The Misses O’Hara.
In all the neighbourhood of the Mourne Mountains there was probably
neither priest, nor peasant, nor layman so generally known and
respected as the Rev. Patrick O’Hara’s two maiden sisters. Miss Jane
and Miss Mary they were known as generally, but among the young men and
girls whom they loved, they were Aunt Jane and Aunt Mary always, and
they were familiar figures at every gathering and every party for miles
round! If anyone was in trouble, they went over to the Parsonage at
Omeath as soon as they could; and if they could not manage this, it was
practically a certainty that the two little ladies would very shortly
look in upon them. The oldest inhabitants remembered them as two little
girls, when their father was at the Parsonage before their brother; and
later, as two very pretty, very charming young women, but why they were
still at the Parsonage, and still the Misses O’Hara, was the one thing
nobody did know. Certainly, they had been very much admired, and there
had been some talk about Miss Mary and young Captain Quinn, of Omeath
Park, but nothing had apparently come of it, for the Captain went away
on active service, and came no more to Omeath. Several months after he
left, both the sisters had gone abroad, and been away a year, but no
one knew where they went to, and they never offered any enlightenment
on the point. When they came back, however, they were very changed in
many ways. Gaiety, which had been spontaneous before, seemed to have
become an effort to both of them, and for some little time neither
appeared to care to accept the invitations showered upon them as usual.
Later on something of their old brightness came back, and they were
once more the familiar figures everywhere that they had previously
been. But though their joyousness came back, there was still an
indefinable change and the suggestion of something hidden which none
could solve, and to every one’s surprise each “would-be” suitor was
sent resolutely away. Finally, it became evident that the Misses O’Hara
meant to remain the Misses O’Hara to their dying day, and live at the
Parsonage as long as it was possible—the dearest little pair of old
maids that ever gave their fellow-creatures cause to bless the Guiding
Hand, that gave some women to one home and one family, and reserved
others to belong to every one about them.
“My dear,” they said to any of the myriad nieces who plied them with
wondering questions why they had never married, and whether it was that
they did not believe in matrimonial happiness, “there is no happiness
in the world quite like that of a happy wife and mother, but it is not
given to everyone to know it, and many come to a crossway in life,
where they know they must mould their future without any hope of it.
But for such, the Good Father has another happiness waiting, if they
will take it and trust Him, and not repine because they might not
choose. It is the happiness of a life filled with serving, and rich in
the love of one’s fellow-creatures of every sex and age and station.
Our lives are filled to overflowing with, this happiness, and we are
content to believe that what is lost to a woman in this life will be
made up to her an hundredfold in some other life beyond.”
“And then there is Jack!” one of them would add softly, and the other
would reply with like softness, “Yes, sister, there is Jack.”
By which one can easily gather, how, when the poor little baby at the
Parsonage was left motherless at ten months old, he at once became the
fortunate possessor of two new mothers, who would have gone through
fire and water rather than let a hair of his sunny curls be hurt.
“We must not spoil him, sister,” Jane, the elder, had said once, as
they stood gazing rapturously at their new treasure.
“No, sister,” Mary had replied, “it is only unkind mothers who spoil
children, and so unfit them for the rough usage of the world and rob
them of many a good friend they might afterward have won.”
“That is exactly my view, sister; we will endeavour to act up to it,
and yet make him as happy as the day is long.”
Nevertheless, a more spoilt boy than little Jack O’Hara it would have
been difficult to find, and, if Nature had not blessed him particularly
with a nature proof against spoiling, he would probably have grown up
the reverse of the adored young scamp he was. But then, possibly, it
was just this that caused his aunts to swerve so widely from their
fixed principle, for it would have required a heart of cast-iron to
withstand such a boy as he. All his naughtiness was pure love of
mischief, and he was always so genuinely sorry and penitent afterward,
and so forlornly unhappy when he was in disgrace, that he made every
one else in the house feel miserable until he was forgiven. No sooner
was he undergoing a term of punishment than Aunt Mary would ask Aunt
Jane to forgive him this once, or the cook would “make so bold” as to
plead with Miss Jane, or the gardener would “mention it respectfully to
’is riverence.”
“I think, perhaps, we might let him off just this time,” one of the
aunts would say, anxiously looking at her sister, and the other would
reply gravely, “Yes, just this time, perhaps, but we must not do it
again.”
And if there happened to be anything he particularly wanted, much the
same proceeding ensued.
“I’m afraid we mustn’t let him have it sister!” Miss Mary would say
wistfully. “We mustn’t spoil him, must we?”
“No, sister, we mustn’t spoil him,” would be the reply with like
wistfulness.
“Or, do you think, perhaps, just this once, sister?” half timidly.
“Well, perhaps, just this once,” with a show of reluctance, “only it
mustn’t happen again, must it?”
“No, certainly not, sister, another time we will be firm for his good.”
And so it went on for twenty-four years, and always “another time” was
reserved for firmness on Jack’s account, until “life” took the matter
into her own hands, and threw an obstacle across his easy,
flower-strewn path, that even his devoted aunts could not smooth away
for him, and over which he must needs prove himself a man and fight his
own battle. But of that anon.
“My dears, we have had some news!” began Miss Jane, “and we think you
will be pleased, so we came across at once to tell you.”
“Yes,” murmured Miss Mary, nodding her small head gravely while her
sister spoke, to show that the sentiment was equally hers, “we thought
you would be pleased.”
By this time, Jack and Paddy were again seated on the table, swinging
their feet, in front of the two little ladies who sat side by side on
the sofa looking rather like two little Dutch dolls. Eileen had
returned to her window seat, where she could keep one eye and one half
of her mind on the mountains, and the other eye and the other half for
more mundane reflections.
