Light O' the Morning Part 50

"Forgive me," said Nora; "I sometimes forget that you are not an Irish girl."

"You also forget that I am practically a London girl," answered Molly. "I have seldom or never climbed even a respectable hill, far less a mountain with sides like this one."

"We will reach the spot which I am aiming for before long," said Nora; "but if you are tired, do sit down, and I'll go on alone."

This, however, Molly would not hear of, and presently the girls reached a spot where once a small cabin had stood. The walls of the cabin were still there, but the thatched roof had disappeared, the doors and windows had been removed, and the blackened earth where the hearth had been alone bore evidence to the fact that fires had been burnt there for long generations. But there was no fire now on the desolate hearth.

"Oh, dear!" said Nora. "It makes me cry to look at the place. Once, long, long ago, when Terry and I were tiny children, we came up here. Andy's wife was alive then, and she gave us a hot potato each and a pinch of salt. We ate the potatoes just here, and how good they tasted! Little Mike was a baby, such a pretty little boy, and dear Kathleen was so proud of him. Oh! it was a _home_ then, whereas now it is a desolation."

"A very poor sort of home I should say," answered Molly. "What a truly desolate place! If anybody ever lived here, that person must be glad to have got away. It makes me shudder even to think of any human being calling this spot a home."

"Oh!" answered Nora, "it was a very pretty home, and the one who lived in it is broken-hearted--nay, more, he is almost crazed, all and entirely because he has been driven away. He deserved it, I know; but it has gone very hard with him; it has torn out his heart; it has turned him from a man into a savage. Oh! if I had only money, would not I build up these walls, and put back the roof, and light the fire once more, and put the man who used to have this house as a home back again? He would die in peace then. Oh! if only, _only_ I had money."

"How queer you look!" said Molly. "How your eyes s.h.i.+ne! I don't understand you. I love you very much, but I confess I don't understand you. Why, this desolate spot would drive most people mad."

"But not Irish people who were born here," said Nora. "There! I have seen what I wanted to see, and we had best be going back. I want to drive to the village, and I want to see John Finnigan. I hope I shall find him at home."

"Who is John Finnigan?" asked Molly.

"The man who _does_ these sort of things," said Nora, the red, angry blood rus.h.i.+ng to her cheeks.

She turned and quickly walked down the mountain, Molly racing and stumbling after her. Black Bess was standing motionless where her mistress had placed her. Nora unfastened the reins and sprang upon the car, Molly followed her example, and they drove almost on the wings of the wind back to the village. There they were fortunate enough to find John Finnigan. Leaving Molly holding Black Bess's reins, Nora went into the house. It was a very small and shabby house, furnished in Irish style, and presided over by Mrs. Finnigan, a very stout, untidy, and typical Irishwoman, with all the good nature and _savoir-faire_ of her countrywomen.

"Aw, then, Miss Nora," she said, "I am glad to see you. And how's the Squire?"

"Much better, thank you," said Nora. "Is your husband in, Mrs.

Finnigan?"

"To be sure, deary. Finnigan's abed still. He was out late last night. Why, listen; you can hear him snoring; the part.i.tion is thin.

He snores loud enough to be heard all over the house."

"Well, do wake him, please, Mrs. Finnigan," said Nora. "I want to see him on a most important matter at once."

"Then, that being the case, honey, you just step into the parlor while I go and get Finnigan to rise and dress himself."

Mrs. Finnigan threw open the door of a very untidy and small room.

Several children were having breakfast by a table which bore traces of fish-bones, potato-peelings, and bacon-rinds. The children were untidy, like their mother, but had the bright, very dark-blue eyes and curly hair of their country. Nora knew them all, and was soon in the midst of a clamorous group, while Mrs. Finnigan went out to get her husband to rise. Finnigan himself appeared in about a quarter of an hour, and Nora went with him into his little study.

"Well, now," said that worthy, "and what can I do for you, Miss O'Shanaghgan?"

