In their father's library there would certainly be some medical books, and they could look up poisonsand—hurrah! of course they could buy some at the chemist's, and then Daisy, who was as lithe and slight as an eel, could creep through the windows and administer a sufficient amount of the dose mixed in with the hot mash.
This was their plan of plans. They were consequently in high spirits when they joined their step-father at tea.
The girls, Henrietta and Daisy, were quite intent on their scheme. They were so intent that it kept them good in other respects. They apologised humbly for the injury done to the grand Blüthner. They were very penitent, and declared that it was just merely a lark, and hoped darling, dearest dad would forgive them.
The Reverend Mr. O'Brien could not help saying, after his first pause of astonishment: "The person who has to forgive you is Maureen."
"But why?" said Daisy, in an injured voice. "If you forgive your own little girls, popsy-dad, surely, most surely, no one else ought to be angry."
"It is Maureen's piano," replied the Rector. "You both did a naughty, mischievous—indeed, I may say a wicked thing. I am heartily ashamed of you; but Maureen has got such a glorious spirit of perfect gentleness and love that shemayoverlook your sin."
"I wish you wouldn't praise her quite so much," said Henrietta.
"I don't over-praise," said the Rector. "I thinkof her as what she is. She comes of a noble stock. There never was anyone like her dear father, and her sweet young mother in her own way was equally blessed. They have long passed away from this troublesome world, but they have left their child behind them. You are more than fortunate girls to have such a companion, and to have the possibility of making such a friend. I don't say for a moment that youwillmake Maureen your friend. The matter rests with yourselves. She has the true spirit of forgiveness. No, don't touch the piano. You like to see it in its present horrible condition. I will sit in another room; for to me it is most repugnant. Amuse yourselves as you wish, girls. I am sorry I cannot feel very friendly to you at the present moment, but of course as I have said already, the matter rests in the hands of Maureen."
Certainly neither Henrietta nor Daisy felt comfortable at the Rector's words, and when late that evening Dominic and Maureen returned from Rathclaren, they both rushed out to her, Daisy whispering, "Now keep up your courage, Henny."
There was a standard lamp lighted in the drawing-room, and the ravages done to the Blüthner were very perceptible. Maureen, who had a happy colour in her cheeks and whose eyes were bright and soft, stared for a moment at the mangled instrument with a sort of horror. Mrs. Leach, who had joined the Colonel's tea-party, had not told the child what had happened; and Kathleen, who loved Maureen, hadwalked about the grounds with her letting her cling to her arm and throwing all the interest of which she was capable into Maureen's account of her life.
"You know, Maureen, you ought to live here," said Kathleen at last.
But Maureen stared at her, and said with a voice of amazement: "What! and leave Uncle Pat?"
So Kathleen said no more. She felt afterwards that she could not.
Now the child stood in speechless despair, looking at her lovely instrument.
"Why, Daisy—why, Henrietta—what has happened?" she asked, and there was a choking sob in her voice. "Has one of the big farm sheep-dogs got in and walked about on the piano? Oh, it is more than that, for someone has been trying to break the lock! Oh, my darling piano—my soul of music——"
"Don't be affected, little brat!" said Daisy, who could flare up just like a match. Whatever else she would have said to the child was interrupted. Whether she would have accepted the theory of the sheep-dog and pretended that a burglar had tried to break the piano open can never be explained, for at that instant the Rector and Dominic entered the room.
Dominic had the steely blue eyes of his father—blue, with just a touch of grey in them—eyes which suddenly turned black at any emotion.
"Have you told Maureen the truth?" asked Mr. O'Brien.
"We—we were going to," said Daisy, "but she flew out with that horrid temper of hers, raving and roaring."
"That is not the way with Maureen. Now tell her the truth before me. Dominic, go and stand by your cousin."
Thus forced, the girls were obliged to say what had occurred. They described their rage when they found the piano locked, and how they had determined to dance a Scotch reel on the top. They confessed that their boots were very muddy, for they had been experimenting on the edge of a boggy piece of ground that morning.
"How," said the Rector, when the ignominious tale had come to an end, "what do you wish to do, Maureen?"
The colour came slowly back to Maureen's face until it burned in her cheeks like two great spots.
"Dominic," she said, without taking the slightest notice of the girls, "we must not let such sheer ignorance trouble us. Go, like a darling to Pegeen, and get me some cloths and some Adams' polish. I daresay I can make the piano look fairly well until it is properly repolished, which 'dear Colonel' I know will get done for me."
"Then we needn't sit up, I suppose," said Henrietta, giving a profound yawn.
"Oh, no," said Maureen. "Oh, I'm very, verysorry for you. You must have felt so bad afterwards. It is dreadful to feelverybad—afterwards. Good-night!"
There was a wonderful gracious sort of dignity about this little girl which subdued the Mostyns for the time being; but they were more than ever determined to punish her.
"She feels nothing; she hasn't a scrap of heart," said Daisy. "Think of her putting on those absurd airs. Butwe'lltouch her yet; I vow we will!"
"Yes, we will, we will—I declare we will!" exclaimed Henrietta. Soon they were lying in their oak bedsteads side by side, and talking in low whispers about how they could punish Maureen.
The next day passed much as usual. The little, half-French, half-Irish girl was very brave, and spent most of her time with Dominic. Her face was sadly pale, and she had a look about her eyes which frightened the boy because he could not understand it. "If she onlywouldfly out in a rage," he thought, "I could bear it better."
The Colonel came as usual to take his little favourite for a ride, and during their ride the child made an unexpected request.
"I don't want to make any complaint," she began, "but I want the dear, darling Blüthner to go home to you for a time. We can hire a piano from Kingsala, and the Blüthner will be safer with you. It got a little injured yesterday, but I can't tell you how, dear Colonel; only if you keep it I shall feelhappy, and when I come to you I can sing and play; and we can hire quite a good enough piano at Barry's on the Long Quay at Kingsala."
"There's something the matter with you, my blessing," said the Colonel.
"No, no, nothing at all; only I want to have the Blüthner safe."
Accordingly, a day or two later, a proper van was sent for the Blüthner, which once more found its place in the Colonel's beautiful drawing-room. Soon afterwards a man came and repaired the damage that had been done, and Maureen seemed happy once more; but she little knew what was awaiting her. A piano, the best which could be secured, an upright Broadwood, was hired by Maureen herself from Barry's, and this piano was never locked and the girls could pound on it as much as they pleased.
"Only let me know when you intend to play," said the Rector, "for true music is the delight of my life, whereas such chords and crashes as you produce, to say nothing of your false notes, Henrietta, have a very unpleasant effect upon me."
"Well, I am sure," said Henrietta, "I was always remarked at school for my glorious voice. They said that if I wasn't so rich I ought to go in for opera, and I am sure Daisy plays my accompaniments first rate."
