It occurred to Stephanotie that, as she could not wear the rose-colored dress, as she must go perforce to the Hartricks' in her dove-colored cashmere, with its very neat velvet collar and cuffs, she would at least make her entrance a little striking.
“Why not take a box of bon-bons to Mrs. Hartrick?” she said to herself. “There's that great big new box which I have not opened yet It contains dozens of every kind of sweetmeat. I'll present it to her; she'll be pleased with the attention.”
The box was a very large one; on its lid was painted a picture of two or three cupids hovering in the air, some of them touching the shoulders of a pretty girl who was supposed to be opening a box of chocolates. There was a good deal of color and embossed writing also on the cover, and altogether it was as showy and, in Stephanotie's opinion, as handsome a thing as anybody could desire.
She walked through the village, holding the box, tied with great bunches of red ribbon, in her hand. She scorned to put a brown-paper cover over it; she would take it in all its naked glory into the midst of the Hartrick household.
On her way she met the other two girls who were also going to spend an afternoon at The Laurels. Rose and Mabel Armitage were the daughters of a neighbouring squire. They were nice girls, but conventional.
There was nothing original about either of them; but they were very much respected in the school, not only on account of their father's position—he represented the county in the House—but also because they were good, industrious, and so-called clever. The Armitages took prizes at every examination. Their French was considered very nearly Parisian in accent; their drawings were all in absolutely perfect proportions. It is true the trees in Rose's landscapes looked a little stiff; but how carefully she laid on her water-colors; how honestly she endeavored to copy her master's smallest requirements! Then Mabel played with great correctness, never for a single moment allowing a wrong note to appear; and they both sang, very prettily, simple little ballads; and they were dressed with exquisite neatness and propriety in very quiet colors—dark blues, very dark reds, pretty, neat blouses, suitable skirts. Their hair was shiny, and sat in little tight tendrils and pretty curls round their heads. They were as like as two peas—each girl had a prim little mouth with rosy lips; each girl possessed an immaculate set of white teeth; each girl had a little, straight nose and pretty, clear gray-blue eyes; their foreheads were low, their eyebrows penciled and delicately marked. They had neat little figures; they were neat in every way, neat in soul too; admirable little people, but commonplace. And, just because they were commonplace, they did not like fiery-red-haired Stephanotie; they thought Molly the essence of vulgarity; they secretly admired beautiful Nora, but thought her manners and style of conversation deplorable; and they adored Linda as a kindred spirit.
Seeing them walking on in advance, like a little pair of doves, Stephanotie quickened her steps until she came up to them.
“Hallo!” she said; “you guess where I'm off to?”
“I am sure I cannot say,” answered Rose, turning gently round.
Mabel was always Rose's echo.
“I cannot say,” she repeated.
“Well, I can guess where you're going. You're going to have a right down good time at The Laurels—guess I'm right?”
“We are going to spend an afternoon at The Laurels,” said Rose.
“An afternoon at The Laurels,” echoed Mabel.
“And so am I—that's the best of the fun,” said Stephanotie; “and I mean to give her something to remember me by.”
“Whom do you mean?” said Rose.
“Why, my good, respected hostess, Mrs. Hartrick.”
“What do you mean to give her?” asked Rose.
“This. How do you like it? It's full of bon-bons.”
Rose, notwithstanding her virtuous and commonplace mind, had a secret leaning toward bon-bons. She did not dare to confess it even to Mabel; for Mabel also had a secret leaning, and did not dare to confess it to Rose. It was not comme il faut in their family for the girls of the house to indulge in bon-bons; but still, they would have liked some of those delicious sweets, and had often envied Stephanotie when she was showing them to her companions.
Of course, not for worlds would they have been friendly with the terrible American girl; but they did envy her her boxes of sweets.
“How gay!” said Rose, looking at the startling cover, with its cupids and its greedy-looking maiden.
“How jolly,” said the American girl—“how luscious when you're eating them! Would you like to see them inside?”
“Oh, I think not,” said Rose.
“Better not,” said Mabel.
“But why better not?” continued Stephanotie. “It's natural that girls like us should like sweetmeats, bon-bons, or anything of that sort. Here, there's a nice little bit of shelter under this tree, and there's no one looking. I'll untie the ribbons; just hold the box, Rose.”
Rose held it. Stephanotie hastily pulled off the red ribbons and lifted the cover. Oh, how delicious the inside did look!—rows upon rows of every imaginable sweet—cream-colored sweets, rose-colored, green, white; plums, apples, pears, figs, chocolates; every sort that the heart of girl could desire lay before them in rows on rows.
