Nora slept little that night. She had a good deal to think of, and very anxious were her thoughts. She knew the Irishman, Andy Neil, well, and she also knew his ferocious and half-savage temperament. Added to his natural fierceness of character, he now undoubtedly was possessed by temporary insanity. This had been brought on by hunger, cold, and great misery. The man was desperate, and would think little of desperate deeds. After all, his life was of small value to him compared to his revenge. Whenever did an Irishman, at moments like the present, consider life? Revenge came first, and there was that in the man's gleaming dark eyes, in his high cheek-bones, in his wild, unkempt, starved appearance, which showed that he would, if something was not quickly done, once again attempt the Squire's life. What was she to do? Nora wondered and wondered. Her father was getting better; the open air treatment, the simple food, and the company of his friends were effecting the cure which the luxurious life in the heavily furnished chamber had failed to do. The Squire would soon be well and strong again. If he were careful, he would once again stand in health and strength on his ancestral acres.
He would get accustomed to the grandeur of the restored Castle O'Shanaghgan; he would get accustomed to his English relatives and their ways. He would have his barn to retire to and his friends to talk to, and he would still be the darling, the best-loved of all, to his daughter Nora; but at the present moment he was in danger. In the barn, too, he was in much greater danger than he had been when in the safe seclusion of the Castle. It would be possible for any one to creep up to the barn at night, to push open the somewhat frail windows or equally frail door, and to accomplish that deed which had already been attempted. Nora knew well that she must act, she must do something—what, was the puzzle. Squire O'Shanaghgan was one of the most generous, open-hearted, and affectionate of men. His generosity was proverbial; he was a prime favorite with his tenants; but he had, like many another Irishman of his type, a certain hard phase in his character—he could, on occasions, be almost cruel. He had taken a great dislike to Andy Neil and to some other tenants of his class; he had been roused to stronger feeling by their open resistance, and had declared that not all the Land Leagues in Ireland, not all the Fenians, not all the Whiteboys, were they banded together in one great insurrection, should frighten him from his purpose.
Those tenants who defied him, who refused to pay the scanty rent which he asked for their humble cabins, should go out; they should, in short, be evicted. The other men had submitted to the Squire's iron dictation. They had struggled to put their pence and shillings together, and with some difficulty had met the question of the rent; but Andy Neil either could not or would not pay; and the Squire had got the law, as he expressed it, to evict the man. There had come a day when the wild tenant of the little cabin on the side of the bare mountain had come home to find his household goods exposed to the airs of heaven, the roof off his cabin, the door removed from its hinges; the hearth, it is true, still warm with the ashes of the sods of turf which were burning there in the morning, but the whole home a ruin. The Squire had not himself witnessed this scene of desolation, but had given his stern orders, and they had been executed by his agent. When Andy saw the ruins of his home he gave one wild howl and rushed down the side of the mountain. His sick children—there were two of them in the cabin at the time—had been taken pity on by some neighbors almost as poor as himself; but the shock (or perhaps their own bad health) had caused the death of both boys, and the man was now homeless and childless. No wonder his brain gave way. He vowed vengeance. Vengeance was the one last thing left to him in life; he would revenge his wrongs or die. So, waiting his opportunity, he had crouched behind a hedge, and, with an old gun which he had stolen from a neighbor, had fired at the Squire. In the crucial moment, however, his hand shook, and the shot had lodged, not in the Squire's body, but in his leg, causing a nasty but scarcely a dangerous wound. The only one in all the world who suspected Andy was the Squire's daughter Nora; but it was easy for her to put two and two together. The man's words to her in the cave, when he threatened to drown her, returned to her memory. She suspected him; but, with an Irish girl's sympathy, she would not speak of her suspicions—that is, if her father's life was spared.
But now the man himself had come to her and threatened fresh mischief. She hated to denounce the poor, starved creature to the police, and yet she must protect her father. The Squire was much better; but his temper could be roused to great fury at times, and Nora dreaded to mention the subject of Andy Neil. She guessed only too well that fear would not influence the fierce old Squire to give the man back his cabin. The one thing the wretched creature now craved was to die under the shelter of the roof where he had first seen the light; but this natural request, so dear to the heart of the Squire himself, under altered circumstances, would not weigh with him under existing conditions. The mere fact that Andy still threatened him would make him more determined than ever to stick to his purpose. Nora did not dare to give her father even a hint with regard to the hand which had fired that shot; and yet, and yet—oh, God help her! she must do something, or the consequences might be too fearful to contemplate.
As she was dressing on the following morning she thought hard, and the idea came to her to take the matter into her own hands, and herself give Andy leave to go back to his cabin; but, on reflection, she found that this would be no easy matter, for the cabins from which the tenants were evicted were often guarded by men whose business it was to prevent the wretched creatures returning to them. No doubt Andy's cabin would be now inaccessible; still, she might go and look at it, and, if all other means failed, might venture to beg of her father's agent to let the man return to it; but first of all she would see the place. Somewhat cheered as this determination came to her, she ran downstairs. Mr. Hartrick was returning to England by an early train, and the carriage, which was to convey him to the station, was already at the door. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan was almost tearful at the thought of parting with her beloved brother. Molly, delighted at being allowed to stay on at the Castle, was also present; but Nora's entrance on the scene caused Mrs. O'Shanaghgan to speak fretfully.
“Late as usual, Nora,” said that lady, turning and facing her daughter as she appeared. “I am glad that you condescended to appear before your uncle starts for England. I wonder that you have taken the trouble.”
“Oh, do not scold her, Ellen,” said Mr. Hartrick, kindly. “I begin to understand something of the nature of my Irish niece. When the Squire is well again she will, I am sure, return to England and resume her studies; but at present we can scarcely expect her to do so.”
