The charge they made was really a severe one, and Sophy may easily have been forgiven for her want of courage.
Janet, who disliked the invasion of the dogs quite as much as her sister, favored that young person now with a withering glance; but Bridget spoke in a kind and reassuring tone.
"I'm so sorry they should have annoyed you," she said; "I might have known that you weren't accustomed to them. Daddy and I like them to jump about in this wild fashion, but I might have known that it wouldn't be pleasant to you. Down, this minute, dogs; I'm ashamed of you! Down, Mustard; down, Pepper; down, Oscar; down, Wild-Fire. Do you hear me? I'll use the whip to you if you don't obey."
Bridget's fine voice swelled on the evening breeze.Each dog looked at her with a cowed and submissive eye; they ceased their raptures, and hung their drooping heads.
"To heel, every one of you!" she said.
They obeyed, and the girls entered the shady but steep walk which hung over the lake.
"You won't forget, girls," said Lady Kathleen the next morning when breakfast was over, "that Patrick and Gerald are coming to stay here to-day?"
"Hurrah!" said Bridget; "we'll have some shooting and fishing then."
"You can't shoot at this time of year," said the squire.
"I don't mean to shoot game, father," she replied. "I want to learn proper rifle shooting. What do you say, Janet; wouldn't you like to handle firearms?"
Janet hesitated for a moment; she saw disapproval on Lady Kathleen's face, and took her cue from her.
"I don't think I'm strong enough," she said. "Shooting with firearms seems just the one accomplishment which a girlcan'tmanage; at least, I mean an ordinary girl."
Lady Kathleen clapped her hands.
"Hear to you, Mayflower," she said. "Right you are; I go with you, my dear. Firearms are downright dangerous things; and if I had my will, Biddy should never touch them. Do you hear me, squire?"
"Pooh!" said the squire; "what harm do they do? A girl ought to know how to defend herself. As to the danger, if she uses her common sense there is not any. I grant you that a foolish girl oughtn't to touchfirearms; but give me a sensible, strong-hearted colleen, and I'll provide that she handles a gun with the precision and care of the best sportsman in the land. Biddy here can bring down a bird on the wing with any fellow who comes to shoot in the autumn, and I don't suppose there is Biddy's match in the county for womanly graces either."
"You spoil her, Dennis," said Lady Kathleen. "It's well she's been sent to school to learn some of her failings, for she'd never find them out here. Not but that I'm as proud as Punch of her myself. For all that, however, I'd leave out the shooting; and I'm very much obliged to little Mayflower for upholding me."
"You haven't a wrist for a gun," said the squire, glancing at Janet's small hands. "Your vocations lie in another direction. You must favor me with a song some evening. I guess somehow by the look of your face that you are musical."
"I adore music," said Janet with enthusiasm.
"That's right. Can you do the 'Melodies'?"
"The 'Melodies'?"
"Yes; 'She is far from the Land,' and 'The Minstrel Boy,' and 'The Harp that once through Tara's Halls'; but it isn't likely you can touchthat. It requires an Irish girl born and bred, with her fingers touching the strings of an Irish harp, and her soul in her eyes, and her heart breaking through the beautiful birdlike voice of her, to give that 'Melody' properly. We'll have it to-night, Biddy, you and I. We'll get the harp brought out on the terrace, and when the moon is up we'll have the dogs lying about, and we'll sing it; you and I."
"Dear, dear, squire," said Lady Kathleen, "if you and Biddy sing 'The Harp that once through Tara'sHalls' as youcansing it, you'll give us all the creeps! Why, it seems to be a sort of wail when you two do it. I see the forsaken hall, and the knights, and the chieftains, and the fair ladies! Oh, it's melting,melting! You must provide yourselves with plenty of handkerchiefs, Mayflower and Sophy, if we are going to have that sort of entertainment. But here comes the postbag; I wonder if there's anything for me."
The door of the hall was swung open at the farther end, and a man of about thirty, with bare feet, and dressed in a rough fustian suit, walked up the room, and deposited the thick leather bag by the squire's side.
"Now what did you come in for, Jonas?" he asked. "Weren't any of the other servants about?"
"I couldn't help meself, your honor," said Jonas, pulling his front lock of hair, and looking sheepishly and yet affectionately down the long table. "I was hungering for a sight of Miss Biddy. I hadn't clapped eyes on her sence she came back, and I jest ran foul of them varmints, and made free of the hall. Begging your honor's parding, I hope there's no harm done."
"No, Jonas, not any. Make your bob to Miss Biddy now, and go."
The man bowed low, flashed up two eyes of devotion to the girl's face, and scampered in a shambling kind of way out of the room.
"Good soul, capital soul, that," said the squire, nodding to Janet.
"He seems very devoted," she replied, lowering her eyes to conceal her true feelings.
The squire proceeded to unlock the letter-bag and dispense its contents. Most of the letters were forhimself, but there was one thick inclosure for Lady Kathleen.
Janet sprang up to take it to her. As she did so she recognized the handwriting and the postmark. The letter came from Eastcliff, and was from Mrs. Freeman.
Janet felt her heart beat heavily. She felt no doubt whatever that this letter, so thick in substance and so important in appearance, contained an account of poor Biddy's delinquencies.
Lady Kathleen received it, and laid it by her plate.
"Who's your correspondent, Kathleen?" asked the squire, from the other end of the table. It was one of his small weaknesses to be intensely curious about letters.
Lady Kathleen raised the letter and examined the writing.
"It's from Eastcliff," she said, "from Mrs. Freeman; I know by the way she flourishes her t's. The letter is from Mrs. Freeman," she repeated, raising her voice. "A thick letter, with an account, no doubt, of our Biddy's progress."
Bridget, who was standing by her father's side, turned suddenly pale. Her hand, which rested on his shoulder, slightly trembled; a sick fear, which she had thought dead, came over her with renewed force. She had forgotten the possibility of Mrs. Freeman writing an account of her wrong doings to Lady Kathleen. Now she felt a sudden wild terror, something like a bird caught for the first time in the fowler's net.
Squire O'Hara felt her hand tremble. This father and daughter were so truly one that her lightest moods, her most passing emotions were instantly perceived by him.
"You are all in a fuss, colleen," he said, looking back at her; "but if there is a bit of praise in the letter, why shouldn't we hear it? You open it, and read it aloud to us, Kathleen. You'll be glad to hear what my daughter has done at school, Miss Macnamara?"
"Proud, squire, proud," retorted the old lady, cracking the top off another egg as she spoke.
"Please, father, I'd rather the letter wasn't read aloud. I don't think it is all praise," whispered Biddy in his ear.
The Squire's hawk-like face took a troubled glance for a quarter of a minute. He looked into Biddy's eyes and took his cue.
No one else had heard her low, passionate whisper.
