The O'Connors of Ballinahinch

Front matter

popular one-volume novels. AVENGED ON SOCIETY. By H. F. WOOD, Author of 'The Englishman of the Rue Cain,' 'The Passenger from Scotland Yard,' etc. Crown 8vo, 6s. THE NAULAHKA. A Tale of West and East. By Rudyaed Kipling and Wolcott Balestier. Second Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s. COME LIVE WITH ME AND BE MY LOVE. By Robert Buchanan, Author of 'The Moment After,' 'The Coming Terror,' etc. Crown 8vo, 5s. A QUESTION OF TASTE. By Maarten Maartens, Author of ' An Old Maid's Love,' etc. Crown 8vo, 5s. INCONSEQUENT LIVES. A Village Chronicle. By J. H. Pearce, Author of ' Esther Pentreath,' etc. Crown 8vo, 5s. THE PENANCE OF PORTIA IAMES. By Tasma, Author of 'Uncle Piper of Piper's Hill,' etc. Crown 8vo, 5s. ACCORDING TO ST. JOHN. By Ami_.lie Rives, Author of ' The Quick or the Dead.' Crown 8vo, 5s. LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN, 21 Bedford Street, W.C. i;y MRS. HUNGERFORD AUTHOR OF ' MOLLV BAWN,' ' NOR WIFE NOR MAID,' RTC. LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN i893 [All rights reserved.] TO MY COUSIN MARY HAMILTON IN MEMORY OF A DAY THAT I HOPE SHE TOO REMEMBERS St. Brenda's

Chapter I

' To mortal men great loads allotted be, But of all packs, no pack like poverty.' ' Poor old Dad ! ' says Kitty, softly sigh ing. Kitty could hardly do anything but softly, she is so fair and so plump. Fat is a horrid word ! We always call Kitty plump, it sounds so much better. She is two years younger than Geraldine (who is twenty-one) and a year older than I am. Her height is about five feet nothing, and she has melting blue eyes, and a lovely mouth, and the jolliest temper I know. I do love Kitty ! ' Oh ! it 's a shame, a shame ! ' cry I, with all the vehemence that characterises me. ' Fancy his having to give up his hunter, A and hunting is just the one thing he loves best. Darling Dad! I can't bear to think of it.' 'And just at the end of his life, too,' says Geraldine, who, for her, seems won derfully sympathetic.

Of the three of us, Geraldine is the one least likely to give herself away on the score of emotion. She is tall and dark, and rather Spanish in appearance. The south of Ireland has pro duced these Spanish types every now and then, ever since the landing (as they say) of the Spanish Armada. But they say so many things nowadays that one never feels sure of the truth of anything. At all events, Geraldine is as dark as though a southern clime had ripened her, whilst as for me — I am nothing — nothing at all. A mere 'twixt and between — a sort of balance for the other two. Geraldine is taller than I am — a very little taller — Kitty is shorter ; Geraldine is darker, Kitty is fairer ; Ger aldine is what is generally called a ' fine girl ' (though you couldn't possibly make her madder than to tell her so, and, indeed, Kitty and I reserve this expression for occasions when Geraldine hasn't been to us all she ought to be) ; Kitty, as I have said, is plump, whereas I am so tall and so thin that they all laugh at me, and make unkind jokes about the ' lean kine,' and all that sort of thing.

I don't believe, however, I am half as bad to look at as they make me out, though, of course, I wish my nose was a bit straighter ; but my eyes are nice anyway, real Irish eyes, grey with a smudge beneath them, and Dad says I 'm the image of my great grandmother, Madam O'Connor ; and she was a toast in her day. Dad says I '11 be the flower of the flock yet, but I misdoubt my nose, and my hair is awfully hard to keep tidy. In spite of the unmistakable note of sympathy in Geraldine's last words they anger me. ' I don't see why it should be the end of his life,' say I, with a frown. ' Neither do I,' says Kitty resentfully. ' He can't be more than sixty, anyway, and it's going against the Bible to call a man old till he 's seventy.' BALLINAHLNCH 4 ' He looks as young as any one' continued I fiercely. c He is not as young as you, at all events,' says Geraldine calmly, ' and, as you say, he is sixty.

