Mrs. Chichester's uncompromising attitude had a great deal to do with what followed. Had she shown the slightest suggestion of fairness or kindness toward Peg things might have resulted differently.
But her adamantine attitude decided Jerry.
He resolved to fly in the face of the proprieties.
He would take the little child to the Assembly Rooms, put her in the care of his mother and sisters and safeguard at least one evening's pleasure for her.
And this he did.
He met her at the foot of the path when he saw all the lights disappear in the house.
They walked across the lawns and meadows on that beautiful July night with the moon shining down on them.
Once at the great hall his mother put the gauche little Peg at her ease, introduced her to the most charming of partners, and saw that everything was done to minister, to her enjoyment.
It was a wonderful night for Peg.
She danced every dance: she had the supper one with Jerry: she laughed and sang and romped and was the centre of all the attention. What might have appeared boldness in another with Peg was just her innocent, wilful, child-like nature. She made a wonderful impression that night and became a general favourite. She wanted it to go on and on and to never stop. When the last waltz was played, and encored, and the ball was really ended, Peg felt a pang of regret such as she had not felt for a long, long time.
It was the first real note of pleasure she had experienced in England and now it was ended and tomorrow had to be faced and the truth told. What would happen? What course would Mrs. Chichester take? Send her away? Perhaps—and then—? Peg brushed the thought away. At all events she had enjoyed that ones wonderful evening.
"Oh, I am so happy! So happy!" she cried, as Jerry led her back to her seat at the conclusion of the last dance. "Sure the whole wurrld seems to be goin' round and round and round in one grand waltz. It's the first time I've been ralely happy since I came here. And it's been through you! Through you! Thank ye, Jerry."
"I'm glad it has been through me, Peg," said Jerry quietly.
"Faith these are the only moments in life that count—the happy ones. Why can't it always be like this? Why shouldn't we just laugh and dance our way through it all?" went on Peg excitedly. The rhythm of the movement of the dance was in her blood: the lights were dancing before her eyes: the music beat in on her brain.
"I wish I could make the world one great ball-room for you," said Jerry earnestly.
"Do ye?" asked Peg tremulously.
"I do."
"With you as me partner?"
"Yes"
"Dancin' every dance with me?"
"Every one"
"Wouldn't that be beautiful? An' no creepin' back afther it all like a thief in the night?"
"No," replied Jerry. "Your own mistress, free to do whatever you wished."
"Oh," she cried impulsively; "wouldn't that be wondherful!" Suddenly she gave a little elfish chuckle and whispered:
"But half the fun to-night has been that I'm supposed to be sleepin' across beyant there and HERE I am stalin' time" She crooned softly:
"'Sure the best of all WAYS to lengthen our DAYS,Is to stale a few hours from the NIGHT, me dear.'"
"You've stolen them!" said Jerry softly.
"I'm a thief, sure!" replied Peg with a little laugh.
"You're the—the sweetest—dearest—" he suddenly checked himself.
His mother had come across to say "Good night" to Peg. In a few moments his sisters joined them. They all pressed invitations on Peg to call on them at "Noel's Folly" and with Mrs. Chichester's permission, to stay some days.
Jerry got her cloak and just as they were leaving the hall the band struck up again, by special request, and began to play a new French waltz. Peg wanted to go back but Jerry suggested it would be wiser now for her to go home since his mother had driven away.
Back across the meadows and through the lanes, under that marvellous moon and with the wild beat of the Continental Walse echoing from the ball-room, walked Peg and Jerry, side by side, in silence. Both were busy with their thoughts. After a little while Peg whispered:
"Jerry?"
"Peg?"
"What were you goin' to say to me when yer mother came up to us just now?"
"Something it would be better to say in the daylight, Peg."
"Sure, why the daylight? Look at the moon so high in the heavens."
"Wait until to-morrow."
"I'll not slape a wink thinkin' of all the wondherful things that happened this night. Tell me—Jerry—yer mother and yer sisters—they weren't ashamed o' me, were they?"
"Why of course not. They were charmed with you."
"Were they? Ralely?"
"Really, Peg."
"Shall I ever see them again?"
"I hope some day you'll see a great deal of them."
They reached the windows leading into the now famous—to Peg—living-room. He held out his hand:
"Good night, Peg."
"What a hurry ye are in to get rid o' me. An' a night like this may never come again."
Suddenly a quick flash of jealousy startled through her:
"Are ye goin' back to the dance? Are ye goin' to dance the extra ones ye wouldn't take me back for?"
"Not if you don't wish me to."
"Plaze don't," she pleaded earnestly. "I wouldn't rest aisy if I thought of you with yer arm around one of those fine ladies' waists, as it was around mine such a little while ago—an' me all alone here. Ye won't, will ye?"
"No, Peg; I will not."
"An' will ye think o' me?"
"Yes, Peg, I will."