“I will come back some time, Uncle George,” said Nora; “and oh!” she added, “I do thank you for all your great and real kindness. I may appear ungrateful, but indeed, indeed I am not so in my heart, and it is very good of you to allow Molly to stay; and I will promise to take great care of her, and not to let her get too wild.”
“Thank you. Any message for your aunt, Nora?” said Mr. Hartrick gravely. “I should like you, my dear,” he added, coming up to the girl, and laying his hand on her shoulder and looking with his kind eyes into her face, “to send your Aunt Grace a very special message; for you did try her terribly, Nora, when you not only ran away yourself, but induced Molly to accompany you.”
Nora hesitated for a moment, the color flamed into her face, and her eyes grew very bright.
“Tell her, Uncle George,” she said, speaking slowly and with great emphasis, “that I did what I did for father. Tell her that for no one else but father would I hurt her, and ask her to forgive me just because I am an Irish girl; and I love—oh! I love my father so dearly.”
“I will take her your message, my dear,” said Mr. Hartrick, and then he stooped and kissed his niece.
A moment later he was about to step into the carriage, when Nora rushed up to him.
“Good-by; God bless you!” she cried. “Oh, how kind you have been, and how I love you! Please, please, do not misunderstand me; I have many cares and anxieties at present or I would say more. You have done splendidly, only——”
“Only what, Nora?” said her uncle.
“Only, Uncle George,” answered the girl, “you have done what you have done to please my mother, and you have done it all in the English way; and oh! the English way is very fine, and very noble, and very generous; but—but we did want the old bare rooms and the lack of furniture, and the place as it always has been; but we could not expect—I mean father and I could not expect—you and mother to remember that.”
“It was impossible, Nora,” said her uncle. “What I did I did, as you express it, my dear, in the English way. The retrograde movement, Nora, could not be expected from an Englishman; and by-and-by you, at least, will thank me for having brought civilization to O'Shanaghgan.”
A moment later Mr. Hartrick went away, and Nora returned to the house. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan had left the room, and Nora found herself alone with her cousin Molly.
“What is it, Nora?” said Molly. “You look quite pale and anxious.”
“I look what I feel,” said Nora.
“But can I help you in any way, Nora?”
“Yes. Will you come for a drive with me this morning?”
“Of course I will. You know well that I should like nothing better.”
“Then, Molly dear, run round to the yard and tell Angus put Black Bess to the outside car, and to bring it round to the corner of the plantation. I do not want any one to know, and tell Angus that I will drive Black Bess myself.”
“All right,” replied Molly, running off on her errand.
Nora did not stay long with her father that morning, and soon after ten o'clock she and Molly were flying through the boreens and winding roads in the direction of Slieve Nagorna. At the foot of the mountain they dismounted. Nora fastened Black Bess's reins to the trunk of a tree which stood near, and then she and Molly began to ascend the mountain. It was a glorious winter's day; the air was mild, as it generally is in the west of Ireland, and the sun shone with power. Nora and Molly walked quickly. Nora, who was accustomed to climbing from her earliest years, scaled the rocks, and jumped from one tiny projection in the ground to another; but Molly found her ascent more difficult. She was soon out of breath, and called in laughing tones to Nora to wait for her.
“Forgive me,” said Nora; “I sometimes forget that you are not an Irish girl.”
“You also forget that I am practically a London girl,” answered Molly. “I have seldom or never climbed even a respectable hill, far less a mountain with sides like this one.”
“We will reach the spot which I am aiming for before long,” said Nora; “but if you are tired, do sit down, and I'll go on alone.”
This, however, Molly would not hear of, and presently the girls reached a spot where once a small cabin had stood. The walls of the cabin were still there, but the thatched roof had disappeared, the doors and windows had been removed, and the blackened earth where the hearth had been alone bore evidence to the fact that fires had been burnt there for long generations. But there was no fire now on the desolate hearth.
“Oh, dear!” said Nora. “It makes me cry to look at the place. Once, long, long ago, when Terry and I were tiny children, we came up here. Andy's wife was alive then, and she gave us a hot potato each and a pinch of salt. We ate the potatoes just here, and how good they tasted! Little Mike was a baby, such a pretty little boy, and dear Kathleen was so proud of him. Oh! it was a home then, whereas now it is a desolation.”
“A very poor sort of home I should say,” answered Molly. “What a truly desolate place! If anybody ever lived here, that person must be glad to have got away. It makes me shudder even to think of any human being calling this spot a home.”
“Oh!” answered Nora, “it was a very pretty home, and the one who lived in it is broken-hearted—nay, more, he is almost crazed, all and entirely because he has been driven away. He deserved it, I know; but it has gone very hard with him; it has torn out his heart; it has turned him from a man into a savage. Oh! if I had only money, would not I build up these walls, and put back the roof, and light the fire once more, and put the man who used to have this house as a home back again? He would die in peace then. Oh! if only, only I had money.”
“How queer you look!” said Molly. “How your eyes shine! I don't understand you. I love you very much, but I confess I don't understand you. Why, this desolate spot would drive most people mad.”
“But not Irish people who were born here,” said Nora. “There! I have seen what I wanted to see, and we had best be going back. I want to drive to the village, and I want to see John Finnigan. I hope I shall find him at home.”
“Who is John Finnigan?” asked Molly.
“The man who does these sort of things,” said Nora, the red, angry blood rushing to her cheeks.