"After all," he said, "the colleen has a fair share of womanly modesty, and I for one respect her for it. She can handle a gun with any man among us, but she can't hear herself praised to her face. All right, colleen, you shan't be. We'll keep over the letter for the present, if you please, Kathleen."
"That's as you please, Dennis. For my part, I expect it's just the school bills, and there is no hurry about them. I want to go and speak to Molly Fitzgerald about preserving the late raspberries, so I shan't read the letter at all at present."
She slipped it into her pocket, and, rising from the table, set the example to the others to follow her.
The three girls went out on the terrace. Janet walked by Bridget's side, and Sophy ran on in front.
"I can't believe," said Bridget, looking at Sophy, "that your sister is older than you. She has quite the ways and manners of a very young girl, whereas you——"
"Thank you," said Janet. "I know quite well what you mean, Biddy. I know I'm not young for my age. I needn't pretend when I am with you, Biddy," she continued, speaking with a sudden emphasis; "you wouldn't be young, either, if you had always had to lead my life. I have had to do for myself, and for Sophy, too, since I was ever so little. I have had to plot, and to plan, and contrive. I never had an easy life. Perhaps, if I had had the same chances as other girls, I might have been different."
"I wish you would always talk like that," said Bridget, an expression of real friendliness coming into her face. "If you would always talk as you are doing now—I mean in that true tone—I—I couldbearyou, Janet."
"Oh, I know what your feelings are well enough," said Janet. "I am not so blind as you imagine. I know you hate having me here, and that if it wasn't for—forsomethingthat happened at school you wouldn't tolerate my presence for an hour. But you see something did happen at school; something that you don't want to be known; and you have got to tolerate me; do you hear?"
"You're mistaken in supposing that I would be rude to you now you have come," said Bridget. "I don't think I should have invited you; I didn't invite you. My aunt didn't even tell me that she had done so. She thought we were friends, and that she was giving me a nice surprise when she told me that you were coming."
"I took care that you didn't know," said Janet in a low tone, and with a short little laugh. "You don't suppose Lady Kathleen would have thought of thenice little surprise by herself? It was I who managed everything; the surprise, and the gay jolly time we are to spend at the Castle, and all."
"You are clever," said Bridget, "but I don't think I envy you your kind of cleverness. All the same, now that you are here you are my visitor, and I shall do what I can to give you a good time."
"Thanks," said Janet, "I dare say I can manage that for myself. By the way, did you notice that a letter has come from Eastcliff?"
"From Mrs. Freeman; yes, what of that?"
"There is no good in your saying 'What of that?' so calmly with your lips, Bridget, when your heart is full of the most abject terror. Didn't I see how your face changed color this morning when you saw the letter, and didn't I notice you when you whispered something to your father? You are very, very sorry that letter has come. It would be very terrible to you—very terrible for you, if its contents were known."
Sophy was still flitting on in front. The sunshine was bathing the sloping lawns, and the dark forest trees, and the smooth bosom of Lake Crena. It seemed to Bridget for the first time in her young life that sunshine, even when it fell upon Irish land, was a mockery and a delusion.
"I do not want my father to know," she said, with a break in her voice. "It would kill me if he knew. You see what he is, Janet, the soul of all that is noble and honorable. Oh, it would kill me if he knew what I have done; and I think it would kill him also. O Janet, why did you get me into such an awful scrape?"
"You didn't think it so very awful when you were knowing all your lessons, and getting praise fromeveryone, and mounting to the head of your class. It seemed all right to you then, and you never blamed me at all; but now that the dark side of the picture comes, and you are in danger of discovery, you see your conduct in a different light. I have no patience with you. You have the appearance of being a very brave girl; in reality you are a coward."
"No one ever said that to me before," said Bridget, clenching her hand, her eyes flashing.
"Well, I say it now; it's very good for the petted, and the courted, and the adored, to listen to unvarnished truths now and then. Oh, so you have come back, Sophy. Yes, those are pretty flowers, but perhaps Miss O'Hara doesn't wish you to pick her flowers."
"Not wish her to pick the flowers," said Bridget, "and she a visitor! What nonsense! Oh, you English don't at all know our Irish ways."
"I think you have quite lovely ways," said Sophy. "I never felt so happy in my life. I never, never was in such a beautiful place, and I never came across such truly kind people."
"Well, run on then," said Janet, "and pick some more of the flowers."
"There's one of those awful jaunting cars coming up the avenue," said Sophy.
"Then the boys have come," exclaimed Bridget. "I must fly to them."
She rushed away, putting wings to her feet, and the two May girls were left standing together. Janet was absorbed in a brown study. Sophy's eager eyes followed the car as it ascended the steep and winding avenue.
"I wonder if we'll have any fun with the boys," shesaid, "and who are the boys? I hope they are grown up."
"You can make yourself easy on that score," said Janet, "they are only lads—schoolboys. They live on the O'Mahoney estate, about eighteen miles away. Their names are Patrick and Gerald, and I expect they are about as raw and uninteresting as those sort of wild Irish can be. Now, Sophy, do continue your pretty kittenish employment; skip about and pick some more flowers."
"I think I will be kittenish enough to run down the avenue and see what the boys are really like," said Sophy. "I'll soon know whether there is any fun to be got out of them."
She ran off as she spoke, and Janet found herself alone.
She stood still for a minute, irresolute and nervous. The arrival of the letter by that morning's post had given her great uneasiness. She was a young person of very calm judgment and ready resource, but as matters now stood she could not see her own way. The next step was invisible to her, and such a state of things was torture to a nature like hers. Oh, if only she could secure that letter, then how splendid would be her position. Bridget would be absolutely in her power. She could do with this erratic and strange girl just what she pleased.
Four gay young voices were heard approaching, some dogs were yelping and gamboling about, boyish tones rose high on the breeze, followed by the light sound of girlish laughter.
"Talk of Bridget really feeling anything!" murmured Janet; "why, that girl is all froth."
She felt that she could not meet the gay young folks just now, and ran round a shady path which led to the back of the house; here she found herself in full view of a great yard, into which the kitchen premises opened. The yard was well peopled with barefooted men, and barefooted girls and women. Some pigs were scratching, rolling about, and disporting themselves, after their amiable fashion, in a distant corner. Some barn-door fowls and a young brood of turkeys were making a commotion and rushing after a thickly set girl, who was feeding them with barley; quantities of yellow goslings and downy ducklings were to be seen making for a muddy looking pond. Some gentle looking cows were lowing in their sheds. The cart horses were being taken out for the day's work.
It was a gay and picturesque scene, and Janet, anxious as she felt, could not help standing still for a moment to view it.
"And now, where are you going, Mayflower? and why aren't you with the others?" exclaimed a gay voice.
Janet hastily turned her head, and saw Lady Kathleen, with her rich, trailing silk dress turned well up over her petticoat, a gayly colored cotton handkerchief tied over her head, and a big basket in her hand.