"All the time?"
"All the time."
"An' I will o' you. An' I'll pray for ye that no harm may come to ye, an' that HE will bless ye for makin' me happy."
"Thank you, Peg."
He motioned her to go in. He was getting anxious. Their voices might be heard.
"Must I go in NOW?" asked Peg. "NOW?" she repeated.
"You must."
"With the moon so high in the heavens?"
"Someone might come."
"An' the music comin' across the lawn?"
"I don't want you to get into trouble," he urged.
"All right," said Peg, half resignedly. "I suppose you know best. Good night, Jerry, and thank ye."
"Good night, Peg."
He bent down and kissed her hand reverently.
At the same moment the sound of a high power automobile was heard in the near distance. The brakes were put on and the car came to a stand-still. Then the sound of footsteps was heard distinctly coming toward the windows.
"Take care," cried Jerry. "Go in. Someone is coming."
Peg hurried in and hid just inside the windows and heard every word that followed.
As Peg disappeared Jerry walked down the path to meet the visitor. He came face to face with Christian Brent.
"Hello, Brent," he said in surprise.
"Why, what in the world—?" cried that astonished gentleman.
"The house is asleep," said Jerry, explanatorily.
"So I see," and Brent glanced up at the darkened windows. There was a moment's pause. Then out of the embarrassing silence Jerry remarked:
"Just coming from the dance? I didn't see you there."
"No," replied the uncomfortable Brent. "I was restless and just strolled here."
"Oh! Let us go on to the road."
"Right," said the other man, and they walked on.
Before they had gone a few steps Jerry stopped abruptly. Right in front of him at the gate was a forty-horse-power "Mercedes" automobile.
"Strolled here? Why, you have your car!" said Jerry.
"Yes," replied Brent hurriedly. "It's a bright night for a spin."
The two men went on out of hearing.
Peg listened until she heard the faint sounds in the distance of the automobile being started—then silence.
She crept softly upstairs. Just as she reached the top Ethel appeared from behind the curtains on her way down to the room. She was fully dressed and carried a small travelling bag.
Peg looked at her in amazement.
"Ethel!" she said in a hoarse whisper.
"You!" cried Ethel, under her breath and glaring at Peg furiously.
"Please don't tell anyone ye've seen me!" begged Peg.
"Go down into the room!" Ethel ordered.
Peg went down the stairs into the dark room, lit only by the stream of moonlight coming in through the windows at the back. Ethel followed her:
"What are you doing here?"
"I've been to the dance. Oh, ye won't tell me aunt, will ye? She'd send me away an' I don't want to go now, indade I don't."
"To the dance?" repeated Ethel, incredulously. Try as she would she could not rid herself of the feeling that Peg was there to watch her.
"To the DANCE?" she asked again.
"Yes. Mr. Jerry took me."
"JERRY took you?"
"Yer mother wouldn't let me go. So Jerry came back for me when ye were all in bed and he took me himself. And I enjoyed it so much. An' I don't want yer mother to know about it. Ye won't tell her, will ye?"
"I shall most certainly see that my mother knows of it."
"Ye will?" cried poor, broken-hearted Peg.
"I shall. You had no right to go."
"Why are ye so hard on me, Ethel?"
"Because I detest you."
"I'm sorry," said Peg simply. "Ye've spoiled all me pleasure now. Good night, Ethel."
Sore at heart and thoroughly unhappy, poor Peg turned away from Ethel and began to climb the stairs. When she was about half-way up a thought flashed across her. She came back quickly into the room and went straight across to Ethel.
"And what are YOU doin' here—at this time o' night? An' dressed like THAT? An' with that BAG? What does it mane? Where are ye goin'?"
"Go to your room!" said Ethel, livid with anger, and trying to keep her voice down and to hush Peg in case her family were awakened.
"Do you mean to say you were going with—"
Ethel covered Peg's mouth with her hand.
"Keep down your voice, you little fool!"
Peg freed herself. HER temper was up, too. The thought of WHY Ethel was there was uppermost in her mind as she cried:
"HE was here a minnit ago an' Mr. Jerry took him away."
"HE?" said Ethel, frightenedly. "Mr. BRENT," answered Peg.
Ethel went quickly to the windows. Peg sprang in front of her and caught her by the wrists. "Were ye goin' away with him? Were ye?"
"Take your hands off me."
"Were ye goin' away with him? Answer me?" insisted Peg.
"Yes," replied Ethel vehemently. "And I AM."
"No ye're not," said the indomitable Peg holding her firmly by the wrist.
"Let me go!" whispered Ethel, struggling to release herself.
"Ye're not goin' out o' this house to-night if I have to wake everyone in it."
