Light O' the Morning Part 18

"Why, then, Miss Nora, how are ye this evening?" he said. He pulled his forelock as he spoke.

Nora felt a sudden coldness come over all her rosy dreams; but she was too Irish and too like her ancestors to feel any fear, although she could not help remembering that she was nearly half a mile away from the house, and that there was not a soul anywhere within call.

"Good-evening, Andy," she said. "I must be going home now."

"No, you won't just yet," he answered. He came up and laid his dirty hand on her white sleeve.

"No, don't touch me," said Nora proudly. She sprang off the gate, and stood a foot or two away. "Don't come in," she continued; "stay where you are. If you have anything to say, say it there."

"Bedad! it's a fine young lady that it is," said the man. "It aint afeared, is it?"

"Afraid!" said Nora. "What do you take me for?"

"Sure, then, I take yez for what you are," said the man--"as fine and purty a slip of a girleen as ever dwelt in the old Castle; but be yez twice as purty, and be yez twice as fine, Andy Neil is not the man to forget his word, his sworn word, his oath taken to the powers above and the powers below, that if his bit of a roof is taken off his head, why, them as does it shall suffer. It's for you to know that, Miss Nora. I would have drowned yez in the deep pool and n.o.body would ever be the wiser, but I thought better of that; and I could here--yes, even now--I could choke yez round your pretty soft neck and n.o.body would be any the wiser, and I'd think no more of it than I'd think of crus.h.i.+ng a fly. I won't do it; no I won't, Miss Nora; but there's _thim_ as will have to suffer if Andy Neil is turned out of his hut. You spake for me, Miss Nora; you spake up for me, girleen. Why, the Squire, you're the light of his eyes; you spake up, and say, 'Lave poor Andy in his little hut; lave poor Andy with a roof over him. Don't mind the bit of a rint.' Why, then, Miss Nora, how can I pay the rint? Look at my arrum, dear." As the man spoke he thrust out his arm, pus.h.i.+ng up his ragged s.h.i.+rt sleeve. The arm was almost like that of a skeleton's; the skin was starting over the bones.

"Oh, it is dreadful!" said Nora, all the pity in her heart welling up into her eyes. "I am truly, truly sorry for you, Andy, I would do anything in my power. It is just this: you know father?"

"Squire? Yes, I guess I know Squire," said the man.

"You know," continued Nora, "that when he takes what you might call the bit between his teeth nothing will move him. He is set against you, Andy. Oh, Andy! I don't believe he will listen."

"He had betther," said the man, his voice dropping to a low growl; "he had betther, and I say so plain. There's that in me would stick at nothing, and you had best know it, Miss Nora."

"Can you not go away, Andy?"

"I--and what for?"

"But can you?"

"I could, but I won't."

"I don't believe father will yield. I will send you some money from England if you will promise to go away."

"Aye; but I don't want it. I want to stay on. Where would my old bones lie when I died if I am not in my own counthry? I'm not going to leave my counthry for n.o.body. The cot where I was born shall see me die; and if the roof is took off, why, I'll put it back again.

I'll defy him and his new-fangled ways and his English wife to the death. You'll see mischief if you don't put things right, Miss Nora.

It all rests with yez, alannah."

"I am awfully sorry for you, Andy; but I don't believe you would seriously injure father, for you know what the consequences would be."

"Aye; but when a man like me is sore put to it he don't think of consequences. It's just the burning wish to avenge his wrongs; that's what he feels, and that's what I feel, Miss Nora, and so you had best take warning."

"Well, I am going away to-morrow," said the girl. "My father is in great trouble, and wants money very badly himself, and I am going to England."

"To be out of the way when the ruin comes. I know," said the man, with a loud laugh.

"No; you are utterly mistaken. Andy, don't you remember when I was a little girl how you used to let me ride on your shoulder, and once you asked me for a tiny bit of my hair, that time when it was all in curls, and I gave you just the end of one of my curls, and you said you would keep it to your dying day? Would you be cruel to Nora now, and just when her heart is heavy?"

"Your heart heavy? You, one of the quality--'taint likely," said the man.

"It is true; my heart is very heavy. I am so anxious about father; you won't make me more anxious--will you? You won't do anything--anything wrong--while I am away? Will you make me a promise that you will let me go with an easy mind?"