"I do so," said Daisy. "I have two big chords for the bass, and play the tune with one or twofingers for the treble. I am told it has a very pleasing effect."
"Well, play your own way," said the Rector, "but don't ask me to admire what is not music."
All this time the hearts of the two girls were waxing very hot within them. They had looked in vain for any medical book in their father's library, and at last they determined to drive into Kingsala and ask the chemist to give them some rat poison.
"We must be careful of one thing," said Henrietta to her sister; "we do not want tokillthe horse, we only want to make him very ill. Thenshe'llget into a pepper and we'll pretend to sympathise, and have our lark all the time."
Accordingly, on a beautiful bright morning, the Misses Mostyn implored their step-father to lend them the phaeton in order to drive to Kingsala.
"What do you want to do there, my dears?"
"Oh, lots of the sort of things that men don't take any interest in," said Henrietta. "We want to furbish ourselves up a little. They say Barry's shop isn't half bad."
"Oh, ribbons and laces," said the Rector. "Well, I have no particular use for my horse this morning, and Laurence, the groom, can drive you in. Would you like to go too, Maureen, my pet? You could take Kitty with you and choose her summer hat for her."
"Oh, Uncle Pat, Kitty doesn't want a summer hat. I have just finished the third of those prettywhite muslin ones, and nothing could look sweeter on her dear little head. No, I don't think I want to go; not to-day at least. Thank you all the same, Uncle Pat."
About an hour later Henrietta and Daisy were driving off in the phaeton to Kingsala. The Rector with his increased means was thinking of buying a smart little pony-trap for two ponies, which would exactly suit Maureen and Kitty. He had heard that there was the very trap and also the small ponies for sale in the auction mart in Cork, and determined to start off the following day to try and secure them. Garry could manage the ponies as well as the spirited Arab. The Rector would go round to the stables and speak to him at once on the subject. Maureen's birthday, when she would be fifteen, was drawing nigh, and he thought that a new pony trap would be a nice present for her.
He felt very happy as he paced about his neatly-kept grounds and tried as far as possible to banish the thought of the Mostyn girls from his mind. Of course he was bound to look after them, but he could not like them. In fact, they tried him inexpressibly.
Meanwhile, the said girls, in every scrap of finery they could collect, drove to the town where their mother had so often been before them. Mrs. O'Brien was very well known; the Misses Mostyn were not known at all. The little town was all alive and eager, for a regatta was going on that day, and the bay was full of beautiful yachts, and Patrick's Quaywas crowded with spectators. The chemist intended to shut up shop and join the group, who watched the different races, as soon as possible. He was a young man with carroty hair and sunken chin. His name was Driscoll.
Now Driscoll was by no means pleased at the arrival of fresh customers. He didn't want either them or their money; he was all agog for the beautiful races, and hated to have his time interfered with. The Misses Mostyn were not attractive-looking girls. Daisy saw his impatience at a glance and immediately proceeded to take advantage of it. Driscoll pretended not to see her drift, but he took the measure of the young lady.
"What may ye be wanting?" he asked. "Don't ye know that this is a holiday? And I'm just on the p'int of shutting up shop."
"Oh, it won't take you a minute, Mr. Driscoll," said Daisy. "Father is the Rector of Templemore, and couldn't come himself, so he sent us. He wants us to buy some rat-poison."
"Are ye the daughters of she who bruk her neck?" asked Driscoll.
"We are—we are lone orphans on the mother's side," said Daisy; "but we couldn't have a better father."
"Ye are right there; a holier man never walked the road. What is it ye said he was wanting?"
"Rat poison. Please give it to us quickly. It isn't for us; it is for the Rector."
"Did he send in a prescription?"
"No; whatever is that?"
"I can't sell pisons without a prescription," said Driscoll. "I'd get into a fine mess. If the Rector is troubled with rats—though I thought I'd banished every one of them some months ago when 'herself' was alive—he'd best write to me and I'll send it to him. No, ladies, I'm sorry to be disobliging, but without a prescription no pison will ye get."
"Oh, dear, dear," said Henrietta; "father will be so disappointed. Perhaps there are some other chemists in the town who won't be so particular, Mr.—Mr. Driscoll."
"Another chemist!" Driscoll threw up his hands. "Could Kingsala support two, I'd like to ask ye? No; I'm the wan and the sole wan. I sold some rat-poison to 'herself' a time back; but I suppose when the rats were gone she was wise enough to destroy it. There now, I must say good-day to ye, ladies, for I must shut up shop."
The girls felt a good deal disappointed, but they were the sort of young people who kept their feelings to themselves. They marched about the town and peeped into Barry's shop and entered and bought yards upon yards of pale blue ribbon, which they desired the man to put down to the Reverend Patrick O'Brien, as they were his daughters.
Presently they found themselves on Patrick's Quay, which was now packed and crowded with eager spectators. The greatest yacht-race of the seasonwas about to come off. TheSea Foam, a magnificent yacht, belonging to the Earl of Banbury, was to compete against theSea Sprite, a local yacht belonging to a Mr. Jagoe.
Excitement had risen to its extreme height. All the population wanted Jagoe's yacht to win, but theSea Foamout-did her with the utmost ease, flying gracefully like a bird over the bosom of the waters, out of the inner harbour into the outer and then back again, beating theSea Spriteby a matter of at least ten minutes. TheSea Spritecame to her anchorage looking dull and dusty, with her sails torn, for the wind had got up a good bit; but theSea Foamlay like a white swan, calm and at rest on the waters.
The great races were followed by little races, sailing boats and row-boats and canoe races. The whole scene was most brilliant and charming, and every girl in the place put on all the finery she possessed, and all the men members of the yachting club were in white flannels. Nobody spoke to Henrietta or to Daisy, though the chemist approached them once and said, "Have ye got that there rat-pison?" but Henrietta in the midst of her present surroundings, threw up her head in extreme haughtiness and said: "Sir, I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance."
"Driscollby name, andCautiousby nature," replied the chemist. He then turned and said something to his companion, a pretty little girl of his own class. They both looked at the Misses Mostyn, andboth laughed loudly, and Henrietta and Daisy thought it as well to start on their homeward way.
As they were approaching the Rectory, Daisy said in a low voice, which she could assume at will and which certainly the groom could not hear, "I have a notion in my head, Henny-penny!"
"What is that, Daisy? To tell the truth, I'm about tired of your notions. They never come to anything at all."
"Well, but this one will—this one will," said Daisy, skipping up and down in the phaeton as she spoke. "Don't you remember what that horrid man Driscoll said—that he had sold rat-poison to mumsie some time ago; so there must have been rats once at Templemore. He said also, of course, that naturally mumsie pumsie would destroy the poison when the rats were gone—but I'm by no means so sure of that. It was not a bit the way of the careless old duck."
"Well?" said Henrietta.