"Wake them!" cried Ethel. "Wake them. They couldn't stop me. Nothing can stop me now. I'm sick of this living on CHARITY; sick of meeting YOU day by day, an implied insult in your every look and word, as much as to say: 'I'M giving you your daily bread; I'M keeping the roof over you!' I'm sick of it. And I end it to-night. Let me go or I'll—I'll—" and she tried in vain to release herself from Peg's grip.
Peg held her resolutely:
"What d'ye mane by INSULT? An' yer DAILY BREAD? An' kapin' the roof over ye? What are ye ravin' about at all?"
"I'm at the end—to-night. I'm going!" and she struggled with Peg up to the windows. But Peg did not loose her hold. It was firmer than before.
"You're not goin' away with him, I tell ye. Ye're NOT. What d'ye suppose ye'd be goin' to? I'll tell ye. A wakin' an' sleepin' HELL—that's what it would be."
"I'm going," said the distracted girl.
"Ye'd take him from his wife an' her baby?"
"He hates THEM! and I hate THIS! I tell you I'm going—"
"So ye'd break yer mother's heart an' his wife's just to satisfy yer own selfish pleasure? Well I'm gladIsinned to-night in doin' what I wanted to do since it's given me the chance to save YOU from doin' the most shameful thing a woman ever did!"
"Will you—" and Ethel again struggled to get free.
"YOU'LL stay here and HE'LL go back to his home if I have to tell everyone and disgrace yez both."
Ethel cowered down frightenedly.
"No! No! You must not do that! You must not do that!" she cried, terror-stricken.
"Ye just told me yer own mother couldn't stop ye?" said Peg.
"My mother mustn't know. She mustn't know. Let me go. He is waiting—and it is past the time—"
"Let him wait!" replied Peg firmly. "He gave his name an' life to a woman an' it's yer duty to protect her an' the child she brought him."
"I'd kill myself first!" answered Ethel through her clenched teeth.
"No, ye won't. Ye won't kill yerself at all. Ye might have if ye'd gone with him. Why that's the kind of man that tires of ye in an hour and laves ye to sorrow alone. Doesn't he want to lave the woman now that he swore to cherish at the altar of God? What do ye suppose he'd do to one he took no oath with at all? Now have some sense about it. I know him and his kind very well. Especially HIM. An' sure it's no compliment he's payin' ye ayther. Faith, he'd ha' made love to ME if I'd LET him."
"What? To YOU?" cried Ethel in astonishment.
"Yes, to ME. Here in this room to-day. If ye hadn't come in when ye did, I'd ha' taught him a lesson he'd ha' carried to his grave, so I would!"
"He tried to make love to you?" repeated Ethel incredulously, though a chill came at her heart as she half realised the truth of Peg's accusation.
"Ever since I've been in this house," replied Peg. "An' to-day he comes toward me with his arms stretched out. 'Kiss an' be friends!' sez he—an' in YOU walked."
"Is that true?" asked Ethel.
"On me poor mother's memory it is, Ethel!" replied Peg.
Ethel sank down into a chair and covered her eyes.
"The wretch!" she wailed, "the wretch!"
"That's what he is," said Peg. "An' ye'd give yer life into his kapin' to blacken so that no dacent man or woman would ever look at ye or spake to ye again."
"No! That is over! That is over!"
All the self-abasement of consenting to, or even considering going with, such a creature as Brent now came uppermost. She was disgusted through and through to her soul. Suddenly she broke down and tears for the first time within her remembrance came to her. She sobbed and sobbed as she had not done since she was a child.
"I hate myself," she cried between her sobs. "Oh, how I hate myself"
Peg was all pity in a moment. She took the little travelling bag away from Ethel and put it on the table. Then with her own hands she staunched Ethel's tears and tried to quiet her.
"Ethel acushla! Don't do that! Darlin'! Don't! He's not worth it. Kape yer life an' yer heart clane until the one man in all the wurrld comes to ye with HIS heart pure too, and then ye'll know what rale happiness means."
She knelt down beside the sobbing girl and took Ethel in her arms, and tried to comfort her.
"Sure, then, cry dear, and wash away all the sins of this night. It's the salt of yer tears that'll cleanse yer heart an' fall like Holy Wather on yer sowl. Ssh! There! There! That's enough now. Stop now an' go back to yer room, an' slape until mornin', an' with the sunlight the last thought of all this will go from ye. Ssh! There now! Don't! An' not a wurrd o' what's happened here to-night will cross my lips."
She helped her cousin up and supported her. Ethel was on the point of fainting, and her body was trembling with the convulsive force of her half-suppressed sobs.
"Come to MY room," said Peg in a whisper, as she helped Ethel over to the stairs. "I'll watch by yer side till mornin'. Lane on me. That's right. Put yer weight on me."
She picked up the travelling-bag and together the two girls began to ascend the stairs.
Ethel gave a low choking moan.
"Don't, dear, ye'll wake up the house," cried Peg anxiously. "We've only a little way to go. Aisy now. Not a sound! Ssh, dear! Not a morsel o' noise."
