Honor's Home
For a full understanding of Honor Fitzgerald we must go back a few
weeks, and see her in that Irish home which was so far away and so
utterly different from Chessington College. Kilmore Castle was a great,
rambling, old-fashioned country house, built beside an inland creek of
the sea, and sheltered by a range of hills from the wild winds of
Kerry. To Honor that was the dearest and most beautiful spot in the
world. She loved every inch of it--the silvery strips of water that led
between bold, rocky headlands out to the broad Atlantic; the tall
mountain peaks that showed so rugged an outline against the sky; the
brown, peat-stained river that came brawling down from the uplands, and
poured itself noisily into the creek; the wide, lonely moors, with
their stretches of brilliant green grass and dark, treacherous bog
pools; and the craggy cliffs that made a barrier against the
ever-dashing waves, and round which thousands of sea birds flew, with
harsh cries and whir of white wings.
Its situation at the end of a long peninsula made Kilmore Castle an
isolated little kingdom of its own. On the shore stood a row of low,
fishermen's white-washed cabins, dignified by the name of "the
village"; but otherwise there was no human habitation in sight, and
Ballycroghan, the market town and nearest postal, railway, and
telegraph station, was ten miles off.
Trees were rarities at Kilmore; a few stunted specimens, all blown one
way by the prevailing gale, grew as if huddled together for protection
at the foot of the glen, but they were the exception that proved the
rule; nevertheless, under the sheltering walls of the Castle Mrs.
Fitzgerald had managed to acclimatize some exotic shrubs, and to
cultivate quite a beautiful garden of flowers, for the temperature was
uniformly mild, though the winds were boisterous. Brilliant St.
Brigid's anemones, the poet's narcissus, tulips, jonquils, and
hyacinths bloomed here almost as early as in the Scilly Isles, and made
patches of fragrant brightness under the sitting-room windows; while in
the crannies of the walls might be seen delicate maidenhair and other
ferns, too tender generally to stand a winter in the open.
Born and bred in this far-away corner of the world, Honor had grown up
almost a child of nature. Her whole life had been spent as much as
possible out-of-doors, boating, fishing, or swimming in the creek;
driving in a low-backed car over the rough Kerry roads; galloping her
shaggy little pony on the moors; following the otter hounds up the
river, and sharing in any sport that her father considered suitable for
her age and sex. She was the only girl among five brothers, and in her
mother's opinion was by far the most difficult to manage of the whole
flock. All the wild Irish blood of the family seemed to have settled in
her; the high spirits, the fire, the pride, the quick temper, the
impatience of control, the happy-go-lucky, idle, irresponsible ways of
a long line of hot-headed ancestors had skipped a generation or two,
and, as if they had been bottling themselves up during the interval,
had reappeared with renewed force in this particular specimen of the
Fitzgerald race.
"She's more trouble than the five boys put together," her mother often
declared, and her friends cordially agreed with her. Mrs. Fitzgerald
herself was a mild, quiet, nervous, delicate lady, as much astonished
at her lively, tempestuous daughter as a meek little hedge-sparrow
would be, that had hatched a young cuckoo. Frankly, she did not
understand Honor, whose strong, uncontrolled character differed so
entirely from her own gentle, clinging, dependent disposition; and
whose storms of grief or anger, wild fits of waywardness and equally
passionate repentance, and self-willed disobedience, alternating with
sudden bursts of reformation, were a constant source of worry and
anxiety, and the direct opposite of her ideal of girlhood. Poor Mrs.
Fitzgerald would have liked a docile, tractable daughter, who would
have been content to sit beside her sofa doing fancy work, instead of
riding to hounds; and who would have had more consideration for her
weak state of health. She appreciated Honor's warm-hearted affection to
the full, but at the same time wished she could make her realize that
rough hugs, boisterous kisses, and loud tones were hardly suitable to
an invalid. Suffering as she was from a painful and incurable
complaint, it was sometimes impossible for her to admit Honor to her
sick-room, and for weeks together the girl would hardly see her mother.
It was through no lack of love that Honor had failed to give that
service and tenderness which, in the circumstances, an only daughter
might so fitly have rendered; it was from sheer want of thought, and
general heedlessness. Some girls early acquire a sense of
responsibility and care for others, but in Honor these qualities were
as undeveloped as in a child of six.
