It was not so very long after this occurrence that, led on by the beauty of a moonlight night, I wandered somewhat farther than usual from the inn. The soft radiance of the full moon was streaming down over that exquisite landscape. I stood and gazed at a tiny stream which lay sparkling and shimmering with magical brilliancy; and as I did so I saw, coming through the dark masses of foliage on a mountain path, the same figure which I had before seen in company with Winifred. The man's outline seemed larger and more gaunt than before. I presume this was due to the uncertain, flickering light of the moon through the trees.
An impulse urged me to conceal myself. I slipped into the shadow and watched Niall approach, with a curiosity which was full of awe. His head was up in the air, so that he resembled those magicians of old who read the stars and pretended to discover in them the secrets of the future. It was evident that he was making some calculation; for he stopped from time to time, counting rapidly on his fingers.
He finally advanced close to the edge of the stream and knelt down. He peered into the clear depths so keenly that it seemed as if he were counting the pebbles on the bottom. All the time he muttered to himself, but quite unintelligibly, so that I caught not a word. At one point, where the rivulet was shallow, he felt with both hands very carefully for some time, taking up and throwing down again handfuls of clay or pebbles.
Suddenly he threw up his arms with a strange, triumphant exultation; and, rushing in among the trees, he brought out something which seemed like a crock. He placed it beside the stream; and then, as I still watched and waited, his jubilation gave place to caution. He began to look all about him, stooping and shading his eyes with his hand so that he might better penetrate the gloom, while he turned his head in every direction. I wondered what he would do if he should discover me. The idea was, to say the least, uncomfortable at such a time and in such a place. All around darkness save for the light of the moon; everywhere the intense stillness and solitude of a rustic neighborhood, in which all the world sleeps save those "who steal a few hours from the night." I was alone with this singular being, whose wild, grotesque appearance was enough to frighten any one; and once I thought I saw his burning eyes fixed upon me in my hiding-place.
I scarce dared to breathe, fearing that every moment he would pounce upon me and drag me forth. But it was soon evident that he did not see me. His face lost its watchful look, and he advanced once more toward the moon-whitened stream where he had left his crock. He cast a hasty glance upward and I heardgealach—the Gaelic word for the moon—pass his lips, coupled with that of Winifred; and then he began to take up what seemed like mud from the bed of the stream, filling the crock rapidly.
When this was full, he seized the vessel and disappeared at a fearful rate, as it seemed to me, up the steep path by which he had previously descended. I was conscious of a great relief when I saw him vanish in a turn of the road; for there had been something uncanny even in the huge shadow which he cast behind him, and which brought out the weirdness of his figure and of his garments, as well as of hiswonderful, sugar-loafed hat. I was afraid to come out from my hiding-place for some time, lest he might be looking down upon me from some dark place above.
I went home, with a firm determination to discover, if possible, who was this singular person, what were his pursuits, and whence he had come. I felt that on Winifred's account, at least, I should like to know more of her ill-chosen companion. I was certain that the landlord, though a natural gossip once his tongue was unloosed, would relapse into taciturnity if I strove to make him throw light upon this mysterious subject. My only hope lay in Granny Meehan. She seemed a reasonable and conscientious woman, certainly devoted to the girl. Therefore I would appeal to her to discover if Niall were worthy of her confidence, if his dreamy and unsettled condition of mind made him a suitable companion for Winifred, and if such companionship would not disgust her with the realities of life, prevent her from acquiring a solid education and the training which befitted the station to which I believed her to belong.
I had become deeply interested in the girl, though I had not as yet formed the project, which later developed itself, of taking her with me to America and putting her in one of the celebrated convent schools there. Her condition even then seemed to me a sad and perilous one: her only guardian apparently a blind woman, who, despite her devoted affection, had neither the power nor, perhaps, the will to thwart Winifred in anything. The girl's nature seemed, on the other hand, so rich in promise, so full of an inherent nobility, purity, and poetry, that I said to myself, sighing:
"No other land under the sun could produce such a daughter—one who in such surroundings gleams as a pearl amongst dark waters."
I paid my second visit to the castle, therefore, on the very day after my moonlight glimpse of the mysterious Niall. It was a bright morning, flower-scented and balmy, with that peculiar balminess, that never-to-be-forgotten fragrance of the Irish atmosphere in the May time of the year. I stood still to listen to a wild thrush above me as I neared the castle, and the thrilling sweetness of its notes filled me with something of its own glee. Winifred was in the old courtyard feeding some chickens, gray and speckled and white, with crumbs of oaten bread and a bowlful of grain. She was laughing gaily at their antics and talking to the fowls by name:
"No, Aileen Mor! You're too greedy: you're swallowing everything. Gray Mary, you haven't got anything. Here's a bit for you. No, no, bantam Mike, you can't have any more; let the hens eat something!"
The large speckled fowl that Winifred had first addressed stalked majestically to and fro, snatching from its weaker brethren every available morsel; while the little ones ran in and out, struggling and fighting in the most unseemly manner over the food Winifred let fall.
The child, on seeing me, nodded gaily.
"See," she said, "how they fight for their food! They're worse even than children!" Then she added in her pretty, inquiring way, with the soft modulation peculiar to the district: "I suppose, now, there are a great many fowls in America?"
"Oh, yes!" I replied—"fowls of every sort. I think you will have to come to America some time and see for yourself."
A flush passed over her face, making it rosy red; then she said, with the curiously imperious manner which I had so often before noticed:
"Iamgoing there some time: Ihaveto go."
She turned once more to the chickens, silently this time; and her manner, as plainly as possible, forbade me to question her. No child had ever impressed me in this way before. It was not that she was unchildlike nor what might be called old-fashioned; but she had that about her which was partly the effect, no doubt, of the peculiar deference with which she was treated by the blind woman and by Niall the wanderer.
"I suppose I may see Granny?" I remarked; and she answered:
"Oh, yes! She will be very glad. She is always in there near the hearth."
I was glad that Winifred showed no disposition at the moment to abandon her occupation of feeding the fowls; for I wanted to have at least a few words with good Mrs. Meehan on the subject of Winifred's association with the grotesque personage whom local tradition seemed to invest with unusual if not unholy powers. I passed through the stone passage, and, entering the square room, found the blind woman, as before, in statuesque attitude near the hearth, where on this occasion no fire was burning, its place being filled by an enormous bunch of clover, placed there by Winifred. The blind woman recognized me the moment I spoke.
