you were doing while I was away,” said the Squire. “Faith! I thought I could never get back fast enough, I seemed to pine so for you, colleen; you fit me down to the ground.”
Nora began to relate the small occurrences which had taken place. The Squire laughed at Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's sudden desire that Nora should be an educated lady.
“I don't hold with these new fashions about women,” he said; “and you are educated enough for me.”
“But, father, I like to read, I like to learn,” said the girl. “I am very, very anxious to improve myself. I may be good enough for you, dear father, for you love me with all my faults; but some day I may pine for the knowledge which I have not got.”
“Eh! is it that way with you?” said the Squire, looking at her anxiously. “They say it's a sort of a craze now amongst women, the desire to beat us men on our own ground; it's very queer, and I don't understand it, and I am sorry if the craze has seized my girleen.”
“Oh! never mind, father dear; I wouldn't fret you for all the learning in Christendom.”
“And I wouldn't fret you for fifty estates like O'Shanaghgan,” said the Squire, “so it strikes me we are both pretty equal in our sentiments.” He patted her cheek, she linked her hand in his, and they walked together down one of the sunny meadows.
Nora thought of Neil, but determined not to trouble her father about him just then. Notwithstanding her cheerfulness, her own heart was very heavy. She possessed, with all her Irish ways, some of the common sense of her English ancestors, and knew from past experience that now there was no hope at all of saving the old acres and the old house unless something very unexpected turned up. She understood her father's character too well; he would be happy and contented until a week before the three months were up, and then he would break down utterly—go under, perhaps, forever. As to turning his back on the home of his ancestors and the acres which had come to him through a long line, Nora could not face such a possibility.
“It cannot be; something must happen to prevent it,” she thought.
She thought and thought, and suddenly a daring idea came into her mind. All her life long her mother's relations had been brought up to her as the pink of propriety, the souls of wealth. Her uncle, George Hartrick, was, according to her mother, a wealthy man. Her mother had often described him. She had said that he had been very angry with her for marrying the Squire, but had confessed that at times he had been heard to say that the O'Shanaghgans were the proudest and oldest family in County Kerry, and that some day he would visit them on their own estate.
“I have prevented his ever coming, Nora,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan; “it would be such a shock to him. He thinks we live in a castle such as English people live in, with suites of magnificent rooms, and crowds and crowds of respectably dressed servants, and that we have carriages and horses. I have kept up this delusion; he must never come over to see the nakedness of the land.”
But now the fact that her Uncle George had never seen the nakedness of the land, and that he was attached to her mother, and proud of the fact that she had married an Irish gentleman of old descent, kept visiting Nora again and again. If she could only see him! If she could only beg of him to lend her father a little money just to avert the crowning disgrace of all—the O'Shanaghgans leaving their home because they could not afford to stop there, Nora thought, and the wild idea which had crept into her head gathered strength.
“There is nothing for it; something desperate must be done,” she thought. “Father won't save himself, because he does not know how. He will just drift on until a week of the fatal day, and then he will have an illness. I cannot let father die; I cannot let his heart be broken. I, Nora, will do something.”
So one day she locked herself in her room. She stayed there for a couple of hours, and when she came out again a letter was thrust into her pocket. Nora was not a good letter-writer, and this one had taken nearly two hours to produce. Tears had blotted its pages, and the paper on which it was written was of the poorest, but it was done at last. She put a stamp on it and ran downstairs. She went to Hannah's cabin. Standing in front of the cabin was her small admirer Mike. He was standing on his head with the full blaze of the sunlight all over him, his ragged trousers had slipped down almost to his knees, and his little brown bare legs and feet were twinkling in the sun. His bright sloe-black eyes were fixed on Nora as she approached.
“Come here, Mike,” said the girl. Mike instantly obeyed, and gave a violent tug to one of his front locks by way of salutation. He then stood with his legs slightly apart, watching Nora.
“Mike, I want you to go a message for me.”
“To be sure, miss,” answered Mike.
“Take this letter to the post-office; put it yourself into the little slit in the wall. I will give you a penny when you have done it.”
“Yes, miss,” answered Mike.
“Here is the letter; thrust it into your pocket. Don't let anyone see it; it's a secret.”
“A saycret, to be sure, miss,” answered Mike.
“And you shall have your penny if you come up to the Castle tonight. Now good-by; run off at once and you will catch the mail.”
“Yes, to be sure,” said Mike. He winked at Nora, rolled his tongue in his cheek, and disappeared like a flash down the dusty road.
