CHAPTER XII. — A FEATHER-BED HOUSE.
Before she went to sleep that night Nora wrote a tiny note to her father:
“DEAREST DAD:
“For the sake of your Light o' the Morning, leave poor Andy Neil in his little cottage until I come back again from England. Do, dear dad; this is the last wish of Nora before she goes away.
“YOUR COLLEEN.”
She thought and thought, and felt that she could not have expressed herself better. Fear would never influence the Squire; but he would do a good deal for Nora. She laid the letter just where she knew he would see it when he entered his ramshackle study on the following day; and the next morning, with her arms clasped round his neck and her kisses on his cheeks, she gave him one hearty hug, one fervent “God bless you, dad,” and rushed after her mother.
The outside car was ready at the door. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan was already mounted. Nora sprang up, and they were rattling off into the world, “to seek my fortune,” thought the girl, “or rather the fortune of him I love best.”
The Squire, with his grizzled locks and his deep-set eyes, stood in the porch to watch Nora and her mother as they drove away.
“I'll be back in a twinkling, father; never you fret,” called out his daughter, and then a turn in the road hid him from view.
“Why, Nora, what are you crying for?” said her mother, who turned round at that moment, and encountered the full gaze of the large dark-blue eyes swimming in tears.
“Oh, nothing. I'll be all right in a moment,” was the answer, and then the sunshine broke all over the girl's charming face; and before they reached the railway station Nora was chatting to her mother as if she had not a care in the world.
Her first visit to Dublin and the excitement of getting really pretty dresses made the next two or three days pass like a flash. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan with money in her pocket was a very different woman from Mrs. O'Shanaghgan without a penny. She enjoyed making Nora presentable, and had excellent taste and a keen eye for a bargain. She fitted up her daughter with a modest but successful wardrobe, bought her a proper trunk to hold her belongings, and saw her on board the steamer for Holyhead.
The crossing was a rough one, but the Irish girl did not suffer from seasickness. She stood leaning over the taffrail chatting to the captain, who thought her one of the most charming passengers he ever had to cross in the Munster; and when they arrived at the opposite side, Mr. Hartrick was waiting for his niece. He often said since that he would never forget his first sight of Nora O'Shanaghgan. She was wearing a gray tweed traveling dress, with a little gray cap to match; the slender young figure, the rippling black hair, and the brilliant face flashed for an instant on the tired vision of the man of business; then there came the eager outstretching of two hands, and Nora had kissed him because she could not help herself.
“Oh, I am so glad to see you, Uncle George!” The words, the action, the whole look were totally different from what his daughters would have said or done under similar circumstances. He felt quite sure that his sister's description of Nora was right in the main; but he thought her charming. Drawing her hand through his arm, he took her to the railway station, where the train was already waiting to receive its passengers. Soon they were flying in The Wild Irish Girl to Euston. Nora was provided with innumerable illustrated papers. Mr. Hartrick took out a little basket which contained sandwiches, wine, and different cakes, and fed her with the best he could procure. He did not ask her many questions, not even about the Castle or her own life. He was determined to wait for all these things. He read something of her story in her clear blue eyes; but he would not press her for her confidence. He was anxious to know her a little better.
“She is Irish, though, and they all exaggerate things so dreadfully,” was his thought. “But I'll be very good to the child. What a contrast she is to Terence! Not that Terence is scarcely Irish; but anyone can see that this child has more of her father than her mother in her composition.”
They arrived at Euston; then there were fresh changes; a cab took them to Waterloo, where they once again entered the train.
“Tired, my dear niece?” said her uncle as he settled her for the final time in another first-class compartment.
“Not at all. I am too excited to be tired,” was her eager answer. And then he smiled at her, arranged the window and blind to her liking, and they started once more on their way.
Mr. Hartrick lived in a large place near Weybridge, and Nora had her first glimpse of the lovely Surrey scenery. A carriage was waiting for the travelers when they reached their destination—a carriage drawn by a pair of spirited grays. Nora thought of Black Bess, and secretly compared the grays to the disadvantage of the latter. But she was determined to be as sweet and polite and English as her mother would desire. For the first time in her whole existence she was feeling a little shy. She would have been thoroughly at home on a dog cart, or on her favorite outside car, or on the back of Black Bess, who would have carried her swift as the wind; but in the landau, with her uncle seated by her side, she was altogether at a loss.
“I don't like riches,” was her inward murmur. “I feel all in silken chains, and it is not a bit pleasant; but how dear mammy—oh, I must think of her as mother—how mother would enjoy it all!”
The horses were going slowly uphill, and now they paused at some handsome iron gates. These were opened by a neatly dressed woman, who courtesied to Mr. Hartrick, and glanced with curiosity at Nora. The carriage bowled rapidly down a long avenue, and drew up before a front door. A large mastiff rose slowly, wagged his tail, and sniffed at Nora's dress as she descended.
“Come in, my dear; come in,” said her uncle. “We are too late for dinner, but I have ordered supper. You will want a good meal and then bed. Where are all the others? Where are you, Molly? Where are you, Linda? Your Irish cousin Nora has come.”
A door to the left was quickly opened, and a graceful-looking lady, in a beautiful dress of black silk and quantities of coffee lace, stood on the threshold.
