"Oh, it isn't bad," said Dennis O'Hara. "I am not going to deny that it is a fine bit of land, and notwithstanding those big bogs to the left there, well cultivated. It might be improved by a bit of water, for instance, but it isn't for me to disparage my neighbor's property."
"My Cousin Norry has been telling me about your Lake Crena," said Evelyn. "I should like to see it!"
"So you shall, my dear; you'll admire it fine. It is as good as the sea to us; there isn't its like in all the country round. When the sun shines on its bosom it is a sight to be remembered, and as to the moonlight effects, why they're just ravishing. Come and take awalk with me on this terrace, my dear; I want to ask you about my girl Biddy. She don't seem to take to that English school of yours, and I must own that I'm scarcely surprised. That colleen of mine is a wild sort of bird-like thing, and if you have a good many primity ways at school, I don't wonder she can't abide them. Do you see much of her, Miss Percival? You look about the same age, and I suppose you are in the same class."
"I am older than Bridget," said Evelyn Percival. "Bridget is a great deal taller and bigger than any other girl of fifteen in the school."
"Well, do you see much of her?"
"Not as much as I should like. The fact is——"
"What is it, my dear? you might confide in the colleen's father; if there is anything I ought to know.
"I can't exactly say there is, except—oh, perhaps I ought not to say it."
"But, indeed, you ought. I can see by your eyes that you are a truthful, good sort of girl, and though I have only known you ten minutes, I'd like my wild colleen to be friends with you. What is it now? What's in your mind?"
"I don't at all like to tell you; but the fact is, I was most anxious to be fond of Biddy."
"Yes, my dear, yes; I'm scarcely surprised at that."
"I felt attracted to her the moment I saw her; she was so different from the other girls. Of course, she didn't know the meaning of rules, but there was something about her wonderfully fresh and pleasant, and I and my friend Dorothy Collingwood would have done anything in our power to make school life easy to her."
"You don't mean to tell me that it wasn't easy? Why, she's about as clever a bit of a thing as you could find."
"I don't think anyone denies that; she has not been taught in the ordinary way, so, of course, she could not get into a high class; but that is not the point. I'd have been friends with her, the best of friends, if she hadn't repulsed me."
"Biddy repulse you! She never repulsed mortal in her whole life, the poor darling!"
"I don't think it was her fault; indeed, I am sure it was not, but—and this is the thing that I don't at all like to say—she was, I am convinced, influenced against me by another."
"By another? Who? If you have a nasty sort of girl at the school, she ought to be got rid of. Whom do you mean?"
"I can't bear to tell you, and I may be wrong, but we do think, Dorothy and I, that Biddy would be much, much happier at Mulberry Court but for Janet May."
"Phew!" the Squire drew a long breath; "that pretty little visitor of mine? Lady Kathleen invited her and seemed much taken with her. She told me that Janet was Biddy's dearest friend; but, now that you mention it, I do not see the colleen much with her. You don't mean to tell me?—oh, but I mustn't hear a word against one of my visitors."
"I don't want to say anything, only that Dolly and I are sorry about Bridget, and we are—I must say it frankly—not at all fond of Janet."
"Maybe you're prejudiced; she's a pretty creature, and seems to mean well."
The great bell in the yard at Court Macsherry sounded a tremendous peal for supper.
"That's right," said the squire heartily; "that's a grateful sort of sound when a man is starving, as I happen to be. Let me give you my arm, Miss Percival. I'll never breathe what you have said, of course; but I should be glad if you could do a kindness to my girl next term."
"I will do my very utmost to help her," said Evelyn heartily.
The guests had now assembled in the great dining hall, where a groaning board awaited them.
The squire looked down the long table. Biddy was nowhere to be seen.
"Where can the girl be?" he said under his breath. Somebody else remarked her absence, and Patrick immediately started up to go and look for her.
Bridget had wandered away by herself. She knew her cousins, the Mahonys of Court Macsherry, too well to stand on the least ceremony with them. The load which crushed against her heart seemed to grow heavier each moment. Her only desire was to be alone.
She knew a spot where no one was likely to disturb her, and, catching up the long train of her rich dress, she ran swiftly until she found a solitary tree which stood a little apart from its fellows, and hung over the borders of the great, big bog which formed a large portion of the Court Macsherry estate.
Bridget climbed up into the hollow of the oak tree, and leaning back against its big trunk, looked out over the dismal, ugly bog. Her brows were drawn down, her beautiful lips drooped petulantly, she pushed back her rich hair from her brow. Her quaint many-colored dress, the background formed by the oak tree, the effect of the wild country which lay before her, gave to her own features a queer weirdness; and a passing traveler, had any been near, might have supposed her to be one of the fabled hamadryads of the oak.
No travelers, however, were likely to see Bridget where she had now ensconced herself. She sat quite still for nearly an hour, then dropping her head on her hands she gave way to a low, bitter moan.
She had scarcely done so before there was a rustling sound heard in the grass. It was pushed aside in the place where it grew longest and thickest, and a woman raised her head and looked up at her.
"Eh, mavourneen?" she said, in a voice of deep love and pity.
The woman was Norah Maloney. She had seen Biddy as she ran across the grass to her seat in the oak tree, and had crept softly after her, happy and content to lie silent and unobserved in the vicinity of her adored young mistress.
Norah was aprotégéeof the Mahonys as well as the O'Haras, and thought nothing of walking from one estate to the other. She crouched motionless in the long grass, scarcely daring to breathe or discover her vicinity in any way, until Biddy's heartbroken moan reached her ears.
Uncontrollable pity then overcame all other feelings. Her child, her darling was unhappy. Come what might, Norah must comfort her.
"Eh, mavourneen?" she said then. "Core of me heart, you're in throuble! What can Norah do for yez?"
"I am unhappy, Norah!" said Bridget. She sprang out of the oak tree as she spoke. "O Norah, Norah!" she exclaimed, clasping the old servant's horny hand; "don't tell anyone—don't, don't for the life of you, Norah; but I hate Janet May."