“They are, every one of them, for Mrs. Hartrick,” said Stephanotie, “and you mustn't touch them. But I have got two boxes in my pocket; they make it bulge out; I should be glad to get rid of them. We'll tie this up, but you'll each have one of my boxes.”
In a jiffy the big box was tied up again with its huge crimson bows, and each of the Armitage girls possessed one of the American girl's boxes of bon-bons.
“Aren't they pretty? Do have some; you don't know how long you may be kept waiting for your tea,” said Stephanotie as she danced beside her companions up the avenue.
In this fashion, therefore, did the three enter the house, for both of the Armitages had yielded to temptation, and each girl was just finishing a large bon-bon when they appeared on the scene.
Mrs. Hartrick was standing in the great square central hall, waiting for her guests.
Stephanotie ran up to her.
“It's very good of you indeed to ask me,” she said; “and please accept this—won't you? It's from an American girl, a trophy to remember her by.”
“Indeed?” said Mrs. Hartrick, flushing very brightly. She stepped back a little; the huge box of bon-bons was forced into her hands.
“Jehoshaphat!” exclaimed Molly.
“Molly!” said her mother.
Linda uttered a little sigh. Rose and Mabel immediately became as discreet and commonplace and proper as they could be; but Stephanotie knew that the boxes of bon-bons were reposing in each of their pockets and her spirits rose higher than ever.
“Where is Irish Nora?” she said. “It's she that is fond of a good sweet such as they make for us in the States. But have the box—won't you, Mrs. Hartrick? I have brought it to you as a token of my regard.”
“Indeed? Thank you very much, Miss Miller,” said Mrs. Hartrick in a chilly voice. She laid the box on a side-table.
The girls went out into the grounds. The afternoon happened to be a perfect one; the air was balmy, with a touch of the Indian summer about it. The last roses were blooming on their respective bushes; the geraniums were making a good show in the carefully laid out beds. There were clumps of asters and dahlias to be seen in every direction; some late poppies and some sweet-peas and mignonette made the borders still look very attractive, and the chrysanthemums were beginning to appear.
“In a week's time they will be splendid,” said Linda, piloting her two friends through the largest of the greenhouses.
“Do come away,” said Molly; “when Linda speaks in that prim voice she's intolerable. Come, Nora; come, Stephie—we'll just have a run by ourselves.”
Nora was still looking rather pale. The shock of the morning had caused the color to fade from her cheeks; she could not get the utterly changed O'Shanaghgan out of her head. She longed to write to her father, and yet she did not dare.
Stephanotie looked at her with the curious, keen glance which an American girl possesses.
“What is it? Do say,” she said, linking her hand inside Nora's. “Is it anything that a bon-bon will soothe, or is it past that?”
“It is quite past that; but don't ask me now, Stephie. I cannot tell you, really.”
“Don't bother her,” said Molly; “she has partly confided in me, but not wholly. We'll have a good time by ourselves. What game do you think we had best play, Stephie?”
“I'm not one for games at all,” answered Stephanotie. “Girls of my age don't play games. They are thinking seriously of the business of life—the flirtations and the jolly time they are going to have before they settle down to their staid married life. You English are so very childish.”
“And we Irish are childish too,” said Nora. “It's lovely to be childish,” she added. “I hate to put away childish things.”
“Oh, dear! so that is the Irish and English way,” said Stephanotie. “But there, don't let us talk nationalities; let's be cozy and cheerful. I can tell you I did feel annoyed at coming here such a dowd; it was not my fault. I meant to make an impression; I did, really and truly. It was very good of you, Molly, to ask me; and I know that proud lady, your mother, didn't want to have me a bit. I am nothing but Stephanotie Miller, and she doesn't know the style we live in at home. If she did, maybe she would open her eyes a little; but she doesn't, and that's flat; and I am vulgar, or supposed to be, just because I am frank and open, and I have no concealment about me. I call a spade a spade.”
“Oh, hurrah! so do I,” said Molly, the irrepressible.
“Well, my dear, I don't use your words; they wouldn't suit me at all,” said the American girl. “I never call out Jehoshaphat the way you do, whoever Jehoshaphat is; but I have my little eccentricities, and they run to pretty and gay dresses—dresses with bright colors and quantities of lace on them—and bon-bons at all hours, in season and out of season. It's easy to content me, and I don't see why my little innocent wishes should not be gratified.”
“But you are very nicely dressed now,” said Nora, looking with approval at the gray cashmere.
“Me nicely dressed!” screamed Stephanotie. “Do you call this dress nice? Why, I do declare it's a perfect shame that I should be made such a spectacle. It don't suit my hair. When I am ordering a dress I choose shades of red; they tone me down. I am fiery to-day—am I not, Molly?”