"You're heartily welcome, ma'am!" said she, smiling; and we went on to exchange a few commonplaces about the weather and so forth.
It was a still day without, and we heard every once in a while the voice of Winifred calling out her commands to the fowls; and presently she was in conversation with some one whom Mrs. Meehan explained to be Moira, their little maid-of-all-work.
"Sure, then, Miss Winifred, we might go the night with Barney to bring home some of the sods of peat. Barney will be havin' the cart out, an' we may as well have the drive," Moira said.
"Yes, I think I will go," said Winifred, "after the May prayers at the chapel. I'm going, when tea's over, to pick a great posy for the Blessed Virgin's altar. But it will be moonlight and we can go after."
"To be sure, we can, miss," assented Moira; adding the information that "Barney got a power of fine fish the day, an' he sold it all at Powerscourt, barrin' one big trout that's for yourself, Miss Winifred. An' the gentry over there gave him two shillin's, but he's puttin' them by to take him to Ameriky."
"Every one has a craze for America," said Winifred's clear voice. "EvenIam going there some day."
"Musha, then, an' I hope you'll take me with you!" cried Moira, coaxingly; "for what would I be doin' at all, at all, without yourself?"
"We'll see when the time comes," declared Winifred. "I might take you—that depends. But you'd better not say anything about it; for perhaps if people got talking we mightn't go at all."
"I'll be as secret as—as the priest himself in the confessional!" promised Moira. "An' that's secret enough. But I can't help wonderin' what it would be like out there?"
"It's a splendid place they say, with mountains and rivers," began Winifred.
"Sure an' we have enough of them ourselves, with no disrespect to them that tould you," said Moira.
"In America they are different," said Winifred, grandly. "And, then, there are great forests—"
Moira scratched her head dubiously.
"With deer and Indians in them."
"I'm afeard of Indians," commented Moira promptly. "I read a terrible story about them once in a book that Father Owen gave me."
"Oh, well, we shan't be very near them if we go!" explained Winifred. "And it would be very fine to see them at a distance."
"I'd rather not see them at all, if it's the same to you, miss," declared the determined Moira.
"The deer, then, and the buffaloes and all the wild animals, and grand cities, with shops full of toys and dresses and beautiful things."
"Oh, it's the cities I'd like to be seein', with shops!" cried Moira. "We'll keep away from the hills and streams, Miss Winifred asthore, havin' them galore in our own country. An' we'll keep away from the forests, for fear it's the wild Indians we'd be comin' across."
Her tone was coaxing, with that wheedling note in it peculiar to her race.
"Oh, it's to the cities I must go!" said Winifred. "But I don't know what a city is like, Moira. I can't make a picture of it to my eye. It is a big place, crowded with people, all hurrying by in a stream; and the shops—"
"I seen a shop once!" exclaimed Moira. "There was things in the window. It was a thread-an'-needle shop, I think."
"There are all kinds in big cities," said Winifred; "and I can't make pictures of them either. But once I remember—I just seem to remember—a strange place. Perhaps it was the street of a city, with shining windows on either side. A gentleman had me by the hand; and presently he put mebefore him on a horse and we galloped away, and I never saw those things again."
I heard these artless confidences of the young girl in the pauses of my own discourse with the blind woman, who heard them, too, and sometimes interrupted our talk with: "D'ye hear that now, ma'am?" or, "The Lord love her, poor innocent!"
But though I smiled and paused for an instant at such moments, I did not allow myself to be turned away from the main object of my visit, and at last I burst boldly into the subject which was occupying my mind.
When I mentioned the strange apparition which I had seen with Winifred on one of those mountain passes overlooking the Glen of the Dargle, I saw that Granny Meehan was troubled and that she strove to avoid the subject.
"Winifred seems very intelligent," I remarked.
"That she does," the old woman assented cordially. "Times there be when I'm afeard she knows too much."
"Too much?" I inquired.
Granny Meehan nodded as she added:
"Some says that it serves me right for lettin' her go to school so long to the mad schoolmaster."
Her voice sank almost to a whisper as she said the last words.
"The mad schoolmaster!" I repeated, feeling that here was no doubt the clue for which I had been so long seeking.
"Whist, ma'am dear! Don't speak that name so loud,—don't, for the love of God!" she interposed eagerly.
"Why, Mrs. Meehan," I said warmly, "you are too sensible and too religious a woman to believe all the nonsense that is talked hereabouts."
The old woman shook her head and hesitated a moment.
"I'm not sayin' that I believe this, that or the other thing," she declared, almost doggedly; "but at the end of life, ma'am dear, we get to know that there are people and things it's best not to meddle with."
"Was that the mad schoolmaster I saw with Winifred?" I asked—lowering my voice, however, in deference to the caution which I felt angrily disposed to call superstition.
"Sure I suppose 'twas himself and no other," declared Mrs. Meehan, with a half sigh. "Miss Winifred has a real heart-love for him; and sometimes it makes me uneasy, because people say he's too knowledgeable to have come honestly by his wisdom. There's no tellin'. But be that as it may, there's no other evil told of the man. He's been like a father to the poor little one and given her all the schoolin' she's had."
"Heisa schoolmaster, then?" I asked.
"To be sure, ma'am, and a mighty fine one entirely; so that for many a year them that wanted their childer to have more book-learnin' than they have themselves, as folks do nowadays, sent their gossoons to him, and the girls as well. And a kind and good master he was, I'm told: never a cross word passin' his lips. And a fine scholar, with a power of learnin' in his head."
"Does he still keep the school?" I inquired further.
"He doesn't, ma'am, more's the pity. But 'twas this way. One began to be afeard of him, sayin' that he wasn't lucky; and another began to be afeard. The word flew from mouth to mouth, till but few enough remained. Then of a sudden he up and told the people that he wasn't goin' to teach no more in the hills of Wicklow; and he closed up his school and off with him for a month or so. He came back again, do you mind? But he never would have no pupils except Miss Winifred. And when the people seen that they tried to get him to take back the school. But it was all of no use: he's that set agin it that Father Owen himself could do nothin' with him."
"But how does he support himself?"