"Why aren't you with the others, Mayflower?" she repeated. "Are they bad-hearted enough, and have they bad taste enough, not to want you, my little mavourneen?"
"I don't know, Lady Kathleen," said Janet, raising eyes which anxiety had rendered pathetic. "I don't know that I am really much missed; some peoplewhom Bridget speaks of as 'the boys' have just arrived, and she——"
"Oh, mercy!" interrupted Lady Kathleen, "and so the lads have come. I must go and talk to them as soon as ever I have helped cook a bit with the raspberries. We are going in for a grand preserving to-day, and cook and I have our hands full. Would you like to come along and give us a bit of assistance, Mayflower!"
"You may be sure I would," said Janet.
"Well, come then," said Lady Kathleen. "You can eat while you pick. I can tell you that the Castle Mahun raspberries are worth eating; why, they are as large as a cook's thimble, each of them; I don't mean a lady's thimble, but a cook's; and that's no offense to you, Molly Malone."
Molly Malone, who resembled a thick, short sack in figure, spread out her broad hands and grinned from ear to ear.
"Why, then, you must be always cracking your jokes, me lady," she said, "and fine I likes to hear you; and it's the beautiful, hondsome lady you is."
"Get out with you, Molly," said Lady Kathleen; "don't you come over me with your blarney. Now, then, here we are. Isn't it a splendid, great, big patch of berries, Mayflower?"
"I never saw raspberries growing before," said Janet; "how pretty they look!"
"They look even prettier when they are turned into rich red jam. Now, then, we must all set to work. Put your basket here, Molly, and run and fetch us some cabbage leaves; we'll each have a cabbage leaf to fill with berries, and when our leaves are full we'll popthe berries into the big basket. Oh, bother those brambles, they are tearing and spoiling my dress; I wish I hadn't it on. It is quite a good silk, and I know it will get both stained and torn, but when the notion came to me to help Molly Malone with the preserving, I really could not be worried changing it."
Janet made no remark, and Lady Kathleen quickly busied herself with the raspberry briars. She was a very expert picker, and filled two or three leaves with the luscious, ripe fruit while Janet was filling one.
"Why, my dear," she said, "what are you about? Those small fingers of yours are all thumbs. Who'd have believed it? Oh! and you must only pick the ripe fruit; the fruit that almost comes away when you look at it. Let me show you; there, that's better. Now you have gone and scratched your hand, poor mite; it's plain to be seen you have no Irish blood in you."
Janet looked at her small wounded hand with a dismal face.
"As I said a minute ago, I never saw raspberries growing before," she said.
"You needn't remark that to us, my love; your way of picking them proves your ignorance. Now, I tell you what you shall do for me. This silk skirt that I have on is no end of a bother. I'll just slip it off; there'll be no one to see me in my petticoat, and you can run with it to the house and bring back a brown holland skirt which you'll find in my wardrobe. Run straight to the house with the skirt, Janet, and I'll be everlastingly obliged to you. Anyone will show you my bedroom; it is at the end of the Ghost's Corridor. Run, child, run; put wings to your feet. Well, youare a good-natured little thing; your eyes quite sparkle with delight."
"I am very glad to oblige you, Lady Kathleen," said Janet. Her eyelashes drooped over her bright eyes as she spoke. Lady Kathleen flung the rich silk skirt carelessly over her arm, and she ran off.
"Be sure you bring me the brown holland, my dear, with the large fruit stain in front; there are two of them in the wardrobe, and I want the one with the fruit stain," shouted the good lady after her.
Janet called back that she would remember, and, running faster, was soon lost to view.
When she could no longer get even a peep at Lady Kathleen she stood still, and, slipping her hand into the pocket of the rich silk skirt, took out the thick letter with the Eastcliff postmark on it. This was transferred to her own pocket; then, going on to the house, she found Lady Kathleen's bedroom, took down the holland skirt with the stain on it, and was back again with the good lady after an absence of not more than ten minutes.
"That's right, my love, that's right," said Lady Kathleen; "you are like that dear, little, old Greek god, Mercury, for swiftness and expedition; and now, as you don't seem to care to pick raspberries, you can go and join your young friends. They are safe to go on the lake this morning, and I have no doubt you'll enjoy a row."
"Oh, thank you," said Janet, "I love the water."
She turned away, and soon found herself outside the great kitchen garden and walking down the steep path which led directly to the lake. She heard gay voices in the distance, and was willing enough to join the young party now. Her heart felt as light as a feather.It was delicious to know that she had, by one dexterous stroke, saved Bridget, and, at the same time, put her into her power.
"I am made for life," whispered Janet, as she stepped along. "Who would have thought half an hour ago that such a lucky chance was to be mine? I know perfectly well that Biddy hates me, but she would rather conceal her hatred all her life than let her father know the contents of the letter which I have in my pocket. I am not the least afraid of Lady Kathleen suspecting me of having taken it. She is so erratic and careless herself that she has probably quite forgotten that she ever put Mrs. Freeman's letter into her pocket. Oh! I am as safe as safe can be, and as happy also. I cannot stay long in this wild, outlandish sort of place, but it is very well for a short time; and as I mean to make plenty of use of Lady Kathleen in the future, I may as well cultivate her all I can now. It would be rather a nice arrangement if poor little Sophy were made Bridget's companion by and by; of course I can make any terms with Bridget that I like, as I shall always keep the letter as a rod in pickle to hold over her devoted head. Bridget will be so much afraid of me that she will do exactly what I please, and it would be nice for Sophy to live with her.
"As to myself, I mean to go to Paris with Lady Kathleen. I shall go to Paris and have a really gay and fine time; I mean to go, and I mean also to wear some of the lovely Parisian dresses which are showered in such profusion on that tiresome, stupid Biddy, which she can't appreciate, and won't appreciate, but which I should make a fine harvest out of. Oh, yes! oh, yes! my future is secure. Who would have thought that inone little short half hour Dame Fortune would have so completely turned her wheel?"
Janet skipped and ran down the winding path. She presently came to the neighborhood of the Holy Well. She knew nothing about the well. It had no history whatever to her; but as she felt hot and thirsty, and a little wooden cup was hanging by a chain to the arched stone roof, and the water looked dark and clear and cool beneath, she stooped, intending to take a long draught of the cold water. Going close to the well, she held up her dress, and walked on the tips of her dainty shoes. Bending forward, and stretching out her hand, she was about to take the little wooden cup from its hook, and to dip it into the well, in order to get a good draught of the delicious water, when a voice suddenly said to her:
"Why then, missy, if you drink that wather, you that don't belong to the quality what lives at the big house, you'll have no luck all the rest of your born days."
The sound of this voice was so unexpected that Janet stepped back, startled.
A thickly set woman, with white hair, was standing near the well.