"You ask your father to give me three months' longer grace, and then we'll see."

"I will speak to him," said Nora very slowly. "I am sorry, because he is worried about other things, and he does not take it kindly when I interfere in what he considers his own province; but I'll do my best. I cannot stay another moment now, Andy. Good-by."

She waved her hand to him, and ran down the avenue, looking like a white wraith as she disappeared into the darkness.

CHAPTER XII.

A FEATHER-BED HOUSE.

Before she went to sleep that night Nora wrote a tiny note to her father:

"DEAREST DAD:

"For the sake of your Light o' the Morning, leave poor Andy Neil in his little cottage until I come back again from England. Do, dear dad; this is the last wish of Nora before she goes away.

"YOUR COLLEEN."

She thought and thought, and felt that she could not have expressed herself better. Fear would never influence the Squire; but he would do a good deal for Nora. She laid the letter just where she knew he would see it when he entered his ramshackle study on the following day; and the next morning, with her arms clasped round his neck and her kisses on his cheeks, she gave him one hearty hug, one fervent "G.o.d bless you, dad," and rushed after her mother.

The outside car was ready at the door. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan was already mounted. Nora sprang up, and they were rattling off into the world, "to seek my fortune," thought the girl, "or rather the fortune of him I love best."

The Squire, with his grizzled locks and his deep-set eyes, stood in the porch to watch Nora and her mother as they drove away.

"I'll be back in a twinkling, father; never you fret," called out his daughter, and then a turn in the road hid him from view.

"Why, Nora, what are you crying for?" said her mother, who turned round at that moment, and encountered the full gaze of the large dark-blue eyes swimming in tears.

"Oh, nothing. I'll be all right in a moment," was the answer, and then the suns.h.i.+ne broke all over the girl's charming face; and before they reached the railway station Nora was chatting to her mother as if she had not a care in the world.

Her first visit to Dublin and the excitement of getting really pretty dresses made the next two or three days pa.s.s like a flash.

Mrs. O'Shanaghgan with money in her pocket was a very different woman from Mrs. O'Shanaghgan without a penny. She enjoyed making Nora presentable, and had excellent taste and a keen eye for a bargain. She fitted up her daughter with a modest but successful wardrobe, bought her a proper trunk to hold her belongings, and saw her on board the steamer for Holyhead.

The crossing was a rough one, but the Irish girl did not suffer from seasickness. She stood leaning over the taffrail chatting to the captain, who thought her one of the most charming pa.s.sengers he ever had to cross in the _Munster_; and when they arrived at the opposite side, Mr. Hartrick was waiting for his niece. He often said since that he would never forget his first sight of Nora O'Shanaghgan.

She was wearing a gray tweed traveling dress, with a little gray cap to match; the slender young figure, the rippling black hair, and the brilliant face flashed for an instant on the tired vision of the man of business; then there came the eager outstretching of two hands, and Nora had kissed him because she could not help herself.

"Oh, I am so glad to see you, Uncle George!" The words, the action, the whole look were totally different from what his daughters would have said or done under similar circ.u.mstances. He felt quite sure that his sister's description of Nora was right in the main; but he thought her charming. Drawing her hand through his arm, he took her to the railway station, where the train was already waiting to receive its pa.s.sengers. Soon they were flying in _The Wild Irish Girl_ to Euston. Nora was provided with innumerable ill.u.s.trated papers. Mr. Hartrick took out a little basket which contained sandwiches, wine, and different cakes, and fed her with the best he could procure. He did not ask her many questions, not even about the Castle or her own life. He was determined to wait for all these things. He read something of her story in her clear blue eyes; but he would not press her for her confidence. He was anxious to know her a little better.

"She is Irish, though, and they all exaggerate things so dreadfully," was his thought. "But I'll be very good to the child.

What a contrast she is to Terence! Not that Terence is scarcely Irish; but anyone can see that this child has more of her father than her mother in her composition."

They arrived at Euston; then there were fresh changes; a cab took them to Waterloo, where they once again entered the train.

"Tired, my dear niece?" said her uncle as he settled her for the final time in another first-cla.s.s compartment.