“Go to the barn and look after father, Molly. Talk as many naughty words as ever you like; make him laugh; keep him occupied. After dinner I shall probably want your aid again. In the meantime you will help me best by taking father off my hands.”
“And I desire nothing better,” answered Molly. “I love the Squire; it is the height of entertainment, as he would call it, to talk to him.”
Molly accordingly ran off. The Squire was now well enough to sit up in a great easy-chair made of straw, which had been carted over from Cronane for his special benefit, for the padded and velvet-covered chairs of the Castle would not at all have suited his inclinations. He sat back in the depths of his chair, which creaked at his every movement, and laughed long and often at Molly's stories.
“But where's Light o' the Morning herself?” he said after a pause. “Why don't she come to visit her old father? Why, it's craving for a sight of her I am.”
“I think Nora is very busy to-day,” answered Molly, “May I read the paper to you, Squire?”
“You read the paper to me?” answered Squire O'Shanaghgan. “Why, bless yer little heart, my pretty girleen, but I must decline with thanks. It is perfect torture to listen to your English accent when you are trying to do the rich Irish brogue. Irish papers should be read by Irish colleens, and then you get the flavor. But what did you say my colleen was after—business, is it? She's very fond of poking that little finger of hers into other people's pies. What is she after now at all, at all?”
“I cannot tell you,” answered Molly, coloring slightly as she spoke.
The Squire looked annoyed and suspicious.
“You go and call her to me,” he said. “Tell her to come along this blessed minute; say it's wanting her I am.”
Molly ran out of the barn. She found Nora in earnest conversation with Angus, while Hannah Croneen stood close by plucking now and then at the girl's skirt, looking eagerly into her face, and uttering such ejaculations as “Oh, glory!” “Be the powers!” “Did ye ever hear the like?” “Well, well, that beats all!”
“Nora,” said Molly, “will you go to your father? He wants you immediately.”
“Have you let out anything?” said Nora, turning and looking anxiously at Molly.
“No; but he asked after you, and I said you were busy. The Squire said then, 'I hope she is not poking her little finger into other people's pies.'”
“Well, I will go to him,” said Nora. “I'll manage him. You stay where you are, Molly.”
Nora's black hair was curling in crisp waves all round her beautiful white forehead. Her dark-blue eyes were darker and more shining than ever, there was a richer bloom on her cheeks, and there were sweeter smiles on her lips than she had ever perhaps worn before as she now entered the Squire's room.
“Well, father?” she said.
Squire O'Shanaghgan, who had been sitting wrapped in thought, roused himself on her entrance, gave her a smile, and motioned her to come to his side.
“Kneel down by me, colleen,” he said.
Nora knelt. The Squire took his big hand and put it under her chin; he raised her blooming face and looked into her eyes, which looked back again at him. As he did so he uttered a quick sigh.
“You're after something, mavoureen,” he said. “What's up, little girl? What's fretting that tender heart of yours?”
“Something, father,” said Nora then.
“And you won't tell your old dad?”
“I would rather not. Won't you trust me?”
“Trust her, is it?” cried the Squire. “I'd trust her with all I possess. I'd trust her with my hopes of heaven itself. Trust her, is it? Nora, you fret me when you talk like that.”
“Then do trust me, father, and don't ask me any questions. I'll tell you by and by—yes, I faithfully promise, but I shall be busy to-day. I may have to be away from you for a great part of to-day, and I may want Molly to help me. Can you do without me?”
“Why, now, the conceit of the creature,” said the Squire. “As if I cannot do without you, you little piece of impertinence. To be sure, and to be sure I can. Why, there is your lady mother; she'll come and sit with me for an hour or so, and let out at me all her grumbles. Nora, my heart, it is dreadful to hear her; but it's good penance too, and maybe it's too comfortable you have been making me, and I ought to have a bit of what I do not like to keep me humble. You go along now, and come back when you have done that which is filling your heart to the brim.”
Nora kissed her father very gravely; she then went out of the barn, and returned to where Angus and Hannah, and also Molly, were waiting for her.
“I have thought how I can manage, Miss Nora,” said Angus. “When those Englishmen—bad cess to 'em!—are at dinner I'll get the long cart out of the yard, and I'll put the white pony to it, and then it's easy to get the big tarpaulin that we have for the hayrick out of its place in the west barn. I have everything handy; and if you could come along with me, Miss Nora, and the other young lady, and if Hannah here will lend a hand, why we'll do up the place a bit, and the poor forsaken crayther can die there at least.”