Granny Meehan turned her head this way and that, listening, to be sure that no one was about; then she leaned toward me, seeming to know by instinct where I sat, and began impressively:
"Oh, it's a queer kind of life he's led since then! He still has his cabin up in the Croghans—you may see it any day. Sometimes he's there and sometimes he isn't; but many a tale does be told about his doin's up yonder. There was one that watched him by night, and what do you think he seen?"
I could not imagine, and said so.
"He saw him puttin' stones into an iron pot, like this very one here that hangs on the hob for the potatoes."
I glanced at the utensil mentioned, while she went on with her tale.
"Well, with that the gossoon that was spyin' on him took to his heels and never stopped till he was safe at home; and, of course, the whole countryside knew of it by the mornin'. And, then, the schoolmaster goes wanderin' round in the night when honest folks are in their beds; and kneelin' down, they tell me, by the water side, as if he was prayin' to the moon and stars or to the fishes. Now I ask you if that's fit conduct for a Christian man?"
"He may have his own reasons for all that," I suggested. "Men of learning and science do many strange things."
"I'm afeard it's for no good he's actin' so," said Granny, in a cautious whisper. "Some will have it that he's worshippin' the devil; for how else could he get the gold and silver they say he has? He disappears now and again,—vanishes, as the story is, down into the ground or into some cave of the hills, and comes back with a power of money tobury somewhere; for he never spends it honestly like other folks."
I pondered over the woman's narrative, vainly seeking for an explanation, and finally setting it down to the exaggeration of the simple country people. Parts of it tallied with my own observations; but, of course, I was prepared to accept any other solution of the mystery than that which was popularly given.
"The main thing," I said, "for you to consider is whether or no he is a suitable companion for Winifred. Whatever his pursuits may be, I believe he is of too unsettled and visionary a mind to have a good influence upon the child."
"Some do say, of course, that he's mad," reflected Mrs. Meehan; "and sure he goes by the name of 'the mad schoolmaster.'"
"Such may be the true state of the case," I said musingly; "and it would be all the more reason for preventing his constant association with Winifred."
"Mad he may be," observed Granny Meehan; "though you daren't say that much to Miss Winifred. She ever and always stands up for him. When the scholars were leavin' the school above, she spoke up for the schoolmaster, and didn't spare those that deserted him. So from that day to this he comes here every day of the week to teach her."
"He is still teaching her, then?" I inquired.
"To be sure, he is, ma'am! He tells her that she's never too old for the learnin'—not if she was the age of that old oak there before the door."
Granny Meehan fell into a deep and apparently painful reverie, out of which she roused herself to say, apprehensively lowering her voice to the utmost:
"And, ma'am, what makes me the most anxious of all isthe trinkets he do be givin' her. I'd never have known a word about it, but my hearin'—praise be to God for His goodness!—is mighty sharp, even though I haven't the sight of my eyes; and I heard some words he let fall, and next the sound of metal striking against metal, like the tinkle of a bell."
"And then?" I asked.
"Why, then I taxed Miss Winifred with what was goin' on, and she's as truthful as the day and wouldn't deny nothin'. So she up and told me of the beautiful trinkets of real gold he gave her. And I was vexed enough at it, and bid her throw them in the fire; fearin' mebbe they were fairy gold that would be meltin' away, leavin' ill luck behind."
"What did Winifred say to that?"
"She just fired up and bid me hold my peace, for a wicked old woman—she did indeed, ma'am."
And here Granny Meehan softly wiped away a tear.
"But I know she didn't mean it, the darlin'! And she was that soft and lovin' after that I could have forgiven her far more."
I remembered, while Granny spoke, the dainty, exquisitely wrought bracelet which I had seen displayed upon an oak leaf. But I preferred to keep that knowledge to myself and to hear all that the old woman had to tell. She presently added:
"Well, ma'am, when he comes the next day Winifred up and tells him what she did; and he flies into such a passion that I declare to you I was frightened nearly out of my wits. Such a-ragin' and a-stampin' as went on, for all the world like a storm roarin' through the castle on the wild nights. But Miss Winifred has that power over him that you'd think it was a fairy was in it, layin' spells over him. And shescolded him for his bad temper, just as would myself; and stamped her foot at him. And the next thing I heard him askin' her pardon, quiet as a lamb."
"She's a strange child," I exclaimed.
"And why wouldn't she with the upbringin' she's had?" cried Granny Meehan. "But don't you think now, ma'am dear, that it's enough to make me heart ache with trouble to have the schoolmaster bringin' his trinkets here? How would he come honestly by such things? Not that I believe he steals them, ma'am—it isn't that."
She paused in her perplexity; adding quickly, in the awestruck tone in which the simple people of the remote country districts speak of things which they suppose to be beyond mortal ken:
"Sure, then, ma'am, the only way he could come by them is through the old fellow himself, barrin' he gets them from the 'good people.'"
"But this Niall is a good man, is he not?"
"I never heard ill of him but that I'm tellin' you of," replied Granny Meehan. "Still, we're warned that the devil himself can take on the likeness of an angel of light; and if that's so, what's to hinder old Niall from bein' sold body and soul to the devil?"
"Well, I think we'd better give him the benefit of the doubt," I said. "If he appears to be a good man, let us believe that he is."
"Yes, mebbe you're right," observed Granny Meehan. "And the Lord forgive me for speakin' ill of my neighbors! But it's all out of my anxiety for Miss Winifred. The baubles may come not from the powers of darkness at all, but from the 'good people'; and that would be harmless enough, anyhow."
"In America we have no fairies—or good people, as you call them," I said jestingly.
"They tell me they're scarce enough in Ireland these days," Mrs. Meehan replied gravely. "It's only here among the hills we have them at all, at all."
"I am afraid I should have to see to believe," I said, laughing. "And now, Mrs. Meehan, in all our talk you have not told me who the schoolmaster is."
A deadly paleness overspread the old woman's face, and she sank back into the chair.
"The Lord between us and harm!" she muttered, "don't ask me that,—don't now, asthore!"
"But you know."
"Is itIknow?" she cried. "Is itIwould be pryin' into such things?"
I was more puzzled than ever. There was actual terror in Granny's tone.
"How absurd!" I said, partly vexed. "What mystery can there be which makes you afraid even to hint at it?"
She leaned toward me, her blind eyes rolling in their sockets, her thin lips quivering.