Just as the two girls reached the landing, Peg in her anxiety stepped short, missed the top step, lost her footing and fell the entire length of the staircase into the room, smashing a tall china flower-vase that was reposing on the post at the foot of the stairs.
The two girls were too stunned for a moment to move.
The worst thing that could possibly have happened was just what DID happen.
There would be all kinds of questions and explanations. Peg instantly made up her mind that they were not going to know why Ethel was there.
Ethel must be saved and at any cost.
She sprang to her feet. "Holy Mother!" she cried, "the whole house'll be awake! Give me yer hat! Quick! An' yer cloak! An' yer bag!" Peg began quickly to put on Ethel's hat and cloak. Her own she flung out of sight beneath the great oak table.
"Now remember," she dictated, "ye came here because ye heard me. Ye weren't goin' out o' the house at all. Ye just heard me movin' about in here. Stick to that."
The sound of voices in the distance broke in on them.
"They're comin'," said Peg, anxiously. "Remember ye're here because ye heard ME. An' ye were talkin—an'—I'll do the rest. Though what in the wurrld I am GOIN' to say and do I don't know at all. Only YOU were not goin' out o' this house! That's one thing we've got to stick to. Give me the bag."
Wearing Ethel's hat and cloak and with Ethel's travelling-bag in her hand, staunch little Peg turned to meet the disturbed family, with no thought of herself, what the one abiding resolution to, at any and at all costs, save her cousin Ethel from disgrace.
"Take care, mater—keep back. Let me deal with them." And Alaric with an electric flash-light appeared at the head of the stairs, followed by his mother holding a night-lamp high over her head, and peering down into the dark room. "It was from here that the sound came, dear," she said to Alaric.
"Stay up there," replied the valiant youth: "I'll soon find out what's up."
As Alaric reached the bottom of the stairs, the door just by the staircase opened noiselessly and a large body protruded into the room covered in an equally gigantic bath robe. As the face came stealthily through the doorway, Alaric made one leap and caught the invader by the throat.
A small, frightened voice cried out:
"Please don't do that, sir. It's only me!"
Alaric flashed the electric-light in the man's face and found it was the unfortunate Jarvis.
"What are you doing here?" asked Alaric.
"I heard a disturbance of some kind and came down after it, sir," replied Jarvis, nervously.
"Guard that door then! and let no one pass. If there is any one trespassing in here I want to find 'em."
He began a systematic search of the room until suddenly the reflector from the flash-light shone full on the two girls.
Ethel was sitting back fainting in a chair, clinging to Peg, who was standing beside her trembling.
"ETHEL!" cried Alaric in amazement.
"MARGARET!" said Mrs. Chichester in anger.
"Well, I mean to say," ejaculated the astounded young man as he walked across to the switch and flooded the room with light.
"That will do," ordered Mrs. Chichester, dismissing the equally astonished footman, who passed out, curiosity in every feature.
"What are you two girls playin' at?" demanded Alaric.
"What does this mean?" asked Mrs. Chichester severely.
"Sure, Ethel heard me here," answered Peg, "an' she came in, an'—"
"What were you doing here?"
"I was goin' out an' Ethel heard me an' came in an' stopped me—an'—"
"Where were you going?" persisted the old lady.
"Just out—out there—" and Peg pointed to the open windows.
Mrs. Chichester had been examining Peg minutely. She suddenly exclaimed:
"Why, that is Ethel's cloak."
"Sure it is," replied Peg, "and this is her hat I've got an' here's her bag—" Peg was striving her utmost to divert Mrs. Chichester's attention from Ethel, who was in so tense and nervous a condition that it seemed as if she might faint at any moment. She thrust the dressing-bag into the old lady's hand. Mrs. Chichester opened it immediately and found just inside it Ethel's jewel-box. She took it out and held it up accusingly before Peg's eyes: "Her jewel-box! Where did you get this?"
"I took it," said Peg promptly.
"Took it?"
"Yes, aunt, I took it!"
Mrs. Chichester opened the box: it was full. Every jewel that Ethel owned was in it.
"Her jewels! Ethel's jewels?"
"Yes—I took them too."
"You were STEALING them?"
"No. I wasn't STEALING them,—I just TOOK 'em!"
"Why did you take them?"
"I wanted—to WEAR them," answered Peg readily.
"WEAR them?"
"Yes—wear them." Suddenly Peg saw a way of escape, and she jumped quickly at it. "I wanted to wear them at the DANCE."
"WHAT dance?" demanded Mrs. Chichester, growing more suspicious every moment.
"Over there—in the Assembly Rooms. To-night. I went over there, an' I danced. An' when I came back I made a noise, an' Ethel heard me, an' she threw on some clothes, an' she came in here to see who it was, an' it was ME, an' were both goin' up to bed when I slipped an' fell down the stairs, an' some noisy thing fell down with me—an' that's all."
