Lady Kathleen Peterham had not much difficulty in inducing Bridget to return with her to Eastcliff. The young girl was in a state of intense nervous excitement. She was making up her mind to face disgrace. All through the triumph and supposed pleasure of the Fancy Fair she kept seeing the indignant face of Mrs. Freeman when she heard of the wicked trick which she and Janet had played upon her. She saw her Aunt Kathleen with her shocked, incredulous, unbelieving expression; and last, but not least, she saw her gray-headed old father when the news reached him that the last of the O'Haras—the very last of all the race—had stooped to dishonor.
These thoughts took away Biddy's enjoyment. She became so wretched at last that she almost wished for the crucial hour to be over.
Janet came up to her as the last of the guests were departing.
"It's all right," she whispered. "I have not time to explain matters now, but you have nothing whatever to fear. Leave things in my hands, and don't be nervous, for I assure you everything will be as right as possible."
Bridget had no time to ask Janet to explain her strange words, for the next moment she had turnedaway to say something with eagerness to Lady Kathleen.
Lady Kathleen nodded, and looked intensely wise and affectionate.
An hour later Bridget found herself driving away from Mulberry Court, her last frantic endeavors to see Mrs. Freeman by herself having proved utterly fruitless.
"I can't make out what's the matter with you, Biddy!" said her aunt. "Why are you flushing one moment and growing pale the next? I hope to goodness you haven't caught anything. You look quite feverish."
"Oh, I'm all right, Aunt Kathie!" said Bridget. "Please don't worry about my looks; they don't signify in the least."
"Your looks don't signify, Bridget? That's a strange thing to say to me, who was born a Desborough. You are a Desborough yourself, Bridget, on your poor mother's side, and have we not been celebrated for our beauty through a long line of distinguished ancestors? Never let me hear that kind of nonsense fall again from your lips, Biddy. Heaven-born beauty is a gift which ought not to be lightly regarded."
"I have a headache, then," said Bridget. "I suppose I needn't talk if I don't want to?"
"Of course you needn't, pet; and when we go back to the hotel you shall go straight to bed. Oh, how pleased your father will be when we get back to the Castle!"
In reply to this speech Bridget burst into a sudden flood of tears.
"I can't bear it!" she sobbed. "Oh, Aunt Kathie, I have been so naughty! I wanted to see Mrs. Freemanto tell her everything; but she had just had some bad news, and no one would let me go near her. Oh, I am so miserable! I do hate school most dreadfully. Aunt Kathie, you wouldn't love me if you knew what a bad girl I have been."
"Now, my pet, that is nonsense. I'd just love you through everything. I suppose you have got into a little school scrape? Bless you, Biddy, all the girls do that. Now dry your eyes, and let us think no more about trifles of that sort. Here we are at the hotel, and your holidays have begun. I promise you, you'll never have gayer ones. I have a nice little surprise in store for you, but you are not going to get it out of me to-night."
Bridget did not betray any inordinate curiosity with regard to her aunt's surprise. She cheered up a little, and after a slight supper retired to bed.
In the meantime, Janet May was in her own room at the Court, busily concluding her packing.
The girl who shared her room with her had left that evening. Janet, therefore, had the apartment to herself.
Two letters had come by that evening's post; one which brought to her at least some days of respite, for she was now quite sure that nothing further would be done with regard to Miss Dent's discovery for a week or ten days. It was even possible that the thing might remain in abeyance until the school reassembled.
In any case Janet had now time to breathe.
Two letters had, however, come by the post, and while one gave her relief, the other added to her perplexities.
The other letter was from her sister Sophy.
Dear Janet[this sister had written] I am waiting anxiously for the moment when the post will bring me your letter with a couple of pounds in it. I simply cannot do without it, as Miss Simpkins has turned me out of doors. I am writing from a little stationer's shop quite close, and I have bribed Annie, the housemaid, to bring me your letter the instant it comes. I have exactly one shilling in my pocket, so you may suppose that I am brought to a low ebb. Miss Simpkins is the very crossest old cat that ever breathed, and I could not help giving her cheek this morning, so she turned me out, and refused to pay me my week's salary. It isn't worth fighting with her, and, of course, I am willing to admit that there were faults on both sides. The stationer's wife will give me a bed to-night, but whatamI to do afterward? Of course, the money will come from you, you dear, and then I shall immediately start for Margate, and look for you to meet me there. Mrs. Dove, the stationer's wife, knows of a nice little room, which we could share together, for ten shillings a week—that is dirt cheap, as you must know. The address is Mrs. Dove's, 9 Water Street, South Parade. It's a top room—I suppose that means an attic; but, never mind; as Mrs. Dove says, "the higher up you are, the better the air."Your devoted sister,Sophy.P. S.—Oh, you cruel, cruel Janet! You heartless monster! The post has come and your letter, andno inclosure. Mrs. Dove will let me sleep here to-night—she is a kind soul; but, remember, I have only got one shilling in the world, and I vow I will never ask Aunt Jane to help me.
Dear Janet[this sister had written] I am waiting anxiously for the moment when the post will bring me your letter with a couple of pounds in it. I simply cannot do without it, as Miss Simpkins has turned me out of doors. I am writing from a little stationer's shop quite close, and I have bribed Annie, the housemaid, to bring me your letter the instant it comes. I have exactly one shilling in my pocket, so you may suppose that I am brought to a low ebb. Miss Simpkins is the very crossest old cat that ever breathed, and I could not help giving her cheek this morning, so she turned me out, and refused to pay me my week's salary. It isn't worth fighting with her, and, of course, I am willing to admit that there were faults on both sides. The stationer's wife will give me a bed to-night, but whatamI to do afterward? Of course, the money will come from you, you dear, and then I shall immediately start for Margate, and look for you to meet me there. Mrs. Dove, the stationer's wife, knows of a nice little room, which we could share together, for ten shillings a week—that is dirt cheap, as you must know. The address is Mrs. Dove's, 9 Water Street, South Parade. It's a top room—I suppose that means an attic; but, never mind; as Mrs. Dove says, "the higher up you are, the better the air."
Your devoted sister,Sophy.
P. S.—Oh, you cruel, cruel Janet! You heartless monster! The post has come and your letter, andno inclosure. Mrs. Dove will let me sleep here to-night—she is a kind soul; but, remember, I have only got one shilling in the world, and I vow I will never ask Aunt Jane to help me.
Very early the next morning Janet rose, and going downstairs met one of the servants in the hall.
"I'm going to walk to Eastcliff," she said. "I have got all my boxes packed and directed. They are to be sent by the carrier to-day to the railway station, where they are to be left for me until I send further orders. They will be put into the booking office of course."
"Very well, miss," said the servant, "but you'll want some breakfast of course."
"No, no, I am in a great hurry; I can't possibly wait."
"Have you seen Miss Delicia, Miss May?"
"It's all right," repeated Janet, not heeding this remark. She walked through the hall as she spoke, opened the door herself, and let herself out.
She was neatly dressed in pale gray alpaca; her little sailor hat, with a plain band of white ribbon round it, looked neat and girlish; she carried a thin dust cloak on her arm.
