"I thought it was so at the time," said O'Brien. "Well, she proved it in a very decisive way, for we both received a letter from her lawyers in London, Messrs. Debenham and Druce, who told us that she had made a will in your favour, and that if byany chance she died before you, her property was to be equally divided between you, and her children and yours, including Maureen by name."
"Constancecouldn'thave said that," said the Rector.
"She did. It is all in black and white. And I have a copy of the will, which I asked the London lawyers for, and Maureen's name is mentioned."
"Ah, well," said the Rector, rising, "she is a strong woman and still quite young. I have but little chance of surviving her."
"She has made that will in your favour," said Walters sententiously. "And as far as I can tell has never altered it. Even the youngest of us cannot but remember that in the midst of life we are in death. But I must tell you plainly, O'Brien, that yoursettlementcannot possibly be altered until your youngest child comes of age."
On their way home young Dominic did all that he could to cheer and help his father.
"You must lie down when you get in, dad, and afterwards Maureen and I will give you a right good time on the periwinkles. Think of it, dad—chocolate and strawberries and cream, and Maureen and I! Oh, let's be happy in the present."
"My boy, my boy," said the Rector, "I wish I could. With all my heart I wish I could; but it is just the awful, terrible present which affects me."
Little did either of these two guess that thepresent was being settled for them, and in the most unlooked-for way.
After visiting her husband on the previous night, Mrs. O'Brien, quite contrary to her usual custom, slept very badly. The Rector's face seemed to haunt her, and a sudden memory haunted her still more. She recalled what she had forgotten during the four years of her married life—the will which she had made in favour of her husband, her own two children, and the young O'Briens, including Maureen. By this will she divided her very considerable property among all these people. She was deeply in love at the time, for the Rector of Templemore was a very fascinating man.Thenshe had loved him; now she felt that she hated him; but she did not hate him so completely as she hated Maureen. What a fool she had been four years ago! She knew exactly what she must do. This will must be replaced by another. She would go immediately, that very day, to Murphy, and have a new will duly drawn up in case of her death, leaving everything to her children. She knew it could be easily done; and there was after all no great hurry, for the Rector was dying, poor man, and the will only held good if he survived her. As she herself was in the rudest health and was still comparatively young, there was little chance of such a catastrophe taking place, but still she might as well be on the safe side. That will must be replaced by another. It was quite an easy matter.
Behind the old house was the great empty stable-yard,paved with its huge cobble-stones. Here on Sunday the neighbouring gentry put up their horses and carriages in the neglected stables, and laughter and high mirth were the order of the hour; for the gentry, grand as some of them were, had Roman Catholic servants, Protestants being very hard to get and very bad when they were got. The Catholic had the fear of the priest on him; the Protestant feared no man.
Now the stable-yard was empty, but suddenly a young groom crossed the lady's path of vision.
"Hullo, you, Jacobs," she said. "Come here immediately. I want to drive to Kingsala. Get the phaeton ready and put on your livery. Make yourself look as smart as you can."
Jacobs scratched his head, then he pulled his forelock, and blushed very deeply.
"The masther, bless him, has taken the carriage and horse. He's away with Masther Dominic. May the Almighty kape him."
"Your master away?" exclaimed the astonished woman.
"Yes'm. I'm thinking it's to Kingsala he's gone. Terry is driving, and Masther Dominic and himself are seated inside the phaeton as cosy as you plaze. The masther axed me two days back'm if I wouldn't re-paint the carriage, for I'm what's calledGood Jobby some people. There ain't nothing I can't turn my hand to, so I ses to himself, 'Masther,' ses I,'you get me thecombustibles, and I'll do it up foine.'"
"I don't want to hear your wretched stories, Jacobs," said the angry lady. "That carriage and horse belong to me. I wish to take a drive. You have got to get me something else immediately. I must say it was extremely rude of the Rector to dare to use my carriage without my permission."
"Rude of 'himself'! Why, ain't ye his wife, missus?"
"Hold your tongue, you impertinent lad, you and your combustibles! You can't even talk English. But now listen to me. I shall not go to Kingsala to-day. I shall pay a call on my old friend Colonel Herbert at Rathclaren. He will tell me what to do. Rathclaren is quite nine miles from here, so you must get me a carriage of some sort and a horse. Do you hear, Jacobs?"
"Well," said Jacobs, "if ye ain'tfrighted, y'ladyship, I could run round to Farmer Barrett's. He has a young colt, The O'Shee by name, and he'd lend ye the dog-cart and colt and be proud to do it I'm sure."
"Is that the colt they are training for the races?" said the lady.
"He is that same, and is not broke in to say wholly, m'lady; but he'll do the distance from here to Rathclaren in a twink; that is, if ye'll put up with me a-drivin' of him, and him startin' and buck-jumping. Ye were allus one to be brave, m'lady, andwe'll get to Rathclaren in no time at all, if you, so to spake, utters the word."
"Yes, I say the word. Get me the colt and dogcart."
Mrs. O'Brien returned to the house. She was in a very bad humour; in fact, in a shocking humour; and the first person she met was Maureen.
"Ha—ho, come here, charity child!"
Maureen, who was dusting the drawing-room assiduously, did not move a muscle, but went on with her work.
"Do you hear me, Maureen? I have spoken to you."
"No, you haven't," said Maureen. "You spoke to somebody you called a charity child—I'm not that. Do you want me for anything special, step-auntie?"
"Yes. I want to put a spoke in your wheel. Charity child or not at the present moment, you will be one soon."
"Step-auntie, why are you so unkind to me?" The sweet brown eyes became slightly moist and the lovely rosy lips trembled.