“Is this Nora?” she said. “Welcome, my dear little girl.” She went up to Nora, laid one hand on her shoulder, and kissed her gravely on the forehead. There was a staid, sober sort of solemnity about this kiss which influenced Nora and made a lump come into her throat.
This gracious English lady was very charming, and she felt at once that she would love her.
“The child is tired, Grace,” said her husband to Mrs. Hartrick. “Where are the girls? Why are they not present?”
“Molly has been very troublesome, and I was obliged to send her to her room,” was her reply; “but here is Terence. Terence, your sister has come.”
“Oh, Terry!” cried Nora.
The next moment Terence, in full evening dress, and looking extremely manly and handsome, appeared upon the scene. Nora forgot everything else when she saw the familiar face; she ran up to her brother, flung her arms round his neck, and kissed him over and over.
“Oh, it is a sight for sore eyes to see you!” she cried. “Oh, Terry, how glad, how glad I am that you are here!”
“Hush! hush! Nonsense, Nora. Try to remember this is an English house,” whispered Terence; but he kissed her affectionately. He was glad to see her, and he looked at her dress with marked approval. “She will soon tame down, and she looks very pretty,” was his thought.
Just then Linda was seen coming downstairs.
“Has Nora come?” called out her sweet, high-bred voice. “How do you do, Nora? I am so glad to see you. If you are half as nice as Terence, you will be a delightful addition to our party.”
“Oh, but I am not the least bit like Terence,” said Nora. She felt rather hurt; she did not know why.
Linda was a very fair girl. She could not have been more than fifteen years of age, and was not so tall as Nora; but she had almost the manners of a woman of the world, and Nora felt unaccountably shy of her.
“Now take your cousin up to her room. Supper will be ready in a quarter of an hour,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “Come, George; I have something to say to you.”
Mr. and Mrs. Hartrick disappeared into the drawing-room. Linda took Nora's hand. Nora glanced at Terence, who turned on his heel and went away.
“See you presently, sis,” he called out in what he considered a very manly tone; and Nora felt her heart, as she expressed it, sink down into her boots as she followed Linda up the richly carpeted stairs. Her feet sank into the velvety pile, and she hated the sensation.
“It is all a sort of feather-bed house,” she said to herself, “and I hate a feather-bed house. Oh, I can understand my dad better than ever to-night; but how mother would enjoy this!”
CHAPTER XIII. — “THERE'S MOLLY.”
As they were going upstairs Linda suddenly turned and looked full at her cousin.
“How very grave you are! And why have you that little frown between your brows? Are you vexed about anything?”
“Only I thought Terry would be more glad to see me,” replied Nora.
“More glad!” cried Linda. “I saw you hugging him as I ran downstairs. He let you. I don't know how any one could show gladness more. But come along; this is your room. It is next to Molly's and mine. Isn't it pretty? Molly and I chose it for you this morning, and we arranged those flowers. You will have such a lovely view, and that little peep of the Thames is so charming. I hope you will like your room.”
Nora entered one of the prettiest and most lovely bedrooms she had ever seen in her life. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined anything so cozy. The perfectly chosen furniture, the elegant appointments of every sort and description, the view from the partly opened windows, the view of winding river and noble trees—all looked rich and cultivated and lovely; and the Irish girl, as she gazed around, found suddenly a great, fierce hatred rising up in her heart against what she called the mere prettiness. She turned and faced Linda, who was watching her with curiosity in her somewhat small blue eyes Linda was essentially English, very reserved and quiet, very self-possessed, quite a young lady of the world. She looked at Nora as if she meant to read her through.
“Well, don't you think the view perfect?” she said.
“Have you ever been in Ireland?” was Nora's answer.
“Never. Oh, dear me! have you anything as pretty as this in Ireland?”
“No,” said Nora fiercely—“no.” She left the window, turned back, and began to unpin her hat.
“You look as if you did not care for your room.”
“It is a very, very pretty room,” said Nora, “and the view is very, very pretty, but I am tired to-night. I did not know it; but I am. I should like to go to bed soon.”
“So you shall, of course, after you have had supper. Oh, how awfully thoughtless of me not to know that you must be very tried and hungry! Molly and I are glad you have come.”
“But where is Molly? I should like to see her.”
Linda went up to Nora and spoke in a low whisper.
“She is in disgrace.”
“In disgrace? Has she done anything naughty?”
“Yes, fearfully naughty. She is in hot water as usual.”
“I am sorry,” said Nora. She instantly began to feel a strong sensation of sympathy for Molly. She was sure, in advance, that she would like her.
“But is she in such dreadful disgrace that I may not see her?” she asked after a pause.
“Oh, I don't know. I don't suppose so.”
Just then there was heard at the room door a gay laugh and a kind of scamper. A knock followed, but before Nora could answer the door was burst open, and a large, heavily made, untidy-looking girl, with a dark face and great big black eyes, bounded into the apartment.
“I have burst the bonds, and here I am,” she said. “How do you do, Nora? I'm Molly. I am always and always in hot water. I like being in hot water. Now, tell-tale-tit, you can go downstairs and acquaint mother with the fact that I have burst the bonds, for kiss little Irish Nora I will.”