No one could look nicer or sweeter than Janet. She had a sort of good heroine air about her, and this fact struck Lady Kathleen Peterham most forcibly when about eight o'clock that morning the young lady was admitted into her bedroom.
Lady Kathleen was not an early riser.
She was, indeed, sound asleep when her maid brought her a little note on a silver salver. The note contained a few piteous lines from Janet.
I am in great trouble and perplexity [she wrote]; will you see me for one minute?
I am in great trouble and perplexity [she wrote]; will you see me for one minute?
"The little dear, of course I'll see her," said Lady Kathleen. She had herself arrayed in a rose-colored silk dressing gown, and was sitting up in the shaded light when Janet tripped into the room.
"Oh, how kind of you to let me come," said the girl.
"My love," said Lady Kathleen, "I was expecting you between ten and eleven. I have not broken the news of our charming arrangement yet to Biddy; I know well how delighted she'll be when I do tell her. Why have you come so early, little Mayflower, and what is all this trouble about? You look very nice, my love, notwithstanding your perplexities."
"I am very anxious," said Janet; and then she proceeded to tell a long and pathetic story about Sophy; Sophy was so pretty, but also so willful; she was older than Janet, but she also leaned upon her. She had just been turned out of her situation owing to the cruelty of her employer, and—and—of course Janet could not go to Ireland and leave her dear older sister in such a plight; she had saved a few shillings, and she was going to take the very next train to Bristol to see her.
The words that Janet hoped Lady Kathleen would utter fell at once from the good lady's lips. "My darling," she said, "you and this naughty, pretty little sister of yours shall both come to Castle Mahun. My brother-in-law, dear fellow, will give you the best of Irish welcomes; of course he will, you sweet little brave soul; why it's a heroine you are, and no mistake."
Janet replied in a very humble and pretty manner to these gratifying words of praise, and soon a plan which she had already sketched out in her own mind was proposed to her by Lady Kathleen.
"You and your sister can cross over from Bristol to Cork," she said. "From there it is only a short distance to Castle Mahun. Biddy and I will start for home to-day, and we'll expect you in a day or two after. Oh, my dear, you want a little money; I know you're poor, darling, and I am rich, so where are the odds? It's no worry to me, but a pleasure to help you. Give me your address in Bristol, and I'll send you a postal order before Biddy and I leave Eastcliff to-day."
Janet's eyes fell, and her heart sank a trifle.
It would have been so much nicer to have got the money now; she did not want to spend Biddy's two pounds if she could help it. Her intention, indeed, hadbeen to get a postal order to send off to Pat Donovan before she left Eastcliff, but Lady Kathleen, who had risen to all Janet's other suggestions, failed her in this.
There was no help for it, therefore, she must spend part of the two pounds in taking her railway ticket to Bristol, and could only trust that Biddy would never hear of the non-reception of her gift.
Janet bade Lady Kathleen an affectionate good-by and tripped off on her errand of sisterly mercy.
She sent a telegram to Sophy, and found her standing on the platform at Bristol waiting to receive her.
Sophy was smaller than Janet, a plump, softly rounded little person, with wide-open eyes of heavenly blue, rosebud lips, and masses of shining golden hair. At the first glance people as a rule fell in love with Sophy; how long they continued in this state of devotion was quite another matter, but the impression she made with those large-eyed innocent glances was always favorable, and served her in good stead as she fought her way through the world.
She was not nearly as clever as Janet, but that very fact added to her charms, for she had a way of confiding her troubles, of looking pathetic and asking such touchingly simple questions with regard to her future that, unless the person she addressed was very suspicious indeed, the little good-humored pretty creature was taken at once to the heart of her sympathizer.
"Oh, here you are, Janey," she exclaimed, rushing up to her sister now and clasping a plump little hand affectionately through her arm.
She was really fond of Janet, and Janet really cared for her, but as the two were perfectly open with eachother it was unnecessary in Janet's opinion to waste time in sentiment.
"Yes, I have come," she said, "and very troublesome it is to me to have to come. Why couldn't you keep your situation, Sophy?"
"Oh, my darling," exclaimed Sophy, "if you had been me! you don't know—you can't possibly know what Miss Simpkins is like. She is full of the most awful fads, and she fusses so about the cats. There were four cats when I first went to her, and now there are six, all Persians, and every one of them affected with the most terrible bronchitis. They have to be doctored and medicined and their hair combed out, and watched like any number of babies. I do think, Janey, I really do think that I might have a higher vocation in life than looking after Persian cats."
"That's stuff," said Janet. "Don't you prefer looking after Persian cats to living with Aunt Jane?"
"I am not quite sure, Janet."
"But I am!" said Janet, favoring her sister with a quick, angry glance. "I wouldn't eat the bread of dependence for anybody; but now let's come back to Mrs. Dove's and have a talk."
"Is there any money, Janey?" whispered Sophy, in an appealing tone. "I told you that I had only a shilling, and it is absolutely true. I ought to pay something for my bed, and she gave me some tea and a nice new laid egg, lightly boiled, for breakfast. If I pay her the whole shilling it will be cheap; very cheap, for what she has done for me. I do trust and hope you have brought a little money with you, Janet!"
"I have brought a little. It was very hardly comeby, I can tell you, and will have to go a tremendous long way. I may get into an awful scrape about that money, and I really don't see why I should run such risks for your sake."
"O Janey, Janey, and you know I'd do anything in the world for you."
Sophy's lovely eyes slowly filled with tears. Janet gave her a quick half-contemptuous, half-affectionate glance.
"There," she said, "you needn't fret; I daresay everything will be all right, and I have something very jolly to tell you in a minute or two. Only let us get to your lodgings first, for we can't talk comfortably in this noisy street."
The girls presently reached the poky little house where Sophy had spent her night. They went up at once to a tiny room with a sloping roof, and there Janet proceeded to administer a very sound lecture to her sister.
"I have something unpleasant to talk about before I say anything nice," she began. "You must first hear me out, whether you like it or not, for if you cry until your eyes are sunk into your head it won't make the least bit of difference to me. Speak I will, for it is for your good and mine."
No one could cry more copiously than Sophy on occasions, but she also had a certain power of self-control. If her tears could effect no object there was not the least use in her spoiling her pretty eyes, so she sat very still now on the edge of the small hard bed, and gazed at Janet, who sat opposite to her on a cane-bottomed chair.
"The first thing to be done is this," said Janet; "Imust see Miss Simpkins, and ask her if she will take you back after the holidays are over."
"I won't go!" said Sophy, clenching her fist.
"That is nonsense, Sophy; you will either have to go to Miss Simpkins or to Aunt Jane. Aunt Jane will half starve you, and give you no money at all; Miss Simpkins will feed you well—I know she does that, or you'd be sure to tell me the contrary—then Miss Simpkins gives you fifteen pounds a year. That being the case, there is no choice at all between the two posts. Miss Simpkins's, notwithstanding the Persian cats, is much the best place for you to live at."
