CHAPTER VII. — THE MURPHYS.
It was between two and three in the morning when the girls found themselves back again in the desolate mansion of Cronane. Biddy had left a window open; they had easily got in by it and gone up to Biddy's big room on the first floor. They were to sleep together in Biddy's small bed. Personally, discomforts did not affect them; they had never been accustomed to luxury, and rather liked the sense of hardship than otherwise.
“I brought up a bit of supper beforehand,” said Biddy. “I am real hungry. What do you say to cold bacon and taters—eh? I went down to the larder and got a good few early this morning. I put them in the cupboard in a brown bowl with a plate over it. You're hungry—aren't you, Norrie?”
“No, not very,” answered Nora.
“What's come to you, you're so quiet? You have lost all your spirit. I thought we would have a real rollicking time over our supper, laughing and talking, and telling our adventures. Oh! it was awful in that cave; and when you were away talking to the lady Banshee I did have a time of it. I thought that awful Andy was going to murder me. I had a sort of feeling that he was getting closer and closer, and I clutched hold of little Mike. I think he was a bit surprised; I'll give him a penny to-morrow, poor gossoon. But aren't you hungry, and won't you laugh, and shan't we have a jolly spree?”
“Oh, I shall be very glad to eat something,” said Nora; “and I am a little cold, too. I took a chill standing so long in that icy water.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear! it's the rheumatics you'll be getting, and then you'll lose your beautiful straight figure. I must rub your legs. There, sit on the bed and I'll begin.”
Nora submitted to Biddy's ministrations. The room was lit by a small dip candle, which was placed in an old tin candlestick on the mantelpiece.
“Dear, dear! the light will be coming in no time, and we can quench the glim then,” said Biddy. “I've got to be careful about candles. We're precious short of everything at Cronane just now. We're as poor as church mice; it's horrid to be so desperately poor as that. But, hurrah for the cold taters and bacon! We'll have a right good meal. That will warm you up; and I have a little potheen in a black bottle, too. I'll put some water to it and you shall have a drink.”
“I never touch it,” said Nora, shuddering.
“But you must tonight, or you'll catch your death of cold. There, the best thing you can do is to get right into bed. Why, you're shivering, and your teeth are chattering. It's a fine state Mrs. O'Shanaghgan will be in tomorrow when you go back to her.”
“I must not get ill, Biddy; that would never do,” said Nora, pulling herself together with an effort. “Yes, I'll get into bed; and I'll take a little of your potheen—very, very weak, if you'll mix it for me—and I'll have some of the bacon and potatoes. Oh! I would eat anything rather than be ill. I never was really ill in my life; but now, of all times, it would never do.”
“Well, then, here you go. Tumble into bed. I'll pile the blankets on you. Now, isn't that better?”
Biddy bustled, intent on hospitality. She propped Nora up with pillows, pulled a great rug over her shoulders, and heaped on more and more blankets, which she pulled expeditiously from under the bed. “They always stay here in the summer,” said Biddy. “That's to keep them aired; and now they're coming in very handy. You have got four doubled on you now; that makes eight. I should think you'd soon be warm enough.”
“I expect I shall soon be too hot,” said Nora; “but this is very nice.”
She sipped the potheen, ate a little bacon and cold potatoes, and presently declared herself well again.
“Oh, I am perfectly all right!” she said; “it was coming home in the boat in my wet things. I wish I had taken a pair of sculls again; then I wouldn't even have been cold.”
“Now you'll tell me,” said Biddy, who sat on the edge of the bed munching great chunks of bacon and eating her cold potatoes with extreme relish. “Oh! it's hungry I am; but I want to hear all about the lady Banshee. Did she come? Did you see her, Nora?”
“No, she didn't come,” said Nora very shortly.
“Didn't come? But they say she never fails when the moon is at the full. She rises up out of that pool—the bottomless pool it is called—and she floats over the water and waves her hand. It's awful to see her if you don't belong to her; but to those who belong to her she is tender and sweet, like a mother, they say; and her breath is like honey, and her kiss the sweetest you ever got in all your life. You mean to say you didn't see her? Why, Nora, what has come to you? You're trembling again.”
