Light O' the Morning: The Story of an Irish Girl

CHAPTER XX. — STEPHANOTIE.

Mrs. Hartrick made all necessary arrangements, and on the following Monday Nora accompanied her cousin to school. Molly was much delighted.

“Now I shall be able to work,” she said, “and I won't be guilty of slang when you are by. Don't whisper it to Linda. She would be in the seventh heaven of bliss, and I detest pleasing her; but I would do anything in the world for you, Nora creena.”

Nora gave her cousin's arm an affectionate squeeze.

“I have never been to school,” said Nora; “you must instruct me what I am to do.”

“Oh, dear, dear!” said Molly, “you won't need instruction; you are as sharp and smart as any girl could be. You'll be a little puzzled at first about the different classes, and I'll give you hints about how to take notes and all that sort of thing. But you will quickly get into the way of it, and then you'll learn like a house on fire.”

“I wish you two wouldn't whisper together so much,” said Linda in an annoyed voice. “I am going over my French parsing to myself, and you do interrupt me so.”

“Then walk a little farther away from us,” said Molly rudely.

She turned once more to her cousin.

“I will introduce you to the very nicest girls in my form,” she said. “I do hope you'll be put into my form, for then in the evenings you and I can do our work together. I expect you know about as much as I do.”

“But that's just it—I don't,” said Nora. “I have not learned a bit in the school way. I had a governess for a time, but she did not know a great deal. Of course mother taught me too; but I have not had advantages. I should not be surprised if I were put into the lowest form.”

They now arrived at the school, and a few minutes later Nora found herself in a huge classroom in which about sixty other girls were assembled. Miss Flowers presently sent a pupil-teacher to ask Miss O'Shanaghgan to have an interview with her in her private room.

Miss Flowers was about fifty years of age. She had white hair, calm, large, well-opened blue eyes, a steadfast mouth, and a gracious and at the same time dignified manner. She was not exactly beautiful; but she had the sort of face which most girls respected and which many loved. Nora looked earnestly at her, and in her wild, impulsive Irish fashion, gave her heart on the spot.

“What is your name, my dear?” said the head-mistress kindly.

Nora told it.

“You are Irish, Mrs. Hartrick tells me.”

“Yes, Miss Flowers, I have lived all my life in Ireland.”

“I must find out what sort of instruction you have had. Have you ever been at school before?”

“Never.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen, Miss Flowers.”

“What things have you been taught?”

“English subjects of different sorts,” replied Nora. “A little music—oh, I love music, I do love music!—and a little French; and I can speak Irish,” she added, raising her beautiful, dark-blue eyes, and fixing them on the face of the head-mistress. That winsome face touched Miss Flowers' heart.

“I will do what I can for you,” she said. “For the present you had better study alone. At the end of a week or so I shall be able to determine what form to put you in. Now, go back to the schoolroom and ask Miss Goring to come to me.”

Miss Goring was the English mistress. Miss Flowers saw her alone for a minute or two.

“Do what you can for the Irish girl,” she said. “She is a very pretty creature; she is evidently ignorant; but I think she has plenty of talent.”

Miss Goring went back, and during the rest of the morning devoted herself to Nora. Nora had varied and strange acquirements at her finger's ends. She was up in all sorts of folk lore; she could clothe her speech in picturesque and striking language. She could repeat poetry from Sir Walter Scott, from Shakspere, from the old Irish bards themselves; but her grammar was defective, although her reading aloud was very pretty and sweet. Her knowledge of history was vague, and might be best described by the expression, up and down. She knew all about the Waldenses; she had a vivid picture in her mind's eye of St. Bartholomew's Eve. The French Revolution appalled and, at the same time, attracted her. The death of Charles I. drew tears from her eyes; but she knew nothing whatever of the chronological arrangements of history; and the youngest girl in the school could have put her to shame with regard to the Magna Charta. It was just the same with every branch of knowledge which Nora had even a smattering of.

At last the great test of all came—could she play or could she not? She had spoken often of her passionate love for music. Miss Goring took her into the drawing room, away from the other girls.

“I am not supposed to be musical,” she said, “but I think I know music when I hear it. If you have talent, you shall have plenty of advantages here. Now, sit down and play something for me.”

“What! At that piano?” said Nora, her eyes sparkling. Miss Goring had opened a magnificent Broadwood grand.

“Yes,” she said. “It is rather daring of me to bring you here; but I want you to have fair play.”

“I never played on a really good piano in my life,” said Nora. “May I venture?”

“Yes. I do not believe you will injure it.”

“May I play as loud as I like, and as soft as I like?”

“Certainly. You may play exactly as you please; only play with all your heart. You will be taught scientific music doubtless; but I want to know what you can do without education, at present.”

Nora sat down. At first she felt a little shy, and all her surroundings were so strange, the piano was so big; she touched it with her small, taper fingers, and it seemed to her that the deep, soft notes were going to overpower her. Then she looked at Miss Goring and felt uncomfortable; but she touched the notes again, and she began to forget the room, and Miss Goring, and the grand piano; and the soul of music stood in her eyes and touched the tips of her fingers. The music was quite unclassical, quite unconventional; but it was music—a wild kind of wailing chant—the notes of the Banshee itself. Nora played on, and the tears filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.