"That wather is only for the O'Haras," she said. "They and their kinsfolk can drink it, and it brings them a power of luck, but if so be as strangers so much as wets their lips with it, why, a curse enters into their bones with every dhrop they takes. That's thrue as I am standing here, miss, and you had better be warned. Wance the curse enters into you, you dwindles and dwindles till you dhrops out of sight entirely."
Janet gave a mocking laugh.
"Oh, youarea silly old woman," she exclaimed."And do you really think that I am going to be taken in by nonsense of that sort? I'll show you now how much I believe you."
She filled the wooden cup to the brim, then, raising it to her lips, took a long, deep draught.
"Am I beginning to dwindle already?" she asked, dropping a courtesy to the angry looking Irishwoman. Without waiting for a reply she turned on her heel, and ran down the slope.
The woman followed her retreating form with flashing eyes.
"I can't abide her!" she muttered. "She's an Englisher, and I can't abide them Englishers. I hope she will dwindle and dwindle. Oh! me boy, me boy! you as was a follower of the family—you and your forbears before you—you ought to get good from this holy wather, and, oh! if it would turn your heart to the breaking heart of your Norah, how happy I'd be."
The boys Patrick and Gerald were jolly, good-humored, handsome lads, with not a scrap of affectation, but with rather more than the average amount of boy mischief in their compositions. They were quite inclined to be friendly with the two English girls whom they found established at Castle Mahun, but that fact would by no means prevent their taking a rise out of them at the first opportunity which offered.
Sophy was full of little nervous terrors. She shrank back when they offered to help her into the boat; she uttered a succession of little shrieks as she was conveyed to her seat in the stern. Patrick winked at Gerald when she did this, and they both made a mental resolution to cajole the unfortunate Sophy into the boat some day when they could have her all to themselves. They would not endanger her life on that occasion, but unquestionably they would give her an exciting time.
They meant to play some pranks on Sophy; but at the same time they regarded the pretty, helpless, nervous little English girl with a certain chivalrous good nature, which by no means animated the feelings with which they looked at Janet.
Janet was not at all to their taste. She had a supercilious manner toward them, which was mostriling. They were shrewd enough to guess, too, that Bridget, notwithstanding her gentleness and politeness, in her heart of hearts could not bear Janet. As Patrick and Gerald would both of them have almost died for their cousin Bridget, the knowledge that she was not fond of Janet was likely to give that young lady some unpleasant experiences in the future.
Although Bridget was in apparently gay spirits during the morning of this day, she was in her heart of hearts extremely anxious and unhappy. The fatal letter had arrived; the story of her deceit and underhand ways would soon be known to her father and to Aunt Kathleen. Aunt Kathleen might, and probably would, quickly forgive her; but Squire O'Hara, although he forgave, would, at least, never forget. Forever and forever, all through the rest of his days, the shadow of Bridget's dishonor would cloud his eyes, and keep back the old gay and heart-whole smile from his lips. He would love her, and pity her, and be sweet to her, but never again would she be as the old Biddy to him. Now he looked upon her as a pearl without a flaw, as the best of all created beings; in the future there would be a dimness over her luster.
While the poor young girl was laughing with her cousins, and trying to make her visitors happy, these thoughts darkened and filled her mind. She had also another care.
She must discover if Janet had really taken the two pounds. It would be too awful if she were really proved to be nothing better than a common thief. Bridget intended to ask Janet to accompany her to Pat's cottage on the hills that afternoon. The postalorder might all the time be safely tucked away in the envelope of the unread letter. If so, all would be well; but if, on the other hand, it was nowhere to be found, Bridget felt sure that she could, to a great extent, read the truth in Janet's face. It would be impossible for her to speak to Janet on the subject while she was in her father's house, or even in any part of the grounds; but out on the hills, away from the O'Hara estate, she might tell her plainly what she thought of her conduct.
When the early dinner was over, Bridget called Janet aside and spoke to her.
"I am going to ride on my pony Wild Hawk," she said. "I am going to see some poor people who live up in the hills. I don't want the boys to come, but they can amuse Sophy if you like to ride with me, Janet. You told me once at school that you were very fond of riding."
"That is true," replied Janet. "I used to ride in Hyde Park when I was a very little girl, but that, of course, is some years ago."
"Oh, that doesn't matter, the knowledge will remain with you. We have a very nice, quiet lady's horse, called Miss Nelly, in the stables; you shall ride her."
"But I haven't a habit," said Janet.
"I have a nice little one which I have quite outgrown. Come to my room, and let me try if it will fit you; I am almost sure it will."
"All right," replied Janet; "I should enjoy a ride very much."
She hoped that during this ride she would be able to tell Bridget that she had secured the obnoxiousletter, and the first step of putting the young girl completely in her power would begin.
She went with Miss O'Hara to her bedroom—an enormous room furnished with oak, and strewn all over with costly knickknacks and ornaments. The three large windows commanded an extensive view. They were wide open, and Bridget when she entered the room went straight up to the center one, and, clasping her hands, said in a low voice of passion:
"How I love you!"
"What do you love, Bridget?" asked Janet.
"My land—my Ireland," she said. "Oh, you can't understand. Please help me to open this long drawer. I'll soon find your habit."
Janet assisted her with a will; the heavy drawer was tugged open, and a neat dark blue habit, braided with silver, was pulled into view.
Janet slipped it on, and found that it fitted her perfectly.
"Take it to your room," said Bridget. "I am very glad it fits you; you may want it many times while you are here."
"Yes, and I may want to take it away with me, too," murmured Janet in a whisper to herself.
She went to her room, put on the dark, prettily made habit, and looked at herself with much satisfaction in the glass. With a little arrangement, Bridget's childish habit fitted Janet's neat figure like a glove. She had never looked better than she did at this moment. The rather severe dress gave her a certain almost distinguished appearance. She ran downstairs in high spirits. Bridget was standing inthe hall, and the squire was also present to help the two girls to mount their horses. He looked with pleasure at Janet, and said in a hearty tone:
"I am very glad that you can ride, my little girl. It isn't often that Bridget gets anyone at all her equal in horsemanship to accompany her."
"Oh, father, you make a great mistake," exclaimed Bridget; "I have you."
"What's an old boy worth to a young colleen," he replied; but he smiled at her with fond affection, and the horses being led up by a shabbily dressed groom, Bridget sprang lightly into her seat on Wild Hawk's back.
He was a thoroughbred little Arab, with an eye of fire, a sensitive mouth, and a jet-black shining skin. Miss Nelly was a pretty roan-colored horse, but not a thoroughbred like Wild Hawk.
"You'll be thoroughly safe on Miss Nelly," said the squire to Janet. "Yes, that's right, now take the reins, so! You had better not use the whip, but here is one in case you happen to require it."
Janet nodded, smiled, and cantered after Bridget down the avenue.