“I cannot tell you, Biddy; don't ask me any more. I didn't see the Banshee. It was very, very cold standing up to my knees in the water. I suppose I did wrong to go; but that's done and over now. Oh, I am so tired and sleepy! Do get into bed, Biddy, and let us have what little rest we can.”
Early the next morning Nora returned to O'Shanaghgan. All trace of ill effects had vanished under Biddy's prompt treatment. She had lain under her eight blankets until she found them intolerable, had then tossed most of them off, and fallen into deep slumber. In the morning she looked much as usual; but no entreaties on the part of Biddy, joined in very heartily by Squire Murphy and also by Mrs. Murphy, could induce her to prolong her visit.
“It's a message I'll take over myself to your father if you'll but stay, Nora,” said the Squire.
“No, no; I must really go home,” answered Nora.
“It's too fine you are for us, Nora, and that's the truth; and don't go for to be denying it,” said Mrs. Murphy.
“No; I hope I may never be too fine for my real friends,” said Nora a little sadly. “I must go back. I believe I am wanted at home.”
“You're a very conceited colleen; there's no girl that can't be spared from home sometimes,” said Mrs. Murphy. “I thought you would help Biddy and me to pick black currants. There are quarts and quarts of 'em in the garden, and the maids can't do it by themselves, poor things. Well, Biddy, you have got to help me today.”
“Oh, mammy, I just can't,” answered Biddy. “I'm due down at the shore, and I want to go a bit of the way back with Nora. You can't expect me to help you today, mammy.”
“There she is, Nora—there she is!” exclaimed the good lady, her face growing red and her eyes flashing fire; “not a bit of good, not worth her keep, I tell her. Why shouldn't she stay at home and help her mother? Do you hear me, Squire Murphy? Give your orders to the girl; tell her to stay at home and help her mother.”
“Ah, don't be bothering me,” said Squire Murphy. “It's out I'm going now. I have enough on my own shoulders without attending to the tittle-tattle of women.”
He rose from the table, and the next moment had left the room.
“Dear, dear! there are bad times ahead for poor Old Ireland,” said Mrs. Murphy. “Children don't obey their parents; husbands don't respect their wives; it's a queer state of the country. When I was young, and lived at my own home in Tipperary, we had full and plenty. There was a bite and a sup for every stranger who came to the door, and no one talked of money, nor thought of it neither. The land yielded a good crop, and the potatoes—oh, dear! oh, dear! that was before the famine. The famine brought us a lot of bad luck, that it did.”
“But the potatoes have been much better the last few years, and this year they say we're going to have a splendid crop,” said Nora. “But I must go now, Mrs. Murphy. Thank you so much for asking me.”
“You're looking a bit pale; but you're a beautiful girl,” said the good woman admiringly. “I'd give a lot if Biddy could change places with you—that is, in appearance, I mean. She's not a credit to anybody, with her bumpy forehead and her cocked nose, and her rude ways to her mother.”
“Mammy, I really cannot help the way I am made,” said Biddy; “and as to staying in this lovely day picking black currants and making jam, and staining my fingers, it's not to be thought of. Come along out, Nora. If you must be off back to O'Shanaghgan, I mean to claim the last few moments of your stay here.”
The girls spent the morning together, and early in the afternoon Nora returned to O'Shanaghgan. Terence met her as she was driving down the avenue.
“How late you are!” he said; “and you have got great black shadows under your eyes. You know, of course, that I have to catch the early train in the morning?”
“To be sure I do, Terry; and it is for that very reason I have come back so punctually. I want to pack your things my own self.”
“Ah, that's a good girl. You'll find most of them laid out on the bed. Be sure you see that all my handkerchiefs are there—two dozen—and all marked with my initials.”
“I never knew you had so many.”
“Yes; mother gave me a dozen at Christmas, and I have not used them yet. I shall want every bit of decent clothing I possess for my visit to my rich Uncle Hartrick.”