And to be worried at his age means ' She pauses, and draws a deep breath. ' It means many things,' she says. ' Oh ! I wish, I wish we could do some thing,' says Kitty, half crying. ' What fools girls are ! They can do nothing on earth but sit at home and cast ashes on their heads, or something else equally ludicrous and useless.' ' They can do more than that, surely,' says Geraldine, who sits always on the opposition bench. ' They can cook and sew, and ' ' Oh, I dare say,' says Kitty impatiently. ' They can do many things, a thousand things, but not one single thing that can bring in even a hundred a year. At least, we can't ! What can we do, for instance, that will save Dad from selling Blueskin ? ' 'Oh, dear Blueskin!' say I, and forth with I burst into tears. I am the crying one of the family.

On all occasions, on every occasion, I can be relied upon for ' Tears, idle tears.' Even Kitty's melting blue eyes have never turned out as many tears as my grey ones. I am ready at any moment to weep the woes of the family ; but never, since the rents have begun to fail us, have I felt so hearty a desire to cry as now, when Dad's lovely hunter has to be sold to pay some pressing debts. Well, thank God ! we always have paid our debts up to this, and though the old house, that once was the finest in the country, is now a barren desert, still, to owe no man aught is as proud a boast as one can deliver. Oh ! if all those tales of grandfather's re puted wealth had but been true ! But it seems — miser as he was — that he died penniless. I have always hated his memory, because they say he hated Dad !

Truly, my tears now are not altogether idle. Who could but weep the downfall of a good old name. Dear old Dad ! Dar ling Dad ! To think that things have come to such a sad pass with him, that he must deprive himself of the one great pleasure of his declining years. For though I quite hated Geraldine for saying that, about the end of his life, there is no doubt but that there was a time when he was younger ! So no more hunting for poor Dad. That 's what it really means. And all because those hateful tenants have had it all their own way, and are now paying only a third of their rents. As if the land wasn't Dad's — his very own ! I call it scandalous that one must give up the good acres that no doubt one's forefathers fought hard for and spent their blood to gain ! But there is no justice nowadays ; and, anyway, I think the Queen ought to send Dad a good hunter in place of dear old Blueskin !

Fancy a meet here, in this county, with not one O'Connor on the field ! Oh ! it 's bad to think on ! ' After all,' says Kitty, with a view to consoling me, ' if he sells Blueskin now, he may be able to buy him back again before the winter. One never can tell what may turn up. This is only June — early June — and there won't be anything, except cub hunting, until November. By that time BALLLNAHINCH 7 Dad may be able to buy another horse, and ' ' Ah, but not Blueskin. Once he parts with him ' ' True ! ' says Kitty sorrowfully. ' Once sold, how difficult it is to get a thing back again.' ' Did you hear,' says Geraldine, who has been busy adding up accounts at the old desk in the corner, 'who the intended purchaser is ? One of those men belonging to the cavalry regiment that has just come to Clonbree.' ' No,' say I. In spite of myself I feel interested. ' One of the new men ? ' says Kitty.

And then pensively, ' I wonder what they are like ? ' ' I don't suppose we shall ever know,' says Geraldine discontentedly. ' We 're not likely to see them, as we can't entertain ; and Clon bree being four miles off, they are not likely to see much of tt,s. Now Dad is selling Blueskin he will have only the old mare to fall back upon, and that will leave us with nothing.' BALLLNAHfNCH 8 ' And anyway we haven't a trap,' says Kitty. ' The springs of the old Norwegian are hopelessly done for now ; even rope won't hold them together. Oh, no, there is nothing for us but to put our heads in bags and keep them there.' ' And such nice heads ! ' says Geraldine, throwing down her pen, and beginning to pace up and down the old schoolroom. ' Good heavens ! what 's the good of being handsome and decently bred, if one can't show one's-self.