"Affected little piece," said Mrs. O'Brien. "Now, you listen to me. Whatever you call yourself now, youwillbe a charity child soon, but I wishto give you a message. Tell that ridiculous old uncle of yours that as he chose to appropriate my phaeton and horse and my coachman to drive to Kingsala, I have made arrangements to go on most vital business to see Colonel Herbert at Rathclaren."
"Rathclaren!" cried Maureen; "but that's a long way off. You will never walk the nine miles, step-auntie."
"You hold your chatter. I know what I'm about. Jacobs has gone to fetch Farmer Barrett's young colt and dogcart. I'm going to drive there."
Maureen clasped her hands, and her pretty soft face turned white.
"Oh, step-auntie, don't—don't, I beg of you. The only colt that Farmer Barrett has got is The O'Shee, and he's not half nor quarter broken in yet. Oh,please, auntie, let me go for you. I will take any message you like. I'll bring Colonel Herbert to see you. Please, please, don't trust yourself to that high dogcart and Jacobs, who can hardly drive anything, and The O'Shee. I don't mind a bit walking nine miles, and I'll do it for you. Please let me."
But Mrs. O'Brien was too angry to be prudent.
"Charity child," she said, "go on with your dusting, and leave me alone. When your uncle returns, you will be able to tell him where I am. Now, I'm off to put on my finery. If you like to make yourself useful, which you never do like, you can come up with me to my bedroom and fasten my boots."
Maureen obeyed. Mrs. O'Brien's room was dainty,and fashionable-looking, and there were all sorts of silver brushes and boxes and trays on the table, and different condiments for improving the complexion and making the fiery blue eyes look more fiery than ever.
Little Maureen, bending down in her shabby frock, with her soft brown hair falling about her shoulders, made a strange contrast to the haughty dame. Several times she tried to speak again, to urge, to beg, to implore, but Mrs. O'Brien was now absorbed in her toilet. She wanted to make herself look very effective when she visited Colonel Herbert. At last she was dressed in a style which seemed to please her. She wore a silk dress of soft pink and a toque to match with that horrible osprey, which Maureen so hated, for she knew, she had learnt the terrible cruelty that takes place in obtaining the osprey. Although she was supposed to be uneducated, she was the sort of little girl who was always picking up odds and ends of knowledge. At last there came the clatter of wheels, the shout of Jacobs' voice, and the sound of a horse's hoofs as he trod the avenue.
"Oh, auntie, if youonlywouldn't," said the beseeching little Maureen.
"Child, I will. There is no saying what may happen if I don't go."
"May—may—I mean, would you like me to come with you?"
"You—you little brat—no. Get out of my way!"
Maureen said no more. Mrs. O'Brien withconsiderable difficulty found herself mounted on the tall dogcart, and soon The O'Shee, the lady, and the groom were out of sight. They went like a gust of wind, as Maureen said afterwards. Her heart was beating wildly. She was full of untold terror. She had no one to confide in, however, so she went, in her accustomed, steadfast sort of way, to prepare the best dinner she could think of for Uncle Pat. Pegeen always loved to have her in the kitchen, and soon she was very busy shelling peas and removing the stalks from enormous strawberries and whipping up a great bowl of cream. She hoped that step-auntie would stay a very long time with Colonel Herbert, and that her darling Uncle Pat would come back tired, weary, no doubt, but with no one to worry him, when he sat down to his excellent dinner.
Meanwhile the lady on the dogcart had a somewhat adventurous drive, for The O'Shee, worthy of his name, bolted and jibbed and shied at every single thing he met. Jacobs had not the slightest idea how to drive, so Mrs. O'Brien, who had, whatever her faults, plenty of courage, took the reins into her own hands, relegated the groom to the back seat, and by dint of wild exertion and desperate efforts got The O'Shee to the gates of Colonel Herbert's place, Rathclaren.
Now the dogcart was exceedingly shabby and the half-broken-in colt was not a pretty object, as he stood quivering and shaking, nor was Jacobs anything to boast of, for the only decent livery was wornby the servant who had taken the Rector and his son to Kingsala. Mrs. O'Brien therefore made up her mind to leave Jacobs and the colt and dogcart in a remote shady lane, while she herself walked gracefully up the avenue to Colonel Herbert's mansion.
Colonel Herbert was an old bachelor, one of the most noted hunters in the neighbourhood, and exceedingly particular about his dress and appearance. He had never liked Mrs. O'Brien, but he put up with her for the sake of that good man, the Rector. He certainly disliked Mrs. O'Brien's style of dress, which he considered most unsuitable for any lady. He was, however, a gentleman—every inch of him—and when Mrs. O'Brien explained that she had left her restless horse somewhere at the gates, and would like to have a talk with him over a matter of extreme privacy, he took her into his study, a luxuriously-appointed room, very different from the poor Rector's, and inquired anxiously how his dear friend the said Rector was.
"But poorly," said Mrs. O'Brien. "He may, however, revive; there is no saying. He has had the best medical advice, and I suppose will soon be himself again."
"I trust so, indeed," said Colonel Herbert. "Your husband, madam, is one of the saints of God."
"I will be honest with you," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I dislike saints."
The Colonel was a little puzzled to know how toreply, and on such an occasion he was invariably silent.
"What can I do for you?" he said, after a very long pause.
"Well, Colonel, I'm a lonely woman, and I've really no one with whom I can talk matters over. You may possibly have heard that I personally am well off."
The Colonel nodded very gravely.
"I have two dear, sweet daughters by my first husband. Their name is Mostyn. When I married my husband, I don't mind confessing to you that I was desperately in love with him."
"Quite so—quite so," said the Colonel, who hated the subject of love more than anything in the wide world. "Mrs. O'Brien," he continued, "you had a right to give your heart to so noble a fellow. There isn't Patrick O'Brien's equal in the whole county."