"That young Englisher colleen?" said Norah, her eyes flashing angry fire. "Eh, but she's a cowld-hearted foreigner. Eh, but it isn't me nor Pat nayther that's took with her ways."
"It's dreadful of me to say anything," continuedBridget. "She's my visitor, and I have told you that I hated her. Forget it, Norah—forget it."
"Secret as the grave I'll keep it," replied Norah, with emphasis.
Bridget ran back to the house, and the old servant, with a certain stealthy movement, which was more or less habitual to her, glided away through the long grass. She walked two or three hundred yards in this fashion, then she came to a stile which led directly to the dusty and forsaken highroad. Here Norah stooped down and carefully removed her thick hobnailed shoes and coarse, gray woolen stockings. She thrust the stockings into her capacious pocket, and tying the shoes together with a coarse piece of string, slung them over her arm. After this, she kilted her petticoats an inch or two higher, and the next moment began to run swiftly and silently over the dusty road. Her movements were full of ease, and even grace. Her bare feet quickly covered the ground.
She ran with a certain swing, which did not abate in speed as she flew over the road. Mile after mile she went in this fashion, never once losing her breath, or appearing in the least inconvenienced by her rapid motion. At last she turned up a narrow mountain path. Here the ground was very rough, and she was obliged to go slowly, but even here her bare feet carried her with unerring surety. She neither slipped nor stumbled, and never once faltered in her swift upward course.
After going up the mountain for nearly half a mile, she came suddenly upon the little shanty or mud hut where Pat, the boy whom Norah loved, lay flat on his back on a rude bed of straw.
Norah lifted the latch of the door, and came in.
"Here's poor Norah back, Pat," she said. "And how are you, alanna? Is it dhry ye feels and lonesome? Well, then, here's Norah to give wather for your thirst, and news to fill your heart."
"Why, then, Norah, you look spent and tired," said Pat. "And what's up now, girl, and why did you come up the cliff as if you had the hounds at your heels?"
"Bekaze I had some news," said Norah, "and my heart burned to tell it to yez. I have gone over a good bit of ground to-day, Pat, and I put two and two together. I said the young Englisher wasn't afther no good, and well I knows it now. It's our Miss Bridget has a sore heart; and why should she have it for the loikes of her?"
Pat Donovan was a man of very few words, but he raised his big head now from its pillow, and fixed his glittering black eyes on the old and anxious face of Norah with keen interest.
"Spake out what's in yer mind, girl," he said. "Thim what interferes with our Miss Biddy 'ull have cause to wish themselves out of Ould Oireland before many days is over."
"Thrue for yez, Pat," said Norah; "and glad I am that I has come to a right-hearted boy like yourself, for I knew as you'd see the rights of it, and maybe rid Miss Bridget of an enemy."
"Spake," said Pat, "and don't sit there running round and round the subject; spake, Norah, and tell me what you're after!"
"Well, then, it's this," said Norah. "Be a token which I can't reveal, for I promised faithfully I wouldn't, our Miss Biddy is fit to break her heart bekaze of that young Englisher. Now, I know that to-morrow night Miss Janet May is going to the Witch's Island, jest for the sake of brag, and to prove that she don't hould by no witches nor fairies, nor nothing of that sort; and the young gentlemen'll take her over to the island at nine o'clock, and they'll go to fetch her again at twelve, and what I say, Pat, is this——"
"Whist!" said Pat, raising his big hand, and a look of mystery coming over his face; "whist, Norah, mavourneen, you come over here and sit nigh me, and let's talk the matter over."
Janet enjoyed the feeling that Bridget was now in her power. She had something of the cat nature, and she liked to torture this very fine and rare specimen of mouse which she had unexpectedly caught. She was so clever, however, that no one suspected her of anything but the heartiest friendship for Bridget. Even the squire, whose eyes were more or less opened by Evelyn's talk, and who watched Janet now with intense scrutiny, could see nothing to object to in her.
"It is a pity that other nice colleen should have those jealous thoughts," he said to himself; "that little Miss May is as nice and good-hearted a bit of a thing as I have come across for many a day. I can see by the very way she walks, and eats, and looks, that she's just devoted to Biddy; and, for the matter of that, who can wonder, for everybody likes my colleen."
The weather was very beautiful just now, and the young people spent almost all their time in the open air. Bridget, who had avoided the society of the other young folks yesterday, seemed quite to have recovered her good spirits to-day, and merry laughter made the beautiful old place seem more gay and cheerful than ever. Patrick, however, and Gerald, for some reason or other, as the day advanced, did notlook quite at ease. Supper was at eight at Castle Mahun, and it was arranged that immediately after that meal the boys should row Janet over to the island and leave her there. The secret was to be revealed to no one, but for some reason it did not give them the complete satisfaction it had done yesterday.
They were kind-hearted lads, and although they had plenty of mischief in their composition, would not willingly hurt anyone. They were as superstitious as Irish lads could be, and as the fateful hour approached Patrick called his younger brother aside.
"Have you anchored the boat quite snug under the big willow," he asked, "where Uncle Dennis won't get a glimpse of it? He'd be sure to be mad if he thought we were going on Lake Crena to-night."
"And why to-night," asked Gerald, "more than any other night? The lake is as safe a place as your bed, except from September to March. Why shouldn't we have a row on Lake Crena to-night, Pat?"
"For the best of good reasons," said Pat. "The full moon is just beginning to wane to-night; that is the only night in the month when the Witch gets restless. I am sorry, for my part, that I asked Miss May to go to the island. I made sure, of course, that she'd funk it when it came to the point; I never guessed that she'd go on with it. Whatever she is, she's plucky; I'll say that for her."
"I don't see that she's so plucky," retorted Gerry; "she doesn't believe in the Witch, you know—she laughs when we speak about her."
"But suppose—suppose she—she sees her," said Patrick, his big black eyes growing full of gloom, andeven fear. "Gerry, I'd never forgive myself if I did such a dastardly thing as to give a poor girl like that a real fright."
Gerald looked reflective.
"I don't think the Witch walks about until past eleven," he said, "and why shouldn't we go back for Janet at eleven? She'll have spent two hours on the island then, and will be quite satisfied with herself."
