Nora Creina. A novel

Front matter

NOVELS BY MRS. HUNGERFORD. "Mn. Hungerford has -j>M deserved the title of being one cf the most fascinating novelists of the day. The stories -æritten hy her are the airiest, lightest, and brightest imaginable, full of -lait, spirit, and gaiety ; but they contain, nevertheless, touches of the most exquisite pathos. There is something good in all of them. " — ACADEMT. A MAIDEN ALL F03L0RN, aad other Stories. Post 8»o, illustrated boards, 2s. ; doth limp, 2 . 6d- "Thee is no guile ta tlie norass of the authoress of * Jhl. Bawn,' nor aay amastfwcy nor analysis of character; bat they exhibet a faculty truly remarkable for reproducing tbe rapid snail-talk, the sh.Cow bat IwotmU.? - - .:' .rz ... ■--_-■_.: - 7_.\. . .1... .::_:.—..;-• - IK DURANCE VILE, and other Stories. Past 8vo, ffia^rated boards, 2s. ; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. "Mrs. Hungerfbnls Irish girls hare always been pleasant to meet upon the dusty pathways of fiction.

They are flippant, no doubt, and often send ■ratal, and they certainly flirt, and their stories aie told often in rather .:: 1- :. -. -. _. _ -z. - _ . :.i- :.7. :. 7 .'; 7 ::-.:i .^;. _: t.: -..-.; are charming all the same." — Academy. A MENTAL STRUGGLE. Post S/o, illustrated boar's, 23.: -.. ...-.--__ ; .. -' . '■"-.■-. u^ 1..^: _.-. :..--;. .7.7 ::-? '■--'-■-- :-. :-■-.-. __-.i -. . :.-_.__ t ' . ... • r.i: !- :. ----- -...-. ..--....' 77- ; .-.-:__ ._-_, .- -zizzz-. A MODERN CIRCE. Post 8ro, illustrated boards, 2s. ; cloth 2 . " Mrs. Hungerford is a distinctly a Mining author. .... In all her books there is a' healthy ahsrnrrrins*' of ethical purpose, and we hare derired more 'c-- _ '.. 7.^-L__-- 7" :. -. -.::. -■- ; ". .- . :' -'. .---. z z 1 - z. : ■ l . t.-z «**rZ~-A front a chapter of ' Robert Ekmese.' "—Saturday Review.

MARVEL. Post &vz>, illnstrated boards, 2s. ; doth, 25. 6d. " 1 be anthor has long since created an imaginary world, peopled with more œ less ™-^.""1 figures; but her many admirers acknowledge the easy grace and inexhaustible rwæ that characterise her scenes of Hibernian life, and never lire of the type of national heroine she bas made her own." Jfiftnangp 77::, LADY VERNER'S FLIGHT. Crown Sto, cloth extra, 3.. 61 : 1 it Sto, illnstrated board?, 25. ; cloth limp, 2s. od. "There are in ' Lady Vemer's Flight ' several of the bright young people -. . ■ _ .:.::-. :v, ■*..:.' :::;:'•: - . ;-; :_ ti _- : .-._._ .- j. . . . . In ail the novels by the author of 'Molly Bawn, there is a breezy fresh ness of treatment which makes them most agreeable."— Spectator. NOVELS BY MRS. HUNGERFORD— continued. THE RED-HOUSE MYSTERY.

Chapter I

11 Oh, the red rose shineth rare, And the lily saintly fair, But ray shamrock, one in three, Takes the inmost heart of me." " ' Oh, my Nora Creina, dear, My own, my artless, Nora. Creina, Nature's dress is loveliness, The dress you wear, my Nora Creina,' " sings Sophie gaily. " I always look on that as a most immoral song,'' says Nora, regarding her sister with strong disapproval — at all events with disapproval as strong as the shaky old apple branch on which she is so imprudently reclining will allow. " Just think what would happen if one did go about like that." "Thinking is superfluous," says Sophie, "when one knows. A demon policeman would at once enter from the right and carry you off to Ward 120, or 190, or something. At all events they'd put you in the lock-up. That's the worst of law and order.