“Oh, it hurts so!” she said at last, and she looked full up at Miss Goring. Behold, the cold, gray eyes of the English teacher were also full of tears.

“You terrify me,” she said. “Where did you hear anything like that?”

“That is the wail of the Banshee. Shall I play any more?”

“Nothing more so eerie.”

“Then may I sing for you?”

“Can you sing?”

“I was never taught; but I think I can sing.” Nora struck a few chords again. She sang the pathetic words, “She is Far from the Land,” and Miss Goring felt the tears filling her eyes once more.

“Upon my word!” she said, as she led her pupil back to the schoolroom, “you can play and you can sing; you have music in you. It would be worth while to give you good lessons.”

Nora's musical education was now taken up with vigor. Miss Goring spoke to Miss Flowers about it, and Miss Flowers communicated with Mrs. Hartrick; and Mrs. Hartrick was extremely pleased to find that she had a musical genius in her midst, and determined to give that same musical genius every chance. Accordingly, the very best master in the school arranged to give Nora lessons, and a mistress of striking ability took her also in hand. Nora's wild music, the music that came from her heart, and the song that bubbled from her lips, were absolutely silenced. She must not sing at will; she must on no account play at will. The dullest of exercises were given to her for the purpose of molding her fingers, and the dullest of voice exercises were also given to her for the purpose of molding her voice. She struggled against the discipline, and hated it. She was essentially a child of nature, and this first putting on of the chains of education was the reverse of pleasant.

“Oh, Molly,” she said, “what is the good of singing those hateful, screaming exercises, and those scales? They are too detestable, and those little twists and turns. My fingers absolutely feel quite nervous. What is the use? What is the use?”

Molly also sighed and said, “What is the use?” But then the musical mistress and the great master looked at Nora all over when she made similar remarks, and would not even vouchsafe to answer.

“Father would never be soothed with that sort of music,” she said. “I think he would be very glad we had not a good piano. Oh, Molly, what does it all mean?”

“I don't know,” said Molly. “It's like all other education, nothing but grind, grind; but I suppose something will come of it in the long run.”

“What are you talking about, girls?” said Mrs. Hartrick, who just then appeared upon the scene. “Nora, I am pleased; to get very good reports of your music.”

“Oh!” said Nora, “I am glad you have come, Aunt Grace; and I shall be able to speak to you. Must I learn what takes all the music out of me?”

“Silly child. There is only one road to a sound musical education, and that is the road of toil. At present you play by ear, and sing by ear. You have talent; but it must be cultivated. Just believe that your elders know what they are about.”

Nora did not say anything. Mrs. Hartrick, after looking at her gravely for a moment, continued her gentle walk round the shrubbery. Molly uttered a sigh.

“There's no good, Nora,” she said. “You'll have to go through with it. I suppose it is the only way; but it's hard to believe it.”

“Well, at any rate, I enjoy other things in my school life,” said Nora. “Miss Goring is so nice, and I quite love Miss Flowers; and, after all, I am in your form, Molly, and we do like doing our lessons together.”

“To be sure we do; life is quite a different thing for me since you have come here,” was Molly's retort.

“And you have been very good indeed about your naughty words, you know,” said Nora, nestling up to her cousin.

“Have I? Well, it's owing to you. You see, now, I have someone to help me—someone to understand me.”

“Ah!” said Nora; “but I won't be here very long.”

“Not here very long! Why, you must. What is the use of beginning school and then stopping it?”

“School or no school, my place is by father's side. It is a long, long time since we heard from Uncle George. As soon as ever he comes back I go.”

“Father has been a whole month in Ireland now,” said Molly. “I cannot imagine what he is doing. I think mother fidgets rather. She has very long letters from him, and——”

“And, do you know,” said Nora, “that father has not written to me once—no, not once since Uncle George went over? I am absolutely in the dark.”

“I wonder you stand it,” said Molly. “You are so impetuous. I cannot imagine why you don't fly back.”

“I could not,” said Nora.

“Could not? What is there to hinder you?”

“I have given my word.”

“Your word? To whom?”

“To your father. He went to Ireland to please me.”

“Oh, did he? That's exciting,” said Molly. “Father went to Ireland to please a little chit like you. Now, what does this mean?”

“It means exactly what I have said. He went because I begged him to; because I explained things to him, and he said he would go. But he made a condition, and I am bound to stick to my part of it.”

“And that was——How your eyes shine, Nora!”

“That was, that I am to stay patiently here, and get as English as ever I can. Oh! I must stick to my part of the bargain.”

“Well, I cannot say you look very happy,” said Molly, “although you are such a favorite at the school. If I was not very fond of you myself I should be jealous. If I had a friend whom I really worshiped, before you appeared on the scene, it was Stephanotie Miller, the American girl.”

“Oh, isn't she charming?” said Nora. “She makes me laugh. I am sure she has Irish blood in her.”

“Not a bit of it; she's a Yankee of the Yankees.”

