"Oh, I broke a leg, and cracked my skull, and broke a few ribs. Went to
bed for a while. Then got up--went out for a walk--got drenched
through--pneumonia and pleurisy--eternal bed. Hard lines, wasn't it?"
"Who nursed you?"
"Two of 'em. When I was a bit off my head you wouldn't believe how they
worried me. You see, one had a red face and a blaze of red-gold hair,
and the other had a great, pale moon-face and black hair, and the
red-gold one was the night nurse, and the pale one the day nurse. I got
sort of mixed and thought one was the sun and the other the moon, and I
yelled and shouted and made such a row that they had to change! I
couldn't stand having the sun blazing at night, and the moon by day.
Funny, wasn't it?"
Nell was looking into the fire.
"Where were you?"
"House in Gowan Square, you know."
"But who--nursed you?"
"Those two poor things. I believe I led them an awful life--when I
wasn't off my head, too! I got so beastly sick of it--" He stopped
abruptly.
"Wasn't there anyone--I mean--your aunt--" But her voice died on the
word, as she pictured that lady, with her bangles, her chains, rattling
in a sick room.
A twinkle crept into his eye.
"They hate sick rooms, and," gravely, "they excited me."
She smiled.
"So you just had those two nurses?"
"And the doctor. I've got an awfully decent cousin--second cousin--down
in Cornwall. She's married--has two little girls--she'd have come up,
but one of them was ill."
She was silent.
"I'm awfully strong, though," he protested anxiously. "Yesterday I
whined to the doctor because I can't do things same as I used to, yet,
and he said, 'If you weren't as strong as a horse, you'd have been dead
twice over by now!' He's got Irish blood in his veins, I fancy!"
She smiled absently.
"Why aren't you down in the country?"
"I did go for a while, but you see--well, I'm going up to Cambridge as
soon as Dr. Murray will let me, and I don't want to get too far behind.
So I'm attending classes and that sort of thing--as much as I'm
allowed," with a rueful smile.
"I think," said Nell, in her charming, softest voice, "you're just a
hero!"
"A--a _what_? Good Heavens, what have I done? What have I been
saying?"
She turned suddenly, unheeding his ludicrous dismay, and stretching
across, opened a little drawer in the table. She took out a bundle of
photographs and handed him one.
"That's Acushla!" she said with a queer little breathless note in her
voice. "I had to sell her."
He glanced at her swiftly, and looked down at the photograph. Nell was
making amends. In her rush of disgust at all the unkind things she had
thought of him, in the pity that made her heart ache, she instinctively
took him close as a friend.
"That is the Colleen Bawn. She belonged to all of us. Dad bought her
for fourteen pounds of an awful old pedler! She looked dreadful; you
could count all her ribs--and dirty--and her tail! Well, it isn't very
grand there, but I don't believe it had more than fourteen hairs in it
when dad bought her--pound a hair, we always said. She was lame, and had
a great bare patch on her right shoulder. But we fattened her up, and
groomed her, and you wouldn't believe how she could go! And jump! She'd
jump anything, if she saw anything in front of her. That was her fad.
She couldn't stand anyone's getting in front of her. She's taken me
clear over a wall that even Denis's best hunter can't manage without
knocking down a stone or two. She's rather big and bony, but there's
something rather fine about her head, I think."
He nodded.
"That's a jolly colt!"
"He is Sheila Pat's. We haven't sold him. We dared not. I believe it
would have made her ill--really ill, I mean. The parting nearly did, in
any case."
She showed him all the photographs--even the dim ones that needed to be
looked at very closely, when, with time and patience, a horse, perhaps
several horses, mostly jumping or galloping, and riders would slowly
disentangle themselves from the surrounding gloom.
"I confess that our climate isn't an ideal one for taking photographs!"
she laughed. "Most of those were taken in the rain or a mist." She
rose. "I want to show you something else."
She fetched a little oil painting of Acushla.
"By Jove!" he said, and studied it in silence.
"Mr. O'Neil--my master--says it's the best thing I've ever done."
"It's splendid! She's a beauty! Just look at her legs--and the colour.
What a glorious little beast she is! I don't know when I've seen a more
beautiful head and shape."
"Mr. O'Neil came upon me just when I'd done that, and he burst out,
'Good! Good! Good!' He doesn't believe in praise, you know, and
directly he'd said that he pulled himself up. 'But might be better!' he
said, and he glared into my face, and groaned out: 'I believe you're
pleased with it! I wash my hands of you! You'll never be a painter!
Go away! You should be weeping that you can't do better!' It took all
my eloquence to convince him that I didn't think it was good, only
better work than I had been doing. But I made him laugh, by
representing how pleased he'd be if he always came upon me sitting
weeping into my pinny, and then he cheered up, and slanged my poor
little painting with tremendous energy!"
"Beast!"
"He's a dear old man, but he has a theory that complacency is the curse
of art. He declares that talent is choked by it, and so never rises.
You should always be dissatisfied with your work--always feel you _must_
do better, or die in the attempt. Now, if I were to listen to your
praise, it would do me incalculable harm, according to him."
