THE COT WHERE HE WAS BORN.
Nora avoided Molly that night. On reflection, it occurred to her that
it would be best for Molly to know nothing of her design. If she were
in complete ignorance, no amount of questioning could elicit the truth.
Nora went into her bedroom, and changed her pretty jacket and skirt and
neat sailor hat for a dark-blue skirt and blouse of the same material.
Over these she put a long, old-fashioned cloak which at one time
had belonged to her mother. Over her head she tied a little red
handkerchief, and, having eaten a small portion of Mrs. Shaw's
provisions, she left the room. It was already night-time; and Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan, Molly, and the servants had gone to bed. Nora now locked
her door from the outside, slipped the key into her pocket, and her
basket of provisions partly hidden under the falls of her cloak, ran
downstairs. The dogs generally slept in the big hall; but they knew
Nora's step, and rose slowly, wagging their heavy tails. Nora patted
them on their heads, gave them each an endearing word, and stooped to
kiss pretty Cushla on her black forehead. She then softly unbolted one
of the windows, lifted the sash, and got out. She carefully shut the
window as noiselessly as she had opened it. She now found herself on
the grassy sward in the neighborhood of the drawing-room. Under the old
_régime_ that sward was hard, and knotty tufts of weed as well as grass
grew up here and there in profusion; but already, under the English
government, it was beginning to assume the velvet-like appearance which
a properly kept lawn ought to have.
Nora hated to feel such softness; she disliked everything which seemed
to her to flavor of the English and their ways. There was a hot,
rebellious feeling in her heart. Why should these things be? Why should
not her Irish land and her Irish people be left in their wild freedom?
She ran round to the yard. Angus had received instructions to leave the
little postern door on the latch, and Nora now opened it and went softly
in. The moon was beginning to rise, but was not at the full. There
was, however already sufficient light for her to see each object with
distinctness. She went and sat down in the shadow made by the great
barn. She sat on the step to the barn, wrapping her warm cloak tightly
round her, and keeping her basket of provisions by her side. Here she
would sit all night, if necessary. Her vigil might have no result, but
at any rate it would insure her father from danger. For now only over
Nora's dead body could the wild Andy Neil approach the Squire.
“Andy shall kill me first,” she thought; “and if I die, I will scream
and father will awaken. Angus is on the watch; the alarm will be given;
at least my father's life will be spared. But why do I think of danger
of this sort? Andy will not kill me. I place my trust in God. I am doing
the right thing--I know I am doing the right thing.”
When Nora had let herself in at the postern door she had immediately
drawn the bolt at the other side, thus preventing anyone else from
entering the great yard by the same way; but she knew that, although
Andy could not now enter the yard, in all probability he was already
hiding there. There were no end to the ways and devices of a wild
Irishman of Andy's sort. He was so thin and emaciated, too, that he
could squeeze himself into the tiniest space. It lay in his power to
remain motionless all night, until the moment when his revenge was ripe.
Nora sat on. She heard the old clock in the ancient tower of the Castle
strike the hours. That old clock had been severely animadverted on by
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan on account of the cracked sound in the bell; but Nora
felt relieved to find that, amongst all the modern innovations, the old
clock still held its own; it had not, at least, _yet_, been removed from
the tower. It struck solemnly now the hour of midnight.
“The witching hour,” thought the girl. “The hour when the Banshee walks
abroad. I wonder if I shall see her. I should like to see her. Did she
hear me when I called to her in the cave? Would she help me if she came
to my rescue now? She belongs to us; she is our own Banshee; she has
belonged to our family for many, many generations.”
Nora thought these thoughts; but then the feeling that _Someone_ else
who never fails those who trust Him was also watching her during this
silent hour came to her with a sense of comfort. She could hear her
father turning once or twice in the creaky old wooden bed. She was glad
to feel that, unknown to him, she was his guardian angel. She began to
think about the future, and almost to forget Andy and the possible and
very great peril of the present, when, shortly before the hour of one,
all her senses were preternaturally excited by the sound of a footfall.