"Oh, you don't know," said Sophy; "it's the most horrid life. Besides, she wouldn't have me again; I know she wouldn't. We were both frightfully impertinent to each other. We were like two cats ourselves. Miss Simpkins was the old tabby, and I was the angry, snarling kitten. I have claws, you know, Janet, although I do look so velvety."
"I know perfectly well that you have claws, my dear, but you must keep them sheathed. As to going back to Miss Simpkins, I shall see her myself, and I am sure I can manage that part. You have got to come with me there after we have finished our present conversation, and you have got to beg her pardon in the most humble and proper fashion."
"I really don't know how I am to do it, Janey."
"But I do, love; you must just lean on me, and do exactly what I advise; it won't be for the first time."
"I know that," said poor Sophy, "and you are three years younger than me, and all. I didn't think you'd be such an awful tyrant; it seems rather hard to bear from one's younger sister."
"But I am older in mind, darling."
"Yes, yes, and much cleverer; but after all a wormwillturn. Suppose I refuse to go back to Miss Simpkins?"
"Then, my love, I will try and screw together sufficient money to send you back third class to Aunt Jane's."
"Oh, I can't; I won't do that; it would be too horrible!"
"Listen to me, Sophy. I always said I would help you. You are very pretty, but you are not clever. You have not been educated up to the required standard; you have no chance whatever of getting a situation as governess. In these days it is the most difficult thing in the world for lady-girls who are not educated, and have not got special talents, to find anything at all to do. You are in great luck in getting this situation as companion, and I am absolutely determined that you shall not lose it. In two years' time I shall have left school. My object then is to get a good situation as English and musical teacher in one of the high schools. When I have got such a post, I may want you to live with me, Sophy, as housekeeper; there is no saying. You would like that, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, shouldn't I! What larks we'd have."
"Yes, we'd have a jolly time together; but there's not the least use in thinking about it if you don't do what I tell you now. Put your hat on straight, Sophy, and don't let your hair look quite so wild and fluffy, and we will go across to Miss Simpkins's without delay. I have a very jolly plan to propose to you after you have made your peace with the old lady and the Persian cats, but not even a hint with regard to itshall drop from my lips until you have been a good girl."
"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Sophy, "I don't know how I am ever to face the old tabby cat again."
"That's a very improper way to speak of your employer, and I'm not going to laugh. Come; are you ready?"
"I wish you weren't such a Solon, Janet."
"It is well I have got some brains; I don't know where you and I would be if I hadn't. Now, come along."
"But I am not to go back and live with her to-day?"
"No, no, I'll manage that; you shall have your bit of fun first, poor Sophy. Now come at once, we have not a moment of time to lose."
Sophy straightened her hat very unwillingly, brushed back her disordered locks with considerable rebellion in each movement, but finally followed Janet down into the street and across the narrow road into the fashionable locality where Miss Simpkins and the Persian cats resided.
Miss Simpkins lived in a small house, which was kept scrupulously clean and bright. There were flower boxes in all the windows, and the shining brass knocker and handles of the door reflected the faces of the two girls like mirrors.
A neat but severe-looking servant answered Janet's rather determined ring. She scowled at Sophy, but replied civilly to Janet's inquiry if Miss Simpkins was at home.
"Yes, miss," she replied; "my missus is in her morning room, very particularly occupied."
"I should like to see her for a few minutes," said Janet.
"I am afraid, miss, that if you have come on behalf of that young lady, the late companion, that you may spare yourself the trouble, for the missus won't have nothing to say to her nor her belongings."
"I have come on that business," said Janet. "I am much shocked at what has occurred, and have come to offer apologies. My sister, Miss May, has behaved with great indiscretion."
Poor Sophy gasped.
Janet did not pay the smallest heed to Sophy's indignant expression. Her smooth young face looked full of shocked virtue. It impressed the servant, who nodded back a sympathetic reply, and telling the girls to wait a minute, walked sedately across the hall and into the morning room.
She returned in a few moments with the information that Miss Simpkins would see the younger of the young ladies.
"I can put you, Miss May," she said, turning to Sophy, "into the hall room while the other young lady talks to my missus."
"Yes, Sophy, go there and wait," said Janet; and Sophy went.
Janet tripped lightly across the tiled hall.
The servant opened the door of the morning room and then turned to inquire the young lady's name.
"Miss Janet May," was the response.
"Miss Janet May!" shouted the servant, and Janet found the door closed behind her.
A severe looking woman, primly dressed, was seated by a round mahogany table. In the center of the tablesat a snow-white and very beautiful Persian cat; a dark tabby of the same species was lapping a saucer of milk also on the table; some Persian kittens gamboled about the room. Miss Simpkins was bending over the tabby. She raised her eyes now and murmured, half to herself, half to Janet, "She has taken exactly a tenth of a pint of milk! That is a great improvement on yesterday."
"I am sure of it," said Janet, entering into the spirit of the thing without a moment's delay; "and what an exquisite cat! and oh! what a beauty that white one is! I do admire Persian cats!"
"Do you, my dear?" said the old lady. "This cat—Cherry Ripe I call her—has won several prizes at the Crystal Palace. This tabby—his name is Pompey—will also, I expect, be a prize-winner. These two kittens that you see on the floor, Marcus Aurelius and Mark Antony, have been sent to me direct from Persia. They are most valuable animals. The Persian cat is a curious and remarkable creature. Don't you think so? so sadly delicate! so fragilely beautiful! so sensitive and refined in every movement! Breed is shown in each of its actions. These cats are lovely—almost too lovely—and yet, my dear, whatever care you take of them, they all suffer more or less from bronchitis! they all swallow their long hairs when they wash themselves! and they all die young. Beautiful darlings! it is too touching to think of your inevitable fate!"
Miss Simpkins, as she spoke, stroked the snow-white Persian with her long, slender fingers.
Janet murmured some words of rapture, and the old lady asked her to seat herself.
The subject of Sophy was introduced in a few moments, and here Janet showed that talent for diplomacy which always marked her actions. Miss Simpkins found, as she listened to the admirable words which dropped from the lips of this young girl, her anger fading. After all, Sophy had some good points. The white Persian cat liked to nestle on her shoulder, and rub its soft head against her soft cheek. Miss Simpkins fancied that the cat looked melancholy since Sophy's departure. In short, knowing well in her heart that she would find it extremely difficult to get anyone else to take the much-enduring Sophy's place, she consented to have her back again on trial.
"But not at once," said Miss Simpkins, "for I have just let this house, furnished, to a friend. I don't really know what your sister will do, Miss May, but Barker and I and the cats are quite as many as can travel comfortably together. I shall be back here by the end of September, and will receive your sister, if she faithfully promises to behave herself."
These terms being quite to Janet's satisfaction, she closed with Miss Simpkins's offer, and left the house in Sophy's company in high good humor.
"Now you have behaved well, and you shall hear of the treat I have in store for you," she said to her sister. "But, first of all, let us go to one of the shipping offices to find out at what hour the next steamer sails for Cork."
