At tea the girls were very stiff. Molly and Nora were put as far as possible asunder. They did not have tea in the drawing room, but in the dining room, and Mrs. Hartrick presided. There was jam on the table, and two or three kinds of cake, and, of course, plenty of bread and butter.
As Molly had predicted, however, the news of her expression “Go to Jericho!” had already reached Mrs. Hartrick's ears, and the fiat had gone forth that she was only to eat bread and butter. It was handed to her, in a marked way, by her mother, and Linda's light-blue eyes flashed with pleasure. Nora felt at that moment that she almost hated Linda. She herself ate resignedly, and without much appetite. Her spirits were down to zero. It seemed far less likely than it did before she left O'Shanaghgan that she could help her father out of his scrape. It was almost impossible to break through these chains of propriety, of neatness, of order. Would anybody in this trim household care in the very least whether the old Irishman broke his heart or not? whether he and the Irish girl had to go forth from the home of their ancestors? whether the wild, beautiful, rack-rent sort of place was kept in the family or not?
“They none of them care,” thought Nora. “I don't believe Uncle George will do anything; but all the same I have got to ask him. He was nice about my letter, I will own that; but will he really, really help?”
“A penny for your thoughts, Nora, my dear,” said Mrs. Hartrick at this moment.
Nora glanced up with a guilty flush.
“Oh, I was only thinking,” she began.
“Yes, dear, what about?”
“About father.” Nora colored as she spoke, and Linda fixed her eyes on her face.
“Very pretty indeed of you, my dear, to think so much of your father,” said Mrs. Hartrick; “but I cannot help giving you a hint. It is not considered good manners for a girl to be absent-minded while she is in public. You are more or less in public now; I am here, and your cousins, and it is our bounden duty each to try and make the others pleasant, to add to the enjoyment of the meal by a little graceful conversation. Absent-mindedness is very dull for others, my dear Nora; so in future try not to look quite so abstracted.”
Nora colored again. Molly, at the other end of the table, bit her lip furiously, and stretched out her hand to help herself to another thick piece of bread and butter. In doing so she upset a small milk-jug; a stream of milk flowed down the tablecloth, and Mrs. Hartrick rose in indignation.
“This is the fourth evening running you have spilt something on the tablecloth, Molly. Go to your room immediately.”
Molly rose, dropped a mocking courtesy to her mother, and left the room.
“Linda dear, run after your sister, and tell her that, for her impertinence to me, she is to remain in her room until dinner-time.”
“Oh! please forgive her this time; she didn't mean it really,” burst from Nora's lips.
“Nora!” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“Oh! I am sorry for her; please forgive her.”
“Nora!” repeated her aunt again.
“It is because you do not understand her that she goes on like that; she is such a fine girl, twice—twice as fine as Linda. Oh, I do wish you would forgive her!”
“Thank you,” said Linda in a mocking voice. She had got as far as the door, and had overheard Nora's words. She now glanced at her mother, as much as to say, “I told you so,” and left the room.
Nora had jumped to her feet. She had forgotten prudence; she had forgotten politeness; her eyes were bright with suppressed fire, and her glib Irish tongue was eager to enter into the fray.
“I must speak out,” she said. “Molly is more like me than anybody else in this house, and I must take her part. She would be a very, very good girl if she were understood.”
“What are your ideas with regard to understanding Molly?” said Mrs. Hartrick in that very calm and icy voice which irritated poor Nora almost past endurance. She was speechless for a moment, struggling with fresh emotion.
“Oh! I wish——” she began.
“And I wish, my dear Nora, that you would remember the politeness due to your hostess. I also wish that you would consider how very silly you are when you speak as you are now doing. I do not know what your Irish habits are; but if it is considered in Ireland rather a virtue than otherwise to spill a milk jug, and allow the contents to deface the tablecloth, I am sorry for you, that is all.”
“You cannot understand. I—I am sorry I came,” said Nora.
She burst into sudden tears, and ran out of the room. In a few moments Linda came back.
“Molly is storming,” she said; “she is in an awful rage.”
“Sit down, Linda, and don't tell tales of your sister,” answered Mrs. Hartrick in an annoyed voice.
“Dear me, mother!” said Linda; “and where is Nora?”