"A hint I'll give you," she said, "to keep you, mebbe, from talkin' foolishly and comin' to harm. He's of the old stock, I believe in my heart, come back to earth, or enchanted here, just to keep an eye on what's goin' on."
I laughed aloud. But she raised her hand in solemn warning.
"Don't for your life—don't make game of things of that sort!"
"Well, putting all that aside," I said, with some impatience, "what is the general opinion of the country people about this man?"
I asked this decisive question, though I had a pretty fair notion of what it might be from the fragmentary hints of my landlord.
"Well, it's good and it's bad," she replied, nodding her head impressively. "Truth to tell, there's so many stories goin' about the schoolmaster that it's hard to know the right from the wrong. There's them, as I was sayin', that declares he's mad, and there's more that'll tell you he's worse. And mind you, ma'am dear, none of them knows about the trinkets I was speakin' of, barrin' Miss Winifred and myself. For she put it on me not to tell; and of course I didn't till the blessed moment when I opened my heart to you, knowin' well that you'd never let a word of what I told you pass your lips."
"I shall keep the secret, of course," I promised; adding: "As to the man's character, the truth probably lies somewhere between the two opinions; but I still think him an unsuitable companion for Winifred, because he is likely to fill her head with all kinds of nonsense."
"It's God's truth you're tellin'," said the old woman. "But Miss Winifred's that fond of him there's no use in talkin' agin him."
There was a touch of bitterness in Granny Meehan's tone. It was evident that this attached nurse resented, in so far as it was in her gentle nature to resent, her young charge's partiality for the mysterious old man.
"And Miss Winifred," she continued, "sweet and all as she is, can be as wilful as the wind. She has known the old man all her life, and he tells her all the queer stories of the mountains and glens and rivers; and he acts toward her as if she were a grand, fine lady—and so she is, for the matter of that; for the child comes of a splendid old stock on both sides."
I sat listening to the old woman, and thought how the strange things she had told and the strange character we were discussing fitted in with the place in which it was being told: the massive stone walls, and the lozenged windows with their metal crossbars; the air of times long past which hung over everything; the blind woman, who might have been sitting there forever in the solitude of her blindness.
"Mebbe, ma'am," said Granny Meehan, breaking a silence which had fallen between us, "if you were to say a word to her—I can tell by the sound of her voice when she names you that she's taken a very great likin' to you—mebbe she'd listen."
"Well, if this Niall has so strong an influence over her as you say, believe me the word of a stranger would do no good. It might possibly do harm in prejudicing her strongly against me. It is better to win her confidence first, if I can. Meanwhile I shall keep my eye upon the schoolmaster and find out all I can concerning him. Of course I shall not be very long in the neighborhood, for I intend returning to America during the summer."
"America is a fine country, they tell me," said Granny Meehan, with a sigh. "And if I had my sight, mebbe it's there I'd be goin' some day, when—" she stopped abruptly, as if afraid to say too much; and then placidly continued: "Glory be to God for all His mercies! it wasn't to be. In His wisdom He seen that blindness was the best thing for me."
A smile, bright and soft as a summer sunset, lighted up her old face as she spoke; but even as I looked at her, with wonder and admiration at her faith, which was sublime in its simplicity, a black shadow fell suddenly upon the window-pane. I did not know what it was at first, and fancied that some great bird, which had built an eyrie in the ruineddonjon, had swooped down to earth in the light of day. I soon perceived my mistake. It was the figure of the schoolmaster which had thus shut out the sunlight, and I imagined there was something menacing in its attitude.
In another instant the figure of the schoolmaster had vanished from the window; and Winifred entered, full of life and youthful spirits, recounting the details of her proposed ramble that evening with Moira and Barney, away to the bog for turf sods.
"Can't you leave it to themselves, Miss Winifred asthore?" said Granny. "Gatherin' peat is no work for you."
"What are these arms for?" cried Winifred, holding out a pair of strong young arms, which suggested health and strength in their every movement. "Am I not good for something as well as Barney and Moira?" Suddenly she changed her tone, running over and laying her soft young cheek against the wrinkled one of her nurse. "Think, Granny," she said, "what the bog will be like with the moon shining down upon it, making all sorts of ghostly shadows; so that after a while we shall just run for our lives; and Barney will whip up his roan horse and bring us home, shivering for fear of ghosts and fairies."
"Winifred," I observed, "you are far too fanciful for this nineteenth century. You will have to come away to America and get rid of all these unreal ideas."
Her face clouded at the mention of America, and she rose from her pretty attitude beside Mrs. Meehan, straight and tall as a willow.
"I told you I was going to America," she said coldly; "but I suppose people have fancies out there just as well as we have, only of a different kind."
There was a touch of shrewdness in this remark which amused me.
"Well, I suppose you're right," I said. "But such things should be fought against everywhere—or, at least, kept in their proper place."
"Fought against!" cried Winifred, with sudden warmth. "And what would the world be without fancies? Just as dull as the bog without the moon."
I felt that in a measure she was right, but I said nothing; and she presently added, in her ordinary tone:
"I think we had better go now to look at the castle. Another day I might not be able to show it to you."
I rose at once to accompany her; and then she added, with a half-petulant, half-playful air:
"I suppose you will only care to see the bare walls. And that won't be much; for it's the fancies that give them beauty."
"Forgive me, Winifred!" I said. "And show me the old walls with your own light upon them—clothed with the tapestry of your own fancy."
Her face brightened and she regarded me with a winsome smile, saying:
"Come, then, and I'll tell you everything; and you may think what you like and say what you like. I won't get cross any more. And if you talk about what you do in America, I will just say in my own mind: 'Oh, I suppose they have the bog without the moonlight out there; and if they are satisfied, it doesn't matter!'"
"She is indeed too old for her years," I thought; "butso charming withal, who could help loving her? Her very wilfulness and what might seem like rudeness in another are redeemed by her voice and manner."
"What if I were to go in Barney's cart and see the bog by moonlight?" I ventured to suggest.
Winifred reflected.
"Barney would not object, I think," she decided. "But it may be best to ask him. He might feel abashed with you; and I know Moira would not speak a word, but just hold down her head and kick her heels together."
"In short, I should be a wet blanket," I went on.
"Ishould like to have you with us," Winifred said. "And, after all, the others might not mind much; so perhaps you had better come."
I laughed at the form of her invitation, but said that I would go.