"Yes, that's all very fine, and then she'll boast to the end of her days that we haven't got a witch."
"Well, even that is better than to give her such a rousing fright that she'll be deprived of her senses. There's the supper gong, Pat; we must go into the house. Uncle Dennis will suspect something if we are not tucking-in as hard as possible in a minute or two from now."
"I can't help it, I am too anxious to eat," said Pat. "I wish I hadn't thought of the thing. Of course, I see we must go through with it now; she'd brag all her days that we had only pretended about the Witch if we didn't. But I vow I'll—I'll stay somewhere near and—and watch—I vow I will. Come along into the house, Gerry, and keep your own counsel, if you can; you have such a way of getting your face full of your thoughts that people can almost read them."
"If there is roley-poley pudding for supper," said Gerry, "I'll get my thoughts packed full of that, and my face too. The roley-poley pudding expression is innocent enough, isn't it?"
Pat gave his brother a playful cuff on the ear, and they went into the house together.
Janet was seated near Lady Kathleen. Her face was absolutely tranquil. So unconcerned and serenewas its expression that Gerry, as he passed her chair, could not forbear bending forward and whispering in her ear:
"I guess you're funking it."
Janet's blue-gray eyes looked calmly up at him.
"I have nothing to funk," she replied, in the same low tone.
The squire shouted to Gerald to take his seat, and the meal proceeded.
Very soon after supper Gerald and Patrick disappeared. They ran down a shady walk, and soon reached the old willow tree under which the boat was moored.
"She'll funk it for sure and certain," said Gerry again.
"No, that's not her," replied Patrick; "and, hark! do you hear her footstep? Here she comes! For my part, I wish we were well out of this."
"There's no help for it now," retorted Gerald; "she'd laugh at us all our born days if we didn't go on with it. Well, Miss May, and so your ladyship is pleased to accept our escort to the Witch's Island."
Gerry made a low bow as he spoke, and pulling off his somewhat tattered straw hat, touched the ground with it ere he replaced it on the back of his curly head.
Janet was seen leisurely approaching. She carried a little white shawl over her arm, and a yellow-backed novel in her other hand.
"I say," exclaimed Patrick, coming up to her, "you don't mean to tell me you are going to read?"
"And why not?" replied Janet; "it would be rather dull work sitting for three hours in thatisland doing nothing. See what I have also brought—a box of matches and a piece of candle. You say there's a little old summerhouse there—in that summerhouse I'll sit and read 'Pretty Miss Neville.' I assure you, boys, the time will pass very quickly and agreeably."
"You have some spunk in you," said Patrick, in a tone of genuine admiration. His black eyes flashed fire with the admiration he felt for the slim pale girl who was brave enough to despise the superstitious terrors which overmastered himself.
There was no horse in the country round about that Patrick O'Mahony would not have mounted; the most terrible danger could not have daunted his spirit. His physical courage had never known the point where fear could conquer it; but he owned to himself that he would have shrunk in abject terror from the very simple feat of sitting for three hours alone in the Witch's Island.
"If you'd like to get out of it," he said suddenly, "Gerry and I will never tell—will we, Gerry?"
"No, truth and honor!" replied Gerald.
"You see you have proved your pluck," continued Patrick. "It would be awfully dull for you staying for three hours alone on the island."
"Not at all, I assure you," replied Janet; "I have my book and my candle. Help me into the boat, please, gentlemen, or I shall begin to think you are a fine pair of little humbugs."
"Oh, if that is your way of putting it," said Patrick, his quick temper easily roused, "we had better start at once. Come along, Gerry; help me to unmoor the boat. Now, Miss Janet, jump in, if you please."
Five minutes later, Janet May found herself alone on the tiny patch of ground which went by the name of the Witch's Island.
It consisted of a thickly wooded piece of land rising up in the very center of Lake Crena, and about three-quarters of an acre in size. There was a little landing-place where some of the thick trees had been cleared away. Here, high and dry, and well out of reach of the water, stood a rude summerhouse. Janet waited alone on the little strip of quay until the boat, turning a tiny headland, was lost to view; then she went into the summerhouse, and lighting her candle sat down on a broken-down bench, placed the candle securely on a small stone slab by her side, and opening her novel began to read. The courage she had shown was not in the least assumed. This enterprise simply amused her; she expected to find the time dull—dullness was the worst enemy that could possibly visit her.
"Pretty Miss Neville," however, was quite to her taste, and turning its leaves quickly, she soon lost herself in a world far away from the Witch's Island, and much more in harmony with her own ambitious and eager spirit. She, too, would win her triumphs, and have her lovers in the not too distant future. Oh, how splendidly she had managed everything! How nice it was to have a girl like Bridget O'Hara completely in her power! Janet's thoughts after all proved more delightful than her book. She closed it, and coming out of the little stuffy summerhouse stood on the tiny quay and looked around her. The moon was getting up slowly, and was shedding silver paths of shimmery light over beautiful Lake Crena. The scene was solovely, so exquisitely soothing and peaceful, that a girl with a different order of mind might have felt her thoughts rise as she looked at that moonlight path, and some aspirations for the good, the true, the noble, might have filled her breast. Janet was not without imagination as she looked at that long silver path which stretched away from her very feet onward to the distant horizon, but it only brought to her visions of Paris and Lady Kathleen, and what she would do to aggrandize herself in the delightful future which was so near.
Her meditations were suddenly disturbed by a slight noise to her right.
She looked around her carelessly. "Can the Witch be coming?" she said, with a slight laugh.
At that moment the great clock in the stable at Castle Mahun struck ten; the deep notes swelled and died away on the evening breeze.
"That noise can't be caused by the Witch," thought Janet, "for the boys say that she seldom deigns to put in an appearance before eleven o'clock; oh, dear! oh, dear! have I two more hours to spend on this detestable spot? When will they have passed away? What shall I do to kill time? I had better go back and go on with my book." She was about to re-enter the little summerhouse when the distinct splash of an oar on the water reached her ears.
