Chapter 30 Light O' the Morning by L. T. Meade
THE LION IN HIS CAGE
The Squire was better, and not better. He had received a very nasty flesh-wound in the thigh; but the bullet had been extracted. There was not the slightest clew to the identity of his would-be murderer. The Squire himself had said nothing. He had been found almost bleeding to death by the roadside; the alarm had been given, and in terror and consternation his own tenants had brought him home.
The Squire could have said a good deal, but he said nothing. The police came and asked him questions, but he kept his lips closed.
“I didn't see the man,” he said after a pause. “Somebody fired, of course; but I can't tell who, for I saw no one; it was from behind the hedge. Why the scoundrel who wanted to do for me didn't shoot a little higher up puzzles me. But there, let it rest—let it rest.”
And the neighbors and the country had to let it rest, for there was no evidence against anyone. Amongst those who came to inquire after the Squire was Andy Neil. He came often, and was full of commiseration, and loudly cursed the brute who had very nearly done for his old landlord. But the neighbors had suspicions with regard to Andy, for he had been turned out of his cot in the mountains, and was living in the village now. They scowled at him when he passed, and turned aside; and his own face looked more miserable than ever. Still, he came daily up to the big kitchen to inquire for the Squire.
The doctor said there was no reason whatever why Mr. O'Shanaghgan should not get quite well. He was by no means old—not more than fifty; there was not the slightest occasion for a break-down, and yet, to all appearance, a break-down there was. The Squire got morose; he hardly ever smiled; even Nora's presence scarcely drew a hearty guffaw from his lips. The doctors were puzzled.
“What can be wrong?” they said. But Nora herself knew very well what was wrong. She and her father were the only ones who did know. She knew that the old lion was dying in captivity; that he was absolutely succumbing to the close and smothered life which he was now leading. He wanted the free air of his native mountains; he wanted the old life, now gone for ever, back again.
“It is true the place is saved, Norrie,” he said once to his daughter, “and I haven't a word to say. I would be the most ungrateful dog in existence if I breathed a single word of complaint. The place is saved; and though it nominally belongs now to your Uncle George, to all intents and purposes it is my place, and he gives me to understand that at my death it goes to my boy. Yes, he has done a noble deed, and of course I admire him immensely.”
“And so do I, father,” said Nora; but she looked thoughtful and troubled; and one day, after she had been in her father's room for some time, when she met her uncle in the avenue she spoke to him.
“Well, my dear girl,” he said, “what about coming back with me to England when I go next week?”
“It is not to be thought of, Uncle George. How can I leave my father while he is ill?”
“That is true. I have been thinking about him. The doctors are a little distressed at his growing weakness. They cannot quite understand it. Tonics have been given to him and every imaginable thing has been done. He wants for nothing; his nourishment is of the best; still he makes no way. It is puzzling.”
“I don't think so,” said Nora.
“What do you mean, my dear girl?”
“You might do all that sort of thing for an eagle, you know,” said Nora, raising her clear eyes and fixing them on her uncle's face. “You might give him everything in his prison, much more than he had when he was free; but, all the same, he would pine and—and he would die.” Tears rose to the girl's eyes; she dashed them away.
“My dear little Nora, I don't in the least see the resemblance,” said Mr. Hartrick, who felt, and perhaps justly, rather nettled. “You seem to imply by your words that I have done your father an injury when I secured the home of his ancestors for him.”
“Oh, forgive me, Uncle George,” said Nora. “I don't really mean to say anything against you, for you are just splendid.”
Mr. Hartrick did not reply; he looked puzzled and thoughtful. Nora, after a moment's silence, spoke again.
“I am most grateful to you. I believe you have done what is best—at least what you think best. You have made my mother very happy, and Terence will be so pleased; and the tenants—oh! they will get their rights now, their cabins will be repaired, the roofs mended, the windows put in fresh, the little gardens stocked for them. Oh, yes, you are behaving most generously. Anyone would suppose the place belonged to you.”
“Which it does,” muttered Mr. Hartrick under his breath.
“You have made a great many people happy, only somehow—somehow it is not quite the way to make my father happy, and it is not the way to make me happy. But I have nothing more to say, except that I cannot leave my father now.”
“You must come to us after Christmas, then,” said Mr. Hartrick. “I must go back next week, and I shall probably take Molly with me.”