Many were the governesses who had attempted to tame the young rebel,
and bring her into a state of law and order, but all had been equal
failures. She had learnt lessons when she felt inclined, and left them
undone when she was idle; and she had managed to make life in the
schoolroom such a purgatory that it had been difficult to persuade any
teacher to stay long at the Castle, and cope with so thankless a task
as her education.
It had been of little use to complain to her father, the only person in
the world whose authority she recognized; he was proud of his handsome
daughter, and, except when her temper crossed his own, was apt to
indulge her in most of her whims. Matters had at last, however, come to
a crisis. An act of more than usual assumption on Honor's part had
aroused Major Fitzgerald's utmost indignation, and had caused him
suddenly to decide that she was spoiling at home, and that the only
possible solution of the difficulty was to dispatch her to school as
soon as the necessary arrangements could be made for her departure.
The incident that led to this resolution was very characteristic of
Honor's headstrong, impulsive nature. She was passionately fond of
horses, and for some time had been anxious to possess a new pony. It
was not that she loved Pixie, her former favourite, any the less; but
he was growing old, and was now scarcely able to take a fence, or carry
her in mad career over the moors, being only fit for a sober trot on
the high road, or to draw her mother's Bath chair round the garden. To
obtain a strong, well-bred, fiery substitute for Pixie was the summit
of Honor's ambition. One day, when she was with her father at
Ballycroghan, she saw exactly the realization of her ideal. It was a
small black cob, which showed a trace of Arab blood in its arching
neck, slender limbs, and easy, springy motion. Though its bright eyes
proved its high spirit, it was nevertheless as gentle as a lamb, and
well accustomed to carrying a lady. Its owner, a local horse-dealer,
was anxious to sell it, and pressed Major Fitzgerald to take it as a
bargain. Honor simply fell in love with it on the spot. She ascertained
that its name was Firefly, and begged and besought her father to buy it
for her. But on this occasion he would not yield, even to her utmost
coaxing. He did not wish to keep another pony in the stable, and he
considered the price asked was excessive, and entirely beyond the
present limits of his purse.
"No, Honor, it can't be done," he said. "You must be content with poor
old Pixie. I have quite enough expenses just now, without running into
such an extravagance."
"But couldn't I have it instead of something else?" pleaded Honor.
"There's nothing we could knock off, dear child," replied her father.
"I could do without a governess," suggested Honor hopefully. "I'd set
myself my own lessons, and learn them too. Oh, Daddy, darling, if we
gave up Miss Bury, wouldn't you have money enough to buy Firefly?"
Major Fitzgerald laughed in spite of himself.
"I consider Miss Bury a necessity, and not a luxury," he replied. "A
governess is the very last person we could dispense with. I should like
to see you setting your own lessons! Remarkably short and easy ones
they would be! No, little woman, I'm afraid Firefly is an
impossibility, and you must just try to forget his existence."
Unfortunately, that was exactly what Honor could not do. She thought
continually about the beautiful black cob, and the more she dwelt on
her disappointment the more keenly she felt it. She considered, most
unreasonably, that her governess was the alternative of the pony, and
that if she were without the one she might possibly acquire the other.
Her behaviour had never been exemplary, but on the strength of this
grievance she grew so unruly, so disrespectful, and so absolutely
unmanageable that Miss Bury at length refused to teach her any longer,
and, after an interview with Major Fitzgerald in the library, packed
her boxes and returned home to England.
Honor viewed her exodus with keen delight. It seemed the removal of an
obstacle to her plan. She went in to luncheon determined to broach once
more the subject of Firefly, hoping this time to meet with better
success. She saw at once, however, from her father's face, that he was
not in a suitable mood to grant her any favour. He was much annoyed at
the governess's departure, for which he had the justice to blame Honor
alone; and he was worried with business matters.
"That tiresome agent has not sent the telegram I expected," he
announced. "I shall be obliged to go over to Cork, to consult my
solicitor. Tell Murphy to have the trap ready by two o'clock, and let
Holmes pack my bag. I shall probably be away until Friday evening."
As soon as her father had started for the station, Honor sauntered out
in the direction of the stables. It was one of her mother's bad days.
Mrs. Fitzgerald was confined to her room, therefore Honor, released
from Miss Bury's authority, felt herself her own mistress. Finding
Fergus, the groom, she ordered him to saddle Pixie, and make ready to
accompany her on a ride. Fergus was devoted to "Miss Honor", and would
never have dreamt of disputing any command she might give him; before
three o'clock, therefore, her pony was at the door, and, dressed in her
neat blue habit, she was ambling away in the direction of Ballycroghan.
