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THE DAUGHTER OF A SOLDIER
A Colleen of South Ireland
by
MRS. L. T. MEADE
Author of "Oceana's Girlhood," "A Wild Irish Girl," "The Girls of Merton
College," "For Dear Dad," "Kitty O'donovan," "Peggy from
Kerry," "The Chesterton Girl Graduates," "The Girls of
King's Royal," "The Lady of Jerry Boy's Dreams,"
"A Plucky Girl," "The Queen of Joy," "A
Girl of High Adventure," "Jill,
the Irresistible," etc.
With Four Half-Tone Illustrations by Charles L. Wrenn
New York
Hurst & Company
Publishers
Copyright, 1915,
by
Hurst & Company
[Illustration: She was listening intently to the song of the
lark.--_Page 2._]
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. PERIWINKLES 1
II. EAVESDROPPING 14
III. KINGSALA BY THE SEA 33
IV. THE O'SHEE 48
V. THE MAJOR AND HIS CHILD 59
VI. COLONEL HERBERT TO THE RESCUE 70
VII. HAPPINESS 83
VIII. SUMMER WITH AN EAST WIND 95
IX. STEP-DAUGHTERS 109
X. AT TEMPLEMORE 117
XI. THE GRAND BLÜTHNER 122
XII. POPSY-DAD 134
XIII. FLY-AWAY 156
XIV. FELICITY 171
XV. MISS PINCHIN 183
XVI. THE POWER OF HATRED 192
XVII. THE HOME OF SILENCE 200
XVIII. THE PEAK OF DESOLATION WHERE GOD WAS 206
XIX. THE LOVE THAT PASSETH KNOWLEDGE 221
XX. A FAILURE 236
XXI. THE BRIGHT SIDE OF THE SCHOOL 249
XXII. THE WHITE ANGEL 262
XXIII. THE WOUNDED HAND AND ARM 278
XXIV. WHITE FLOWERS AND FORGIVENESS FOREVERMORE 289
XXV. FUZZY-WUZZY 303
XXVI. THE LESSON NOT YET LEARNED 314
XXVII. THE LEARNING OF LIFE'S LESSON 319
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
She was listening intently to the song of
the lark _Frontispiece_
She could ride by a sort of instinct. She was part
of her horse 85
She stretched out her arms and sang in her
glorious voice 204
"Stoop close to me.... You are Maureen and I
love you" 288
THE DAUGHTER OF A SOLDIER.
CHAPTER I.
PERIWINKLES.
It was a glorious midsummer day in the south of Ireland; it seemed as
though the birds wanted to sing their little hearts out. The trees
were in full leaf, and every flower bloomed with extra charm and extra
perfume. The old Rectory, situated in the well-known county of Cork,
was in a very lonely part. On one side it was five miles away from the
charming little town of Kingsala, and on the other quite ten miles from
the thriving and more mercantile town of Bradley. The Rectory stood
by itself, its thirty acres of grounds surrounding it. It had a back
avenue and a winding front avenue, but its special charm was its great
fruit garden. This was generally kept locked, for the Rector was most
particular with regard to his fruit. It had in addition a great lawn,
studded over with flower-beds filled mostly with roses. Just below this
lawn was an apiary full of bees. Then there were fields, cultivated
sometimes with grass for hay, sometimes with potatoes, sometimes again
with other vegetables; but beyond the lawn and the fields were great
pasture lands full of sheep, which formed a constant source of income
to the Rector, who was not too well off. His income from his living
was exactly one pound a day, but his wife, a haughty dame, with fiery
blue eyes and red hair, had large private means; therefore Templemore
was always kept in a certain kind of order. There were the necessary
number of gardeners; the old-fashioned and queer-looking house had a
great many servants, who did their work in the Irish fashion, which was
slovenly and untidy enough; but nevertheless, they always managed to
have a good dinner for "Herself," as they called Mrs. O'Brien, being
very much afraid, "so to spake, of the wummen's tongue." That tongue
could scathe them, and they did not want to be scathed.
On this summer day, when the story opens, Maureen lay flat on her back
and looked up, up, up, through the tall trees to the blue sky, which
peeped down through the branches at her. She was lying on a nest of
periwinkles, some white, some blue. There was clover within reach
also, and butterflies were flying here, there, and everywhere. Maureen
picked one or two periwinkles and watched the butterflies as they
flew from flower to flower. But she was not really interested either
in the butterflies or the flowers. She was listening intently to the
song of the lark, piercing, high, and clear, as he soared up from his
bed of earth to his heavenly home, until he looked a mere speck in
the ethereal distance. Close to her were the missel-thrush and the
blackbird, and the chirping, independent little Robin Redbreast, and a
few swallows darting here and there. Yes, they were all about her, they
were all around her, and they made this summer day the perfection of
bliss.