“Well, you certainly are,” said Molly. “But what—what did you do to it?”
“To my locks, do you mean?”
“Yes. They do stick out so funnily. I know mother was shocked; she likes our heads to be perfectly smooth.'
“Like the Armitages', for instance,” said Stephanotie.
“Well, yes; something like theirs. They are pretty girls, are they not?”
“Yes,” said Stephanotie; “but don't they give you the quivers? Don't you feel as if you were rubbed the wrong way the moment you speak to them?”
“I don't take to them,” said Molly; “but I think they're pretty.”
“They're just like what O'Shanaghgan is now,” thought Nora, who did not speak. “They are all prim and proper; there's not a single wildness allowed to come out anywhere.”
“But they're for all the world like anybody else,” said Stephanotie. “Don't they love sweeties just! If you' had seen them—the greedy way they took the bon-bons out of the little boxes I gave them. Oh, they're just like anybody else, only they are playing parts; they are little actors; they're always acting. I'd like to catch them when they were not. I'd like to have them for one wild week, with you, Molly, and you, Nora. I tell you there would be a fine change in them both.”
“There's a telegraph-boy coming down the avenue,” cried Molly suddenly. “I'll run and see what is the matter?”
Nora did not know why her heart beat. Telegrams arrived every day at The Laurels. Nevertheless she felt sure that this was no ordinary message; she stood now and stared at that boy as though her eyes would start from their sockets.
“What is the matter?” said Stephanotie.
“Nothing—nothing.”
“You're vexed about something. Why should you be so distant with me?”
“I am not, Stephie. I am a little anxious; it is difficult always to be just the same,” said Nora.
“Oh, don't I know it, my darling; and if you had as much to do with Aunt Vi Truefitt as I have, you would realize how often my spirits turn topsy-turvy. I often hope that I'll be Englishized quickly, so that I may get back to my dear parents. But there, Molly is coming back.”
“The telegram was for mother,” she said. “Do let us play.”
Nora looked at Molly. Her face was red; it was usually pale. Nora wondered what had brought that high color into her cheeks. Molly seemed excited, and did not want to meet her cousin's eyes.
“Come, let us have a race,” she said. “I don't want to put away childish things. I want to have a good game while I am in the humor. Let us see who will get first to the top of that hill. I like running uphill. I'm off; catch me who may!”
Molly started. Her figure was stout, and she ran in a somewhat awkward way. Nora flew after her. She soon reached her side.
“There, stop running,” she said. “What is up?”
“What is up?” echoed Molly.
“Yes; what was in that telegram?”
“The telegram was for mother.”
“But you know what was in it. I know you do.”
“Nothing—nothing, Nora. Come, our race isn't over yet. I'm off again; you cannot catch me this time.”
Molly ran, panting as she did so.
“I cannot tell her; I won't,” she said to herself. “I wish her eyes were not so sharp. She is sure to find out; but I have begged and prayed of mother not to tell her, at least until after Stephanotie and the others have gone. Then, I suppose, she must know.”
Molly reached the top of the hill. She was so blown that she had to fling herself on the grass. Nora again reached her side.
“Tell me, Molly,” she said; “there is something the matter?”
“There is a telegram for mother, and I cannot tell you anything whatever about it,” said Molly in a cross voice. “There, I'm off once more. I promised Linda that I would help her to look after the Armitage girls. Prim and proper as they are, they are sometimes a little bit too much for my dainty sister Linda. You take care of Stephie; she's right good fun. Let me go, Nora; let me go.”
Molly pulled her hand almost roughly out of her cousin's grip, and the next moment was rushing downhill as fast as she could in the direction of the summer-house. There she knew she would find Linda and her two friends.
Notwithstanding all the efforts of at least five merry girls, there was a cloud over the remainder of that afternoon. Nora's face was anxious; her gay laugh was wanting; her eyes wore an abstracted, far-away look. The depression which the letters of the morning had caused was now increased tenfold. If she joined in the games it was without spirit; when she spoke there was no animation in her words. Gone was the Irish wit, the pleasant Irish humor; the sparkle in the eyes was missing; the gay laughter never rose upon the breeze. At tea things were just as bad. Even at supper matters had not mended.