Nobody can be the least little bit original nowadays without " " Without incurring public censure, true ! " says Nora with a sigh. " But anyway I wish you would not sing that hateful song at me ! I have a few rags on," with a rueful glance at the old. blue, washed-out linen she is wearing, that is so considerably the worse for the wearing, and that shows such an unkindly longing to give way at the elbows. " So I don't see why I am to be accused of indecency. Sometimes I wish I had not been christened Nora, and certainly I wish that song had never been written." " Why ? " asks Sophie, who is sitting upright on a branch opposite to her (they have climbed into the very heart of the ancient apple tree), and who is so enveloped in leaves that she has to peer through them to see her sister's face.

KOEA CKEINA. 2 A face well worth a glance ! well worth a thousand glances. "Why? As if you didn't know. As if you didn't hear every one dinning it into my ears morning, noon, and night. Not a single man comes into this place without quoting it to me." " I'm glad it is only the single men," puts in Sophie demurely. " One would think," goes on Nora, leaning forward in the rashest way, the branch creaking beneath her, "that there wasn't another girl of my name in the world ! I tel you if this persecution is to last, I'll change my name." " Well, I don't blame you," says Sophie mildly. " I confess 1 should like to get married too. Life in this old roost promises to be anything but pleasant present!)'." " Married ! Who's talking of getting married ? Non sense ! " says Miss Carew indignantly. " 1 don't want to get married.

I only meant that I should change my Christian name. I shall get re-christened some way or other, and bury the obnoxious Nora, as in story books those unpleasant people with feathers in their hair bury the hatchet." " Is that all ? " says Sophie. She stirs, and settles herself more luxuriously on the treacherous perch. " It isn't much," says she. " Not to you, perhaps. But to me " " Who has been vexing you lately, Noll ? " asks Sophie, glancing at her sister keenly. " Cyril ? " " Cyril ! No ! " As the elder Miss Carew says this she leans quickly back and so brings a branch between her and her sister's somewhat too decided, if kindly gaze. " If — if you must know, it was Mr. Carnegie. Yesterday at Aunt Maria's, he, too, called me ' Nora Creina.' Very rude 1 thought." " Not more rude of him than of Cyril."

" Oh ! Cyril ! Why Cyril is a sort of a cousin, and quite an old friend." " Mr. Carnegie is an old friend too, by all accounts." " Very old certainly — but as to being a friend " " It appears he knew us long ago, when we were little children — before he left Ireland." " Did he ? " indifferently. " I don't remember him." " I confess I don't either, but I suppose he did know us then, as he lived here until the death of his father, old Lord Connamore. After all you know I think I can remember him." " So can I." Nora laughs as if at some inward thought. " It seems so funn.y about Mr. Carnegie having a father," says she. "Does it ? Most people have one." " Yes, but he looks as if he might be his own father." " I don't see that," says Sophie. " He is not so very dilapidated in appearance as all that comes to.

He is not so really old. In spite of his grave air " " Grave-yard air ! " " He can't be more than forty." "Ah ! Do make it twenty ! " entreats Nora. " Well ! Aunt Maria says he is only thirty-three." " Aunt Maria, as we all know, would say anything." "Still, he hasn't a grey hair in his head." " I wonder what dye he uses," says Nora. At this both girls laugh involuntarily. "Well, malign him as you will, I shall stick to my own opinion. And I am glad he has come back to that nice old place. His eyes are kind — so kind. He looks as if he couldn't nag ! " " Oh ! I daresay ! " — Nora sighs. " That's a point we can appreciate," says she. "Sir Fell can nag with a vengeance ! " " Don't start that subject ! " says Sophie, " if you regard your life ! A very little storm would reduce this tree to firewood, and it would be anything but a little storm if I once began to state my private views of Sir Fell !