An Irish terrier, by name Larry, with his rough coat of golden, tawny
yellow, lay by her side. Now and then Maureen fondled him with her
useful little hand--that hand which was so seldom idle, and was only
idle now because she was a trifle anxious--only a trifle, but still,
she did not feel _quite_ herself, for undoubtedly things were happening
and she did not know what they were. She wanted to know, but could not
find out. She dreaded to ask, but she dreaded the reply still more.
Maureen was not exactly pretty, but she had what is called a lovable
face, and her uncle, the Reverend Patrick O'Brien, loved her quite as
much as he did his only daughter Kitty, aged six years, and his brave
young son Dominic, a boy who, according to the well-known Irish saying,
could lure the birds out of the bushes by the love-light that always
seemed to shine out of his honest, deep-blue eyes--those truly Irish
eyes with their thick jet-black upward-curled lashes.
Then there was Denis, a dear little fellow, some years younger than
Dominic, but on the other hand some years older than Kitty, with her
sweet ways and angelic dimples and masses of bright golden hair.
Maureen was the only child of Major O'Brien, twin-brother of the
Reverend Patrick O'Brien. The gallant and noble Major had died of a
wound inflicted in battle. He died in rescuing a brother soldier, but
lived long enough to obtain the Victoria Cross and to put his only
child, a little girl of six years of age, into his brother's care.
Thus Maureen came to Templemore, and while her Aunt--Patrick O'Brien's
first wife--lived, she was a truly happy child. It was her nature to
be happy; but when she reached her eighth birthday the sweet woman who
alone ever stood in the place of a mother to the child passed on to a
happier home, and the Rector, who was so terribly broken down that he
did not recover quickly, was ordered abroad.
A woman, sharp and knowing, fell in love with the really fascinating
widower. She was determined to win him, and win him she did. He did not
even pretend to love her; but she so worked on his feelings that when
at the end of a year he returned to Templemore, Mrs. O'Brien Number Two
accompanied him. All too quickly he found her out--all too soon were
his life and the lives of his children and that other child--in many
ways the dearest of all--rendered miserable.
The second Mrs. O'Brien was a widow of the name of Mostyn when the
Rector married her. She was a rich woman, but in certain ways she
was stingy. She placed her two daughters at a very cheap school near
Dublin, and never allowed them to come home for the holidays. At last,
however, she knew that they would soon be old enough to return.
Being obliged to consult her husband on the subject, she spoke
cheerfully about the life her handsome young daughters would bring into
the old place. Some day, she declared, they would be rolling in wealth,
and they should have every advantage that money even now could bestow
upon them. A rough-looking youth called Larry should be their groom;
they should have a smart little pony-carriage of their own, and could
go into Kingsala as often as the fancy pleased them. Kingsala was a
garrison town, and the poor beautiful weans should have every chance of
marrying well and of enjoying themselves.
The Rector gave a heavy sigh.
"Yes, that will be excellent work," pursued Mrs. O'Brien. "I shall have
one of the best rooms in the house refurnished for my girls, and get
them a Parisian maid and give them every chance. We shall have company
here then, and Maureen can help in the house. She is a very plain
child, and, eating the bread of charity as she does, she must make
herself useful in some way. Kitty will by-and-by follow in her steps;
but my children will have a very different future. You seem sometimes
to forget that fact, Patrick."
But, alas, the Reverend Patrick O'Brien had never forgotten and never
could forget the terrible fact which had brought misery into his
hitherto happy home. He said nothing to his wife on this special
occasion--it was not his way to answer back; but a couple of days
afterwards, he ordered what was called the old phaeton and drove to the
nearest railway station, which went by the name of Farringallaway. He
took a ticket from there to the city of Cork. He had a little business
to do in the city, and in especial he had a very long talk with a
certain doctor--Dr. James Mulhalphy. The two had a long and anxious
conversation together, and the Rector returned home in the cool of the
evening with a strange weight at his heart. That heart of his was very
big and very loving, and the feeling he had was both of rejoicing and
fear, for although long ago he had insured his life and settled his own
little property on his children, Denis, Dominic, and Kitty, in those
days there was no Maureen in the house, and he had done nothing at
all for her. She was the only child of his twin-brother, who had died
leaving her in his care, but who was unable to give her even a penny.