“Oh, I am glad to see you,” said Nora. Her depression vanished on the spot. She felt that, naughty as doubtless Molly was, she could get on with her.
“Come, let's take a squint at you,” said the eldest Miss Hartrick; “come over here to the light.”
Molly took Nora by both hands over to the window.
“Now then, let's have a category of your charms. Terence has been telling us that you are very pretty. You are. Come, Linda; come and look at her. Did you ever see such black hair? And it's as soft as silk.”
Molly put up a rather large hand and patted Nora somewhat violently on the head.
“Oh, don't!” said Nora, starting back.
“My dear little cousin, I am a very rough specimen, and you must put up with me if you mean to get on at The Laurels. We are all stiff and staid here; we are English of the English. Everything is done by rule of thumb—breakfast to the minute, lunch to the minute, afternoon tea to the minute, dinner to the minute, even tennis to the minute. Oh! it's detestable; and I—I am expected to be good, and you know there's not a bit of goodness in me. I am all fidgets, and you can never be sure of me for two seconds at a time. I am a worry to mother and a worry to father; and as to Terence—oh, my dear creature, I am so truly thankful you are not like Terence! Here I drop a courtesy to his memory. What an awfully precise man he will make by and by! I did not know you turned out that kind of article in Ireland.”
Nora's face, over which many emotions had been flitting, now looked grave.
“You know that Terence is my brother?” she said slowly.
Molly gazed at her; then she burst into a fit of hearty laughter.
“You and I will get on,” she said. “I like you for sticking up for your brother. But now, my dear, I must go back. I am supposed to stay in my bedroom until to-morrow morning. Linda, if you tell—well, you'll have to answer to me when we are going to bed, that's all. By-by, Nora. I'll see you in the morning. Do get her some hot water, Linda. She's worth waiting on; she's a very nice sort of child, and very, very pretty. If that is the Irish sort of face, I for one shall adore it. Good-by, Nora, for the present.”
Molly banged herself away—her mode of exit could scarcely be called by any other name. As soon as the door had closed behind her Linda laughed.
“I ought to tell, you know,” she said in her precise voice; “it is very, very wrong of Molly to leave her bedroom when mother is punishing her.”
“But what has she done wrong?” asked Nora.
“Oh, went against discipline. She is at school, you know, and she would write letters during lessons. It is really very wrong of her, and Miss Scott had to complain; so mother said she should stay in her room, instead of being downstairs to welcome you. She is a good soul enough; but we none of us can discipline her. She is very funny; you'll see a lot of her queer cranks while you are here.”
“How old is she?” asked Nora.
“Between sixteen and seventeen; too old to be such a romp.”
“Only a little older than I am,” said Nora. “And how old are you, Linda?”
“Fifteen; they all tell me I look more.”
“You do; you look eighteen. You are very old for your age.”
“Oh, thank you for the compliment. Now, then, do brush your hair and wash your hands; there's the supper-gong. Mother will be annoyed if we are not down in a jiffy. Now, do be quick.”
Nora washed her hands, brushed her hair, and ran downstairs with her cousin. As she ate during the somewhat stiff meal that followed she thought many times of Molly. She felt that, naughty as Molly doubtless was, she would make the English house tolerable. Terence sat near her at supper, by way of extending to her brotherly attentions; but all the time he was talking on subjects of local interest to his aunt and uncle.
Mr. Hartrick evidently thought Terence a very clever fellow, and listened to his remarks with a deference which Nora thought by no means good for him.
“He wants one of the dear old dad's downright snubs,” was her inward comment. “I must have a talk with him to-morrow. If he progresses at this rate toward English refinement he will be unbearable at O'Shanaghgan when he returns; quite, quite unbearable. Oh, for a sniff of the sea! oh, for the wild, wild wind on my cheeks! and oh, for my dear, darling, bare bedroom! I shall be smothered in that heavily furnished room upstairs. Oh, it is all lovely, I know—very lovely; but I'm not made to enjoy it. I belong to the free, and I don't feel free here. The silken chains and the feather-bed life won't suit me; of that I am quite sure. Thank goodness, however, there's Molly; she is in a state of rebellion, too. I must not sympathize with her; but I am truly glad she is here.”
CHAPTER XIV. — BITS OF SLANG.
Early the next morning Nora was awakened from a somewhat heavy sleep by someone pulling her violently by the arm.
“Wake up! wake up!” said a voice; and then Nora, who had been dreaming of her father, and also of Andy Neil, started up, crying as she did so, “Oh, don't, Andy! I know father will let you stay a little longer in the cot. Don't, don't, Andy!”
“Who, in the name of fortune, is Andy?” called the clear voice of Molly Hartrick. “Do wake up, Nora, and don't look so dazed. You really are a most exciting person to have staying in the house. Who is Andy, and what cot are you going to turn him out of? Is he a baby?”
Nora now began to laugh.
“I quite forgot that I was in England,” she said. “Am I really in England? Are you—are you——Oh, now I remember everything. You are Molly Hartrick. What is the hour? Is it late? Have I missed breakfast?”
“Bless you, child! lie down and keep quiet; it's not more than six o'clock. I wanted to see some more of you all by myself. I am out of punishment now; it ended at midnight, and I am as free as anybody else; but as it is extremely likely I shall be back in punishment by the evening, I thought we would have a little chat while I was able to have it. Just make way for me in your bed; I'll nestle up close to you, and we'll be ever so jolly.”