“Well, she has been sent to school to get tame, just as I have been,” said Nora; “but I don't want you to lose her friendship. After all, I care very little for anyone in the school but you, Molly; only Stephanotie makes me laugh.”

“We'll have her to tea tomorrow. I'll run in now and ask mother. I shan't mind a bit if you are not going quite to take her from me. After all, she can be friends with both of us. I'll run into the house this moment, and ask mother if we may have Stephanotie to tea.”

Molly rushed into the house. Her mother was seated in the morning room, busily writing.

“Well, my dear, well?” she said. “I hear you—you need not bang the door. What is it, Molly?”

“Oh, mother! do look up and listen.”

Mrs. Hartrick raised her head slowly.

“Yes, dear?” she said.

“I have behaved a great deal better lately—have I not, mother?”

“You certainly have, Molly; and I am pleased with you. If you would restrain some of your impetuosity, I should be glad to tell you how pleased I am.”

“It is all owing to Nora.”

“To Nora, my dear! Nora is as wild as you are.”

“All the same, it is owing to Nora; and she is not as wild as I am. I mean that I have been downright vulgar; but if you think there is one trace of that in little Nora, it is because you do not know her a bit.”

“What is your special request, Molly? I am very busy just now, and cannot discuss your cousin's character. You have improved, and I am pleased with you.”

“Then, if you are pleased with me, mother, will you do me a favor?”

“What is that?”

“Stephanotie Miller has never been at our house.”

“Stephanotie Miller. What an outlandish name! Who is she?”

“She is a dear, jolly, sweet, handsome American girl. She came to school last term, and she is in the same form with Nora and me; and we both adore her, yes we do. Whatever she does, and whatever she says, we think simply perfection; and we want to ask her here. She is staying with a rather tiresome aunt, in a little house in the village, and she has come over to be Englishized. May she have tea with us tomorrow?”

“I will inquire about her from Miss Flowers; and if she seems to be a nice girl I shall have no objection.”

“But we want her to come tomorrow,” said Molly. “It is Saturday, you know, and a whole holiday. We thought she might come to lunch, or, if you objected to that, immediately after lunch.”

“And what about Linda? Does Linda like her?”

“Holy Moses, no!” said Molly.

“Molly!”

“Oh, mother! do forgive me, and don't say she mustn't come because I said 'Holy Moses.' It's all Linda; she excites the vulgar in me always. But may Stephie come, mother? You are always having Linda's friends here.”

“I will not be reproved by you, Molly.”

“But, please, dear mother, let her come. Nora and I want her so badly.”

“Well, dear, I will try and see Miss Flowers tomorrow morning.”

“Won't you judge of her for yourself, mother? There never was a better judge than you are.”

This judicious flattery had its effect on Mrs. Hartrick, She sat quite still for a moment, pondering. After all, to be a pupil at Mrs. Flowers' school was in itself a certificate of respectability, and Molly had been very good lately—that is, for her; and if she and Nora wanted a special friend to spend the afternoon with them, it would be possible for Mrs. Hartrick quickly to decide whether the invitation was to be repeated.

“Very well,” she said, looking at her daughter, “for this once you may have her; and as you have wisely expressed it, Molly, I can judge for myself.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, mother!”

Molly rushed out of the room. She was flying headlong down the passage, when she came plump up against Linda.

“Now, what is up?” said that young person. “Really, Molly!”

“Oh, hurrah! I have won my way for once,” said Molly. “Stephanotie is coming tomorrow to spend the whole afternoon.”

“Stephanotie—that horrid Yankee?” said Linda.

“Horrid Yankee yourself!” was Molly's vulgar retort.

“But she cannot come. I have asked Mabel and Rose Armitage, and you know they cannot stand Stephanotie.”

“Well, you, and your Mabel and Rose, can keep away from Stephanotie—that's all,” said Molly. “Anyhow, she is coming. Don't keep me. I must tell Nora.”

Linda made way for her sister to fly past her, as she afterward expressed it, like a whirlwind. She stood still for a moment in deep consideration. Stephanotie was a daring, bright, go-ahead young person, and had she ever taken, in the very least, to Linda, Linda would have worshiped her. Stephanotie was extremely rich, and the bouquets she brought to school, and the bon-bons she kept in her pocket, and the pretty trinkets she wore, and the dresses she exhibited had fascinated Linda more than once. For, rich as the Hartricks were, Mrs. Hartrick had far too good taste to allow her daughters more pocket-money, or more trinkets, or more bon-bons than their companions. Linda, in her heart of hearts, had greatly rebelled against her mother's rule in this particular, and had envied Stephanotie what she called her free life. But Stephanotie had never taken to Linda, and she had taken to Molly, and still more had she taken to Nora; and, in consequence, Linda pretended to hate her, and whenever she had an opportunity used to run her down.

Linda and her friends, Rose and Mabel Armitage, with several other girls, formed quite a clique in the school against Stephanotie and what she termed her “set”; and now to think that this very objectionable American girl was to spend the next day at The Laurels because Molly, forsooth! wished it, was quite intolerable.

Linda thought for a moment, then went into the room where her mother was busy writing. Mrs. Hartrick had just finished her letter. She looked up when Linda approached.