“News!” exclaimed Paddy, clasping her hands ecstatically. “Oh!
scrumptious; I just love news!” while Eileen and Jack looked up
expectantly.
“We have heard from Mrs Blake this morning, and they are coming back to
Mourne Lodge,” continued Miss Jane, while Miss Mary, looking very
pleased, murmured “Yes, coming back.”
“Hurray!” cried Paddy, “Hurray! Hurray! Just think of the dances and
picnics and things. Why don’t you say you’re glad, Jack—or do something
to show it?”—and before he quite realised it, she had caught him by his
coat and pulled him half round the room. Roused instantly, Jack
proceeded to pick her up and deposit her in the corner behind the sofa,
amid frantic struggles on his victim’s part and a general flutter of
the two little ladies to protect anything breakable in their vicinity.
This, indeed, they did, partly from force of habit, for it was a
standing joke in their circle that whenever Paddy and Jack were in the
room together, Miss Jane kept her eye on one half of the room and Miss
Mary on the other, and at the first symptoms of one of their customary
“rough and tumbles,” one little lady fluttered off collecting
breakables from one side and standing guard over them, while the other
little lady did likewise on the other side.
“It’s all right!” said Jack, seeing their alert attitude, “I was only
teaching her not to take liberties with my coat. Did you ever see such
a scarecrow?” looking with delighted relish at Paddy’s generally
dishevelled appearance as she emerged from her corner. “You’d think she
ought to make a fortune with a face like that as an artist’s model for
a comic paper, wouldn’t you?”
“My dear, he’s very rude,” said little Miss Mary, patting the
dishevelled one’s hand.
“Yes, aunt, but he can’t help it, and we have to be kind to people’s
failings, haven’t we? It is something to be thankful for that you have
been able to keep him out of an asylum so long, isn’t it?” and then she
ducked hastily to escape a shower of missiles, and the two little
ladies flew off once more to the breakables.
Order being again restored, however, the news was further discussed,
and the three young people learnt with varying degrees of eagerness
that Mrs Blake intended both her girls to “come out” the next winter,
and that Lawrence Blake, the only son, was going to remain at home for
a time. This last piece of information contained in a measure the gist
of the whole for the young people, but they each received it
differently. Eileen turned her head, and with a slight flush in her
cheeks gazed steadily across the Loch. Jack looked as near being
annoyed as he felt at all warrantable, or as his insistently sunny face
would permit, and Paddy, screwing an imaginary eyeglass into her eye,
remarked in a drawl, “Remarkable! really remarkable! You are a credit
to your charming sex.”
“In whatever capacity was that?” asked Jack, as if he marvelled.
“Never mind,” retorted Paddy; “because you have not the discernment to
know a good thing when you see it, you need not suppose every one else
is similarly afflicted. How delightful it will be to have a _man_ among
us again. One gets so tired of boys!”
“You don’t mean to say you’re going to uphold Lawrence Blake!” he
exclaimed, apparently too disgusted to parry her thrust.
“Why not?” stoutly. “I’m sure he’s a most superior young man.”
“A pity he’s such a conceited ass, then,” muttered Jack, at which the
two little ladies looked pained, and while one said gently, “My dear
Jack, you must remember he is always extremely nice to us,” the other
echoed with like gentleness, “Yes, Jack, dear, remember he is always
nice to us.”
“Then I’ll say he’s a thundering good chap,” was the ready response;
“though that man or woman living could be other than nice to you passes
my comprehension.”
“Of course they couldn’t,” put in Paddy; “why I want to hug both of you
every ten minutes whenever I am with you.
“Fancy if every one else did!” she ran on, “and our feelings got the
better of us! How should you like it, aunties, if every one wanted to
keep hugging you every time they saw you, and couldn’t help themselves!
You would never dare to wear your best bonnets at all, should you?—and
I expect your caps would be everywhere but on your heads, or else would
have a perpetually rakish tilt.”
The two little ladies smiled without the least resentment, for they had
long known that the varying angle of their caps was a source of great
amusement to their large army of nephews and nieces, who stoutly
maintained that when Aunt Jane’s cap slipped awry, Aunt Mary’s quickly
did the same of its own accord, and _vice versa_, and therefore, it was
more often the cap’s fault than the owner’s.
Jack, however, stood up promptly, and pulling himself to his full
height, said, with a whimsical recollection of childhood, “Shall I be a
man, aunties, and spank her?” This highly amused both little ladies, as
it reminded them of a little mischievous girl who had pushed over her
sister on purpose, and a sturdy, blue-eyed boy, who had promptly asked
with a fiery resoluteness of purpose, “Shall I be a man, aunties, and
spank her?” It was memorable also how disappointed he had been when
told that “being a man” never meant spanking little girls at all, even
when they were mischievous.
He would, doubtless, not have waited for any verdict on the present
occasion, only just then the hearty old General entered the room, and
Paddy, the father’s darling, flew to him for protection. A general
chattering and laughing ensued, and, presently seeing her opportunity,
Eileen rose from her seat in the window, and with a curious subdued
glow in her wonderful eyes glided silently from the room.
A few minutes later she was pulsing up the mountain with a free, eager
step that not only proclaimed her an experienced climber, but bespoke a
deep delight in thus climbing to the upland solitudes alone.
“I say, daddy,” Paddy was saying, “isn’t it ripping, we’re going to
have a man-about-town here! The real, genuine thing, you know, eyeglass
and all, and as _blasé_ as they’re made. Won’t Jack look like a
countrified Irish lout with bats in his belfry!”
The General said afterward, it was nearly as good as a bit of
Tipperary’s extra-special, best Orangemen night.