“Oh! leave her with me here,” said Nora suddenly. “I do wish you would; the air here is so healthy. Do let her stay, and then perhaps after Christmas, when things are different, we might both go back.”
“Of course things will be different,” said Mr. Hartrick. “A new doctor is coming to see your father next week, and he will probably change the régime; he may order him fresh air, and before long we shall have him strong and well amongst us again. He has absolutely nothing wrong except——”
“Except that he has everything wrong,” said Nora.
“Well, well, my dear child, I will think over your suggestion that Molly should stay with you; and in the meantime remember that we are all coming to O'Shanaghgan for Christmas.”
“All of you!” said Nora in dismay.
“Yes, all of us. Your aunt has never spent a real old-fashioned Christmas in her life, and I mean her to have it this year. I shall bring over some of our English habits to this place. We will roast an ox whole, and have huge bonfires, and all kinds of things, and the tenantry shall have a right good time. There, Nora, you smile; that pleases you.”
“You are so kind,” she said. She clasped his hands in both of hers, and then turned away.
“There never was anyone kinder,” thought the girl to herself; “but all the same he does not understand.” She re-entered the house and went up to her father's room.
The Squire was lying on his back. The days were now getting short, for November had begun. There was a big fire in the grate; the Squire panted in the hot room.
“Just come in here,” he said to Nora. “Don't make much noise; lock the door—will you, pet?”
Nora obeyed.
“Now fling the window wide open; let me get a breath of air.”
Nora did open the window, but the air was moist and damp from the Atlantic, and even she, fearless as she was, hesitated when she heard her father's cough.
“There, child, there,” he said; “it's the lungs beginning to work properly again. Now then, you can shut it up; I hear a step. For Heaven's sake, Nora, be quick, or your mother may come in, and won't she be making a fuss! There, unlock the door.”
“But you are worse, father; you are worse.”
“What else can you expect? They don't chain up wild animals and expect them to get well. I never lived through anything of this sort before, and it's just smothering me.”
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan entered the room.
“Patrick,” she said, “would you like some sweetbread and a bit of pheasant for your dinner?”
“Do you know what I'd like?” roared the Squire. “A great big mealy potato, with a pinch of salt.”
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan uttered a sigh, and the color rushed into her pale cheeks.
“Upon my word,” she said, “you are downright vulgar.”
The Squire gave a feeble guffaw. Nora's heart beat as she noticed how feeble it was. She left the room, because she could not stay there another moment. The time had come to act. She had hesitated long, but she would hesitate no longer. She ran downstairs. The first person she saw was Molly.
“Well,” said Molly, “how is he?”
“Very bad indeed,” said Nora; “there's not a moment to lose. Something must be done, and quickly.”
“What can be done?”
“Come out with me; I have a thought in my head.”
Nora and Molly went outside. They crossed the avenue, went along the plantation at the back, and soon found themselves in the huge yard which flanked the back of the house. In a distant part of the yard was a barn, and this barn Nora now entered. It was untidy; the doors fitted badly; the floor was of clay. It was quite empty.
Nora gave a sigh of relief.
“I dreamed of this barn last night,” she said. “I think it is the very place.”
“For what, Nora; for what?”
“I am going to have father moved here to-day.”
“Nora, what nonsense you are talking! You will kill him.”
“Save his life, you mean,” said Nora. “I am going to get a bedstead, a straw paillasse, and an old hard mattress, and I am going to have them put here; and we'll get a bit of tarpaulin to put on the floor, to prevent the damp coming up; and I'll put a curtain across this window so that he needn't have too much draught, the darling; and there shall be nothing else in the room except a wooden table. He shall have his potatoes and salt, and his bit of salt bacon, if he wishes, and he shall have his great big bare room. I tell you what it is, Molly, he'll never get well unless he is brought here.”
“What a girl you are! But how will you do it?”
“Leave it to me. Do you mind driving with me on the outside car as far as Cronane?”
“The outside car? I have never been on it yet.”
“Oh, come along; I'll introduce you to the sweetest conveyance in the world.”
Nora's spirits rose at the thought of immediate action.
“Won't it surprise and delight him?” she said. She went up to one of the grooms. He was an English groom, and was somewhat surprised at the appearance of the young lady in the yard.
“What can I do for you, miss?” he said.
“I want Angus,” answered Nora. “Where is he?”