“How is mother, Terence?”
“Mother? Quite well, I suppose; she is fretting a bit at my going; you'll have to comfort her. The place is very rough for her just now.”
“I don't see that it is any rougher than it has ever been,” said Nora a little fiercely. “You're always running down the place, Terry.”
“Well, I can't help it. I hate to see things going to the dogs,” said the young man. He turned on his heel, called a small fox-terrier, who went by the name of Snap, to follow him, and went away in the direction of the shore.
Nora whipped up her pony and drove on to the house. Here she was greeted by her father. He was standing on the steps; and, coming down, he lifted her bodily out of the dog-cart, strained her to his heart, and looked full into her eyes.
“Ah, Light o' the Morning, I have missed you,” he said, and gave a great sigh.
The girl nestled up close to him. She was trembling with excess of feeling.
“And I have missed you,” she answered. “How is the mother?”
“I suppose she is all right, Nora; but there, upon my word, she does vex me sometimes. Take the horse to the stables, and don't stand staring there, Peter Jones.” The Squire said these latter words on account of the fixed stare of a pair of bright black eyes like sloes in the head of the little chap who had brought the trap for Nora. He whipped up the pony, turned briskly round, and drove away.
“Come out for a bit with me round the grounds, Nora. It's vexed I am, sometimes; I feel I cannot stand things. I wish my lady would not have all those fine airs. But there, I have no right to talk against your mother to you, child; and of course she is your mother, and I am desperately proud of her. There never was her like for beauty and stateliness; but sometimes she tries me.”
“Oh! I know, father; I know. But let's go round and look at the new calf and the colt. We can spare an hour—can we not?”
“Yes; come along quick, Nora,” answered the Squire, all smiles and jokes once more. “The mother doesn't know you have come back, and we can have a pleasant hour to ourselves.”
CHAPTER VIII. — THE SQUIRE'S TROUBLE.
Nora and her father went slowly down a shady walk, which led in the direction of the shore. Soon they found themselves in a hay-field. The crop here was not particularly good. The hay had been spoiled by rains, which had soaked down on the lands a fortnight ago. It was stunted in height, and in some parts had that impoverished appearance which is so painful to the heart of the good farmer.
Squire O'Shanaghgan, notwithstanding his somewhat careless ways, was really a capital farmer. He had the best interests of the land at heart, and did his utmost to get profit out of his many acres. He now shook his head over the hay-crop.
“It's just like all the rest, Norrie—everything going to ruin—the whole place going to the dogs; and yet—and yet, colleen, it's about the sweetest bit of earth in all God's world. I wouldn't give O'Shanaghgan for the grandest place in the whole of England; and I told your lady-mother so this morning.”
“Why did you say it, father? Had mother been—”
“Oh, nothing, child—nothing; the old grumbles. But it's her way, poor dear; she can't help herself; she was born so. It's not to be expected that she who was brought up in that prim land over yonder, where everything is cut and dry, and no one ever thinks of managing anything but by the rule of three, would take to our wild ways. But there, Norrie, it's the freedom of the life that suits me; when I am up and away on Black Bess or on Monarch, I don't think there is a happier fellow in the world. But there, when I come face to face with money, why, I'm bothered—I'm bothered entirely, child.”
“Father,” said Nora, “won't you tell me what is worrying you?”
“How do you know I am worried about anything, colleen?”
“How do I know, father?” answered Nora a little playfully. She turned and faced him. “I know,” she said; “that is enough; you are worried. What is it?”
The Squire looked at her attentively. He was much the taller of the two, and his furrowed face seemed to the girl, as she looked up at him, like a great rock rising above her. She was wont to sun herself in his smile, and to look to him always as a sure refuge in any perplexity. She did not love anyone in the whole world as she loved her father. His manliness appealed to her; his generous ways suited her; but, above all these things, he was her father; he was Irish to his backbone, and so was she.
“You must tell me,” she said. “Something is troubling you, and Nora has to know.”
“Ah, my Light o' the Morning! what would I do without you?” answered the Squire.