"Ah, well," said Mrs. O'Brien, "you haven't lived with him day in and day out. Anyhow, I was madly in love with him then, and I made a will that in case of the extreme improbability of my dying before him, my money, which amounts to fifty thousand pounds, should be divided equally between the Rector, his children, a little girl called Maureen, and of course my own two dear lovely girls. It was a noble thing to do, don't you think so, Colonel Herbert?"
"I certainly agree with you, madam, and it must be a great relief to O'Brien, dear fellow. I could guess that he was always a bit upset about his dearlittle niece Maureen—for poor Maurice died so suddenly he had not a penny to leave the child—and she motherless, and his only one. I never saw a finer pair of fellows than Pat and Maurice. Of course you have let the Rector know all about your fine determination, Mrs. O'Brien?"
"Indeed, then, I have done nothing so silly," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I must have been a bit mad when I made so ludicrous a will; but what will not love aspire to? There is not much in it after all, for it can only take effect if by a remote chance my poor weak husband survives me. If I survive him, the will is so much waste paper; but to make all things sure—for we never can tell whatmayhappen to us in this uncertain world—I want either to have the will changed or to make a new one. To be plain with you, Colonel, my feelings are not what they were——"
"Dear, dear," said the Colonel; "what can possibly have changed them?"
"Oh! a thousand things, Colonel Herbert; but principally that child—or rather thatimpMaureen—I need not go into particulars; but you as a gentleman must understand how a lady is placed. I have come here to consult you. I want your sage advice on the subject of my new will."
"How do you want it altered?" asked Colonel Herbert.
"Well, I'm particularly anxious to settle all my money on my girls by the first marriage. Can youassist me? Can you help a lonely woman to put a wrong right?"
"My dear Mrs. O'Brien"—the Colonel rose impatiently from his seat—"it is absolutely impossible for me to help you. I am a retired Army man, not a lawyer. Go to a lawyer and he will draw you up any sort of will you desire. Now I greatly fear I am due at the County Sessions. Will you excuse me, madam? There are good lawyers in Cork and in Kingsala. But may I ask you one question? I know a little about Mr. O'Brien's affairs, and I am aware of the fact that he is especially interested in his dear little niece Maureen, the daughter of one of the best fellows that ever breathed. I suppose in readjusting your will or making a new one, you will not forget that sweet child who is loved by everyone in the place."
"Sweet child!" exclaimed Mrs. O'Brien. "Little you know her, Colonel. I tell you she canput onthose manners, but she's anastylittle witch, and Ihate her. Leave her a penny of my money—not I!"
"Then may God forgive you, madam. Now I'm afraid I must say good-morning."
It so happened that Mrs. O'Brien left Colonel Herbert's house in a towering rage. She had certainly got no comfort from that gentleman. Had he seen the shabby dogcart, the wild, half-broken-in race-horse, and poor Jacobs doing his best with him, matters might have turned out differently, but he was absorbed in his own thoughts and made up his mindto go and see the Reverend Patrick on the morrow.
"What possessed him to marry that woman?" was his thought.
By the time Mrs. O'Brien reached the dogcart, The O'Shee was in a wild temper. He was stamping and pawing the ground and jumping from one side of the road to the other.
"It's frighted to death I be of him, m'm," said Jacobs.
"You're a fool," said Mrs. O'Brien. "Here, hold his head while I mount."
But The O'Shee did not wish to have his head held, and the lady in the pale pink silk dress had considerable difficulty in mounting into the shabby dogcart.
"I'll give it to him, little beast," said Mrs. O'Brien, as she took the whip from its place.
"For the Lord's sake, ma'am, don't laythaton him. He's niver had asthrokeon him in his life. He'll go mad entirely, ma'am. Oh, Mrs. O'Brien, ma'am, you'll be kilt entirely."
But Mrs. O'Brien's only reply was to touch Jacobs himself with the end of the whip, and then, before he could get to his place at the back of the dogcart, she laid the said instrument across The O'Shee's back. The O'Shee stood still for a minute, quivering from head to foot in unbounded amazement.
Jacobs tried to mount, but before he could do so, the lady and the horse were away. They went like a whirlwind; they went, as Jacobs described itafterwards, like a streak of lightning. In vain the angry woman tried to pull in The O'Shee; in vain she laid the whip across his shoulders. He was off—he was away. This was truly going—this was like flying. For the first time a sensation of fear come over the woman. She did not dare to look back, but she knew she was alone. She also knew one thing, that she was not going in the direction of Templemore. The horse had it his own way this time, and he was making straight as an arrow from a bow to one of those celebrated Irish bogs, which devour man and beast so that they are never heard of again. Once in the bog, you never get out; you never can. Mrs. O'Brien knew it. She knew there was only one way of helping herself. She must spring from the dogcart before the horse reached the bog, the great bog of Anniskail.
Suddenly she flung the reins down; suddenly she made a leap from the high dogcart on to a heap of stones on the soft narrow road. She gave one terrible, piteous scream, and then lay still. Her head was doubled under her very queerly, so that it did not seem to belong to her body. An Irish peasant coming by presently came up to her, turned her round and looked at her.
"Broken neck—dead on the spot," he said to himself; and then he thought he would begin to spread the news, until suddenly he saw in the midst of his anxiety and his great desire to be the first with such a piece of information, the well-known head ofFarmer Barrett's O'Shee looking at him out of the bog. He was up to his neck and shoulders, and all the fire had gone out of him.
The peasant untied the lady's pale pink sash. Little he cared about her in comparison with the race-horse. Other peasants came to his relief, and together they dragged the shivering animal out of the black, black bog.