She could not help giving a start, and then exclaimed with a sigh of relief:
"Is that you, Pat? But you need not come back yet. I assure you I am thoroughly comfortable. I am waiting in state for her majesty Mrs. Witch to visit me."
There was no reply whatever to Janet's gay sally. She entered the summerhouse and, rearranging her candle, opened her book, and went on reading.
Again there was a sound on the island; this time it was the cracking of a bough.
"A bird or a rabbit, or some small inoffensive creature of that sort," murmured the girl; but, for the first time, her heart beat a little more quickly.
"It is absurd," she said to herself. "One would absolutely suppose, to look at me now, that I gave credence to the boys' ridiculous tales. Well, this is a very dull escapade at best, and catch me going in for anything of the kind again. I must make the best of it now, however."
She turned another page of her book, found that the plot was thickening and the situation becoming more exciting, and forgot herself in Miss Neville's sorrows.
She was soon startled back to consciousness of present things, however. She not only heard another bough crack, and a low, thick shrub rustle, but she also distinguished a sure and unmistakable "Whist! whist!" in a man's deep tones. It was plain, therefore, that she was not alone on the island. Even now she was not afraid of the witch; but she had a very substantial fear of human foes, and she already guessed that more than one of Bridget's lawless friends would be quite capable of doing her an ill turn.
With a sudden feeling of satisfaction she remembered that she had a dog-whistle fastened to her watch-chain. If she blew a shrill blast with the whistle it would frighten any concealed enemies away, and bring the boys quickly to her rescue.
She stepped out of the hut, therefore, and put the whistle to her lips.
"No, none of that!" said a voice. "You'll come with me, miss, and the fewer questions you axes the better."
A rough man of powerful build, with a piece of crape tied across his eyes, rushed suddenly forward in the moonlight. He drew a thick cloth over the girl's head and shoulders, a pair of strong arms encircled her waist; she found herself lifted from the ground, and knew that she was being carried rapidly away.
There was great fun and excitement at Castle Mahun that night, and Janet's absence was not in the least noticed.
It was a moonlight night, and the squire's will and pleasure was that every member of the household who cared to come should assemble on the wide terrace outside the Castle to hear Biddy play some of the Irish melodies on her harp.
Biddy's performances were well worth listening to. From far and near the heterogeneous crowd who were wont to throng to the Castle assembled to hear her.
"The Harp that once through Tara's Halls" floated on the night breeze. The wild, sweet melody sounded quite eerie, and caused two excited boys to shiver as they listened. They were thinking of Janet on the Witch's Island, and longing for the moment when they might fly down to the boat, row across to the island, and release her from captivity.
"A jig! Let us have a jig!" shouted the squire. "Come, Biddy, colleen, you and Pat give us all an Irish jig."
Bridget was nothing loath to obey. Someone scraped the bow of an old fiddle, and merry, quick music succeeded the more somber notes. Bridget'sand Pat's dance was followed by many others, and the fun rose fast and furious.
By and by eleven struck from the clock in the courtyard. The boys crept down unobserved to the shores of the lake, and the rest of the party went to bed.
Bridget had forgotten all her sorrows in a sound sleep. In her healthy young slumbers she had not even room for dreams. A smile lingered round her pretty lips, her dark curly lashes lay heavily on her rose-tinted cheeks.
"Bang! bang!" There came some pummels at her door, then the handle was turned, and muffled feet stepped as noiselessly as they could across the old and creaking boards.
"You wake her, Gerry," said Pat.
"I can't—I don't like to!" said Gerry, with a sob in his throat.
"Well, then, I will. What a little coward you are! Why can't you control yourself? What is the good of being in such a beastly funk? It will be all right when Biddy knows. I say, Biddy! Biddy, wake! How soundly she sleeps! Let's strike a match, and flash it into her eyes, Gerry."
"No, no; Uncle Dennis will hear us," said Gerry, his teeth chattering more than ever.
"Let's pull her, then," said Pat. "Let's give a tug at her hair. Oh, I say, Biddy, you might wake and help a fellow."
These last almost wailing words penetrated the sleeper's dreams. She opened her eyes with a start, and said aloud:
"I won't get into your power, Janet," and then exclaimed in astonishment, when she saw her twocousins standing by her bedside, the moonlight streaming all over them:
"What is the matter?" she said. "You up, Pat, and you, Gerry! What does this mean?"
The moment her words reached his ears Gerry flung himself on his knees, buried his head in the bedclothes, and began to sob violently.
"Oh, do shut up, you little beggar!" said Pat. "What is the good of waking the house? Biddy, we are in an awful mess, Gerry and I, and we can't talk to you here. Won't you get up and come down to the hall, and let us tell you what is the matter? Bruin is the only living creature there, and he'll not let out a sound if we tell him that you are coming."
"Yes, I'll be with you in a minute," said Bridget.
She rose quickly, dressed almost in a twinkling, and a few minutes later was standing with her cousins in the great entrance hall of the Castle.
They quickly told the first part of their tale—all about Janet, and the challenge which had passed between them. Biddy was just as fearless as her cousins, but she, too, was superstitious, and she felt a catch in her breath, and a sudden sensation of respect for Janet, when the boys told her how absolutely indifferent to fear she was, and how willing to spend three hours alone on the haunted island.
"We went back for her sharp at eleven. Poor little spunky thing! she hadn't a scrap of fear when we left her. There she stood, smiling and nodding to us, with that stupid old novel in her hand, and just making us believe that she was going to have quite a good time; but when we went back she was nowhereto be seen. As sure as you are there, Biddy, there wasn't a sight of her anywhere."
"The Witch came, of course, and took her away," said Gerry. He shook all over as he spoke.
"Don't be a goose," said Biddy. "Let me think; itcouldn'thave been the Witch."
"Why, of course it was, Biddy. Who else could it have been? She's gone; she's not on the island; and you know the stories of the Witch—how she does appear on certain nights when the moon is in the full."
"Yes, I know that," said Bridget. "She does appear, and she frightens folks, and perhaps goes the length of turning them crazy; but she doesn't spirit them away. How can she? Oh, do let me think. Don't talk for a minute, boys; I have got to puzzle this thing out."