"Well, what I'm thinking is this: that we have got to find what is left of the rat-poison."
"Oh," said Henrietta, "I haven't a notion where to look for it." She yawned as she spoke. "These long drives do make one so sleepy," she said.
"You don't seem interested in anything, Henny. You are an old goose!"
"Am I? Well, that's better than being a young gosling."
"By the way," said Daisy, "I remember a lovelystory. I know it is true, for a girl at our dear old school told it to me. It happened to a lady she knew, and she said it was as true as paint. It was this: There was a very, very stout old body—oh, monstrous stout, but not really ill, only hypochondriacal, and of course she was always and forever sending for the doctor. He was a country doctor, but he had a sense of humour in him. One day the old dame said to Doctor Macgregor, 'Doctor, I'm about to visit London.' 'Are ye now that?' said he. You see, she was an Irish body and she spoke the Irish brogue. 'And is it you that will cross the sea, Miss Marmaduke?' 'Yes, to be sure,' she answered; 'and why not?' 'Well,' said the doctor, who was a bit of a wag, 'ye'll be mighty sick, ye know.' 'I suppose I will,' she answered. 'Maybe I'll die. But I've a great longing to see London town.' 'Ye won't die,' said the doctor, 'if that is what ye are thinking of. But ye'll be mighty uncomfortable with all that fat on yer body. You'll wish yourself safe back in Dublin, that ye will.' 'Well, anyway, I'm going,' said the stout lady, 'and I'll tell ye what it is, Doctor Macgregor, I don't think ye make half enough of my illness and suffering.' 'Me not think enough of them!' said he. 'Why, I'm thinking of them day and night.' 'Well, to be sure, are ye now,' said the lady. 'But there is one thing I must say to you, doctor, you haven't a sympathetic manner.' 'It doesn't do for a doctor to be sympathetic with his patients,' said the doctor. 'Sympathy would killthem off like flies.' 'I am surprised to hear ye say that,' said the stout lady; 'I should have thought it would have done them a power of good. Well, anyway, ye must acknowledge that I am ill.' 'Oh, very ill, ma'am; very ill entirely.' 'Then I think as I am going to London,' said the stout lady, 'that you might write a letter to the cleverest doctor there—an Irishman if ye can find one—and give me the letter to take to him, and I'll be bound I'll get out what is the matter with me.' 'Well, to be sure, I'll do that,' said the doctor. 'I know the very man, too—Malony of Harley Street. When are ye going to cross the briny?' 'To-morrow as ever is,' she replied. 'Well, I'll give ye a note to Malony which will clinch the business. Ye mustn't be frightened at anything he says to ye, for ye must remember ye have brought it on yourself.'
"So the next day that wag of a fellow brought her a letter and told her to call on the great Doctor Malony and put his letter carefully into the hands of the great man, and to make up her mind for a really bad verdict. The stout old lady was delighted, for she loved bad verdicts. She got on board the boat and as the sea was rough, she suffered a good deal from sickness; but the sicker she was the more she liked herself, and the worse she was the tighter she clasped Doctor Macgregor's letter in her hand. The sea certainly was rough, and most of the passengers were sick, and the stewardess brought the fat old lady some brandy and water to drink. The boat gavea great roll that moment and lo and behold! in a minute the beautiful letter which was to seal the stout lady's doom was sopped through and through with brandy and water. She felt angry for a moment, but then it flashed through her mind that she'd open it, for it was quite soft like pulp, and she would be able to see for herself what Doctor Macgregor said about his patient. 'At the least, it must be the beginning of cancer,' she murmured. 'Dear, dear, dear! But anyhow, he'll tell the truth to a brother physician, and it is as well for me to know.'
"Well, Henny-penny, what do you think? They were getting towards the harbour then, and it wasn't so rough, and she was able to read the words inside the letter; and if ever a woman's eyes dilated and if ever her heart throbbed, the fat old lady's did then, for Doctor Macgregor's letter was brief and to the point: 'Dear Malony,' it ran, 'I am sending you a fat goose. Pluck her well and send her back to me!' You may be quite sure, Henny-penny, that the fat old lady never went near Malony; but she tore the letter in little bits and went to a quack, who told her she had innumerable illnesses, all jumbled together, and if there was any chance of her life, she must undergo at least four operations; so she was as happy as the day was long. I declare you have scarcely smiled, and I doing my level best to amuse you! Well, here we are back at Templemore. Now then, jump out. I'm starving for tea if you aren't."
The girls went into the house. Maureen and Kittywere away. Neither Dominic nor Denis were anywhere to be found, and the Rector was as usual visiting his sick and sorry parishioners.
The girls took their tea soberly, Henrietta hardly thinking at all and feeling half asleep, but Daisy's brain being, as usual, very much on the alert. When tea was a thing of the past and Burke had cleared away all traces of it from the great hall, Daisy made her invariable remark: "How many new-laid eggs and how much peach-jam did you eat in the kitchen to-night, Burke?"
Burke stared glumly at the young lady, and made no answer of any sort; Daisy lost her temper a little and flew at Burke and said, "Youarea nasty thief of an old man."
"If you plaze, miss, ye'll have the goodness to lave me alone," Burke replied. He then walked with a dignity which the girl herself would never possess out of the hall and in the direction of the kitchens.
"Pegeen," he said, "it's me heart that's bruk entirely."
"Ah, wisha, honey," said Pegeen, "I wouldn't fret for the likes o' they."
"They have come to that pass that they accuse me—ME—of theft. Am I likely to put up with that?"
"Is it me 'ud do it?" said Pegeen; "I'd scratch their faces for 'em. But you being a rale jintleman, Mr. Burke, honey, couldn't do that; but I'll do it for ye, quick, as soon as possible."
Meanwhile Henrietta strolled languidly into thedrawing-room. She opened the piano supplied by Barry and produced false chords and crashes which would have sent Maureen or the Rector flying from the house; but Daisy left her to her amusement and went softly, very softly upstairs. She had long ago regretted her silly nonsense about the banshee and the haunted room, for that north chamber where she and her sister slept was the reverse of comfortable. The great spacious, lovely bedroom, which had been her mother's, was now occupied by the Rector of Templemore, and next to it was the little dressing-room belonging to Maureen. Daisy's flaxen head stole cautiously round the door of the big room. It was empty. So much the better. She now went on tiptoe, trembling in her excitement, towards a little old medicine closet, which was let into the wall.
This medicine closet had not been opened or cleaned or touched since the late Mrs. O'Brien's death, and it was the thought of that little cabinet and of what it might possibly contain which had made Daisy's heart so light and her voice so merry on her way home. Now she opened it wide and began to explore. There were all sorts of dusty, grimy bottles within, some half full, some empty, some bearing the words "Sal Volatile," some bearing the words "Ipecacuanha," others "Epsom Salts," others "Ginger," others "Peppermint." But in the back of the cupboard, pushed out of sight, stood a small row of very dark blue bottles with poison written on them in large letters.