She turned and quickly walked down the mountain, Molly racing and stumbling after her. Black Bess was standing motionless where her mistress had placed her. Nora unfastened the reins and sprang upon the car, Molly followed her example, and they drove almost on the wings of the wind back to the village. There they were fortunate enough to find John Finnigan. Leaving Molly holding Black Bess's reins, Nora went into the house. It was a very small and shabby house, furnished in Irish style, and presided over by Mrs. Finnigan, a very stout, untidy, and typical Irishwoman, with all the good nature and savoir-faire of her countrywomen.
“Aw, then, Miss Nora,” she said, “I am glad to see you. And how's the Squire?”
“Much better, thank you,” said Nora. “Is your husband in, Mrs. Finnigan?”
“To be sure, deary. Finnigan's abed still. He was out late last night. Why, listen; you can hear him snoring; the partition is thin. He snores loud enough to be heard all over the house.”
“Well, do wake him, please, Mrs. Finnigan,” said Nora. “I want to see him on a most important matter at once.”
“Then, that being the case, honey, you just step into the parlor while I go and get Finnigan to rise and dress himself.”
Mrs. Finnigan threw open the door of a very untidy and small room. Several children were having breakfast by a table which bore traces of fish-bones, potato-peelings, and bacon-rinds. The children were untidy, like their mother, but had the bright, very dark-blue eyes and curly hair of their country. Nora knew them all, and was soon in the midst of a clamorous group, while Mrs. Finnigan went out to get her husband to rise. Finnigan himself appeared in about a quarter of an hour, and Nora went with him into his little study.
“Well, now,” said that worthy, “and what can I do for you, Miss O'Shanaghgan?”
Nora looked very earnest and pleading.
“My father is better,” she said, “but not well enough yet to be troubled with business. I understand that you are doing some of his business for him, Mr. Finnigan.”
“Some, it is true,” answered the gentleman, frowning as he spoke, “but not all, by no means all. Since that English fine gentleman, Mr. Hartrick, came over, he has put the bulk of the property into the hands of Steward of Glen Lee. Steward is a Scotchman, and why he should get work which is rightly my due is hard on me, Miss Nora—very hard on me.”
“Well,” said Nora restlessly, “I know nothing about the matter. I am sorry; but I am afraid I am powerless to interfere.”
“Oh, Miss Nora!” said Finnigan, “you know very well that you have kissed the Blarney Stone, and that no one can resist you. If you were to say a word to the Squire he would give me my due; and now that so much money has been put into O'Shanaghgan, it would be a very fine thing for me to have the collecting of the rents. I am a poor man, Miss Nora, and this business ought not to be given over my head to a stranger.”
“I will speak to father by-and-by,” said Nora; “but I doubt if I can do anything. But I have come to-day to ask you to do something for me.”
“And what is that, Miss Nora? I am sure I'd be proud to help such a beautiful young lady in any way.”
“I dislike compliments,” said Nora, coloring with annoyance. “Please listen. You know the man you evicted from the cabin on the side of Slieve Nagorna—Andy Neil?”
“Perfectly well, perfectly well,” answered Finnigan,
“You had my father's orders?”
“I had that, Miss Nora.”
“I want you, Mr. Finnigan, now to take my orders and to give Andy back his cabin. Put a bit of roof over it—anything, even an old tarpaulin—anything, so that he may sleep there if he likes to-night. I want you to do this for me, and allow me to take the risk of offending my father.”
“What!” said Finnigan, “and risk myself all chance of getting the agency. No, no, Miss Nora. Besides, what would all the other tenants say who have been evicted in their time? The man shall get his cabin back and a fresh roof and new windows, by the same token, when he pays his rent, and not before.”
“But he has no money to pay his rent.”
“Then he must stay out, Miss Nora.”
“I wish, I wish,” said Nora, clasping her hands and speaking with passion, “that you would oblige me in this. Indeed, it is of the utmost importance.”
“What!” said Finnigan, going up to her and staring into her face; “has that scoundrel threatened? Is it possible?”
“No, no, no; you are mistaken,” said Nora eagerly. “I only meant that I—I—pitied him so much.”
“That being the case, Miss Nora, I will say nothing further. But the fact is, I have before had my suspicions as to the hand which pulled that trigger which sent the shot into the Squire's leg, and it would be an extremely graceful act on my part to have that person arrested, and would doubtless insure the agency for me. But I will say no more; only, please understand, under no circumstances, except the payment of the rent, can Andy Neil get back his cabin.”
Having failed to get any help from John Finnigan, Nora returned to the Castle. As she drove quickly home she was very silent. Even loquacious Molly did not care to interrupt her thoughts. As soon as they reached the Castle she turned to her cousin and spoke quickly.
“Go to the barn and look after father, Molly. Talk as many naughty words as ever you like; make him laugh; keep him occupied. After dinner I shall probably want your aid again. In the meantime you will help me best by taking father off my hands.”
“And I desire nothing better,” answered Molly. “I love the Squire; it is the height of entertainment, as he would call it, to talk to him.”
Molly accordingly ran off. The Squire was now well enough to sit up in a great easy-chair made of straw, which had been carted over from Cronane for his special benefit, for the padded and velvet-covered chairs of the Castle would not at all have suited his inclinations. He sat back in the depths of his chair, which creaked at his every movement, and laughed long and often at Molly's stories.
“But where's Light o' the Morning herself?” he said after a pause. “Why don't she come to visit her old father? Why, it's craving for a sight of her I am.”
“I think Nora is very busy to-day,” answered Molly, “May I read the paper to you, Squire?”