Oh, how much the Rector loved that brother and how he adored the bonnie
bit thing! But what was to happen now to that bright darling, who kept
them all alive, who was never dull, never idle, never sulky; who never
thought of herself for a single moment?
On this special, most lovely day, Maureen happened to be a little tired
as well as anxious. She had been rushing about since early morning,
attending to Aunt Constance, helping the inferior servants, and doing
what she could for old Pegeen. She felt that she had earned her rest
under the trees. She had a very old and tattered book beside her.
It had been given to her by her uncle, and was called _Gulliver's
Travels_; it seemed to Maureen to be a most fascinating book, and when
she told her uncle how she delighted in it, he informed her that on the
occasion of her next birthday he would give her the _Arabian Nights_
as a present. That birthday was four months off, it was true, but what
mattered that when she had this priceless treasure to look forward to.
The summer at Templemore was ordinarily celebrated by a rich supply of
fruit and vegetables, milk, butter, and eggs. The Reverend Patrick was
a born gardener, and his strawberries were so fine that they scented
the air as you passed them. In addition to the strawberries there were
great gooseberries of every variety, raspberries as large as thimbles,
also a fruit, not very well known now, called sugar-pears, other pears
of every description, plums of every variety, apples innumerable, and
peaches--oh, such peaches! In short, the summer of the year brought
with it plenty and abundance. It resembled Joseph's fat kine, which
were closely followed by the lean kine in the long sad winter.
Well, this was the longest day of the year. Maureen on her next
birthday would be fourteen years of age. She had earned her rest under
the tall trees, for had she not picked the peas and shelled them, and
had she not gathered the strawberries and removed their stalks? And
had she not beaten up a great bowl of whipped cream to go with the said
strawberries?
By-and-by Dominic came whistling along. He was accompanied by Denis,
who had hoisted Kitty on his shoulder. Kitty was the baby of the
family. She was a blue-eyed, fair-haired little girl, decidedly pretty
and with a look at times--a look which came and went--of the Reverend
Patrick O'Brien on her sweet, funny, jolly sort of face.
"Hullo," suddenly cried Dominic. He stood still and stared at Maureen.
"Puss, whatever are you idling for?"
"I'm not idling--I'm resting."
"Resting? Whatever have you to be tired about?"
It seemed to Maureen at that moment that the sun went behind a cloud
and that the fear at her heart grew greater and more tremendous. It was
a large fear, and it pressed on her like a stone. She did not want to
lie still any longer.
"I was resting," she repeated, "and you'll all know why when
dinner-time comes along."
"I hope Pegeen will cook the dinner properly," said Denis. "There is
such a jolly row when she doesn't, and I do so hate old Step when she's
giving vent to her feelings."
"Dominic," suddenly exclaimed Maureen, "may I speak to you alone for a
few minutes?"
"To be sure you may, girleen. I must say you look jolly comfortable,
and it is such a fag racing after Denis and Kitty--that is my present
employment."
"Him is big dog," said Kitty; "Dommy makes a splendid big dog."
"Well, I'm going to be Maureen's big dog," said Dominic, "if she
wants me. You two go off and amuse yourselves. I'll stretch on the
periwinkles here close to Maureen."
Now it so happened that everyone in the house, more or less, obeyed
Dominic O'Brien, and before many minutes had passed he and Maureen
were seated side by side and were both looking up at the blue sky
through the mantle of green leaves which the trees threw across it.
Both were also listening to the songs of the happy birds. They were
silent for a short time, then Maureen whipped a dirty, very coarse
little handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped away some tears. She
was not the sort of child that ever cried. She had gone through a good
deal of hardship since her uncle's second marriage, but she had never
complained, and to all appearance seemed to enjoy being scolded, for
Mrs. O'Brien did scold her from morning till night, and when she was
alone with her invariably called her "Charity child, ha! ha!"
Dominic gazed in amazement now at her tears.
"Maureen, mavourneen, what is the matter?"
"It is only that I am _frightened_," whispered Maureen.
"Frightened--you? Whatever in the world about? I didn't think there was
a bogie or ghost at the back o' beyond could frighten _you_!"
"It isn't that," whispered Maureen. "Those kind of things--why, they
are nonsense. But it's about--about--oh, Dominic, hold my hand--it's
about Uncle Pat. Haven't you noticed, Dom, dear?"