Peg paused for want of breath. Ethel clung to her. Mrs. Chichester, not by any means satisfied with the explanation, was about to prosecute her inquiries further, when Alaric called out from the window:
"There's some one prowling in the garden. He's on the path! He's coming here. Don't be frightened, mater. I'll deal with him." And he boldly went up the steps leading into the alcove to meet the marauder. Ethel half rose from the chair and whispered: "Mr. Brent!" Peg pressed her back into the chair and turned toward the windows.
On came the footsteps nearer and nearer until they were heard to be mounting the steps from the garden into the alcove.
Alaric pushed his electric light full into the visitors face, and fell back.
"Good Lord! Jerry!" he ejaculated, completely astonished. "I say, ye know," he went on, "what is happening in this house to-night?"
Jerry came straight down to Mrs. Chichester.
"I saw your lights go up and I came here on the run. I guessed something like this had happened. Don't be hard on your niece, Mrs. Chichester. The whole thing was entirely my fault. I asked her to go."
Mrs. Chichester looked at him stonily.
"You took my niece to a dance in spite of my absolute refusal to allow her to go?"
"He had nothin' to do with it;" said Peg, "I took him to that dance." She wasn't going to allow Jerry to be abused without lodging a protest. After all it was her fault. She made him take her. Very, well—she would take the blame. Mrs. Chichester looked steadily at Jerry for a few moments before she spoke. When she did speak her voice was cold and hard and accusatory.
"Surely, Sir Gerald Adair knows better than to take a girl of eighteen to a public ball without her relations' sanction?"
"I thought only of the pleasure it would give her," he answered. "Please accept my sincerest apologies."
Peg looked at him in wonder:
"Sir Gerald Adair! Are YOU Sir Gerald Adair?"
"Yes, Peg."
"So ye have a title, have yez?"
He did not answer.
Peg felt somehow that she had been cheated. Why had he not told her? Why did he let her play and romp and joke and banter with him as though they had been children and equals? It wasn't fair! He was just laughing, at her! Just laughing at her! All her spirit was in quick revolt.
"Do you realise what you have done?" broke in Mrs. Chichester.
"I'm just beginning to," replied Peg bitterly.
"I am ashamed of you! You have disgraced us all!" cried Mrs. Chichester.
"Have I?" screamed Peg fiercely. "Well, if I HAVE then I am goin' back to some one who'd never be ashamed o' me, no matter what I did. Here I've never been allowed to do one thing I've wanted to. He lets me do EVERYTHING I want because he loves and trusts me an' whatever I do is RIGHT becauseIdo it. I've disgraced ye, have I? Well, none of you can tell me the truth. I'm goin' back to me father."
"Go back to your father and glad we are to be rid of you!" answered Mrs. Chichester furiously.
"I am goin' back to him—"
Before she could say anything further, Ethel suddenly rose unsteadily and cried out:
"Wait, mother! She mustn't go. We have all been grossly unfair to her. It isIshould go. To-night she saved me from—she saved me from—" suddenly Ethel reached the breaking-point; she slipped from Peg's arms to the chair and on to the floor and lay quite still.
Peg knelt down beside her:
"She's fainted. Stand back—give her air—get some water, some smelling-salts—quick—don't stand there lookin' at her: do somethin'!"
Peg loosened Ethel's dress and talked to her all the while, and Jerry and Alaric hurried out in different directions in quest of restoratives.
Mrs. Chichester came toward Ethel, thoroughly alarmed and upset.
But Peg would not let her touch the inanimate girl.
"Go away from her!" cried Peg hysterically.
"What good do ye think ye can do her? What do you know about her? You don't know anything about yer children—ye don't know how to raise them. Ye don't know a thought in yer child's mind. Why don't ye sit down beside her sometimes and find out what she, thinks and who she sees? Take her hand in yer own and get her to open her soul to ye! Be a mother to her! A lot you know about motherhood! I want to tell ye me father knows more about motherhood than any man in the wurrld."
Poor Mrs. Chichester fell back, crushed and humiliated from Peg's onslaught.
In a few moments the two men returned with water and salts. After a while Ethel opened her eyes and looked up at Peg. Peg, fearful lest she should begin to accuse herself again, helped her up the stairs to her own room and there she sat beside the unstrung, hysterical girl until she slept, her hand locked in both of Peg's.
Promising to call in the morning, Jerry left.
The mother and son returned to their rooms.
The house was still again.
But how much had happened that night that went to shaping the characters and lives of these two young girls, who were first looking out at life with the eyes and minds of swiftly advancing womanhood! One thing Peg had resolved: she would not spend another night in the Chichester home.
Her little heart was bruised and sore. The night had begun so happily: it had ended so wretchedly.