Daisy's heart almost choked her with delight. One contained laudanum, and the directions were, "To be rubbed over the affected parts when the pain is severe." Another contained belladonna, with the same directions, and on each bottle was inscribed the words, "Not to be taken internally.POISON." But Daisy's eyes lit up with bliss when she came across a little pot markedRat-poison, and with full directions how to use it.
"Spread some of the mixture on thin bread and butter and leave it near the rat-hole. The contents of this pot are principally arsenic and phosphorus. A dose sufficient to kill a dozen rats can be put on a very small square of bread."
Daisy put the rest of the bottles back into their places and danced downstairs to Henny-penny.
"Seek—find! Which hand?" she exclaimed. Her tiny eyes were blazing with delight.
Henrietta turned from her strumming on the piano to look at her.
"What is the matter with you, Daisy? What are you so excited about?"
"Come up to our bedroom at once," she said. "I have just grand news for you. Come along as fast as ever you like."
Henrietta began to feel really excited. She followed her sister upstairs. They locked themselves into the ugly bedroom, and there Daisy told the story of her great discovery. Henrietta listened in breathless silence.
"Where's the horse now?" she asked.
"Out, of course, with that little brat Maureen. We'll do it to-night, Henny; we'll do it to-night."
Henrietta turned the rat-poison round and round.
"I don't think," she said, after a pause, "he'll eat his mash if some of this horrid stuff is put into it. You said the mumsie had other poisons."
"Oh, yes; laudanum and belladonna."
"Well, I think if I were you, Daisy, I'd put this rat-poison back again and secure the bottle with the laudanum. He would not taste that if it was well mixed up in a big soft mash. You know, we mustn't kill him. I declare positively against that. How much do you think we might venture to put in?"
"I don't know," said Daisy. "I wish I did."
Then she clapped her hands excitedly. "I know, I know!" she exclaimed. "I'll ask the village nurse, Miss Duncom."
"Then you give yourself away," said Henny. "You quite frighten me, Daisy."
"It is because I don't want to frighten you that I ask the village nurse. I shan't mention the horse's name. Of course not. Now I know Miss Duncom is going to Mrs. Haggarty's cottage to dress the old woman's leg, and I'll catch her as sure as sure. I'll keep the laudanum bottle up in our room until we want it. I'll manage to creep into Fly-away's loose box by means of the window. I know that that detestable Garry always brings him his mash the last thing, and then locks him in for the night. Now,don't keep me, Henny. I'll change this rat-poison. The laudanum will be miles better."
"Oh, do be careful," said her sister.
Daisy presently dashed into their joint bedroom. She had put back the rat-poison and had brought up the little dark blue bottle of laudanum.
"Here, hide it under your bed," she exclaimed.
"No; under yours," said Henrietta.
"As you please," remarked Daisy. "Only it seemsIhave all the trouble while you have the fun. Think of her screeching and raving over her dying horse, and I'll have done it all—all."
"The horse is not to die," said Henrietta.
"Well,Isuppose you do not mind his being made ill?"
"No, I don't mind that. I don't mind giving her a fright."
"Well, then, let me go off, for goodness' sake."
Daisy dashed up the avenue and arrived at Mrs. Haggarty's. As she expected, Nurse Duncom was there. She was a remarkably nice-looking young woman, and all the people in the place adored her. The bandaging of the leg had taken place, and she was just leaving the cottage, when she saw Daisy.
"Why, Miss Mostyn, is anything wrong? Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Oh, nothing really wrong," said Daisy; "only I don't want to frighten father. He loves me so much. I suffer at night from such horrible pains in my tummy-tum, and I found in dear mother's oldmedicine cupboard a little bottle of laudanum. Do you think I might take a few drops?"
"I don't think you ought to take any," said Nurse Duncom. "It is a very dangerous medicine, and I should not dream of ordering it for you. You could have peppermint or something harmless of that sort."
"But, please, would three drops kill me?"
"Certainly not. I dare say you could manage to take eight drops, provided you gave them to yourself in a measure glass, without coming to any harm; but I cannot possiblyorderthem for you."
"If a—a cow was in awful pain, would you give it more than that?"
"Undoubtedly, though I don't know anything about the treatment of cows. What queer questions you are asking me, Miss Mostyn. The cow is a much larger animal and can stand a much bigger dose, but really I would not dream of ordering laudanum for any creature. I am sorry you are suffering; probably it is indigestion. I will send you up a little bottle of peppermint to-night, and you can take from ten to fifteen drops in a little water. That isquitesafe. Good-bye now, Miss Mostyn. I must hurry to old Burchell. Talk of pain! Ah, you little know what it means. I must give him his dose of morphia, but nothing will save his life. Still, he will be looking out for me, and the morphia keeps the worst agonies under."
Daisy danced back to her sister.
"I have everything as pat as pat," she said. Littleshe cared for Burchell's dying agonies. "I saw Duncom and she told me. I did not give myself away in the least. We must give Fly-away from sixteen to twenty drops of the laudanum. Luckily there is a little medicine glass in mumsie's cupboard. I'll measure it into that. Then he'll get rather bad, but he won't die. Hurrah! Hurrah! Iama clever girl!"
Daisy, in her way, without being in the least intellectual, and without having the smallest taste for the great and ennobling things of life, was neverless clever. She had the artfulness of the crooked mind, and she could carry out her designs with exactitude and promptness. She pretended to be frightened, but neither she nor Henny knew what fear was. Henny was, in some ways, the better character—that is, if stupidity could be called good. She could hate with great vigour; she never dreamt of love unless, indeed, she loved Daisy. She liked to listen to Daisy's designs, which were always mischievous and wicked, but she could not carry them out herself, although she would be faithful to her sister to the last drop of her blood.
Daisy was the only person who really belonged to her. She had therefore a certain passion for this queer, crabbed nature. Therefore, she was led by Daisy, who told her that she must pretend to be fond of father, and she did pretend. She would have flirted with Dominic if he had allowed her, but Dominic knew how to keep her at a distance. Try asshe might, try as she would, she could not bridge the gulf which stood between her and him. That gulf also extended itself between Dominic and Daisy. The fact was that he was an exceedingly sharp lad; he read their characters aright and, as far as lay in his power, protected his dear little cousin Maureen and his sweet baby sister Kitty from their machinations. But even Dominic could not guess what was passing through Daisy's mind on that special evening. He only noticed that she was in particularly good spirits, that she and Henrietta laughed and joked and whispered, and presently that they became suddenly quiet and sat one at each side of the Rector on the old Chesterfield sofa. They petted the Rector a good deal, calling him "father" and "dear father" and "dearest dad" and "ownest duck," and the poor Rector endured their most unwelcome embraces and their silly words until finally, in despair, he asked Maureen to sing for him.