“Prove that you trust me,” said Nora, “and tell me what worries you.”
“Well, Nora, you cannot understand; and yet if you could it would be a relief to unburden my mind. But you know nothing about mortgages—do you, little woman?”
“More than you think,” said Nora. “I am not a child—I am nearly seventeen; and I have not lived at O'Shanaghgan all my life for nothing. Of course we are poor! I don't know that I want to be rich.”
“I'll tell you what I want,” said the Squire; “I want to forget that there is such a thing as money. If it were not for money I would say to myself, 'There's not a better lot than mine.' What air we have here!” He opened his mouth and took in a great breath of the pure Atlantic breezes. “What a place it is! Look at the beauty of it! Look round, Norrie, and see for yourself; the mountains over there; and the water rolling up almost to our doors; and the grand roar of the waves in our ears; and those trees yonder; and this field with the sun on it; and the house, though it is a bit of a barrack, yet it is where my forebears were born. Oh, it's the best place on earth; it's O'Shanaghgan, and it's mine! There, Nora, there; I can't stand it!”
The Squire dashed his hand to his brow. Nora looked up at him; she was feeling the exposure and excitement of last night. Her pallor suddenly attracted his attention.
“Why, what's the matter with you, colleen?” he said. “Are you well—are you sure you're well?”
“Absolutely, perfectly well, father. Go on—tell me all.”
“Well, you know, child, when I came in for the estate it was not to say free.”
“What does that mean, father?”
“It was my father before me—your grandfather—the best hunter in the county. He could take his bottle of port and never turn a hair; and he rode to hounds! God bless you, Nora! I wish you could have seen your grandfather riding to hounds. It was a sight to remember. Well, he died—God bless him!—and there were difficulties. Before he died those difficulties began, and he mortgaged some of the outer fields and Knock Robin Farm—the best farm on the whole estate; but I didn't think anything of that. I thought I could redeem it; but somehow, child, somehow rents have been going down; the poor folk can't pay, and I'm the last to press them; and things have got worse and worse. I had a tight time of it five years ago; I was all but done for. It was partly the fact of the famine; we none of us ever got over that—none of us in this part of Ireland, and many of the people went away. Half the cabins were deserted. There's half a mile of 'em down yonder; every single one had a dead man or woman in it at the time of the famine, and now they're empty. Well of course, you know all about that?”
“Oh, yes, father; Hannah has told me of the famine many, many times.”
“To be sure—to be sure; but it is a dark subject, and not fit for a pretty young thing like you. But there, let me go on. It was five years ago I mortgaged some of the place, a good bit, to my old friend Dan Murphy. He lent me ten thousand pounds—not a penny more, I assure you. It just tided me over, and I thought, of course, I'd pay him back, interest and all, by easy stages. It seemed so easy to mortgage the place to Murphy, and there was nothing else to be done.”
The Squire had been walking slowly; now he stopped, dropped Nora's hand from his arm, and faced her.
“It seemed so easy to mortgage the land to Dan Murphy,” he said, dropping his voice, “so very easy, and that money was so handy, and I thought—”
“Yes, father?” said Nora in a voice of fear. “You said these words before. Go on—it was so easy. Well?”
“Well, a month ago, child, I got a letter from Murphy's lawyer in Dublin, to say that the money must be paid up, or they would foreclose.”
“Foreclose, father. What is that?”
“Take possession, child—take possession.”
“A month ago you got that letter? They would take possession—possession of the land you have mortgaged. Does that mean that it would belong to Squire Murphy, father?”
“So I thought, my dear colleen, and I didn't fret much. The fact is, I put the letter in the fire and forgot it. It was only three days ago that I got another letter to know what I meant to do. I was given three months to pay in, and if I didn't pay up the whole ten thousand, with the five years' interest, they'd foreclose. I hadn't paid that, Nora; I hadn't paid a penny of it; and what with interest and compound interest, it mounted to a good round sum. Dan charged me six per cent, on the money; but there, you don't understand figures, child, and your pretty head shan't be worried. Anyhow, I was to pay it all up within the three months—I, who haven't even fifty pounds in the bank. It was a bit of a staggerer.”