The boys did not say a word. Gerry stooped crying, and Pat fixed his big eyes gloomily on his cousin. Biddy was a girl, an Irish girl, and such are quick to jump to conclusions. The boys watched her face now with devouring interest. Bruin rose slowly to his feet, pattered solemnly across the polished floor, and laid his big head on her lap.
Biddy's shapely hand touched his forehead, but her thoughts were far away. After a time she said quickly:
"There is but one thing to be done: we must find Norah Malone without a minute's loss of time."
"Norah!" exclaimed both the boys.
"You must have taken leave of your senses, Bridget!" exclaimed Pat. "What has Norah to do with Janet May and the island?"
"I can't tell you," said Bridget. "I have just afear in my heart, and Norah may set it at rest. We must find her. We must go to her at once, this very night."
"Where is she?" asked Pat. "I haven't seen her for days past."
"She may be up on the mountain with Donovan. You know they are to be married in a couple of days, and Donovan is to be moved down on a litter to the Castle. Or she may be sleeping at the Hogans' at the lodge. We will go to the Hogans' first, and if they can tell nothing about her we must go up to the mountains. There is nothing whatever else to be done."
"It seems such a waste of time," grumbled Pat. "It is Janet we want to find."
"And I tell you it is through Norah we'll find her," answered Bridget, stamping her foot at him. "Come along, boys, both of you, and Bruin, you come, too. We have a night's work before us, and we haven't a minute to lose."
"It is the night when the moon is at the full," said Gerry, "and—and the Witch may come to us, and—I couldn'tbearto look at her."
"Well, go to bed, you little coward!" said Pat, flashing round at him, and aiming a cuff at his head.
Gerry darted behind Bridget for protection.
"Come, boys, don't quarrel," she said. "Gerry, you know you are not a real coward. Come along this minute and help us."
She was unbarring the bolts which secured the great front door as she spoke. The next moment the three young folks were standing on the terrace.
"The dogs will raise an alarm," said Bridget;"that's the worst of them. If so, my father will get up, and everything will be known. Stay, though, I'll send Bruin round to speak to them. Come here, darling, I want you."
The great dog came up to her.
She knelt on the gravel, with the moon shining all over her, and looked into his eyes.
"Go round to the dogs, Bruin," she said, "and tell them to be quiet, and then come back to me. Go quickly."
The deerhound licked his mistress's hand, and then trotted in sober, solemn fashion round by the shrubbery and disappeared.
The girl and the boys waited anxiously. Not a dog bayed, not a sound of any sort was audible. Bruin trod on the velvety turf as he returned. He looked up at Bridget, who bent down and kissed him between the eyes.
"Good King!" she said, and then she and the boys started off as fast as they could to the Hogans' cottage, where Norah might possibly be sleeping.
No sign of her there; no tidings of her, either. Hogan got up and put out a white face of amazement from one of the tiny windows of the cottage when Bridget made her demand. If he knew anything of Norah's whereabouts, neither face nor manner betrayed him.
"It's no good, boys," said Bridget, "she is not there; or if she is, Hogan has got the word not to tell. We might stand and talk to him forever before he'd let even a wink of an eye betray him. There is nothing whatever for it but for us to go to the cottage on the mountains."
Gerry was quite silent now. He took care to keep Bridget between himself and Pat, and no one particularly noticed when he started at his own shadow, and when he looked guiltily behind.
Even to ride on horseback to Donovan's cabin, in the midst of the lonely mountains, took a long time; but to walk on foot in the uncertain moonlight was truly a weary undertaking.
It was between three and four in the morning when the children, exhausted and almost spent, stumbled up against the little cabin, to find the door locked and the house deserted.
Gerry burst out crying, and even Bridget owned that she had come to the end of her resources.
"Don't talk to me, either of you," she said; "I am more persuaded than ever that Norah and Donovan are at the bottom of this. There is nothing for it now but to go home."
"How dare we?" said Pat. "Uncle Dennis will almost kill Gerry and me if he knows of this."
"We must go home, boys; we must face the thing. We had better step out now as fast as we can, or the servants will be up."
"I can't tell Uncle Dennis of this," said Pat; "I simply can't."
"Don't say whether you can or cannot now," said Bridget; "let us go back as quickly as possible."
Squire O'Hara was the first of the family to put in an appearance the next morning at the breakfast table. He looked round him somewhat impatiently. He did not count Miss Macnamara, nor old Captain Shand, nor one or two more of the visitors, as anybody. When they came in he simply nodded to them, but his impatient eyes looked eagerly at the vacant places which his own family ought to occupy.
What was the matter with the world?
Where was his sister-in-law Kathleen? She was up too early as a rule—fidgeting, fussing, talking, and clattering. Where were those imps, Pat and Gerry? Where were the two nice little English girls?—and, above all, where was his Colleen, his darling, the apple of his eye?
"Shall I pour out your tea for you, squire?" asked Miss Macnamara in a timid voice.
"No, I thank you," he replied; "I'll wait for my family. Help yourself; help yourself, I beg. Captain Shand, pray tackle the beef; Mr. Jones, try that kippered salmon. Nobody need wait breakfast who doesn't wish to; but I'm not hungry. I'll just step out on the terrace for a minute or two until some of my family choose to put in an appearance."
The squire opened the window as he spoke, and,stepping over the sill, was just about to call to the dogs to accompany him in his walk when a little, shabby, gray-haired woman started up almost at his feet, and raised two blazing black eyes to his face.
"Is that you, Norah?" said the squire. "And may I ask what you are doing here crouching down among the rose-bushes?"
"Nothing, yer honor; sure as I live I'm doing nothing!" said Norah. "I was only waiting to catch a sight of Miss Biddy, bless her."
"You surely did not lie in ambush in this absurd fashion to see Miss Bridget. She does not want people skulking after her like that. There, my good woman, don't look at me as if I were going to eat you. Go round to the kitchen and have some breakfast, and you shall see Miss Biddy afterward."
The squire heard fresh sounds of arrival in the breakfast room at this moment. In consequence, his voice grew more cordial.