Maureen O'Brien had all her life been the sort of child who instinctively thought of others rather than herself. In the long, long ago, after the death of her sweet and beautiful young French mother, she had comforted her father by every means in her power. But when Maureen was very young and her father was feeling that he must bear the parting with her, and must send her to his brother to England, his own death put an end to the necessary sacrifice. The gallant Major was badly wounded in one of those terrible border wars, while trying to rescue a fellow-officer, from under the range of the enemies' guns. His brother officer lived, but Major O'Brien, after lingering long enough to obtain the Victoria Cross, and to see his only and most beloved brother and his little child, passed away to join his sweet young wife again; and Maureen, who all these six years of her young life had been taken care of in the Hills, was brought back to Ireland by Uncle Pat. There she was much loved both by Uncle Pat, who was so very like father, and also by his dear first wife, a gentle lady who took the orphan child to her heart of hearts.
In truth it would be difficult not to love Maureen, for there was something wonderfully taking about her. She was like a little woman in her ways, but she had the beautiful heart of a child. She was able to see her father before he died, and the child's wonderful self-restraint and courage amazed the Rector of Templemore.
"You are going up to God's good and beautiful world, daddy-mine," said Maureen. "I have read about it time and again. Oh, no, daddy mine, I'm not going to fret; it would be selfish for Maureen to fret; wouldn't it, daddy?"
The dying soldier managed to whisper, "Yes, Maureen. Keep up your heart, my brave one. You are going to my twin-brother, and Pat will be good to you."
Then the soldier hero ceased to speak, but there came a shining light of triumph into his eyes, and he looked up very joyfully, and thus he entered into his eternal rest.
Maureen, who had promised not to fret, kept her word like the little Briton she was, and she was in truth very happy as long as Auntie Eileen lived; but one day the call came for auntie, and she too went away—up—up—up like the lark, and Uncle Pat got very ill and the doctors ordered him abroad. While there, in an evil moment, he met the woman who became the second Mrs. O'Brien. What possessed him to marry her could never be accounted for. People whispered, however, each to the other, thatshehadmarried him, taking the business entirely into her own hands. Then, indeed, peace fled very quickly from Templemore, and little Maureen began to feel the thorns of life pricking her here, there, and everywhere.
Maureen, who tried her best to love everyone, did her utmost to love her aunt. She thought that if once she could get possession of that queer, wild, fierce heart, she might be able to help dear Uncle Pat, but her efforts were unavailing. Still the child struggled on bravely, as such children will. There are not many of them in the world; the few there are, are little angels of light and messengers of peace; but Maureen never thought of herself in any sense of the word whatsoever. She was exceedingly anxious now about Uncle Pat; but what was she to do about step-auntie. When in India she had learned the art of riding perfectly. She could ride almost any buck-jumping pony in the station, and she was the admiration of her father's regiment. She kept her seat by a sort of miracle, and was adored and petted by all the ladies and the gentlemen alike.
Since she had arrived at Templemore there was no horse for her to ride. She missed this indulgence for a short time, but then she forgot it in the real cares of life.
On this special day when step-auntie had gone to Rathclaren, and Uncle Pat and Dominic were in Kingsala, the little girl felt remarkably uncomfortable. There was great quiet in the house, for Denisand Kitty were both at school, and Pegeen was in the best of humours, with "Herself" away, and little missie, the darlin', keeping her company.
"Well, to be sure," said the old cook, when everything was prepared for dinner. "I hope to the Lord the Colonel will keep herself until we has had our male in paice and quiet. The likes of her was niver seen to my way of thinking."
"Oh, please don't talk against her—please," said Maureen in her gentle voice.
"And whyever not, to be sure, at all, at all? Why, if there's a nasty, mane hag of a made-up woman in this wide, wide wurrld, it's herself. It's breaking the masther's heart she be, and as to her cruelty to yez, my purty wan, don't we all of us remark on it, and don't we just rage about it? Oh, me fine lady indade!"
"Pegeen, please, Pegeen," said Maureen, "I want to ask you a question so badly. You know step-auntie has gone away with Jacobs on Farmer Barrett's very tall dogcart with The O'Shee between the shafts."
"Sakes alive!" cried Pegeen; "that nasty, ill-timpered, half-broken-in colt? Herself must be mad—that's all I can say! Why, the farmer was talking a week past that iver was; and he said he couldn't make annytking o' the O'Shee, the little baste was so nasty in his timper. Well, to be sure,she'llbreak her neck, as sure as I'm here."
"Who'll break her neck," said Maureen, whoseface turned like a white sheet. "Is it the horse or step-auntie—or—or Jacobs?"
"Lord love ye, child, maybe it'll be the whole three ov 'em—I can't say, I'm sure. Miss Maureen, set ye down this blessed minit, and I'll git ye a drop of potheen."
"No, no; you know I never touch such a thing," said Maureen.
"Then whyiver have ye turned so white? Be the powers! ye can't luv herself?"
"I—I think perhaps—perhaps I do a little," said Maureen. "If she wouldn't call me 'charity child' I'd love her. Pegeen, darling, what does charity child mean?"
"Bless yer swate heart, it's what ye'll niver be. Why, there ain't a bhoy in Ireland that wouldn't stand up and say no to that!"
"Is it very awful?" asked Maureen.
"Don't ax no questions and ye'll be tolt no lies," was Pegeen's remark.
Maureen remained a minute or two longer in the kitchen, then she looked at the clock and went slowly up to her shabby bedroom.
"Charity child or not," thought the little girl, "I must try and save her. It's a long walk, but the day is early yet. I could quiet the poor O'Shee. I haven't forgotten what father told me. How well I remember his saying, 'Just a touch of your hand, Maureen, very firm and very coaxing, and you'll get any horse to follow you round the world.'" Sothe child in her little brown frock, which looked exceedingly shabby, and with a small old, worn-out brown hat to match, started on her walk to Rathclaren.
