O'Connell had a hard struggle with Peg before she would consent to leave him. She met all his arguments with counter-arguments. Nothing would move her for hours.
"Why should I go to a man I have never seen and hate the name of?"
"He's your uncle, Peg."
"It's a fine uncle he's been to me all me life. And it was a grand way he threated me mother when she was starvin'."
"He wants to do somethin' for ye now, Peg."
"I'll not go to him."
"Now listen, dear; it's little I'll have to lave ye when I'm gone," pleaded O'Connell.
"I'll not listen to any talk at all about yer goin'. Yer a great strong healthy man—that's what ye are. What are ye talkin' about? What's got into yer head about goin'?"
"The time must come, some day, Peg."
"All right, we'll know how to face it when it does. But we're not goin' out all the way to meet it," said Peg, resolutely.
"It's very few advantages I've been able to give ye, me darlin'," and O'Connell took up the argument again.
"Advantages or no advantages, what can anybody be more than be happy? Answer me that? An' sure it's happy I've been with you. Now, why should ye want to dhrive it all away from me?"
To these unanswerable reasons O'Connell would remain silent for a while, only to take up the cudgels again. He realised what it would mean to Peg to go to London to have the value of education and of gentle surroundings. He knew her heart was loyal to him: nothing strangers might teach her would ever alter that. And he felt he owed it to her to give her this chance of seeing the great world. HE would never be able to do it for her. Much as he hated the name of Kingsnorth he acknowledged the fact that he had made an offer O'Connell had no real right to refuse.
He finally persuaded Peg that it was the wise thing: the right thing: and the thing he wished for the most.
"I don't care whether it's wise or right," said poor Peg, beaten at last, "but if you wish it—" and she broke off.
"I do wish it, Peg."
"Ye'll turn me away from ye, eh?"
"No, Peg. Ye'll come back to me a fine lady."
"I'd like to see anybody thry THAT with me. A lady, indeed! Ye love me as I am. I don't want to be any different."
"But ye'll go?"
"If ye say so."
"Then it's all settled?"
"I suppose it is."
"Good, me darlin'. Ye'll never regret it" O'Connell said this with a cheery laugh, though his heart was aching at the thought of being separated from her.
Peg looked at him reproachfully. Then she said:
"It's surprised I am at ye turnin' me away from ye to go into a stuck-up old man's house that threated me mother the way he did."
And so the discussion ended.
For the next few days Peg was busy preparing herself for the journey and buying little things for her scanty equipment. Then the cable came to the effect that a passage was reserved for her and money was waiting at a banker's for her expenses. This Peg obstinately refused to touch. She didn't want anything except what her father gave her.
When the morning of her departure came, poor Peg woke with a heavy heart. It was their first parting, and she was miserable.
O'Connell, on the contrary, seemed full of life and high spirits. He laughed at her and joked with her and made a little bundle of some things that would not go in her bag—and that he had kept for her to the last minute. They were a rosary that had been his mother's, a prayer-book Father Cahill gave him the day he was confirmed, and lastly the little miniature of Angela. It wrung his heart to part with it, but he wanted Peg to have it near her, especially as she was going amongst the relations of the dead woman. All through this O'Connell showed not a trace of emotion before Peg. He kept telling her there was nothing to be sad about. It was all going to be for her good.
When the time came to go, the strange pair made their way down to the ship—the tall, erect, splendid-looking man and the little red-haired girl in her simple black suit and her little black hat, with red flowers to brighten it.
O'Connell went aboard with her, and an odd couple they looked on the saloon-deck, with Peg holding on to "Michael"—much to the amusement of the passengers, the visitors and the stewards.
Poor, staunch, loyal, honest, true little Peg, going alone to—what? Leaving the one human being she cared for and worshipped—her playmate, counsellor, friend and father—all in one!
O'Connell never dropped his high spirits all the time they were together on board the ship. He went aboard with a laugh and when the bell rang for all visitors to go ashore he said good-bye to Peg with a laugh—while poor Peg's heart felt like a stone in her breast. She stood sobbing up against the rail of the saloon deck as the ship swung clear. She was looking for her father through the mists of tears that blinded her.
Just as the boat slowly swept past the end of the dock she saw him right at the last post so that he could watch the boat uninterruptedly until it was out of sight. He was crying himself now—crying like a child, and as the boat swung away he called up, "My little Peg! Peg o' my Heart!" How she longed to get off that ship and go back to him! They stood waving to each other as long as they remained in sight.
While the ship ploughed her way toward England with little Peg on board, the man whom she was crossing the Atlantic to meet died quietly one morning with no one near him.
The nurse found Mr. Kingsnorth smiling peacefully as though asleep. He had been dead several hours.
Near him on the table was a cable despatch from New York:
My daughter sailed on the Mauretania to-day at ten o'clock.
FRANK OWEN O'CONNELL.
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