Maureen sat down to the upright Broadwood and sang that most haunting of all melodies:
"Rich and rare were the gems she woreAnd a bright gold ring on her hand she bore;But oh! her beauty was far beyondHer sparkling gems and snow-white hand."'Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,So lone and lovely thro' this bleak way,Are Erin's sons so good or so coldAs not to be tempted by woman or gold?'"'Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,No son of Erin will offer me harm;—For tho' they love woman and golden store,Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more.'"On she went and her maiden smileIn safety carried her round the green isle;And blest forever is she who reliedUpon Erin's honour and Erin's pride."
"Rich and rare were the gems she woreAnd a bright gold ring on her hand she bore;But oh! her beauty was far beyondHer sparkling gems and snow-white hand.
"'Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,So lone and lovely thro' this bleak way,Are Erin's sons so good or so coldAs not to be tempted by woman or gold?'
"'Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,No son of Erin will offer me harm;—For tho' they love woman and golden store,Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more.'
"On she went and her maiden smileIn safety carried her round the green isle;And blest forever is she who reliedUpon Erin's honour and Erin's pride."
The girl's sweet, clear voice ceased. It died away in a soft wave of most exquisite melody; her brown eyes were full of tears. She raised them to Dominic's face; he was astonished at those rare tears. He had, oh! so seldom, seen Maureen cry.
The boy bent towards her with all the true chivalry of a true Irish knight and gentleman. "What is it, mavourneen?" he whispered.
"It is only that I am glad, oh! so glad, that my father was an Irish gentleman and soldier," she replied, in a voice as low as his.
By this time the conspirators, as they called themselves, had left the room.
"There, you saw for yourself," said Henny. "Did you ever come across such affectation?"
"Never," said Daisy; "never!"
"I'm ready for anything now," said Henny.
"Well," said Daisy. "I think everything is complete. Garry always locks the stable door at ten o'clock. He sleeps exactly overhead. I do hate that Garry."
"Well, go on, Daisy. Don't mind about your hates now!"
Daisy laughed spitefully.
"It is at the present moment," she said, "exactly a quarter to ten. I unlatched one of the windows in the stable to-day, and I secured a dark lantern, and I want you to come out with me and help to push me through the window. It is easily done, and I can fasten it, or push it to at least, when I come out again. I'll crouch in a dark corner, and when I know Garry has gone to bed I'll light the dark lantern and measure the drops of laudanum. I have brought mumsie's measuring glass and the bottle, and I stole the dark lantern to-day when I knew no one was looking. Then when Fly-away is eating his hot mash, I'll pour in the laudanum,eighteendrops. I'll give him his quietus, don't you fear!"
"Daisy, you arenotto kill him!"
"Henny-penny, don't be such a fool. Of course I won't kill him; is it likely? You leave everything to your clever little sister, and by to-morrow morning we'll have that sweet 'Rich and rare' roaring and squealing and kicking her heels in the drawing-room; and then we must both pet her like anything and sympathise like anything. The horse will recover, of course, but he'll be bad for a bit. That's all. Didn't Miss Duncom tell me about the safe dose. I'm no fool. Only do come along!"
The girls slipped down the back-stairs and out into the yard. They were wearing dark cloaks,which completely covered their white dresses, and Daisy had her lantern, medicine glass, and bottle of laudanum all safely stowed away under her cloak. It was nearly ten o'clock. She hadn't a minute to spare. Making a desperate effort with the aid of Henny from behind, she pushed her way into the stable where the Arab neighed a trifle uneasily.
"I'm all right," she whispered to her sister. "The only thing is that I have broken the medicine glass. Well, I can easily guess the drops—sixteen. You get off to the house, Henny, or you'll be caught."
Henny scampered away, her heart palpitating with uneasiness. She saw a light under the drawing-room door as she sped by. The family had evidently not yet gone to bed. The Rector was reading some lovely poetry aloud, and Dominic and Maureen were listening. The Rector could read poetry like no man in the county. He was now delighting his young listeners with the "Prisoner of Chillon." His voice rose and swelled. Dominic stood up in a sort of rapture. As the pathos grew Maureen hid her little pale face against her uncle's sleeve. Whatever happened, she could not cry a second time that evening.
Meanwhile Daisy settled herself as comfortably as she could in the darkest corner of the stable. There was Fly-away's loose box close to her and a great bundle of hay for him to eat if he felt hungry. But he was a horse of perfectly regulated habits, and he invariably waited for his hot mash at ten o'clock.
The stable clock struck the hour, solemnly in greatstrokes. Fly-away pricked up his small ears. There came a sound outside—a man's step on the cobble-stones, then Garry entered with the mash, hot and delicious. He placed it just before the animal, stroked him affectionately on his black head and silky, satin-like sides, and said: "Good-night to ye, Fly-away. Slape well, my blessing." And then he left the stable, locking the door behind him.
Garry had intended to go into the kitchen for a bit, to have a chat with Pegeen and Burke, with both of whom he was a prime favourite, but something prompted him not to do it that night. He could not quite tell why. He said to himself afterwards that "he was sort of onaisy in his mind." He went up therefore at once to his bedroom and was preparing to go to rest when he saw something very peculiar and uncanny. It was no less than a streak of light, thin and like a shaft, which penetrated up through the beams of the roof of the stable and entered his room.
"May the Almighty presarve us," muttered the man. "Is it the pixies are about or what?"
He had not begun to undress. In a moment he had rushed down his step-ladder, and, going to the stable-door, unlocked it. Yes, he was in time—but only just in time. He saw a sight which he never forgot as long as he lived. He saw a girl with flaxen hair lit up to a very pale gold by means of the lantern. She was hastily uncorking a bottle of laudanum. She was so absorbed in her task, so muchafraid of being interrupted and of not getting the deed done before Fly-away had finished his mash that a reckless spirit came over her.
She could not possibly wait to drop the laudanum into the mash, for the horse was eating rapidly and hungrily. Laying her dark lantern on the ground, she rushed into the loose box and dashed what she considered would be sixteen drops but what was in reality much more like three times that number, into the mash. Then with her dainty finger she stirred it round and round.
The horse, interrupted in his feed for the moment, was beginning to resume it when, like a flash, Garry took the basin that contained the hot mash, and put it outside on the cobble-stones, taking care, however, not to spill its contents. He then secured the girl's hand, the bottle of laudanum, which was really almost empty, and the dark lantern, and saying: "You come along o' me this minute!" he dragged the reluctant, terrified Daisy out of the place.
"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it!" she began to sob. "I was only going to give him a few drops. I wouldn't kill him for the world, nor would Henny. I wouldn't indeed! Oh, please, please, Garry, let me off; he hasn't touched one drop."
