THE DIAMOND CROSS.
But although Mrs. O'Shanaghgan spoke of her daughter to herself as
deceitful, she did not at all give up the idea of her accepting her
uncle's invitation. George Hartrick had always had an immense influence
over his sister Ellen. He and she had been great friends long ago, when
the handsome, bright girl had been glad to take the advice of her elder
brother. They had almost quarreled at that brief period of madness in
Ellen Hartrick's life, when she had fallen in love with handsome Squire
O'Shanaghgan; but that quarrel had long been made up. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan
had married the owner of O'Shanaghgan Castle, and had rued her brief
madness ever since. But her pride had prevented her complaining to her
brother George. George still imagined that she kept her passionate love
intact for the wild Irishman. Only one thing she had managed ever since
their parting, many years ago, and that was, that her English brother
should not come to see her in her Irish home. One excuse after the other
she had offered, and at last she had told him frankly that the ways of
the Irish were not his ways; and that, when he really wanted to see his
sister, he must invite her to come to England to visit him.
Hartrick was hurt at Ellen's behavior, and as he himself had married
about the same time, and his own young family were growing up around
him, and the making of money and the toil of riches were claiming him
more and more, he did not often think of the sister who was away in the
wilds of Ireland. She had married one of the proud old Irish chiefs.
She had a very good position in her way; and when her son and daughter
required a little peep into the world, Hartrick resolved that they
should have it. He had invited Terence over; and now Nora's letter, with
its perplexity, its anguish, its bold request, and its final tenderness,
had come upon him with a shock of surprise.
George Hartrick was a much stronger character than his sister. He was a
very fine man, indeed, with splendid principles and downright ways; and
there was something about this outspoken and queer letter which touched
him in spite of himself. He was not easily touched; but he respected the
writer of that letter. He felt that if he knew her he could get on with
her. He resolved to treat her confidence with the respect it seemed
to him it deserved; and, without hesitation, he wrote her the sort of
letter she had asked him to write. She should pay him a visit, and
he would find out for himself the true state of things at Castle
O'Shanaghgan. Whether he would help the Squire or not, whether there was
any need to help him, he could not say, for Nora had not really revealed
much of the truth in her passionate letter. She had hinted at it, but
she had not spoken; she would wait for that moment of outpouring of her
heart until she arrived at The Laurels.
Now, Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, standing alone in her big, empty drawing room,
and looking out at the summer landscape, thought of how Nora might enter
her brother's house. Fond as Mrs. O'Shanaghgan was of Terence--he was in
truth a son after her own heart--she had a queer kind of pride about her
with regard to Nora. Wild and untutored as Nora looked, her mother knew
that few girls in England could hold a candle to her, if justice were
done her. There was something about the expression in Nora's eyes which
even Mrs. O'Shanaghgan could scarcely resist at times, and there were
tones and inflections of entreaty in Nora's voice which had a strange
power of melting the hearts of those who listened to her.
After about an hour Mrs. O'Shanaghgan went very slowly upstairs. Her
bedroom was over the drawing room. It was just as large as the drawing
room--a great bare apartment. The carpet which covered the floor was
so threadbare that the boards showed through in places; the old, faded
chintz curtains which hung at the windows were also in tatters; but they
were perfectly clean, for Mrs. O'Shanaghgan did her best to retain that
English cleanliness and order which she felt were so needed in the land
of desolation, as she was pleased to call Ireland.
A huge four-post bedstead occupied a prominent place against one of the
walls; there was an enormous mahogany wardrobe against another; but the
whole center of the room was bare. The dressing-table, however,
which stood right in the center of the huge bay, was full of pretty
things--silver appointments of different kinds, brushes and combs
heavily mounted in silver, glass bottles with silver stoppers, perfume
bottles, pretty knick-knacks of all sorts. When Nora was a little child
she used to stand fascinated, gazing at her mother's dressing-table. It
was the one spot where any of the richness of the Englishwoman's early
life could still be found. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan went up now and looked at
her dressing-table, sweeping her eyes rapidly over its contents.