“I understand,” said Nora; “and that was why you went the day before yesterday to see Squire Murphy. Of course, he'll give you time; though, now I come to think of it, he is very poor himself.”
“He is that,” said the Squire. “I don't blame him—not a bit.”
“But what will you do, father?”
“I must think. It is a bit of a blow, my child, and I don't quite see my way. But I am sure to, before the time comes; and I have got three months.”
“But won't he let you off, father? Must you really pay it in three months?”
“God help me, Norrie! I can't, not just now; but I will before the time comes.”
“But what did he say, father? I don't understand.”
“It's this, Nora. Ah, you have a wise little head on your shoulders, even though you are an Irish colleen. He said that he had sold my mortgage to another man, and had got money on it; and the other man—he is an Englishman, curse him!—and he wants the place, Nora, and he'll take it in lieu of the mortgage if I don't pay up in three months.”
“The place,” said Nora; “O'Shanaghgan—he wants O'Shanaghgan?”
“Yes, yes; that's it; he wants the land, and the old house.”
“But he can't,” said Nora. “You have not—oh! you have not mortgaged the house?”
“Bless you, Nora! it is I that have done it; the house that you were born in, and that my father, and father before him, and father before him again, were born in, and that I was born in—it goes, and the land goes, the lake yonder, all these fields, and the bit of the shore; all the bonny place goes in three months if we cannot pay the mortgage. It goes for an old song, and it breaks my heart, Nora.”
“I understand,” said Nora very gravely. She did not cry out; the tears pressed close to the back of her eyes, and scalded her with cruel pain; but she would not allow one of them to flow. She held her head very erect, and the color returned to her pale cheeks, and a new light shone in her dark-blue eyes.
“We'll manage somehow; we must,” she said.
“I was thinking of that,” said the Squire. “Of course we'll manage.” He gave a great sigh, as if a load were lifted from his heart. “Of course we'll manage,” he repeated; “and don't you tell your mother, for the life of you, child.”
“Of course I will tell nothing until you give me leave. But how do you mean to manage?”
“I am thinking of going up to Dublin next week to see one or two old friends of mine; they are sure to help me at a pinch like this. They would never see Patrick O'Shanaghgan deprived of his acres. They know me too well; they know it would break my heart. I was thinking of going up next week.”
“But why next week, father? You have only three months. Why do you put it off to next week?”
“Why, then, you're right, colleen; but it's a job I don't fancy.”
“But you have got to do it, and you ought to do it at once.”
“To be sure—to be sure.”
“Take me with you, father; let us go tomorrow.”
“But I have not got money for us both. I must go alone; and then your mother must not be left. There's Terence gallivanting off to England to visit his fine relations, and that will take a good bit. I had to give him ten pounds this morning, and there are only forty now left in the bank. Oh, plenty to tide us for a bit. We shan't want to eat much; and there's a good supply of fruit and vegetables on the land; and the poor folk will wait for their wages. Of course there will be more rents coming in, and we'll scrape along somehow. Don't you fret, colleen. I declare it's light as a feather my heart is since I told you the truth. You are a comfort to me, Norrie.”
“Father,” said Nora suddenly, “there's one thing I want to say.”
“What is that, pet?”
“You know Andy Neil?”
“What! Andrew Neil—that scoundrel?” The Squire's brow grew very black. “Yes, yes. What about him? You have not seen him, have you?”
“Yes, father, I have.”
“Over at Murphy's? He knew he dare not show his face here. Well, what about him, Nora?”
“This,” said Nora, trembling very much; “he—he does not want you to evict him.”
“He'll pay his rent, or he'll go,” thundered the Squire. “No more of this at present. I can't be worried.”
“But, oh, father! he—he can't pay it any more than you can pay the mortgage. Don't be cruel to him if you want to be dealt with mercifully yourself; it would be such bad luck.”