“Oh, do,” said Nora, in a hearty tone.
Molly scrambled in, taking the lion's share of the bed, Nora lay on the edge.
“I am glad you are facing the light, for I can examine your features well,” said Molly. “You certainly are very nice-looking. How prettily your eyebrows are arched, and what white teeth you have! And, although you have that wonderful black hair, you have a fair skin, and your cheeks have just enough color; not too much. I hate florid people; but you are just perfect.”
“I wish you would not flatter me, Molly,” said Nora; “nobody flatters me in Ireland.”
“They don't? But I thought they were a perfect nation of flatterers. I am sure it is always said of them.”
“Oh, if you mean the poor people,” said Nora; “they make pretty speeches, but nobody thinks anything about that. Everybody makes pretty speeches to everybody else, except when we are having a violent scold by way of a change.”
“How delicious!” said Molly. “And what sort of house have you? Like this?”
“No, not the least like this,” answered Nora.
“With what emphasis you speak. Do you know that father told me you lived in a beautiful place, a castle hanging over the sea, and that your mountains and your sea and your old castle were things to be proud of?”
“Did he? Did your father really say that?” asked Nora. She sat up on her elbow; her eyes were shining; they assumed a look which Nora's eyes often wore when she was, as she expressed it, “seeing things out of her head.” Far-off castles in the clouds would Nora look at then; rainbow-tinted were they, and their summits reached heaven. Molly gazed at her with deepening interest.
“Yes, Nora,” she said; “he did say it. He told me so before Terence came; but I—do forgive me—I don't care for Terence.”
“You must not talk against him to me,” said Nora, “because he happens to be my brother; but I'll just whisper one thing back to you, Molly—if he was not my brother he would not suit me.”
“How nice of you to say that! We shall get on splendidly. Of course, you must stick up for him, being your brother; he stuck up for you before you came. It is very nice and loyal of you, and I quite understand. But, dear me! I am not likely to see much of you while you are here.”
“Why not? Are you not going to stay here?”
“Oh, my dear, yes; I'll stay. School has just begun over again, you know, and I am always in hot water. I cannot help it; it is a sort of way of mine. This is the kind of way I live. Breakfast every morning; then a lecture from mother or from father. Off I go in low spirits, with a great, sore heart inside me; then comes the hateful discipline of school; and every day I get into disgrace. I have a lot of lessons returned, and am low down in my class, instead of high up, and am treated from first to last as a naughty child. By the middle of the day I am a very naughty child indeed.”
“But you are not a child at all, Molly; you are a woman. Why, you are older than I.”
“Oh, what have years to do with it?” interrupted Molly. “I shall be a child all my days, I tell you. I shall never be really old. I like mischief and insubordination, and—and—let me whisper it to you, little Nora—vulgarity. Yes, I do love to be vulgar. I like shocking mother; I like shocking father. Since Terence came I have had rare fun shocking him. I have learned a lot of slang, and whenever I see Terence I shout it at him. He has got quite nervous lately, and avoids me. He likes Linda awfully, but he avoids me. But, to go on with my day. I am back from school to early dinner, generally in disgrace. I am not allowed to speak at dinner. Back again I go to school, and I am home, or supposed to be home, at half-past four; but not a bit of it, my dear; I don't get home till about six, because I am kept in to learn my lessons. It is disgraceful, of course; but it is a fact. Then back I come, and mother has a talk with me. However busy mother may be, and she is a very busy woman, Nora—you will soon find that out—she always has time to find out if I have done anything naughty; and, as fibs are not any of my accomplishments, I always tell her the truth; and then what do you think happens? An evening quite to myself in my bedroom; my dinner sent up to me there, and I eating it in solitary state. They are all accustomed to it. They open their eyes and almost glare at me when by a mere chance I do come down to dinner. They are quite uncomfortable, because, you see, I am waiting my opportunity to fire slang at one of them. I always do, and always will. I never could fit into the dull life of the English.”
“You must be Irish, really,” said Nora.
“You don't say so! But I am afraid I am not. I would give all the world to be, but am quite certain I am not. There, now, of course I'd be awfully scolded if it was found out that I had awakened you at this hour, and had confided my little history to you. I am over sixteen. I shall be seventeen in ten months' time. And that is my history, insubordination from first to last. I don't suppose anybody really likes me, unless it is poor Annie Jefferson at school.”
“Who is Annie Jefferson, Molly?”
“A very shabby sort of girl, who is always in hot water too. I have taken to her, and she just adores me. There is no one else who loves me; and she, poor child, would not be admitted inside these walls; she is not aristocratic enough. Dear me, Nora! it is wrong of me to give you all this information so soon; and don't look anxious about me, little goose, for I have taken an enormous fancy to you.”
“I will tell you one thing,” said Nora after a pause, “if you will never tell again.”
“Oh, a secret!” said Molly. “Tell it out, Nora. I love secrets. I'll never betray; I have no friends to betray them to. You may tell me with all the heart in the world.”
