THE MURPHYS.
It was between two and three in the morning when the girls found
themselves back again in the desolate mansion of Cronane. Biddy had left
a window open; they had easily got in by it and gone up to Biddy's big
room on the first floor. They were to sleep together in Biddy's small
bed. Personally, discomforts did not affect them; they had never been
accustomed to luxury, and rather liked the sense of hardship than
otherwise.
“I brought up a bit of supper beforehand,” said Biddy. “I am real
hungry. What do you say to cold bacon and taters--eh? I went down to the
larder and got a good few early this morning. I put them in the cupboard
in a brown bowl with a plate over it. You're hungry--aren't you,
Norrie?”
“No, not very,” answered Nora.
“What's come to you, you're so quiet? You have lost all your spirit. I
thought we would have a real rollicking time over our supper, laughing
and talking, and telling our adventures. Oh! it was awful in that cave;
and when you were away talking to the lady Banshee I did have a time of
it. I thought that awful Andy was going to murder me. I had a sort of
feeling that he was getting closer and closer, and I clutched hold
of little Mike. I think he was a bit surprised; I'll give him a penny
to-morrow, poor gossoon. But aren't you hungry, and won't you laugh, and
shan't we have a jolly spree?”
“Oh, I shall be very glad to eat something,” said Nora; “and I am a
little cold, too. I took a chill standing so long in that icy water.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear! it's the rheumatics you'll be getting, and then
you'll lose your beautiful straight figure. I must rub your legs. There,
sit on the bed and I'll begin.”
Nora submitted to Biddy's ministrations. The room was lit by a small dip
candle, which was placed in an old tin candlestick on the mantelpiece.
“Dear, dear! the light will be coming in no time, and we can quench the
glim then,” said Biddy. “I've got to be careful about candles. We're
precious short of everything at Cronane just now. We're as poor as
church mice; it's horrid to be so desperately poor as that. But, hurrah
for the cold taters and bacon! We'll have a right good meal. That will
warm you up; and I have a little potheen in a black bottle, too. I'll
put some water to it and you shall have a drink.”
“I never touch it,” said Nora, shuddering.
“But you must tonight, or you'll catch your death of cold. There, the
best thing you can do is to get right into bed. Why, you're shivering,
and your teeth are chattering. It's a fine state Mrs. O'Shanaghgan will
be in tomorrow when you go back to her.”
“I must not get ill, Biddy; that would never do,” said Nora, pulling
herself together with an effort. “Yes, I'll get into bed; and I'll take
a little of your potheen--very, very weak, if you'll mix it for me--and
I'll have some of the bacon and potatoes. Oh! I would eat anything
rather than be ill. I never was really ill in my life; but now, of all
times, it would never do.”
“Well, then, here you go. Tumble into bed. I'll pile the blankets on
you. Now, isn't that better?”
Biddy bustled, intent on hospitality. She propped Nora up with pillows,
pulled a great rug over her shoulders, and heaped on more and more
blankets, which she pulled expeditiously from under the bed. “They
always stay here in the summer,” said Biddy. “That's to keep them aired;
and now they're coming in very handy. You have got four doubled on you
now; that makes eight. I should think you'd soon be warm enough.”
“I expect I shall soon be too hot,” said Nora; “but this is very nice.”
She sipped the potheen, ate a little bacon and cold potatoes, and
presently declared herself well again.
“Oh, I am perfectly all right!” she said; “it was coming home in the
boat in my wet things. I wish I had taken a pair of sculls again; then I
wouldn't even have been cold.”
“Now you'll tell me,” said Biddy, who sat on the edge of the bed
munching great chunks of bacon and eating her cold potatoes with extreme
relish. “Oh! it's hungry I am; but I want to hear all about the lady
Banshee. Did she come? Did you see her, Nora?”
“No, she didn't come,” said Nora very shortly.
“Didn't come? But they say she never fails when the moon is at the full.
She rises up out of that pool--the bottomless pool it is called--and she
floats over the water and waves her hand. It's awful to see her if you
don't belong to her; but to those who belong to her she is tender and
sweet, like a mother, they say; and her breath is like honey, and her
kiss the sweetest you ever got in all your life. You mean to say you
didn't see her? Why, Nora, what has come to you? You're trembling
again.”
“I cannot tell you, Biddy; don't ask me any more. I didn't see the
Banshee. It was very, very cold standing up to my knees in the water.
I suppose I did wrong to go; but that's done and over now. Oh, I am so
tired and sleepy! Do get into bed, Biddy, and let us have what little
rest we can.”
Early the next morning Nora returned to O'Shanaghgan. All trace of ill
effects had vanished under Biddy's prompt treatment. She had lain under
her eight blankets until she found them intolerable, had then tossed
most of them off, and fallen into deep slumber. In the morning she
looked much as usual; but no entreaties on the part of Biddy, joined in
very heartily by Squire Murphy and also by Mrs. Murphy, could induce her
to prolong her visit.
“It's a message I'll take over myself to your father if you'll but stay,
Nora,” said the Squire.
“No, no; I must really go home,” answered Nora.