“Nora is a very impertinent little girl. She is wild, however, and unbroken. We must all have patience with her. Poor child! it is terrible to think that she is your father's niece. What a contrast to dear Terence! He is a very nice, polite boy. I am sorry for Nora. Of course, as to Molly, she is quite different. She has always had the advantage of my bringing-up; whereas poor Nora—well, I must say I am surprised at my sister-in-law. I did not think your father's sister would have been so remiss.”
“There is one thing I ought to say,” said Linda.
“What is that, dear? Linda, do sit up straight, and don't poke your head.”
Linda drew herself up, and looked prettily toward her mother.
“What do you wish to say?”
“It is this. I think Nora will be a very bad companion for Molly. Molly will be worse than ever that Nora is in the house.”
“Well, my dear Linda, it is your duty to be a good deal with your cousin. You are too fond of poking holes in others; you are a little hard upon your sister Molly. I do not wish to excuse Molly; but it is not your place as her younger sister to, as it were, rejoice in her many faults.”
“Oh, I don't, mother,” said Linda, coloring.
“Linda dear, I am afraid you do. You must try and break yourself of that very unchristian habit. But, on the whole, my dear, I am pleased with you. You are careful to do what I wish; you learn your lessons correctly; I have good reports of you from your schoolmistresses; and if you are careful, my dear, you will correct those little habits which mar the perfect whole.”
“Thank you, dear mother,” said Linda. “I will try to do what you wish.”
“What I particularly want you to do just now is to be gentle and patient with your cousin; you must remember that she has never had your advantages. Be with her a good deal; talk to her as nicely as you can; hint to her what I wish. Of course, if she becomes quite incorrigible, it will be impossible for me to have her long with you and Molly; but the child is much to be pitied; she is a very pretty creature, and with a little care could be made most presentable. I by no means give her up.”
“Dear mother, how sweetly Christian-like and forgiving you are!” said Linda.
“Oh, hush, my dear; hush! I only do my duty; I hope I shall never fail in that.”
Mrs. Hartrick rose from the tea-table, and Linda soon afterward followed her. Mr. Hartrick was seen coming down the avenue. He generally walked from the station. He came in now.
“What a hot day it is!” he said. “Pour me out a cup of tea, Linda. I am very thirsty.”
He flung himself into an easy chair, and Linda waited on him.
“Well,” he said, “where are the others? Where is the little Irish witch, and where is Molly?”
“I am sorry to say that Molly is in disgrace, as usual,” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“Oh, dear, dear!” said Mr. Hartrick; “we ought to send her to school, poor child! I am sorry for her.”
“And I intended to give her quite a pleasant evening,” said Mrs. Hartrick, “in honor of her cousin's arrival. She was in disgrace yesterday when Nora arrived; and I had thought of giving the girls a delightful evening. I had it all planned, and was going to ask the Challoners over; but really Molly is so incorrigible. She was very pert to me, although she did bring a better report from school; she used some of her objectionable language to Linda, and was more awkward even than usual.”
“Look at the tablecloth, father,” said Linda.
“I think, Linda, you had better run out of the room,” said Mr. Hartrick. He spoke in an annoyed voice.
“Certainly, father, I will go; but don't you want another cup of tea first?”
“Your mother shall pour it out for me. Go, my dear—go.”
“Only, mother, is it necessary that we should not ask the Challoners because Molly is naughty? The rest of us would like to have them.”
“I will let you know presently, Linda,” said her mother; and Linda was obliged, to her disgust, to leave the room.
“Now, then, my dear,” said Mr. Hartrick, “I don't at all like to call you over the coals; but I think it is a pity to speak against Molly so much as you do in her sister's presence. Linda is getting eaten up with conceit; she will be an intolerable woman by and by, so self-opinionated, and so pleased with herself. After all, poor Molly may have the best of it in the future; she is a fine child, notwithstanding her naughtiness.”
“I thought it likely you would take her part, George; and I am sorry,” answered Mrs. Hartrick in a melancholy tone; “but I am grieved to tell you that there is something else to follow. That little Irish girl is quite as cheeky, even more cheeky than Molly. I fear I must ask you to say a word to her; I shall require her to be respectful to me while she is here. She spoke very rudely to me just now, simply because I found it my duty to correct Molly.”