Molly now persistently avoided her cousin. Stephanotie and she were having a wild time. Molly, to cover Nora's gloom, was going on in a more extravagant way than usual. She constantly asked Jehoshaphat to come to her aid; she talked of Holy Moses more than once; in short, she exceeded herself in her wildness. Linda was so shocked that she took the Armitage girls to a distant corner, and there discoursed with them in low whispers. Now and then she cast a horrified glance round at where her sister and the Yankee, as she termed Stephanotie, were going on together. To her relief, toward the end of the evening, Mrs. Hartrick came into the room. But even her presence could not suppress Molly now. She was beside herself; the look of Nora sitting gloomily apart from the rest, pretending to be interested in one of Sir Walter Scott's novels, was too much for her. She knew that a bad time was coming for Nora, and her misery made her reckless. Mrs. Hartrick, hearing some of her naughtiest words, said in an icy tone that Miss Truefitt had sent a maid for Stephanotie; and a few moments afterward the little party broke up.
As soon as the strange girls had departed, Mrs. Hartrick turned immediately to Molly.
“I am shocked at your conduct,” she said. “In order to give you pleasure I allowed Miss Miller to come here; but I should have been a wiser and happier woman if I had taken dear Linda's advice. She is not the sort of girl I wish either you or Nora ever to associate with again. Now, go straight to your room, and don't leave it until I send for you.”
Molly stalked off with a defiant tread and eyes flashing fire; she would not even glance at Nora. Linda began to talk in her prim voice. Before she could utter a single word Nora had sprung forward, caught both her aunt's hands, and looked her in the face.
“Now,” she said, “I must know. What did that telegram say?”
“What telegram, Nora? My dear child, you forget yourself.”
“I do not forget myself, Aunt Grace. If I am not to go quite off my head, I must know the truth.”
“Sit down, Nora.”
“I cannot sit; please put me out of suspense. Please tell me the worst at once.”
“I am sorry for you, dear; I really am.”
“Oh, please, please speak! Is anything—anything wrong with father?”
“I hope nothing serious.”
“Ah! I knew it,” said Nora; “there is something wrong.”
“He has had an accident.”
“An accident? An accident? Oh, what? Oh! it's Andy; it must be Andy. Oh, Aunt Grace, I shall go mad; I shall go mad!”
Mrs. Hartrick did not speak. Then she looked at Linda. She motioned to Linda to leave the room. Linda, however, had no idea of stirring. She was too much interested; she looked at Nora as if she thought her really mad.
“Tell me—tell me; is father killed?”
“No, no, my poor child; no, no. Do calm yourself, Nora. I will let you see the telegram; then you will know all that I know.”
“Oh, please, please!”
Mrs. Hartrick took it out of her pocket. Nora clutched it very hard, but her trembling fingers could scarcely take the little flimsy pink sheet out of its envelope. At last she had managed it. She spread it before her; then she found that her dazed eyes could not see the words. What was the misery of the morning to the agony of this moment?
“Read it for me,” she said in a piteous voice. “I—I cannot see.”
“Sit down, my dear; you will faint if you don't.”
“Oh! everything is going round. Is he—is he dead?”
“No, dear; nothing very wrong.”
“Read—read!” said Nora.
Mrs. Hartrick did read. The following words fell upon the Irish girl's ears:
“O'Shanaghgan was shot at from behind a hedge this, morning. Seriously injured. Break it to Nora.”
“I must go to him,” said Nora, jumping up. “When is the next train? Why didn't you tell me before? I must go—I must go at once.”
Now that the worst of the news was broken, she had recovered her courage and some calmness.
“I must go to him,” she repeated.
“I have telegraphed. I have been mindful of you. I knew the moment you heard this news you would wish to be off to Ireland, so I have telegraphed to know if there is danger. If there is danger you shall go, my dear child; indeed, I myself will take you.”
“Oh! I must go in any case,” repeated Nora. “Danger or no danger, he is hurt, and he will want me. I must go; you cannot keep me here.”
Just then there came a loud ring at the hall-door.
“Doubtless that is the telegram,” said Mrs. Hartrick. “Run, Linda, and bring it.”
Linda raced into the hall. In a few moments she came back with a telegram.
“The messenger is waiting, mother,” she said.
Mrs. Hartrick tore it open, read the contents, uttered a sigh of relief, and then handed the paper on to Nora to read.
“There,” she said; “you can read for yourself.”
Nora read:
“Better. Doctor anticipates no danger. Tell Nora I do not wish her to come. Writing.
“HARTRICK.”
“There, my dear, this is a great relief,” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“Oh! I am going all the same,” said Nora.
“No; that I cannot possibly allow.”
“But he wants me, even if he is not in danger. It was bad enough to be away from him when he was well; but now that he is ill——You don't understand, Aunt Grace—there is no one can do anything for father as I can. I am his Light o' the Morning.”
“His what?” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“Oh, that is what he calls me; but I have no time to explain now. I must go; I don't care.”