“You read the paper to me?” answered Squire O'Shanaghgan. “Why, bless yer little heart, my pretty girleen, but I must decline with thanks. It is perfect torture to listen to your English accent when you are trying to do the rich Irish brogue. Irish papers should be read by Irish colleens, and then you get the flavor. But what did you say my colleen was after—business, is it? She's very fond of poking that little finger of hers into other people's pies. What is she after now at all, at all?”
“I cannot tell you,” answered Molly, coloring slightly as she spoke.
The Squire looked annoyed and suspicious.
“You go and call her to me,” he said. “Tell her to come along this blessed minute; say it's wanting her I am.”
Molly ran out of the barn. She found Nora in earnest conversation with Angus, while Hannah Croneen stood close by plucking now and then at the girl's skirt, looking eagerly into her face, and uttering such ejaculations as “Oh, glory!” “Be the powers!” “Did ye ever hear the like?” “Well, well, that beats all!”
“Nora,” said Molly, “will you go to your father? He wants you immediately.”
“Have you let out anything?” said Nora, turning and looking anxiously at Molly.
“No; but he asked after you, and I said you were busy. The Squire said then, 'I hope she is not poking her little finger into other people's pies.'”
“Well, I will go to him,” said Nora. “I'll manage him. You stay where you are, Molly.”
Nora's black hair was curling in crisp waves all round her beautiful white forehead. Her dark-blue eyes were darker and more shining than ever, there was a richer bloom on her cheeks, and there were sweeter smiles on her lips than she had ever perhaps worn before as she now entered the Squire's room.
“Well, father?” she said.
Squire O'Shanaghgan, who had been sitting wrapped in thought, roused himself on her entrance, gave her a smile, and motioned her to come to his side.
“Kneel down by me, colleen,” he said.
Nora knelt. The Squire took his big hand and put it under her chin; he raised her blooming face and looked into her eyes, which looked back again at him. As he did so he uttered a quick sigh.
“You're after something, mavoureen,” he said. “What's up, little girl? What's fretting that tender heart of yours?”
“Something, father,” said Nora then.
“And you won't tell your old dad?”
“I would rather not. Won't you trust me?”
“Trust her, is it?” cried the Squire. “I'd trust her with all I possess. I'd trust her with my hopes of heaven itself. Trust her, is it? Nora, you fret me when you talk like that.”
“Then do trust me, father, and don't ask me any questions. I'll tell you by and by—yes, I faithfully promise, but I shall be busy to-day. I may have to be away from you for a great part of to-day, and I may want Molly to help me. Can you do without me?”
“Why, now, the conceit of the creature,” said the Squire. “As if I cannot do without you, you little piece of impertinence. To be sure, and to be sure I can. Why, there is your lady mother; she'll come and sit with me for an hour or so, and let out at me all her grumbles. Nora, my heart, it is dreadful to hear her; but it's good penance too, and maybe it's too comfortable you have been making me, and I ought to have a bit of what I do not like to keep me humble. You go along now, and come back when you have done that which is filling your heart to the brim.”
Nora kissed her father very gravely; she then went out of the barn, and returned to where Angus and Hannah, and also Molly, were waiting for her.
“I have thought how I can manage, Miss Nora,” said Angus. “When those Englishmen—bad cess to 'em!—are at dinner I'll get the long cart out of the yard, and I'll put the white pony to it, and then it's easy to get the big tarpaulin that we have for the hayrick out of its place in the west barn. I have everything handy; and if you could come along with me, Miss Nora, and the other young lady, and if Hannah here will lend a hand, why we'll do up the place a bit, and the poor forsaken crayther can die there at least.”
“Do not forget the basket of provisions, Hannah,” said Nora, “the potatoes, and the bacon, and a tiny bottle of potheen; and do not forget some fagots and bits of turf to kindle up the fire again. Oh, and, Hannah, a blanket if you can manage it; and we might get a few wisps of straw to put in the bottom of the cart. The straw would make a fine bed.”
“To be sure,” said Hannah. “You lave it to me, me beautiful young lady.”
The two servants now departed, and Nora and her cousin went into the house. The early dinner, or rather lunch, as it was now called, was served soon afterwards; and almost immediately after the meal was over Nora and Molly ran down to the bottom of the plantation, where they found Angus, Hannah, the long cart with the pony harnessed to it, and the tarpaulin, straw, basket of provisions, etc., all placed in the bottom.
“Jump in, Molly,” said Nora.
Molly scrambled in as best she could; Nora followed her; and Hannah, climbing in over the left wheel, sat down at the bottom of the cart. Angus jumped on the driver's seat, and whipped up the pony. The pony was stout and very strong, and well accustomed to Irish hills. They were off. Molly had never been so rattled and bumped and shaken in the whole course of her life, but she enjoyed it, as she said, immensely. Only, what was Nora doing? The tarpaulin had been carefully hidden from view by the straw which Angus had cunningly placed over and not under it; and it was well that this was the case, as after the little party had left O'Shanaghgan a couple of miles, they were met by John Finnigan driving on his outside car.
“Why, then, Miss Nora, what are you doing now?” he said.
“Having a drive for my own pleasure,” replied Nora, nodding gayly.