“Well, it is this,” said Nora; “we are not at all rich at home. We are poor, and have no luxuries and the dear old house is very bare; and, oh! but, Molly, there is no place like it—no place like it. It's worth all the world to me; and when I came here last night, and saw your great, rich, beautiful house, I—I quite hated it, and I almost hated Linda too; and even my uncle, who has been so kind, I could not get up one charitable thought for him, nor for your mother, who is such a beautiful, gracious lady; and even Terence—oh! Terry seemed quite English. Oh, I was miserable! But when I saw you, Molly, I said to myself, 'There is one person who will fit me'; and—oh, don't Molly! What is it?”
“Only, if you say another word I shall squeeze you to death in the hug I am giving you,” said Molly. Her arms were flung tightly round Nora's neck. She kissed her passionately three or four times.
“We'll be friends. I'll stick up for you through thick and thin,” said Molly. “And now I'm off; for if Linda caught me woe betide me.”
“One word before you go, Molly,” called out Nora.
“Yes,” said Molly, standing at the door.
“Try to keep straight to-day, for my sake, for I shall want to say a great deal to you to-night.”
“Oh, yes, so I will,” answered Molly. “Now then, off I go.”
The door was banged behind her. It awoke Mrs. Hartrick, who turned slowly on her pillow, and said to herself, “I am quite certain that wicked girl Molly has been disturbing our poor little traveler.” But she fell asleep, and Nora lay thinking of Molly. How queer she was! And yet—and yet she was the only person in the English home who had yet managed to touch Nora's warm Irish heart.
The rest of the day passed somewhat soberly. Molly and Linda both started for school immediately after an early breakfast. Terence went to town with his uncle, and Nora and her aunt were left alone. She had earnestly hoped that she might have had one of her first important talks with Mr. Hartrick before he left that morning; but he evidently had no idea of giving her an opportunity. He spoke to her kindly, but seemed to regard her already as quite one of the family, and certainly was not disposed to alter his plans or put out his business arrangements on her account. She resolved, with a slightly impatient sigh, to abide her time, and followed her aunt into the morning-room, where the good lady produced some fancywork, and asked Nora if she would like to help her to arrange little squares for a large patchwork quilt which was to be raffled for at a bazar shortly to be held in the place.
Nora gravely took the little bits of colored silk, and, under her aunt's supervision, began to arrange them in patterns. She was not a neat worker, and the task was by no means to her taste.
“What time ought I to write in order to catch the post?” she said, breaking the stillness, and raising her lovely eyes to Mrs. Hartrick's face.
“The post goes out many times in the day, Nora; but if you want to catch the Irish mail, you must have your letter in the box in the hall by half-past three. There is plenty of time, my dear, and you will find notepaper and everything you require in the escritoire in the study. You can always go there if you wish to write your letters.”
“Thank you,” answered Nora.
“When you are tired of work, you can go out and walk about the grounds. I will take you for a drive this afternoon. I am sorry that you have arrived just when the girls have gone back to school; but you and Linda can have a good deal of fun in the evenings, you know.”
“But why not Molly too?” asked Nora. She felt rather alarmed at mentioning her elder cousin's name.
Mrs. Hartrick did not speak at all for a moment; then she gave a sigh.
“I am sorry to have to tell you, Nora, that Molly is by no means a good girl. She is extremely rebellious and troublesome; and if this state of things goes on much longer her father and I will be obliged to send her to a very strict school as a boarder. We do not wish to do that, as my husband does not approve of boarding-schools for girls. At present she is spending a good deal of her time in punishment.”
“I hope she won't be in punishment to-night,” said Nora. “I like her so much.”
“Do you, my dear? I hope she won't influence you to become insubordinate.”
Nora felt restless, and some of the bits of colored silk fluttered to the floor.
“Be careful, my dear Nora,” said her aunt in a somewhat sharp voice; “don't let those bits of silk get about on the carpet. I am most particular that everything in the house should be kept neat and in order. I will get you a little work-basket to keep your things in when next I go upstairs.”
“Thank you, Aunt Grace,” answered Nora.
“And now, as we are alone,” continued the good lady, “you might tell me something of your life. Your uncle is very anxious that your mother should come and pay us a visit. He is very much attached to his sister, and it seems to me strange that they should not have met for so many years. You have a beautiful place at home, Nora—have you not?”
“Yes,” said Nora; “the place is”—she paused, and her voice took an added emphasis—“beautiful.”
“How emphatically you say it, dear! You have a pretty mode of speech, although very, very Irish.”
“I am Irish, you see, Aunt Grace,” answered Nora.
“Yes, dear, you need scarcely tell me that; your brogue betrays you.”
“But mother was always particular that I should speak correctly,” continued the girl. “Does my accent offend you, Aunt Grace?”
“No, dear; your uncle and I both think it quite charming. But tell me some more. Of course you are very busy just now with your studies, Nora. A girl of your age—how old did you say you were—sixteen?—a girl of your age has not a moment to lose in acquiring those things which are essential to the education of an accomplished woman of the present day.”
“I am afraid I shall shock you very much indeed, Aunt Grace, when I tell you that my education is supposed to be finished.”