Her heart was beating fast. She was not exactly nervous, but as her riding in old times had been of the slightest and most superficial kind, she was truly thankful to find that Miss Nelly was gentle in temperament, and not thoroughbred, if to be thoroughbred meant starting at every shadow, and turning eyes like dark jewels to look at the smallest obstruction that appeared on the road.
"It's all right," said Bridget, noticing the uneasiness in Janet's face. "Wild Hawk is a bit fresh,the beauty, but he'll quiet down and go easily enough after I have taken it out of him a bit."
"What do you mean by 'taking it out of him,' Bridget? He does not seem to care much for this easy sort of trot, and he really does start so that he is making Miss Nelly quite nervous."
"Substitute Miss Janet for Miss Nelly," said Bridget, with a saucy curl of her lips, "and you will get nearer to the truth. As to its being taken out of the horse, you don't call this little easy amble anything? Wait until we get on to the breezy hill, and then you will see what kind of pranks Wild Hawk and I will play together."
"But nowhere near Miss Nelly, I hope," said Janet.
"Nowhere near Miss Nelly?" replied Bridget. "Dear me, Janet, you don't suppose I am taking you out like this to lead you into any sort of danger? I am not mean enough for that."
"Some girls would be mean enough," said Janet, almost in a whisper.
"Would they? Not the sort of girls I would have anything to do with. Now, here we are on the top of the hill. Do you see these acres and acres of common land which surround us, and do you notice that small cottage or hovel which looks something like a speck in the far distance? It is in that hovel that the poor people live whom I am going to see. Now I mean to ride for that hovel straight as an arrow from a bow. There are fences and sunk ditches in the way, but Wild Hawk and I care for none of these things. You, my dear Janet, will follow this little stony path on Miss Nelly's back; it is a considerable round to the hovel over there onthe horizon, but it is very safe, and you can amble along as slowly as you please. I shall be at the cottage nearly half an hour before you get to it, but what matter? Now then, Wild Hawk, cheer up, my king; go like the wind, or like the bird after whom you are named, my darling."
Bridget rode on a few paces in front of Janet; then she suddenly bent forward, until her lips nearly touched Wild Hawk's arched neck. Janet thought that the wild Irish girl had whispered a word to the wild horse; the next moment the two were seen flying through space together. The horse seemed to put wings to his feet, his slender feet scarcely touched the ground. With the lightness and sureness of a bird he cleared the fences which came in this way. Janet could not help drawing in her breath with a deep sigh—half of envy, half of admiration.
"How splendid Bridget O'Hara is," she murmured; "such a figure, such a face, such a bold, brave spirit! There is something about her which, if the Fates were at all fair, even I could love. But they are not fair," continued Janet, an angry flush filling her cheeks; "they have given her too much, and me too little. I must help myself out of her abundance, and there's noway of doing it but by humbling her."
So Janet rode gently along the stony path, and in the course of time found herself drawing in her reins by the low mud hovel, which looked to her scarcely like a human habitation.
The moment she appeared in sight two lean dogs of the cur species came out and barked vociferously. Miss Nelly was, however, accustomed to the barking of dogs, and did not take any notice. At thesame instant a stoutly built, gray-headed woman rushed out of the cabin and helped her to alight.
Janet felt a slight sense of discomfort when she recognized in this woman the person who had warned her not to drink the water of the Holy Well. It was not in her nature, however, to show her discomfort, except by an extra degree of pertness.
"How do you do?" she said, nodding to the woman, and springing to the ground as she spoke. "I have not begun to dwindle yet, you see."
"Why, me dear, it is to be hoped not," answered Norah, in quick retort; "for, faix! then, you are so small already that if you grow any less there'll be nothing for the eye to catch hould of. But come into the cottage, missy; Miss Biddy is sitting by Pat, and comforting the boy a bit with her purty talk."
"Pat!" whispered Janet to herself. Her feeling of discomfort did not grow less. The name of Pat seemed in some queer way familiar, but it did not occur to her to connect it with the friends about whom Bridget had cried at Mulberry Court.
She had to stoop her head to enter the hovel, and could not help looking round the dirty little place with disgust.
"I have come, Biddy," she exclaimed. "I don't suppose you want to stay long; this cottage is very, very close. I don't care to stop here myself, but I can walk about while you are talking to your friends."
"Oh, pray, don't!" said Bridget, springing to her feet; "I want to introduce you to Pat. Come here, please!" She seized Janet's small wrist, and pulled her forward. "Mr. Patrick Donovan—Miss Janet May. This man, Janet, whom I have introduced to youas Patrick Donovan, is one of my very dearest friends."
"At your sarvice, miss," said Pat, blushing a fiery red, and pulling his forelock awkwardly with one big, rather dirty hand.
He was a powerfully built man, with great shoulders, long legs, and grisly hair curling round his chin and on his head. His eyes were dark and deep-set; capable of ferocity, but capable also of the affectionate devotion which characterizes the noblest sort of dog. He looked askance at Janet, read the contempt in her glance, and turned to look at Bridget with a humble, respectful, but adoring glance.
Norah had also entered the room; she was standing looking alternately from Pat to Biddy. She was as plain as Patrick was the reverse, but the love-light in her eyes, as she glanced at her suffering hero, would have redeemed and rendered beautiful a far uglier face than hers.
"It's all right then, Pat," said Bridget, "we'll have the wedding next week; you'll be fit to be moved then, and you shall come down from the hills on a litter, and the wedding shall be at Castle Mahun, and the feast shall be in our kitchen, and I'll give you your bride my own self."
"Oh, Miss Biddy, long life to ye; the Heavens above presarve ye," murmured poor Norah, in a voice of ecstasy. "Oh, me boy, me boy, to think as in the long last we'll be wed!"
"It's all right, Norah," said Pat, touching her forehead for a moment with his big hand; "don't make a fuss, colleen, before the quality. Keep yourself to yourself when there's strangers looking on."
"Who talks of Miss Biddy as a stranger?" said Norah, with fierce passion.
"No one," said Pat; "but there's the young Englisher lady; may the God above bless her, if she's a friend of yours though, Miss Biddy."
Bridget made no response to this. She rose and offered her chair to Janet.
"Sit, Janet," she exclaimed; "there's a little matter I want to talk over before we leave the cottage. You remember my telling you at Mulberry Court about Pat's accident; you remember how troubled I was. I wrote a letter to Pat and Norah, and you posted it. I gave you two sovereigns to get a postal order to put into the letter. Now, a very queer thing has happened. The letter arrived quite safely; here is the letter; you see how neatly Pat has framed it; but the postal order never arrived."
"That's thrue, Miss Biddy," exclaimed Norah. "Here's all as was in the letter, as sure as I'm standing up in my stockinged feet this minute."
"I put the postal order in," said Janet, in a careless voice; "what else should I do? I suppose your postmen here aren't honest."
"Why then, miss, that's a bould thing to say of Mike Carthy," answered Pat, in a low, angry voice, which resembled a growl.