Look at those Colberts. Common people, English brewers, or button makers, or anything else you like ! They can be seen ! They have their carriage and their beautiful house, and can ask people to dinner without a tearing pain at their hearts as to whether the cook will send up the fowl raw, or in a hopeless mash ! Oh ! ' says Gerald ine, stopping short in the middle of our most dilapidated room. c I want to be rich. I could be so good, so kind, if only I were rich.' A sudden sharp feeling of grief for Geraldine wakens within me. She is rig-lit right. Here are we, of good old family, the best in the county, on our last legs, whilst other people, who have no pretensions whatsoever to good breeding, are beginning to lord it over us. It is hard. ' What 's the name of the man who is going to buy Blueskin ? ' ask I presently. ' Sir Willoughby Heriot.' ' What a mouthful ! ' say I spitefully. ' A nice name, I think,' says Kitty, who is always amiable. ' I shall always hate it,' declare I impetu ously. ' Is he a young man ? ' asks Kitty. ' Young ?

I don't know. Bridget saw him ; she was at Clonbree yesterday, you know, with the eggs and the fowl, and she says she heard of him.' ' I think you might have told us that before,' says Kitty. ' I forgot it. He seemed unimportant until I knew he was to be the purchaser of Blueskin. He was in the market-place, and some one pointed him out to Bridget. He is big, she says, and ugly. Extraordinarily ugly.' ' And so he is to buy Blueskin,' cry I. 'Of BALLLNAHINCH course he 's ugly. He must be a demon ! I feel ' — passionately — ' as if I hated him as well as his name.' ' On the contrary, I suppose one should feel grateful to him,' says Geraldine, who is always so terribly material. ' Dad has to sell ; this man wants to buy. He is an Englishman of good means. He will prob ably give a better price than the people round here.

No doubt he is a man to be cultivated, if (bitterly) we could cultivate any one.' 'He must be a fool,' say I, 'to buy a hunter in June! Whoever heard of such a thing. To keep him idle all the summer ! Just like those English idiots ! ' ' I don't see that,' says Kitty. ' He will be stationed here till next spring, certainly, and say he is fond of hunting, and sees a horse that suits him and fears the chance of losing him, why, then, he buys him, and, being a man of money, does not feel the loss.' ' A man of money!' says Geraldine thoughtfully. She pauses, as if thinking, and then looks up. ' A rara avis in these parts,' says she. ' In our lives, certainly,' says Kitty. ' And to think we cannot even see him,' says Geraldine. 'What a fuss about nothing,' say I. 'I detest titled people, they think such a lot of themselves.' ' Still, those men at Clonbree can't be all titled,' puts in Kitty with a sigh. ' And I confess I should like to see some of them.' ' In that quarter hope lies dead,' say I. 'Molly,' says Geraldine sternly, 'whilst there 's life there 's hope. Something may yet crop up to Oh ! ' — staring out of the window — ' here comes Dad ! '

Chapter II

' To despise money on some occasions leads to the greatest gain.' Dad, beyond all doubt, is the biggest man in the county — which is Cork. I don't mean so much in status as in stature — though there was a time — well, — no matter ! — and, like most big men, he has a heart of gold. In this way Fortune, perhaps, meant to make it up to him, as certainly his pockets are singularly devoid of that useful metal. Hitherto we have hardly cared about that, but for the past six months it has been borne in upon us in many strange ways, that money, even though it be the root of all evil, is also the root of every comfort, big or little, that one may desire ; and there has been such a sad want of it of late. ' Well,' says Dad, coming into the room, his handsome face so downcast that we all run to him, ' so here you are, girls.' ' Yes, yes,' cry I ; ' and Blueskin, Dad ? ' 'He's gone — he 's sold,' says Dad, with a groan, sinking into one of the chairs that groans in concert — probably on account of his weight.