And to think the one person in whom she trusted had been just amusing himself with her, leading her to believe he was a farmer—"less than that" he had once said, and all the time he was a man of breeding and of birth and of title.
Poor Peg felt so humiliated that she made up her mind she would never see him again.
In the morning she would go back to the one real affection of her life—to the min who never hurt or disappointed her—her father.
We will now leave Peg for a while and return to one who claimed so much of the reader's attention in the early pages of this history—O'Connell.
It had not been a happy month for him.
He felt the separation from Peg keenly. At first he was almost inconsolable. He lived in constant dread of hearing that some untoward accident had befallen her.
All the days and nights of that journey of Peg's to England, O'Connell had the ever-present premonition of danger. When a cable came, signed Montgomery Hawkes, acquainting O'Connell with the news of Peg's safe arrival, he drew a long breath of relief.
Then the days passed slowly until Peg's first letter came. It contained the news of Kingsnorth's death—Peg's entrance into the Chichester family, her discontent—her longing to be back once more in New York. This was followed by more letters all more or less in the same key. Finally he wrote urging her to give it all up and come back to him. He would not have his little daughter tortured for all the advantages those people could give her. Then her letters took on a different aspect. They contained a curious half-note of happiness in them. No more mention of returning. On the contrary, Peg appeared to be making the best of the conditions in which she was placed.
These later letters set O'Connell wondering. Had the great Message of Life come to his little Peg?
Although he always felt it WOULD come some day, now that it seemed almost a very real possibility, he dreaded it. There were so few natures would understand her.
Beneath all her resolute and warlike exterior, it would take a keenly observing eye to find the real, gentle, affectionate nature that flourished in the sunshine of affection, and would fret and pine amid unsympathetic surroundings.
That Peg was developing her character and her nature during those few weeks was clear to O'Connell. The whole tone of her letters had changed. But no word of hers gave him any clue to the real state of her feelings, until one day he received a letter almost entirely composed of descriptions of the appearance, mode of speech, method of thought and expression of one "Jerry." The description of the man appealed to him, he apparently having so many things in common with the mysterious person who had so vividly impressed himself on Peg.
Apparently Peg was half trying to improve herself.
There was a distinct note of seriousness about the last letter. It was drawing near the end of the month and she was going to ask her aunt to let her stay on for another month if her father did not mind. She did not want him to be unhappy, and if he was miserable without her, why she would sail back to New York on the very first steamer. He wrote her a long affectionate letter, telling her that whatever made her happy would make HIM, too, and that she must not, on any account, think of returning to New York if she found that she was helping her future by staying with her aunt. All through the letter he kept up apparent high spirits, and ended it with a cheery exhortation to stay away from him just as long as she could; not to think of returning until it was absolutely necessary.
It was with a heavy heart he posted that letter. Back of his brain he had hoped all through that month that Peg would refuse to stay any longer in England.
Her determination to stay was a severe blow to him.
He lived entirely alone in the same rooms he had with Peg when she was summoned abroad.
He was preparing, in his spare time, a history, of the Irish movement from twenty years before down to the present day. It was fascinating work for him, embodying as it did all he had ever felt and thought or done for the "Great Cause."
In addition to this work—that occupied so many of his free hours—he would give an occasional lecture on Irish conditions or take part as adviser in some Irish pageant. He became rapidly one of the best liked and most respected of the thoughtful, active, executive Irishmen in New York City.
The night of the day following the incidents in the preceding chapter—incidents that determined Peg's future—O'Connell was sitting in his little work room, surrounded by books of reference, and loose sheets of manuscript, developing his great work—the real work of his life—because in it he would incorporate everything that would further the march of advancement in Ireland—to work and thought and government by her people.
A ring at the bell caused O'Connell to look up frowningly. He was not in the habit of receiving calls. Few people ever dared to intrude on his privacy. He preferred to be alone with his work. It passed the time of separation from Peg quicker than in any other way.
He opened the door and looked in amazement at his visitor. He saw a little, round, merry-looking, bald-headed gentleman with gold-rimmed spectacles, an enormous silk-hat, broad cloth frock-coat suit, patent boots with grey spats on them, and a general air of prosperity and good nature that impressed itself on even the most casual observer.
"Is that Frank O'Connell?" cried the little man.
"It is," said O'Connell, trying in vain to see the man's features distinctly in the dim light. There was a familiar ring in his voice that seemed to take O'Connell back many years.
"You're not tellin' me ye've forgotten me?" asked the little man, reproachfully.
"Come into the light and let me see the face of ye. Yer voice sounds familiar to me, I'm thinkin'," replied O'Connell.
The little man came into the room, took of his heavy silk-hat and looked up at O'Connell with a quizzing look in his laughing eyes.
"McGinnis!" was all the astonished agitator could say.
"That's who it is! 'Talkative McGinnis,' come all the way from ould Ireland to take ye by the hand."