Talk of the typical Step-father ! Those old idiots who wrote about the orphans' woes, and their sufferings at the hands of stepparents had never known Sir Fell ! There ! let him rest ! If indeed he ever can rest with the burden of his iniquities so full upon him. We were talking of — of what, Nora ? " " Who can remember ? " says Nora indolently. " I can. Of Mr. Carnegie and Cyril, and " — mischievously — " Nora Creina." " Oh ! don't," says Nora. " As for Cyril ! A ' sort of cousin ' you call him ! Well, for my part I am glad he is only a 'sort of cousin.' I don't much care for him, do you ? " Here Sophie makes a second attempt to see her sister's i* face, and this time succeeds ; if Nora had been trying again to baffle her, she had given up the attempt in good time (finding it to be hopeless), and now regards Sophie with an artless SmilC " To ' much care ' for a person— that means so much !

" says she. "And as for you— I thought you did not care for Cyril at all." " Oh ! well. He is passable enough— sometimes, even, I think him possible. Do you know, Nora, the funny thing about Cyril is that I am never quite sure whether I do ot do not like him." "Ah! That is so natural!" says Nora, picking off a green leaf and letting it drop lightly to the ground ; she leans over to watch its descent, thus her face is lost again to view. " What is ? " asks Sophie directly. " Why, the not being sure — the uncertainty." " Well, there's one thing quite sure ; he thinks he's in love with you ! " " I wish to goodness, Sophie, you would mind your own business," says Nora, now of her own accord letting her sister see her face. A rather pale face too. " Whatever Cyril thinks, is nothing to me. He is my very good friend, and I am his.

Let it rest there." " I wish it would," says Sophie. " It does." " Then what's the meaning of his sitting in your pocket all day long ; and staring at you as if you had seven heads ? " " Perhaps that is it," with a rather uneasy laugh. " Perhaps he regards me as a natural curiosity. Monsters are much regarded." " It is not that," says Sophie. "It is because he regards your one head as a marvel of beauty." " Sophie ! " " Tut ! My good child, what's the good of posing, to me? To pretend you don't know Cyril is in love with you ? " "Or 'thinks' he is I" (Evidently that word had rankled ! ) " Just so," coolly. " To pretend that, to me." " Well— supposing he is in love with me, what then ? ' asks Nora, rather defiantly. " Nothing I hope ! " imperturbably. Nora's little fragile figure seems to shrink backwards.

Her eyes fall to her hands, clasped lightly in her lap. Even thus, with her wonderful eyes hidden, she is altogether beautiful ! Heredity has done many things for Nora Carew ! The Desmonds, the O'Connors, the Des Veauxs, were all famed for their beauty, and of them are Nora's ancestors. From the flowers of their charms she seems to have culled the sweetest colours and the choicest sweets. Like a fair, priceless lily — fragile, slender, exquisite — she stands apart, the very type of beauty perfected. Her face is as pure as dew, as clear as sunlight, and lovely beyond words. The girl herself hardly knows how good she is to look at. Such eyes ! Such lips ! The eyes so dark and blue ! The lips so gay, so sad ! And the bright nut-brown hair so full of lights and shades. It is a very colourless little face, yet healthy in its pallor, the white of it being soft, like cream.

And she is such a little creature ! Such a tiny girl ! Too slight almost for living — yet not too slight to distract the hearts of men, and set them thinking. A most slender maiden, with eyes — deep Irish eyes — set in such sweet surroundings, and with a heart too big for her flower-like body — though up to this she is hardly aware that her heart is thus arranged for sorrow, and is only just awakening to the fact that she has a heart at all in this sweet, fragile frame of hers. Just now the long dark lashes lying on her cheeks look like shadows, her lips are tremulous — the sun glinting through the gnarled old apple tree is turning her locks to gold. " No man there is but knows — Her face was white In no wise lacked there any praise at all To her most perfect and pure maidenhood : No sin I think there was in all her blood.'' Suddenly she lifts her head.