“You are an ungrateful girl, Nora. If you had lived through the misery I have lived through the last few hours this telegram would fill you with thankfulness. It is your duty to stay here. You are under a promise to your kind uncle. He has rescued your father and mother from a most terrible position, and your promise to him saying that you would stay quietly here you cannot in all honor break. If your father were in danger it would be a different matter. As it is, it is your duty to stay quietly here, and show by your patience how truly you love him.”
Nora sat silent. Mrs. Hartrick's words were absolute. The good lady felt that she was strictly following the path of duty.
“I can understand the shock you have had,” she continued, looking at the girl, who now sat with her head slightly drooping, her hands clasped tightly together, her attitude one of absolute despair.
“Linda,” she said, turning to her daughter, “fetch Nora a glass of wine. I noticed, my dear, that you ate scarcely any supper.”
Nora did not speak.
Linda returned with a glass of claret.
“Now drink this off, Nora,” said her aunt; “I insist.”
Nora was about to refuse, but she suddenly changed her mind.
“I shall go whether she gives me leave or not,” was her inward thought. “I shall want strength.” She drank off the wine, and returned the empty glass to her cousin.
“There now, that is better,” said Mrs. Hartrick; “and as you are unaccustomed to wine you will doubtless sleep soundly after it. Go up to your bedroom, dear. I will telegraph the first thing in the morning to O'Shanaghgan, and if there is the slightest cause for alarm will promise to take you there immediately. Be content with my promise; be patient, be brave, I beg of you, Nora. But, believe me, your uncle knows best when he says you are not to go.”
“Thank you, Aunt Grace,” said Nora in a low voice. She did not glance at Linda. She turned and left the room.
Molly was standing by the open window of her room when Nora came in. She entered quite quietly. Every vestige of color had left her face; her eyes, dark and intensely blue, were shining; some of her jet-black hair had got loosened and fell about her neck and shoulders. Molly sprang toward her.
“Oh, Nora!” she said.
“Hush!” said Nora. “I have heard; father is hurt—very badly hurt, and I am going to him.”
“Are you indeed? Is mother going to take you?” said Molly.
“No; she has refused. A telegram has come from my uncle; he says I am not to go—as if a thousand telegrams would keep me. Molly, I am going.”
“But you cannot go alone.”
“I am going.”
“When?” said Molly.
“Now—this very minute.”
“What nonsense! There are no trains.”
“I shall leave the house and stay at the station. I shall take the very next train to town. I am going.”
“But, Nora, have you money?”
“Money?” said Nora. “I never thought of that.”
“Mother won't give you money if she does not wish you to go.”
“I'll go to my room and see.” Nora rushed away. She came back in a few moments with her purse; she flung the contents on Molly's bed. Molly took up the silver coins as they rattled out of Nora's purse. Alack and alas! all she possessed was eight shillings and a few coppers.
“You cannot go with that,” said Molly; “and I have nothing to lend you, or I would; indeed, I would give you all I possess, but mother only gives me sixpence a week. Nothing would induce her to give me an allowance. I have sixpence a week just as if I were a baby, and you can quite understand I don't save out of that. What is to be done?”
Nora looked nonplused. For the first time the vigorous intention, the fierce resolve which was bearing her onward, was checked, and checked by so mighty a reason that she could not quite see her way out of the present difficulty. To ask her Aunt Grace for money would be worse than useless. Nora was a sufficient reader of character to be quite certain that Mrs. Hartrick when she said a thing meant it. She would be kind to Nora up to a certain point. Were her father in what they called danger she herself would be the first to help Nora to go to him.
“How little they know how badly he wants me!” thought the girl; “how all this time he is pining for me—he who never knew illness in his life—pining, pining for me! Nothing shall keep me from him. I would steal to go to him; there is nothing I would not do.”
“Nora, how queer you look!” said Molly.
“I am thinking,” said Nora. “I wonder how I am to get that money? Oh, I have it. I'll ask Stephanotie to lend it to me. Do you think she would?”
“I don't know. I think it very likely. She is generous, and she has heaps of money.”
“Then I'll go to her,” said Nora.
“Stay, Nora; if you really want to run away——”
“Run away?” said Nora. “If you like to call it so, you may; but I'm going. My own father is ill; my uncle and aunt don't hold the same position to me that my father holds. I will go to him—I will.”
“Then I tell you what it is,” said Molly, “you must do this thing carefully or you'll be locked up in your bedroom. Mother would think nothing of locking the door of your bedroom and keeping you there. You don't know mother when once her back is up. She can be immensely kind up to a certain point, and then—oh! I know it—immensely cruel.”
“What is to be done?” said Nora. “I hate doing a thing in this kind of way—in the dark, as it were.”