“Oh, that won't do at all,” said Mr. Hartrick. “I must speak to Nora.”
“I wish you would do so.”
“I will. By the way, Grace, what a pretty creature she is!”
“She is a beautiful little wildflower,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “I have taken a great fancy to her, notwithstanding her rudeness. She has never had the smallest care; she has simply been allowed to grow up wild.”
“Well, Nature has taken care of her,” said Mr. Hartrick.
“Yes, dear, of course; but you yourself know the advantage of bringing up a girl nicely.”
“And no one is more capable of doing that than you are,” said Mr. Hartrick, giving his wife an admiring glance.
“Thank you, dear, for the compliment; but I should be glad if you would speak to Nora. Now that she is here, I have no doubt that we shall soon discipline her; and I should like her to pay quite a long visit—that is, of course, if she becomes conformable to my ways.”
“She will be sure to do that, Grace,” replied the husband. “I am glad you mean to be good to her, and to take her in hand, poor little lass!”
“I thought she might have some good masters and get some valuable lessons while she is here,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “Would you believe it, George?—that little girl of sixteen calmly informed me that her education was finished. At the same time, she said she knew no language but her own, and just a smattering of that dead tongue, Irish. She cannot play; in short, she has no accomplishments whatever, and yet her education is finished. I must say I do not understand your sister. I should have thought that she was a little more like you.”
“There never was a more particular girl than Ellen used to be,” said Mr. Hartrick; “but I must have a long talk with Nora. I'll see her this evening. I know she has a good deal she wants to talk to me about.”
“A good deal she wants to talk to you about, George?”
“Oh, yes, my dear; but I will explain presently. She is a proud little witch, and must not be coerced; we must remember that her spirit has never been broken. But I'll talk to her, I'll talk to her; leave the matter in my hands, Grace.”
“Certainly, dear; she is your niece, remember.”
Some of Nora's words must have sunk into Mrs. Hartrick's heart, for, rather to Molly's own astonishment, she was allowed to dress nicely for dinner, and to come down. Her somewhat heavy, dark face did not look to the best advantage. She wore a dress which did not suit her; her hair was awkwardly arranged; there was a scowl on her brow. She felt so sore and cross, after what she considered her brave efforts to be good during the morning, that she would almost rather have stayed up in her room. But Nora would not hear of that. Nora had rushed into Molly's room, and had begged her, for her sake, to come downstairs. Nora was looking quite charming in that pretty white frock which Mrs. O'Shanaghgan had purchased for her in Dublin. Her softly rounded figure, her dazzlingly fair complexion, were seen now for the first time to the best advantage. Her thick black hair was coiled up becomingly on her graceful little head, and, with a bunch of sweet peas at her belt, there could scarcely have been seen a prettier maiden. When she appeared in the drawing room, even Terence was forced to admit that he had seldom seen a more lovely girl than his sister. He went up to her and began to take notice of her.
“I am sorry I was obliged to be out all day. I am studying the different museums very exhaustively,” said Terence in that measured tone of his which drove poor Nora nearly wild. She replied to him somewhat pertly, and he retired once more into his shell.
“Pretty as my sister is,” he soliloquized, “she really is such an ignorant girl that few fellows would care to speak to her. It is a sad pity.”
Terence, the last hope of the house of O'Shanaghgan, was heard to sigh profoundly. His aunt, Mrs. Hartrick, and his cousin Linda would, doubtless, sympathize with him.
“Dinner was announced, and the meal went off very well. Molly was absolutely silent; Nora, taking her cue from her, hardly spoke; and Linda, Terence, and Mrs. Hartrick had it all their own way. But just as dessert was placed on the table, Mr. Hartrick looked at Nora and motioned to her to change seats and to come to one close to him.
“Come now,” he said, “we should like to hear your account of Castle O'Shanaghgan. Terence has told us all about it; but we should like to hear your version.”
“And a most lovely place it must be,” said Mrs. Hartrick from the other end of the table. “Your description, Terence, makes me quite long to see it; and if it were not that I am honestly very much afraid of the Irish peasantry, I should be glad to go there during the summer. But those terrible creatures, with their shillalahs, and their natural aptitude for firing on you from behind a hedge, are quite too fearful to contemplate. I could not run the risk of assassination from any of them. They seem to have a natural hatred for the English and—why, what is the matter, Nora?”