Nobody saw her go. The servants, taking advantage of both master and mistress being absent, were talking loudly in the big kitchen. The gardeners had joined the group. Pegeen was helping the company to porter and great chunks of kitchen cake, and they were all laughing and joking, praising Maureen, shaking their heads sorrowfully about the masther, and grinning with delight at the way they hoped The O'Shee would sarve herself.
Pegeen was a confirmed gossip, and told the story of what the child had just said to her.
"Charity child, indade! Bless her, bless her! Why, I—I'd justdiefor the likes uf her," said one of the men; and these remarks were echoed by both men and women. "Their darling—their Miss Maureen—their purty—purty wan! Why, now, ain't she just the light o' our eyes," said one and all.
And meanwhile the dinner for the poor Rector was being destroyed in the oven, the potatoes and peas were overboiled, and all that remained of Maureen's nice dinner was a glass dish of piled-up strawberries and a dish of cream.
"May the Vargin help me! The duck is done to rags!" cried Pegeen. "Whativer now will Miss Maureen say, and the masther may be back, bateout, anny minit. Oh, worra, worra, whativer am I to do?"
"I'll kill a fresh wan for yez and pluck it, and ye can push it in the oven," offered an affectionate gardener, who, according to the Irish way, preferred any business to his own.
Meanwhile Maureen went rapidly on her way. There was not a bit of the country that she did not know as though it were a map stretched out before her. She was therefore able to take several short cuts through woods rich with summer foliage, where periwinkles and other flowers of all sorts and descriptions grew in abundance, where moss pressed softly under her feet, where the birds sang, the doves cooed, and all nature was at rest and peace.
At another time Maureen would have stood silent in the midst of the wood and clasped her hands and thanked God for His beautiful world, but she was too anxious to do anything of the sort now. She must at any risk, at any cost, save step-auntie. She was a very quick walker for her age, and got over the ground in great style. Suddenly she found herself close to Rathclaren, having gone most of the way through shady woods and dells. Close to the gates of Rathclaren she distinctly saw the marks of horses' hoofs, but as she examined them they seemed to be going away from the stately old place. There was a decided scuffle at the beginning of a boreen or lane, and then the marks of the said hoofs going very fast indeed.
Maureen clasped her hands in distraction. She knew this boreen. It was one of the most dangerous in the neighbourhood, and led straight to the great bog of Anniskail. Suddenly she saw two men coming to meet her; one was Colonel Herbert, who was always a special friend of hers, and the other was poor Jacobs, who looked absolutely wild with distraction and fear.
"Where have you dropped from, baby?" said the pleasant voice of the Colonel.
"Oh—oh, Colonel Herbert," gasped Maureen, "I know a little bit about horses, being trained when I was in India, and—and I'm soterrifiedabout Auntie!—And what are you doing here, Jacobs?" The child's voice got quite angry. "Why ever are you not with your mistress?"
"It warn't my fault, missie; it warn't, indade!"
"Oh, don't say whose fault it was. What has happened?"
"She laid the sthroke of the whip acrost me first and thin acrost The O'Shee, and was it to be wondered at that the baste wouldn't sthand the whip, niver having tasted it in all his life! He jest shivered from head to foot, and afore I could git up ahint on the dogcart, he was off and away like a streak o' greased lightning. She druv him herself and whipped him all the time. I went up to tell the Colonel and——"
"Don't—don't say any more," said Maureen.—"Colonel, will you help me?"
"I will, my dear little girl."
"There is Anniskail at the other end of this road," said the child. "Oh, oh, how am I to bear it!"
"There's my dogcart coming down the avenue, dear. Jump up beside me, and we'll go straight for the bog. I have ropes and things handy, and we may pull her out if we don't delay a second."
Maureen, like a little sprite of the air, was soon seated beside the Colonel on the dogcart. How fast they went—how fast! How close they got to disaster, to tragedy unspeakable! The Colonel guessed the worst; he did not attempt to speak. The child shivered but kept her self-control.
Jacobs and the Colonel's own groom were seated at the back of the dogcart. Colonel Herbert's powerful horse covered the ground with right good-will. Almost the whole of the lane was more or less boggy, and great splashes of soft mud flew up as the dogcart got over the ground.
Suddenly the Colonel pulled up his horse, threw the reins to his groom, and motioned to Jacobs to follow him.
"There has been a spill," he said. "It is no sight for little girls. You'd best stay where you are, Maureen, acushla. We'll do all that human beings can, and a lot of peasants are there already."
"And do you think I am going to stay behind?" said Maureen. "Oh, there, I see her pink dress! Oh, poor step-auntie! Yes, I will go—I will! Shehas only fallen—she'll be all right. You can't keep me back—I will go. She may call me charity child every day of her life, but I don't mind. I'm going to her now."
The Colonel took the little hot hand. There was something impossible to resist about Maureen.
In a very few minutes they found themselves the centre of a group of rough-looking men and women.
"Ah, thin, bless yer heart, Colonel dear; ah, thin, it's the neck of her is broke entirely. See for yer-self. Shewasa foolish woman. The bog would have quieted the horse, and she'd have had a few minutes afore she went under; but no, she'd no sinse at all, at all, and out she lepped on to that big lot o' stones, and the neck of her was broke."
"I war the first to find her, sir," said an old peasant. "I saw at wanst she was as dead as a tenpenny nail, so I tuk her sash and made a sort o' rope wid it and pulled the poor baste ashore. He's safe enough is The O'Shee; but herself, glory be to God, she's bruk her neck! Why, Miss Maureen, I didn't see ye, me darlint; don't ye cry now!"
"I'm not going to cry," said the child. "Do turn her round very gently. Do at leasttryto make her look nice! Poor, poor step-auntie, poor step-auntie! Colonel, get me some water. I want to wash her face. Colonel, you must help me to tell Uncle Pat."