The brushes and combs, the bottles of scent, the button-hooks, the
shoe-horns, the thousand-and-one little nothings, polished and bright,
stood upon the dressing-table; and besides these there was a large,
silver-mounted jewel-case.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan was not at all afraid to leave this jewel-case out,
exposed to view day after day, for no one all round the place would have
touched so much as a pin which belonged to the Squire's lady. The people
were poor, and would think nothing of stealing half a bag of potatoes,
or helping themselves to a good sack of fruit out of the orchard; but
to take the things from the lady's bedroom or anything at all out of
the house they would have scorned. They had their own honesty, and they
loved the Squire too much to attempt anything of the sort.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan now put a key into the lock of the jewel-case and
opened it. When first she was married it was full of pretty things--long
strings of pearls, a necklet of very valuable diamonds, a tiara of the
same, rings innumerable, bracelets, head ornaments of different kinds,
buckles for shoes, clasps for belts, pins, brooches. Mrs. O'Shanaghan,
when Nora was a tiny child, used on every one of the little girl's
birthdays to allow her to overhaul the jewel case; but of late years
Nora had never looked inside it, and Mrs. O'Shanaghgan had religiously
kept it locked. She opened it now with a sigh. The upper tray was quite
empty; the diamonds had long ago been disposed of. They had gone to
pay for Terence's schooling, for Terence's clothes, for one thing and
another that required money. They had gone, oh! so quickly; had melted
away so certainly. That first visit of her son's to England had cost
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan her long string of pearls, which had come to her as an
heirloom from her mother before her. They were very valuable pearls,
and she had sold them for a tenth, a twentieth part of their value. The
jeweler in Dublin, who was quite accustomed to receiving the poor lady's
trinkets, had sent her a check for fifty pounds for the pearls, knowing
well that he could sell them himself for at least three hundred pounds.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan now once more rifled the jewel case. There were some
things still left--two or three rings and a diamond cross. She had never
wanted to part with that cross. She had pictured over and over how
it would shine on Nora's white neck; how lovely Nora would look when
dressed for her first ball, having that white Irish cross, with its
diamonds and its single emerald in the center, shining on her breast.
But would it not be better to give Nora the chance of spending three
or four months in England, the chance of educating herself, and let the
cross go by? It was so valuable that the good lady quite thought that
she ought to get seventy pounds for it. With seventy pounds she could
fit Nora up for her English visit, and have a little over to keep in
her own pocket. Only Nora must not go next Tuesday; that was quite
impossible.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan quickly determined to make the sacrifice. She could
still supply Nora with a little, very simple pearl necklet, to wear with
her white dress during her visit; and the cross would have to go. There
would be a few rings still left; after that the jewel case would be
empty.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan packed the precious cross into a little box, and took
it out herself to register it, and to send it off to the jeweler who
always bought the trinkets she sent him. She told him that she expected
him to give her, without the smallest demur, seventy pounds for the
cross, and hoped to have the money by the next day's post.
Having done this and dispatched her letter, she walked briskly back to
the Castle. She saw Nora wandering about in the avenue. Nora, hatless
and gloveless, was playing with the dogs. She seemed to have forgotten
all about her keen disappointment of the morning. When she saw her
mother coming up the avenue she ran to meet her.
“Why, mammy,” she said, “how early you are out! Where have you been?”
“I dislike extremely that habit you have, Nora, of calling me mammy;
mother is the word you should address your parent with. Please remember
in future that I wish to be called mother.”
“Oh, yes, mother!” answered Nora. The girl had the sweetest temper in
the world, and no amount of reproof ever caused her to answer angrily.
“But where have you been?” she said, her curiosity getting the better of
her prudence.
“Again, Nora, I am sorry to say I must reprove you. I have been to the
village on business of my own. It is scarcely your affair where I choose
to walk in the morning.”
“Oh, of course not, mam--I mean mother.”
“But come with me down this walk. I have something to say to you.”
Nora eagerly complied. There was something in the look of her mother's
eyes which made her guess that the usual subject of conversation--her
own want of deportment, her ignorance of etiquette--was not to be the
theme. She felt her heart, which had sunk like lead within her, rise
again to the surface. Her eyes sparkled and smiles played round her rosy
lips.
“Yes, mother,” she said; “yes.”
“All impulse,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan--she laid her hand on Nora's
arm--“all impulse, all Irish enthusiasm.”
“I cannot help it, you know,” said Nora. “I was born that way. I am
Irish, you know, mammy.”
“You are also English, my dear,” replied her mother. “Pray remember that
fact when you see your cousins.”
“My cousins! My English cousins! But am I to see them? Mother, mother,
do you mean it?”
“I do mean it, Nora. I intend you to accept your uncle's invitation.
No heroics, please,” as the girl was about to fling her arms round her
mother's neck; “keep those for your father, Nora; I do not wish for
them. I intend you to go and behave properly; pray remember that when
you give way to pure Irishism, as I may express your most peculiar
manners, you disgrace me, your mother. I mean you to go in order to have
you tamed a little. You are absolutely untamed now, unbroken in.”
“I never want to be broken in,” whispered Nora, tears of mingled
excitement and pain at her mother's words brimming to her eyes. “Oh,
mother!” she said, with a sudden wail, “will you never, never understand
Nora?”