The two men shook hands warmly and in a few moments O'Connell had the little doctor in the most comfortable seat in the room, a cigar between his lips and a glass of whiskey—and—water at his elbow.
"An' what in the wurrld brings ye here, docthor?" asked O'Connell.
"Didn't ye hear?"
"I've heard nothin', I'm tellin' ye."
"Ye didn't hear of me old grand-uncle, McNamara of County Sligo dyin'—after a useless life—and doin' the only thing that made me proud of him now that he's gone—may he slape in peace—lavin' the money he'd kept such a close fist on all his life to his God-fearin' nephew so that he can spind the rest of his days in comfort? Didn't ye hear that?"
"I did not. And who was the nephew that came into it?"
"Meself, Frank O'Connell!"
"You! Is it the truth ye're tellin' me?"
"May I nivver spake another wurrd if I'm not."
O'Connell took the little man's hand and shook it until the doctor screamed out to him to let it go.
"What are ye doin' at all—crushin' the feelin' out of me? Sure that's no way to show yer appreciation," and McGinnis held the crushed hand to the side of his face in pain.
"It's sorry I am if I hurt ye and it's glad I am at the cause. So it's a wealthy man ye are now, docthor, eh?"
"Middlin' wealthy."
"And what are ye doin' in New York?"
"Sure this is the counthry to take money to. It doubles itself out here over night, they tell me."
"Yer takin' it away from the land of yer birth?"
"That's what I'm doin' until I make it into enough where I can go back and do some good. It's tired I am of blood-lettin', and patchin' up the sick and ailin', fevers an' all. I've got a few years left to enjoy meself—an' I'm seventy come November—an' I mane to do it."
"How did ye find me?"
"Who should I meet in the sthreet this mornin'—an' me here a week—but Patrick Kinsella, big as a house and his face all covered in whiskers—him that I took into me own home the night they cracked his skull up beyant the hill when O'Brien came to talk to us."
"'What are yer doin' here at all?' sez I. 'Faith, it's the foine thing I'm in,' sez he. 'An' what is it?' sez I. 'Politics!' sez he, with a knowin' grin. 'Politics is it?' I asks, all innocent as a baby. 'That's what I'm doin',' sez he. 'An' I want to tell ye the Irish are wastin' their time worryin their heads over their own country when here's a great foine beautiful rich one over here just ripe, an' waitin' to be plucked. What wud we be doin' tryin' to run Ireland when we can run America. Answer me that,' sez he. 'Run America?' sez I, all dazed. 'That's what the Irish are doin' this minnit. Ye'd betther get on in while the goin's good. It's a wondherful melon the Irish are goin' to cut out here one o' these fine days,' an' he gave me a knowin' grin, shouted to me where he was to be found and away he wint."
"There's many a backslider from the 'Cause' out here, I'm thinkin'," continued the doctor.
"If it's me ye mane, ye're wrong. I'm no backslider."
"Kinsella towld me where to find ye. Sure it's many's the long day since ye lay on yer back in 'The Gap' with yer hide full o' lead, and ye cursin' the English government. Ye think different now maybe to what ye did then?"
"Sure I think different. Other times, other ways. But if it hadn't been for the methods of twenty years ago we wouldn't be doin' things so peaceably now. It was the attitude of Irishmen in Ireland that made them legislate for us. It wasn't the Irish members in Westminster that did it."
"That's thrue for ye."
"It was the pluck—and determination—and statesmanship—and unflinchin' not-to-be-quieted-or-deterred attitude of them days that's brought the goal we've all been aimin' at in sight. An' it's a happier an' more contented an' healthier an' cleaner Ireland we're seein' to-day than the wun we had to face as childhren."
"Thrue for ye agen. I see ye've not lost the gift o' the gab. Ye've got it with ye still, Frank O'Connell."
"Faith an' while I'm talkin' of the one thing in the wurrld that's near our hearts—the future of Ireland—I want to prophesy—"
"Prophesy is it?"
"That's what I want to do."
"An' what's it ye'd be after prophesying?"
"This: that ten years from now, with her own Government, with her own language back again—Gaelic—an' what language in the wurrld yields greater music than the old Gaelic?—with Ireland united and Ireland's land in the care of IRISHMEN: with Ireland's people self-respectin' an' sober an' healthy an' educated: with Irishmen employed on Irish industries, exportin' them all over the wurrld: with Ireland's heart beatin' with hope an' faith in the future—do ye know what will happen?"
"Go on, Frank O'Connell. I love to listen to ye. Don't stop."