Castle Mahun was the sort of old place which can be met in many parts of Ireland. It consisted of almost innumerable acres of land, some cultivated, some wild and barren, and of a large, rambling, and, in parts, tumble-down house. Castle Mahun stood on rising ground which faced due west. The ground was beautifully shaped, with many gentle undulations and many steep and bold descents. It was thickly wooded, and some of these forests of almost primeval trees sloped down to the edge of a deep, wide lake of nearly two miles in length and half a mile in width. This lake was the pride of Castle Mahun. In sunshiny weather it looked blue as the sea itself; in winter its waters became dark and turbid, the high waves tossed them and made themselves at times as angry as if they were really influenced by the many currents and the tides of ocean. The lake had two names. The owners of the property called it Lake Crena, but the poor people—and they abounded all over the lands of Castle Mahun—spoke of it as the Witch's Cauldron, and said that although it was fair enough, and pleasant enough to live by in summer, in winter it was haunted by a black witch, and woe betide anyone who attempted to boat on its surface or fish in its waters at that time of year.
The Castle, or rather old house—for it bore littlepretensions to its name—hung partly over the lake. There were sloping lawns, badly tended, but very picturesque in appearance, running down to the waters, and a steep path, about three feet in width, with a sheer precipice at one side, and a thick, heavy belt of forest trees at the other, running right round the lake from one side of the old house.
This was called the terrace walk, and it was here Dennis O'Hara took his evening promenade, accompanied by the dogs.
He was a handsome, picturesque looking man, with silvery white hair, very piercing dark eyes, and aquiline features. He had a stentorian voice, which he used to good effect on all those who came within his reach; but he had also a kindly twinkle in those dark eyes, and a kindly expression round his handsome, well-cut lips, which kept the poor folks at Castle Mahun from fearing the master's indignant bursts of strong language, and which made him one of the most popular landlords all over the country.
To-night there was great excitement at Castle Mahun, for the banished princess, as the people chose to consider Bridget O'Hara, was coming home from foreign parts. Bonfires were lit all along the hills in her welcome. O'Hara had not gone himself to the nearest railway station, twenty miles off, to meet his daughter, but he knew by the thin smoke on a distant peak that the jaunting car, drawn by faithful Paddy, his favorite chestnut horse, and driven by Larry O'Connor, was bearing his darling back to him as quickly as the ill-kept roads would permit.
"She's coming, masther," shouted a ragged little urchin, dashing up to the squire, and then rushingfrantically away again; "the first fire's built, and me and Molly can see the smoke. Oh, come along, Molly! and let's run down the road to ketch a sight of her. Oh, glory! the darlint! and won't we be glad to have her back again."
The child disappeared. There were some more wild shouts in the distance; a troop of children, all ragged and bronzed and barefooted, were seen rushing down the avenue, and then disappearing along the dusty road. They carried branches of trees and old kettledrums, and made a frantic noise as they ran in the direction which the jaunting car would take.
"Ah! here they are!" exclaimed Lady Kathleen from her seat on the car. "Here are your villagers, Bridget, rushing to welcome you. And do you see those fires lit in your honor? Watch the hills, child. There's a fire on every hilltop. Now you'll be yourself again."
Bridget's eyes were shining like stars. She turned and gripped Lady Kathleen's hand with a fierce embrace.
"I feel nearly mad with delight!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I say, Larry, do drive faster. Gee-up, Paddy! Gee-up, old dear! Don't you think I might take the reins, Larry? You can get down from your seat on the box, and sit here to balance Aunt Kathleen, and let me jump up and take the reins."
"To be sure, miss," said Larry. He sprang lightly from his seat, and Biddy, notwithstanding Lady Kathleen's bursts of laughter and futile objections, took the seat of honor, and with a light, smart touch of the whip sent Paddy spinning at a fine rate over the roads.
"Hurrah!" she shouted when she came in sight ofthe motley crowd. "Here I am back again, and driving Paddy as if I'd never set foot off Irish soil. Welcome to you all! Good-evening, Dan; how's your lame foot? Good-evening Molly, acushla macree. Good-evening, good-evening, Jane and Susan and Norah. Now, then, let me drive quickly. I must get to my daddy before I touch the hands of one of you."
Bridget stood up on the driving seat, tightened the reins with energy, gave Paddy another well-aimed delicate stroke just where it would quicken his movements without irritating either his skin or his temper, and the laughing, shouting, joking cavalcade—for the children and the men and women were rushing after the car, and some of them even clinging on to it—turned in at the gates, and up the steep avenue which led to the Castle.
"Now, then; three cheers for the old home! Let every one of us shout with a will!" exclaimed Bridget. "Oh, it is nice to be back again."
"You'll frighten the horse, Biddy!" exclaimed Lady Kathleen. "I do think you have taken leave of your senses, child. Oh, don't set them off shouting; Paddy really won't stand it; and at this steep part, too!"
"Paddy is Irish," said Bridget, with some contempt. "He knows what an Irish shout is worth. Now, then! Three cheers—Hip, hip, hurrah! Hip, hip, hurrah!"
Bridget held the reins with one hand, the other was waved high in the air. She looked like a radiant, victorious young figure standing so, with the crowd of welcoming, delighted faces surrounding her. Her traveling hat had long ago disappeared, and her chestnut curls were tumbling about her face and shoulders.
"Hip, hip, hurrah!" she shouted again. "Three cheers for the Castle! Three cheers for the master!Three cheers for the dogs! Three cheers for old Ireland! and three cheers for the boys and girls who live at Castle Mahun!"
Frantic yells responded to Bridget's eager words. These were intermingled by the yelping and barking of about a dozen dogs, who rushed on the scene, and jumped all over Bridget in their ecstasy, nearly dragging her from her eminence on the car.
"Take the reins, Larry!" she exclaimed, tossing them to her satellite. "Now then, do get out of the way, Bruin! Clear out, Mustard, my pet, or I'll tread on you. Now then for a spring!"
She vaulted lightly to the ground, and the next instant was in the arms of her white-headed old father.
"Eh, my colleen, my colleen," he murmured. He pressed her to his heart; a dimness came over his eyes for a minute; his big, wrinkled hand touched her sunny forehead tenderly. "You have come back," he said. "I have had a fine share of the heart-hunger without you, my girleen."
Bridget laid her head on his shoulder.
"Oh, daddy," she exclaimed, in a sort of choked voice, "it is too good to feel your arms about me again; I am too happy."
"Don't you want to see Minerva's pups, miss?" asked the small and rather officious little ragged girl called Molly.
"Yes, to be sure. And she has had four, the darling; the dear, noble pet. Do take me to the litter at once, won't you, father?"
The mention of Minerva and her progeny was so intensely exciting that even sentiment was put aside, and the Squire, Biddy, Lady Kathleen, and all theretainers went in a motley procession to the stables, where the little red-tipped pups were huddled together, and the proud Minerva was waiting to show off their many beauties.
Biddy made several appropriate observations; not a point about the four little dogs was lost upon her. She and her father grew almost solemn in the earnestness with which they discussed the virtues and charms of the baby pups.
