TWO DESCRIPTIONS.
Some of Nora's words must have sunk into Mrs. Hartrick's heart, for,
rather to Molly's own astonishment, she was allowed to dress nicely for
dinner, and to come down. Her somewhat heavy, dark face did not look to
the best advantage. She wore a dress which did not suit her; her hair
was awkwardly arranged; there was a scowl on her brow. She felt so sore
and cross, after what she considered her brave efforts to be good during
the morning, that she would almost rather have stayed up in her room.
But Nora would not hear of that. Nora had rushed into Molly's room, and
had begged her, for her sake, to come downstairs. Nora was looking
quite charming in that pretty white frock which Mrs. O'Shanaghgan had
purchased for her in Dublin. Her softly rounded figure, her dazzlingly
fair complexion, were seen now for the first time to the best advantage.
Her thick black hair was coiled up becomingly on her graceful little
head, and, with a bunch of sweet peas at her belt, there could scarcely
have been seen a prettier maiden. When she appeared in the drawing room,
even Terence was forced to admit that he had seldom seen a more lovely
girl than his sister. He went up to her and began to take notice of her.
“I am sorry I was obliged to be out all day. I am studying the different
museums very exhaustively,” said Terence in that measured tone of his
which drove poor Nora nearly wild. She replied to him somewhat pertly,
and he retired once more into his shell.
“Pretty as my sister is,” he soliloquized, “she really is such an
ignorant girl that few fellows would care to speak to her. It is a sad
pity.”
Terence, the last hope of the house of O'Shanaghgan, was heard to
sigh profoundly. His aunt, Mrs. Hartrick, and his cousin Linda would,
doubtless, sympathize with him.
“Dinner was announced, and the meal went off very well. Molly was
absolutely silent; Nora, taking her cue from her, hardly spoke; and
Linda, Terence, and Mrs. Hartrick had it all their own way. But just
as dessert was placed on the table, Mr. Hartrick looked at Nora and
motioned to her to change seats and to come to one close to him.
“Come now,” he said, “we should like to hear your account of Castle
O'Shanaghgan. Terence has told us all about it; but we should like to
hear your version.”
“And a most lovely place it must be,” said Mrs. Hartrick from the other
end of the table. “Your description, Terence, makes me quite long to see
it; and if it were not that I am honestly very much afraid of the Irish
peasantry, I should be glad to go there during the summer. But those
terrible creatures, with their shillalahs, and their natural aptitude
for firing on you from behind a hedge, are quite too fearful to
contemplate. I could not run the risk of assassination from any of them.
They seem to have a natural hatred for the English and--why, what is the
matter, Nora?”
“Only it's not true,” said Nora, her eyes flashing. “They are not a
bit like that; they are the most warmhearted people in the whole world.
Terence, have you been telling lies about your country? If you have, I
am downright ashamed of you.”
“But I have not. I don't know what you mean,” answered Terence.
“Oh, come, come, Nora!” said her uncle, patting her arm gently; but
Nora's eyes blazed with fire.
“It's not a bit true,” she continued. “How can Aunt Grace think of that?
The poor things have been driven to desperation, because--because their
hearts have been trampled on.”
“For instance,” said Terence in a mocking voice, which fell like ice
upon poor Nora's hot, indignant nature--“for instance, Andy Neil--he's a
nice specimen, is he not?”
“Oh,” said Nora, “he--he is the exception. Don't talk of him, please.”
“That's just it,” said Terence, laughing. “Nora wants to give us all
the sweets, and to conceal all the bitters. Now, I am honest, whatever I
am.”
“Oh, are you?” said Nora, in indignation. “I should like to know,” she
continued, “what kind of place you have represented Castle O'Shanaghgan
to be.”
“I don't know why I should be obliged to answer to you for what I say,
Nora,” cried her brother.
“You describe it now, Nora. We will hear your description,” said her
uncle.
Nora sat quite still for a moment; then she raised her very dark-blue
eyes.
“Do you really want me to tell you about O'Shanaghgan?” she said slowly.
