TWO LETTERS.
“DEAR MOTHER [wrote Nora O'Shanaghgan later on that same morning]: I
arrived safely yesterday. Uncle George met me at Holyhead, and was very
kind indeed. I had a comfortable journey up to town, and Uncle George
saw that I wanted for nothing. When we got to London we drove across the
town to another station, called Waterloo, and took a train on here. A
carriage met us at the station with a pair of beautiful gray horses.
They were not as handsome as Black Bess, but they were very beautiful;
and we arrived here between eight and nine o'clock. This is just the
sort of place you would like, mother; such thick carpets on the stairs,
and such large, spacious, splendidly furnished rooms; and Aunt Grace
has meals to the minute; and they have lots and lots of servants; and my
bedroom--oh, mother! I think you would revel in my bedroom. It has such
a terribly thick carpet on the floor--I mean it has a thick carpet on
the floor; and there is a view from the window, the sort you have so
often described to me--great big trees, and a lawn like velvet, and four
or five tennis-courts, and a shrubbery with all the trees cut so exact
and round and proper, and a peep of the River Thames just beyond. My
cousins keep a boat on the river, and they often go out in the summer
evenings. They are going to take me for a row on Saturday, when the
girls have a holiday.
“I saw Terence almost immediately after I arrived. He looked just as you
would like to see him, so handsome in his evening dress. He was a little
stiff--at least, I mean he was very correct in his manner. We had supper
when we arrived. I was awfully hungry, but I did not like to eat too
much, for Terence seemed so correct--nice in his manner, I mean--and
everything was just as you have described things when you were young.
There are two girls, my cousins--Linda, a very pretty girl, fair, and
so very neatly dressed; and Molly, who is not the least like the others.
You would not like Molly; she is rather rough; but of course I must not
complain of her. I have been sitting with Aunt Grace all the morning,
until I could bear it no longer--I mean, until I got a little stiff
in my legs, and then I had a run in the garden. Now I am writing this
letter in Aunt Grace's morning-room, and if I look round I shall see her
back.
“Good-by, dear mother. I will write again in a day or two.--Your
affectionate daughter,
“NORA O'SHANAGHGAN.”
“There,” said Nora, under her breath, “that's done. Now for daddy.”
She took out another sheet of paper, and began to scribble rapidly.
“Darling, darling, love of my heart! Daddy, daddy, oh! but it's I that
miss you. I am writing to you here in this could, could country. Oh,
daddy, if I could run to you now, wouldn't I? What are you doing without
your Light o' the Morning? I am pent up, daddy, and I don't think I can
stand it much longer. It's but a tiny visit I'll pay, and then I'll come
back again to the mountains and the sea, and the old, old house, and the
dear, darling dad. Keep up your heart, daddy; you'll soon have Light o'
the Morning home. Oh! it's so proper, and I'm wrapped up in silk chains;
they are surrounding me everywhere, and I can't quite bear it. Aunt
Grace is sitting here; I am writing in her morning-room. Oh! if I could,
wouldn't I scream, or shout, or do something awfully wicked; but I must
not, for it is the English way. They have got the wild bird Nora into
the English cage; and, darling dad asthore, it's her heart that will be
broke if she stays here long. There's one comfort I have--or, bedad! I
don't think I could bear it--and that's Molly. She's a bit of a romp and
a bit of a scamp, and she has a daring spirit of her own, and she hates
the conventionalities, and she would like to be Irish too. She can't,
poor colleen; but she is nice and worth knowing, and she'll just keep my
heart from being broke entirely.
“How are they all at home? Give them lashins and lavins of love from
Nora. Tell them it's soon I'll be back with them. You go round and give
a message to each and all; and don't forget Hannah Croneen, and little
Mike, and Bridget Murphy, and Squire Murphy, and the rest--all and
every one who remembers Nora O'Shanaghgan. Tell them it's her heart is
imprisoned till she gets back to them; and she would rather have one
bit of her own native soil than all the gold in the whole of England.