“Well, darling?” she said. Mrs. Hartrick was very fond of Linda, and petted her a great deal more than Molly.

“Oh, mother! I am vexed,” said Linda. “Is it quite settled?”

“Is what settled, my dear?”

“Is it quite settled that Stephanotie is to come to-morrow?”

“By the way, I was going to ask you about her, Linda. What sort of girl is she?”

“I do not wish to say anything against my schoolfellows, mother; but if you could only see her—”

Mrs. Hartrick raised her eyebrows in alarm.

“Molly has taken so violently to her,” she answered, “and so has Nora; and I thought that just for once—”

“So you have given leave, mother?”

“Yes; I have.”

“And my friends are coming—those two charming girls, the Armitages.”

“Yes, dear; I greatly admire both the Armitage girls. I am glad they are coming; but why should not Miss Miller come also?”

“Only, she is not in their 'set,' mother—that is all. I wish—I do wish you would ask her to postpone her visit. If she must come, let her come another Saturday.”

“I will think about it,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “I have certainly promised and——But I will think about it.”

Linda saw that she could not press her mother any further. She went away in great disquietude.

“What is to be done?” she thought. “If only mother would speak to Molly at once; but Molly is so impetuous; and once Stephanotie is asked, there will be no getting out of it. She is just the sort of girl to tell that unpleasant story about me, too. If mother knew that, why, I should at last be in her black books. Well, whatever happens, Stephanotie must not be asked to spend the afternoon here to-morrow. I must somehow contrive to put some obstacle in the way.”

CHAPTER XXI. — THE ROSE-COLORED DRESS.

Meanwhile Molly rushed off to Nora. “Linda means mischief, and I must put my foot down immediately,” she said.

“Why, Molly, what is up?”

“Put on your hat, darling, and come with me as fast as ever you can.”

“Where to?”

“Mother has given in about Stephanotie. Linda will put her finger in the pie if she possibly can. I mean Stephanotie to get her invitation within the next five minutes. Now, then, come along, Nora. Do be quick.”

Mrs. Hartrick never allowed the girls to go out except very neatly dressed; but on this occasion they were seen tearing down the road with their garden hats on and minus their gloves. Had anyone from The Laurels observed them, good-by to Molly's liberty for many a long day. No one did, however. Linda during the critical moment was closeted with her mother. When she reappeared the girls were halfway to the village. They reached it in good time, and arrived at the house of Miss Truefitt, Stephanotie's aunt.

Miss Truefitt was an old-fashioned and precise little lady. She had gone through a great deal of trouble since the arrival of her niece, and often, as she expressed it, did not know whether she stood on her head or her heels; but she was fond of Stephanotie, who, notwithstanding her wild ways, was very affectionate and very taking. And now, when she saw Molly and Nora appearing, she herself entered the hall and opened the door for them.

“Well, my dears,” she said, “Stephie is in her bedroom; she has a headache, and wanted to lie down for a little.”

“Oh, just let me run up to her. I won't keep her a minute,” said Molly.

“Come in here with me,” said Miss Truefitt to Nora. She opened the door of her neat little parlor. Nora entered. The room was full of gay pictures and gay books, and scattered here and there were very large boxes of bon-bons.

“How she can eat them all is what puzzles me,” said Miss Truefitt; “she seems to live on them. The quantity she demolishes would wreck the health of any English girl. Ah, here comes Molly.”

But Molly did not come downstairs alone; the American girl was with her. Stephanotie rushed into the room.

“I am going to The Laurels to-morrow, auntie. I am going quite early; this dear old Molly has asked me. You guess I'll have a good time. There will be a box of bon-bons for Nora, sweet little Irish Nora; and a box for dear little Molly, a true native of England, and a fine specimen to boot. Oh, we shall have a nice time; and I am so glad I am asked!”

“It is very kind of Mrs. Hartrick to send you an invitation, Stephie,” said her aunt.

“Oh, bother that, Aunt Violet! You know perfectly well she would not ask me if Molly and Nora had not got it out of her.”

“Well, we did try our best and most conoodling ways,” said Nora in a soft voice.

“Ah, didn't you, you little Irish witch; and I guess you won, too. Well, I'm going; we'll have a jolly lark with Linda. If for no other reason, I should be glad to go to upset her apple cart.”

“Dear me, Stephie! you are very coarse and vulgar,” said Miss Truefitt.

“Not a bit of it, auntie. Have a bon-bon, do.” Stephanotie rushed across the room, opened a big box of bon-bons, and presented one, as if it were a pistol, full in Miss Truefitt's face.

“Oh, no, thank you, my dear!” said that lady, backing; “the indigestion I have already got owing to the way you have forced your bon-bons upon me has almost wrecked my health. I have lost all appetite. Dear me, Stephie! I wish you would not be so dreadfully American.”

“The process of Englishizing me is a slow one,” said Stephanotie. She turned, walked up to the glass, and surveyed herself. She was dressed in rich brown velveteen, made to fit her lissome figure. Her hair was of an almost fiery red, and surrounded her face like a halo; her eyes were very bright china-blue, and she had a dazzlingly fair complexion. There were people who thought Stephanotie pretty; there were others who did not admire her at all. She had a go-ahead, very independent manner, and was the sort of girl who would be idolized by the weaker members of the school. Molly, however, was by no means a weak member of the school, nor, for that matter, was Nora, and they both took great pleasure out of Stephanotie.