Dominic, who had filled his mouth with clover, spat it out, looked full
at his cousin, and said, "I don't know what in the wide world you mean,
Maureen."
"I have felt it in my sleep," she said, "and I have seen it in his
dear eyes, and that day he went to Cork, don't you remember, Dom? How
white and sad he was when he came home, and--bend close, please--to-day
Dr. Haggarty called. Step-auntie followed him into the porch--she did
not know that I was arranging sweet peas in the drawing-room, and the
drawing-room door was wide open--and I heard her say quite distinctly,
'Bless us and save us, it won't be soon surely?' And he said--oh,
Dominic, hold my hand _very_ tight--'Madam, it may not be for years,
but, on the other hand, it may be to-day or to-morrow.' 'That's a nice
look-out for me,' said Step-auntie, and then she gave a sniff, not
at all a sorry sniff, but an angry sniff, and she went back into the
house. She even came into the drawing-room, and she saw me, but she
took no more notice of me than if I was dirt. I was glad of that, at
least. Dominic, did you never guess--did you never suspect--that your
own most precious father has not been of late what he used to be?"
"Can't say I noticed," said Dominic; "and if whatever is the matter
with him is years away, why should we fret, Maureen?"
"Oh, oh," Maureen began to sob.
Dominic was a most affectionate boy. He swept his strong arms now round
his little cousin's neck and kissed her many times.
"You think too much--you feel too much," he said. "Remember that half
their time doctors are wrong. That which old Haggarty says may never
happen."
Maureen's soft, velvety eyes looked him full in the face.
"Don't you know what he meant?" she asked.
"Can't say I do; but for my part I don't believe in people who say that
something--I suppose it is something ghastly--may happen years ahead."
"_Or_ to-day _or_ to-morrow," repeated Maureen. "Dominic, hold my hand
very, very tight. You're older than me a good bit, but I think my heart
is older than yours. I must explain to you. Whenever that comes which
the doctor means----"
"Yes," said the boy, turning a little pale.
"It means," continued Maureen, "death! No more Uncle Patrick walking
up and down the stairs, no more Uncle Patrick preaching his beautiful
sermons to us in the church, no more Uncle Patrick taking care of the
garden and the fruit and the vegetables. He'll have gone up like the
lark did a short time ago; he'll leave his little earthly nest and go
up, up, up!"
Dominic felt a great choking lump in his throat.
"I say," he exclaimed suddenly, "the Pater does preach a lot lately
about what he calls the City of Gold, and old 'Step'--she doesn't like
it. I heard her say to him a couple of Sundays back, 'Patrick, you are
frightfully morbid,' and he said, 'Do you call that morbid?' I did not
dare to ask 'Step,' for she got so red and stamped her foot and said,
'Really and truly, all my plans will be upset.' I say, Maureen, can't
you go and ask the Pater?"
"Oh, you are right enough," said Maureen; "whatever happens, you are
his own children; and his wife will look after her daughters. But oh,
Dominic, what's to become of me? There is only the world and it's
_cold_; and I know very little, for I haven't been taught much. There's
only the cold world for Maureen."
"There's nothing of the sort," cried Dominic. "I swear that I'll share
my very last crust with you, Maureen."
"Oh, but aren't you a darling," said the child.
She suddenly gave him some sloppy wet kisses on his freckled face, then
she said, "You make me feel brave. When shall I go and see Uncle Pat?
We may be frightening ourselves about nothing after all."
"Of course we may," said Dominic, who was a very cheerful sort of lad.
"I've got a grand plan. The 'Step' has driven to Kingsala to see a lot
of friends, and she put on her very, very best clothes, and a great
aigrette in her hat, which I thought wasn't right for her to wear, and
she was in blue with heaps of flowers fastened on her dress. I'll bring
father right out here. It's a perfect day, and I'll get his great thick
rug and some cushions, and he shall lie close to you, little mate,
and you can ask him anything in the wide world that you like. I don't
believe that story myself, not a bit, not a bit, but remember and never
forget that, if the worst comes, we, you and I, share our last crust
together."
Maureen made no answer for she could not. Dominic, feeling very stiff
and tall and determined, went as far as the study door. The Reverend
Patrick lived in his study; it was his room of rooms. The lad was just
about to go in when he heard voices, which surprised him and made his
stout young heart stand still. One voice was his father's, the other
his step-mother's.