"I thought you might be able to throw some light on the matter," said Bridget, "but it seems you cannot. We must be going home now, so I shall have to say good-by, Pat. Norah, you can come down to the Castle for some fresh eggs to-morrow, and I'll get Molly Malone to make up a basket of all sorts of good things to strengthen Pat for his wedding."
"You won't forget a wee dhrop of the crathur, lady?" muttered the giant, looking up into Biddy's face.
"No, no, that I won't, Pat, my poor fellow."
Bridget wrung her retainer's hand, and a moment or two later she and Janet were on their homeward way.
"Now, look here," said Bridget, when the girls had gone a little distance in almost unbroken silence; "I wish to say something; I shan't talk about it when we get home, but out here we are both on equal ground, and I can talk my mind freely and fully. I watched your face when we were in that little cottage, Janet, and I am quite certain you know something about those two sovereigns which I gave you to post to Pat Donovan."
"What if I do?" retorted Janet.
"You have got to tell me the truth," answered Bridget. "If what I suspect is the case, I shall not ask Aunt Kathleen to do anything to shorten your stay at Castle Mahun; I shall not breathe the knowledge that is given to me, to a soul in the house; but I myself will never speak to you again. A few bare civilities it will be necessary for me to offer, but beyond this I shall never address you. My silence will not be noticed, for everyone else will be kind; but I—I tell you plainly that, if what I suspect is true, I willnotassociate with you."
"Will you kindly tell me your suspicions?" replied Janet.
"I think—oh! it's an awful thing to say—I think that you took those two sovereigns and put them into your own pocket."
"And because of that, supposing it to be true, you will not speak to me?"
"I will not!"
"But I tell you that you will; you will speak to me, and pet me, and fawn on me, even though you regard me as a thief—there!"
"I won't, Janet; I am a proud Irish girl, and I can't."
"You are a very cowardly, mean Irish girl. You are not a bit the sort of creature that people imagine you to be!" replied Janet, who was now almost overcome by the passion which choked her. "You talk of speaking quite openly and frankly, because we are on the hills together. I, too, will give you a piece of my mind out here, with no one to listen to us."
"No one to listen to us!" said Bridget, her face growing pale; "oh, you forget, you must forget, there is Nature herself, her voice in the breeze, and in the twitter of the birds, and her face looking up at us from the earth, and her smile looking down at us from the sky. I should be awfully afraid to tell a lie out here, alone with Nature."
"My dear, I have no intention of telling any lies to you. I do breathe tarradillies now and then; I am not too proud to confess it. You would, too, if you were situated like me; but I don't waste them on people whom it is necessary to be honest with. I did keep that money; it was far more useful to me than it would be to that Patrick of yours. He didn't want it, and I did. You were full of pity for him, but you had not a scrap of pity to bestow on me, so I had to pity myself, and I did so by taking your money. I found it most useful. But for it, Sophy and I would not now be at Castle Mahun. I hoped what I did would never be discovered. Well, it has been, but it does not greatly matter, as you are the one to make the discovery."
"What do you mean? what can you mean?"
"What I say; you can send me to prison, of course, and ruin me for life, but you won't, for your own sake. See what I have done to save you!"
Janet put her hand into her pocket and pulled out the Eastcliff letter.
She held it aloft, and laughed in her companion's face. "You won't be hard on me now, Biddy," she said, in the tones of one addressing an equal. "If I have been a thief—it is an ugly word, and there is no use in speaking it again; if I have been a thief, you, too, have done something which you are ashamed of. That something has been discovered at Mulberry Court, and this letter contains a full account of it. Your aunt, Lady Kathleen, was to read it first, and then, of course, in the ordinary course, your father would have heard the whole disgraceful story. Little as you think of me, I have saved you from disgrace, Biddy, my love. You are fond of Nature, but Nature won't tell tales. If you will promise to respect the secret you have discovered about me, I will respect your secret; I will tear up this letter, here on this wild hilltop, and Nature shall bury the tell-tale pieces as she wills and where she likes. Here is the letter, Biddy; I have saved you. Ought you not to be obliged to me?"
A queer change came over Bridget while Janet was speaking; a certain nobleness seemed to go out of her figure; she looked less like part of Wild Hawk than she had done five minutes ago; the color receded from her cheeks; her eyes lost their proud fire, her lips their proud smile.
"How did you manage to get that letter?" she whispered in a low tone.
"I am not going to tell you, my darling; I have got it, and that ought to be enough for you. Now, are we each to respect the secret of the other, or not?"
"Oh, I don't know; it seems so dreadful."
"It is rather dreadful, dear; I admit that. If you go and tell your father and Lady Kathleen about me, and about what I have just confessed to you, I shall have a very uncomfortable time. I shall be thoroughly and completely ruined, but in my ruin I shall pull you down too, Bridget, from the pedestal which you now occupy. It would be easy for me to put this letter back where Lady Kathleen will be able to lay her hands on it; in that case she will read it, and your father will know everything. I shall be ruined, and you will have a very unpleasant time. You must choose now what you will do; shall we both go on appearing what we are not? I, a modest, good-natured little girl, who never did an underhand trick in my life, and you—you, Biddy, the soul, the essence of what an Irishman calls honor."
"Oh, don't," said Bridget, "you make my eyes burn; you make me feel so small and wicked. Janet, why do you tempt me so awfully? Janet, I wish—I wish that I had never, never known you."
"My dear, I can't echo your wish. I am glad that I have met you, for you can be very useful to me; but now you have got to choose; shall I put the letter back in Lady Kathleen's room, or shall I tear it up?"
"But, even if you do tear it up," said Bridget, "the evil day is only delayed. When my aunt does not reply to Mrs. Freeman's letter, she will soon write her another, and Aunt Kathleen will perhaps find out that you took the letter."
"I don't think she will; she is the kind of erratic person who won't in the least remember where she put her letter, and not having a clew, why should she suspect me of taking it?"
"But Mrs. Freeman will write again."
"When she does there will be time enough to consider the right steps to take. She won't write for a week or a fortnight, and a great deal can happen in that time. If the worst comes to the worst, it will be quite possible for me to obtain possession of her next letter."
"O Janet, I can't listen to you; your suggestions are too dreadful."
"All right, my dear." Janet slipped the letter into her pocket. "I know Lady Kathleen's room," she continued, "and I shall manage to put this letter back on her dressing table when I go in. Who's that coming to meet us? Oh, I declare, it is Squire O'Hara! How well your father rides, Bridget! what a handsome man he is!"
Bridget felt as if she should choke; the squire's loud, hearty voice was heard in the distance.
"Hullo, colleens; there you are!" he shouted. "I thought I'd bring the General round in this direction; I had a curiosity to see how you were managing Miss Nelly, my dear." He bowed as he spoke to Janet. "I see you keep your seat very nicely. And you, Biddy—eh, my jewel—why, you look tired. Has Wild Hawk been too much for you?"