"Very well," said Winifred; "that is settled. And here we are in the castle."
By this time we had passed through a long stone passage similar to that by which I had entered the room where we had left Granny Meehan; and from that time my interest grew and grew. Some parts of the castle were quite ruinous, so that we dared not enter, and only gazed in silence into gloomy, vault-like rooms, from which the floors were crumbling away. Here owls and bats held nightly revel; and Winifred told me, with bated breath, that there walked ladies of the olden time at midnight or knights with clanking armor. Again we came to halls into which streamed the light of heaven from ruinous roofs.
"We have games of hide-and-seek in some of these rooms," said Winifred, laughing. "Oh, you ought to see Moira and me tearing about here!"
We mounted at last to the donjon and looked down upon the moat, which was grass-grown; and upon the sally-ports in the walls and the battlements, time-stained and covered in places with ivy, the growth of centuries.
"They used to give battle in those days," said Winifred. "Wasn't it fine to mount the flag on this tower and say to invaders that you would die before you gave up the castle?" Her cheek glowed, and she tossed back the curls which were tumbling about her forehead. "And then the trumpets would be sounding down below, and the horses of the knights neighing, their lances shining, their banners waving. Oh, I wish I had lived at that time!"
Her words had called up a vivid picture from the past, and for a moment I stood and let my eyes wander out far over the hills. But Winifred called to me, and, taking my hand, led me down the winding stairs again. After that we went in and out of a succession of apartments, bewildering in their number and size; all bare, lofty, stone-walled and stone-paved. Here and there a faded tapestry still lingered, or a banner fluttered in the breeze which stole in through many a crack and cranny. At each pause which we made my guide was able to tell me some entrancing story, some bit of legendary lore which had all the charm of reality.
"If you know about the Red Branch Knights," said Winifred, "you must have heard of Cuchullin."
"He is the Lancelot of Irish romance," I assented.
"Well, I don't know anything about Lancelot," replied Winifred.
"It doesn't matter for the moment," I said. "Lancelot was a knight of great valor, always doing noble deeds."
"So was Cuchullin!" cried Winifred, eagerly. "Oh, I could tell you wonderful things he did, even as a boy!"
"Tell me one, at any rate," I pleaded.
"Well, I will tell you how he got his name," she began. "He went to the house of the smith who was giving a feast for the great King Conor (Conor was the boy's uncle). The smith had let out a great hound, for the King forgot to tell him that Cuchullin was coming. The boy came and gave battle to the hound and slew him. When the smith found out that his hound was dead he grieved very much, because the dog had tended his flocks and herds. The boy then offered to watch the cattle and guard them till a hound of equal strength could be found. And because of that he was called Cu-Culann, or the dog of the smith. He had to fight both dogs and men in defence of the cattle. But, then, he was a very brave boy; and, oh, it is a fine thing to have courage!"
"And to use it well as that boy did," I put in. "I suppose he grew up to be as good and brave a man."
"Yes, he was a very famous knight. He gained many victories and protected the poor and weak."
I smiled as I watched her fine, mobile face alight with the admiration she felt for that knight of the far-off past.
In the middle of a great room which we entered Winifred stopped abruptly; and when she spoke it was with awe in her voice.
"In this room," she observed, "was quartered for almost a whole winter the great Finn. Do you know who Finn was?"
"Perhaps he is the same as the Fingal of the Scotch," I replied.
"Perhaps so," said Winifred, indifferently; "but I don't know anything about Fingal. This Finn founded an order called the Fianna Eirrinn. He married Grania, 'the golden-haired, the fleet and young' daughter of King Connae, who lived on the Hill of Tara."
It was quaint to hear Winifred telling these legends or bits of ancient history in exactly the same language in which some older person had told them to her. I asked her to explain what kind of an order it was that this legendary hero had founded; and she told me it was a military order of knights who had sworn to defend the kingdom against foreign foes. She added that Finn possessed the gifts of poetry, of healing, and of second-sight—the latter from a fairy into whose palace he had succeeded in thrusting one hand.
"It is really wonderful how you can remember all these old stories!"
"Niall has been telling them to me ever since I was a little child," replied Winifred; "and I remember a great many more. In that hall downstairs which you see from this gallery, the harper sang to a great company about the mines in these hills and the golden treasures buried in the earth—"
She stopped abruptly, as if frightened, looking at me intently. But at the time her words conveyed very little to my mind except the poetic idea.
"In that same great hall down there," said Winifred, "used to be set up 'the caldron of hospitality.' Every one that came was fed. Princes, nobles, minstrels, servants, pilgrims, beggars—each had a place at the big tables which used to be there." She paused and looked down, as if she could see the brilliant scene before her. "In the middle of the room there," she cried, "the chief Conal was warned by the spirit who watches over the castle that he was to die that day. He was very strong and brave and beautiful, and he didn't fear death a bit. He went to meet it; and in a battle, beside King Brian, he was killed by a Dane."
We passed on, pausing at a great chamber, with windows ivy-hung, giving out upon that exquisite scenery which hasmade famous the name of Wicklow. I looked out over the hills, whence a purple mist was lifting, leaving them illumined with a golden haze.
"I like the legend of St. Bridget," Winifred remarked.
"Tell it to me," I said.
"I suppose in America you believe in saints?" said Winifred, with such a look of drollery that I burst out laughing.
"All good Catholics do that," I said, "even if they are Americans."
"Of course this is a legend," Winifred went on; "and Father Owen—my dear Father Owen—told me that not all the legends told of the saints are true; but I think this one is."
"I should like to hear it," I repeated.
"Once St. Bridget was on a journey with some companions, and stopped to ask hospitality of the chief. He was away with his harper, for in old times every great person had a harper. But the chief's sons were at home, and they brought in their guests to the hall and spread out a banquet for them. While they were at table, St. Bridget looked up at the harps and asked the sons to give her some music. They replied: 'Alas! honored lady, our father is away with our harper, and neither my brother nor myself has skill in music. But if you will bless our fingers we will try to please you.' Bridget then touched their fingers with the tips of her own, and when the brothers sat down to the harps they played such music as was never heard. All at once the old chief came in and he stood spellbound at the exquisite music which his sons were bringing from the harp strings. He wondered very much, for they had never played before. But when he saw St. Bridget he understood it all."
"This old castle is full of beautiful legends," I observed.