“Only it's not true,” said Nora, her eyes flashing. “They are not a bit like that; they are the most warmhearted people in the whole world. Terence, have you been telling lies about your country? If you have, I am downright ashamed of you.”
“But I have not. I don't know what you mean,” answered Terence.
“Oh, come, come, Nora!” said her uncle, patting her arm gently; but Nora's eyes blazed with fire.
“It's not a bit true,” she continued. “How can Aunt Grace think of that? The poor things have been driven to desperation, because—because their hearts have been trampled on.”
“For instance,” said Terence in a mocking voice, which fell like ice upon poor Nora's hot, indignant nature—“for instance, Andy Neil—he's a nice specimen, is he not?”
“Oh,” said Nora, “he—he is the exception. Don't talk of him, please.”
“That's just it,” said Terence, laughing. “Nora wants to give us all the sweets, and to conceal all the bitters. Now, I am honest, whatever I am.”
“Oh, are you?” said Nora, in indignation. “I should like to know,” she continued, “what kind of place you have represented Castle O'Shanaghgan to be.”
“I don't know why I should be obliged to answer to you for what I say, Nora,” cried her brother.
“You describe it now, Nora. We will hear your description,” said her uncle.
Nora sat quite still for a moment; then she raised her very dark-blue eyes.
“Do you really want me to tell you about O'Shanaghgan?” she said slowly.
“Certainly, my dear.”
“Certainly, Nora. I am sure you can describe things very well,” said her aunt, in an encouraging voice, from the other end of the table.
“Then I will tell you,” said Nora. She paused for a moment, then, to the astonishment and disgust of Mrs. Hartrick, rose to her feet.
“I cannot talk about it sitting down,” she said. “There's the sea, you know—the wild, wild Atlantic. In the winter the breakers are—oh! I have sometimes seen them forty feet high.”
“Come, come, Nora!” said Terence,
“It is true, Terry; the times when you don't like to go out.”
Terence retired into his shell.
“I have seen the waves like that; but, oh! in the summer they can be so sweet and conoodling.”
“What in the world is that?” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“Oh, it is one of our Irish words; there's no other way to express it. And then there are the cliffs, and the great caves, and the yellow, yellow sands, and the shells, and the seaweeds, and the fish, and the boating, and—and—”
“Go on, Nora; you describe the sea just like any other sea.”
“Oh, but it is like no other sea,” said Nora. “And then there are the mountains, their feet washed by the waves.”
“Quite poetical,” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“It is; it is all poetry,” said Nora. “You are not laughing at me, are you, Aunt Grace? I wish you could see those mountains and that sea, and then the home—O'Shanaghgan itself.”
“Yes, Nora; tell us,” said her uncle, who did not laugh, and was much interested in the girl's description.
“The home,” cried Nora; “the great big, darling, empty house.”
“Empty! What a very peculiar description!” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“Oh, it is so nice,” said Nora. “You don't knock over furniture when you walk about; and the dining-room table is so big that, even if you did spill a jug of milk, father would not be angry.”
Mrs. Hartrick uttered a sigh.
“Oh, we are wild over there,” continued Nora; “we have no conventionalities. We share and share alike; we don't mind whether we are rich or poor. We are poor—oh! frightfully poor; and we keep very few servants; and—and the place is bare; because it can be nothing but bare; but there's no place like O'Shanaghgan.”
“But what do you mean by bare?” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“Bare?” said Nora. “I mean bare; very few carpets and very little furniture, and—and——But, oh! it's the hearts that are warm, and that is the only thing that matters.”
“It must be a right-down jolly place; and, by Jehoshaphat! I wish I was there,” interrupted Molly.
“Molly!” said her mother.
“Oh, leave her alone for the present,” said Mr. Hartrick. “But do you mean,” he continued, looking at Nora in a distressed way, “that—that my sister lives in a house of that sort?”
“Mother?” said Nora. “Of course; she is father's wife, and my mother; she is the lady of O'Shanaghgan. It is a very proud position. We don't want grand furniture nor carpets to make it a proud position. She is father's wife, and he is O'Shanaghgan of Castle O'Shanaghgan. He is a sort of king, and he is descended from kings.”