It was a very soft footfall--the noise made by a bare foot. Nora heard
it just where the shadow was deepest. She stood up now; she knew that,
from her present position, the one who was making this dead sort of
heavy sound could not possibly see her. She waited, her breath coming
hard and fast. For a minute, or perhaps more, there was again absolute
and complete silence. The night was a breathless one; there was not a
sound abroad; overhead the sky was of an inky blue-black, the stars were
shining gloriously, and the moon was growing brighter and more clear,
and more nearly approaching her meridian each moment. The girl stood
with her hand pressed against her beating heart; she had flung aside her
little red handkerchief, and her hair had fallen loose and was tumbling
over her shoulders; she raised her other hand to her left ear to listen
more intently--she was in the attitude of one about to spring.
Again there came the sound which she expected, and which, now that it
had arrived, caused her heart to beat no longer with fear, but with a
sort of wild exultation. Her suspicions had been right--the danger
was real; her father's most precious life was in peril. The steps came
quicker and more quick; they approached the other window of the barn.
This window lay in complete shadow. Nora now stepped out of her hiding
place, and, going with two or three quick strides down the yard, waited
within a foot or two of the man, who now proceeded to lift himself up by
the window ledge preparatory to opening the barn window. With the aid
of a claspknife he could very easily push back the quaint and imperfect
fastening; then it was but to push in the glass, and he could enter the
barn. He sat on the window ledge with his back to Nora. His huge, gaunt
form looked larger than ever, intensified now by the light of the moon.
He breathed quickly; his breathing proclaimed that he himself was in
physical suffering.
“Andy,” said Nora in a low, very low whisper.
But this low tone was as startling to the madman on the window as though
a pistol shot had been sounded in his ears.
“Be the powers!” he said, and he tumbled so quickly off the window sill
that Nora herself held out her hand to help him. Then he turned fiercely
and faced the girl. She saw the light of madness gleaming in his sunken
eyes; his wild face looked more cadaverous than ever; his great, skinny,
long hand shook. He raised it as if to fell the girl to the ground, but
paused to look in her face, and then his hand hung feebly to his side.
Nora had enacted all this scene beforehand to herself; she now thrust
into Andy's face, within an inch or two of his nose, a great lump of
bread and a slab of cold pie.
“Before you do anything more, eat,” she said; “eat quickly; make no
noise.”
It was as impossible for the famished man to resist the good and
tempting food as it would have been impossible for a needle to resist
the influence of a powerful magnet. He grasped the bread, thrust the
knife into his wretched shirt, and, tearing the bread in fragments,
began to stuff it into his mouth. For a couple of minutes there was no
sound but that of the starved creature tearing the bread and feeding
himself. When he had slightly satisfied the first cravings of his
starved body Nora took his hand.
“You have not had enough yet,” she said. “You have fasted long, and are
very hungry; there is more where this came from.”
She took his hand quite unresistingly, and led him round to the entrance
of the barn.
“I am up,” she said, “but no one else. No one else knows of this. You
have come without a gun?”
“I have a knife instead,” he said. His eye glittered strangely.
“Give me your knife,” said the girl. “I will give you food in exchange
for it.”
The famished creature began to gibber now in the most horrible manner;
he pointed to his breast and uttered a laugh.
“Laugh again, and I will call those who will soon put a stop to your
wild and terrible purposes, Andy,” said the girl, “Here's food--fruit,
jelly, bread. You shall have them all--all, when you give me that
knife.”
The man looked at the food, and now his eyes softened. They became full
not only of rapture, but also of laughter. He gave a low guttural sound,
sank down on the ground, and held out both his hands imploringly for
some of the nourishment.
“The knife,” said Nora.
He thrust his hands into his bosom and held the knife out to her. It was
a huge clasp knife, and Nora noticed with a shudder that it had all the
appearance of having been newly sharpened. The moment she got it she
put it in her pocket, and then invited the man to feed. He sat now quite
humbly. Nora helped him to pie. She had already taken the precaution to
hide the knife which Mrs. Shaw had supplied her with. The man ate and
ate, until his consuming hunger was satisfied. Nora now gave him a very
little of the brandy mixed with water. He lay back at last, exhausted
and also satisfied.
“It's wake I am, it's wake I am--it's wake I am entoirely,” said he.