Finnigan looked with suspicion at the party, but as there was nothing contraband in anybody driving in a long cart, and as he could not possibly guess what they were doing, he drove on his own way without saying anything further. After less than an hour's driving they reached the foot of Slieve Nagorna, and here the real toil began, for it was quite impossible for the pony, willing as he was, to lug the cart up the mountain. Where there is a will, however, there is generally a way; and although the pony could not drag the cart up, he could go up himself, being very sure-footed and quite willing to be turned into a beast of burden for the nonce. The heavy tarpaulin, therefore, was fastened on his back, and, with Angus leading and Hannah following with the basket of provisions, and the two girls making up the rear, the little cavalcade started forward. Oh, how hot it seemed, and oh, how tired Molly got! But never mind; they were making progress. After a time they reached the site of Andy's cabin, and then Angus and Hannah developed strength which fairly took Molly's breath away, for the tarpaulin was absolutely lifted up and deposited as a sort of temporary roof over the roofless walls; and when this had been done Angus managed to cut a hole in the center to make a chimney; then the fagots were placed on the hearth and the turf put on top of them, and the remainder of the turf laid handy near by; and the straw was ready, soft and inviting, in a corner not too far away from the fire, and the blankets were spread over it; and the basket of provisions, cold boiled potatoes, cold bacon, and the little bottle of potheen were all left handy. It was indeed a miserable home, but, compared to the desolate appearance it had presented, it now looked almost comfortable. Nora laughed with pleasure. “He shall come back here. It is better than nothing. He shall stop here. I will explain things to my father by and by,” said the girl; and then they all turned their steps homeward.
At the appointed hour that evening Nora went down to the shore. She fully expected to find Andy Neil waiting for her. Wild and half-insane as he was, he kept his selfmade appointments, as a rule. She wandered about, fearing that someone would notice her; for she knew that if John Finnigan thought for a single moment that she was secretly befriending Andy, he would not leave a single stone unturned to circumvent her. He was very proud of his powers of evicting tenants, and, as he had the Squire's permission to do his worst on this occasion, would be the last man in the world to relax his iron grip. Nora, however, wandered about in vain; there was no sign of Andy. She even ventured to go to the borders of the plantation and softly call his name.
“Andy—Andy Neil,” called the girl, but no Andy responded. She now felt really nervous. Why was Andy not there? What could possibly have happened? She returned slowly and thoughtfully to the house. It would not do to show any alarm, but she certainly felt the reverse of comfortable. What had happened to the man? She did not for a moment think that he could be dead; on the contrary, she pictured him alive and still more insane than the night before, still more desperate in his mind, still more darkly pursued by the grim phantom of revenge. Was Andy now so really insane that he had even forgotten his appointment with Nora? This was probably the case. But although the man was too insane to think of meeting the girl, he was probably not at all too insane to make another attempt on the Squire's life. He was perhaps so desperate now that his one idea was to carry out his revenge before he died. What was Nora to do? She thought and thought, and walked up to the house with more and more lagging footsteps. Finally she made up her mind. There was nothing whatever left for it but for her to sit up with the Squire that night; she herself must be his guardian angel, for he must not be alarmed, and yet most certainly he must be protected. Nora carefully considered this idea. She had made the little cabin quite ready for Andy's reception; he could creep into it once more, light his fire, eat his food, and lie down on the bed at least, as good as any other bed he had ever slumbered on; and if death came to him, it would find him in his old house, and perhaps God would forgive him, seeing that he was so desperate and life had been so hard. Yes, Nora felt that God was very merciful—far more merciful than man. But to-night—how was to-night to be got through? She had now reached the yard, and found herself face to face with Angus.
“Is there nothing I can do for you, miss?” said the young man, touching his hat respectfully to the girl.
“If you could be near somewhere, Angus, and if it were necessary, and we wanted the long cart to-night, could we get it?”
“You ask me, Miss Nora, what we could get and what we could not get at O'Shanaghgan,” answered Angus; “and I answer ye back that what ye want, Miss Nora, ye shall have, if it is the heart out of me body. The long cart, is it? To be sure, me pretty lady, and at a moment's notice, too. Why, it's meself will slape in the bottom of the long cart this blessed night, and all you has to do is to come and pull the front lock of me hair, and I'll be up in a jiffy. You give it a sharp tug, Miss Nora, for I slapes heavy; but if you come, the long cart and the powny will be there.”
“Then that's all right,” answered Nora.
She went into the barn. The Squire had now contrived to renew all his old accustomed habits. On the little wooden table was a small lamp which smoked badly; the local paper was laid on the table, and the pipe which the Squire best loved lay near. He had been enjoying a good smoke, and was thinking of turning in, as he expressed it, when Nora appeared.
“Good-night, father,” she said. She went up to him, and bent down over him, to give him her accustomed kiss.
“Why, then, it's sleepy I am,” said the Squire. “I am thinking of turning into bed. I am getting on fine; and Angus, boy that he is, always comes and gives me a helping hand on to my bed. I cannot see your face with the smoke of that lamp, mavoureen; but things are all right—aren't they?”
“That they are, father,” replied the girl; “but I am a little tired; and if Angus is coming to help you, and you do not want anything more from me, I will go to bed myself.”
“Do that,” said the Squire. “Your voice sounds peaky; you have been doing too much.”
Nora lingered another moment or two. How thankful she felt that that smoky lamp prevented her father reading the anxiety in her eyes! She could not keep all the tiredness out of her voice, but she could at least keep anxiety from it; and the Squire bade her a hearty goodnight, and parted with her with one of his usual jokes. Nora then went into the house. The hour for late dinner was over; she herself had not been present, but Molly had managed to appear as usual. Nora ran down to the kitchen premises. The cook, a very stately English woman, stared when she saw the young lady of the Castle appear in the great kitchen.
“What is it, Miss O'Shanaghgan?” she said, gazing at Nora all over. What did this wild and eccentric girl want? How was it possible that she could demean herself by coming so freely into the servants' premises?
“I want to know, Mrs. Shaw,” said Nora, “if you will oblige me?”
“Of course I will, Miss O'Shanaghgan; if I can.”