“You must listen to me,” said Molly; “you must be very careful. I have had some little scampers in my time, and I know how to manage matters. There is only one way for you to go.”
“What is that?”
“You and I must go off and see Stephanotie; but we cannot do so until everyone is in bed.”
“How can we go then?”
“We can easily climb down from this window. You see this pear-tree; it almost touches the window. I have climbed down by it more than once; we can get in again the same way.”
“Oh, yes. If we must sneak out of the house like thieves,” said Nora, “it's as good as any other way.”
“I tell you it's the only way,” said Molly. “We must be off on our way to London before mother gets up tomorrow morning. You don't know anything whatever about trains.”
“But I can look them out,” said Nora.
“Well, go back to your room. Mother will not be going to bed for quite an hour. We cannot help it; we can do nothing until she is safe in bed. Go away at once, Nora; for if she finds you here talking to me she will suspect something. I cannot tell you what mother is when once her suspicions are aroused; and she has had good cause to suspect me before now.”
“But do you really mean to say you'll come with me?”
“I certainly mean to say I won't let you go alone. Now then, go away; just pack a few things, and slip back to me when I knock on the wall. I know when mother has gone to bed; it is necessary that she should be asleep, and that Linda should be asleep also; that is all we require. Leave the rest to me.”
“And you are certain Stephanotie can lend us the money?”
“We can but ask her. If she refuses we must only come back again and make the best of things.”
“I will never come back,” said Nora. “I will go to the first pawnbroker's and pawn everything of value I possess; but go to my father I will.”
“I admire your courage,” said Molly. “Now then, go back to your room and wait for my signal.”
Nora returned to her room. She began to open and shut her drawers. She did not care about being quiet. It seemed to her that no one could keep her from her father against her will. She did not recognize the all-potent fact that she had no money herself for the journey. Still, the money must be obtained. Of course Stephanotie had it, and of course Stephanotie would lend it; it would only be a loan for a few days. When once Nora got to Ireland she would return the money immediately.
She opened her drawers and filled a little black bag which she had brought with her from home. She put in the trifles she might need on her journey; the rest of her things could stay; she could not be bothered with them one way or the other. Then she sat quite still on the edge of her bed. How earnestly she wished that her aunt would retire for the night, that Linda would be quiet! Linda's room adjoined Nora's—it opened into Nora's—and Linda, when occasions roused her suspicions, could be intensely watchful. She did not seem to be going to bed; she kept moving about in her room. Poor Nora could scarcely restrain herself from calling out, “Oh, do be quick, Linda! What are you staying up for?” but she refrained from saying the fatal words. Presently she heard the creak of Linda's bed as she got into it. This was followed by silence.
Nora breathed a sigh of relief, but still the dangers were not past. Her little black bag lay quite ready on the chair, and she herself sat on the edge of her bed. Mrs. Hartrick's steps were heard coming up the stairs, and the next moment the door of Nora's room was opened and the good lady looked in.
“Not in bed, Nora,” she said; “but this is very wrong.”
“Oh, I could not sleep,” said Nora.
Mrs. Hartrick went up to her.
“Now, my dear child,” she said, “I cannot rest until I see you safe in bed. Come, I must undress you myself. What a wan little face! My dear girl, you must trust in God. Your uncle's telegram assures us that there is no danger; and if there is the smallest occasion I will take you myself to your father tomorrow.”
“Oh! if you would only promise to take me,” said poor Nora, suddenly rising to her feet, twining her arms round her aunt's neck, and looking full into her face. “Oh! don't say you will take me to my father if there is danger; say you'll take me in any case. It would break my heart to stay away. I cannot—cannot stay away from him.”
“Now, you are talking in an unreasonable way, Nora—in a way I cannot for a moment listen to. Your uncle wishes you to stay where you are. He would not wish that if there was the least occasion for you to go to Ireland.”
“Then you will not take me tomorrow?”
“Not unless your father is worse. Come, I must help you to get your things off.”
Nora felt herself powerless in Mrs. Hartrick's hands. The good lady quickly began to divest her of her clothes, soon her night-dress was popped on, and she was lying down in bed.
“What is that black bag doing here?” said Mrs. Hartrick, glancing at the bag as she spoke.
“I was packing my things together to go to father.”
“Well, dear, we must only trust there will be no necessity. Now, goodnight. Sleep well, my little girl. Believe me, I am not so unsympathetic as I look.”
Nora made no reply. She covered her face with the bedclothes; a sob came from her throat. Mrs. Hartrick hesitated for a moment whether she would say anything further; but then, hoping that the tired-out girl would sleep, she went gently from the room. In the passage she thought for a moment.