But Garry, though an Irishman, could on occasion be mute as though he was turned into stone. This was one of those occasions. The Rector hadfinished the "Prisoner of Chillon" and was repeating, as only he knew how,
"Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be.Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!"
"Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be.Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!"
The two children were standing before him spell-bound with the ecstasy which his recitations of poetry always gave them. Suddenly in the brightly-lighted room there appeared Garry the groom, accompanied by a shrunken-up sort of girl, who was too much afraid to speak or look at any one. She would have rushed to the Rector for refuge, calling him father, dear father, but Garry had clutched her by her shoulder.
"You stay here," he said. "I ha' got a story to tell. We near lost the horse; but for the Providence above, we'd ha' done it!"
"What horse?" said Maureen, turning ghastly.
"Your horse, miss—dear, darlin' Fly-away! I don't know what was over me. I took him his mash as usual, and he began to gobble it up hungry as ye plaze, and his coat never looked blacker or more like satin. Well, to be sure, I was satisfied enough with him, and I locked the stable-door as usual. But it was the Holy Vargin I think—I do believe it was—for I meant to go as usual to have a bit of a gossip with Pegeen and Burke, but somehow, your Riverence and Miss Maureen, I felt mighty quare, and sort ofonaisyin me mind, so I went up to bed; and myroom is just over the horse's loose box, as ye know, sir. Well, that room was made somewhat in a hurry when the Colonel gave the horse to Miss Maureen, and the planks weren't to say rightly jined—that is, on the floor, I mean, y'Riverence—and what should I see when about to lay meself on me bed, but a sthrake of light, sharp and clear and werry narrer coming up direct from below. Me heart it leeped into me mouth, and I was down in no time at all, and I unlocked the door, and the sight that met me—— Oh, may I never see a worse! There was this colleen pouring something out of a bottle into the mash, and the horse he was just bending his head to go on with his supper, and she, with her delicate fingers stirrin' the stuff round and round in the mash. It war then I cotched hold of her. First I lifted the mash and put it outside, and here's what she was giving to the horse, y'Riverence. She can't go for to deny it, for she did it herself. She had a dark lantern—one that belongs to the place, y'Riverence. Oh, my word, but I have saved my beauty, and don't you fret, colleen asthore, for I'll get a fresh mash in a clean dish and lay meself down alongside o' Fly-away for the whole of this blessed night. Good evening to you, sir. Good evening, colleen asthore. Masther Dominic, perhaps I might have a word with yez."
Dominic followed the honest fellow out of the room.
"Garry," he said, "is it possible she could be so wicked?"
"I tol't what I seen," said Garry. "I can't tel't no more. Oh, my word, my word. I'm all trimbling-like!"
"Garry, you are a right down splendid fellow. I'm going to give you a hot tumbler of punch, for well you deserve it. The horse is safe now."
"I left the bottle with the masther," continued Garry. "I wonder what was in it, that I do."
But the master and Maureen had read the words on the bottle: "Laudanum.POISON.Not to be taken internally."
Daisy stood sobbing before them. In her fright and Garry's sudden appearance she had emptied the greater part of the bottle into the mash. There was very little of it left.
"Maureen, my darling, will you go to bed?" said her uncle.
"Must I?" said Maureen.
"I would rather, dearest. I will come to you presently to your room. Your horse is safe, thanks to that good Garry."
The child went away, but she had a queer new sort of look on her face, a look she had never worn before, that no one had ever seen on the sweet face of Maureen. As she passed Daisy, she stopped for a minute, and forced the girl's small, terrified eyes to look at her.
"Do you know," said Maureen, "that for the firsttime in all my life I understand whathatredis? I—HATE—YOU!"
She left the room without another word. Daisy shivered. In the moment of getting her desire—for had she not longed for Maureen to hate her?—she found it like ashes, and worse than ashes, in her mouth. She still stood in front of the Rector with her eyes down, her freckled, colourless face very pale, only the freckles stood out and made a sort of ghastly relief to the awful pallor.
"Daisy, come here!" said the Rector.
Daisy approached very timidly, one step at a time. She walked delicately, as Agag of old.
"Daisy, will you explain this to me?"
"Will you listen to me, father?"
"Yes, I am here. I am prepared to listen. But first, I have something to say before you begin your story. I do not wish you or Henrietta ever again to call mefather. I amnotyour father. Your father was a different sort of man. I married your mother, but during her lifetime I never once saw you. You came here, you and Henrietta, and turned this happy home into Bedlam. You shall address me, whenever you have occasion to in the future, asMisterO'Brien. You understand?"
"Ye-es.Shesaid she hated me, and shelooked—oh, how she looked!"
"Can you wonder? Aren't you amazed at her forbearance? Do you know that this is laudanum?"
He held up the little bottle.
"I happened to see a bottle of laudanum in my room a few days ago and meant to throw it away. My wife, your poor mother, often suffered from rheumatic pains and she used to like to rub the affected parts with a strong opiate. I did not approve the plan. Now please tell me how you came by this bottle."
"I went into your room when you were out and stole it."
"Then you deliberately meant to kill Maureen's lovely horse, that creature of life and fire? Could you do it, could you?"
"I did not mean to kill him. Henrietta was in the plan, too, and she—she said the horse mustn't be killed. I only meant to make him very, very sick."
"But why?"
"Because I hated Maureen."
"Ah, well," said Mr. O'Brien, "you have spoken the truth at last. Now understand me clearly—understand me fully. You and your sister go with me to-morrow to Jane Faithful's. I will arrange with her—I will tell her exactly what you are both like. Your sister is bad, but you are fifty times worse. You and Henrietta and I will leave for Jane Faithful's school by an early train to-morrow. You hated Maureen, the gentlest, the sweetest little girl in the world. Why have you been so cruel to her? Has she not tried by every power, every endeavour to love you—to be good to you; and yet you deliberately turned her young life into a living hell. Youtried to ruin her piano. Did she answer you back? No. She only did what she could to have the noble instrument preserved. She asked Colonel Herbert to take care of it for the present. He asked in astonishment for her reason, but she would not give him any. Yes—you hated Maureen—you have said the words. You said also that you did not mean to kill the horse, but you put enough laudanum into his mash to kill several horses. Your word therefore goes for nothing.
"Perhaps you understand now whathatredtoyoufeels like. I can well imagine that Maureen's hatred, when at last it is aroused, will be a very terrible thing; something like the hatred of an angry God. Come up with me at once to your room and your sister's room. I shall ask her if she was aware of what you were about to do. I think she will tell me the truth. Afterwards I will lock you both up in your bedroom. Your breakfast will be sent to you at an early hour. You had better pack to-night. You will both stay in that room until I myself come to fetch you in the morning. I will send Jane Faithful a wire to expect us. Come, Daisy—no screaming, please. Come at once."
The Rector hardly touched the little cold hand, but the miserable girl followed him as meek as a mouse.