"Not a bit, father; I am as right as possible." Bridget turned swiftly to Janet as she uttered these words.
"I will give you your answer to-morrow," she said in a low tone; "give me until to-morrow to decide."
Lady Kathleen did not make much fuss over the loss of her letter.
"It's a queer thing," she said that evening to the squire, as they all sat round the supper table, "but I can't lay my hand on the letter with the Eastcliff post-mark. I made sure that I slipped it into the pocket of the striped lilac silk dress I wore this morning; but I didn't, and I can't imagine where I dropped it."
"Well, my dear, we had better send someone to look for it," said the squire. "That is the letter with all the praise of Biddy in it, isn't it?"
"Squire, you're nothing but a doting old father," replied Lady Kathleen; "you think no one looks at that girl of yours without making a fuss over her. She's a good bit of a thing—I am the last person to deny that; but from the little I saw of Mulberry Court she was no more than any other girl there—indeed, I think our little Janet had wormed herself more into the good graces of the school than my jewel of a Biddy. It's my opinion that the letter contained no more and no less than just the account of the term's expenses, and a request for a check in payment."
"Oh, then, if that's all, it can keep," said SquireO'Hara. "Mr. O'Hagan, I'll trouble you to pass me the whisky bottle, sir. What's that you are saying, Kathleen?"
"I may lay my hand on it in some out-of-the-way corner," said Lady Kathleen; "if not, I'll write in a day or two to Mrs. Freeman, and tell her that it just got lost. Letters are no end of bother, in my opinion; busy people have really no time to read them. Now, my colleen, what ails you? Why, you're quite white in the cheeks, and you're not eating your usual hearty supper! Don't you fancy that sweetbread, Bridget?"
"Yes, Aunt Kathleen, I am enjoying it very much," said Bridget. "I am quite well, too," she added under her breath.
The next morning Janet came into Bridget's room.
"I won't stay a minute," she said; "but I just thought I'd save you the trouble of a decision, so I tore up the letter last night, and burnt the bits in my candle before I went to sleep. You can't get it back now, even if you wish to be honorable—which I know you don't—so there is a weight off your mind. I told you how Lady Kathleen would take it. What a blessing it is that she is that scatter-brained sort of woman!"
"You oughtn't to speak against her," began Bridget in a feeble tone.
"Oh, oughtn't I, my love? Well, I won't another time. Now we are all going for a pleasure party on the lake; won't you join us?"
"I don't think so," said Biddy; "you two girls and Patrick and Gerald can do very well without me. I want to see my father about Pat Donovan's wedding, and——"
"By the way," said Janet, "is it true that we are all going out to high tea at some outlandish place ten miles away?"
"It is true that we are going to Court Macsherry," said Bridget; "but I don't think you will call it an outlandish place when you see it."
"I can't say," retorted Janet; "and, what is more, I do not care. Your wild Ireland does not come up to my idea at all. I don't care twopence about natural beauties. But I have a little bit of news for you, my pet. Who do you think we'll see at Court Macsherry?"
"The Mahonys and their guests," replied Bridget. "I don't know of anyone else."
"Well—you'll be rather startled—Evelyn Percival is there! I had a letter this morning from Susy Price, and she told me so. Now, of course, I don't care in the very least about Evelyn. I dislike her quite as much as you dislike her; but I want to look very smart and fresh when I go to Court Macsherry, and I want my poor little Sophy also to look as trim and bright as a daisy; so, as you are going to stay at home this morning, Biddy, you might look out for some little ornaments to lend us both."
"Ornaments to lend you!" retorted Bridget, opening her eyes. "What do you mean? Even if I wished to lend you my clothes they would not fit either of you."
"Your dresses wouldn't fit us, of course; but there are lots of other things—sashes, for instance, and necklets, and hats, and we wouldn't mind a pretty parasol each, and we should feel most grateful for some of your embroidered handkerchiefs. I have got thatsweet, pretty dress Lady Kathleen gave me for the bazaar, but poor little Sophy has really nothing fit to appear in; and you must admit that she's a pretty little creature, and would look sweet if she were well dressed. I dare say you have got some white embroidered dresses you used to wear before you grew so tall and gawky, and if there were a tuck put into one of them, little Sophy would look very well in it. I should like her to have a pale blue sash to wear with it, and some large blue Venetian beads to put around her neck. Oh, a young girl needn't have much dress, if it's good. You'll see about it, Bridget, won't you, and have it ready in our room when we come back from our boating expedition?"
Janet ran out of the room as she spoke, slamming the door rather noisily behind her.
Bridget, whose face was white with passion, felt quite too stunned even to move for a minute or two. Then she clenched her hands, walked to the window, and looked out.
"What have I done?" she murmured. "How can I allow myself to get into that horrid girl's power? Oh, surely it would be much, much better to tell my father everything."
She leaned out of the open window, and looked down on the terrace. Her father was lounging on one of the rustic benches. He was smoking a pipe, and Bruin was lying at his feet. Looking at him from her window, Bridget fancied that his old figure looked tired, more bent than usual, more aged than she had ever before noticed it.
"I can't, I won't give him pain!" murmured the girl fiercely. "I'd rather be under the power oftwenty people like Janet than break his heart. But, O Biddy, Biddy O'Hara, what a wicked, senseless girl you have been!"
"Is that you, acushla?" called the squire up to her. "Come right downstairs this minute, and let me hear all your fine plans for Norah's and Pat's wedding. What a colleen you are for planning and contriving! But come away down at once, and let me hear what's at the back of your head."
"Yes, father, in a minute!"
Bridget rushed over to her glass. She looked anxiously at her fair, bright face; it reflected back little or nothing of the loathing with which she regarded herself.
"Oh, what a living lie you are!" she said, clenching her fist at it. "Oh, if father but knew what a base daughter he has got! But he mustn't know. He must never, never know!"
She ran down and joined her father on the terrace.
He put his arm round her, made room for her to seat herself by his side, and the two began eagerly to talk and to make arrangements for the coming wedding.
"But you're out of spirits, my darling," said Dennis O'Hara suddenly. "Oh, you needn't try to hide it from me, Biddy. Your heart and soul aren't in your words; I can tell that in the wink of an eye. What's up with you, mavourneen?"
"I'll tell you one thing, daddy; I hate—I loathe school!"
"Well, now," said the squire, "I have no fancy for schools myself; it was your aunt's wish. But your aunt, Biddy"—here a twinkle came into his eye—"youraunt rules us, not with a rod of iron—oh, by no means—but just with the little, soft, coaxing, and yet determined ways which no one can withstand. She worked on my feelings for nearly two years, Biddy O'Hara. She said you were a fine girl, and a good one, but that you knew nothing, and that if you were ever to be of any use in the world you must go to school."