“Why did Nora pack that little bag?” she said to herself. “Can it be possible—but no, the child would not do it. Besides, she has no money.”
Mrs. Hartrick entered her own room at the other end of the corridor and shut the door. Then stillness reigned over the house—stillness absolute and complete.
No light had been burning under Molly's door when Mrs. Hartrick had passed. Molly, indeed, wiser than Nora, had got into bed and lay there, dressed, it is true, but absolutely in the dark. Nora also lay in her bed; every nerve was beating frantically; her body seemed to be all one great pulse. At last, in desperation, she sprang out of bed—there came the welcome signal from Molly's room. Nora struck a light and began to dress feverishly. In ten minutes she was once more in her clothes. She now put on the dark-gray traveling dress she had worn when coming to The Laurels. Her hat and jacket were quickly put on, and, carrying the little black bag, she entered Molly's room.
“What hour is it?” said Nora. “It must be long past midnight.”
“Oh, no; nothing of the kind. It is not more than eleven o'clock.”
“Oh! I thought it was one or two. Do you know that your mother came to see me and insisted on my getting into bed?”
“You were a great goose, Nora. You should have lain down as I did, in your clothes; that would have saved a little time. But come, mother has been quite quiet for half an hour and more; she must be sound asleep. We had better go.”
“Yes, we had better go,” said Nora. “I packed a few things in this bag; it is quite light, and I can carry it. My money is in it, too—eight shillings and fivepence. I do trust Stephanotie will be able to lend us the rest.”
Molly had not been idle while Nora was in her room. She had taken care to oil the hasp of the window; and now, with extreme caution, she lifted it up, taking care that it did not make the slightest sound as she did so. The next moment both girls were seated on the window-ledge. Molly sprang on to the pear-tree, which creaked and crackled under her weight; but Mrs. Hartrick was already in the land of dreams. Molly dropped on to the ground beneath, and then it was Nora's turn.
“Shall I shut the window before I get on to the pear-tree?” whispered Nora.
“No, no; leave it open. Come just as you are.”
Nora reached out her arms, grasped the pear tree, and slipped down to the ground.
“Now then, we must be off,” said Molly. “I hope Pilot won't bark.” She was alluding to the big watchdog. “But there, I'll speak to him; he is very fond of me.”
The girls stole across the grass. The dew lay heavy on it; their footsteps made no sound. Presently they reached the front of the house, and Pilot, with a deep bay, flew to meet them.
“Pilot! Pilot! quiet; good dog!” said Molly. She went on her knees, flung her arms round the dog, and began to whisper in his ear.
“He understands,” she said, looking up at Nora. The great creature seemed to do so; he wagged his feathery tail from side to side and accompanied the girls as far as the gate.
“Now, go home, go home,” said Molly. She then took Nora's hand, and they ran down the road in the direction of the village.
“If it were not that you are so miserable I should enjoy this awfully,” said Molly.
“But how do you mean to wake Stephie?” asked Nora at last.
“Well, luckily for us, her aunt, Miss Truefitt, is rather deaf. Miss Truefitt has a bedroom at the back of the house, and Stephanotie sleeps in front. I shall fling gravel at the window. There is not a soul, as you see, in the streets. It's well that it is such a quiet place; it will serve our purpose all the better.”
They now found themselves outside Miss Truefitt's house. Molly took up a handful of gravel and flung it in a great shower at Stephanotie's window. Both girls then waited eagerly for a response. At first there was none; once again Molly threw the gravel.
“I do hope she will wake soon,” she said, turning to Nora; “that gravel makes a great noise, and some of the neighbors may pop out their heads to see what is the matter. There! I saw a flicker of light in the room. She is thinking it is thieves; she won't for a single moment imagine that we are here. I do hope Miss Truefitt won't awaken; it will be all up with us if she does.”
“No, no, it won't,” said Nora; “there's not a person in this place I could not get to help me in a cause like this. The one who is absolutely invulnerable, who cannot be moved, because she imagines herself to be right, is your mother.”
“There's Stephie at the window now,” said Molly. A little figure in a night-dress was seen peeping out.
“It's us, Stephie. Let us in; it's most awfully important,” whispered Molly's voice in deep sepulchral tones from below.
“But say, what's the matter?” called Stephanotie, opening her window and popping out her curly head.
“I can't talk to you in the street. Slip down and open the hall-door and let us in,” said Molly. “It's most vital.”