Angus was one of the few old Irish servants who were still left at Castle O'Shanaghgan. He now came forward in a sheepish kind of way; but when he saw Nora his face lit up.
“Put one of the horses to the outside car at once—Black Bess if you can,” said Nora.
“Yes, miss,” said the man, “with all the pleasure in life.”
“Don't take it round to the front door. Miss Molly and I want to drive to Cronane. You needn't come with us, Angus; just put the horse to, and I'll drive myself.”
Accordingly, in less than ten minutes' time the two girls were driving in the direction of Cronane. Molly, brave as she was, had some difficulty in keeping on. She clung to the sides of the car and panted.
“Nora, as sure as Jehoshaphat and Elephants, I'll be flung out on to the highroad!” cried Molly.
“Sit easy and nothing will happen,” said Nora, who was seated comfortably herself at the other side and was driving with vigor.
Presently they reached Cronane, which looked just as dilapidated as ever.
“Oh, the darling place! Isn't it a relief to see it?” said Nora. “Don't I love that gate off its hinges! It's a sight for sore eyes—that it is.”
They dashed up the avenue and stopped before the hall door.
Standing on the steps—where, indeed, he spent most of his time—and indulging in the luxury of an old church-warden pipe, was Squire Murphy. He raised a shout when he saw Nora, and ran down the steps as fast as he could.
“Why, my bit of a girl, it's good to see you!” he cried. “And who is this young lady?”
“This is my cousin, Molly Hartrick. Molly, may I introduce you to Squire Murphy?”
“Have a grip of the paw, miss,” said Squire Murphy, holding out his great hand and clasping Molly's.
“And now, what can I do for you, Nora alannah? 'Tis I that am glad to see you. There's Biddy in the house, and the wife; they'll give you a hearty welcome, and no mistake. You come along right in, the pair of yez; come right in.”
“But I cannot,” said Nora. “I want to speak to you alone and at once. Can you get one of the boys to hold the horse?”
“To be sure. Dan, you spalpeen! come forward this minute. Now then, hold Black Bess, and look alive, lad. Well, Nora, what is it?”
Molly stood on the gravel sweep, Nora and the Squire walked a few paces away.
“It's this,” said Nora; “you haven't asked yet how father is.”
“But he is doing fine, they tell me. I see I'm not wanted at O'Shanaghgan; and I'm the last man in the world to go there when the cold shoulder is shown to me.”
“Oh! they would never mean that,” said Nora, in distress.
“Oh, don't they mean it, my dear? Haven't I been up to the Castle day after day, and asking for the Squire with my heart in my mouth, and ready to sit by his side and to colleague with him about old times, and raise a laugh in him, and smoke with him; and haven't I been repelled?—the Squire not well enough to see me; madam herself not at home. Oh, I know their ways. When you were poor at O'Shanaghgan, then Squire Murphy was wanted; but now that you're rich, Squire Murphy can go his own way for aught you care.”
“It is not true, Mr. Murphy,” said the girl, her bright blue eyes filling with tears. “Oh!” she added, catching his hand impulsively, “don't I know it all? But it's not my father's fault; he would give the world to see you—he shall see you. Do you know why he is ill?”
“Why so, Nora? Upon my word, you're a very handsome girl, Nora.”
“Oh, never mind about my looks now. My father is ill because—because of all the luxury and the riches.”
“Bedad, then, I'm glad to hear it,” said the Squire of Cronane. He slapped his thigh loudly. “It's the best bit of news I have heard this many a day; it surprised me how he could put up with it. And it's killing him?”
“That's about it,” said Nora. “He must be rescued.”
“I'll do what I can,” said Squire Murphy. “Will you do this? Will you this very day get out the long cart and have an old bedstead put into it, and an old paillasse and an old mattress; and will you see that it is taken over this very afternoon to O'Shanaghgan? I'll be there, and the bedstead shall be put up in the old barn, and father shall sleep in the barn to-night, and you and I, Squire, and Hannah Croneen, and Molly, will help to move him while the rest of the family are at tea.”
The Squire stared at Nora so long after she had made these remarks that she really thought he had taken leave of his senses; then he burst into a great loud laugh, clapped his hand to his side, and wrung Nora's until she thought he would wring it off. Then he turned back to the house, walking so fast that Nora had to run after him. But she knew that she had found her ally, and that her father would be saved.