Light O' the Morning: The Story of an Irish Girl Part 45

Nora did not say anything; but a stubborn look came into her face which her mother knew of old.

From the drawing room they went to the library, which had also undergone complete rejuvenation. The walls were laden with standard works of different kinds; but some of the shelves were still empty.

"The old books, your uncle says, were of great value," said Mrs.

O'Shanaghgan, "and he sent them all to Dublin to be rebound. They have not come back yet. They are to be bound in old calf, and will suit the rest of the room. Is it not a magnificent apartment?"

Nora said "Yes" in a somewhat dreamy voice.

They then went to her mother's morning-room, and then on to the Squire's smoking-room.

"They might at least have left this alone," thought the girl. "They might at least have left this one room, where he could retire when he felt quite choked by all the furniture in the rest of the place."

But even the Squire's smoking-room was changed into the smoking-room of an English gentleman. There were deep easy-chairs covered with leather; there were racks for pipes, and great bra.s.s dogs before the fireplace; on the floor was a thick carpet. Nora felt as if she longed to give it a savage kick.

At last the terrible ordeal of going through the--to her, utterly ruined--house was over, and she and Molly found themselves alone.

"I will go up to your father for a few minutes," said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, nodding to Nora. "You and your cousin will like to have a chat; and then, my dears, I should recommend you both to go to bed as early as possible."

When they were back again in the big drawing room Nora gave Molly a wild look.

"Come out," she said; "at least out of doors the air is the same as of old."

Molly caught up a shawl and wrapped it round her head; but Nora went out just as she was.

"You'll catch cold," said English Molly.

"I catch cold in my native land!" replied Irish Nora. "How little you know me! Oh, come, Molly, I am going to be wild; I am going to give way."

They both stepped outside on the broad gravel sweep. The moon was up, and it was s.h.i.+ning over everything. In the moonlight Castle O'Shanaghgan looked very much as it had done before. The moon had always glorified the old place, and it glorified it still. Nora stood and gazed around her; up to the tops of the mountains, with their dark summits clearly defined against the evening sky; across the wide breadth of the Atlantic; over the thick plantations, the fields, and the huge trees in the background.

"It's all the same," she said, with a glad laugh; "thank G.o.d it is all the same. Even your father, Molly, cannot destroy the place outside, at least."

"Oh Nora, it is such a lovely, lovely place!" said Molly. "Cannot you be happy in it with its modern dress?"

"Happy," said Nora, suddenly brought back to her sense of misery by the word. "I am thankful that my father is not so ill; but--but you must help, Molly. Promise that you will."

"I am sure I'd do anything in the world," said Molly. "I think I have been very good to-day. I have kept in my naughty words, Jehoshaphat and Moses and Elephants, and all the rest. What do you want me to do, Nora?"

"We must get him out of that room," said Nora.

"Him? You mean your father?"

"Yes; he will never recover there. I have been thinking and thinking, and I'll have my plan ready by the morning; only you must help me. I'll get Hannah Croneen to come in, and we'll do it between us if you can help me."

"But what is it?" said Molly.

"I'll tell you in the morning; you wait and see."

CHAPTER x.x.x.

THE LION IN HIS CAGE.

The Squire was better, and not better. He had received a very nasty flesh-wound in the thigh; but the bullet had been extracted. There was not the slightest clew to the ident.i.ty of his would-be murderer. The Squire himself had said nothing. He had been found almost bleeding to death by the roadside; the alarm had been given, and in terror and consternation his own tenants had brought him home.

The Squire could have said a good deal, but he said nothing. The police came and asked him questions, but he kept his lips closed.

"I didn't see the man," he said after a pause. "Somebody fired, of course; but I can't tell who, for I saw no one; it was from behind the hedge. Why the scoundrel who wanted to do for me didn't shoot a little higher up puzzles me. But there, let it rest--let it rest."

And the neighbors and the country had to let it rest, for there was no evidence against anyone. Amongst those who came to inquire after the Squire was Andy Neil. He came often, and was full of commiseration, and loudly cursed the brute who had very nearly done for his old landlord.

But the neighbors had suspicions with regard to Andy, for he had been turned out of his cot in the mountains, and was living in the village now. They scowled at him when he pa.s.sed, and turned aside; and his own face looked more miserable than ever. Still, he came daily up to the big kitchen to inquire for the Squire.

The doctor said there was no reason whatever why Mr. O'Shanaghgan should not get quite well. He was by no means old--not more than fifty; there was not the slightest occasion for a break-down, and yet, to all appearance, a break-down there was. The Squire got morose; he hardly ever smiled; even Nora's presence scarcely drew a hearty guffaw from his lips. The doctors were puzzled.

"What can be wrong?" they said. But Nora herself knew very well what was wrong. She and her father were the only ones who did know. She knew that the old lion was dying in captivity; that he was absolutely succ.u.mbing to the close and smothered life which he was now leading. He wanted the free air of his native mountains; he wanted the old life, now gone for ever, back again.

"It is true the place is saved, Norrie," he said once to his daughter, "and I haven't a word to say. I would be the most ungrateful dog in existence if I breathed a single word of complaint. The place is saved; and though it nominally belongs now to your Uncle George, to all intents and purposes it is my place, and he gives me to understand that at my death it goes to my boy. Yes, he has done a n.o.ble deed, and of course I admire him immensely."

"And so do I, father," said Nora; but she looked thoughtful and troubled; and one day, after she had been in her father's room for some time, when she met her uncle in the avenue she spoke to him.

"Well, my dear girl," he said, "what about coming back with me to England when I go next week?"

"It is not to be thought of, Uncle George. How can I leave my father while he is ill?"

"That is true. I have been thinking about him. The doctors are a little distressed at his growing weakness. They cannot quite understand it.

Tonics have been given to him and every imaginable thing has been done.

He wants for nothing; his nourishment is of the best; still he makes no way. It is puzzling."

"I don't think so," said Nora.

"What do you mean, my dear girl?"

"You might do all that sort of thing for an eagle, you know," said Nora, raising her clear eyes and fixing them on her uncle's face. "You might give him everything in his prison, much more than he had when he was free; but, all the same, he would pine and--and he would die." Tears rose to the girl's eyes; she dashed them away.

"My dear little Nora, I don't in the least see the resemblance," said Mr. Hartrick, who felt, and perhaps justly, rather nettled. "You seem to imply by your words that I have done your father an injury when I secured the home of his ancestors for him."

"Oh, forgive me, Uncle George," said Nora. "I don't really mean to say anything against you, for you are just splendid."

Mr. Hartrick did not reply; he looked puzzled and thoughtful. Nora, after a moment's silence, spoke again.

"I am most grateful to you. I believe you have done what is best--at least what you think best. You have made my mother very happy, and Terence will be so pleased; and the tenants--oh! they will get their rights now, their cabins will be repaired, the roofs mended, the windows put in fresh, the little gardens stocked for them. Oh, yes, you are behaving most generously. Anyone would suppose the place belonged to you."

"Which it does," muttered Mr. Hartrick under his breath.

"You have made a great many people happy, only somehow--somehow it is not quite the way to make my father happy, and it is not the way to make me happy. But I have nothing more to say, except that I cannot leave my father now."