“Well, Terence, I must say this does not at all coincide with your description,” said his uncle, turning and looking his nephew full in the face.
“I didn't wish to make things too bad, sir. Of course, we are not very rich over there; but still, Nora does exaggerate.”
“Look here, Nora,” said her uncle, suddenly turning and pulling her down to sit beside him, “you and I must have a little chat. We will just go and have it right away. You shall tell me your version of the story quite by ourselves.” He then rose and drew her out of the room.
“Where shall we go?” he said when they stood for a moment in the conservatory, into which the big dining room opened.
“Do you really mean it?” said Nora.
“Mean what, dear?”
“To talk to me about—about my letter? Do you mean it?”
“Certainly I do, and there is no time like the present. Come—where shall we go?”
“Where we can be alone; where none of the prim English can interrupt.”
“Nora, you must not be so prejudiced. We are not so bad as all that.”
“Oh, I know it. I wish you were bad; it's because you are so awfully good that I hate—I mean, that I cannot get on with any of you.”
“Poor child! you are a little wild creature. Come into my study; we shall be quite safe from interruption there.”
Mr. Hartrick, still holding Nora's hand, took her down a corridor, and the next moment they found themselves in a large room, with oak bookcases and lined with oak throughout; but it was a stately sort of apartment, and it oppressed the girl as much as the rest of the house had done.
“I had thought,” she murmured inwardly, “that his study would be a little bare. I cannot think how he can stand such closeness, so much furniture.” She sighed as the thought came to her.
“More and more sighs, my little Irish girl,” said Mr. Hartrick. “Why, what is the matter with you?”
“I cannot breathe; but I'll soon get accustomed to it,” said Nora.
“Cannot breathe? Are you subject to asthma, my dear?”
“Oh, no, no; but there is so much furniture, and I am accustomed to so little.”
“All right, Nora; but now you must pull yourself together, and try to be broad-minded enough to take us English folk as we are. We are not wild; we are civilized. Our houses are not bare; but I presume you must consider them comfortable.”
“Oh, yes,” said Nora; “yes.”
“Do you dislike comfortable houses?”
“Hate them!” said Nora.
“My dear, dear child!”
“You would if you were me—wouldn't you, Uncle George?”
“I suppose if I were you I should feel as you do, Nora. I must honestly say I am very thankful I am not you.”
Nora did not reply at all to that.
“Ah, at home now,” she said, “the moon is getting up, and it is making a path of silver on the waves, and it is touching the head of Slieve Nagorna. The dear old Slieve generally keeps his snow nightcap on, and I dare say he has it by now. In very hot weather, sometimes, it melts and disappears; but probably he has got his first coat of snow by now, just on his very top, you know. Then, when the moon shines on it and then on the water—why, don't you think, Uncle George, you would rather look at Slieve Nagorna, with the snow on him and the moon touching his forehead, and the path of silver on the water, than—than be just comfortable?”
“I don't see why I should not have both,” said Mr. Hartrick after a pause; “the silver path on the water and the grand look of Slieve Nagorna (I can quite fancy what he is like from your description, Nora), and also have a house nicely furnished, and good things to eat, and——. But I see we are at daggers drawn, my dear niece. Now, please tell me what your letter means.”
“Do you really want me to tell you now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why I have really come here?”
“You said something in your letter; but you did not explain yourself very clearly.”
“I came here,” said Nora, “for a short visit. I want to go back again soon. Time is flying. Already a month of the three months is over. In two months' time the blow will fall unless—unless you, Uncle George, avert it.”
“The blow, dear? What blow?”
“They are going,” said Nora—she held out both her hands—“the place, the sea, the mountains, the home of our ancestors, they are going unless—unless you help us, Uncle George.”