Nora looked very earnest and pleading.

"My father is better," she said, "but not well enough yet to be troubled with business. I understand that you are doing some of his business for him, Mr. Finnigan."

"Some, it is true," answered the gentleman, frowning as he spoke, "but not all, by no means all. Since that English fine gentleman, Mr.

Hartrick, came over, he has put the bulk of the property into the hands of Steward of Glen Lee. Steward is a Scotchman, and why he should get work which is rightly my due is hard on me, Miss Nora--very hard on me."

"Well," said Nora restlessly, "I know nothing about the matter. I am sorry; but I am afraid I am powerless to interfere."

"Oh, Miss Nora!" said Finnigan, "you know very well that you have kissed the Blarney Stone, and that no one can resist you. If you were to say a word to the Squire he would give me my due; and now that so much money has been put into O'Shanaghgan, it would be a very fine thing for me to have the collecting of the rents. I am a poor man, Miss Nora, and this business ought not to be given over my head to a stranger."

"I will speak to father by-and-by," said Nora; "but I doubt if I can do anything. But I have come to-day to ask you to do something for me."

"And what is that, Miss Nora? I am sure I'd be proud to help such a beautiful young lady in any way."

"I dislike compliments," said Nora, coloring with annoyance. "Please listen. You know the man you evicted from the cabin on the side of Slieve Nagorna--Andy Neil?"

"Perfectly well, perfectly well," answered Finnigan,

"You had my father's orders?"

"I had that, Miss Nora."

"I want you, Mr. Finnigan, now to take my orders and to give Andy back his cabin. Put a bit of roof over it--anything, even an old tarpaulin--anything, so that he may sleep there if he likes to-night.

I want you to do this for me, and allow me to take the risk of offending my father."

"What!" said Finnigan, "and risk myself all chance of getting the agency. No, no, Miss Nora. Besides, what would all the other tenants say who have been evicted in their time? The man shall get his cabin back and a fresh roof and new windows, by the same token, when he pays his rent, and not before."

"But he has no money to pay his rent."

"Then he must stay out, Miss Nora."

"I wish, I wish," said Nora, clasping her hands and speaking with pa.s.sion, "that you would oblige me in this. Indeed, it is of the utmost importance."

"What!" said Finnigan, going up to her and staring into her face; "has that scoundrel threatened? Is it possible?"

"No, no, no; you are mistaken," said Nora eagerly. "I only meant that I--I--pitied him so much."

"That being the case, Miss Nora, I will say nothing further. But the fact is, I have before had my suspicions as to the hand which pulled that trigger which sent the shot into the Squire's leg, and it would be an extremely graceful act on my part to have that person arrested, and would doubtless insure the agency for me. But I will say no more; only, please understand, under _no_ circ.u.mstances, except the payment of the rent, can Andy Neil get back his cabin."

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

A DARING DEED.

Having failed to get any help from John Finnigan, Nora returned to the Castle. As she drove quickly home she was very silent. Even loquacious Molly did not care to interrupt her thoughts. As soon as they reached the Castle she turned to her cousin and spoke quickly.

"Go to the barn and look after father, Molly. Talk as many naughty words as ever you like; make him laugh; keep him occupied. After dinner I shall probably want your aid again. In the meantime you will help me best by taking father off my hands."

"And I desire nothing better," answered Molly. "I love the Squire; it is the height of entertainment, as he would call it, to talk to him."

Molly accordingly ran off. The Squire was now well enough to sit up in a great easy-chair made of straw, which had been carted over from Cronane for his special benefit, for the padded and velvet-covered chairs of the Castle would not at all have suited his inclinations.

He sat back in the depths of his chair, which creaked at his every movement, and laughed long and often at Molly's stories.

"But where's Light o' the Morning herself?" he said after a pause.

"Why don't she come to visit her old father? Why, it's craving for a sight of her I am."