Chairs, as a rule, are not sympathetic, though in a case like this, no doubt, they would stretch a point. ' Oh, no ! not really' says Kitty. ' Yes, really. I 've seen the last of him,' says poor Dad, trying to smile. It is the most sorrowful smile that ever I saw. ' Oh, I think you might have waited,' cry I, to whom Blueskin was as the apple of my eye — Blueskin, who watched for and got every morning the expected lump of sugar from my fingers. ' Oh, what a hurry you were in ! ' ' I wasn't,' says Dad ruefully, ' I let it go as far as I possibly could. But when it came to the end ' ' What end ? ' asks Geraldine. ' Well, those bills,' says he. ' You know that unfortunate Mrs. Duffy, the butcher's wife ? They Ve fallen into difficulties, and ■well, she was bound to be paid, anyway. BALLLNAHINCH 14 And so I , well, that's all — Blueskin is gone.' He rises abruptly, and going over to the window, stands there with his back turned to us, drumming away at it with fingers that tremble a good deal.

Kitty, who is nearest to him, goes up to him quickly and flings her arms around his neck. Kitty, I have heard, is like my dear mother, who died a year after I was born. ' Never mind it, Dad,' says she. ' It might be worse.' ' Why, that 's it, my pet ; that 's what enables me to keep up,' says Dad, stroking her fair hair, his voice sounding rather choky, and his eyes fixed on that golden head. Are there tears in his hidden eyes ? ' It might be worse, certainly.' He pauses, and then, in a very low tone, ' Your mother might have been alive ! ' Kitty tightens her clasp round his neck, and we all go up to him and pat him softly. Poor darling Dad. ' Now you see how much worse it might have been,' says he, pulling himself together, as it were, and laughing nervously as though ashamed of his emotion. 'Why,' — seizing BALLINAHLNCH 15 Kitty by the shoulders and shaking her softly to and fro, with a sad attempt at the old lightness of spirit — ' I might have had to sell you! ' You couldn't,' says Kitty, showing all her pretty teeth. ' I should cling and cling to you, till the buyer got tired.

So there ! And besides ' — sighing dolorously — ' I don't believe there would be any buyer ! ' At this we all laugh, which does us good ; but presently Dad gets serious again. ' What weighs upon me is,' says he, ' that there is something worse to come.' This from Dad ! the lightest-hearted man in the world — gives us a thrill. ' The selling of Blue universal destruction, Surely some of the ' Oh, no,' say I. skin cannot mean bad though it is. tenants ' ' Oh ! the tenants, ' The tenants have exclaims Dad bitterly. it all their own way now. ' I do hate the Queen ! ' cries Kitty, so vehemently that we begin to wonder whether her head will or will not be cut off presently at a second's notice. ' But why, my dear ? ' asks Dad, who is a staunch Conservative in spite of all private wrongs ; and surely this should be laid to his credit, considering how he has been cheated and swindled and ruined by the present Government.

As for me, I am a red-hot Republican, and I rather applaud Kitty's speech, though I have not so much the courage of my opinions as to do so in the bosom of my family. I cannot bear to vex Dad. And Dad loves his Oueen. ' But why ? ' demands Dad again, as sweetly as though all things are going well with him. ' She is a most excellent lady — a lady in the truest sense of the word, so far as I can see. But she, too, has to obey, as well as the rest of us.' ' Obey ! Fancy a Queen obeying ! ' says Kitty contemptuously. 'Well, anyway,' cry I, 'I want to hate somebody just now, and if it isn't to be the Queen it shall be Lord Salisbury.' ' My dear ! An excellent statesman — the finest statesman of the age. But he has to obey also, in a sense.' ' Very good, then,' says Kitty, who is plainly in a fractious mood. ' I hate everybody — everybody impartially — who has helped to bring you to so low an ebb.' ' And who has compelled you to sell Blueskin,' supplement I strongly. ' I hope you got a good price for him, at all events,' says Geraldine, who is, as I have hinted, eminently practical. 'Very good,' says Dad sadly.