" Why do you say that, Sophie ? " says she. Her delicate cheek has caught a soft flush, her eyes are full of tears. When Nora's eyes grow full of tears, misery falls on the beholder. " I don't know," says Sophie contritely, giving in at once, and feeling herself something very little less than an assassin. "You're awfully mad with me now, Nollie ; I know you are ; you're always angry when I say a word against Cyril. And, like the parrot, I am sorry I spoke, but " She breaks off abruptly. She half rises on her bending branch. Her eyes express terror. Nora too makes a movement, and clinging to the trunk of the tree stares downwards and sidewards towards the small moss-grown path that runs almost at their feet. Beyond it, making a private entrance to the garden, is a tall, narrow iron gate overhung with ivy, and through this, Nora's horrified eyes see two men coming. " It's them ! " says she, regardless of grammar, throwing up her head, and gazing at Sophie as if petrified.

Chapter II

" O Paddy, dear, and did you hear The news that's going round ? " "So it is," says Sophie airily. "I was so afraid it was Sir Fell. Let's get down." Here she makes an attempt to put one foot on the branch below her. " Sophie," says Nora, catching her gown. " Are you mad? To go down like this!" pointing to her gown. " Oh ! you must be mad." " Nonsense ! " says Sophie. " Why it is only Bobbie and Cyril. Here ! come along." Sophie is evidently most ambitious to return to mother earth, and makes another step in that direction. But Nora holds her firmly. " Bobbie is one thing," says she. " He is our real cousin and as good as our brother, but Cyril ! Oh ! Sophie, don't. I can't go down ; and if you do, they will know I am here. And there is a great big tear in my frock just at the end of the skirt !

I did it when climbing up. Oh ! why did I climb up ? It is in ribbons ! Sophie," seeing even still an intention on the latter's part to descend. " If you go down now, I'll never forgive you ! " "But why?" demands the younger Miss Carew im patiently. "Can't you hold up your skirt. I'm sure if Bobbie saw me with my skirt in ribbons, or," thoughtfully, " without a skirt at all ! he would like me all the same! Can't you tuck it up ? I do want to see Bobbie ! I've something to say to him, and I know he has something to say to me ; and " "Go down then!" says Nora, loosing her hold of her sister's frock and drawing back her lissome figure as far as she can. " Oh ! we all know what that means," says Sophie. " Treachery and desertion. Of course I shan't desert you, and you know that. But I must say, Nora, that I think you are something of a fool !

Yes, you are t It's rude, if you like, but I keep to it." Sophie's wrath, though ex pressed in a whisper, is exceedingly strong. "A fool!" " Yes. You're afraid of him ! You're afraid of Cyril ! You think he won't go on loving you, if he sees you out of ' silk attire ' ; that he will fail to appreciate you if you don't look your best ! What a fair-weather friend ! / should hate a man if I thought he liked me only for my good looks or my frocks, or " " Be silent, Sophie ! " says Nora. Her face is very white. She has put up her hand. There is a certain dignity in her air. Sophie draws back. "You say very queer things," says Nora gently, but still with her face so very white. " You do not understand perhaps. And — at all events be silent ! They — they will hear you if you speak again." Indeed " they " are just now beneath the apple tree.

The girls sitting in the branches of it, in lieu of the orthodox hammocks they are not so happy as to possess, grow suddenly rigid. Underneath them, on the narrow path, are the new-comers. At that point in the path that brings them almost abreast of the apple tree they have paused — to finish an argument apparently. " Well, I'm sure there is some truth in it," says the taller of the two. " Perhaps," says his companion indifferently. This latter is a young man of about five feet nine or ten inches, with a quizzical eye. His nose is distinctly retrousse and his mouth is large. It would be impossible even for a girl in love with him to call him a beauty. He has, however, his compensations. For even the girl who is not in love with him would certainly declare him as loveable a fellow as there is alive.

Denis Butler if a first cousin of the Carews ; and having been left by his defunct parents the noble income of three hundred a year, is living (when at home) a somewhat embarrassed, but wholly happy existence, in an old barn, called " Banks," about two miles from Dunmore. He has just been called to the Bar. His companion is of middle height also, and a little taller than Denis Butler, but without the quizzical eye. His eye indeed is fraught with melancholy, and some thing underneath that, that is perhaps even more charac teristic. Some people, girls especially, think his glance thoughtful. It is so nice to look thoughtful ! There are, however, a few other people who have fancied it specula tive. There is a difference, of course. Cyril Ferris, in spite of his melancholy eyes, or perhaps because of them, is beyond all question handsome.