“Why are you so good to me, Miss Nora? It was to take the life of the
Squire I was afther to-night.”
“I knew that,” said Nora, “and I thought I would prevent you. Why did
you not meet me this evening down by the shore?”
The miserable creature now raised his hand and pushed back a gray lock
of unkempt hair from his forehead.
“Why, then,” he said, “it was bothered I was entoirely. I knew there was
something I had got to do. It was waker and waker I was getting, for I
did not touch bite nor sup since I saw you last, except a morsel of a
cold pitatie; and there was not much of the nourishment in that; and as
the night came, I could not think of anything except to keep me word and
have me victory.”
“Well, you have had it,” said Nora.
“What do you mane now, missie?”
“You have conquered yourself; that is the best victory of all. But come,
you made a bargain with me last night, and I am prepared to keep it. I
went down to the shore to tell you that I would do what you wanted me
to do. The cabin is ready on Slieve Nagorna; we have made it fairly
comfortable for you; and I will do better--yes, I will try to do better
by and by. I will speak to my father when he is strong enough. Go to
Slieve Nagorna now, and you will find the old cot in which you were
born. You can sleep there, and--and _I_--I will see that you are not
interfered with.”
“The old cot in which I was born,” said Neil very slowly. “The old cot,
and I'll see it again. Is it a-joking me you are, Miss Nora?”
“Would I joke with you just now, Andy? Would I?”
“I know it's saft you are making me. There was a lump of ice in me; but,
somehow, it's melted. It's the food and your bonny face, and yer ways.
But do you know that it was your _father_ I wanted to kill--t'ould
Squire? There, I have said it!”
“I know--and I have saved him,” answered Nora. “But come, he may hear
us speaking; he would wonder. I do not want him to know anything of this
night. When he is stronger I will plead with him. Come, Andy, come; your
home is ready for you. Go back to it.”
The man tottered to his feet, and began to stagger across the barn.
“Stay! you are not strong enough,” said the girl. “Come outside the
yard, here; come with me.”
She walked across the yard, reached the little postern gate, and opened
it.
“Come out and wait,” she said in a mysterious voice. “You cannot walk to
Slieve Nagorna, and yet you must get there; but I will get Angus to take
you.”
“Angus! ay, he is a true Irish boy. Aw, I'd trust him.”
“You well may; he is a broth of a boy,” said Nora. “Sit there. I will
soon be back with you.”
She shut Andy out, bolting the little gate. The man heard the bolt being
drawn, but did not move; he had not the slightest fear but that Nora
would keep her word. She ran across the yard and opened the door of the
barn at the farther end. Angus was already awake; he heard her light
step.
“Is it me you're wanting, Miss Nora?”
“Angus, all is well,” she said. “What I wanted to do I have succeeded
in doing. It is Andy Neil who is without; he is broken down and is very
weak. Get the long cart and take him to the foot of Slieve Nagorna, help
him up the mountain, and see him into the old cot where he was born.
Good-night, Angus, and God bless you.”
Nora returned to her own bedroom. She unlocked the door and let herself
in. Without waiting even to undress, she flung herself on the bed,
curled herself up, and went off into dreamless slumber. When she woke
again it was broad daylight, and Molly was standing over her.
“Why, Nora, you have lain undressed all night! What--what has happened?”
“Do not ask me,” said Nora. “Do not ask me. I have done what I wanted to
do, and I am thankful.”
“And you won't really tell me?”
“No, I won't. I cannot ever. There is more to attend to, Molly; you and
I have got to go to Slieve Nagorna immediately after breakfast.”
Molly did not ask anything further.
“I brought your hot water,” she said. “You do not want any of the grand
English servants to see you look like this.”
“What a dear old thing you are!” said Nora. “I am so grateful to you.”
She got up, took off her clothes, indulged in a hot bath, and came down
to breakfast looking exactly as if she had spent an ordinary night. Mrs.
O'Shanaghgan was a little more fretful than ever, and told Nora that her
conduct was making her mother quite ridiculous in the neighborhood.