The old favourite was hard to part with. ' I sold him to Sir Willoughby Heriot, one of the men now stationed at Clonbree. He seems a decent fellow, and — and looks as if he would be good to a dumb thing. And,' says Dad, somewhat shamefacedly, ' and besides, I confess I was glad to sell the poor beast to a man who lived so near. It 's only five miles from here to Clonbree, and I hear the regiment will be stationed there until March, beyond doubt. I can therefore get a look at Blueskin now and then.' ' You liked Sir Willoughby,' says Kitty. ' What kind of a — of a man is he ? ' ' Good sort of fellow all through, I should say, and thoroughly bred. But, by Jove, B BALLINAHfNCH girls,' says Dad, turning to us all, 'as ugly a divil as ever you saw ! ' ' English, of course ? ' question I ' Why so ? ' asks Geraldine. ' That 's the last query you should make.

Englishmen are proverbially handsome.' ' I meant nothing,' say I, lifting my shoulder at her. ' Go on, Dad ; is he English ? ' ' Oh ! to the backbone,' says he. ' But as good a fellow as ever you met, for all that. I liked him ; yes, I did,' says Dad, with a magnanimity that only he could have shown, ' though he was the purchaser of Blueskin. I hope to goodness he will be kind to him. But he can't understand him as we did.' Here Dad relapses into melancholy, and we all grow depressed in concert. ' I tell you what, girls,' says Dad presently ; ' we shan't be able to hold out much longer. I 'm thinking of (hesitating, and looking away from us) ' of selling the lower farm.' ' Oh, don't, Dad, don't do that, Daddy, darling,' cry I, seeing how the bare suggestion hurts him. ' Take time ' ' Time !

Where 's the time at my age ? ' interrupts he sadly. ' Time rests with you youngsters ; and, indeed, of late I have thought of selling the entire estate and living on the interest of the money gained, so that all of you might have something to look forward to at my death beyond the hopeless hope of getting your rents now and then. We might realise a little money that way, and we could go abroad, and live cheaply, and ' ' Die ! ' says Geraldine. ' We shall certainly not do that, Dad, if we can help it. Do you think it would recompense us to see you living in a foreign country, with out one of the old acres to stroll over. No, indeed ! You say you want to secure our happiness — that could never be secured at your expense.' ' Fancy your living away from Ballina hinch,' supplement I. ' Why, you couldn't.' ' I should be wretched, I know,' says Dad, who has drawn Geraldine towards him, as if grateful to her. ' But if it was for your good — for yours. ...

I 'm a bad father to you,' says poor Dad, who is the best of all fathers in all lands. ' I seem to have made ducks and drakes of everything. All that is left you is the insurance on my life.' ' Look here,' says Geraldine — and, indeed, I didn't expect it from her — Aell that in surance ; it may get you out of your present difficulties, and then you may be able to pull up a bit. Never mind us. He needn't — eh, girls ? ' with a backward glance in our direction. ' I dare say we shall get on well enough without it.' After all, there is a great deal of good in old Gerry. ' I sha'n't do that, anyway,' says Dad grimly, though his eyes are full of tears. ' Better sell the farm than do that. And sold it must be ! ' He sighs and looks at us. ' I shall have to leave home, children, at once, for a month or so, on a bare chance of getting my affairs settled.

I '11 have to start to-morrow.' ' To-morrow ! ' 'Yes, the sooner the better. Not' — dis mally — 'that I expect any good results from my journey. It is the smallest chance on earth, but I don't like to abandon it. I must first run up to Dublin to see Frisk and Farren, and then over to Worcester shire to see a cousin of your poor mother's. I shall be a month away altogether, and so I have written to your Aunt Jane to come and take care of you whilst I am away.' 'Aunt Jane! ' exclaim I, in a dying tone. ' Aunt Uniacke ! ' says Geraldine, using our dreadful aunt's surname. ' That aunt!' cries Kitty indignantly. ' Well, where was I to get another at a moment's notice ? ' demands Dad, very reasonably too, of course, though plainly he is quailing. Indeed, his voice has taken the low note that shows he is ashamed of himself.