It was a leisurely progress, for poor Pixie's gait was slow, in spite
of his best endeavours, and Honor loved him too well to urge him hard.
She was determined to call at the horse-dealer's, and to ascertain if
Firefly were still for sale. Perhaps, when her father returned home,
she might catch him at a favourable moment, and be able to cajole him
into changing his mind and buying the cob. Mr. O'Connor, the
horse-dealer, lived at a large farm on the way to the town, and, to
Honor's intense delight, the first object that met her eyes on
approaching the house was Firefly, feeding demurely in a paddock to the
left of the road. By an equally lucky chance Mr. O'Connor happened to
be at home, and came hurrying out at once when he saw "one of the
quality", as he expressed it, drawing bridle at his door.
"Good afternoon! I see you still have the black cob," began Honor
eagerly.
"Yes, missy," replied the horse-dealer, "and I was thinking of sending
a message to your father about him this very day. It's the good fortune
to see you here! I've had a man over from Limerick who's anxious to
take him--a tradesman who'd run him in a light cart--but I didn't close
the bargain at once. I said to my wife: 'Firefly is too good a breed to
carry out groceries. I'd rather be for selling him to the Castle. Miss
Fitzgerald took the fancy for him, and I'll not be parting with him
till I've had word again from the Major.' Maybe his honour will be
wanting him, after all? But sure I must know at once, for the Limerick
man will be here at noon to-morrow, and I've promised to tell him one
way or another."
"Could you possibly wait until Saturday?" asked Honor.
The dealer shook his head.
"I can't afford to miss a sale," he replied. "I've had the cob on my
hands for some time; it's just eating its head off, and it's anxious I
am to get rid of it."
Honor was in a fever of excitement. Firefly, so spirited and so
aristocratic, whose delicately shaped limbs looked only fit for leaping
brooks, or cantering over the short grass on the uplands, to be sold to
a tradesman, and to run between the shafts of a cart that delivered
groceries! It seemed a degradation and an outrage. She could not dream
of allowing it; she must save him at any cost from such a fate.
"Must you absolutely have an answer to-day?" she asked.
"Yes, missy. I fear I couldn't put off Sullivan any longer than noon
to-morrow. He's a touchy man, and ready to carry his business
elsewhere."
"Very well, then, that settles the matter. We will take the cob. You
may send him over to the Castle this evening."
[Illustration: HONOR CONCLUDES THE PURCHASE OF FIREFLY]
Honor spoke in such a high-handed manner that the dealer never guessed
she was acting on her own authority. As she had made a special visit to
the farm, accompanied by her groom, he imagined she must have been
entrusted by Major Fitzgerald with full powers to buy the pony if she
wished.
"Many thanks to you, missy! It's the fine mistress you'll make for
Firefly. My respects to his honour, and the price shall be the same as
I was asking him before."
The price! Honor had quite forgotten that. Weighed against Firefly's
possible future, it had seemed an unimportant detail. She remembered
now, however, that her father had considered it extravagant, and
declared he could not afford it. The thought was sufficient to check
her joy suddenly, and to send her home in a sober frame of mind that
was well justified by the sequel.
Major Fitzgerald's wrath, when he arrived on the Friday and found the
black cob installed in the stable, was more serious than his daughter
had ever experienced before.
"It was a piece of unwarranted presumption!" he declared. "I shall not
allow you to keep the pony. It must be sent back to O'Connor's, and
resold at the first opportunity. As for you, the sooner you are packed
off to school the better. We have indulged you too much at home, and it
is time indeed that you learnt to submit to some kind of discipline."
The proposal to send her away to school was a terrible blow to Honor.
At first she appealed to her mother, begging her to plead with her
father and try to persuade him to alter his resolution. But Mrs.
Fitzgerald, while regretting to part with her troublesome daughter, was
so convinced of the wisdom of the proceeding that, instead of
interceding, she applauded her husband's decision.
"I can't ever like England!" sobbed Honor. "I'd rather have our
mountains and lakes and bogs than all the grand streets and houses. I'm
Irish to the core, and I don't believe any school over the water can
change me. There's no place in the world like Kilmore. I love even the
cabins, and the peat fires, and the pigs, and the potatoes! I shan't
forget a single stick or stone of it, and I shall never know a moment's
happiness till I'm home again."