The amazing presence of mind of the child soothed the excited Irish folk. One after anotherthey brought her what she required, and finally the poor body was laid on a shutter and brought into a cabin near by. It looked quite peaceful, and no one living had seen that terrible leap nor heard that most piercing shriek.
"We must leave her here at present," said the Colonel, turning to Maureen.
"Yes; she and I will stay together," said the child. "She isn't angry with me any longer. God has taken away her anger. See, she smiles. You must break it to Uncle Pat, Colonel. I'll stay with her until she can be moved."
"She shall be moved to my house at Rathclaren," said the Colonel. "It can easily be managed, my brave little girl. But you can do no good here. Had you not better come with me?"
"No, no; I'll stay with her. She's not angry with me any longer. Please, Colonel, beveryquick, and don't frighten Uncle Pat, for he's far from strong."
There are times in life when the brain ceases to act—that is, consecutively—when the heart ceases to perform its usual functions, and when all life, and all that life means, becomes topsy-turvy. This happened to be the case with little Maureen O'Brien. When she entered Colonel Herbert's house looking brave and upright, never shedding a tear nor uttering a sigh, that brave little heart of hers suddenly gave way. She fell down in a deep and prolonged swoon. When she came to herself again she was in a small white bed, and two nurses were taking care of her. She did not recognise the room, and she did not recognise the nurses. They were of no moment to her. She passed quickly away again into a sort of trance, not a death trance by any means, but a fever trance. During that time she talked a great deal about step-auntie, and said with bright, uplifted eyes: "I don't mind being a charity child, step-auntie; I don't mind one little bit."
Uncle Pat came to see her, and so did Dominic, but she did not know either of them. She kept onwith her eternal moan, "I don't mind being a charity child."
Then grave professional men came and stood by the little white bed and felt the fluttering pulse, and said gravely that the child was suffering from shock of a severe description.
Uncle Pat said: "Is Maureen in danger?"
They replied, "Yes, she is in great danger."
Then Uncle Pat took up his abode at Rathclaren, and Colonel Herbert endeavoured to cheer him all he could. There was a post-mortem examination on the poor wife who had broken her neck, and then there was her funeral, which was attended by almost everyone in the country, for the Irish are great at going to funerals, and do not need nor expect invitations thereto. They were interested in Mrs. O'Brien, and, although they had hated her in life, they quite loved her in death, because her death was so sudden and romantic, and, in short, what so exactly fitted their Celtic natures.
So Mrs. O'Brien was laid in the old family vault of the O'Briens in great state and unbounded respect, and the Rector gave away money freely, and so did Colonel Herbert, and the people got more drunk than ever that night at public houses; and that was the earthly end of this miserable woman.
But meanwhile a child, quite a young child, lay close to the eternal shores, upstairs in Colonel Herbert's house. Very weak she grew and very faint, and the fever ran high and yet higher, until at lastDominic, in a fit of ungovernable grief, entered the room without any leave and held one of the little burning bands between his two manly ones; and he held it so long and so firmly that the little hand ceased to struggle and drops of dew came out on the white low forehead. Then Dominic motioned to the nurse to bring eau de Cologne and water, and the nurse, wondering at the lad and the power he showed, obeyed him to the letter.
All night long Dominic stayed by Maureen's side. What he suffered in body no words can describe, but he would have gone through worse torture for Maureen.
The doctors came and looked and whispered to each other, and one said, "This is too wonderful," and the other said, "She is asleep. Whatever happens, she must not be awakened."
Then the first doctor said to the boy, "Can you bear to kneel just as you are kneeling all night long?"
And Dominic answered, "I could bear it for every night of my life if it would save her."
So then the doctors, by Colonel Herbert's desire and by Mr. O'Brien's desire, supported the lad as best they could with pillows, and gave him sips of wine to drink, and one of the nurses got him to lean partly against her. But the cramp which was so slight at first became terrific, and the boy could have shrieked with agony. But he did not shriek,he did not stir, for he knew without anyone telling him that he was saving the life of his little mate.
Dominic knelt by that bedside from six in the evening until six the following morning, and all that time Maureen slept away her fever and awoke to consciousness.
"Why, Dom!" she said, in the weak, weak voice of a little bird; but Dominic was in a dead faint on the floor, and was carried out of the room without Maureen seeing what happened.
He soon revived and was as well as ever again, but as long as he lived he never forgot that night when he saved the life of his little playmate.
From that moment Maureen was pronounced out of danger. A turn for the better set in, and, although the convalescence was slow, it was also sure. She was too weary to ask questions, and for the first week of her recovery she slept most of the time. Then Uncle Pat came in and kissed her, and she kissed him back and looked into his sweet, grave eyes, but still she asked no questions, nor did he volunteer any information.
After that, weeks and weeks and weeks passed, and the summer entered into autumn and the autumn into winter; and the winter was a very cold one even for the south of Ireland, but Colonel Herbert's house was well-warmed and Maureen's room contained every luxury. The two nurses, Nurse Cecilia and Nurse Hora, delighted in their life in theluxurious mansion, and Maureen thought her own deep thoughts.
Autumn passed into winter, and on Christmas day Maureen was well enough to be dressed in a pretty soft little tea-gown of white cashmere, which Nurse Nora had made for her. Then she was laid on the couch by the glowing turf fire, and she was told that Colonel Herbert would like to see her.
"Oh, but I want to see Uncle Pat," said Maureen. "I'm beginning to remember things a little. Can I see Uncle Pat, Nurse Cecilia?"
"I don't think you can to-day, my pretty, but the Colonel is very anxious to have a little chat with you; only first he says you must have your dinner. Nurse Nora has gone to fetch it now."