“It's too fine you are for us, Nora, and that's the truth; and don't go
for to be denying it,” said Mrs. Murphy.
“No; I hope I may never be too fine for my real friends,” said Nora a
little sadly. “I must go back. I believe I am wanted at home.”
“You're a very conceited colleen; there's no girl that can't be spared
from home sometimes,” said Mrs. Murphy. “I thought you would help Biddy
and me to pick black currants. There are quarts and quarts of 'em in
the garden, and the maids can't do it by themselves, poor things. Well,
Biddy, you have got to help me today.”
“Oh, mammy, I just can't,” answered Biddy. “I'm due down at the shore,
and I want to go a bit of the way back with Nora. You can't expect me to
help you today, mammy.”
“There she is, Nora--there she is!” exclaimed the good lady, her face
growing red and her eyes flashing fire; “not a bit of good, not worth
her keep, I tell her. Why shouldn't she stay at home and help her
mother? Do you hear me, Squire Murphy? Give your orders to the girl;
tell her to stay at home and help her mother.”
“Ah, don't be bothering me,” said Squire Murphy. “It's out I'm going
now. I have enough on my own shoulders without attending to the
tittle-tattle of women.”
He rose from the table, and the next moment had left the room.
“Dear, dear! there are bad times ahead for poor Old Ireland,” said Mrs.
Murphy. “Children don't obey their parents; husbands don't respect their
wives; it's a queer state of the country. When I was young, and lived at
my own home in Tipperary, we had full and plenty. There was a bite and a
sup for every stranger who came to the door, and no one talked of
money, nor thought of it neither. The land yielded a good crop, and the
potatoes--oh, dear! oh, dear! that was before the famine. The famine
brought us a lot of bad luck, that it did.”
“But the potatoes have been much better the last few years, and this
year they say we're going to have a splendid crop,” said Nora. “But I
must go now, Mrs. Murphy. Thank you so much for asking me.”
“You're looking a bit pale; but you're a beautiful girl,” said the good
woman admiringly. “I'd give a lot if Biddy could change places with
you--that is, in appearance, I mean. She's not a credit to anybody,
with her bumpy forehead and her cocked nose, and her rude ways to her
mother.”
“Mammy, I really cannot help the way I am made,” said Biddy; “and as to
staying in this lovely day picking black currants and making jam, and
staining my fingers, it's not to be thought of. Come along out, Nora.
If you must be off back to O'Shanaghgan, I mean to claim the last few
moments of your stay here.”
The girls spent the morning together, and early in the afternoon Nora
returned to O'Shanaghgan. Terence met her as she was driving down the
avenue.
“How late you are!” he said; “and you have got great black shadows under
your eyes. You know, of course, that I have to catch the early train in
the morning?”
“To be sure I do, Terry; and it is for that very reason I have come back
so punctually. I want to pack your things my own self.”
“Ah, that's a good girl. You'll find most of them laid out on the bed.
Be sure you see that all my handkerchiefs are there--two dozen--and all
marked with my initials.”
“I never knew you had so many.”
“Yes; mother gave me a dozen at Christmas, and I have not used them yet.
I shall want every bit of decent clothing I possess for my visit to my
rich Uncle Hartrick.”
“How is mother, Terence?”
“Mother? Quite well, I suppose; she is fretting a bit at my going;
you'll have to comfort her. The place is very rough for her just now.”
“I don't see that it is any rougher than it has ever been,” said Nora a
little fiercely. “You're always running down the place, Terry.”
“Well, I can't help it. I hate to see things going to the dogs,” said
the young man. He turned on his heel, called a small fox-terrier, who
went by the name of Snap, to follow him, and went away in the direction
of the shore.
Nora whipped up her pony and drove on to the house. Here she was greeted
by her father. He was standing on the steps; and, coming down, he lifted
her bodily out of the dog-cart, strained her to his heart, and looked
full into her eyes.
“Ah, Light o' the Morning, I have missed you,” he said, and gave a great
sigh.
The girl nestled up close to him. She was trembling with excess of
feeling.
“And I have missed you,” she answered. “How is the mother?”
“I suppose she is all right, Nora; but there, upon my word, she does
vex me sometimes. Take the horse to the stables, and don't stand staring
there, Peter Jones.” The Squire said these latter words on account of
the fixed stare of a pair of bright black eyes like sloes in the head
of the little chap who had brought the trap for Nora. He whipped up the
pony, turned briskly round, and drove away.
“Come out for a bit with me round the grounds, Nora. It's vexed I am,
sometimes; I feel I cannot stand things. I wish my lady would not have
all those fine airs. But there, I have no right to talk against your
mother to you, child; and of course she is your mother, and I am
desperately proud of her. There never was her like for beauty and
stateliness; but sometimes she tries me.”
“Oh! I know, father; I know. But let's go round and look at the new calf
and the colt. We can spare an hour--can we not?”
“Yes; come along quick, Nora,” answered the Squire, all smiles and jokes
once more. “The mother doesn't know you have come back, and we can have
a pleasant hour to ourselves.”