After considerable hesitation, and the examination of a large number of
prospectuses, Major and Mrs. Fitzgerald had determined to send Honor to
Chessington College. It had a wide and well-deserved reputation, and
Miss Cavendish, the principal, was understood to give much individual
attention to the characters and dispositions of her pupils. Added to
this, it was situated within a few miles of the Naval Preparatory
School where Dermot, Honor's younger brother, had been for the last two
years; so that they knew from experience that the neighbourhood was
bracing and healthy.
"It's a comfort, at any rate, that I shall be near Dermot," said Honor,
as she sat watching while her mother superintended the maid who was
packing her boxes.
"I'm afraid you won't see much of him, dear, during term-time," replied
Mrs. Fitzgerald. "He will not be able to visit you, I'm sure; neither
will Miss Cavendish allow you to go out with him."
"Why not?" demanded Honor.
"Because it would be against the rules."
"Then the rules are absurd, and I shan't keep them."
"Honor! Honor! Don't speak like that! You have run wild here, but at
Chessington College you will be obliged to fall in with the ordinary
regulations."
"They'll have hard work to tame me, Mother!" laughed Honor, jumping up
and dancing a little impromptu jig between the boxes. "I don't want to
go, but since I must, I mean to get any enjoyment I can out of it.
After all, perhaps it may be rather fun. It's deadly dull here
sometimes, when the boys are at school, and Father is busy or away."
Mrs. Fitzgerald sighed. In her delicate health she could scarcely
expect to be a companion for Honor, yet when she thought of how few
years might be left them together, the parting seemed bitter, and she
was hurt that her only daughter would evidently miss her so little.
Young folks often say cruel things from mere thoughtlessness, and
unintentionally grieve those who love them. In after years Honor would
keenly regret her tactless speech, and blame herself that she had not
spent more hours in trying to be a comfort, instead of a care; but for
the present, though she noticed the look of disappointment that passed
over the sensitive face, she did not fully realize its cause, and the
words that might have healed the wound went unspoken.
At length the preparations were concluded, and the time had almost
arrived to bid farewell to Kilmore Castle and the surrounding demesne.
Honor's friends in the village mourned her approaching departure with
characteristic Irish grief.
"Miss Honor, darlint, it's meself that will be hungerin' for a sight of
yez!" cried old Mary O'Grady, standing at the doorway of her thatched
cabin, from which the blue peat smoke issued like a thin mist.
"And it's grand news entoirely they'll be afther tellin' me too, that
ye're lavin' the Castle, and goin' over the seas!" put in Biddy
Macarthy, a next-door neighbour of Mary's. "It's fine to think of all
the iligant things ye'll be seein' now!"
"Bless your bright eyes, it's many a sad heart ye'll lave behind yez!"
added Pat Conolly, the oldest tenant on the estate.
"England can never compare with dear Ireland, in my opinion," replied
Honor, with a choke in her voice. "There's no spot so sweet as Kilmore,
and all the while I'm away I shall be wishing myself back in the 'ould
counthree'!"
"Will ye be despisin' this bit of a present, Miss Honor?" said old
Mary, producing a cardboard box, from which, out of many folds of
tissue paper, she proudly displayed a large bunch of imitation
four-leaved shamrock. "My grandson Micky brought it for me all the way
from Dublin city, and I've kept it fine and new in its papers. Sure, I
know it's not worthy of offerin' to a young lady like yourself, but
I'll take it kindly if ye'll deign to accept it."
"Of course I'll accept it!" returned Honor heartily. "It's very kind of
you to give it to me. It shall go to school with me, as a remembrance
of Ireland, and of you all."
"The four-leaved shamrock brings good luck to its wearer, mavourneen;
may it bring it to you! And whenever ye look at the little green
leaves, give a thought to the true hearts that will be ay wishin' ye a
speedy return."
The last day came all too soon, and Mrs. Fitzgerald, with tears in her
eyes, stood at her window, watching the disappearing carriage in which
Honor sat by her father's side, waving an energetic good-bye.
"Surely," she said to herself, "school will have the influence that we
expect! The general atmosphere of law and order, the well-arranged
rules, the esprit de corps and strict discipline of the games, all
cannot fail to have their effect; and among so large a number of
companions, and in the midst of so many new and absorbing interests, my
wild bird will find her wings clipped, and will settle down sensibly
and peaceably among the others."