The next few days seemed to drag themselves somehow. Nora felt limp, and not in her usual spirits. The Squire was absent a good deal, too. He was riding all over the country trying to get a loan from his different friends. He was visiting one house after another. Some of the houses were neat and well-to-do, but most of them sadly required funds to put them in order. At every house Squire O'Shanaghgan received a hearty welcome, an invitation to dinner, and a bed for the night; but when he made his request the honest face that looked into his became sorrowful, the hands stole to the empty pockets, and refusals, accompanied by copious apologies, were the invariable result.
“There's no one in all the world I would help sooner, Pat, if I could,” said Squire O'Grady; “but I have not got it, my man. I am as hard pressed as I can be myself. We don't get in the rents these times. Times are bad—very bad. God help us all! But if you are turned out, what an awful thing it will be! And your family the oldest in the place. You're welcome, every one of you, to come here. As long as I have a bite and sup, you and yours shall share it with me.” And Squire Malone said the same thing, and so did the other squires. There was no lack of hospitality, no lack of good will, no lack of sorrow for poor Squire O'Shanaghgan's calamities; but funds to avert the blow were not forthcoming.
The Squire more and more avoided Nora's eyes; and Nora, who now had a secret of her own, and a hope which she would scarcely dare to confess even to herself, avoided looking at him.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan was a little more fretful than usual. She forgot all about the lessons she had set her daughter in her laments over her absent son, over the tattered and disgraceful state of the Castle, and the ruin which seemed to engulf the family more and more.
Nora, meanwhile, was counting the days. She had made herself quite au fait with postal regulations during these hours of waiting. She knew exactly the very time when the letter would reach Mr. Hartrick in his luxurious home. She thought she would give him, perhaps, twelve hours, perhaps twenty-four, before he replied. She knew, then, how long the answer would take on its way. The night before she expected her letter she scarcely slept at all. She came down to breakfast with black shadows under her eyes and her face quite wan.
The Squire, busy with his own load of trouble, scarcely noticed her. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan took her place languidly at the head of the board. She poured out a cup of tea for her daughter and another for her husband.
“I must send to Dublin for some better tea,” she said, looking at the Squire. “Can you let me have a pound after breakfast, Pat? I may as well order a small chest while I am about it.”
The Squire looked at her with lack-luster eyes. Where had he got one pound for tea? But he said nothing.
Just then the gossoon Mike was seen passing the window with the post-bag hung over his shoulder. Mike was the postman in general for the O'Shanaghgan household for the large sum of twopence a week. He went daily to fetch the letters, and received his money proudly each Saturday night. Nora now jumped up from the table.
“The letters!” she gasped.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan surveyed her daughter critically.
“Sit down again, Nora,” she said. “What is the matter with you? You know I don't allow these manners at table.”
“But it is the post, mammy,” said the girl.
“Well, my dear, if you will be patient, Margaret will bring the post in.”
Nora sat down again, trembling. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan gave her a cold stare, and helped herself languidly to a small snippet of leathery toast.
“Our cook gets worse and worse,” she said as she broke it. “Dear, dear! I think I must make a change. I have heard of an excellent cook just about to leave some people of the name of Wilson in the town. They are English people, which accounts for their having a good servant.”
At that moment the redoubtable Pegeen did thrust in her head, holding the post-bag at arm's length away from her.
“Here's the post, Miss Nora,” she said; “maybe you'll fetch it, miss. I'm a bit dirty.”
Nora could not restrain herself another moment. She rushed across the room, seized the bag, and laid it by her father's side. As a rule, the post-bag was quickly opened, and its small contents dispersed. These consisted of the local paper for the Squire, which was always put up with the letters, a circular or two, and, at long intervals, a letter for Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, and perhaps one from an absent friend for the Squire. No one was excited, as a rule, about the post at the Castle, and Nora's ill-suppressed anxiety was sufficiently marked now to make even her father look at her in some surprise. To the girl's relief, her mother unexpectedly came to the rescue.
“She thinks, perhaps, Terence will write,” she said; “but I told him not to worry himself writing too often. Stamps cost money, and the boy will need every penny to keep up a decent appearance at my brother's.”
“All the same, perhaps he will be an Irish boy enough to write a letter to his own sister,” said the Squire. “So here goes; we'll look and see if there is anything inside here for you, my little Norrie.”
The Squire unlocked the bag and emptied the contents on the table. They were very meager contents; nothing but the newspaper and one letter. The Squire took it up and looked at it.
“Here we are,” he said; “it is for you, my dear.”
“For me,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, holding out her hand. “Pass it across, Nora.”
“No, it is not for you, my lady, as it happens. It is for Nora. Here, Norrie, take it.”
Nora took it up. She was shivering now, and her hand could scarcely hold it. It was addressed to her, beyond doubt: “Miss O'Shanaghgan, Castle O'Shanaghgan,” etc.