“My bark is worse than my bite,” said that young person. “I am something like you, Molly. I am a bit of a scorcher; but there, when I am trained in properly I'll be one of the best of good creatures.”

“Well, you are booked for to-morrow now,” said Molly; “and Jehoshaphat! if you don't come in time—”

“Oh, Molly!” whispered Nora.

“There, I won't say it again.”

Poor Miss Truefitt looked much shocked. Molly and Nora bade her good-by, and nodded to Stephanotie, who stood upon the doorstep and watched them down the street; then she returned to her aunt.

“I did think,” said Miss Truefitt slowly, “that the girls belonging to your school were ladylike; but to come here without gloves, and that eldest girl, Miss Hartrick, to use such a shocking expression.”

“Oh, bless you, Aunt Vi! it's nothing to the expressions she uses at school. She's a perfect horror of a girl, and I like her for that very reason. It is that horrid little Linda would please you; and I must say I am sorry for your taste.”

Accordingly Stephanotie rifled her trunk, and from its depths she produced a robe which would, as she said, make the members of The Laurels sit up. It was made of rose-colored silk, and trimmed with quantities of cream lace. The skirt had many little flounces on it, and each was edged with lace. The bodice was cut rather low in the neck, and the sleeves did not come down anything like as far as the wrists. The rose-colored silk with its cream lace trimmings was altogether the sort of dress which might be worn in the evening; but daring Stephanotie intended to appear in it in the morning. She would encircle her waist with a cream-colored sash, very broad, and with much lace upon it; and would wear many-colored beads round her neck, and many bracelets on her arms.

“The whole will have a stylish effect, and will at any rate distinguish me from everyone else,” was her inward comment. She shook out the dress, and then rang the bell. One of the servants appeared.

“I want to have this robe ironed and made as presentable as possible,” said Stephanotie; “see you have it all done and put in my wardrobe ready for wear tonight. I guess it will fetch 'em,” she added, and then she rushed like a whirlwind into the presence of Miss Truefitt.

“Auntie,” she said, “would you like to see me done up in style?”

“I don't know, I am sure, my dear,” said Miss Truefitt, looking at her with nervous eyes.

“Oh, dear, Aunt Vi! if you were to see mother now you wouldn't know her; she is wonderfully addicted to the pleasures of the toilet. There is nothing so fascinating as the pleasures of the toilet when once you yield to its charms. She rigged me up pretty smart before I left New York, and I am going to wear my rose-colored silk with the cream lace to-morrow.”

“But you are not going to an evening party, my dear.”

“No; but I shall stay all the evening, and I know I'll look killing. The dress suits me down to the ground. It is one of my fads always to be in something red; it seems to harmonize with my hair.”

Miss Truefitt uttered a deep sigh.

“What are you sighing for, Aunt Vi?”

“Nothing, dear; only please don't offer me a bon-bon. The mere sight of those boxes gives me a feeling of nausea.”

“But you have not tried the crystallized figs,” cried Stephanotie; “they are wonderfully good; and if you feel nausea a peppermint-drop will set you right. I have a kind of peppermint chocolate in this box which is extremely stimulating to the digestive organs.”

“No, no, Stephie. I beg—I really do beg that you will take all the obnoxious boxes out of the room.”

“Very well, auntie; but you'll come up to-morrow to see me in my dress?”

The next day was Saturday, a holiday of course. Stephanotie had put her hair into Hinde's curlers the night before, and, in consequence, it was a perfect mass of frizzle and fluff the next morning. Miss Truefitt, who wore her own neat gray locks plainly banded round her head, gave a shudder when she first caught sight of Stephanotie.

“I was thinking, dear, during the night,” she said, “of your pink silk dress, and I should very much prefer you to wear the gray cashmere trimmed with the neat velvet at the cuffs and collar. It would tone down your—”

“Oh, don't say it,” said Stephanotie; “my hair is a perfect glory this morning. Come yourself and look at it—here; stand just here; the sun is shining full on me. Everyone will have to look twice at me with a head like this.”

“Indeed, that is true,” said Miss Truefitt; “and perhaps three times; and not approve of you then.”

“Oh, come, auntie, you don't know how bewitching I look when I am got up in all my finery.”

“She is hopelessly vulgar,” thought poor Miss Truefitt to herself; “and I always supposed Agnes would have such a nice, proper girl, such as she was herself in the old days; but that last photograph of Agnes shows a decided falling off. How truly glad I am that I was never induced to marry an American! I would rather have my neat, precise little house and a small income than go about like a figure of fun. That poor child will never be made English; it is a hopeless task. The sooner she goes back to America the better.”

Meanwhile Stephanotie wandered about the house, thinking over and over of the happy moment when she would appear at The Laurels. She thought it best to put on her rose-colored dress in time for early dinner. It fitted her well, but was scarcely the best accompaniment to her fiery-red hair.