I declare it's rough and wild I am getting, and my heart is bleeding. I
have written a correct letter to mother, and given her the news; but I
am telling you a bit of my true, true heart. Send for me if you miss me
too much, and I'll fly back to you. Oh! it's chains wouldn't keep me,
for go I must if this state of things continues much longer.--Your
“LIGHT O' THE MORNING.”
The two letters were written, the last one relieving Nora's feelings not
a little. She put them into separate envelopes and stamped them.
Mrs. Hartrick rose, went over to her desk, and saw Nora's letters.
“Oh, you have written to your parents,” she said. “Quite right, my dear.
But why put them into separate envelopes? They could go nicely in one.
That, really, is willful waste, Nora, which we in England never permit.”
“Oh, please, don't change them, Aunt Grace,” said Nora, as Mrs. Hartrick
took the two letters up and paused before opening one of the envelopes.
“Please, please, let them go as they are. It's my own stamp,” she
continued, losing all sense of grammar in her excitement.
“Well, my dear, just as you please. There, don't excite yourself, Nora.
I only suggested that, when one stamp would do, it was rather wasteful
to spend two.”
“Oh, daddy does like to get his own letters to his own self,” said Nora.
“Your father, you mean. You don't, surely, call him by the vulgar word
daddy?”
“Bedad! but I do,” answered Nora.
Mrs. Hartrick turned and gave her niece a frozen glance. Presently she
laid her hand on the girl's shoulder.
“I don't want to complain or to lecture you,” she said; “but that
expression must not pass your lips again while you are here.”
“It shan't. I am ever so sorry,” said the girl.
“I think you are, dear; and how flushed your cheeks are! You seem quite
tired. Now, go upstairs and wash your hands; the luncheon-gong will ring
in five minutes, and we must be punctual at meals.”
Nora slowly left the room.
“Oh! but it's like lead my heart is,” she said to herself.
The day passed very dismally for the wild Irish girl. After lunch she
and her aunt had a long and proper drive. They drove through lovely
country; but Nora was feeling even a little bit cross, and could not see
the beauties of the perfectly tilled landscape, of the orderly fields,
of the lovely hedgerows.
“It is too tidy,” she said once in a choking sort of voice.
“Tidy!” answered Mrs. Hartrick. She looked at Nora, tittered a sigh, and
did not speak of the beauties of the country again.
When they got back from their drive things were a little better, for
Linda and Molly had returned from school; and, for a wonder, Molly was
not in disgrace. She looked quite excited, and darting out of the house,
took Nora's hand and pulled it inside her arm.
“Come and have a talk,” she said. “I am hungering for a chat with you.”
“Tea will be ready in fifteen minutes, Molly,” called out Mrs. Hartrick,
then entered the house accompanied by Linda.
Meanwhile Molly and Nora went round to the shrubbery at the back of the
house.
“What is the matter with you?” said Molly. She turned and faced her
companion.
Nora's eyes filled with sudden tears.
“It is only that I am keeping in so much,” she said; “and--and, oh! I
do wish you were not all quite so tidy. I am just mad for somebody to be
wild and unkempt. I feel that I could take down my hair, or tear a
rent in my dress--anything rather than the neatness. Oh! I hate your
landscapes, and your trim hedges, and your trim house, and your--”
“Go on,” said Molly; “let it out; let it out. I'll never repeat it. You
must come in, in about a quarter of an hour, to a stiff meal. You will
have to sit upright, let me tell you, and not lounge; and you will have
to eat your bread and butter very nicely, and sip your tea, and not eat
overmuch. Mother does not approve of it. Then when tea is over you will
have to leave the room and go upstairs and get things out for dinner.”
“My things out for dinner?” gasped Nora. “What do you mean?”
“Your evening-dress. Do you suppose you will be allowed to dine in your
morning-dress?”
“Oh, to be sure,” said Nora, brightening; “now I understand. Mother did
get me a white frock, and she had it cut square in the neck, and the
sleeves are a little short.”