“Finished!” said Mrs. Hartrick. She paused for a moment and stared full at Nora. “I was astonished,” she continued, “when your uncle suggested that you should pay us a visit now. I said, as September had begun, you would be going back to school; but you accepted the invitation, or rather your mother did for you, without any allusion to your school. You must have got on very well, Nora, to be finished by now. How many languages do you know?”
“I can chatter in Irish after a fashion,” said Nora; “and I am supposed, after a fashion also, to know my own tongue.”
“Irish!” said Mrs. Hartrick in a tone of quivering scorn. “I don't mean anything of that sort. I allude to your acquaintance with French, German, and Italian.”
“I do know a very little French,” said Nora; “that is, I can read one or two books in French. Mother taught me what I know; but I do not know any German or any Italian. I don't see that it matters,” she continued, a flush coming into her cheeks. “I should never talk German or Italian in Ireland. I wouldn't be understood if I did.”
“That has nothing to do with it, Nora; and your tone, my dear, without meaning it, of course, was just a shade pert just now. It is essential in the present day that all well-educated women should be able to speak at least in three languages.”
“Then I am sorry, Aunt Grace, for I am afraid you will despise me. I shall never be well educated in that sense of the word.”
Mrs. Hartrick was silent.
“I will speak to your uncle,” she said after a pause. “While you are here you can have lessons. It would be possible to arrange that you went to school with Linda and Molly, and had French and German lessons while there.”
“But I don't expect to be very long in England,” said Nora, a note of alarm in her voice.
“Oh, my dear child, now that we have got you, we shall not allow you to go in a hurry. It is such a nice change for you, too; this is your first visit to England, is it not?”
“Yes, Aunt Grace.”
“We won't let you go for some time, little Nora. Your brother is a dear fellow; your uncle and I admire him immensely, and he is quite well educated and so adaptable; and I am sure you would be the same, my dear, when you have had the many chances which will be offered to you here. You must look upon me as your real aunt, dear, and tell me anything that you wish. Don't be shy of me, my love; I can quite understand that a young girl, when she first leaves her mother, is rather shy.”
“I never felt shy at home,” answered Nora; “but then, you know, I was more with father than with mother.”
“More with your father! Does he stay at home all day, then?”
“He is always about the place; he has nothing else to do.”
“Of course he has large estates.”
“They are not so very large, Aunt Grace.”
“Well, dear, that is a relative term, of course; but from your uncle's description, and to judge from your mother's letters, it must be a very large place. By the way, how does she manage her servants? She must have a large staff at Castle O'Shanaghgan.”
“I don't think we manage our servants particularly well,” said Nora. “It is true they all stay with us; but then we don't keep many.”
“How many, dear?”
“There's Pegeen—she is the parlor-maid—and there's the cook—we do change our cook sometimes, for mother is rather particular; then there is the woman who attends to the fowls, and the woman who does the washing, and—I think that is about all. Oh, there's the post-boy; perhaps you would consider him a servant, but I scarcely think he ought to be called one. We give him twopence a week for fetching the letters. He is a very good little boy. He stands on his head whenever he sees me; he is very fond of me, and that is the way he shows his affection. It would make you laugh, Aunt Grace, if you saw Michael standing on his head.”
“It would make me shudder, you mean,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “Really, Nora, your account of your mother's home is rather disparaging; two or three very rough servants, and no more. But I understood you lived in castle.”
“Oh, a castle may mean anything; but it is not fair for you and Uncle George to think we are rich, for we are very poor. And,” continued Nora, “for my part, I love to be poor.” She stood up abruptly. In her excitement all her bits of silk tumbled to the floor. “May I go out and have a run, Aunt Grace?” she said. “I feel quite stiff. I am not accustomed to being indoors for so long at a time.”
“You can go out, Nora, if you like,” said her aunt in a displeased tone; “but, first, have the goodness to pick up all those bits you have dropped.”
Nora, with flushed cheeks, stooped and picked up the bits of silk. She wrapped them in a piece of paper and put them on the table.
“You can stay out for an hour, my dear; but you are surely not going without a hat.”
“I never wear a hat at home,” said Nora.
“You must run upstairs and fetch your hat,” said Mrs. Hartrick.
Poor Nora never felt more tried in the whole course of her life.
“I shall get as bad as Molly if this goes on,” she thought to herself.
CHAPTER XV. — TWO LETTERS.
“DEAR MOTHER [wrote Nora O'Shanaghgan later on that same morning]: I arrived safely yesterday. Uncle George met me at Holyhead, and was very kind indeed. I had a comfortable journey up to town, and Uncle George saw that I wanted for nothing. When we got to London we drove across the town to another station, called Waterloo, and took a train on here. A carriage met us at the station with a pair of beautiful gray horses. They were not as handsome as Black Bess, but they were very beautiful; and we arrived here between eight and nine o'clock. This is just the sort of place you would like, mother; such thick carpets on the stairs, and such large, spacious, splendidly furnished rooms; and Aunt Grace has meals to the minute; and they have lots and lots of servants; and my bedroom—oh, mother! I think you would revel in my bedroom. It has such a terribly thick carpet on the floor—I mean it has a thick carpet on the floor; and there is a view from the window, the sort you have so often described to me—great big trees, and a lawn like velvet, and four or five tennis-courts, and a shrubbery with all the trees cut so exact and round and proper, and a peep of the River Thames just beyond. My cousins keep a boat on the river, and they often go out in the summer evenings. They are going to take me for a row on Saturday, when the girls have a holiday.