“Oh, lor', miss!” said Maria, the servant, when she first caught sight of Stephanotie.

“You may well say, 'Oh, lor'!' Maria,” replied Stephanotie, “although it is not a very pretty expression. But have a bon-bon; I don't mean to be cross.”

She whirled across the room, snatched hold of one of her boxes of bon-bons, and presented it to Maria. Maria was not averse to a chocolate peppermint, and popped one into her mouth. The next instant Miss Truefitt appeared. “Now, Stephanotie,” she said, “do you think for a single moment—Oh, my dear child, you really are too awful! You don't mean to say you are going to The Laurels like that?”

“Have a bon-bon?” was Stephanotie's response.

“You are downright rude. I will not allow you to offer me bon-bons again.”

“But a fresh box of them has just arrived. I got them by the eleven o'clock post to-day,” was Stephanotie's reckless answer; “and, oh, such beauties! And I had a letter from mother to say that I might order as many as ever I liked from Fuller's. I mean to write to them to ask them to send me ten shillings' worth. I'll ask for the newest varieties. There surely must be bon-bons which would not give you indigestion, Aunt Vi.”

“I must ask you to take off that dress, Stephanotie. I forbid you to go to The Laurels in such unsuitable attire.”

“Oh, lor'! and it's lovely!” said Maria, sotto voce, as she was leaving the room.

“What an unpleasant smell of peppermint!” said Miss Truefitt, sniffing at that moment. “You know, Stephanotie, how I have begged of you not to eat those unpleasant sweets in the dining room.”

“I didn't,” said Stephanotie; “it was only Maria.”

Maria backed out of the room with another violent “Oh, lor'!” and ran down to the kitchen.

“I'll have to give notice,” she said. “It's Miss Stephanotie; she's the most dazzlingly brilliant young lady I ever set eyes on; but mistress will never forgive me for eating that peppermint in her presence.”

“Rinse the mouth out, and take no notice,” was the cook's somewhat heartless rejoinder. “How do you say she was dressed, Maria?”

“Pink, the color of a rose, and that ravishing with lace. I never see'd such a dress,” said Maria. “She's the most beautiful young lady and the queerest I ever set eyes on.”

Stephanotie and her aunt were having a battle upstairs, and in the end the elder lady won. Stephanotie was obliged to take off the unsuitable dress and put on the gray cashmere. As subsequent events proved, it was lucky for her that she did do so.

CHAPTER XXII. — LETTERS.

By the post on the following morning there came two letters for Nora. She hailed them with a cry of delight.

“At last!” she said.

Mrs. Hartrick was not in the room; she had a headache, and did not get up to breakfast. Terence had already started for town. He had secured the post he desired in his uncle's office, and thought himself a very great man of business. Linda did not count for anything.

Nora flung herself into an easy-chair, and opened the first of her letters. It was from her mother. She was soon lost in its contents.

“MY DEAR NORA [wrote Mrs. O'Shanaghgan]: Be prepared for very great, startling, and at the same time gratifying, news. Your dear Uncle George, who has been spending the last three weeks with us, has made an arrangement which lifts us, my dear daughter, out of all pecuniary embarrassments. I will tell you as briefly as possible what has taken place. He had a consultation with your father, and induced him, at my suggestion, to unburden his mind to him. You know the Squire's ways. He pooh-poohed the subject and fought shy of it; but at last I myself brought him to task, and the whole terrible and disgraceful state of things was revealed. My dear Nora, my dear little girl, we were, it appears, on the brink of bankruptcy. In a couple of months O'Shanaghgan would no longer have been ours.

I cannot say that I should ever have regretted leaving this ramshackle and much-dilapidated place, but of course I should have shrunk from the disgrace, the exposure, the feeling that I was the cynosure of all eyes. That, indeed, would have cut me to the quick. Had your father consented to sell O'Shanaghgan and live in England, it would have been a moment of great rejoicing for me; but the place to be sold up over his head was quite a different matter. This, my dear Nora, seems to have been the position of affairs when your dear uncle, like a good providence or a guardian angel, appeared on the scene. Your uncle, my dearest Nora, is a very rich man. My dear brother has been careful with regard to money matters all his life, and is now in possession of a very large supply of this world's goods. Your dear uncle was good enough to come to the rescue, and has bought O'Shanaghgan from the man to whom your father owed the mortgage. O'Shanaghgan now belongs to your Uncle George.”

“Never!” cried Nora, springing to her feet.

“What is the matter, Nora?” said Linda.

“Don't talk to me for the present, or I'll say something you won't like to hear,” replied Nora.

“Really, I must say you are copying Molly in your manner.”

“Don't speak to me,” said Nora. Her face was crimson; she had never felt such a wild, surging sense of passion in the whole of her existence. Linda's calm gray eyes were upon her, however. She managed to suppress any more emotion, saw that her cousin was burning with curiosity, and continued the letter.