“I understand her quite well,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, her voice
assuming an unwonted note of softness; “and because I do understand Nora
so well,” she added--and now she patted the girl's slender arm--“I want
her to have this great advantage, for there is much that is good in you,
Nora. But you are undisciplined, my dear; wild, unkempt. Little did I
think in the old days that a daughter of mine should have to have
such things said to her. Our more stately, more sober ways will be
a revelation to you, Nora. To your brother Terence they will come as
second nature; but you, my dear, will have to be warned beforehand.
I warn you now that your Uncle George will not understand the wild
excitement which you seem to consider the height of good breeding at
O'Shanaghgan.”
“Mother, mother,” said Nora, “don't say anything against O'Shanaghgan.”
“Am I doing so?” said the poor lady. She stood for a moment and looked
around her. Nora stopped also and when she saw her mother's eyes travel
to the rambling old house, to the neglected lawn, the avenue overgrown
with weeds, it seemed to her that a stab of the cruelest pain was
penetrating her heart.
“Mother sees all the ugliness; she is determined to,” thought Nora; “but
I see all the beauty. Oh! the dear, dear old place, it shan't go if Nora
can save it.” Then, with a great effort, she controlled herself.
“How am I to go?” she said. “Where is the money to come from?”
“You need not question me on that point,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. “I
will provide the means.”
“Oh, mother!” said Nora; “no, I would rather stay.” But then she
remembered all that this involved; she knew quite well that her mother
had rifled the jewel-case; but as she had done so over and over again
just for Terence's mere pleasure, might she not do so once more to save
the old place?
“Very well,” she said demurely; “I won't ask any questions.”
“You had better not, for I have not the slightest idea of replying to
them,” answered Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. “I shall write to your uncle to-day.
You cannot go next week, however.”
“Oh! why not? He said Tuesday; he would meet me at Holyhead on Tuesday.”
“I will try and provide a fit escort for you to England; But you cannot
go next Tuesday; your wardrobe forbids it,” answered Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.
“My wardrobe! Oh, mother, I really need not bother about clothes!”
“You may not bother about them, Nora; but I intend to,” replied Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan. “I must buy you some suitable dress.”
“But how will you do it?”
“I have not been away from Castle O'Shanaghgan for a long time,” said
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, “and it will be a nice change for me. I shall take
you to Dublin, and get you what things are necessary. I will then see
you off on board the steamer.”
“But would not father be best?”
“Your father can come with us or not, just as he pleases; but I am the
person who will see to your wardrobe for your English visit,” replied
her mother.
Nora, excited, bewildered, charmed, had little or nothing to oppose
to this plan. After all, her mother was coming out in a new light. How
indifferent she had been about Nora's dress in the past! For Terence
were the fashionable coats and the immaculate neckties and the nice
gloves and the patent-leather boots. For Nora! Now and then an old dress
of her mother's was cut down to fit the girl; but as a rule she wore
anything she could lay hands on, made anyhow. It is true she was never
grotesque like Biddy Murphy; but up to the present dress had scarcely
entered at all as a factor into her life.
The next few days passed in a whirl of bewildered excitement. Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan received, as she expected, by return of post, seventy
pounds from the Dublin jeweler for her lovely diamond cross. This man
was rapidly making his fortune out of poor Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, and he
knew that he had secured a splendid bargain for himself when he bought
the cross.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, therefore, with a full purse, could give directions
to her household during her brief absence, and altogether was much
brightened and excited at the thought of Nora's visit. She had written
herself to her brother, saying that she would be very glad to spare her
daughter, and giving him one or two hints with regard to Nora's manners
and bringing up.
“The Irish have quite different ideas, my dear brother,” she wrote,
“with regard to etiquette to those which were instilled into us; but you
will bear patiently with my little wild Irish girl, for she has a very
true heart, and is also, I think you will admit, nice-looking.”
Mr. Hartrick, who read between the lines of his sister's letter, wrote
to say that business would bring him to Holyhead on the following
Tuesday week also, and, therefore, it would be quite convenient for him
to meet Nora on that day.
The evening before she was to depart arrived at last. The Squire had
spent a busy day. From the moment when Nora had told him that her mother
had provided funds, and that she was to go to England, he had scarcely
reverted to the matter. In truth, with that curious Irish phase in his
character which is more or less the inheritance of every member of his
country, he contrived to put away the disagreeable subject even from his
thoughts. He was busy, very busy, attending to his farm and riding round
his establishment. He was still hoping against hope that some money
would come in his way long before the three months were up, when the
mortgagee would foreclose on his property. He was not at all unhappy,
and used to enter his house singing lustily or whistling loudly. Nora
sometimes wondered if he also forgot how soon she was going to leave
him. His first call when he entered the house had always been “Light
o' the Morning, where are you? Come here, asthore; the old dad has
returned,” or some such expression. It came to the excited girl's heart
with a pang how he would miss her when she was no longer there; how he
would call for her in vain, and feel bewildered for a moment, and then
remember that she was far away.