Minerva was petted and praised; hunger and fatigue were alike forgotten in the exciting and delicious task of examining the valuable puppies. Bridget knelt on the ground, regardless of her pretty and expensive traveling dress. A pup's short, expressive nose rubbed her cool cheek, Minerva's head lay on her knee; the animal's beautiful, expressive eyes were raised to hers, full of maternal pride and melting love. Another little pup lay on the Squire's big palm, a third nestled on Biddy's shoulder; a fourth tried to yelp feebly as it was huddled up in Molly's ragged apron.
Lady Kathleen stood over the group of adorers laughing and ejaculating. Somebody screamed in the distance that supper was ready, and that a feast was waiting in the kitchen for all the retainers in honor of Miss Bridget's return.
There was a scamper at this; even Molly put the cherished pup back into its basket, and Bridget, her father, and aunt entered the house arm in arm.
Two days afterward Lady Kathleen called Bridget aside, and, linking her hand through her arm, said in an affectionate tone:
"If you can spare me five minutes, Biddy, I have a pleasant little bit of news to give you."
Bridget O'Hara had resumed all the finery which had been more or less tabooed at school. The time was seven o'clock, on a summer's evening. She had on a richly embroidered tea gown of pale green silk, a silver girdle clasped her slim waist, the long train of her dress floated out behind her; it was partly open in front, and revealed a petticoat of cream satin, heavily embroidered with silver.
Strictly speaking, the dress was a great deal too old for so young a girl; but it suited Biddy, whose rich and brilliant coloring, and whose finely formed and almost statuesque young figure could carry off any amount of fine clothing. She and Lady Kathleen were standing on the terrace walk, which looked down on the lake. Its waters were tranquil as glass to-night; a few fleecy clouds in the sky were reflected on its bosom. A little boat with a white sail, which flapped aimlessly for want of wind to fill it, was to be seen in the distance. The Squire was directing the boat's wayward course, but it was making its way after a somewhat shambling fashionto the nearest landing-place. Bridget waved a handkerchief in the air.
"Turn the boat a bit, daddy, and the sail will fill," she shouted. "Now, then, Aunt Kathleen, what is it you want to say to me?"
"If you will only attend, Biddy," said Lady Kathleen. "Your thoughts are with your father, child; he's as safe as safe can be. Hasn't he sailed on the waters of Lake Crena since he was a little dot no higher than my knee?"
"But it is called the Witch's Cauldron, too," said Bridget, her eyes darkening. "They say that misfortune attends on those who are too fond of sailing on its waters."
Lady Kathleen laughed.
"You superstitious colleen," she said; "as if any sensible person minded what 'they say.'"
"All right, Aunt Kathleen, what's your news? what are you exciting yourself about?"
"I'm thinking of you, my pet, and how dull it must be for you after all the young companions you had at school."
"Dull for me at the Castle?" exclaimed Bridget, opening her big eyes wide. "Dull in the same house with daddy, and the servants, and the dogs? I don't understand you!"
"Well, my darling, that's just your affectionate way. You are very fond of your father and the dogs, of course. The dogs are the dogs, but you needn't try to blind me, my dearie dear. To the end of all time the young will seek the young, and boys and girls will herd together."
"Well, there are my cousins, Patrick and Gerald, coming next week."
"Just so. Fine bits of lads, both of them; but, when all is said and done, only lads. Now, girls want to be together as well as boys; they have their bits of secrets to confide to one another, and their bits of fun to talk over, and their sly little jokes to crack the one with the other; they have to dream dreams together, and plan what their future will be like. What a gay time they'll have in the gay world, and what conquests they'll make, and whose eyes will shine the brightest, and whose dress will be the prettiest, and which girl will marry the prince by and by, and which will find her true vocation in a cottage. Oh, don't you talk to me, Bridget; I know the ways of the creatures, and the longings of them, and the fads of them. Haven't I gone through it all myself?"
"You do seem excited, Aunt Kathleen, but you must admit too that there are girls and girls, and that this girl——"
"Now, I admit nothing, my jewel. Look here, my cushla macree, you're the soul of unselfishness, but you shall have your reward. You shall have girls to talk to and to play with, and by the same token they are coming this very moment on the jaunting car to meet you."
"Who are coming on the jaunting car?" asked Bridget, in a voice of alarm.
"Well now, I knew you'd be excited; I knew you better than you knew yourself. Your face tells me how delighted you are. That dear little Janet May, that sweet little friend of yours, the girl you are as thick as peas with, is going to spend the holidays at Castle Mahun. I sent Larry off with the jaunting car after the early dinner to the station to meet her. She'll be here in a minute or two with a sister of hers whom she'snearly as fond of as she is of yourself. Now, isn't that a surprise for you, my pet?"
"It is," said Bridget, in a low voice.
It was against all the preconceived ideas of the O'Haras to show even by the faintest shadow of discontent that they were wanting in hospitality. Bridget felt that the high spirits which had been hers during the last two days, which had lifted the weight of care, and the dreadful sensation of having done wrong, from her young heart, had now taken to themselves wings, and that the awful depressed sensation which used to try her so much at Mulberry Court must be once again her portion.
"You're pleased, aren't you, Biddy?" said Aunt Kathleen.
"Of course," said Bridget, in an evasive tone, "but there's daddy just landing, let me run to him."
She flew away, skimming down the steep ascent with the agility of a bird. She was standing by her father's side, flushed and breathless, when he stepped out of the little boat.
"Eh, colleen," he exclaimed, "what do you say to coming for a sail with me?"
"Give me a hug, daddy."
"That I will, my girl; eh, my jewel, it's good to feel your soft cheek. Now, then, what are you rubbing yourself against me for, like an affectionate pussy cat?"
"Nothing. I can't go for a sail, though; it's a bother, but it can't be helped."
"And why can't it be helped, if we two wish it, I want to know?"
"There are visitors coming to the Castle; we'll have to entertain them, daddy."
"Visitors! of course, right welcome they'll be; but I didn't know of any. Who are they? Do you think it's the O'Conors now, or may be the Mahoneys from Court Macherry. What are you staring at me like that for, child? If there are visitors coming, you and I must go and give them a right good hearty welcome; but who in the world can they be?"
"One of them is a schoolfellow of mine, her name is Janet May."
"Janet May," repeated the squire; "we don't have those sort of names in Ireland. A schoolfellow of yours? Then, of course, she'll be right welcome. A great friend, I suppose, my pet? She'll be welcome; very welcome."
"Look at me, daddy, for a minute," said Bridget, speaking quickly and in great excitement. "Let us welcome her, as of course all true Irish people ought to welcome their guests, but don't let's talk about her when you and I are alone. She has a sister coming too, and there's Aunt Kathleen waving her hands to us, and gesticulating. They must have arrived. If I had known it, I'd have ordered the bonfires to be lit on the hilltops, but I did not hear a thing about it until aunty told me a few minutes ago."
"It was remiss of Kathleen, very remiss," said the squire. "It is positively wanting in courtesy not to have the bonfires lit. Let's go up at once, Biddy, and meet your guests in the porch."
Squire O'Hara took his daughter's hand. They climbed the ascent swiftly together, and were standing in the porch, Lady Kathleen keeping them company, when the jaunting car drew up.