“I saw Terence almost immediately after I arrived. He looked just as you would like to see him, so handsome in his evening dress. He was a little stiff—at least, I mean he was very correct in his manner. We had supper when we arrived. I was awfully hungry, but I did not like to eat too much, for Terence seemed so correct—nice in his manner, I mean—and everything was just as you have described things when you were young. There are two girls, my cousins—Linda, a very pretty girl, fair, and so very neatly dressed; and Molly, who is not the least like the others. You would not like Molly; she is rather rough; but of course I must not complain of her. I have been sitting with Aunt Grace all the morning, until I could bear it no longer—I mean, until I got a little stiff in my legs, and then I had a run in the garden. Now I am writing this letter in Aunt Grace's morning-room, and if I look round I shall see her back.
“Good-by, dear mother. I will write again in a day or two.—Your affectionate daughter,
“NORA O'SHANAGHGAN.”
“There,” said Nora, under her breath, “that's done. Now for daddy.”
She took out another sheet of paper, and began to scribble rapidly.
“Darling, darling, love of my heart! Daddy, daddy, oh! but it's I that miss you. I am writing to you here in this could, could country. Oh, daddy, if I could run to you now, wouldn't I? What are you doing without your Light o' the Morning? I am pent up, daddy, and I don't think I can stand it much longer. It's but a tiny visit I'll pay, and then I'll come back again to the mountains and the sea, and the old, old house, and the dear, darling dad. Keep up your heart, daddy; you'll soon have Light o' the Morning home. Oh! it's so proper, and I'm wrapped up in silk chains; they are surrounding me everywhere, and I can't quite bear it. Aunt Grace is sitting here; I am writing in her morning-room. Oh! if I could, wouldn't I scream, or shout, or do something awfully wicked; but I must not, for it is the English way. They have got the wild bird Nora into the English cage; and, darling dad asthore, it's her heart that will be broke if she stays here long. There's one comfort I have—or, bedad! I don't think I could bear it—and that's Molly. She's a bit of a romp and a bit of a scamp, and she has a daring spirit of her own, and she hates the conventionalities, and she would like to be Irish too. She can't, poor colleen; but she is nice and worth knowing, and she'll just keep my heart from being broke entirely.
“How are they all at home? Give them lashins and lavins of love from Nora. Tell them it's soon I'll be back with them. You go round and give a message to each and all; and don't forget Hannah Croneen, and little Mike, and Bridget Murphy, and Squire Murphy, and the rest—all and every one who remembers Nora O'Shanaghgan. Tell them it's her heart is imprisoned till she gets back to them; and she would rather have one bit of her own native soil than all the gold in the whole of England. I declare it's rough and wild I am getting, and my heart is bleeding. I have written a correct letter to mother, and given her the news; but I am telling you a bit of my true, true heart. Send for me if you miss me too much, and I'll fly back to you. Oh! it's chains wouldn't keep me, for go I must if this state of things continues much longer.—Your
“LIGHT O' THE MORNING.”
The two letters were written, the last one relieving Nora's feelings not a little. She put them into separate envelopes and stamped them.
Mrs. Hartrick rose, went over to her desk, and saw Nora's letters.
“Oh, you have written to your parents,” she said. “Quite right, my dear. But why put them into separate envelopes? They could go nicely in one. That, really, is willful waste, Nora, which we in England never permit.”
“Oh, please, don't change them, Aunt Grace,” said Nora, as Mrs. Hartrick took the two letters up and paused before opening one of the envelopes. “Please, please, let them go as they are. It's my own stamp,” she continued, losing all sense of grammar in her excitement.
“Well, my dear, just as you please. There, don't excite yourself, Nora. I only suggested that, when one stamp would do, it was rather wasteful to spend two.”
“Oh, daddy does like to get his own letters to his own self,” said Nora.
“Your father, you mean. You don't, surely, call him by the vulgar word daddy?”
“Bedad! but I do,” answered Nora.
Mrs. Hartrick turned and gave her niece a frozen glance. Presently she laid her hand on the girl's shoulder.
“I don't want to complain or to lecture you,” she said; “but that expression must not pass your lips again while you are here.”
“It shan't. I am ever so sorry,” said the girl.
“I think you are, dear; and how flushed your cheeks are! You seem quite tired. Now, go upstairs and wash your hands; the luncheon-gong will ring in five minutes, and we must be punctual at meals.”
Nora slowly left the room.
“Oh! but it's like lead my heart is,” she said to herself.
The day passed very dismally for the wild Irish girl. After lunch she and her aunt had a long and proper drive. They drove through lovely country; but Nora was feeling even a little bit cross, and could not see the beauties of the perfectly tilled landscape, of the orderly fields, of the lovely hedgerows.
“It is too tidy,” she said once in a choking sort of voice.
“Tidy!” answered Mrs. Hartrick. She looked at Nora, tittered a sigh, and did not speak of the beauties of the country again.
When they got back from their drive things were a little better, for Linda and Molly had returned from school; and, for a wonder, Molly was not in disgrace. She looked quite excited, and darting out of the house, took Nora's hand and pulled it inside her arm.