"Well, father," said Bridget, "did you really think in your own heart when you and I were alone at Castle Mahun that I knew nothing? What about the music we made in the old hall in the winter evenings? and what about that time when I saved Minerva's life, and what about my dancing? I think, somehow or other, I have a little bit of education, father, and I doubt very much if I have really learned anything at school."
"But you will, my pet, you will. These are early days, and you will learn at school. You will learn that sort of things that will make you a fine lady by and by."
"Father," said Bridget, "I don't want to be a fine lady."
She put her arms suddenly round his neck, and looked into his eyes. "Fine ladies are not good, father—they are not good. A girl can be wild and ignorant, and yet good, very good; but a fine lady—oh, I hate the thought of her!"
"How excited you are, Biddy mavourneen, and how strangely you are talking! Whoever thought of your not being the best sort of fine lady, and what fine lady, except your poor Aunt Kathie, have you ever seen, child?"
"I have never seen any; but I feel down in my heart what they are like; and I will never resemble them, even if I spend fifty years in school. Now let us talk of Minerva and her pups. What are you going to do with the pups?"
The conversation turned into channels of a purely domestic nature, and Biddy, as she talked, forgot the cares which harassed and filled her soul.
The young people soon returned from their expedition on Lake Crena. Patrick and Gerald both seemed very much excited, Janet looked resolved and defiant, Sophy alarmed.
"What's the matter with you, Patrick?" said the squire. "I see mischief in that eye of yours. What are you after?"
"Oh, nothing, uncle, nothing," replied the lad. "It is only that Miss Janet May has been rubbing me up. She doesn't believe any of the stories I tell her about Lake Crena."
"Of course I don't," said Janet. "Who would believe a schoolboy's wild chattering nonsense?"
Patrick's black eyes flashed.
"Come, come," said the squire soothingly, and looking with half appeal at Janet; "this fine lad is close on seventeen. He is scarcely to be termed a schoolboy."
"Oh, well, it does not matter what he is called," continued Janet. "If I thought he were only joking, I shouldn't mind; but when he tells me in sober earnest that a witch does live in the island in the center of the lake; that she comes out on winter nights and curses the people who sail on the lake; and, in short, that she's a sort of malevolent old damewho belongs to the Dark Ages, I simply refuse to believe him."
The squire looked rather startled while Janet was speaking.
"You shouldn't talk of these things," he said to Patrick. "It's all stuff and nonsense. Lake Crena is Lake Crena, the sweetest, sunniest spot in the world all through the summer months; in the winter she is the Witch's Cauldron, and we leave her alone, that's all. Now, young folks, come in to lunch."
Janet did not say anything further, but when in the course of the afternoon the whole party were driving in a great big wagonette to Court Macsherry, Patrick and she found themselves side by side.
"Look here," he said to her then, "are you willing to stick to your word?"
"To what word?" she asked.
"Why, you said that you didn't believe in the Witch?"
"No more I do. How could I be so silly?"
"Hush! Don't talk so loud; Uncle Dennis will hear us. Well, now, I'll put faith in your bravery if you'll stick to what you said. You said you wouldn't mind spending from nine till twelve any night alone on the Witch's Island. Will you do it?"
"As far as the Witch is concerned, I certainly will."
"What do you mean by 'as far as the Witch is concerned'? There is certainly no one else likely to trouble you. There is a little broken-down arbor on the island where you can sit, and Gerald and I will row you over, and come for you again after midnight."
"But," said Janet, "if I promise to do this, you and Gerald won't play me any trick, will you? I know what schoolboys are capable of. I used to stay at a house once where there were lots of boys. I was a little tot at the time, but they did lead me a life."
"I should rather think they did," said Patrick, winking one of his black eyes solemnly at his brother, who was regarding the two from the opposite side of the wagonette with suppressed merriment.
"Well," said Janet, "I know quite well what boys are like; and I'm not going to give myself up to their tender mercies. Of course I don't believe in that silly, stupid story about the Witch, but I do think that you and that fine Gerald of yours over there would be quite capable of playing me a trick, and dressing up as the Witch, or something of that sort. If you both promise on your honor—and Irishmen seem to think a great lot of their honor—if you'll both promise that you'll do nothing mean of that sort, why I'll go to the Witch's Island any night you like, and stay there from nine till twelve o'clock."
"That's all right," said Patrick. "Gerry and I will give you our solemn promise that we'll take you there and go away again, and come back at midnight to fetch you, and that we won't do anything to frighten you ourselves, nor, as far as we can tell, allow anyone else to play a trick on you. There, now, are you satisfied?"
"I suppose I am."
"What night will you go?"
"To-morrow night, if you wish."
"That will do finely. The moon will be at her fullfrom nine till twelve to-morrow night, and if the Witch comes out of her lair you will have a grand opportunity to get a good view of her. Well, then, that's all right; only you mustn't tell anybody what you're going to do, for, hark ye, Miss May, my Uncle Dennis over there believes in that Witch as he believes in his own life. You wouldn't catchhimspending three hours alone on that island; no, not for anybody under the sun."
Bridget had felt very angry when Janet had coolly proposed that she and her sister should be decked out in her finery; but, angry as she was, the spell which was over her was sufficiently potent to make her comply with the audacious request which had been made to her. Accordingly, Janet and Sophy looked wonderfully smart when they took off their light dust cloaks in the enormous square oak hall at Court Macsherry. There is really very little difference between one soft coral pink sash and another, between one row of sky-blue Venetian beads and another row; and although Aunt Kathie, with one flashing glance of her bright eyes, discovered that the sashes with which the May girls were ornamented, and the beads which encircled their pretty throats, belonged to Bridget, no one else guessed this for a moment. The Mays looked extra smart and extra pretty, but Biddy had taken less pains than usual with her own dress. It was rich and expensive in texture, as almost all her clothes were, but it was put on untidily, and was too heavy and hot-looking for this lovely summer evening. Her cheeks were flushed, too, and her eyes too bright. She looked like a girl who might be ill presently, and when Evelyn Percival, running down to meet her friends, askedBiddy if she had a headache, she had to own to the fact that this was the case.
Evelyn was not a pretty girl, but her sweet, kind face looked full of pleasantness to Bridget to-night. Her eyes had such an open, truthful way of looking at one, her lips were so kindly in their curves, her voice so pleasant in its tone, that Squire O'Hara, as he said afterward, fell in love with her on the spot. There were several handsome young Irish girls living at Court Macsherry, and Evelyn looked only like a very pale little flower among them; nevertheless, the squire singled her out for special and marked approval.
"So you are one of my colleen's schoolfellows!" he said. "Well, well, everyone to their taste, but I should have thought Lady Kathleen would have askedyouto come and stay with us at Castle Mahun."
"I shall be very glad to come over with my cousins to see you some day," replied Evelyn. "I am not Irish, but I love Ireland, and I think Court Macsherry the sweetest place in the world."