“Although, my dearest Nora, Castle O'Shanaghgan now belongs to your Uncle George, don't suppose for a single moment that he is going to be unkind to us. Far from it. To all appearance the place is still ours; but with, oh! such a difference. Your father is still, in the eyes of the tenants and of the country round, the owner of Castle O'Shanaghgan; but, after consulting with me, your Uncle George felt that he must not have the reins. His Irish nature, my dear—But I need not discuss that. You know as well as I do how reckless and improvident he is.”

“Oh, mother!” gasped Nora. She clenched her little white teeth, and had great difficulty in proceeding with her letter. Linda's curiosity, however, acted as a restorative, and she went on with her mother's lengthy epistle.

“All things are now changed, and I may as well say that a glorious era has begun. Castle O'Shanaghgan is now your uncle's property, and it will soon be a place to be proud of. He is having it refurnished from attic to cellar; carpets, curtains, mirrors, furniture of all sorts have already begun to arrive from one of the most fashionable shops in Dublin. Gardeners have been got to put the gardens to rights, the weeds have been removed from the avenue, the grass has been cut, the lawns have been mown; the whole place looks already as if it had undergone a resurrection. My bedroom, dear Nora, is now a place suitable for your mother to sleep in; the bare boards are covered with a thick Brussels carpet. The Axminster stair carpets arrived yesterday. In the dining room is one of the most magnificent Turkey carpets I have ever seen; and your uncle has insisted on having the edge of the floor laid with parquetry. Will you believe me, Nora?—your father has objected to the sound of the hammering which the workmen make in putting in the different pieces of wood. You can scarcely believe it possible; but I state a fact. The stables are being filled with suitable horses; and with regard to that I am glad to say your father does take some interest. A victoria has arrived for me, and a pony-trap for you, dear; for it seems your Uncle George has taken a great fancy to you, my little Nora. Well, dear, all this resurrection, this wonderful restoration of Castle O'Shanaghgan has occurred during your absence. You will come back to a sort of fairyland; but it is one of your uncle's stipulations that you do not come back at present; and, of course, for such a fairy godfather, such a magician, no promise is too great to give. So I have told him, dear Nora, that you will live with your kind and noble Aunt Grace, and with your charming cousin Linda, and your cousin Molly—about whom I do not hear so much—as long as he wishes you to do so. You will receive the best of educations, and come back at Christmas to a suitable home. You must have patience until then. It is your uncle's proposal that at Christmas-time you and your cousins also come to O'Shanaghgan, and that we shall have a right good old-fashioned Christmas in this place, which at last is beautiful and worthy of your ancient house. You must submit patiently, therefore, dear Nora, to remaining in England. You will probably spend the greater portion of your time there for the next few years, until you are really accomplished. But the holidays you, with your dear cousins and your uncle and aunt, will always spend at O'Shanaghgan. You must understand, dear, that the house really belongs to your uncle; the place is his, and we are simply his tenants, from whom he nobly asks no rent. How proud I am of my dear brother, and how I rejoice in this glorious change!—Your affectionate mother,

“ELLEN O'SHANAGHGAN.”.

The letter dropped from Nora's fingers.

“And was it I who effected all this?” she said to herself. “And I thought I was doing good.”

The other letter lay unopened on her lap. She took it up with trembling hands, and broke the seal. It was a short letter compared to her mother's, but it was in the handwriting she loved best on earth.

“LIGHT O' THE MORNING [it began]: Why, then, my darling, it's done—it is all over. The place is mine no longer; it belongs to the English. To think I, O'Shanaghgan of Castle O'Shanaghgan, should live to write the words. Your mother put it to me, and I could not refuse her; but, oh, Nora asthore, heart of my life, I can scarcely bear to live here now. What with the carpets and the curtains, and the fuss and the misery, and the whole place being turned into a sort of furniture-shop, it is past bearing. I keep out most of my time in the woods, and I won't deny to you, my dearest child, that I have shed some bitter tears over the change in O'Shanaghgan; for the place isn't what it was, and it's heart-breaking to behold it. But your mother is pleased, and that's one comfort. I always did all I could for her; and when she smiles at me and looks like the sun—she is a remarkably handsome woman, Nora—I try to take a bit of comfort. But I stumble over the carpets and the mats, and your mother is always saying, 'Patrick, take care where you are going, and don't let the dogs come in to spoil the new carpets.' And the English servants that we have now taken are past bearing; and it's just as if I were in chains, and I would almost as lief the place had been sold right away from me as see it in its changed condition. I can add no more now, my child, except to say that, as I am under great and bitter obligations to your Uncle George,

I must agree to his request that you stay in England for the present; but Christmas is coming, and then I'll clasp you in my arms, and I'll have a grain of comfort again.—Your sorrowful old father,

PATRICK O'SHANAGHGAN.”

Nora's cheeks flushed brighter than ever as she read these two letters. The first had cut her to the heart; the second had caused that desire for weeping which unless it is yielded to amounts to torture.

Oh! if Linda would not stay in the room. Oh! if she might crouch away where she, too, could shed tears over the changed Castle O'Shanaghgan. For what did she and her father want with a furniture-shop? Must she, for all the rest of her days, live in a sort of feather-bed house? Must the bareness, the space, the sense of expansion, be hers no more? She was half a savage, and her silken fetters were tortures to her.