“Come and have a talk,” she said. “I am hungering for a chat with you.”
“Tea will be ready in fifteen minutes, Molly,” called out Mrs. Hartrick, then entered the house accompanied by Linda.
Meanwhile Molly and Nora went round to the shrubbery at the back of the house.
“What is the matter with you?” said Molly. She turned and faced her companion.
Nora's eyes filled with sudden tears.
“It is only that I am keeping in so much,” she said; “and—and, oh! I do wish you were not all quite so tidy. I am just mad for somebody to be wild and unkempt. I feel that I could take down my hair, or tear a rent in my dress—anything rather than the neatness. Oh! I hate your landscapes, and your trim hedges, and your trim house, and your—”
“Go on,” said Molly; “let it out; let it out. I'll never repeat it. You must come in, in about a quarter of an hour, to a stiff meal. You will have to sit upright, let me tell you, and not lounge; and you will have to eat your bread and butter very nicely, and sip your tea, and not eat overmuch. Mother does not approve of it. Then when tea is over you will have to leave the room and go upstairs and get things out for dinner.”
“My things out for dinner?” gasped Nora. “What do you mean?”
“Your evening-dress. Do you suppose you will be allowed to dine in your morning-dress?”
“Oh, to be sure,” said Nora, brightening; “now I understand. Mother did get me a white frock, and she had it cut square in the neck, and the sleeves are a little short.”
“You will look sweet in that,” said Molly, gazing at her critically; “and I will bring you in a bunch of sweet-peas to put in your belt, and you can have a little bunch in your hair, too, if you like. You know you are awfully pretty. I am sure Linda is just mad with jealousy about it; I can see it, although she does not say anything. She is rather disparaging about you, is Linda; that is one of her dear little ways. She runs people down with faint praise. She was talking a lot about you as we were going to school this morning. She began: 'You know, I do think Nora is a pretty girl; but it is such a pity that—'”
“Oh, don't,” said Nora, suddenly putting out her hand and closing Molly's lips.
“What in the world are you doing that for?” said Molly.
“Because I don't want to hear; she did not mean me to know that she said these things.”
“What a curiosity you are!” said Molly. “So wild, so defiant, and yet—oh, of course, I like you awfully. Do you know that the vision of your face kept me good all day? Isn't that something to be proud of? I didn't answer one of my teachers back, and I did have a scolding, let me tell you. Oh, my music; you don't know what I suffer over it. I have not a single particle of taste. I have not the faintest ghost of an ear; but mother insists on my learning. I could draw; I could sketch; I can do anything with my pencil; but that does not suit mother. It must be music. I must play; I must play well at sight; I must play all sorts of difficult accompaniments for songs, because gentlemen like to have their songs accompanied for them; and I must be able to do this the very moment the music is put before me. And I must not play too loud; I must play just right, in perfect time; and I must be ready, when there is nothing else being done, to play long pieces, those smart kind of things people do play in the present day; and I must never play a wrong note. Oh, dear! oh, dear! and I simply cannot do these things. I don't know wrong notes from right. I really don't.”
“Oh, Molly!” cried Nora.
“There you are; I can see that you are musical.”
“I think I am, very. I mean I think I should always know a wrong note from a right one; but I have not had many opportunities of learning.”
“Oh, good gracious me! what next?” exclaimed Molly.
“I don't understand what you mean,” said Nora.
“My dear, I am relieving my feelings, just as you relieved yours a short time ago. Oh, dear! my music. I know I played atrociously; but that dreadful Mrs. Elford was so cross; she did thump so herself on the piano, and told me that my fingers were like sticks. And what could I do? I longed to let out some of my expressions at her. You must know that I am feared on account of my expressions—my slang, I call them. They do shock people so, and it is simply irresistible to see them shudder, and close their eyes, and draw themselves together, and then majestically walk out of the room. The headmistress is summoned then, and I—I am doomed. I get my pieces to do out of school; and when I come home mother lectures me, and sends me to my bedroom. But I am free to-night. I have been good all day; and it is on account of you, Nora; just because you are a little Irish witch; and I sympathize with you to the bottom of my soul.”
“Molly! Molly!” here called out Linda's voice; “mother says it's time for you and Nora to come in to wash your hands for tea.”
“Oh, go to Jericho!” called out Molly.
Linda turned immediately and went into the house.
“She is a tell-tale-tit,” said Molly. “She will be sure to repeat that to mother; and do you think I shall be allowed any cake? There is a very nice kind of rice-cake which cook makes, and I am particularly fond of it. You'll see I am not to have any, just because I said 'Go to Jericho!' I am sure I wish Linda would go.”
“But those kind of things are rather vulgar, aren't they?” said Nora. “Father wouldn't like them. We say all kinds of funny things at home, but not things like that. I wish you would not.”
“You wish I would not what?”
“Use words like 'Go to Jericho!' Father would not like to hear you.”
“You are a very audacious kind of girl, let me tell you, Nora,” said Molly. She colored, and looked annoyed for a moment, then burst into a laugh. “But I like you all the better for not being afraid of me,” she continued. “Come, let's go into the house; we can relieve our feelings somehow to-night; we'll have a lark somehow; you mark my words. In the meantime mum's the word.”