“Read it at once, Nora,” said her mother. “I have not yet had any letter to speak of from Terry myself. If you read it aloud it will entertain us. It seems to be a thick letter.”
“I don't think—I don't think it—it is from Terence,” answered Nora.
“Nonsense, my dear.”
“Open it, Norrie, and tell us,” said the Squire. “It will be refreshing to hear a bit of outside news.”
Nora now opened the envelope, and took a very thick sheet of paper out. The contents of the letter ran as follows:
“My Dear Nora—Your brother Terence came here a week ago, and has told us a great deal about you. We are enjoying having him extremely; but he has made us all anxious to know you also. I write now to ask if you will come and pay us a visit at once, while your brother is here. Ask your mother to spare you. You can return with Terence whenever you are tired of us and our ways. I have business at Holyhead next Tuesday, and could meet you there, if you could make it convenient to cross that day. I inclose a paper with the hours that the boats leave, and when they arrive at Holyhead. I could then take you up with me to London, and we could reach here that same evening. Ask my sister to spare you. You will be heartily welcome, my little Irish niece.—Your affectionate uncle,
“George Hartrick.”
Nora could scarcely read the words aloud. When she had finished she let the sheet of paper flutter to the floor, and looked at her mother with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes.
“I may go? I must go,” she said.
“My dear Nora,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, “why that must?”
“Oh, mammy! oh, daddy! don't disappoint me,” cried the girl. “Do—do let me go, please, please.”
“Nora,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan again, “I never saw you so unreasonable in your life; you are quite carried away. Your uncle, after long years, has condescended to send you an invitation, and you speak in this impulsive, unrestrained fashion. Of course, it would be extremely nice for you to go; but I doubt for a single moment if it can be afforded.”
“Oh, daddy, daddy! please take my part!” cried Nora. “Please let me go, daddy—oh, daddy!” She rushed up to her father, flung her arms round his neck, and burst into tears.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan rose from the table in cold displeasure. “Give me your uncle's letter,” she said.
Nora did not glance at her; she was past speaking. So much hung on this; all the future of the O'Shanaghgans; the Castle, the old Castle, the home of her ancestors, the place in which she was born, the land she loved, the father she adored—all, all their future hung upon Nora's accepting the invitation which she had asked her uncle to give her. Oh! if they ever found out, what would her father and mother say? Would they ever speak to her again? But they must not find out, and she must go; yes, she must go.
“What is it, Nora? Do leave her alone for a moment, wife,” said the Squire. “There is something behind all this. I never saw Light o' the Morning give way to pure selfishness before.”
“It isn't—it isn't,” sobbed Nora, her head buried on the Squire's shoulder.
“My darling, light of my eyes, colleen asthore, acushla machree!” said the Squire. He lavished fond epithets upon the girl, and finally took her into his arms, and clasped her tight to his breast.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, after staring at the two in speechless indignation for a moment, left the room. When she reached the door she turned round.
“I cannot stand Irish heroics,” she said. “This is a disgraceful scene. Nora, I am thoroughly ashamed of you.”
She carried her brother's letter away with her, however, and retired into the drawing room. There she read it carefully.
How nice it would be if Nora could go! And Nora was a beauty, too—an Irish beauty; the sort of girl who always goes down in England. She would want respectable dress; and then—with her taking ways and those roguish, dark-blue eyes of hers, with that bewitching smile which showed a gleam of the whitest and most pearly teeth in the world, with the light, lissome figure, and the blue-black hair—what could not Irish Nora achieve? Conquests innumerable; she might make a match worthy of her race and name; she might—oh, she might do anything. She was only a child, it is true; but all the same she was a budding woman.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan sat and pondered.
“It seems a great pity to refuse,” she said to herself. “And Nora does need discipline badly; the discipline of England and my brother's well-ordered home will work wonders with her. Poor child, her father will miss her. I really sometimes think the Squire is getting into his dotage. He makes a perfect fool of that girl; to see her there speaking in that selfish way, and he petting her, and calling her ridiculous names, with no meaning in them, and folding her in his arms as if she were a baby, and all for pure, downright selfishness, is enough to make any sensible person sick. Nora, too, who has always been spoken of as the unselfish member of the family, who would not spend a penny to save her life if she thought the Squire was going to suffer. Now she wants him to put his hand into his pocket for a considerable amount; for the child cannot go to my brother without suitable clothes—that is a foregone conclusion. But, dear me! all women are selfish when it comes to mere pleasure, and Nora is no better than the rest. For my part, I admire dear Terence's downright method of asking for so-and-so, and getting it. Nora is deceitful. I am much disappointed in her.”
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