“Do not forget the basket of provisions, Hannah,” said Nora, “the potatoes, and the bacon, and a tiny bottle of potheen; and do not forget some fagots and bits of turf to kindle up the fire again. Oh, and, Hannah, a blanket if you can manage it; and we might get a few wisps of straw to put in the bottom of the cart. The straw would make a fine bed.”
“To be sure,” said Hannah. “You lave it to me, me beautiful young lady.”
The two servants now departed, and Nora and her cousin went into the house. The early dinner, or rather lunch, as it was now called, was served soon afterwards; and almost immediately after the meal was over Nora and Molly ran down to the bottom of the plantation, where they found Angus, Hannah, the long cart with the pony harnessed to it, and the tarpaulin, straw, basket of provisions, etc., all placed in the bottom.
“Jump in, Molly,” said Nora.
Molly scrambled in as best she could; Nora followed her; and Hannah, climbing in over the left wheel, sat down at the bottom of the cart. Angus jumped on the driver's seat, and whipped up the pony. The pony was stout and very strong, and well accustomed to Irish hills. They were off. Molly had never been so rattled and bumped and shaken in the whole course of her life, but she enjoyed it, as she said, immensely. Only, what was Nora doing? The tarpaulin had been carefully hidden from view by the straw which Angus had cunningly placed over and not under it; and it was well that this was the case, as after the little party had left O'Shanaghgan a couple of miles, they were met by John Finnigan driving on his outside car.
“Why, then, Miss Nora, what are you doing now?” he said.
“Having a drive for my own pleasure,” replied Nora, nodding gayly.
Finnigan looked with suspicion at the party, but as there was nothing contraband in anybody driving in a long cart, and as he could not possibly guess what they were doing, he drove on his own way without saying anything further. After less than an hour's driving they reached the foot of Slieve Nagorna, and here the real toil began, for it was quite impossible for the pony, willing as he was, to lug the cart up the mountain. Where there is a will, however, there is generally a way; and although the pony could not drag the cart up, he could go up himself, being very sure-footed and quite willing to be turned into a beast of burden for the nonce. The heavy tarpaulin, therefore, was fastened on his back, and, with Angus leading and Hannah following with the basket of provisions, and the two girls making up the rear, the little cavalcade started forward. Oh, how hot it seemed, and oh, how tired Molly got! But never mind; they were making progress. After a time they reached the site of Andy's cabin, and then Angus and Hannah developed strength which fairly took Molly's breath away, for the tarpaulin was absolutely lifted up and deposited as a sort of temporary roof over the roofless walls; and when this had been done Angus managed to cut a hole in the center to make a chimney; then the fagots were placed on the hearth and the turf put on top of them, and the remainder of the turf laid handy near by; and the straw was ready, soft and inviting, in a corner not too far away from the fire, and the blankets were spread over it; and the basket of provisions, cold boiled potatoes, cold bacon, and the little bottle of potheen were all left handy. It was indeed a miserable home, but, compared to the desolate appearance it had presented, it now looked almost comfortable. Nora laughed with pleasure. “He shall come back here. It is better than nothing. He shall stop here. I will explain things to my father by and by,” said the girl; and then they all turned their steps homeward.
At the appointed hour that evening Nora went down to the shore. She fully expected to find Andy Neil waiting for her. Wild and half-insane as he was, he kept his selfmade appointments, as a rule. She wandered about, fearing that someone would notice her; for she knew that if John Finnigan thought for a single moment that she was secretly befriending Andy, he would not leave a single stone unturned to circumvent her. He was very proud of his powers of evicting tenants, and, as he had the Squire's permission to do his worst on this occasion, would be the last man in the world to relax his iron grip. Nora, however, wandered about in vain; there was no sign of Andy. She even ventured to go to the borders of the plantation and softly call his name.