"Yes," said Winifred. "Niall says he isn't sure that allthese things happened in this castle. He says, perhaps the minstrels or some one collected them from a good many castles and pretended that they all happened here. There are such a lot more I could tell you if there was time, but it is getting dark."
It was true; the dusk was creeping over the hills and down into the valleys, like some spirit of peace, causing all toil to cease and bidding all nature rest.
"If you will promise—oh, promise faithfully!—not to say a word to any one nor to ask too many questions, I will show you something," said Winifred suddenly.
"I suppose I must promise," I said.
And then she led me into a wing of the house which was in astonishingly good repair.
"The rooms here are all furnished," she remarked casually, "because people lived here once."
She did not say who and I did not ask. Finally she opened the door of a small room adjoining the kitchen in which Granny Meehan still sat solitary.
The room into which Winifred led me was a model of neatness. The curtain upon the window, the cover upon the small bureau were of snowy-white; and the counterpane upon the bed was blue-and-white patchwork—a piece of art in its way.
"Granny did it all herself before she got blind," Winifred explained. "It was for my mother; but my mother never came here, and so I got it."
She handed me a chair as she spoke,—a high-backed, stiff wooden one, evidently of rustic manufacture; and, mounting upon another chair, she reached to the top of a rude wardrobe, or press, which stood in the corner. Thence she brought down a deal box, which she placed carefully on the floor, seating herself on a low stool beside it.
"I'll give you three guesses what is in there," she said, looking up at me with her bright smile.
"Your three guesses remind me of Portia's three caskets," I answered.
Winifred shook her head slowly. Evidently her knowledge did not extend to Shakespeare.
"Portia's caskets sound pretty," she remarked; "but I don't know what they are."
"I must tell you that pretty story some time. Her suitors were so many that she declared that only he who chose theright casket should win her. Each suitor had to guess. The first of those caskets was gold—"
"Oh, you knew before!" interrupted the girl.
"Knew what?"
"I don't understand how you could have guessed so quickly."
"But I have guessed nothing," I said. "I only mentioned that the first casket was of gold."
"Oh, I thought you meant to tell me in that way that you knew what was in my box!" Winifred explained.
I stared and she suddenly withdrew the cover. My eyes were almost dazzled.
"There is gold in my box,—real pure gold," said the young girl.
And gold there was, amazing both in quality and quantity.
Winifred saw my astonishment, with innocent triumph.
"Look at that!" she said, detaching from the mass of shining metal a crown, which she held up for my inspection. While I looked she drew forth several other articles, all of peculiar make but of dainty and delicate design, some more richly wrought than others. There were collars, brooches, rings, bracelets,—thin bracelets, such as were worn in the olden days by kings and warriors.
"My dear," I said, "this is wonderful—like some Irish edition of the 'Arabian Nights.' I feel as if I had got into the cave of the Forty Thieves or some such place. Where on earth did those things come from?"
"I can't answer questions," Winifred said; "but I wanted you to see them, they are so beautiful and so very old. Occasionally I take them out to play with them."
"Costly playthings!" I murmured. "And since they are so old, how did they come to be so bright?"
Winifred grew red as she explained:
"Somebody polishes them with stuff to make them bright, but you mustn't ask who."
"But, my dear child, I ought to tell you that I know who has given you these things," I said gravely.
The flush faded from the girl's face, leaving it very pale.
"Ah, I must have betrayed his secret, then!" she cried. "He trusted me and I was false!"
"You have not done so intentionally. I was in the wood one day when you were given a bracelet—"
"Oh, that was the day you fell down! I thought you hadn't seen the bracelet, because you never spoke of it," Winifred said, in such real distress that I was only anxious to comfort her.
"You need not be afraid. Since you trust me so far as to show me these beautiful things, you may also believe that I shall keep the rest of the secret."
"That is different," observed Winifred. "He told me never to tell where I got these things; and now Granny Meehan found out, and you found out too."
"My dear," said I, "there is one thought which occurs to me, and which I must put in words. Bring your stool over and sit near me."
She did so, her dark curls almost resting on my lap.
"My thought is this. How does the person who gives you all these treasures procure them?"
She shook her head.
"You promised not to ask questions!" she exclaimed.
"Nor am I asking any which I expect you to answer," I said quietly. "But are you sure that these ornaments are honestly come by?"
Winifred sprang to her feet, her face crimson as uponthat day when I had made the blunder about Granny's sight.
"For shame!" she cried—"for shame! How could you think of such a thing? Niall, who is so good and who is giving his whole life for one purpose!"
I did feel unaccountably ashamed of myself.
"You must remember that I do not know Niall," I argued.
"Do you think evil of people without even knowing them?" Winifred cried impetuously. "If that's the way they do in America, I don't want to go there, and I won't go there."
"It is the way of the world, as you will find when you are older," I replied somewhat sharply; for I was vexed at being put in the wrong by this child. Having been treated with deference by all about her since her infancy, she knew little of the respect due to those who were older; and only such religious training as she had received from Father Owen, with an innate sense of propriety and a natural courtesy, prevented her from being that most objectionable of beings—a spoiled, selfish child.
I saw that Winifred was already ashamed of her vehemence, and I pointed to the stool at my feet.
"Sit down again, little one," I said, "and let me finish what I have to say; for I think it is my duty to speak out."
She obeyed in silence, and after a brief pause I went on:
"This is how it all appears to me, or would appear to any one of experience. The man Niall seems poor, leads a strange, solitary life, and yet he gives you articles of great value. There is, to say the least of it, a mystery as to how he procures them."
Winifred said not a word, but sat still with downcast eyes.
"And, since I am upon the subject," I added, "I may aswell tell you that he is not, in my opinion, a suitable companion for you."
"Not a suitable companion!" the girl repeated, raising her eyes to my face in astonishment. "Niall, who has taught me nearly everything I know! Why, if it had not been for him I should have been as ignorant as Moira. I love him as if he were my father."
"He has taught you a great deal that is wild and visionary," I argued. "You know nothing of the realities of life. You are content to lead this wandering, aimless existence, when life has real duties, and, as you must find, real cares and sorrows."
This reproach seemed to touch her; for, with one of those strange flashes of intuition, she seemed at once to catch my meaning.