A low, simultaneous groan escapes us all. Words fail us. ' I can't help it,' says Dad. ' There is no one else, and I couldn't well go away and leave you without protection of any sort.' ' But Aunt Jane of all people,' says Kitty. ' Look here,' says Dad, as if driven to extremities, ' it won't weigh with you, I 'm afraid, and it seems rather, well — er ' — colouring — ' confoundedly mean, you know, but the BALLINAHfNCH 22 fact is, she 's got lots of money. Thirty thousand, if a penny, and — and — why shouldn't you children get it ? You 're her own nieces (though how she came to be your poor mother's sister Heaven alone can tell). You are her nearest of kin. God knows ! ' says poor Dad mournfully, ' I 'm the last fellow in the world to advocate mercenary principles, but when it comes to leaving you all penniless in a cold world, one — well — one has to moderate one's views.

And ' — pausing, and almost compelling us by his entreating look to agree with him — ' she 's a good woman, you know.' Almost he caught us, but not quite ; as a fact, indeed, and I 'm going now to record it, — as it was the first and only time in our lives, — we all fail him. 'She's a beastV says Kitty simply but promptly. ' She 's more than that : she 's a demon cry I. ' If she takes the keys again, Dad,' said Geraldine, with dangerous calm, ' I shall undoubtedly murder her ! ' Geraldine being a person born without a spark of humour in her composition, this terrible threat is probably meant. ' She means thirty thousand pounds,' says poor Dad again, who, nevertheless, I can see is in sympathy with us, and is, there fore, a miserable pleader. ' Would I be doing you justice if I denied you the chance of gaining it ?

And once she sees you — so improved after all these years — she will certainly put you into her will.' He pauses, and braces himself for an effort. ' Anyway, she 's coming,' says he. 'Oh! Dad!' ' I declare to goodness I never meant to hide it from you ! ' says Dad vehemently, with the free use of gesticulation that adorns his conversation when excited, ' but yester day, when I found I had to leave home, I telegraphed to her upon the spot, and then I went off to Moriarty about that red cow (he won't buy her, by the way) and I forgot all about your aunt until a telegram came from her just now. Here it is,' pulling it out of one of his capacious pockets. ' She 's coming, then ? ' ' Yes. To my astonishment ; and rather to my relief too. I never thought she 'd darken these doors after that last time ! ' Here he looks round at us, the irresistible sparkle of a good thing remembered in his eyes.

This glance to us is like tinder to dry wood : we all burst simultaneously into the gayest laughter. 'Oh! By jingo, girls! D'ye remember it ? Do you ? ' says Dad, slapping his leg and roaring. ' Don't I ! ' says Kitty, her plump little sides shaking. ' It is quite ten years ago, yet I can see it now.' ' Ha-ha-ha ! ' shouts Dad, his jolly in fectious laughter ringing through the room as lightly and gaily as though ruin is a million miles away. 'And the cat ! D'ye recollect how she sat down on the cat, and the yell that the poor old divil of a tabby gave, and — ha-ha-ha — the bounce of the old woman — another tabby, by Jove! — and — \\c\-ha ! On my life, girls ! ' — wiping his eyes — ' what a day that was ! But not cheap — not cheap ! ' 'Oh, it was cheap,' say I. 'She went > away. 'No. It was dear.

It endangered that thirty thousand pounds. If we hadn't laughed — but we did. I '11 never forget how you laughed ' — pinching Kitty's ear. ' I believe it was you who ruined us. Anyway, she packed up, bag and baggage, and shook our dust off her feet within the hour.' ' So unfair,' say I. ' All because she chose to squash our good-looking cat.' ' She put it otherwise,' said Geraldine. ' She said it was because her neices were hopelessly spoiled, and that we were all hardened villains.' ' Well ; we very nearly lost the thirty thousand then,' says Dad ; ' let us do our utmost to recover it now. Do be good with her, girls. Do now. It's only for a month ; and really you have the best right to it. You are the children of her only sister ; she had no brothers. Now, for heaven's sake,' says Dad, giving us an appealing glance all round, ' do promise me that you will behave decently to her.' 'We'll try,' says Geraldine faintly. ' That 's good girls now,' says Dad, patting Gerry's shoulder, and beaming on Kitty and me. ' By-the-bye,' says he, 'your cousin, Fanny L'Estrange, is in Clonbree ; her husband, Tom L'Estrange, is the captain of the detachment sent down.