“Andy—Andy Neil,” called the girl, but no Andy responded. She now felt really nervous. Why was Andy not there? What could possibly have happened? She returned slowly and thoughtfully to the house. It would not do to show any alarm, but she certainly felt the reverse of comfortable. What had happened to the man? She did not for a moment think that he could be dead; on the contrary, she pictured him alive and still more insane than the night before, still more desperate in his mind, still more darkly pursued by the grim phantom of revenge. Was Andy now so really insane that he had even forgotten his appointment with Nora? This was probably the case. But although the man was too insane to think of meeting the girl, he was probably not at all too insane to make another attempt on the Squire's life. He was perhaps so desperate now that his one idea was to carry out his revenge before he died. What was Nora to do? She thought and thought, and walked up to the house with more and more lagging footsteps. Finally she made up her mind. There was nothing whatever left for it but for her to sit up with the Squire that night; she herself must be his guardian angel, for he must not be alarmed, and yet most certainly he must be protected. Nora carefully considered this idea. She had made the little cabin quite ready for Andy's reception; he could creep into it once more, light his fire, eat his food, and lie down on the bed at least, as good as any other bed he had ever slumbered on; and if death came to him, it would find him in his old house, and perhaps God would forgive him, seeing that he was so desperate and life had been so hard. Yes, Nora felt that God was very merciful—far more merciful than man. But to-night—how was to-night to be got through? She had now reached the yard, and found herself face to face with Angus.
“Is there nothing I can do for you, miss?” said the young man, touching his hat respectfully to the girl.
“If you could be near somewhere, Angus, and if it were necessary, and we wanted the long cart to-night, could we get it?”
“You ask me, Miss Nora, what we could get and what we could not get at O'Shanaghgan,” answered Angus; “and I answer ye back that what ye want, Miss Nora, ye shall have, if it is the heart out of me body. The long cart, is it? To be sure, me pretty lady, and at a moment's notice, too. Why, it's meself will slape in the bottom of the long cart this blessed night, and all you has to do is to come and pull the front lock of me hair, and I'll be up in a jiffy. You give it a sharp tug, Miss Nora, for I slapes heavy; but if you come, the long cart and the powny will be there.”
“Then that's all right,” answered Nora.
She went into the barn. The Squire had now contrived to renew all his old accustomed habits. On the little wooden table was a small lamp which smoked badly; the local paper was laid on the table, and the pipe which the Squire best loved lay near. He had been enjoying a good smoke, and was thinking of turning in, as he expressed it, when Nora appeared.
“Good-night, father,” she said. She went up to him, and bent down over him, to give him her accustomed kiss.
“Why, then, it's sleepy I am,” said the Squire. “I am thinking of turning into bed. I am getting on fine; and Angus, boy that he is, always comes and gives me a helping hand on to my bed. I cannot see your face with the smoke of that lamp, mavoureen; but things are all right—aren't they?”
“That they are, father,” replied the girl; “but I am a little tired; and if Angus is coming to help you, and you do not want anything more from me, I will go to bed myself.”
“Do that,” said the Squire. “Your voice sounds peaky; you have been doing too much.”
Nora lingered another moment or two. How thankful she felt that that smoky lamp prevented her father reading the anxiety in her eyes! She could not keep all the tiredness out of her voice, but she could at least keep anxiety from it; and the Squire bade her a hearty goodnight, and parted with her with one of his usual jokes. Nora then went into the house. The hour for late dinner was over; she herself had not been present, but Molly had managed to appear as usual. Nora ran down to the kitchen premises. The cook, a very stately English woman, stared when she saw the young lady of the Castle appear in the great kitchen.
“What is it, Miss O'Shanaghgan?” she said, gazing at Nora all over. What did this wild and eccentric girl want? How was it possible that she could demean herself by coming so freely into the servants' premises?
“I want to know, Mrs. Shaw,” said Nora, “if you will oblige me?”
“Of course I will, Miss O'Shanaghgan; if I can.”
“Will you pack a little basket with some cold pie, and anything else tasty and nourishing which you have got; and will you put a tiny bottle of brandy into the basket, and also a bottle of water; and can I have it at once, for I am in a great hurry?”
“Well, there is a fresh pigeon pie in the larder,” answered the cook; “but why should you want it?”
“Oh! please, Mrs. Shaw,” answered Nora, “will you give it to me without asking questions? I will love you for all the rest of my life if you will.”
“Love me, is it?” thought the cook. “A pretty creature like that love me!”
“Your love is cheaply purchased, miss,” she said aloud, and then went without a word into the larder, and soon returned with a well-filled basket, which she placed in Nora's hand. “And I added some fruit, a little cup of jelly, and a knife and fork and a spoon, and some salt; but why you, Miss Nora, should need a picnic in the middle of the night beats me.”
“Remember our compact,” said Nora. “You say nothing of this, and—I love you;” and then, overcome by a sudden impulse, she bent forward and laid the lightest of kisses on the astonished Mrs. Shaw's forehead.
Mrs. Shaw felt slightly overawed. “Bless her! What a beautiful young lady she is!” thought the good woman. “But the ways of the Irish beat all comprehension.”
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