“My dear Nora, you are very melodramatic; you must try and talk plain English. Do you mean to say that Castle O'Shanaghgan—”
“Yes, that's it,” said Nora; “it is mortgaged. I don't quite know what mortgaged means, but it is something very bad; and unless father can get a great deal of money—I don't know how much, but a good deal—before two months are up, the man to whom Castle O'Shanaghgan is mortgaged will take possession of it. He is a horrid Englishman; but he will go there, and he will turn father out, and mother out, and me—oh, Terence doesn't matter. Terence never was an Irishman—never, never; but he will turn us out. We will go away. Oh, it does not greatly matter for me, because I am young; and it does not greatly matter for mother, because she is an English woman. Oh, yes, Uncle George, she is just like you—she likes comfort; she likes richly furnished rooms; but she is my mother, and of course I love her; she will stand it, for she will think perhaps we will come here to this country. But it is father I am thinking of, the old lion, the old king, the dear, grand old father. He won't understand, he'll be so puzzled. No other place will suit him; he won't say a word; it's not the way of the O'Shanaghgans to grumble. He won't utter a word; he will go away, and he will—die. His heart will be broken; he will die.”
“Nora, my dear child!”
“It is true,” said Nora. Her face was ghastly white; her words came out in broken sobs. “I see him, Uncle George; every night I see him, with his bowed head, and his broken heart, and his steps getting slower and slower. He'll be so puzzled, for he is such a true Irishman, Uncle George. You don't know what we are—happy one day, miserable the next. He thinks somehow, somehow, that the money will be paid. But, oh, Uncle George!—I suppose I have got a little bit of the English in me after all—I know it will not be paid, that no one will lend it to him, not any of his old friends and cronies; and he will have to go, and it will break his heart, unless, unless you help him. I thought of you; I guessed you must be rich. I see now that you are very rich. Oh, how rich!—rich enough for carriages, and thick carpets, and easy-chairs, and tables, and grand dresses, and—and all those sort of things; and you will help—won't you? Please, do! please, do! You'll be so glad some day that you helped the old king, and saved him from dying of a broken heart. Please, help him, Uncle George.”
“My dear little girl!” said Mr. Hartrick. He was really affected by Nora's speech; it was wild; it was unconventional; there was a great deal of false sentiment about it; but the child herself was true, and her eyes were beautiful, and she looked graceful, and young, and full of passion, almost primeval passion, as she stood there before him. Then she believed in him. If she did not believe in anyone else in the house, she believed in him. She thought that if she asked him he would help.
“Now, tell me,” he said after a pause, “does your mother know what you have come here for?”
“Mother? Certainly not; I told you in my letter that you must not breathe a word of it to mother; and father does not know. No one knows but I—Nora, I myself.”
“This has been completely your own idea?”
“Completely.”
“You are a brave girl.”
“Oh, I don't know about being brave. I had to do something. If you belonged to Patrick O'Shanaghgan you would do something for him too. Have you ever seen him, Uncle George?”
“Yes, at the time of my sister's wedding, but not since.”
“And then?”
“He was as handsome a fellow as I ever laid eyes on, and Irish through and through.”
“Of course. What else would he be?”
“I have not seen him since. My sister, poor Ellen, she was a beautiful girl when she was young, Nora.”
“She is stately, like a queen,” said Nora. “We all admire her very, very much.”
“And love her, my dear?”
“Oh yes, of course I love mother.”
“But not as well as your father?”
“You could not, Uncle George, if you knew father.”
“Well, I shall not ask any more. You really do want me to help?”
“If you can; if it will not cost you too much money.”
“And you mean that your father is absolutely, downright poor?”
“Oh, I suppose so. I don't think that matters a bit. We wouldn't like to be rich, neither father nor I; but we do want to keep O'Shanaghgan.”
“Even without carpets and chairs and tables?” said Mr. Hartrick.
“We don't care about carpets and chairs and tables,” said Nora. “We want to keep O'Shanaghgan, the place where father was born and I was born.”
“Well, look here, Nora. I can make you no promises just now; but I respect you, my dear, and I will certainly do something—what I cannot possibly tell you, for I must look into this matter for myself. But I will do this: I will go to O'Shanaghgan this week and see my sister, and find out from the Squire what really is wrong.”
“You will?” said Nora. She thought quickly. Her father would hate it; but, after all, it was the only chance. Even she had sufficient common sense to know that Mr. Hartrick could not help unless he went to the old place.
“Oh, you will do it when you see it,” she said, with sudden rapture. “And you'll take me home with you?”