“It's life or death,” whispered Nora. There was something in Nora's tremulous tones which touched Stephanotie, and at the same time stimulated her curiosity to such an extent that she flew into her clothes, dashing about perfectly reckless of the fact that she was making a loud noise; but, luckily for her, Miss Truefitt was deaf and the servants slept in a remote part of the old house. Soon Stephanotie was tumbling downstairs, the chain was taken off the door, and the two girls were admitted.
“Where shall I take you?” said Stephanotie. “It's all as dark as pitch. You know Aunt Vi won't hear of gas in the house. But stay, we can go into the dining room. I suppose you can tell me by the light of a solitary glim.” As she spoke she pointed to the candle which she was holding high above her head.
“Yes, yes, or with no light at all,” said Nora.
Stephanotie now opened the door of the dining room, and the three girls entered. Stephanotie placed the candle on the table and turned and faced them.
“Well,” she said, “what's up? What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to lend me all the money you have,” said Nora.
“All the money I have—good gracious!”
“Oh, Jehoshaphat! be quick about it,” said Molly. “We cannot stand here talking; we want to catch the very next train to town.”
“But why should I lend you all the money I have?”
“Oh, I'll tell her, Nora; don't you speak,” said Molly. “Nora's father has been awfully hurt; he was shot at from behind a hedge by some scoundrel in Ireland. A telegram came to-day about him to mother, and mother won't take Nora to Ireland unless her father is in danger, and Nora is determined to go.”
“I guess I'd about do the same,” said Stephanotie, nodding her head. “If poppa was shot at from behind a hedge, I guess there's nothing would keep me away from him. But is it for that you want the money?”
“Yes,” said Nora, plunging her hands into the depths of her black bag; “there's only eight shillings and five-pence here, and I can't get to Ireland with that.”
“Haul out the spoil,” said Molly; “make no bones about it. I'm going with Nora, because the child isn't fit to travel alone.”
“You coming with me?” said Nora. “I didn't know that.”
“I don't mean to leave you, my dear, until I see you safe in the midst of your family; besides, I have a bit of curiosity with regard to that wonderful old place of yours.”
“Oh, it's lost, the place is quite lost,” said Nora, remembering for the first time since the blow had fallen the feather-bed condition of Castle O'Shanaghgan.
“Well, lost or found, I'd like to have a peep at it,” said Molly; “so fork out the spoil, Stephie, and be quick.”
“I will, of course,” said Stephanotie. “But how much do you want?”
“All you possess, my dear; you cannot give us more than all you possess.”
“And when am I likely to have it back?”
“Oh, as if that mattered,” said Molly; “the thing is to get Nora home. You won't be any the worse for this, if that is what you mean.”
“Oh, I am not really thinking of that; but my school fees have to be paid, and the money only came from America two days ago for the purpose. You know Aunt Vi is very poor.”
“Poor or rich, don't keep us waiting now,” said Molly. “Look at Nora. Do you think for a single moment that your school bills matter when her heart is breaking?”
“And you shall have the money back, Stephie, every farthing, if I die to get it for you,” said Nora with sudden passion.
“I don't doubt you, darling,” said the generous-hearted American girl. “Well, I'll go up to my room and see what I can do.” She left the room, ran upstairs, and quickly returned with a fat purse. It contained gold and notes; and very soon Molly found, to her infinite delight, that it would be by no means necessary for her and Nora to take all Stephie's wealth.
“Ten pounds will be sufficient,” said Molly. “I have not the slightest idea what the fares to Ireland are, but I have no doubt we shall do nicely with this sum. May we have these two five-pounds notes, Stephie?”
“You may and welcome,” said Stephanotie. “I have nearly thirty pounds here; but it's on account of the school bills. As a rule, poppa is not quite so generous. He says it is better for young girls like me not to have too much money. I guess I'd eat too many bon-bons if I had a lot of money at my disposal. But had you not better take it in gold? It is much easier to change.”
“To be sure,” said Molly. “Holy Moses! it's you that have got the sense, Stephie.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” replied Stephanotie. “Well, then, here you are—ten sovereigns. Good luck to you both. What do you mean to do?”
“Go to the station and find out about the trains, and start the very first moment possible,” said Molly.
“I do wish I was going with you. It would be no end of a lark.”
“Why don't you come?” asked Molly.
“I wish I might; but there, I suppose I had better not. I must look perfectly innocent to-morrow, or I may get into an awful scrape for this. You must both go now, or Aunt Vi when she turns in her sleep may wake. She turns in her sleep about three times during the night; and whenever she turns she wakes, so she tells me. I guess it's about time for her first turn now, so the sooner you are off the better.”
“Oh, thank you, Stephie! I shall never, never forget your kindness,” said Nora. She flung her arms impulsively round Stephanotie's neck, and the next moment the girls left the house.