“Certainly, my dear.”
“Certainly, Nora. I am sure you can describe things very well,” said her
aunt, in an encouraging voice, from the other end of the table.
“Then I will tell you,” said Nora. She paused for a moment, then, to the
astonishment and disgust of Mrs. Hartrick, rose to her feet.
“I cannot talk about it sitting down,” she said. “There's the sea, you
know--the wild, wild Atlantic. In the winter the breakers are--oh! I
have sometimes seen them forty feet high.”
“Come, come, Nora!” said Terence,
“It is true, Terry; the times when you don't like to go out.”
Terence retired into his shell.
“I have seen the waves like that; but, oh! in the summer they can be so
sweet and conoodling.”
“What in the world is that?” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“Oh, it is one of our Irish words; there's no other way to express it.
And then there are the cliffs, and the great caves, and the yellow,
yellow sands, and the shells, and the seaweeds, and the fish, and the
boating, and--and--”
“Go on, Nora; you describe the sea just like any other sea.”
“Oh, but it is like no other sea,” said Nora. “And then there are the
mountains, their feet washed by the waves.”
“Quite poetical,” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“It is; it is all poetry,” said Nora. “You are not laughing at me, are
you, Aunt Grace? I wish you could see those mountains and that sea, and
then the home--O'Shanaghgan itself.”
“Yes, Nora; tell us,” said her uncle, who did not laugh, and was much
interested in the girl's description.
“The home,” cried Nora; “the great big, darling, empty house.”
“Empty! What a very peculiar description!” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“Oh, it is so nice,” said Nora. “You don't knock over furniture when you
walk about; and the dining-room table is so big that, even if you did
spill a jug of milk, father would not be angry.”
Mrs. Hartrick uttered a sigh.
“Oh, we are wild over there,” continued Nora; “we have no
conventionalities. We share and share alike; we don't mind whether we
are rich or poor. We are poor--oh! frightfully poor; and we keep very
few servants; and--and the place is bare; because it can be nothing but
bare; but there's no place like O'Shanaghgan.”
“But what do you mean by bare?” said Mrs. Hartrick.
“Bare?” said Nora. “I mean bare; very few carpets and very little
furniture, and--and----But, oh! it's the hearts that are warm, and that
is the only thing that matters.”
“It must be a right-down jolly place; and, by Jehoshaphat! I wish I was
there,” interrupted Molly.
“Molly!” said her mother.
“Oh, leave her alone for the present,” said Mr. Hartrick. “But do you
mean,” he continued, looking at Nora in a distressed way, “that--that my
sister lives in a house of that sort?”
“Mother?” said Nora. “Of course; she is father's wife, and my mother;
she is the lady of O'Shanaghgan. It is a very proud position. We don't
want grand furniture nor carpets to make it a proud position. She is
father's wife, and he is O'Shanaghgan of Castle O'Shanaghgan. He is a
sort of king, and he is descended from kings.”
“Well, Terence, I must say this does not at all coincide with your
description,” said his uncle, turning and looking his nephew full in the
face.
“I didn't wish to make things too bad, sir. Of course, we are not very
rich over there; but still, Nora does exaggerate.”
“Look here, Nora,” said her uncle, suddenly turning and pulling her down
to sit beside him, “you and I must have a little chat. We will just
go and have it right away. You shall tell me your version of the story
quite by ourselves.” He then rose and drew her out of the room.
“Where shall we go?” he said when they stood for a moment in the
conservatory, into which the big dining room opened.
“Do you really mean it?” said Nora.
“Mean what, dear?”
“To talk to me about--about my letter? Do you mean it?”
“Certainly I do, and there is no time like the present. Come--where
shall we go?”
“Where we can be alone; where none of the prim English can interrupt.”
“Nora, you must not be so prejudiced. We are not so bad as all that.”
“Oh, I know it. I wish you were bad; it's because you are so awfully
good that I hate--I mean, that I cannot get on with any of you.”
“Poor child! you are a little wild creature. Come into my study; we
shall be quite safe from interruption there.”