“I met those remarkably nice people, the Setons of Seton Court,
yesterday,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan--“charming English people--and they
asked me if it was really true that my husband, the owner of Castle
O'Shanaghgan, was sleeping in a barn.”
“And what did you answer, mother?” asked Nora, her dark-blue eyes bright
with sudden fun.
“Well, my dear, I made the best of it. I could not deny such a patent
fact. I said that the eccentricities of Irish squires were proverbial.
But you can imagine, my dear Nora, my mortification as I had to make
this admission. If this sort of thing goes on I shall ask your uncle to
let the place, and allow us all to live in England.”
“Oh, come, mother,” said her daughter. “You ought to be thankful this
morning--you ought to be. Oh, mother! do give me a loving kiss. It is so
long, so long since you have done so, and somehow I am tired, mother.”
“Tired!” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan, alarmed and surprised by the new tone
in Nora's voice. “You look tired. How black those shadows are under your
eyes! and you have lost some of your color. There! of course I will
kiss you, and I hope I am thankful, for we certainly have had wonderful
mercies since your dear Uncle George came over and delivered us all. But
what do you mean by special thankfulness this morning?”
“Never mind, mother,” said Nora. “Only _do_ be thankful, _do_ thank God
for His mercies; and oh, mother, do give me that kiss!”
“There, child! of course you shall have it.”
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan pressed her lips lightly to Nora's cheek.
“Now eat your breakfast,” she said. “These eggs are quite fresh, and
the honey was bought only yesterday--you know you are fond of honey--and
these hot cakes are made in a new and particularly nice way. Eat plenty,
Nora, and do, my dear, try to restrain your emotions. It is quite
terrible what wear and tear you give yourself over these feelings. It
is really, my dear girl, unladylike; and let me tell you another thing,
that when you lose your fresh wild-rose color, you will lose the greater
part of your beauty. Dear me! it will not stay long with you if you
excite yourself about every hand's turn in the ridiculous way you are
doing.”
Nora did not say any more. She sat down to the breakfast table. Was her
mother right? Was she indeed exciting herself over every hand's turn,
and was that thing which had happened last night--which, now that it
was over, caused her heart to beat a trifle too fast, and brought that
tired, that very tired feeling into her sensitive frame--was that indeed
but a trifling thing? Thank God--oh, thank God--she had been in time!
Soon after breakfast Nora and Molly started once more for Slieve
Nagorna. They went on the outside car this time, and Nora found her
strength and courage returning as she handled the reins and urged Black
Bess to speed. They presently reached their destination. Nora fastened
up the horse as she had done on the previous day, and the girls began to
climb the mountain.
“You must not be afraid when you see Andy,” said Nora. “He was very weak
last night, and will in all probability be in his house. I am going to
arrange to have provisions sent to him every day. He will stay there now
that he has got back again.”
“But how has he got back again? You will remember you never told me what
happened last night.”
“And you must not ask me, Molly. What happened last night can never be
told by me to any human being. Only Angus knows something of it; and
Angus will not tell anyone else.”
“And you were frightened? You look, Nora, as if you had gone through a
great deal.”
“I went through more than anyone will ever know,” said Nora, “but I am
very thankful.”
The girls had now reached the old cabin. The tarpaulin was over the
roof, but there was no smoke issuing from the hole.
“I wonder he did not light his fire,” said Nora in an anxious voice.
“Will you go in with me, Molly, or shall I go alone?”
“I'll go in with you,” said Molly stoutly. “If you are not afraid,
neither will I be.”
“I afraid now?” said Nora, with a smile. “Come, Molly, I hope the poor
creature is not very ill.”
Both girls entered the cabin. The tarpaulin had been so contrived that a
piece hung over, and formed a temporary door. Nora now pushed it aside,
and they both stepped into the miserable cabin. Andy was lying on the
straw; the basket of provisions had not yet been touched, nor was the
fire lit. Andy lay very still and quiet on the straw. Nora went up to
him; his eyes were shut, and his head was slightly turned round, so that
she could not at first get a proper glimpse of his face. She went on
her knees, then presently touched his forehead with her own slim hand,
calling his name softly at the same time. There was no answer--there
would never be an answer again, for the wild Irishman was dead.