He passed in again through the open window, and Norah quickly disappeared round by the shrubbery.
"Is that you, Biddy?" he said. "How are you, my love? Oh! and Kathleen, you have put in an appearance at last; and here the boys, and Miss Sophy. Come, that's right, that's right. Now let us sit down and enjoy ourselves. I have been out since six o'clock, and I'm quite disposed to do justice to my tea and fresh eggs. Here, Biddy, you shall pour me out a cup with your own fair hands, alanna."
The squire drew up to the table, making a considerable amount of bluster and noise. Bruincrouched in his usual place by Bridget's side; Sophy sat near Lady Kathleen; the boys began hungrily to attack a huge bowl of porridge each, and the meal proceeded.
"You are all very silent," said the squire. "Have none of you anything to say for yourselves? Not a laugh do I hear—not a whisper. Half an hour late for breakfast, and everyone coming in as mum as if we were all a house of the dead! Come, Biddy, come, haven't you a joke to crack with anyone?"
"Oh, squire," said Lady Kathleen, from the other end of the long board, "we just want you to drink off your tea first. Oh, oh, oh! Sophy, poor child, poor child, restrain yourself. There, she can't, the creature, she can't. Put your arms round my neck, pet, and cry here then; poor little dear, poor little dear!"
"What in the name of fortune does this mean?" exclaimed Dennis O'Hara. "Biddy, can you explain it? Why, your face is like a sheet, child. What can be wrong?"
"I will tell you, Dennis," said Lady Kathleen. "Poor little Janet is lost. If you hadn't been so taken up with all the singing and the dancing last night you'd have missed her from our family circle, for she wasn't there then, and she isn't here now; and what's more, she hasn't been in her bed the whole of the blessed night, and there's Sophy fit to break her heart, and no wonder, poor thing, no wonder, for if there was a nice devoted little sister it was Janet. I am fearing that the poor child has fallen from a precipice, or gone too far into one of the bogs. I always told you, squire, that you didn't half drainthose bogs. Now, what is it? Oh, mercy me, what awful thing are you going to say?"
"I'm going to request you to hold your tongue," said the squire. "We none of us can hear ourselves speak with you, Kathleen. And a fine, queer tale you have to tell! Miss Janet May hasn't been in the house all night! Is that true, Miss Sophy?"
"She wasn't in her room last night," said Sophy, a fresh sob breaking her voice.
"But this must be looked into at once," continued the squire. "One of my visitors has been absent from my roof all night, and I am only told of it now—now—and it past eight o'clock in the morning!This is a scandalous shame!Why, there isn't a man or boy in the place who shouldn't have been searching round for the bit of a colleen four hours past. But, of course,I'malways kept in the dark. Although I am Squire O'Hara of Castle Mahun, I'm just nobody, I suppose? Now, what is it, Bridget—what are you going to say? I won't take interference from anyone when I am roused like this."
The squire was in one of his rare, but terrible passions: his lips trembled, his eyes blazed, his great hand shook.
"I have got something to tell you," began Bridget.
"Oh, you have, have you? You can throw light on this scandal then? Speak out, speak out this minute."
"Will you come with me into your study? I'd rather tell you alone."
"I'll do nothing of the kind. You speak out here. It's a nice state of things when the master of the house is kept in the dark! That girl should have been searched for last night when she didn't come in. Andof course shewouldhave been searched for if I had been told of it; but the rest of you must hugger-mugger together and keep me in the dark. I call this state of things disgraceful. Now what is it you have got to say, Bridget? Are you a coward too, afraid to tell your own father? A nice state of things the world is coming to! Speak! are youafraidof me?"
"I am a coward, and Iamafraid of you," said Bridget.
Her words were so absolutely unexpected that every single individual seated round the breakfast table started back with an astonished exclamation.
Bridget's own face was white as death. She stepped a little away from the table; Bruin got up and stood by her side. She was unconscious of the fact that her hand rested on his great head.
"Speak up," thundered the squire, "I'll have no more shuffling. You look as if you were ashamed of something. I see it in your eye. You are my only child—the last of the race, and you areashamed! Good God, that I should live to see this day. But come, no more shuffling—out with the truth!"
"I know something about Janet, and so also do Pat and Gerry," continued Bridget. "I'd rather tell you by yourself, father; I wish you'd let me."
"No, that I won't; if you have done anything wrong you have got to confess it. A pretty pass we have come to when Bridget O'Hara has to confess her sins! But, never mind, though you were twenty times my child, you'll have to stand here and tell the truthbefore everyone. Now speak up, speak up this minute—Kathleen! if you don't stop blubbering you'll have to leave the room."
Dennis O'Hara's face was terrible.
He and Bridget were the only ones standing; all the rest remained glued to their chairs, without speaking or moving.
"Now go on," he said, "we are all waiting to hear this fine confession; did you spirit Janet May away?"
"No, I didn't. You make me cease to fear you, father, when you speak in that tone," said Bridget. "I have behaved badly, I—I thought it would break my heart to tell you; but when you look at me like that——"
"Like what? Go on, Biddy, or you'll drive me mad."
"Well, I know what has happened to Janet. She went over to the Witch's Island last night. She said there was no witch. Nothing would make her believe in a witch, and she would go; it was her own desire."
"And you took her there, I suppose?"
"No, I didn't; I had nothing to do with it."
"It was I who did that part, uncle," said Pat, suddenly springing to his feet. "I won't let Biddy be the only one scolded; I was in an awful funk when I found what had happened, but I can't stand here and hear a girl spoken to like this; and Biddy isn't a bit nor a morsel to blame. It's just Biddy all out to try and shield other people; but it was my fault, mine and Gerry's. What is it, uncle? what is it you are saying to me?"
"Come over here this minute," said the squire. "Shake hands with me; you are a fine lad, you are a very fine lad. Oh, thank Heaven! I thought the colleen had done something wrong. It isn't a bit of matter about anybody else. Speak out, Pat, speak out; and, oh! alanna, alanna, forgive me, forgive me.I thought bad of you, my jewel, my sweet! Come into my arms, my colleen asthore. What matter who is black, when you are white as a lily?"