“Will you pack a little basket with some cold pie, and anything else tasty and nourishing which you have got; and will you put a tiny bottle of brandy into the basket, and also a bottle of water; and can I have it at once, for I am in a great hurry?”
“Well, there is a fresh pigeon pie in the larder,” answered the cook; “but why should you want it?”
“Oh! please, Mrs. Shaw,” answered Nora, “will you give it to me without asking questions? I will love you for all the rest of my life if you will.”
“Love me, is it?” thought the cook. “A pretty creature like that love me!”
“Your love is cheaply purchased, miss,” she said aloud, and then went without a word into the larder, and soon returned with a well-filled basket, which she placed in Nora's hand. “And I added some fruit, a little cup of jelly, and a knife and fork and a spoon, and some salt; but why you, Miss Nora, should need a picnic in the middle of the night beats me.”
“Remember our compact,” said Nora. “You say nothing of this, and—I love you;” and then, overcome by a sudden impulse, she bent forward and laid the lightest of kisses on the astonished Mrs. Shaw's forehead.
Mrs. Shaw felt slightly overawed. “Bless her! What a beautiful young lady she is!” thought the good woman. “But the ways of the Irish beat all comprehension.”
Nora avoided Molly that night. On reflection, it occurred to her that it would be best for Molly to know nothing of her design. If she were in complete ignorance, no amount of questioning could elicit the truth. Nora went into her bedroom, and changed her pretty jacket and skirt and neat sailor hat for a dark-blue skirt and blouse of the same material. Over these she put a long, old-fashioned cloak which at one time had belonged to her mother. Over her head she tied a little red handkerchief, and, having eaten a small portion of Mrs. Shaw's provisions, she left the room. It was already night-time; and Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, Molly, and the servants had gone to bed. Nora now locked her door from the outside, slipped the key into her pocket, and her basket of provisions partly hidden under the falls of her cloak, ran downstairs. The dogs generally slept in the big hall; but they knew Nora's step, and rose slowly, wagging their heavy tails. Nora patted them on their heads, gave them each an endearing word, and stooped to kiss pretty Cushla on her black forehead. She then softly unbolted one of the windows, lifted the sash, and got out. She carefully shut the window as noiselessly as she had opened it. She now found herself on the grassy sward in the neighborhood of the drawing-room. Under the old régime that sward was hard, and knotty tufts of weed as well as grass grew up here and there in profusion; but already, under the English government, it was beginning to assume the velvet-like appearance which a properly kept lawn ought to have.
Nora hated to feel such softness; she disliked everything which seemed to her to flavor of the English and their ways. There was a hot, rebellious feeling in her heart. Why should these things be? Why should not her Irish land and her Irish people be left in their wild freedom? She ran round to the yard. Angus had received instructions to leave the little postern door on the latch, and Nora now opened it and went softly in. The moon was beginning to rise, but was not at the full. There was, however already sufficient light for her to see each object with distinctness. She went and sat down in the shadow made by the great barn. She sat on the step to the barn, wrapping her warm cloak tightly round her, and keeping her basket of provisions by her side. Here she would sit all night, if necessary. Her vigil might have no result, but at any rate it would insure her father from danger. For now only over Nora's dead body could the wild Andy Neil approach the Squire.
“Andy shall kill me first,” she thought; “and if I die, I will scream and father will awaken. Angus is on the watch; the alarm will be given; at least my father's life will be spared. But why do I think of danger of this sort? Andy will not kill me. I place my trust in God. I am doing the right thing—I know I am doing the right thing.”
When Nora had let herself in at the postern door she had immediately drawn the bolt at the other side, thus preventing anyone else from entering the great yard by the same way; but she knew that, although Andy could not now enter the yard, in all probability he was already hiding there. There were no end to the ways and devices of a wild Irishman of Andy's sort. He was so thin and emaciated, too, that he could squeeze himself into the tiniest space. It lay in his power to remain motionless all night, until the moment when his revenge was ripe. Nora sat on. She heard the old clock in the ancient tower of the Castle strike the hours. That old clock had been severely animadverted on by Mrs. O'Shanaghgan on account of the cracked sound in the bell; but Nora felt relieved to find that, amongst all the modern innovations, the old clock still held its own; it had not, at least, yet, been removed from the tower. It struck solemnly now the hour of midnight.
“The witching hour,” thought the girl. “The hour when the Banshee walks abroad. I wonder if I shall see her. I should like to see her. Did she hear me when I called to her in the cave? Would she help me if she came to my rescue now? She belongs to us; she is our own Banshee; she has belonged to our family for many, many generations.”
Nora thought these thoughts; but then the feeling that Someone else who never fails those who trust Him was also watching her during this silent hour came to her with a sense of comfort. She could hear her father turning once or twice in the creaky old wooden bed. She was glad to feel that, unknown to him, she was his guardian angel. She began to think about the future, and almost to forget Andy and the possible and very great peril of the present, when, shortly before the hour of one, all her senses were preternaturally excited by the sound of a footfall. It was a very soft footfall—the noise made by a bare foot. Nora heard it just where the shadow was deepest. She stood up now; she knew that, from her present position, the one who was making this dead sort of heavy sound could not possibly see her. She waited, her breath coming hard and fast. For a minute, or perhaps more, there was again absolute and complete silence. The night was a breathless one; there was not a sound abroad; overhead the sky was of an inky blue-black, the stars were shining gloriously, and the moon was growing brighter and more clear, and more nearly approaching her meridian each moment. The girl stood with her hand pressed against her beating heart; she had flung aside her little red handkerchief, and her hair had fallen loose and was tumbling over her shoulders; she raised her other hand to her left ear to listen more intently—she was in the attitude of one about to spring.