“It will kill him,” she murmured. She said the words aloud.

“What will kill him? What is wrong? Do, please, tell me,” said Linda.

Nora looked at her with flashing eyes.

“How bright your cheeks are, Nora, and how your eyes shine! But you look very, very angry. What can be the matter?”

“Matter? There is plenty the matter. I cannot tell you now,” said Nora.

“Then I'll go up and ask mother; perhaps she will tell me. It has something to do with that old place of yours, I have not the slightest doubt. Mother has got a very long letter from Ireland; she will tell me perhaps.”

“Yes, go; and don't come back again,” said Nora, almost rudely.

“She gets worse and worse,” thought Linda as she slowly mounted the stairs. “Nora is anything but a pleasure in the house. At first when she came she was not quite so bad; she had a pretty face, and her manners had not been coarsened from contamination with Molly. Now she is much changed. Yes, I'll go to mother and talk to her. What an awful afternoon we are likely to have with that American girl here and Nora changing for the worse hour by hour.”

Linda knocked at her mother's door. Mrs. Hartrick was not well, and was sitting up in bed reading her letters.

“My head is better, Linda,” she said. “I shall get up presently. What is it, darling?”

“It is only the usual thing,” said Linda, with a deep sigh. “I am always being rubbed the wrong way, and I don't like it.”

“So it seems, my pet. But how nicely you have done your hair this morning! How very neat and ladylike you are becoming, Linda! You are a great comfort to me, dear.”

“Thank you, mother; I try to please you,” said Linda. She seated herself on her mother's bed, suppressed a sigh, then said eagerly:

“Nora is awfully put out. Is there bad news from that wild place, Castle O'Shanaghgan?”

“Bad news?” cried Mrs. Hartrick. “Has the child had letters?”

“Yes, two; she had been reading them instead of eating her breakfast, and the sighs and the groans, and the flashing eyes and the clenched teeth, and the jumping to her feet and the flopping herself down again have been past bearing. She won't let out anything except that she is downright miserable, and that it is a burning shame.”

“What can she mean, mother? Is the old place sold? I always expected they were terribly poor.”

“The best, most splendid news,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “My dear Linda, you must be mistaken. Your father says that he has given your aunt and uncle leave to tell Nora everything. I thought the child would be in the seventh heaven of bliss; in fact, I was almost dreading her arrival on the scene, she is so impetuous.”

“Well, mother, she is not in any seventh heaven of bliss,” replied Linda; “so perhaps they have not told her. But what is it, mother dear? Do tell me.”

“It is this, darling—your father has bought Castle O'Shanaghgan.”

“Oh! and given it to the O'Shanaghgans. Why did he do that?”

“He has bought it, but he has not given it to the O'Shanaghgans. Some day, if Terence turns out worthy, the old place will doubtless be his, as we have no son of our own; but at present it is your father's property; he has bought it.”

“Then no wonder poor Nora is sad,” said Linda. “I can understand her; she is fond of the old place.”

“But why should she be sad? They are not going; they are to stay there, practically owners of all they possess; for, although the property is really your father's, he will only exercise sufficient control to prevent that poor, wild, eccentric uncle of yours from throwing good money after bad. To all intents and purposes the O'Shanaghgans still hold possession; only now, my dear Linda, they will have a beautiful house, magnificently furnished. The grounds are carefully attended to, good gardeners provided, English servants sent for, and the whole place made suitable for your father's sister.”

“But does Nora know of this?”

“I suppose so. I know your father said she was to be told.”

“She is very miserable about something. I cannot understand her,” said Linda. “I tell you what, I'll just go down and tell her. Perhaps those two letters were nothing but grumbles; and the O'Shanaghgans did not know then the happiness that was in store for them.”

“You can tell her if you like, dear.”

“I will, I will,” said Linda. She jumped off her mother's bed and ran downstairs.

Nora was standing in the conservatory. She was gazing straight before her, not at the great, tall, flowering cactus nor the orchids, nor the mass of geraniums and pelargoniums of every shade and hue—she was seeing a picture of a wild, wild lonely place, of a bare old house, of a seashore that was like no other seashore in the world. She was looking at this picture with all the heart of which she was capable shining in her eyes; and she knew that she was looking at it in imagination only, and that she would never see the real picture again, for the wild old place was wild no longer, and in Nora's opinion the glory had departed. She turned when Linda's somewhat mincing voice fell upon her ears.

“How you startled me!” she said. “What is it?”

“Oh, good news,” said Linda. “I am not quite so bad as you think me, Nora, and I am delighted. Mother has told me everything. Castle O'Shanaghgan is yours to live in as long as ever you care to do so. Of course it belongs to us; but that does not matter, and it is furnished from attic to cellar most splendidly, and there are English servants, and there are—”

“Everything abominable and odious and horrible!” burst from Nora's lips. “Oh, don't keep me; don't keep me! I am smothered at the thought—O'Shanaghgan is ruined—ruined!”

She ran away from her cousin out into the air. At headlong speed did she go, until at last she found herself in the most remote and least cultivated part of the plantation.

Oh, to be alone! Now she could cry, and cry she did right bitterly.