Peggy from Kerry

“It’s really the most horrible thing!” said Mrs. Wyndham. “I don’t know what to do about it; and your father is so determined! I can’t shake his confidence that he is right, do as I will.”

“But what is it, mother? Whatever can be the matter?” asked Molly Wyndham, a sweet, gentle-looking girl of about fifteen years of age.

“Yes, what is it?” chimed in Jessie, another daughter, one year Molly’s senior.

“Why, it’s this, my dears. I assure you it has quite prostrated me, and it’s all on your account.”

Jessie, brimful of curiosity, wanted to ply her mother with questions; but Molly took a wiser course.

“Jess,” she said, “can’t you see how tired and fagged the mums looks?—Sit in this easy-chair, mums, and take things quietly for a minute.”

Mrs. Wyndham’s eyes filled with tears. She was a really kind-hearted woman and was much loved in the neighbourhood of Preston Manor, her husband’s beautiful house. She was kind to her poor neighbours, and liked well her position as Lady Bountiful to the parish. But, with all her open-handedness and generosity, there was a streak of worldliness in Mrs. Wyndham, and that worldliness made what was just going to happen intensely disagreeable to her. She was proud of her home, her children, her husband, proud of her husband’s position as the Squire of Preston Manor; and just now, as she considered it, that pride of hers was to receive a fall. The girls Molly and Jessie, the Wyndhams’ only daughters—there was a son called Jack some years older—were enjoying their Easter holidays when the blow, so unlooked-for, so unexpected, fell.

Molly knelt down by her mother and took her hand.

“What is it, darling?” she began. “Whatever it is, be sure of one thing—we’ll stick to you whatever happens.”

“Oh, it’s nothing of that sort, Molly; I mean, I don’t quite know what you’re alluding to, my child. But I may as well tell you. You have surely heard your father talk of his great friend Peter Desmond?”

“Certainly we have,” said Jess.

“Why, of course, mother,” exclaimed Molly. “And haven’t we laughed and laughed over Captain Desmond’s funny Irish stories? Oh, is it possible that he’s coming to see us at last? That will be fun!”

“No, it isn’t that, Molly; it’s something very different, something very sad. Poor Captain Desmond has just died of typhoid fever in India, and now, my darlings, comes the crux. He wrote on his deathbed to your father, making a sort of confession. He said that long ago, in Ireland, in the County Kerry, he met a beautiful Irish peasant girl, fell in love with her, and married her. They had one little daughter, and the mother died at the child’s birth. The little girl was brought up by her maternal grandparents until they died; then for the last five or six years some people of the name of O’Flynn took charge of her, her father paying them for doing so. The O’Flynns are very poor and common sort of people. The girl is fifteen years of age, and has lived all her life in Irish cabins in the County Kerry. Now, Peter Desmond on his deathbed told your father that the child is penniless, except for a small annuity which she will get from the Government as his daughter. He has asked your father to adopt this poor girl, to bring her here—here!—and to let her grow up as a lady; and your father says he will. Nothing will turn him, no amount of imploring on my part; he has made up his mind. Captain Desmond was his dearest friend. He is going to Ireland to-night to fetch this child—Peggy, he calls her. Now, what is to be done?”