"I'll tell ye what will happen! Back will go the Irishmen in tens o' thousands from all the other counthries they were dhriven to in the days o' famine an' oppression an' coercion an' buck-shot—back they will go to their mother counthry. An' can ye see far enough into the future to realise what THAT will do? Ye can't. Well, I'll tell ye that, too. The exiled Irish, who have lived their lives abroad—takin' their wives, like as not, from the people o' the counthry they lived in an' not from their own stock—when they go back to Ireland with different outlooks, with different manners an' with different tastes, so long as they've kept the hearts o' them thrue an' loyal—just so long as they've done that—an' kept the Faith o 'their forefathers—they'll form a new NATION, an' a NATION with all the best o' the old—the great big Faith an' Hope o' the old—added to the prosperity an' education an' business-like principles an' statesmanship o' the NEW—an' it's the BLOOD o' the great OLD an' the POWER o' the great NEW that'll make the Ireland o' the future one o' the greatest NATIONS in PEACE as she has always been in WAR."
O'Connell's voice died away as he looked out across the years to come. And the light of prophecy shone in his eyes, and the eerie tone of the seer was in his voice.
It was the Ireland he had dreamed of! Ireland free, prosperous, contented—happy. Ireland speaking and writing in her national tongue! Ireland with all the depth of the poetic nature of the peasant equal to the peer! Ireland handling her own resources, developing her own national character, responsible before the WORLD and not to an alien nation for her acts—an Ireland triumphant.
Even if he would not live to see the golden harvest ripen he felt proud to be one of those who helped, in the days of stress that were gone, her people, to the benefiting of the future generations, who would have a legacy of development by PACIFIC measures, what he and his forefathers strove to accomplish by the loss of their liberty and the shedding of their blood.
"Sure it's the big position they should give you on College Green when they get their own government again, Frank O'Connell," the little doctor said, shaking his head knowingly.
"The race has been everythin' to me: the prize—if there's one—'ud be nothin'. A roof to me head and a bite to eat is all I need by day—so long as the little girl is cared for."
"An' where is the little blue-eyed maiden? Peg o' your heart? Where is she at all?"
"It's in London she is."
"London!"
"Aye. She's with an aunt o' hers bein' educated an' the like"
"Is it English ye're goin' to bring her up?" cried the doctor in horror and disgust. "No, it's not, Docthor McGinnis—an' ye ought to know me betther than to sit there an' ask me such a question. Bring her up English? when the one regret o' me life is I never knew enough Gaelic to tache her the language so that we'd be free of the English speech anyway. Bring her up English! I never heard the like o' that in me life."
"Then what is she doin' there at all?"
"Now listen, McGinnis, and listen well—an' then we'll never ask such a question again. When the good Lord calls me to Himself it's little enough I'll have to lave little Peg. An' that thought has been throublin' me these years past. I'm not the kind that makes money easily or that kapes the little I earn. An' the chance came to give Peg advantages I could never give her. Her mother's people offered to take her and it's with them she has been this last month. But with all their breedin' an' their fine manners and soft speech they've not changed Peg—not changed her in the least. Her letthers to me are just as sweet an' simple as if she were standin' there talkin' to me. An' I wish she were standin' here—now—this minnit," and his eyes filled up and he turned away.
McGinnis jumped up quickly and turned the tall, bronzed man around with a hand on each shoulder—though he had to stand tip-toe to do it, and poured forth his feelings as follows:
"Send for her! Bring her back to ye! Why man, yer heart is heavy without her; aye, just as yer HAIR is goin' grey, so is yer LIFE without the one thing in it that kapes it warm and bright. Send for her! Don't let the Saxons get hold of her with their flattherin' ways and their insincerities, an' all. Bring her back to ye and kape her with ye until the right man comes along—an' he must be an Irishman—straight of limb an' of character—with the joy of livin' in his heart and the love of yer little girl first to him in the wurrld, an' then ye'll know ye've done the right thing by her; for it's the only happiness yer Peg'll ever know—to be an Irish wife an' an Irish mother as well as an Irish daughther. Send for her—I'm tellin' ye, Frank O'Connell, or it's the sore rod ye'll be makin' for yer own back."
McGinnis's words sank in.
When they parted for the night with many promises to meet again ere long, McConnell sat down and wrote Peg a long letter, leaving the choice in her hands, but telling her how much he would like to have her back with him. He wrote the letter again and again and each time destroyed it. It seemed so clumsy.
It was so hard to express just what he felt. He decided to leave it until morning.
All that night he tossed about in feverish unrest. He could not sleep. He had a feeling of impending calamity.
Toward dawn he woke, and lighting a lamp wrote out a cable message:
Miss Margaret O'Connellc/o Mrs. ChichesterRegal Villa, Scarboro, England
Please come back to me. I want you.Love fromYour Affectionate Father
Relieved in his mind, he put the message on the table, intending to send it on his way to business. Then he slept until breakfast-time without a dream.
His Peg would get the message and she would come to him.
At breakfast a cable was brought to him.
He opened it and looked in bewilderment at the contents:
"Sailing to-day for New York on White Star boat Celtic. Love. Peg."