Her dinner consisted of a delicious snipe, for these dainty birds abound in the boggy parts of Ireland; and she had a little glass of wine, very stimulating and strong. The wine brought the colour into her sweet cheeks and made her eyes look softer and larger than ever.
A few minutes later Colonel Herbert entered the room. He was one of the most distinguished men in the entire county, and Rathclaren was a perfectly kept place. The Colonel did not know much about girls or women, however, and was a trifle nervous as he entered the room, but when he saw the little figure on the sofa, the pink colour in the cheeks, the soft glow in the brown eyes, the hair which had been cut off during her illness but was now curlingin tight rings all over her pretty head, made this child of one of his greatest friends look altogether adorable to him.
Maureen had not lost her straightforward way. She held out a tiny hand now, which was no longer plump or brown.
"Dear Colonel," she said, "you are good."
"I hate thanks," was the Colonel's reply.
"How funny," said Maureen, with one of her merry laughs; "so do I."
"That's right, my pushkeen; then I quite expect you and I will suit each other."
"We have always suited each other," said Maureen.
"Yes, that's quite true," replied the Colonel. "And we need not talk of the past, need we, Maureen, acushla?"
"Why, of course not," said Maureen; "that is," she added, "not unless you wish to. I am beginning to remember everything now most beautifully."
"Don't talk of it, child; don't talk of it," said the Colonel.
"I won't—if it really hurts you," said Maureen. "I would not dream of hurting one so good; but please, dear Colonel—you do not mind my calling you dear Colonel, do you?"
"Not one little scrap, alanna."
"That is all right," said Maureen. "You must see that I cannot help loving you. I hope you do not mind that."
"Well—upon my word," replied Colonel Herbert, "I did not know that any one living loved me."
"Oh! but I do most truly. You see that you are a great soldierly man, and my father was your friend and the bravest of all brave soldiers. You see, dear Colonel, we are really close together. I, the daughter of a soldier; you, a soldier your very self. I cannot help loving you and feeling close to you, and I hope—I do hope that you do not mind—I want you to love me oh! so dreadfully badly, and I—well, I love you with all my heart."
The stern old Colonel never felt tears nearer to his eyes.
"Keep it up, child. I do not mind; in fact, I—Iratherlike it," he said.
"And may I call you 'dear Colonel'?"
"Yes, young 'un, yes."
"How, please, I have been in your house a long time."
"Since the summer," said the Colonel. "A matter of close on six months."
"Well, you see, in that time a little girl gets hungry."
"Good gracious! Sakes alive! Don't they give you enough to eat?"
"Oh, yes," said Maureen; "lashinsandlavins. But it isn'tthathunger. It's here——" She put her little white hand against her heart. "I'mhungry for Uncle Pat, and for darling Dominic, and for Denis and Kitty. When may I see them?"
"That's what I have come to you about, acushla. You see, it is this way: You had a good bit of serious illness—you're as right as a trivet now, but it might have been the other way round. Well, things happened that we needn't talk about, and your Uncle Pat wouldn't leave the house—not he, blessed man!—while you were in any sort of danger; but when all the danger was past (and I tell you, alanna, we did have one night of it)—when it was past and over and you were quite on the mend, the doctors who were looking after you took a good haul of him. My word, didn't they pull him about. Sounding him here and patting him there—they were great men, these doctors—and they said that if your Uncle Pat went off immediately to Egypt for the winter—why, he might get well or very nearly quite well. So, Maureen, you must forgive me; but I made him go, and there is a curate at Templemore; and as he couldn't go alone, Dominic went with him, and Denis and Kitty are both at boarding-school—not the school they used to go to, but a first-rate one in no less a place than old England; and I says to myself, says I, 'I can't have those bouncing brats back for the holidays; they'll be too much for Maureen.'"
"They wouldn't," murmured Maureen, but her voice was very low, and her eyes were really now full of tears, for she was too weak to keep them back."They are not bouncing brats, Colonel; they are darlings!"
"Well, well, child, they may be so to you; but you see I'm an old bachelor and I have my notions. So it was arranged that the pair of them should stay at school for the Christmas holidays, and for that matter for Easter as well; and the long and short of it is this, Maureen, that you have to put up with the old Colonel until the warm weather comes and your Uncle returns. For when he finds Egypt too hot, he is ordered by the doctors to go to different parts of Switzerland, and the news of him is just of the very best. I have a letter in my pocket for you, Maureen, written by himself with orders that I should give it to you on Christmas Day if it was suitable."
"Is this Christmas Day?" cried Maureen.
"Why, yes, baby; have you forgotten everything? I wanted to bring you up some plum-pudding, but Nurse Cecilia wouldn't allow it. She's something of a tyrant is that woman, though she's a first-rate nurse."
"Indeed, she is; and so is Nurse Nora," said the child. "Oh, have I indeed forgotten so much, and has the time gone by at such a rate—and aren't you—aren't you sick of me, dear Colonel?"
"Well, this is about the tune of the thing," said Colonel Herbert: "I have taken a sort of fancy to you! Oh, there, child, for the Lord's sake!Whatare you doing?" For Maureen had slipped off her couch and had twined her weak little arms round theColonel's neck, and given the confirmed old bachelor the first kiss he had ever received since his mother died.
"Child, child, you'll faint, or something awful will happen!"
"No, I won't. I'm not a bit fainty. I want to tell you that I love you"—here came a kiss—"and you love me"—another kiss.
"To be sure, pushkeen."
"Thenthat'sall right. Put me back on the sofa, dear Colonel, and then give me Uncle Pat's letter, and then go away, please; only before you go, will you promise me one thing?"
"What is that, acushla machree?"