“Well, I think not, Nora. Now that you are here you must stay. I am fond of you, my little girl, although I know very little about you; but I do think that you have very mistaken ideas. I want you to love your English cousins for your mother's sake, and to love their home for your mother's sake also; and I should like you to have a few lessons, and to take some hints from your Aunt Grace, for you are wild, and need training. If I go to O'Shanaghgan for you, will you stay at The Laurels for me?”
“I will do anything, anything for you, if you save father,” said Nora. She fell on her knees before her uncle could prevent her, took his hand, and kissed it.
“Then it is a compact,” said Mr. Hartrick; “but remember I only promise to go. I cannot make any promises to help your father until I have seen him.”
“I am going to Ireland to-morrow, Grace,” said Mr. Hartrick to his wife that evening.
“To Ireland!” she cried. “What for?”
“I want to see my sister Ellen. I feel that I have neglected her too long. I shall run over to O'Shanaghgan, and stay there for two or three nights.”
“Why are you doing this, George?” said Mrs. Hartrick very slowly.
Mr. Hartrick was silent for a moment; then he said gravely:
“I have heard bad news from that child.”
“From Nora?”
“Yes, from Nora.”
“But Terence has never given us bad news.”
“Terence is not a patch upon Nora, my dear Grace.”
“There I cannot agree with you. I infinitely prefer Terence to Nora,” was Mrs. Hartrick's calm reply.
“But I thought you admired the child.”
“Oh, I admire what the child may become,” was the cautious answer. “I cannot admire a perfectly wild girl, who has no idea of self-discipline or self-restraint. And remember one thing, George: whatever she says to you, you must take, to use a vulgarism, with a grain of salt. An Irish girl cannot help exaggerating. She has doubtless exaggerated the condition of things.”
“I only pray God she has,” was Mr. Hartrick's reply.
“If things are even half as bad as she represents them, it is high time that I should pay my sister a visit.”
“Why? What does she say?”
“She has given me a picture of the state of affairs at that house which wrings my heart, Grace. To think that my beautiful sister Ellen should be subjected to such discomforts, to such miseries, is intolerable. I intend to go to O'Shanaghgan to-morrow, and will see how matters are for myself.”
Mrs. Hartrick was again silent for a moment or two; then she said gravely:
“Doubtless you are right to do this; but I hope, while you are away, you will do nothing rash.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, from the little I have seen of Nora, she is a very impetuous creature, and has tried perhaps to wring a promise from you.”
“I will tell you quite simply what she has said, Grace, and then you will understand. She says her father has mortgaged the Castle evidently up to the hilt. The mortgagees will foreclose in a couple of months, unless money can be found to buy them off. Now, it has just occurred to me that I might buy Castle O'Shanaghgan for ourselves as a sort of summer residence, put it in order, and allow Patrick O'Shanaghgan to live there, and my sister. By and by the place can go to Terence, as we have no son of our own. I have plenty of money. What do you think of this suggestion, Grace?”
“It might not be a bad one,” said Mrs. Hartrick; “but I could not possibly go to a place of that sort unless it were put into proper repair.”
“It is, I believe, in reality a fine old place, and the grounds are beautiful,” said Mr. Hartrick. “A few thousand pounds would put it into order, and we could furnish it from Dublin. You could have a great many guests there, and—”
“But what about the O'Shanaghgans themselves?”
“Well, perhaps they would go somewhere else for the couple of months we should need to occupy the house during the summer. Anyhow, I feel that I must do something for Ellen's sake; but I will let you know more after I have been there.”
Mrs. Hartrick asked a few more questions. After a time she said:
“Is Nora to remain here?”
“Yes. I was going to speak to you about that. It is a sad pity that so pretty a girl should grow up wild. We had better keep her with us for the next two or three years. She will soon tame down and learn our English habits; then, with her undeniable Irish charm and great beauty, she will be able to do something with her life.”
“I shall be quite pleased to have her,” said Mrs. Hartrick in a cordial tone. “I like training young girls, and Nora is the sort who would do me credit if she really were willing to take pains.”
“I am sure she will be; she is an honest little soul.”
“Oh, I see you are bewitched by her.”
“No, not bewitched; but I admire honesty and candor, and the child has got both.”