“Good gracious, Nora, are you demented? The man pays his rent, or he goes. Not another word.”
“Father, dear father!”
“Not another word. Go in and see your mother, or she'll be wondering what has happened to you. Yes, I'll go off to Dublin to-morrow. If Neil doesn't pay up his rent in a week, off he goes; it's men like Andrew Neil who are the scum of the earth. He has put my back up; and pay his rent he will, or out he goes.”
CHAPTER IX. — EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS.
The next day the Squire and Terence went off together. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan was very angry with her husband for going, as she expressed it, to amuse himself in Dublin. Dirty Dublin she was fond of calling the capital of Ireland.
“What do you want to go to Dirty Dublin for?” she said. “You'll spend a lot of money, and God knows we have little enough at the present moment.”
“Oh, no, I won't, Ellen,” he replied. “I'll be as careful as careful can be; the colleen can witness to that. There's a little inn on the banks of the Liffey where I'll put up; it is called the 'Green Dragon,' and it's a cozy, snug little place, where you can have your potheen and nobody be any the wiser.”
“I declare, Patrick,” said his lady, facing him, “you are becoming downright vulgar. I wish you wouldn't talk in that way. If you have no respect for yourself and your ancient family, you ought to remember your daughter.”
“I'm sure I'm not doing the colleen any harm,” said the Squire.
“That you never could, father,” replied Nora, with a burst of enthusiasm.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan surveyed her coldly.
“Go upstairs and help Terence to pack his things,” she said; and Nora left the room.
The next day the travelers departed. As soon as they were gone Mrs. O'Shanaghgan sent for Nora to come and sit in the room with her.
“I have been thinking during the night how terribly neglected you are,” she said; “you are not getting the education which a girl in your position ought to receive. You learn nothing now.”
“Oh, mother, my education is supposed to be finished,” answered Nora.
“Finished indeed!” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.
“Since Miss Freeman left I have had no governess; but I read a good bit alone. I am very fond of reading,” answered Nora.
“Distasteful as it all is to me,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, “I must take you in hand myself. But I do wish your Uncle George would invite you over to stay with them at The Laurels. It will do Terence a wonderful lot of good; but you want it more, you are so unkempt and undignified. You would be a fairly nice-looking girl if any justice was done to you; but really the other day, when I saw you with that terrible young person Bridget Murphy, it gave my heart quite a pang. You scarcely looked a lady, you were laughing in such a vulgar way, and quite forgetting your deportment. Now, what I have been thinking is that we might spend some hours together daily, and I would mark out a course of instruction for you.”
“Oh, mammy,” answered Nora, “I should be very glad indeed to learn; you know I always hated having my education stopped, but father said—”
“I don't want to hear what your father said,” interrupted Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.
“Oh, but, mother dear, I really must think of father, and I must respect what he says. He told me that my grandmother stopped her schooling at fourteen, and he said she was the grandest lady, and the finest and bonniest, in the country, and that no one could ever put her to shame; for, although she had not much learning to boast of, she had a smart answer for every single thing that was said to her. He said you never could catch her tripping in her words, never—never; and he thinks, mother,” continued Nora, sparkling and blushing, “that I am a little like my grandmother. There is her miniature upstairs. I should like to be like her. Father did love her so very, very much.”
“Of course, Nora, if those are your tastes, I have nothing further to say,” answered Mrs. O'Shanaghgan; “but while you are under my roof and under my tuition, I shall insist on your doing a couple of hours' good reading daily.”
“Very well, mother; I am quite agreeable.”
“I suppose you have quite forgotten your music?”
“No, I remember it, and I should like to play very much indeed; but the old piano—you must know yourself, mother dear, that it is impossible to get any music out of it.”
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan uttered a groan.
“We seem to be beset with difficulties at every step,” she said. “It is such a mistake your father going to Dublin now, and throwing away his little capital. Has he said anything to you about the mortgage, by the way, Nora?”
Nora colored.
“A little,” she answered in a low voice.