"I want you to come to me every day as you have come to-day until I am well enough to go to you, for we have just an awful lot to do and talk over before Uncle Pat comes back. Will you promise me, dear Colonel?"
"Yes, child. God help me, I think I'd promise you anything."
"Then that's all right and Iamhappy. I think I am about the happiest little girl in the world. I don't seem to have a care anywhere at all—only, please, my letter!"
"Yes, baby, only don't for goodness' sake, go and cry over it."
"You don't like cry-babies either," said Maureen.
"Of course not; they are detestable."
"Now my letter, please. Whatever you find in me, you won't find me a cry-baby."
The Colonel dropped a little packet into the child's bands and softly left the room.
"'Pon my word," he muttered to himself. "'Pon my word. I never could abide a wife, but a child like that of my very own, I could put up with her—'pon my word!"
Maureen lay for a few minutes after Colonel Herbert had left her with the unopened packet clasped in her two little white bands; and her eyes looked brighter than ever and her cheeks more rosy. In the packet were first of all quantities of enormous violets, which could be put into warm water and would revive by-and-by. Then there came two letters, one from Dominic and one from Uncle Pat.
Uncle Pat's letter was rather short. It ran somewhat as follows:
"Best of Darlings:—I get grand news of you from that fine fellow, Herbert, and if you are well enough to receive my Christmas greeting, here it is for you! The violets are from Dom. He's turning into a grand lad, and talks French to the manner born. Oh, what stories I shall have to tell you when I come home, for, Maureen—dear little Maureen—I am gettingwell. Each day I feel stronger. I am quite certain that with God's help I shall be with you when the long days come round again, and then what 'lashins' we'll have to talk to each other.Meanwhile, it is thought best for you to stay with the Colonel. You must be very sweet to him, and not bother him more than you can help; but you might ask him to lend you some books, for he has got quantities, and he is quite a famous Egyptologist, and you will like to know about the place where I am now regaining my health."God bless you, my darling. God above keep you!Uncle Pat.""P.S.—I send you a cheque for £500 to do what you like with."
"Best of Darlings:—I get grand news of you from that fine fellow, Herbert, and if you are well enough to receive my Christmas greeting, here it is for you! The violets are from Dom. He's turning into a grand lad, and talks French to the manner born. Oh, what stories I shall have to tell you when I come home, for, Maureen—dear little Maureen—I am gettingwell. Each day I feel stronger. I am quite certain that with God's help I shall be with you when the long days come round again, and then what 'lashins' we'll have to talk to each other.Meanwhile, it is thought best for you to stay with the Colonel. You must be very sweet to him, and not bother him more than you can help; but you might ask him to lend you some books, for he has got quantities, and he is quite a famous Egyptologist, and you will like to know about the place where I am now regaining my health.
"God bless you, my darling. God above keep you!
Uncle Pat."
"P.S.—I send you a cheque for £500 to do what you like with."
The other letter was also short, but it seemed to go straight into Maureen's heart:
"Hurrah, playmate, good news—the best! The pater is getting well. We're having a right jolly time in this jolly place, and if you were with us it would be nothing short of perfection. I never did see such a magnificent country as Egypt. Oh, Maureen, the blue of the sky! And, oh, the soft delicious feel of the air; and no thought of rain, for of course it never rains. One day a week ago I went out and saw the three pyramids. I went out with a boy I came across, and he explained everything to me. He is a jolly sort, and his name is Oliver. There was the Great Pyramid with its steps, and we climbed it—every single step up to the top, and the two smaller pyramids; but the most wonderful thing of all was the Sphinx. I can't describe her to you except thatshe lookedinscrutableand wise with all the wisdom of all the ages. There was a majesty about her; but there, I can't write tommyrot. We had tea afterwards at the Meena House Hotel, and then we came back in the cool of the evening. Oh, Maureen, the world is a big, big place, and I want to be a big traveller and see every inch of it. Good-bye for the present, my little darling.—Your loving old Dom."
"Hurrah, playmate, good news—the best! The pater is getting well. We're having a right jolly time in this jolly place, and if you were with us it would be nothing short of perfection. I never did see such a magnificent country as Egypt. Oh, Maureen, the blue of the sky! And, oh, the soft delicious feel of the air; and no thought of rain, for of course it never rains. One day a week ago I went out and saw the three pyramids. I went out with a boy I came across, and he explained everything to me. He is a jolly sort, and his name is Oliver. There was the Great Pyramid with its steps, and we climbed it—every single step up to the top, and the two smaller pyramids; but the most wonderful thing of all was the Sphinx. I can't describe her to you except thatshe lookedinscrutableand wise with all the wisdom of all the ages. There was a majesty about her; but there, I can't write tommyrot. We had tea afterwards at the Meena House Hotel, and then we came back in the cool of the evening. Oh, Maureen, the world is a big, big place, and I want to be a big traveller and see every inch of it. Good-bye for the present, my little darling.—Your loving old Dom."
There come in life moments, perhaps hours, perhaps days, perhaps even months of perfect bliss, and this glorious happening—these sunshiny days, hours, and months—came to little Maureen O'Brien while she lived with Colonel Herbert. She had undoubtedly had a most severe shock, and as her illness had been long and dangerous, so undoubtedly was her recovery somewhat tedious; but by degrees her little larklike voice could be heard singing about the house; and then all kinds of indescribable changes took place at Rathclaren. It was a handsome and stately home before Maureen arrived there, but now it became a beautiful home. The Colonel could not quite make out what had altered it. He did not know that a great nest of daffodils in a certain corner of his vast library made the room all aglow with light. He could not guess why the piano began to sound in the old-fashioned drawing-room, and why a pretty soft voice sang all kinds of old-fashioned songs—"The Dark Rosaleen" for one, "The Wearing o' the Green" for another, and Moore's inimitable melodies—