Friends and foes alike admit that. " Yes. Everyone is talking about it," says he, continuing his first remark as he and Denis Butler came to a standstill almost under the apple tree. "If people didn't talk they'd die," says Denis con temptuously. At this point Sophie, at the risk of her life, leans towards her sister. " It is frightful 1 " whispers she. " It is mean. We can hear them." "Put your fingers in your ears," whispers back Nora, suiting the action to the word ; and then, an after thought occurring to her, "and shut your eyes." Sophie, though raging, complies with both commands. It is, however, impossible for anyone under a Spartan boy to keep one's eyes and ears shut for more than two minutes at a stretch, when you know that people are con versing under a tree about two yards from you.

For one thing, you always want to know whether they have gone away, because then, of course, you need not stuff your fingers into your ears, or tighten up your lids any longer, and nobody wants to be deaf and blind longer than necessary. Sophie, after the regulation two minutes, unlocks her eyes and gives a judicious peep. At the same moment she gives her ears full play. Her hands fall into her lap. She is now staring with all her might. A word or two from below has travelled up to her. In the midst of her treachery, however, she remembers Nora and her commands. Guiltily she glances in her sister's direction to find Nora — Nora the virtuous ! — with both her hands clasped round a bough of the apple tree, and her eyes wide — very wide — open. Their glances meet through the leaves. "You are listening I" breathes Nora indignantly.

" Well, so are you ! " whispers back Sophie, with indig nation greater still. At which, after a struggle with their dignity, they both give way to voiceless mirth that shakes up the old apple tree, to their terror, though that staunch old friend is too good-natured to give them away. Meantime the voices from below grow louder. Their owners have come a few steps nearer to the tree. " I'm positive he means business," says Cyril Ferris, evidently d propos of the conversation already begun before the girl's ears had been barricaded. "Well — perhaps," says Butler, who has apparently been led by argument to almost believe in this thing, whatever it is. The girls up above, though in agonies of dismay at being thus caught in a cui de sac as it were, cannot help wondering who " he " is, and what it is all about.

" It would be of no consequence at all if it weren't for the girls." " The girls — yes," says Ferris. He moves forward and proceeds to light a match on the trunk of the old tree. Both the girls grow livid. It is too late now to disclose their position, and if discovered ! Nora half unconsciously tightens the tail of her gown round her feet, and tells her self that life is not worth living. Sophie, grows hysterical. " If this marriage of Sir Fell's comes off, the girls will be all right i suppose ? " continues Ferris, having now got his cigar in order ; as he says this, he looks at the cigar rather than his companion. " How all right ? " asks Butler. " They can't get away from him you know. He is their guardian ; their mother left ttiem to him when dying ; rather a mistake on her part." "Horrid mistake," says Ferris sympathetically.

"A good thing they will have money of their own." " Right good ! Even though they have to wait for it." "Wait?" "Well, not so long, only until they are twenty-five; or until Sir Fell dies. In the meantime " "Ah ! — In the meantime ? " " They are under his guardianship unless they marry to please him. I'm afraid," says Butler with a rather rueful laugh, " that poor suitors will have a small chance until that age has been reached." "Ridiculous arrangement!" says Ferris, letting the smoke sail slowly upwards in the quiet air, and watching it until it gets high above his head. Now indeed it is high above his head; slowly, lazily through the branches of the apple tree it goes, and Ferris's eyes, following it, catch suddenly sight of something. What is it ? A glimpse of blue — the whiteness of a small, lovely hand grasping a branch.

His eyes come down to mother earth instantly (though without criminating haste), and indeed there is nothing in his pale, melancholy face to betray to his companion or anyone the fact of his having seen anything beyond a few green leaves and the flight of his cigar-smoke heavenwards. " After all," says he calmly, though one who knew him might have noticed that now a touch of sentiment (hitherto out of it), has entered into his tone : " Why ridiculous ? They are so charming that they need not think of money, as belonging to themselves." "That's all very well," says Butler, "But I don't see why if a girl has money she should be kept out of it for ever." " Not for ever. Only until she is twenty-five you say. You see, I, being only a second cousin, know nothing about these monetary affairs, and I am glad of it too.