"But how can Niall help that?" she cried. "He has been very kind to me. He told Granny to teach me my prayers, and took me to Father Owen himself, so that I could go to confession and make my first communion; and he spends his whole life working for me. What should I do without him? I have no one else except dear old Granny, and she is blind."
There was something so pathetic in the way all this was said that, almost involuntarily, the tears came into my eyes. I began to realize that the man had done and was doing his best for the child, but his best was not sufficient; and, sitting there beside that heap of now disregarded treasures, I formed the resolve, in spite of all difficulties, to take the child with me to America. She might return later to be the guardian spirit of this old house and to repay Niall and good Granny Meehan for the devotedness with which they had watched over her childhood. But she must first acquire thatknowledge of the world, the real world of her own day, in which she was now so deficient.
There was little reason to doubt from her appearance that she was indeed, as Granny Meehan had said, of a fine old stock. Therefore she must be educated as a lady. I should try, if possible, to solve the mystery concerning her parents; and then I should take her with me to the great country beyond the seas, where the wildest dreams are occasionally realized; and where, at least, there is opportunity for all things. I knew, however, that this would mean diplomacy. If I were to broach the subject to her just then, she would probably refuse to come. I must first win her; and I must gain the confidence of Niall, if that were at all possible. He would understand far better than this child of nature the advantages of a journey to the New World and of a good education there.
"I wish you knew Niall!" Winifred said, with a suddenness which startled me,—it was so like the echo of my own thoughts.
"I wish so too!" I replied fervently.
"But it is very hard. He does not like strangers; and he seems to dislike people from America most of all."
"That is very unfortunate!" I said, laughing.
"Yes," assented Winifred. "Still, he might like some of them very well—if he knew them."
She said this with the utmost simplicity. I did not tell her that I was going to seek Niall's acquaintance; for I feared she might warn him and he might disappear, as was his wont from time to time, or take other means of preventing me from carrying out my purpose. I told her, instead, that I must be going; that I had had a most delightful day and was charmed with her castle and her legends.
"How grand it must have been when it was a real castle," she said; "and when there was an abbey near by, with a church, and the monks singing! It was one of the race who founded that abbey, in thanksgiving for having been saved from great danger."
"Ah, those were the days of faith!" I exclaimed. "And whatever evil the people did they repaired it nobly by penance and by the great monuments they built up."
As we turned to leave the room I asked Winifred:
"Are you going to leave all these valuable things here?"
"Why, of course!" she answered in surprise.
"Can't you ever lock them up?"
Winifred burst out laughing.
"Lock them up!" she said. "Why should I do that?"
"To save them from being stolen."
"As if anything was ever stolen here! I can assure you there isn't a robber in the whole countryside."
"Why, that is as wonderful as your treasures!" I exclaimed, as we went in to where Granny Meehan sat, as usual, placidly by the fire, a great cat purring and rubbing its furry sides against her gown. The animal fixed on me that glance of grave scrutiny with which these feline creatures appear to read one's whole history, past, present and to come; after which she arched her back and lay down near the hearth.
Winifred walked down with me a piece of the way, after I had said farewell to Granny Meehan, who had heard my glowing praises of the castle with flushed cheeks, down which stole a tear or two of pride. When we were parting, Winifred remarked wistfully:
"I think, perhaps, Niall and I are different from any other people. But it's no use trying to change us: we shall always be the same."
It was a lovely night when I set out with the merrymakers to the bog in search of peat. Barney was full of drollery, a typical Irish lad such as I had not seen in Wicklow before; and Moira, though at first fulfilling Winifred's predictions by sitting silently with her heels kicking together where they hung out of the cart, and her head hanging down, after a while awoke to the spirit of fun and frolic that was abroad.
"Ah, then, Danny avick, will you move on!" cried Barney to the horse. "Is it standin' still you'd be, you Tory, and Miss Winifred in the cart and the strange lady from America?"
The horse seemed moved by this adjuration, as well as by a touch of the whip, and trotted along the shining, silent road.
"I should enjoy a run with Moira on this road!" said Winifred.
"Get down, then, and have your run," I answered. "Barney and I will easily keep you in sight."
"You will not mind if I leave you for a little while?" asked Winifred.
"No, indeed, dear. Barney and I will entertain each other."
Barney pulled up the horse.
"Be still, you spalpeen," he cried, "and let Miss Winifred down!"
The horse, nothing loath, stood still.
Winifred leaped lightly to the ground, followed more clumsily by Moira.
"Ah, then, Moira," exclaimed her brother, "will you be all night gettin' out of the cart?"
Moira made no answer. Her red cheeks were aglow with delight at the prospect of escaping for a time from my embarrassing company and having a run along the grass-bordered road.
Winifred stopped a moment or two to pet the horse.
"Poor Danny!" she said. "Barney is always calling you names. But you don't mind; do you, Danny?"
The horse seemed to answer that he did not in the least, rubbing his nose against the child's arm in a gratified way. Then Winifred gave the word, and together the two girls were off, their happy voices coming back to us as we drove leisurely along in the soft, balmy air. They stopped now and again to pick flowers from the hedge or to seek out daisies and wild violets in the fresh grass; while Barney kept up a series of droll remarks,—sometimes addressed to the horse, sometimes to me.
"I hear you're thinking of taking a trip to America, Barney," I remarked.
"True for you, ma'am—between now and Doomsday. I'm afeard it will be that long before I get the passage money together."
"Why should you be so anxious to leave this beautiful country?" I said.
"Why?" exclaimed Barney, casting a shrewd glance at me. "Oh, then, sure it's meself that's had enough of beauty without profit. I want to go where I'll get paid for my work, and be able to hold up my head with a dacent hat upon it."
As he spoke he took off and surveyed his own head-covering, which was of the kind described but too accurately as a caubeen. I could not help laughing at the gleam of humor which shot out of his eyes—good eyes they were, too.
"Oh, you villain of the world, is it straight into the hedge you want to drive the lady from America? What'll she be thinkin' of you at all for an unmannerly beast?"
The animal, being unable to answer these reproaches, shook out his mane again, and resumed his jog-trot till he came up with the two girls, who, out of breath from their exertions, were glad to jump into the cart. And so we drove on till we came at last to the bog. It was a strange, wild scene, with the moon shining over it in broad patches of silver, showing the green turf here and the black ground there, with mounds of earth arising ghost-like, and clamps of turf left drying for use, and the clusters of trees, fragments of old-time forests.