Again there came the sound which she expected, and which, now that it had arrived, caused her heart to beat no longer with fear, but with a sort of wild exultation. Her suspicions had been right—the danger was real; her father's most precious life was in peril. The steps came quicker and more quick; they approached the other window of the barn. This window lay in complete shadow. Nora now stepped out of her hiding place, and, going with two or three quick strides down the yard, waited within a foot or two of the man, who now proceeded to lift himself up by the window ledge preparatory to opening the barn window. With the aid of a claspknife he could very easily push back the quaint and imperfect fastening; then it was but to push in the glass, and he could enter the barn. He sat on the window ledge with his back to Nora. His huge, gaunt form looked larger than ever, intensified now by the light of the moon. He breathed quickly; his breathing proclaimed that he himself was in physical suffering.
“Andy,” said Nora in a low, very low whisper.
But this low tone was as startling to the madman on the window as though a pistol shot had been sounded in his ears.
“Be the powers!” he said, and he tumbled so quickly off the window sill that Nora herself held out her hand to help him. Then he turned fiercely and faced the girl. She saw the light of madness gleaming in his sunken eyes; his wild face looked more cadaverous than ever; his great, skinny, long hand shook. He raised it as if to fell the girl to the ground, but paused to look in her face, and then his hand hung feebly to his side.
Nora had enacted all this scene beforehand to herself; she now thrust into Andy's face, within an inch or two of his nose, a great lump of bread and a slab of cold pie.
“Before you do anything more, eat,” she said; “eat quickly; make no noise.”
It was as impossible for the famished man to resist the good and tempting food as it would have been impossible for a needle to resist the influence of a powerful magnet. He grasped the bread, thrust the knife into his wretched shirt, and, tearing the bread in fragments, began to stuff it into his mouth. For a couple of minutes there was no sound but that of the starved creature tearing the bread and feeding himself. When he had slightly satisfied the first cravings of his starved body Nora took his hand.
“You have not had enough yet,” she said. “You have fasted long, and are very hungry; there is more where this came from.”
She took his hand quite unresistingly, and led him round to the entrance of the barn.
“I am up,” she said, “but no one else. No one else knows of this. You have come without a gun?”
“I have a knife instead,” he said. His eye glittered strangely.
“Give me your knife,” said the girl. “I will give you food in exchange for it.”
The famished creature began to gibber now in the most horrible manner; he pointed to his breast and uttered a laugh.
“Laugh again, and I will call those who will soon put a stop to your wild and terrible purposes, Andy,” said the girl, “Here's food—fruit, jelly, bread. You shall have them all—all, when you give me that knife.”
The man looked at the food, and now his eyes softened. They became full not only of rapture, but also of laughter. He gave a low guttural sound, sank down on the ground, and held out both his hands imploringly for some of the nourishment.
“The knife,” said Nora.
He thrust his hands into his bosom and held the knife out to her. It was a huge clasp knife, and Nora noticed with a shudder that it had all the appearance of having been newly sharpened. The moment she got it she put it in her pocket, and then invited the man to feed. He sat now quite humbly. Nora helped him to pie. She had already taken the precaution to hide the knife which Mrs. Shaw had supplied her with. The man ate and ate, until his consuming hunger was satisfied. Nora now gave him a very little of the brandy mixed with water. He lay back at last, exhausted and also satisfied.
“It's wake I am, it's wake I am—it's wake I am entoirely,” said he. “Why are you so good to me, Miss Nora? It was to take the life of the Squire I was afther to-night.”
“I knew that,” said Nora, “and I thought I would prevent you. Why did you not meet me this evening down by the shore?”
The miserable creature now raised his hand and pushed back a gray lock of unkempt hair from his forehead.
“Why, then,” he said, “it was bothered I was entoirely. I knew there was something I had got to do. It was waker and waker I was getting, for I did not touch bite nor sup since I saw you last, except a morsel of a cold pitatie; and there was not much of the nourishment in that; and as the night came, I could not think of anything except to keep me word and have me victory.”
“Well, you have had it,” said Nora.
“What do you mane now, missie?”
“You have conquered yourself; that is the best victory of all. But come, you made a bargain with me last night, and I am prepared to keep it. I went down to the shore to tell you that I would do what you wanted me to do. The cabin is ready on Slieve Nagorna; we have made it fairly comfortable for you; and I will do better—yes, I will try to do better by and by. I will speak to my father when he is strong enough. Go to Slieve Nagorna now, and you will find the old cot in which you were born. You can sleep there, and—and I—I will see that you are not interfered with.”
“The old cot in which I was born,” said Neil very slowly. “The old cot, and I'll see it again. Is it a-joking me you are, Miss Nora?”
“Would I joke with you just now, Andy? Would I?”
“I know it's saft you are making me. There was a lump of ice in me; but, somehow, it's melted. It's the food and your bonny face, and yer ways. But do you know that it was your father I wanted to kill—t'ould Squire? There, I have said it!”
“I know—and I have saved him,” answered Nora. “But come, he may hear us speaking; he would wonder. I do not want him to know anything of this night. When he is stronger I will plead with him. Come, Andy, come; your home is ready for you. Go back to it.”
The man tottered to his feet, and began to stagger across the barn.
“Stay! you are not strong enough,” said the girl. “Come outside the yard, here; come with me.”
She walked across the yard, reached the little postern gate, and opened it.
“Come out and wait,” she said in a mysterious voice. “You cannot walk to Slieve Nagorna, and yet you must get there; but I will get Angus to take you.”
“Angus! ay, he is a true Irish boy. Aw, I'd trust him.”
“You well may; he is a broth of a boy,” said Nora. “Sit there. I will soon be back with you.”