I want to know nothing. The girls in themselves are so delightful, that one does not even dream of money in con nection with them. They don't want it." "True ! " says Butler heartily. " No matter how small or large it may be — their fortunes I mean." " It's small enough," says Butler, shaking his head. " I wish it was more, for the poor girl's sakes, but five thousand each isn't anything worth talking about in these days you know. Still it will make them a bit independent ; and — and besides," slowly and very reluctantly, as though some hidden thought is troubling him, " and besides, they may — make — good marriages." " Dear fellow, the best of all marriages is the one that has love in it," says Ferris, giving Butler a resounding, most amiable, slap between his shoulders : " Love ! Love is a conjuror," cries he — all his melancholy seems suddenly to have taken flight.

" It will carry a man through most things : Give me a charming wife minus a penny, and I should thank the gods. What is money ? Dross ! mere dross ! " " Do you know," says Butler smiling, "I am glad now to hear you talk like that." Butler has the nicest suspicion of a biogue possible; a touch of it, that being wedded to a cultivated mind makes his voice like satin : " I fancied you a fellow to whom money would, or might, have meant a great deal." " Ah ! that's how one gets mistaken," says Ferris, smiling. "And so if — if this marriage of Sir Fell's comes off, it will not interfere with " "No. It will not interfere with them, except with regard to their personal comfort for the time being." " Ah ! " says Ferris. " Come on, old man, perhaps if we walk a little farther on, we may meet with them."

"Perhaps. But I daresay they are up at Castle Saggart," says Butler. " However, we may as well stroll about a bit, as nobody is at home." "Sir Fell of course is not," says Ferris, laughing. He tucks his arm into Butler's and leads him along the path, always in a laughing fashion, and with a merry word here and there, until they are well out of earshot of the apple tree. " Those poor girls," says he, then suddenly, with the utmost sympathy, " they won't like a stepmother I'm afraid. But it won't be for long you say " " What won't ? " " The ending of a stepmother's tyranny," with a light laugh. " Though of course she may turn out a swan. They will get their five thousand each on their twenty-fifth birthday, you say that too, don't you ? " with a languid lift ing of the speculative eyes. "That can't mean a very lengthened martyrdom.

Miss Carew must be " " Nineteen," says Butler, looking at him. " A charming age. And her sister ? " " Eighteen ! " If Butler's tone had been surprised before it is distinctly hostile now.

Chapter III

" Of cares and troubles, sure, we've all our share ; The finest summer isn't always fair." Sophie pushing the branches aside looks carefully down. The dying away of the voices as the two young men disappeared down the garden path, has reassured her. " They are gone ! " says she. She looks up at her sister. Something in Nora's eyes — her whole face — something radiant and new and lovely startles her. " Good gracious, how glad you are that they are gone ! " says she. " After all I don't believe you really " — pausing, and examining her sister's face — " really like him." " Don't you ? " says Nora. She raises herself and draws a long breath. " It was dreadful, wasn't it ? " says she, laughing softly beneath her breath. " One could not move : I feel cramped. I am sure I must look like a martyr."

"You look as I have said, glad ! " says Sophie, who has not taken her eyes off her. " Well, I am glad," says Nora. " Why should I not be ? To be on thorns, for so long, and now to be released ! It is enough to make anyone glad ! " She says it all quite easily, quite lightly. And indeed it is the truth she speaks. She is glad ; though perhaps the cause of her gladness is not the one that Sophie has sug gested. Some words are still ringing in her ears. " Love ! Love is a conjuror ! Money ! What is money ? Dross, mere dross ! " Oh ! how his voice had rung ! Even now the quiet air seems full of it. Those perfect words seem to resound from tree to tree. " We may as well get down now," says Sophie discon tentedly. "Wait — wait a moment," says Nora. "They can't be gone yet. They are walking round the garden."