Meantime Lady Desmond's letters were pretty constant, she repeatedly pressed Kate to return, sometimes with an earnestness that bespoke truth—sometimes with a certain coldness; but Miss Vernon's invariable reply was—that she would not join her, at all events, until after Christmas.
Nurse's letters always filled Kate's heart with a curious mixture of pleasure and pain—she forced herself to write to that faithful friend, with unreal cheerfulness; and nurse, who was totally ignorant of Carrington, and its inhabitants, was happy in believing "Miss Kate was stoppin' in some grand place, away from thim shop-keeping Storeys." She had persisted in her intention of leaving Lady Desmond; and the following is the account she gave of herself, in a letter received by Kate, about a fortnight after she had reached Carrington:—
"You'll be surprised to see where I write from, but afther mee goin' hot foot to Killeesh, there was'nt the sign of wan belongin' to me in the place, an' nothing but the hoigth of misery and starvation. The Priest's housekeeper, a dacent woman, took me in the chapel-house; an' the next day, I walked the whole eight miles over to Dungar. Oh, Miss Kate, agra! It was the sore sight to me! Like the corpse of wan ye loved, it was—there was the dear ould place, and the house that was iver open, an' the wood, an' the stones, an' the say—but the life an' the heart was gone out of it, an' glory be to God! the divils that tuck it never had luck nor grace, but has been tearin' each other, at law, iver since; an yez might have lived in pace for all they got out of it. I said mee prayers on the hall door steps, where the masther (the heaven's be his bed!) used to stan' an' hear all the poor people had to say. I thought the life would lave me when I rus meesilf to go back—I had no strength; but be the hoight of luck, who come upon a low back car, but ould Paddy Byrne—'twas he was glad to see me, an' quite moidhered to find me there without yerself—so he give me a cast to Killeesh; but I was so sick of the sorra, I could do nothin' for—that I come away afther mee sisther's daughther here—they'e doing very well, an' have a nice little shop, with soap an' candles; an' tay an' kid gloves; an' all to that in it. An' I'm tired of bein' idle, so take in a thrifle iv work, an' clear-starchin'—I get plinty from the officers' ladies, an' it amuses me till ye send for me, ah! whin 'ill that be, avourneen?
Mee lady and me parted great frinds, an' she put five goulden guineas in mee hand, an' tauld me to come back whin iver I like, so I've not touched yer money agra! but I must stop, for I'm tired intirely with the writin'."
This long letter was written from Fermoy, and passionately did Kate weep over the picture it drew of her deserted home.
Time rolled on rapidly, for little occurred to mark it, and Kate had almost ceased to battle with the dull despondency that was creeping over her. The perpetual reading aloud of insipid romances, which alone found favour in the eyes of Mrs. Jorrocks; the efforts to keep awake in the close atmosphere of the stifling parlour, the occasional outburst of tyrannic rage from Mr. Wilson, savage as they were in all the rude reality of a rugged nature, excited into forgetfulness of its efforts to be "genteel;" and, which though never addressed to Kate, seemed to insult her by their unrestrained violence; these various petty annoyances, daily, hourly, repeated, made up a terrible sum—occasionally the wild wish to escape to nurse, even if it were to join her in plain work, and clear-starching—would swell her heart to bursting, and then would come the reaction! Where in truth could she go? Her cousin's alternations of coldness and affection, she could not brave—no; it was due to herself to keep aloof, until some more cordial acknowledgment of her error and injustice was made by Lady Desmond.
Mrs. Storey wrote seldom, and did not make any renewal of her invitation—of other friends or relatives, she had none, at least, in the true meaning of these words. So the passionate yearning with which her thoughts ever sprang to seek the means of escape, after treading the same circle over and over, returned like a bird, weary of beating the wires of its cage, to their last hope—a letter from Winter, on his return.
But it is weary work to dwell upon the sameness of such suffering; none can fully appreciate it, save those enlightened by experience—though many might have found companionship to Mrs. Jorrocks a severer probation. The world must become older, and purer, and more christianised, before the exercise of power can be resisted, or the charm of torturing those who are weak, foregone.