“But I shan't be long away,” she thought; “and when I come back and
save him and the old place, oh, how glad he will be! He will indeed then
think me his Light o' the Morning, for I shall have saved him and the
old home.”
But the last evening came, and Nora considered whether she ought to
recall the fact that she was going away, perhaps for a couple of months,
to her father. He came in as usual, sat down heavily on the nearest
settee, and stretched out his long legs.
“I wonder if I am getting old?” he said. “I declare I feel a bit tired.
Come along here, Nora, and cheer me up. What news have you this evening,
little woman?”
“Oh, father! don't you know?”
“Well, your eyes look bright enough. What is it, girleen?”
“I am going away to Dublin to-morrow.”
“You? Bless you! so you are,” said the Squire, with a hearty laugh.
“Upon my soul I forgot all about it. Well, and you are going to have a
good time, and you'll forget the old dad--eh?--you'll forget all about
the old dad?”
“Father, father, you know better,” said Nora--she flung her arms round
his neck and laid her soft cheek against his--“as if I could ever forget
you for a single moment,” she said.
“I know it, a-colleen; I know it, heart's asthore. Of course you won't.
I am right glad you are going; it will be a nice change for you. And
what about the bits of duds--eh?--and the pretty trinkets? Why, you'll
be going into grand society; you'll be holding your little head like a
queen. Don't you forget, my pet, that you're Irish through and through,
and that you come of a long line of brave ancestors. The women of your
house never stooped to a shabby action, Nora; and never one of them
sacrificed her honor for gold or anything else; and the men were brave,
girleen, very brave, and had never fear in one of them. You remember
that, and keep yourself upright and brave and proud, and come back to
the old dad with as pure and loving a heart as you have now.”
“Oh, father, of course, of course. But you will miss me? you will miss
me?”
“Bedad! I expect I shall,” said the Squire; “but I am not going to fret,
so don't you imagine it.”
“Have you,” said Nora in a low whisper--“have you done anything
about-about the mortgage?”
“Oh, you be aisy,” said the Squire, giving her a playful poke; “and if
you can't be aisy, be as aisy as you can,” he continued, referring to
the old well-known saying. “Things will come right enough. Why, the
matter is weeks off yet. It was only yesterday I heard from an old
friend, Larry M'Dermott, who has been in Australia, and has made a fine
pile. He is back again, and I am thinking of seeing him and settling
up matters with him. Don't you have an uneasy thought in your head, my
child. I'll write to you when the thing is fixed up, as fixed it will
be by all that's likely in a week or fortnight from now. But look here,
Norrie, you'll want something to keep in your pocket when you are away.
I had best give you a five-pound note.”
“No, no,” said Nora. “I wouldn't touch it; I don't want it.”
“Why not? Is it too proud you are?”
“No; mother is helping me to this visit. I don't know how she has got
money. I suppose in the old way.”
“Poor soul!” said the Squire. “To tell you the truth, Norrie, I can't
bear to look at that jewel-case of hers. I believe, upon my word, that
it is nearly empty. She is very generous, is your mother. She's a very
fine woman, and I am desperate proud of her. When M'Dermott helps me to
tide over this pinch I'll have all those jewels back again by hook or by
crook. Your mother shan't suffer in the long run, and I'll do a lot to
the old place--the old house wants papering and painting. We'll dance a
merry jig at O'Shanaghgan at your wedding, my little girl; and now don't
keep me, for I have got to go out to meet Murphy. He said he would look
around about this hour.”
Nora left her father, and wandered out into the soft summer gloaming.
She went down the avenue, and leaned for a time over the gate. The white
gate was sadly in need of paint, but it was not hanging off its hinges
as the gate was which led to the estate of Cronane. Nora put her feet on
the last rung, leaned her arms on the top one, and swayed softly, as
she thought of all that was about to happen, and the glorious adventures
which would in all probability be hers during the next few weeks. As she
thought, and forgot herself in dreams of the future, a low voice calling
her name caused her to start. A man with shaggy hair and wild, bright
eyes had come up to the other side of the gate.
“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 nobody 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 nobody would be any the
wiser, and I'd think no more of it than I'd think of crushing 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, pushing up his ragged shirt 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 nobody. 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.