“Well, well!” said Mrs. Hartrick, “if it is arranged that Nora is to stay here, I will go and see Miss Flowers at Linda's and Molly's school to-morrow, and ask if Nora can be admitted as a pupil. There is no use in losing time, and she may as well start her lessons next week. By all means, George, go and do your best for the poor things. Of course your sister ought not to be allowed to be in money difficulties.”
“I should think not,” said Mr. Hartrick.
The next day Mr. Hartrick bade Nora and his own family good-by, and started on his expedition to Ireland. Nora was quivering with impatience. When she had seen the last of him she turned back into the house, and was there met by her brother Terence.
“Come here, Nora. I want to speak to you,” he said.
She followed him into the nearest room. He closed the door behind them.
“May I ask what you have been saying to Uncle George?”
“You may ask, of course, Terry; but I don't mean to tell you,” answered Nora.
“It is because of you he is going to Ireland?”
“It is because of something I have said.”
“How do you think our mother will like it? You know how proud she is; how all these years she has determined to put a good face on things, and not to allow her relations in England to know the truth. I have followed her cue, and have been careful to make the very best of things at Castle O'Shanaghgan.”
“Oh, it is easy to tell lies,” said Nora, with scorn.
“Nora, you talk in a very silly way, and I often have no patience with you,” answered her brother. “If I have regard to my mother's feelings, why should you despise me? You are supposed to consider our father's feelings.”
“That is very different; the whole thing is different,” said Nora. She flushed, bit her lip, and then turned away.
“You must hear me,” said Terence, looking at her with some impatience; “you must, you shall. You are quite intolerable with your conceit and your silly, silly Irish ways.”
“Well, go on. What have you to say to me?”
“That I think you were guilty of dishonor in talking as you did at dinner last night. You spoke of the place and the poverty in a way which quite put me to the blush. I hope in future, while you are here, you will cease to run the O'Shanaghgans down. It is not worthy of you, Nora, and I am ashamed of you.”
“Run them down—I?” said poor Nora in astonishment.
“Yes, you.”
She was silent for a moment; she was making a great effort to recover her equanimity. Was Terence right? Had she done wrong to speak before her aunt and cousins as she had done? Of course her uncle was different; it was absolutely necessary that he at least should know the truth. A distressful sense of dismay at her own impetuosity came over her. Terence watched her narrowly. He was fond of Nora in his heart of hearts, and also proud of her; and now that he saw she was really sorry he went up to her, put his arm round her neck, and kissed her.
“Never mind, little girl,” he said, “you are young. Try to be guided by me in future, and do not give yourself away. We Irish wear our hearts on our sleeves, and that sort of thing does not go down in England.”
“Oh, how I hate this cold England!” said the Irish girl, with passion.
“There you are again, all your feelings expressed too broadly. You will never endure life if you go on as you have begun, Nora.”
“Terence,” said Nora, looking up at him, “when are you going home?”
“When am I going home? Thank you, I am very comfortable here.”
“Don't you think that just at present, when father is in trouble, his only son, the heir of O'Shanaghgan, ought to be with him?”
“Poor old O'Shanaghgan,” said the lad, with impatience; “you think that it comprises the whole of the world. I tell you what it is, Nora, I am made differently, and I infinitely prefer England. My uncle has been kind enough to offer me a small post in his business. Did I not tell you?”
“No, no; I never knew what my uncle's business was.”
“He is a merchant prince, Nora; an enormously rich man. He owns warehouses upon warehouses. He has offered me a post in one—a very good post, and a certain income.”
“And you mean to accept?” said Nora, her eyes flashing fire.
“Well, I am writing to mother on the subject. I think it would be well to do so.”
“You, an O'Shanaghgan, will descend to trade?” replied the girl.
“Oh, folly! folly! Nora, your ideas are really too antiquated.”
Nora did not speak at all for a moment; then she walked toward the door.
“I cannot understand you,” she said. “I am awfully sorry. I was born different; I was made different. I cannot understand why you should bring dishonor to the old place.”
“By earning a little money to keep us all from beggary,” retorted the lad in a bitter tone; but Nora did not hear him; she had left the room. Her eyes were smarting with unshed tears. She went out into the shrubbery in search of Molly.
“But for Molly I should break my heart,” she thought.