He smiled whimsically.
"I don't think even he'd mind my praise!"
"I don't agree with him," she pursued thoughtfully, "unless, of course,
a person is naturally conceited and complacent, and then I don't think
it matters one way or the other; the person will remain complacent
anyway. But I think a little praise cheers one up! I'm just delighted
you think that good!"
"It's more than good," earnestly.
"Oh, if he could hear you! And me!"
She stooped to pick up from the floor a sheet of foreign note-paper
scrawled over with large uneven writing.
"Sheila Pat," she said, "to-morrow's mail day. We write an awful lot.
But we can't get any letters from them yet."
She took the photographs from him and put them away in the drawer.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
She turned to him with a little laugh, and held out her hand.
"I've been awfully mean--had mean thoughts about you--been rude to you."
Her words tumbled out in a soft little jumble. "I'm sorry."
He grasped her hand.
"Not you--I say--" he stammered.
"I'm going to call you Ted, and you may call me Nell. I feel as if I've
known you for ages, and the other's so stiff, and we'll be friends 'till
the sun has burnt itself down to the bigness of a farthing rushlight,'
shall we?"
"Er--yes--"
She teased him, her dimples dancing.
"Say, 'Yes, Nell!'"
"Yes, N-N-_Nell_!"
*CHAPTER XVIII*
Christmas was drawing very near. The stock of stuffed animals was
growing large; toys overflowed the Stronghold. A pillow-case, purloined
from the bed in the spare room, did duty as a bag to hold some of them.
In a spasm of artistic joy Nell had painted a rough sketch of a hunting
scene on it, and they lived in terror that Miss Kezia would see it.
The doll's house was furnished throughout; in the bedroom two little
dolls in white night-dresses lay in bed. In the dining room three sat
at the table. They had intended to dress two more for the nursery, but
Nell, having put in the last stitch on the fifth doll, flung it down on
to the table, jumped up: "Denis, come dance with me! Not another
hateful little doll will I touch! They drive me crazy! Little, fiddley
things! I'm doing enough sewing lately to canonise me as Saint Eileen
of the needle!"
They waltzed out on to the landing and down the stairs, improvising
fancy steps to a tune Denis carolled out as they went. Into the kitchen
they came, round the table they danced, while Sarah gaped.
"Bet I can do an Irish jig on the garden wall!" declared Denis suddenly.
"So can I!"
It was in the height of the jig that Miss Kezia and a friend who was
paying her an afternoon call looked forth into the garden. All along,
back windows were up, and heads looking out. For Denis had a beautiful
voice and he sang as he danced--rather spasmodically, as one foot and
then the other landed on space instead of the wall, but very heartily.
Miss Kezia's friend was a somewhat prim and stiff-necked matron, and she
was a good deal scandalised. Miss Kezia was considerably annoyed; but
before she could open the window, the jig stopped abruptly, Denis leapt
from the wall and after him Nell, and both started in chase of a small
figure which had come out into the garden and defied them to catch it.
Mysterious shopping expeditions took place about this time. The Atom,
not allowed to go out alone, chose Sarah as her escort while she
purchased Christmas presents. Miss Kezia unexpectedly gave her sanction
to the arrangement. A queer sort of mutual recognition of worth had
grown up between the Atom and Miss Kezia. Sheila Pat discussed her
gravely with Nell.
"I do think she's worthy, Nell. Sarah says she is, and she says she
wouldn't leave here because you never know what you might get. She's
very _just_, you see. Some mistresses are awful; they blame you for
things like the taps leakin' and the chimney smokin', when they're
cross. Aunt Kezia never does. I think she's rather nice to talk to
sometimes," thoughtfully, "and she's very honest--she told me she was
always quite ugly, and she's got some beautiful animals all worked in
silk that her mother did when she was quite young, and you see, she
can't help bein' borned Scotch!"
On her part Miss Kezia went so far as, "I do not understand Sheila, but
there is a solid layer of goodness beneath her eccentricities." The
truth was, Miss Kezia, angry, bewildered, worried, as she so often was
in these days, nevertheless found an unexpected partiality developing
within her for the young O'Briens,--an unexpected recognition of their
charm.
What with finishing presents, buying them, packing up the hospital toys,
and fighting various little imps who whispered things about this time
last year, they found those days before Christmas pretty full.
One evening some carollers came and sang lustily in the road outside the
house. As they began, the front door was opened and Miss Kezia's grim
voice bade them begone. But upstairs there was a wild scamper to a
bedroom window--it was flung up--and pennies came hurtling through the
air--"Go on! Please, go on!" and voices at the window joined lustily
in. For the song the carollers sang was "Rory O'More."
"Young Rory O'More courted Kathaleen bawn,
He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn;
He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,
And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.
'Now, Rory, be aisy,' sweet Kathleen would cry,
Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,
'With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about;
Faith, you've teaz'd till I've put on my cloak inside out.'
'Oh, jewel!' says Rory, 'that same is the way
You've thrated my heart for this many a day,
And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not, to be sure?
For 'tis all for good luck,' says bold Rory O'More."