Dennis O'Hara's burst of passion was over as quickly as it had arisen; he went up to Bridget and folded his great arms round her slight young figure.
"But I am not white," she said, bursting into sudden uncontrollable weeping; "oh, I am not white, and you'll never love me any more, and my heart will break. I can't tell you now, before everybody. I just can't, I can't. Pat knows all about Janet. Pat can tellthatstory, and you are not going to be too angry with him; but I must go away, for I can't speak of the other thing. There, father, don't kiss me, I cannot stand it."
She wrenched herself out of his arms and flew from the room.
It was a glorious summer's day; the sun was blazing down from the sky with a fierce heat. Bridget felt half blinded with misery and confusion of mind. She put up her hand to her head and glanced up at the sky.
"I must tell my father everything when I see him next," she said to herself. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?"
Footsteps sounded behind her. She felt impatient of anyone seeing her in her grief and distraction, and, turning to hide herself in the shrubbery, found that she was face to face with Norah.
"I seen you, me darling," said Norah; "I seen you when you ran out of the breakfast room all distraught like."
"You saw me? then you were listening, Norah,"said Bridget, her tears drying rapidly in her sudden anger.
"And why not, alanna? and why shouldn't I listen when it was for the good of my own nursling? The squire says, 'Go and have some breakfast, Norah'; but what's breakfast to me when the light of my eyes, the child I helped to rear, is suffering. I listened, Miss Biddy, and when you run out of the room I followed you. You come with me, alanna. You trust poor Norah. Norah Malony and Pat Donovan 'ud spill their heart's blood for you, missie; you trust us both!"
"I thought as much," said Bridget. "Come back here into the shade of the shrubbery, Norah; I guessed last night that you were at the bottom of this. Don't you know that you have behaved disgracefully? Do you think my father will help you to marry Pat after such conduct as this? No, don't go down on your knees; I am not inclined to intercede for you at present. I am not inclined to take your part. You must go this instant to the place where you have hidden Janet May. There is not a moment to lose; go and bring her back at once!"
Norah began to cry feebly.
"You are hard on me," she sobbed, "and I done it for you—Pat and me, we done it for you. We meant no harm either. The young Englisher girl have come to no grief—leastways, nothing but a bit of a fright, and she'll do what we wants if you don't spoil everything, Miss Bridget."
"I don't understand you, Norah; I don't feel even inclined to listen to you. You must go this minute and release poor Janet."
The race of human beings who can neither read nor write are fast vanishing from the face of the civilized earth. They used, however, to abound in great numbers in old Ireland, and, strange as it may seem, these so-called uneducated people have proved themselves to be some of the shrewdest in the world.
For, never reading the books of men, they are always perusing the greater book of nature. Unacquainted with the art of writing, they trust absolutely to their memories. The observation, therefore, of the Irish peasant can scarcely be credited by those who have never come across him.
Norah had made up her mind that Janet should not be released from the hiding-place to which she and Pat had spirited her until she made full confession of her own part in making Bridget unhappy. It is true Norah had never heard the tale, but she seemed to know as much about it as if she had been in everybody's confidence, and had even joined the Fancy Fair Committee, and sat in Mrs. Freeman's schoolroom when Bridget, under Janet's directions, cribbed her lessons.
If Bridget herself, however, wished Janet to be set free, there was no help for it.
"You wait here, Miss Biddy," she said; "you needn't go for Miss Janet May. I'll bring her to you in an hour at the farthest."
"Very well, Norah," said Bridget, "I'll wait for you here."
She sat down as she spoke, under the shelter of a large birch tree, and, leaning her head against its silver stem, fell into a heavy sleep.
She dreamt in her sleep, and these dreams were so disquieting that she could not help crying out and moaning heavily. She opened her eyes at last to see her old father standing by her.
For a moment she could not remember where she was, nor what had happened. The smile which always filled her eyes when she looked at her dearly loved father came into them now; a gay word banished the sorrowful lines from round her lips, and, with a little laugh, she rose to her feet.
"How ridiculous of me to have gone to sleep in the wood," she exclaimed.
Then memory came back. She flushed first, and then turned deadly pale.
"You are in trouble, alanna," said Squire O'Hara. "I know that by the look you wore in your sleep; I never saw my colleen wear a face so full of sorrow before. There's something on your mind, acushla, and you are afraid to tell your father. Maybe I frightened you a bit in the parlor just now; if so, my heart's core, you must forgive me. I was taken aback and put out, and we O'Haras are celebrated for our hasty tempers. I am not angry now, however: my anger has passed like a morning cloud. You tell me all that is vexing you, Biddy. Put your arms roundme, and whisper your trouble in my ears, my own colleen."
"And why should a beautiful young lady like that have any throuble," exclaimed another voice.
The squire and Bridget both started and turned round. Janet May and Norah were coming up the little path, and even now stood by their sides.
"Here's the young Englisher lady," said Norah. "She's none the worse for having spent one night with the Irish folk, and there's no throuble, now that she has come back; is there, Miss Biddy?"
For one instant Bridget was silent.
Janet came up to her and spoke in a gentle, cheerful tone. "I am so glad to be back with you, dear," she said. "I dare say you and the squire were uneasy about me. Well, I had an adventure, and am none the worse. I'll tell you all about it presently. Norah has something, also, to say for herself; but she, too, will speak presently. Now I have one request to make of the squire."
"What is that, my dear?" asked Dennis O'Hara.
"It is that no one shall be punished on my account," said Janet, in her sweet, low tones. "There was just a little bit of a practical joke played on me. You Irish are celebrated for practical jokes, are you not? I came to no harm, and if I don't wish anyone to be punished, I suppose my wishes are worth considering, as I was the only one who suffered."
"You are by no means the only one who suffered, Miss May," said the squire. "Look at Biddy, there. Why is her face so pale, and why are her eyes so heavy? And as to practical jokes, I never heard that it was the way of the Irish gentry to practice themupon their visitors. My dear young lady, I appreciate your kind and generous spirit. It does my old heart good to see you here safe and unharmed, but you must allow me to deal with this matter in my own way. I am not thinking of it at present, however. I want to have a word with my daughter Biddy. Will you go into the house, Miss May? Biddy and I will follow you presently."