To an Irish person bred and born there is no moredelightful mode of locomotion than this same jaunting car, but people fresh to the Emerald Isle sometimes fail to appreciate its merits.
The jaunting car requires an easy and yet an assured seat. No clutching at the rails, no faint suspicion on the countenance of its occupant that there is the least chance of being knocked off at the next abrupt turn of the road, or the next violent jolt of the equipage. You must sit on the jaunting car as you would on your horse's back, as if you belonged to it, as the saying goes.
Now, strangers to Ireland have not this assured seat, and although Janet was too clever and too well bred to show a great deal of the nervousness she really felt, she could not help clinging frantically to the rail at the end of her side, and her small face was somewhat pale, and her lips tightly set. She had maneuvered hard for this invitation, she had won her cause, all had gone well with her; but this awful, bumping, skittish rollicking car might after all prove her destruction. What a wild horse drew this terrible car! What a reckless looking coachman aided and abetted all his efforts at rushing and flying over the ground! Oh, why did they dash down that steep hill? why did they whisk round this sudden corner? She must grasp the rail of her seat still tighter. She would not fall off, if nerve and courage could possibly keep her on; but would they do so?
Janet had plenty of real pluck, but poor Sophy was naturally a coward. They had not gone a mile on the road before she began to scream most piteously.
"I won't stay on this awful, barbarous thing another minute," she shrieked. "I shall be dashed to pieces, my brains will be knocked out. Janet, Janet, I say,Janet, if you don't get the driver to stop at once I'll jump off."
"Oh, there aint the least soight of fear," said Larry, whisking his head back in Sophy's direction with a contemptuous and yet good-humored twinkle in his eyes.
"I can't stay on; youmustpull the horse up," shrieked the frightened girl. "I can't keep my seat; I am slipping off, I tell you I am slipping off. I'll be on the road in another minute."
"Here then, Pat, you stay quiet, you baste," said Larry.
He pulled the spirited little horse up, until he nearly stood on his haunches, then, jumping down himself, came up to Sophy's side.
"What's the matter, miss?" he said; "why, this is the very safest little kyar in the county. You just sit aisy, miss, and don't hould on, and you will soon take foine to the motion."
"No, I won't," said Sophy. "I'll never take to it; I am terrified nearly out of my senses. I'll walk to that Castle of yours, whatever the name of it is."
"You can't do that, miss, for it's a matther of close on twenty mile from here."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" Sophy began to cry. "I wish I'd never come to this outlandish, awful place!" she exclaimed, forgetting all her manners in her extremity. "Janet, how heartless of you to sit like that, as if you didn't think of anyone but yourself! I'd much rather be back with Aunt Jane, or even taking care of those horrid Persian cats. Oh, anything would be better than this!"
"Don't you cry, miss," said Larry, who was a very good-natured person. "The little kyar is safe as safecan be; but maybe, seeing as you're frightened, miss, you'd like to sit in the well. We has a pretty big well to this jaunting car, and I'll open it out and you can get in."
The well which divided the two seats (running between them, as anyone who knows an Irish jaunting car will immediately understand) was a very small and shallow receptacle for even the most diminutive adult, but "any port in a storm," thought poor Sophy. She scrambled gratefully into the well, and sat there curled up, looking very foolish, and very abject.
The two travelers were therefore in a somewhat sorry plight when they arrived at the Castle, and Sophy's appearance was truly ridiculous.
Not a trace of mirth, however, was discernible on the faces of the kind host, his sister-in-law, and daughter as they came out to meet their guests.
Dennis O'Hara lifted Sophy in a twinkling to the ground. Janet devoutly hoped that she would not be killed as she made the supreme effort of springing from the car. Then began a series of very hearty offers of friendship and hospitality.
"Welcome, welcome," said the squire. "I'm right glad to see you both. Welcome to Castle Mahun! And is this your first visit to Ireland, Miss—Miss May?"
"Yes," said Janet, immediately taking the initiative, "and what a lovely country it is!"
"I agree with you," said the squire, giving her a quick, penetrating, half-pleased, half-puzzled glance. "I must apologize for not having bonfires lit in your and your sister's honor; but Lady Kathleen didn't tell me I was to have the pleasure of your company until a few minutes ago."
"I kept it as a joyful surprise," said Lady Kathleen; "but now, Dennis, let the two poor dear girls come in. They look fit to drop with fatigue. And so this is your little sister Sophy, Mayflower! I am right glad to see you, my dear. Welcome to Old Ireland, the pair of you; I will take you up myself to your room. Biddy, darling! Biddy!"
But, strange to say, Biddy was nowhere to be seen.
There was a little old deserted summerhouse far away in a distant part of the grounds, and there, a few minutes afterward, might have been heard some angry, choking, half-smothered sobs. They came from a girl in a pale green silk dress, who had thrown herself disconsolately by the side of a rustic table, and whose hot tears forced themselves through the fingers with which she covered her face.
"I can't bear it," she said to herself. "I can't be hospitable, and nice, and friendly, and yet I suppose I must. What would father say if one of the O'Haras were wanting in courtesy to a visitor? Oh, dear! how Ihatethat girl! I didn't think it was in me to hate anyone as I hate her! I hate her, and I—Ifear her! There's a confession for Bridget O'Hara to make. She's afraid of someone! She's afraid of a wretched poor small specimen of humanity like that! But it is quite true; that girl has got a power over me. She has got me into her net. Oh, what induced Aunt Kathleen to ask her here? Why should the darling beloved Castle be haunted by her nasty little sneaking presence? Why should my holidays be spoiled by her? This is twenty times worse than having her with me at school, for we were at least on equal terms there, and we are not here. She's my visitor here, and I must be politeto her. I don't mind that abject looking sister of hers, who sat huddled up in the well of the car, one way or the other; but Janet is past enduring. Oh, Aunt Kathleen, what have you done to me?"
Bridget sobbed on stormily. The old sensation of having lowered herself, of being in disgrace with herself, was strongly over her. She hated herself for being angry at having Janet in the house, for so strong were her instincts of hospitality that even to think an uncourteous thought toward a visitor seemed to her to be like breaking the first rules of life.
She had rushed to the summerhouse to give herself the comfort of a safety valve. She must shed the tears which weighed against her eyes. She must speak aloud to the empty air some of the misery which filled her heart. She was quite alone. It was safe for her to storm here; she knew that if she spent her tears in this safe retreat she would be all the better able to bear her sorrows by and by.
As she sobbed, thinking herself quite alone, the little rustic door of the old summerhouse was slowly and cautiously pushed open, and a dog's affectionate, melting eyes looked in.
The whole of a big shaggy head protruded itself next into view, four big soft feet pattered across the floor, and a magnificent thoroughbred Irish greyhound laid his head on the girl's knee.
"O Bruin, Bruin; oh, you darling!" exclaimed Bridget. "I can tellyouhow sorry I am! I can tellyouhow mean and horrid and contemptible I feel! Kiss me, Bruin; let me love you, you darling! you darling! You'll never tell that you found me like this, will you, Bruin?"