“You will look sweet in that,” said Molly, gazing at her critically;
“and I will bring you in a bunch of sweet-peas to put in your belt, and
you can have a little bunch in your hair, too, if you like. You know you
are awfully pretty. I am sure Linda is just mad with jealousy about
it; I can see it, although she does not say anything. She is rather
disparaging about you, is Linda; that is one of her dear little ways.
She runs people down with faint praise. She was talking a lot about
you as we were going to school this morning. She began: 'You know, I do
think Nora is a pretty girl; but it is such a pity that--'”
“Oh, don't,” said Nora, suddenly putting out her hand and closing
Molly's lips.
“What in the world are you doing that for?” said Molly.
“Because I don't want to hear; she did not mean me to know that she said
these things.”
“What a curiosity you are!” said Molly. “So wild, so defiant, and
yet--oh, of course, I like you awfully. Do you know that the vision of
your face kept me good all day? Isn't that something to be proud of? I
didn't answer one of my teachers back, and I did have a scolding, let me
tell you. Oh, my music; you don't know what I suffer over it. I have not
a single particle of taste. I have not the faintest ghost of an ear; but
mother insists on my learning. I could draw; I could sketch; I can
do anything with my pencil; but that does not suit mother. It must be
music. I must play; I must play well at sight; I must play all sorts of
difficult accompaniments for songs, because gentlemen like to have
their songs accompanied for them; and I must be able to do this the very
moment the music is put before me. And I must not play too loud; I must
play just right, in perfect time; and I must be ready, when there is
nothing else being done, to play long pieces, those smart kind of things
people do play in the present day; and I must never play a wrong note.
Oh, dear! oh, dear! and I simply cannot do these things. I don't know
wrong notes from right. I really don't.”
“Oh, Molly!” cried Nora.
“There you are; I can see that you are musical.”
“I think I am, very. I mean I think I should always know a wrong note
from a right one; but I have not had many opportunities of learning.”
“Oh, good gracious me! what next?” exclaimed Molly.
“I don't understand what you mean,” said Nora.
“My dear, I am relieving my feelings, just as you relieved yours a short
time ago. Oh, dear! my music. I know I played atrociously; but that
dreadful Mrs. Elford was so cross; she did thump so herself on the
piano, and told me that my fingers were like sticks. And what could I
do? I longed to let out some of my expressions at her. You must know
that I am feared on account of my expressions--my slang, I call them.
They do shock people so, and it is simply irresistible to see them
shudder, and close their eyes, and draw themselves together, and then
majestically walk out of the room. The headmistress is summoned then,
and I--I am doomed. I get my pieces to do out of school; and when I
come home mother lectures me, and sends me to my bedroom. But I am free
to-night. I have been good all day; and it is on account of you, Nora;
just because you are a little Irish witch; and I sympathize with you to
the bottom of my soul.”
“Molly! Molly!” here called out Linda's voice; “mother says it's time
for you and Nora to come in to wash your hands for tea.”
“Oh, go to Jericho!” called out Molly.
Linda turned immediately and went into the house.
“She is a tell-tale-tit,” said Molly. “She will be sure to repeat that
to mother; and do you think I shall be allowed any cake? There is a very
nice kind of rice-cake which cook makes, and I am particularly fond
of it. You'll see I am not to have any, just because I said 'Go to
Jericho!' I am sure I wish Linda would go.”
“But those kind of things are rather vulgar, aren't they?” said Nora.
“Father wouldn't like them. We say all kinds of funny things at home,
but not things like that. I wish you would not.”
“You wish I would not what?”
“Use words like 'Go to Jericho!' Father would not like to hear you.”
“You are a very audacious kind of girl, let me tell you, Nora,” said
Molly. She colored, and looked annoyed for a moment, then burst into a
laugh. “But I like you all the better for not being afraid of me,” she
continued. “Come, let's go into the house; we can relieve our feelings
somehow to-night; we'll have a lark somehow; you mark my words. In the
meantime mum's the word.”