"No, Janet, stay here," said Bridget suddenly.
She threw up her head with something of the free action of a young race horse, tossed her curly hair back from her broad brow, and looked first at Janet and then at the squire.
There was something in the expression of her eyes which caused Janet, as she afterward expressed it, "to shake in her shoes."
"Norah," continued Bridget, "you must stay here too. Now, father, I will tell you something. I will tell you why your Biddy can never, never again be the old Bridget you used to know and to love."
"Oh, don't," interrupted Janet. "See how hysterical you are, Bridget. Don't you think, squire——"
"Hush!" thundered the squire. "Let the colleen speak."
"Father," continued Bridget, "I am a very unhappy girl. I have behaved badly. I have been wicked; I have been dishonorable and—and deceitful."
"No, no, I don't believe that," said the squire. "Whatever you are, you are not deceitful." Once again his face turned white, and an angry light leaped out of his eyes.
"It is true," continued Bridget, "and—andshetempted me—she, Janet May. I never met anyone like her before. She tempted me; I don't know with what motive. It isn't right to tell tales of a visitor; but I—Ican'tbear things any longer, and I have got so confused in my mind that I don't know what is right and what is wrong. I don't wish to excuse myself, but I do not think I'd have done the dreadful things but for her. I wouldn't have done them, because they never would have occurred to me. Perhaps that is because I am not clever enough. I don't want to excuse myself, but she tempted me to do wrong, and I did wrong, frightfully wrong, and I have been, oh, so miserable! And Norah here—poor Norah—she guessed at my trouble, and she thought she'd punish Janet. That's why Janet was away last night. It was very wrong of Norah, too, but she did it out of love to me. Oh, father, how miserable I am! Why did you send me to that English school? I can never, never,neveragain be your old Biddy; never again, father, never as long as I live."
Here poor Bridget burst into such convulsive weeping that her words became inaudible.
Suddenly she felt a pair of arms round her neck, and, looking up, her lips touched her father's cheek.
"Let me go on," she said; "let me get it over."
"Not until you are better, colleen. There is not the least hurry. Come down and sit with me in the bower near the Holy Well. We shall have it all to ourselves."
"But the others," said Bridget—"Janet and Norah?"
"I sent them away. Why should they hear what one O'Hara has to say to the other?"
Janet ran quickly toward the house. On her way she met one of the servants, a man of the name of Doolan; she stopped to say a few words to him eagerly, then, running on, found herself in the great hall, where Lady Kathleen, Pat, Gerald, and Sophy were all assembled.
Lady Kathleen uttered a scream when she saw her.
"Oh, how glad I am——" she began.
Janet interrupted her hastily.
"Dear Lady Kathleen," she said, "I will speak to you presently. I will tell you all my adventures presently; but please, please let me go up to my room now with Sophy; I want to say a word to Sophy. Please let me pass."
There was an expression about Janet's face which caused Lady Kathleen to fall back, which arrested a torrent of words on the lips of each of the boys, and which made poor, frightened Sophy follow her sister out of the room without a word.
"Come upstairs with me, and be as quick as ever you can," said Janet.
She took her sister's hand as she spoke, rushed up the stairs with her, and entered the large room which the girls shared together.
"Now, Sophy," said Janet, "how much money have you got? Don't attempt to prevaricate. I know you received a letter yesterday from Aunt Jane, and she—she sent you a five-pound note; I know it—don't attempt to deny it."
"I don't want to deny it," said Sophy. "You—youfrightenme, Janet; we have all been so miserable about you. I could not eat any breakfast; I was crying as if my heart would break, and now you come back looking like I don't know what, and you speak in such a dreadful way."
"Never mind how I speak," said Janet; "pack your things; be quick about it, for we must be out of this place in ten minutes."
"Whatdoyou mean?"
"I'll tell you presently. Pack, pack, pack! Fling your things into your trunk, no matter how—anything to get away. If you are not packed, with your hat and gloves on, in ten minutes, you shall come away without your finery, that is all."
"But how are we to get away?" said Sophy. "We can't walk to the station; it is twenty miles off."
"I know that, but I have arranged everything. Mike Doolan will have the jaunting car at the top of the back avenue in fifteen minutes from now. I only want to pack and lock our boxes; they must follow us by and by. Now, don't waste another moment talking."
Janet's words were so strong, her gestures so imperious, that Sophy found herself forced to do exactly what she was told. The ribbons, laces, trinkets, which she and Janet had amassed out of poor Bridget's storesduring their stay at Castle Mahun were tossed anyhow into their trunks; the trunks were locked and directed, and the two girls had left the house without saying a word to anyone long before Squire O'Hara and Bridget returned to it.
Janet was worthless through and through; Sophy was very little better. The curtain drops over them here as far as this story is concerned.
What more is there to tell?
How can I speak of those events which immediately followed the departure of Janet May and her sister?—the wonder and consternation of Lady Kathleen Peterham; the astonishment and curiosity of the retainers; the secret triumph of Norah Maloney and Pat Donovan; the intense amazement of the boys!
Amazement had its day, curiosity its hour, and then the memory of the English girls faded, and the waters of oblivion, to a great extent, closed over them. Lady Kathleen sent their trunks to the address which Janet had put upon them. They were addressed to a Miss Jane Perkins, and Lady Kathleen concluded that she was the Aunt Jane of whom Janet stood in such wholesome dread.
The squire made an important discovery on that unhappy day. It was this: O'Hara of Castle Mahun could brook no dishonor in the person of his nephew, or sister, or cousin; but the child of his heart could be forgiven even dishonor.
"I will myself write to Mrs. Freeman," he said, after he and Bridget had concluded their long conference. "O Biddy, child! why did you not tell me before; could anything,anythingturn my heart from thyheart? But listen, acushla macree, your Aunt Kathleen and Pat and Gerald must never know of this."
Of Bridget's future history, of her many subsequent adventures, both at school and at home—are they not written in the book of the future?