When they reached the dismal, untidy room Mr. O'Brien put his question to Henrietta. She repliedthat she knew all about it, but had implored Daisy not to use enough of the medicine to kill the horse.
"That is enough," said the Rector. He locked the door and went away.
The two girls were locked into the ugly north bedroom, and then and there Daisy screamed and shrieked to her heart's delight, and Henny-penny bent over her and finally dashed cold water on her head, and so brought her to her senses.
"You little fool," she said. "Iknewyou'd make mischief. A nice time we have before us. Well, at least we can run away."
"Yes, we can run away. Oh, Henny, love me! It was awful whenshesaid she hated me. She said it with such strange, strong power. Oh, Henny, I'm afraid of her now."
"Get into bed, gosling, and I'll lie down by your side. No, I don't quite hate you, but I think you are a poor sort. We can run away from that female, who I imagine keeps a school; but for the time being we must pretend to submit."
Meanwhile, the Rector went down to Maureen. She was standing icy-cold by her window. She had not attempted to undress. There was the same strange new look in her eyes.
"I don't want to hear the story, uncle," she said. "I'm too wicked, wicked. Ihate—Ihate—Ihate!"
"My child—my darling. Come and get into my arms."
"No, I couldn't—I couldn't, not while I feel asI do now. Oh, Uncle Pat, Satan got into me when I said IHATE, and he's in me still."
The Rector saw that the child was terribly excited. He himself helped her to undress and made her lie down in her little bed, and gave her a certain soothing draught which he knew would be good for her and would make her sleep and forget her troubles.
All the time while she was dropping to sleep the Rector was holding her hand, and all that long time he prayed very hard. He prayed that the evil spirit might leave the sweetest nature in the world and that the good spirit of all perfection might return.
At last the child slept, and then Mr. O'Brien went and had a long talk with Dominic. He told him what his plans were, and put Maureen into his care whilst he was absent. He suggested that the Colonel and the Doctor might be sent for if necessary.
"She has got a frightful shock," he said; "a frightful shock."
"I'll manage her, dad," said Dominic; but the first streaks of the summer morning were illuminating the sky before the boy and his father lay down to sleep.
The long journey from the south of Ireland to the old-fashioned, old-world town of Lutterworth, in the midland counties of England, took some time. Lutterworth is renowned for its memories of the great Wyclif, where his church, his Bible, and many other relics of his time are still to be found. The town stands on a slope, but the church, the rectory, the well-known grammar school stand on a vast plain, where the freshest of all fresh air blows and where health is the order of the hour.
But what ailed the Rector of Templemore? It seemed as though a force was driving him. He had heard of course of the school where he meant to take his step-daughters. He had heard of its excellent qualities; he had even more than once met that most splendid woman, Jane Faithful.
The crossing was a rough one and the girls knew at last what seasickness meant. They were glad, however, to go to school, for they had enjoyed themselves in their wild fashion in the school on the outskirts of Dublin which had been selected for them by their mother.
Henrietta and Daisy now supposed that they were going to a like establishment. They little guessed what lay before them. They were crossing over to cold England, a country their mother hated, and which they could not be expected to love. They expected great sympathy when they were seasick, but they only received the ordinary care of the much-tried stewardess.
At last they arrived at Fishguard, and the Rector took them at once third-class to London. They would have given the world to stay in London for even one night, but when they suggested this to the Rector, he said in his quiet voice: "We continue our journey to Lutterworth."
It was late in the evening when they reached Lutterworth. A cab had been ordered and was waiting for them, and they drove straight to Mrs. Faithful's house.
They passed the noble old church and the beautiful grammar school, but still they drove on and on, until finally they turned into a country lane and stopped before a neatly kept wooden gate. Here the driver got down, opened the gate, and fastened it back carefully; then the Rector and the two girls found themselves driving up the long and winding avenue.
Although it was now the middle of summer, neither Henrietta nor Daisy could see much of where they were coming to. The house, the Rector told them, was called Felicity. It was decidedly old-fashioned, and was built of stone. It had many littlewindows with small panes of glass. There was a great bell at the front door. The Rector pulled the bell.
"This is my friend's house, and your future home," he said, turning gravely to his step-daughters. "Mrs. Faithful is not only my friend but my cousin. Ah, Jane, you have opened the door for me yourself! I have brought the girls. Have you any one who can look after them and give them supper. I have a great deal to talk over with you, my dear Jane."
"What a horrid old maid of a creature!" muttered Daisy.
Mrs. Faithful pursed up her mouth, but did not utter a syllable. She fixed her large and really kind eyes, however, in a decidedly uncomfortable manner on the young people.
"I will ring for Dawson," she said. "She will attend to the girls and give them what is necessary. I have had a cosy supper prepared for you, Patrick. You don't look too strong, dear kinsman. Come this way, pray, to the Hall of Refreshment. Ah, here is Dawson! Dawson, give the young ladies their supper, and then take them to the Chamber of Penitence and see them into bed. I observe they have brought their luggage. Dawson, Smith will help you to take the trunks up to the Chamber of Penitence. Good-night, girls, I will see you to-morrow. Now, Patrick, my man, what is the matter with you?"
It was with a sinking heart that Patrick O'Brienfollowed his kinswoman into the Hall of Refreshment. He had too terrible a story to tell. He was also wildly anxious to get back to Maureen. The symptoms of ill-health which had so troubled him were beginning to return under this new strain. Jane Faithful, however, was a woman of few words and mighty deeds. She had not started Felicity for nothing. She had not saved many a rebellious girl for nothing; but her present concern was not for the Misses Mostyn, but for the Rector's sad and sorely troubled face.
She put out a strong, sympathetic hand and touched his.
"Now, kinsman," she said, "you do not utter a word until you are properly refreshed. Here is soup of the very best. Here is a mutton chop which I have specially ordered for you. Here is the last asparagus in my garden, and here is what will do you more good than anything else—a bottle of very old port left to me by my father. Now, eat, man, eat and drink. Afterwards we will go into Confidence next door and you shall tell me your story."
"You always were a strong-minded woman, Jane," said the Rector.
"Yes," replied Jane Faithful. "Now, take your soup."
So the Rector found a sudden sense of support, of support both mental and physical, first in the presence of this brave, good, strong-minded woman, and, second, in the excellent food she provided.
He ate his chop and his asparagus and drank a glass of the excellent port wine.
"Upon my word, Jane," he said, when he had finished, "you do know how to treat a tired man."
"Yes, you are better now. You are staying at Felicity for the night."
"I wish I could; but I must get back to London." "You can't do it, kinsman; there is no train."
"Oh," said the Rector, with a heavy sigh. Suddenly he turned and faced Mrs. Faithful.
"How, may I ask you a question?"
"Certainly. Twenty, if you like."
"Why do you call your rooms by these strange and peculiar names?"