"Never!" said Bruin's eyes. "Of course not; what can you be thinking about? And now cheer up, won't you?
"Yes, I will," said Bridget, answering their language. "Oh, what a great comfort you are to me, Bruin, my dog!"
The great bell clanged out its hospitable boom for supper. Supper was a great institution at the Castle. It was the meal of the day. A heterogeneous sort of repast, at which every conceivable eatable, every available luxury, graced the board. From tea, coffee, and bread and butter to all sorts of rich and spiced dishes, nothing that the good-humored Irish cook could produce was absent from the squire's supper table.
It was the one meal in the day at which he himself ate heartily. The squire ate enough then to satisfy himself for the greater part of the twenty-four hours; for, with the exception of a frugal breakfast at eight in the morning, which consisted of tea, bread and butter, and two new-laid eggs, he never touched food again until the great evening meal, which was tea, supper, and dinner in one.
People had easy times at Castle Mahun. There was no stiffness anywhere. The rule of the house was to go where you pleased, and do what you liked. Once a visitor there, you might, as far as Squire O'Hara was concerned, be a visitor for all the rest of your natural life. Certainly no one would think of hinting at the possibility of your going. When you did take it into your head to depart, you would be warmly invited to renew your visit at the first available opportunity, andthe extreme shortness of your stay, even though that stay had extended to months, would be openly commented upon and loudly regretted. But, as in each fortress there is one weak spot, and as in every rule there is the invariable exception, the Squire did demand one thing from his own family and his visitors alike, and that was a punctual attendance in the lofty dining hall of the Castle at suppertime.
Bridget heard the bell twanging and sounding, and knew that the summons to appear at supper had gone forth. She mopped away her tears with a richly embroidered cambric handkerchief, stuffed it into her pocket, looked with a slight passing regret at some muddy marks which Bruin had made on her silk dress, and prepared to return to the house.
"I wonder, Bruin," she said, "if my eyes show that I have been crying? What a nuisance if they do. I'd better run down to the Holy Well before I go into the house, and see if a good bathe will take the redness away. Come along, Bruin, my dog, come quickly."
Bruin trotted on in front of Bridget. He knew her moods well. He had comforted her before now in the summerhouse. No one but Bruin knew what bitter tears she had shed when she was first told she must go to England to school. Bruin had found her in the summerhouse then, and she had put her arms round his neck and kissed him, and then she had mopped her wet eyes and asked him as she did to-night if they showed signs of weeping, and also as to-night the dog and the girl had repaired to the Holy Well to wash the traces of tears away.
Bruin went on in front, now trotting quickly, andnever once troubling himself to look back. They soon reached the little well, which was covered with a small stone archway, under which the water lay dark and cool. Rare ferns dipped their leaves into the well, and some wild flowers twined themselves over the arch, which always, summer and winter, kept the sun from touching the water. It was a lonely spot not often frequented, for the well had the character of being haunted, and its waters were only supposed to act as a charm or cure on the O'Hara family. Bridget, therefore, stepped back with a momentary expression of surprise when she saw a woman bending down by the well in the act of filling a small glass bottle with some of its water.
She was a short, stout woman of between fifty and sixty. Her hair was nearly snow-white; her face was red and much weather-beaten; her small gray, twinkling eyes were somewhat sunk in her head; her nose was broad andretroussé, her mouth wide, showing splendid white teeth without a trace of decay about them.
The woman looked up when she heard a footstep approaching. Then, seeing Bridget, she dashed her glass bottle to the ground, and rushing up to the young girl, knelt at her feet, and clasped her hands ecstatically round her knees.
"Oh, Miss Biddy, Miss Biddy!" she exclaimed. "It's the heart-hunger I have been having for the sake of your purty face. Oh, Miss Biddy, my colleen, and didn't you miss poor Norah?"
"Of course I did, Norah," said Bridget. "I could not make out where you were. I asked about you over and over again, and they said you were away onthe hills, sheep-shearing. I did think it was odd, for you never used to shear the sheep, Norah."
"No," said Norah, "but I was that distraught with grief I thought maybe it 'ud cool me brain a bit. It's about Pat I'm in throuble, darlin'. It's all up with the boy and me! We has waited for years and years, and now there don't seem no chance of our being wedded. He's no better, Miss Biddy. The boy lies flat out on his back, and there aint no strength in him. Oh! me boy, me boy, that I thought to wed!"
"And whereisPat, Norah?" said Bridget. "I asked about him, too, and they said he had been moved up to a house on one of the hills, to get a little stronger air. I was quite pleased, for I know change of air is good for people after they get hurt. And why can't you be wed, Norah, even if Pat is hurt? I should think he'd want a wife to nurse him very badly now. Why can't you have a wedding while I'm at home, Norah macree?"
"Oh, me darlin'—light of me eyes that you are—but where's the good when the boy don't wish it himself? He said to me only yesterday, 'Me girl,' said he, 'it aint the will of the Vargen that you and me should wed this year, nor maybe next. We must put it off for a bit longer.' I'm close on sixty, Miss Bridget, and Pat is sixty-two, and it seems as if we might settle it now, but he don't see it. He says it was the will of the Vargen to lay him on his back and that there must be no coorting nor marrying until he's round on his feet again. I am about tired of waiting, Miss Bridget; for, though I aint to say old, I aint none so young nayther."
"But you have a lot of life left in you still, Norah,"said Bridget. "I'll go and talk to Pat to-morrow, and we'll soon put things right. I was so dreadfully sorry to hear that he was hurt. And did you get my letter that I wrote to you from school?"
"To be sure, darlin'! and why wouldn't I? and it's framed up in Pat's cottage now, and we both looks at it after we has said our beads each night. It was a moighty foine letter, Miss Biddy! Pat and me said that you was getting a sight of larning at that foreign school."
"And did you get the money I sent you, Norah? I sent you and Pat two whole pounds in a postal order. I was so glad I had it to give you. Two pounds means a lot of money to an Irish boy and girl. Weren't you glad when you saw it, Norah? Didn't it make you and Pat almost forget about the accident and the pain?"
"Oh, Miss Bridget, alanna!" Norah's deep-set, good-natured, and yet cunning eyes were raised in almost fear to the young girl's face. "Miss Bridget, alanna, there worn't never a stiver in the letter. No, as sure as I'm standing here; not so much as a brass bawbee, let alone gold. Oh, alanna, someone must have shtole the beautiful money. Oh, to think of your sending it, and we never to get it; oh, worra, worra me!"
Bridget turned rather pale while Norah was speaking.
"I certainly sent you the money," she said. "Didn't I tell you so in the letter?"
Norah fumbled with her apron.
"Maybe you did, darlin'," she said evasively.
"But don't youknow? It was principally to tell you about the money that I wrote."
"Well, you see, darlin'—truth is best. Nayther Patnor me can read, and so we framed the letter, but we don't know what's in it; only we knew from the foreign mark as it was from that baste of a school, and that it must be from you."