“Ah, I see—told it as a secret; so like the Irish, making mysteries about everything, and then blabbing them out the next minute. I don't want, my dear, to encroach upon your father's secrets, so don't be at all afraid. Now, bring down your Markham's History of England and Alison's History of Europe, and I will set you a task to prepare for me for to-morrow.”
Nora went slowly out of the room. She hated Markham's History of England. She had read it five or six times, and knew it by heart. She detested George and Richard and Mary, and their conversations with their mother were simply loathsome to her. Alison's History, however, was tougher metal, and she thought she would enjoy a good stiff reading of it. She was a very intelligent girl, and with advantages would have done well.
She returned with the books. Her mother carelessly marked about twenty pages in each, told her to read them in the course of the day, and to come to her the next morning to be questioned.
“You can go now,” she said. “I was very busy yesterday, and have a headache. I shall lie down and go to sleep.”
“Shall I draw down the blind, mother?”
“Yes, please; and you can put that rug over me. Now, don't run shouting all over the house; try to remember you are a young lady. Really and truly, no one would suppose that you and Terence were brother and sister. He will do great credit to my brother George; he will be proud of such a handsome young fellow as his nephew.”
Nora said nothing; having attended to her mother's comforts, she left the room. She went out into the sunshine. In her hand she carried the two books. Her first intention was to take them down to one end of the dilapidated garden and read them steadily. She was rather pleased than otherwise at her mother's sudden and unlooked-for solicitude with regard to her education. She thought it would be pleasant to learn even under her mother's rather peculiar method of tutelage; but, as she stood on the terrace looking across the exquisite summer scene, two of the dogs, Creena and Cushla, came into view. They rushed up to Nora with cries and barks of welcome. Down went the books on the gravel, and off ran the Irish girl, followed by the two barking dogs. A few moments later she was down on the shore. She had run out without her hat or parasol. What did that matter? The winds and sea-breezes had long ago taken their own sweet will on Nora's Irish complexion; they could not tan skin like hers, and had given up trying; they could only bring brighter roses into her cheeks and more sweetness into her dark-blue eyes. She forgot her troubles, as most Irish girls will when anything calls off their attention, and ran races with the dogs up and down the shore. Nora was laughing, and the dogs were barking and gamboling round her, when the stunted form of Hannah Croneen was seen approaching. Hannah wore her bedgown and her short blue serge petticoat; her legs and feet were bare; the breezes had caught up her short gray locks, and were tossing them wildly about. She looked very elfin and queer as she approached the girl.
“Why, then, Miss Nora, it's a word I want with you, a-colleen.”
“Yes—what is it, Hannah?” answered Nora. She dropped her hands to her sides and turned her laughing, radiant face upon the little woman.
“Ah, then, it's a sight for sore eyes you are, Miss Nora. Why, it is a beauty you are, Miss Nora honey, and hondsomer and hondsomer you gets every time I see yez. It's the truth I'm a-telling yez, Miss Nora; it's the honest truth.”
“I hope it is, Hannah, for it is very pleasant hearing,” answered Nora. “Do I really get handsomer and handsomer? I must be a beauty like my grandmother.”
“Ah, she was a lady to worship,” replied Hannah, dropping a courtesy to the memory; “such ways as she had, and her eyes as blue and dark as the blessed night when the moon's at the full, just for all the world like your very own. Why, you're the mortal image of her; not a doubt of it, miss, not a doubt of it. But there, I want to say a word to yez, and we need not spend time talking about nothing but mere looks. Looks is passing, miss; they goes by and leaves yez withered up, and there are other things to think of this blessed morning.”
“To be sure,” answered Nora.
“And it's I that forgot to wish yez the top of the morning,” continued the little woman. “I hear the masther and Masther Terry has gone to foreign parts—is it true, miss?”
“It is not true of my father,” replied Nora; “he has only gone to Dublin.”
“Ah, bless him! he's one in a thousand, is the Squire,” said Hannah. “But what about the young masther, him with the handsome face and the ways?—aye, but he aint got your nice, bonny Irish ways, Miss Nora—no, that he aint.”