She shut Andy out, bolting the little gate. The man heard the bolt being drawn, but did not move; he had not the slightest fear but that Nora would keep her word. She ran across the yard and opened the door of the barn at the farther end. Angus was already awake; he heard her light step.
“Is it me you're wanting, Miss Nora?”
“Angus, all is well,” she said. “What I wanted to do I have succeeded in doing. It is Andy Neil who is without; he is broken down and is very weak. Get the long cart and take him to the foot of Slieve Nagorna, help him up the mountain, and see him into the old cot where he was born. Good-night, Angus, and God bless you.”
Nora returned to her own bedroom. She unlocked the door and let herself in. Without waiting even to undress, she flung herself on the bed, curled herself up, and went off into dreamless slumber. When she woke again it was broad daylight, and Molly was standing over her.
“Why, Nora, you have lain undressed all night! What—what has happened?”
“Do not ask me,” said Nora. “Do not ask me. I have done what I wanted to do, and I am thankful.”
“And you won't really tell me?”
“No, I won't. I cannot ever. There is more to attend to, Molly; you and I have got to go to Slieve Nagorna immediately after breakfast.”
Molly did not ask anything further.
“I brought your hot water,” she said. “You do not want any of the grand English servants to see you look like this.”
“What a dear old thing you are!” said Nora. “I am so grateful to you.”
She got up, took off her clothes, indulged in a hot bath, and came down to breakfast looking exactly as if she had spent an ordinary night. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan was a little more fretful than ever, and told Nora that her conduct was making her mother quite ridiculous in the neighborhood.
“I met those remarkably nice people, the Setons of Seton Court, yesterday,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan—“charming English people—and they asked me if it was really true that my husband, the owner of Castle O'Shanaghgan, was sleeping in a barn.”
“And what did you answer, mother?” asked Nora, her dark-blue eyes bright with sudden fun.
“Well, my dear, I made the best of it. I could not deny such a patent fact. I said that the eccentricities of Irish squires were proverbial. But you can imagine, my dear Nora, my mortification as I had to make this admission. If this sort of thing goes on I shall ask your uncle to let the place, and allow us all to live in England.”
“Oh, come, mother,” said her daughter. “You ought to be thankful this morning—you ought to be. Oh, mother! do give me a loving kiss. It is so long, so long since you have done so, and somehow I am tired, mother.”
“Tired!” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, alarmed and surprised by the new tone in Nora's voice. “You look tired. How black those shadows are under your eyes! and you have lost some of your color. There! of course I will kiss you, and I hope I am thankful, for we certainly have had wonderful mercies since your dear Uncle George came over and delivered us all. But what do you mean by special thankfulness this morning?”
“Never mind, mother,” said Nora. “Only do be thankful, do thank God for His mercies; and oh, mother, do give me that kiss!”
“There, child! of course you shall have it.”
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan pressed her lips lightly to Nora's cheek.
“Now eat your breakfast,” she said. “These eggs are quite fresh, and the honey was bought only yesterday—you know you are fond of honey—and these hot cakes are made in a new and particularly nice way. Eat plenty, Nora, and do, my dear, try to restrain your emotions. It is quite terrible what wear and tear you give yourself over these feelings. It is really, my dear girl, unladylike; and let me tell you another thing, that when you lose your fresh wild-rose color, you will lose the greater part of your beauty. Dear me! it will not stay long with you if you excite yourself about every hand's turn in the ridiculous way you are doing.”
Nora did not say any more. She sat down to the breakfast table. Was her mother right? Was she indeed exciting herself over every hand's turn, and was that thing which had happened last night—which, now that it was over, caused her heart to beat a trifle too fast, and brought that tired, that very tired feeling into her sensitive frame—was that indeed but a trifling thing? Thank God—oh, thank God—she had been in time!
Soon after breakfast Nora and Molly started once more for Slieve Nagorna. They went on the outside car this time, and Nora found her strength and courage returning as she handled the reins and urged Black Bess to speed. They presently reached their destination. Nora fastened up the horse as she had done on the previous day, and the girls began to climb the mountain.
“You must not be afraid when you see Andy,” said Nora. “He was very weak last night, and will in all probability be in his house. I am going to arrange to have provisions sent to him every day. He will stay there now that he has got back again.”
“But how has he got back again? You will remember you never told me what happened last night.”
“And you must not ask me, Molly. What happened last night can never be told by me to any human being. Only Angus knows something of it; and Angus will not tell anyone else.”
“And you were frightened? You look, Nora, as if you had gone through a great deal.”
“I went through more than anyone will ever know,” said Nora, “but I am very thankful.”
The girls had now reached the old cabin. The tarpaulin was over the roof, but there was no smoke issuing from the hole.
“I wonder he did not light his fire,” said Nora in an anxious voice. “Will you go in with me, Molly, or shall I go alone?”
“I'll go in with you,” said Molly stoutly. “If you are not afraid, neither will I be.”
“I afraid now?” said Nora, with a smile. “Come, Molly, I hope the poor creature is not very ill.”
Both girls entered the cabin. The tarpaulin had been so contrived that a piece hung over, and formed a temporary door. Nora now pushed it aside, and they both stepped into the miserable cabin. Andy was lying on the straw; the basket of provisions had not yet been touched, nor was the fire lit. Andy lay very still and quiet on the straw. Nora went up to him; his eyes were shut, and his head was slightly turned round, so that she could not at first get a proper glimpse of his face. She went on her knees, then presently touched his forehead with her own slim hand, calling his name softly at the same time. There was no answer—there would never be an answer again, for the wild Irishman was dead.