"I think I must run in to supper now, Norah; there are some visitors come to the Castle, and I'm awfully late as it is, and father may be vexed. I'll ride up on Wild Hawk to-morrow to see Pat, and you had better be there, and we'll find out where that money has got to. Good-night, Norah; but first tell me what you were doing at the Holy Well?"
"Don't you be angry with me, Miss Biddy. I thought maybe if I brought a bottle of the water to Pat, and he didn't know what it was, and he drank some as if it was ordiner water, that it would act as a love philter on him, and maybe he'd consint to our being married before many months is up. For I'm wearying to have the courtship over, and that's the truth I'm telling ye, Miss Bridget. I am awfully afraid as Pat has seen me gray hairs, and that they are turning the boy agen me, and that he'll be looking out for another girl."
"If he does I'll never speak to him again," said Bridget slowly. "You so faithful and so good! but now I must go in to supper, Norah."
Bridget ran scrambling and panting up to the house. Bruin kept her company step by step. He entered the large dining hall by her side, and walked with her to the head of the board, where she sat down in a vacant chair near her father's side.
"You're late, alanna," he said, turning his fine face slowly toward her with a courteous and yet reproachful glance.
She did not reply in words, but placed her hand on his knee for a moment.
The touch brought a smile to his face. He turned to talk to Janet, who, neatly dressed, and all traces of fatigue removed, was sitting at his other side.
Lady Kathleen was attending to Sophy's wants at the farther end of the table; but between them and the squire were several other visitors. These visitors were now so accustomed to paying long calls at Castle Mahun that they had come to look upon it as a second home. They were all Irish, and most of them rather old, and they one and all claimed relationship with Squire O'Hara. Nobody said much to them, but they ate heartily of the good viands with which the table was laden, and nodded and smiled with pleasure when the squire pressed them to eat more.
"Miss Macnamara, Iinsiston your having another glass of sherry!" the squire would thunder out; or, "Mr. Jonas O'Hagan, how is your lame foot this evening? and are you making free with the beef? It is meant to be eaten, remember; it is meant to be eaten."
Jonas O'Hagan, a very lean old man of close on seventy, would nod back to the squire, and help himself to junks of the good highly spiced beef in question. Miss Macnamara would simper and say:
"Well, squire, toobligeyou then, I'll have just aleetledrop more sherry."
The business of eating, however, was too important for the squire to do much in the way of conversation.
Janet's small-talk—she thought herself an adept at small-talk—was kindly listened to, but not largely responded to.
Bridget whispered to herself, "I must really tell Janet another day that father must be left in peace to eat the one meal he really does eat in the twenty-four hours."
Bridget herself did not speak at all. She scarcely ate anything, but leaned back against her chair, one hand lying affectionately on Bruin's head. Anxious and troubled thoughts were filling her young mind. What had become of the two pounds she had given Janet to put into Norah's letter?
She felt startled and perplexed. It was an awful thing to harbor bad feelings toward a visitor. All Bridget's instincts rose up in revolt at the bare idea. She thought herself a dreadful girl for being obliged to rush away to the old summerhouse to cry; but bad as that was, what was it in comparison to the thoughts which now filled her mind? Could it be possible that Janet, sitting there exactly opposite to her, looking so neat, so pretty, so tranquil, could have stolen those two sovereigns? Could the girl who called herself Bridget's friend be a thief?
Oh, no, it was simply impossible.
Bridget had already discovered much meanness in Janet May. Janet, with her own small hand, had led Bridget O'Hara into crooked paths.
But all that, bad as it was, was nothing—nothing at all in Bridget's eyes, to the fact that she had stooped to be just a common thief.
"I thought that only very poor and starving people stole," thought the girl to herself, as she broke off a piece of griddle cake and put it to her lips. "Oh, I can't—I won't believe it of her. The postal order must have been put into the letter, and someone must havetaken it out before it reached Pat's hands. Perhaps the postal order is in the envelope all this time. When I ride over on Wild Hawk to-morrow to see Pat I'll ask him to show me the envelope. It would be a good plan if I took Janet with me. I can soon judge by her face whether she stole the money or not. Of course, if she did steal it, I must speak to her, but I can't do it on any part of the O'Hara estate. It would be quite too awful for the hostess to accuse her visitor of theft."
"Biddy, alanna—a penny for your thoughts," said the squire, tapping his daughter on her cheek.
"They are not worth even a farthing," she replied, coloring, however, and starting away from his keen glance.
"Then, if our young friends have done their supper, you'll maybe take them round the place a bit, colleen; they'll like to smell the sweet evening air, and to—— By the way, are you partial to dogs, Miss May; we have a few of them to show you if you are?"
"Oh, I like them immensely," said Janet. ("Horrid bores!" she murmured under her breath.) "I don't know much about them, of course," she added, raising her seemingly truthful eyes and fixing them on the old squire. "I had an uncle once; he's dead. I was very fond of him; he had a deerhound something like that one."
She nodded at Bruin as she spoke.
"Ah," said Mr. O'Hara, interested at once, "then you can appreciate the noblest sort of dog in the world. Come here, Bruin, my king, and let me introduce you to this young lady. This is a thoroughbredIrish deerhound, Miss May; I wouldn't part with him for a hundred pounds in gold of the realm."
The stately dog, who had been crouching by Bridget's feet, rose slowly at his master's summons and approached Janet. He sniffed at the small hand which lay on her knee, evidently did not think much of either it or its owner, and returned to Biddy's side.
"You won't win Bruin in a hurry," said the squire. "I doubt if he could take to anyone who hasn't Irish blood; but for all that, although he won't love you, since I have formally introduced you to each other he'd rather die than see a hair of your head hurt. You are Bruin's guest now, and supposing you were in trouble of any sort during your visit to Castle Mahun, you'd find out the value of being under the dog's protection."
"Yes," said Janet, suppressing a little yawn. She rose from her seat as she spoke. "Shall we go out, Biddy?" she said. "Will you take Sophy and me round the place as your father has so kindly suggested?"
"Certainly," said Bridget; "we'll walk round the lake, and I'll show you the view from the top of the tower. There'll be a moon to-night, and that will make a fine silver path on the water. Are you coming too, Aunt Kathleen?"
"Presently, my love, after I have been round to look at Minerva and the pups."
The three girls left the hall in each other's company.
Sophy began to give expression to her feelings in little, weak, half-hysterical bursts of rapture. "Oh, what a delightful place!" she began, skipping by Bridget's side as she spoke. "This air does revive one so;andwhata view!" clasping her two hands together. "Miss O'Hara, how you are to be envied—you who live in the midst of this beauty. Oh, good Heavens, I can't stand all those dogs! I'm awfully afraid; I really am. Down, down! youhorridthing, you! Oh, please, save me; please, save me!" Sophy caught violent hold of Bridget's wrist, shrieked, danced, and dragged her dress away.
About a dozen dogs had suddenly rushed in a fury of ecstasy round the corner. Some of them had been chained all day, some shut up in their kennels. All were wild for their evening scamper, and indifferent in the first intoxication of liberty to the fact of whether they were caressing friends or strangers. They slobbered with their great mouths and leaped upon the girls, licking them all over in their joy.