“He has gone to England for a time to visit some of my mother's relations,” replied Nora. “I am, sure it will do him a great deal of good, and dear mother is so pleased. Now, then, Hannah, what is it?”
Hannah went close to the girl and touched her on her arm.
“What about your promise to Andy Neil?” she asked.
“My promise to Andy Neil,” said Nora, starting and turning pale. “How do you know about it?”
“A little bird told me,” replied Hannah. “This is what it said: 'Find out if Miss Nora, the bonniest and handsomest young lady in the place, has kept her word to Andy.' Have you done it, Miss Nora? for it's word I have got to take the crayther, and this very night, too.”
“Where?” said Nora. “Where are you going to meet him?”
“In the haunted glen, just by the Druid's Stone,” replied the woman.
“At what hour?”
“Tin o'clock, deary. Aw, glory be to God! it's just when the clock strikes tin that he'll be waiting for me there.”
“I have no message,” said Nora.
“Are you sure, Miss Nora?”
“Quite sure.”
“When will you have?”
“Never.”
“Miss Nora, you don't mane it?”
“Yes, I do, Hannah. I have nothing to do with Andy Neil. I did what I could for him, but that little failed. You can tell him that if you like.”
“But is it in earnest you are, Miss Nora? Do you mane to say that you'll let the poor crayther have the roof taken off his cabin? Do you mane it miss?”
“I wouldn't have the roof taken off his cabin,” said Nora; “but father is away, and he is Andy's landlord, and Andy has done something to displease him. He had better come and talk to father himself. I kept my word, and spoke; but I couldn't do anything. Andy had better talk to father himself; I can do no more.”
“You don't guess as it's black rage is in the crayther's heart, and that there's no crime he wouldn't stoop to,” whispered Hannah in a low, awestruck voice.
“I can't help it, Hannah; I am not going to be frightened. Andy would not really injure me, not in cold blood.”
“Oh, wouldn't he just? The man's heart is hot within him; it's the thought of the roof being taken off his cabin. I have come as his messenger. You had best send some sort of message to keep him on the quiet for a bit. Don't you send a hard message of that sort, heart asthore; you'll do a sight of mischief if you do.”
“I can only send him a true message,” replied the girl.
“Whisht now, Miss Nora! You wouldn't come and see him yourself tonight by the Druid's Stone?”
Nora stood for a moment considering. She was not frightened; she had never known that quality. Even in the cave, when her danger was extreme, she had not succumbed to fear; it was impossible for her to feel it now, with the sunlight filling her eyes and the softest of summer breezes blowing against her cheeks. She looked full at Hannah.
“I won't go,” she said shortly.
“Miss Nora, I wouldn't ask yez if I could help myself. It's bothered I am entirely, and frightened too. You'll come with me, Miss Nora—won't yez?”
“I will not come,” answered Nora. “My mother is alone, and I cannot leave her; but I tell you what I will do. Just to show Andy that I am not afraid of him, when father returns I will come. Father will be back in a couple of days; when he returns I will speak to him once more about Andy, and I will bring Andy the message; and that is all I can promise. If that is all you want to say to me, Hannah, I will go home now, for mother is all alone.”
Hannah stood with her little, squat figure silhouetted against the sky; she had placed both her arms akimbo, and was gazing at Nora with a half-comical, half-frightened glance.
“You're a beauty,” she said, “and you has the courage of ten women. I'll tell Andy what you say; but, oh, glory! there's mischief in that man's eyes, or I'm much mistook.”
“You can't frighten me,” said Nora, with a laugh. “How are the children?”
“Oh, bless yez, they're as well and bonny as can be. Little Mike, he said he'd stand and wait till you passed by the gate, he's that took up with you, Miss Nora. You'd be concaited if you heard all he says about you.”
Nora thrust her hand into her pocket.
“Here,” she said, “is a bright halfpenny; give it to Mike, and tell him that Nora loves him very much. And now I am going home. Hannah, you'll remember my message to Andy, and please let him understand that he is not going to frighten me into doing anything I don't think right.”