"It is a fashion of my own," was the quiet reply. "I find by long experience that it works well. The idea was first presented to me by one of my dearest friends who keeps a similar school near London; but I assure you, kinsman, we are not unhappy at Felicity. Far, far from that. When once we submit to the rules, which cannot be broken, we feel—both teachers and pupils—a wonderful sense of pleasure, the sort of pleasure, my dear Patrick, which does not belong to this cold earth. Now for you, I have prepared the best bedroom in the house. I call it the Chamber of Peace. The idea was given to me by that noble man, George Macdonald, who kept such a chamber in his lovely Palace at Bordighera. He kept it for the sick and suffering of body, but I keep it for the few I think worthy. Now, come, kinsman,into Confidence. There we can have our talk out."
Mrs. Faithful was dressed in dark grey, very soft in texture. She wore over her head of snow-white hair a little mobcap of finest muslin. She had a bow at her breast of pale, lilac ribbon, while a similar bow reposed on her white cap. The whole effect was most graceful and pretty. The woman herself was not handsome, but there was something marvellously reposeful about her. Her eyes seemed to look through you. Anything approaching to falsehood could not live in the room with Jane Faithful. In short, she was one of the most highly-esteemed characters in the whole of Lutterworth.
She took her kinsman now into the room she called Confidence. She herself took a hard chair, but placed the Rector in an easy one.
"Now, Patrick, begin at once," she said. "Tell your story and get it off your mind, but I had better say frankly and at once that I am not particularly pleased with the appearance of the young people you have just brought here. I presume you hope to place them under my roof?"
"I indeed trust you will take them, Jane," and then the poor Rector began his sorry tale. He left out nothing, he abbreviated nothing, he told the simple truth from beginning to end. Mrs. Faithful was not one to interrupt.
When the Rector had ceased speaking she said, "This is awful, truly awful. What a girl!Whata girl!"
"Yes, Jane, you are right. What a girl! But it is my little Maureen whom I am thinking of."
"Ah," she returned quickly, "I could do with one like Maureen."
The Rector went on to describe Maureen's present state of mind. In doing so, he broke down completely.
"She says, that dear and faithful, loving heart, that the Spirit of God has forsaken her and that something evil and awful has entered into her."
"Send her to me for three months and I will cure her," said Jane Faithful; "poor lamb, poor pretty dear. Why, she woke up to find herself that time."
"But I cannot do without her," said Patrick O'Brien. "She is the light and life of my existence, and Colonel Herbert, a near neighbour, is equally devoted to her, and Denis and Dominic and little Kitty all worship her. I cannot give my darling up."
"Well, I intend to make a bargain with you," said Mrs. Faithful. "I don't want those girls at my school. It will be necessary for me to devote a special governess to them, and even she will not be able to prevent them from contaminating the others. I have forty girls at Felicity at the present moment. The two you have brought make two and forty, and are forty to be injured for the sake of two? It isn't to be done. There is only one person who can really save those miserable girls, and that person is Maureen O'Brien. Send her to me. She has her work cut out for her here. It is with me she ought to be atpresent, helping me with those two. I'll look after her and see that she is not tormented in any way. She shall sleep in the Chamber of Peace and that Chamber ensures good dreams and sweet slumber. I have a special governess, who comes to me occasionally but not always, for luckily I do not require her always. I shall put that choice pair under her jurisdiction. Luckily she happens to be in the house at the present moment. Her name is Joan Pinchin. She is rather old-fashioned and firm as a rock. She is well educated, and will put the Mostyns through their p's and q's. The girls will sleep in Penitence and do their lessons with her in Correction until Maureen arrives. Joan Pinchin will take them out for necessary exercise. She will be by no means cruel to them, but she will be firm, firm as a rock. Now, is it yes or no? If it is no, you'd best take them back with you to-morrow morning, for I can have nothing more to say to them. There, Patrick, take a night to think over it. Your child shall return to you when her work is done. Now for Peace and the Chamber of Dreams, poor, tired, distracted kinsman. The best train in the day leaves Lutterworth at eight in the morning, and I'll have a cab for one or three of you according to what you decide in order to catch that train. The Angel of Peace be with you and give you rest, Patrick O'Brien."
The distracted Rector found himself in one of the sweetest, purest rooms he had ever seen. It was all white; white paper on the walls, a little snow-whitebed, a white wardrobe with a long glass, a white chest of drawers, a white dressing-table, everything white, white as snow. The windows had white blinds to them and were draped with white muslin curtains frilled all round. There was a curious feeling about the room. Try as you would you could not be fretful here. Like Christian in the Pilgrim's Progress, you had to cast your burden outside that door, for you could not take it in. It seemed as though good angels loved to make this white room their home. There were one or two engravings, different pictures of childhood, Reynolds's immortal angels, and a few more, not many, done in pen and ink by well known painters, who had come to celebrity long ago and had given some of the early fruits of their toil to Jane Faithful. All the pictures were either of children or of angels, children in prayer, Fra Angelico's Angels, but there were not many—the walls were mostly bare. On a little table near the bed lay a large Bible, on the dressing-table stood a bowl of white roses, on the dressing-table also was a small exquisitely clean paraffin lamp.
The whiteness and the purity of the room seemed to get into the innermost heart of the Rector. He fell on his knees by the little bed and tears came to his eyes. After a short time, although he had not uttered a word of prayer, he felt strangely, marvellously peaceful, also very sleepy. He undressed andlaid his head on the snowy pillow. Immediately he fell asleep.
In the morning Jane Faithful brought him delicious coffee and home-made rolls to his room.
"I know you have slept well," she said. "I see it in your face. It is a glorious day. See how blue the sky is."
The Rector looked out of one of the windows. Yes, that blue, blue sky was the last perfection to add to the Chamber of Peace.
"Are they to pack their things and go back with you?" asked Jane Faithful.
"No," said the Rector; "but the matter rests with Maureen herself. If you will keep them until you get her decision I will send for them should it be adverse, or send her to you for three months should it be favourable. Don't question me, dear Jane. I am out of the world in this room."
"I never question," replied Jane Faithful. "I knew well the room would do it. Well, be as quick as you can. Let me have the child as soon as possible. It is, believe me, for the saving of souls alive."
The Rector bowed his head and made no further response.
Soon afterwards he was driving away from Felicity and two ugly, raging faces were looking at him out of the small window of Penitence. How they ground their teeth, how they clenched their hands!
"We'll run away, Henny. We can't quite stand this," said Daisy.
"Of course," replied her sister; "but I tell you what it is, old Di, I'm downright afraid of the woman."
"You mean old Faithful," said Daisy.
"Yes, but not only Faithful. The person who brought us in here last night. And what an appalling room this is! All over texts of Scripture. If the room was not so high up, I'd leap from the window, that I would; but if I did, I'd break my neck, like poor mumsie."