We all got down from the cart, whence Barney produced a slane, or turf-spade. He wanted to cut and leave to dry a bernum of sods, and so set to work without delay. He cut around till the sods were of sufficient depth; then he dug them up, and, turning them over, he left them to dry. He explained to me that they had afterward to be "footed "—that is, made into parcels,—and then put into rickles, which are turf-sods piled upon each other to a certain height; and lastly into clamps, which are tall stacks.
Moira took a turn at the spade, her face growing redder with the exertion. Winifred ran over to her.
"Let me have a turn," she said; "you know I like to dig."
And dig Winifred did, in spite of the protestations of Barney and Moira. The former said to me:
"Och, then, you might as well try to stop the wind from whistlin' through the trees beyant as to stop Miss Winifred when she's set on anything!"
He watched her with a comical look as the girl dug the slane into the earth, cutting with great precision and actually raising two or three sods.
"D'ye see that now?" cried the rustic, with a mingling of admiration and amusement.
"Oh, but you're the wonder of the world, Miss Winifred asthore!" cried Moira. "When it was all I could do to raise the sod meself!"
All three then busied themselves in removing some of the dry turf from the clamp which Barney had previously erected, and in stowing it away in the cart. This done, Winifred said to me:
"Come; and you too, Moira and Barney! There's a fairy ring here and we'll dance about it in the moonlight."
"The blessin' of God between us and harm!" cried the alarmed boy and girl in a breath. "Is it dancin' in a fairy ring you'd be doin'?"
"Yes, there and nowhere else!" she said imperiously. "Come!—the lady and I are waiting for you."
Seeing their reluctance, I had gone forward at once, to show them that a fairy ring was no more to me than a patch of earth where the grass was softer and greener, and which was now whitened by the moon. And dance we did. Though Barney and Moira were afraid of the fairies, they were still more afraid of displeasing Winifred. I stopped at last, holding my sides with merriment and begging of Winifred to let me rest. She threw herself, in a very spirit of mischief, on top of a mound. This proceeding evoked exclamations of horror from Moira and Barney.
"To lie upon a rath!" groaned Moira. "It's bewitched you'll be and turnin' into somethin' before our eyes."
"Or spirited away underground!" added Barney; "or laid under a spell that you'd ever and always be a child."
"I'd like that," remarked Winifred, settling herself more comfortably upon the mound. "I don't want to grow up or be old ever."
She gazed up at the moon, seeming to see in its far-shining kingdom some country of perpetual youth.
"She'd like it! The Lord save us!" cried Barney. "It's wishin' for a fairy spell she is. Come away, Miss Winifred dear,—come away, if you're a Christian at all, and not a fairy as some says."
Moira uttered an exclamation, and, darting over to Barney, dealt him a sounding slap on the ear.
"How dare you talk that way to Miss Winifred!" she cried.
"And how dare you slap Barney for repeating what foolish people say!" broke in Winifred. "I'm ashamed of you, Moira!"
She stood up as she spoke, confronting both the culprits. Barney's face was still red from the slap, as well as from a sense of the enormity he had committed in repeating to Miss Winifred what he supposed had been kept carefully from her. Moira's lip quivered at her young mistress's reproof, and she seemed on the point of crying; but Winifred spoke with exceeding gentleness.
"I'm sorry I was so hasty," she said; "but, you see, Barney spoke only for my good, and you should have had patience with him."
"And I ask your pardon for the words I said," Barney began, in confusion.
"You needn't, Barney," said Winifred. "You only told me what you hear every day." Then, turning to me, she added: "So you won't be surprised when I do anything strange. For, you see, I'm only a fairy, after all; and a mischievous one at times." Her face was all sparkling with smiles, and the very spirit of mischief looked out of her eyes. "I'll be laying spells on you to keep you here."
"I may be weaving a counter one to take you away," I ventured.
She looked a little startled, but went on in the same playful tone, as she turned back again to the bewildered boy and girl:
"I'll be enchanting the pair of you, so that you will be standing stock-still just where you are for a hundred years, staring before you."
At this they both took to their heels with a scream, Winifred in pursuit.
"And I'll turn Danny into a dragon and send him flying home with the turf."
There were muffled exclamations of terror from the flying pair.
"I think I'll make you into a goose, Barney, with a long neck, thrusting yourself into everybody's business; and Moira into a pool where you can swim."
"Och, och! but the child is temptin' Providence!" cried Moira, coming to a stand at some distance off. "Here in this place of all others; and close by the rath where the gentlefolks is listenin' to every word, and she makin' game of them to their faces!"
"Mebbe sheisa fairy, after all!" muttered Barney, under his breath; for he feared a repetition of Moira's prompt chastisement. But this time indeed he was beyond the reach ofher arm, and Moira herself was in a less warlike mood. A sudden shadow, too, fell over the moon, so that we were in darkness. It was a cloud of intense blackness, which fell like a pall on the shining disc.
"See what comes of meddlin' with them you know!" cried Barney, while even Winifred was sobered; and the three crept toward the cart, Barney and Moira shivering with fright. Barney whipped up the unconscious horse, who had much relished his stay upon the bog, and was only urged into activity by the prospect of going home.
"Go now, then, Danny avick!" Barney whispered. "It's not bein' turned into a quare beast of some kind you'd wish to be. Get us away from here before the good people comes up out of the rath; for there's no tellin' what they'd do to us."
"Hear how he talks to the horse!" said Winifred, who was now seated again beside me, her curls dancing with the jolting of the cart. "As if Danny knew anything about the good people!"
"Oh, doesn't he, then, Miss Winifred!" cried Barney. "It's meself has seen him all of atremble from me whisperin' in his ear concernin' them."
"You just imagine it, Barney," said Winifred.
"And is itIimagine it?" exclaimed Barney, aggrieved; while Moira sat in terrified silence, peering from side to side into the darkness as if she expected to see the avenging good people waiting for us along the road. We were nearly at the castle gate before Barney resumed anything of his former spirits and ventured on a joke or two. But Winifred was the merriest of the merry, and kept me laughing immoderately all along the moonlit way, as we jolted and jogged. She insisted that the cart wheels sang a song, and made up rhymesto the musical sounds which she pretended she could hear so plainly.
I often look back to that evening with peculiar pleasure. Winifred was at her best: most childlike, most natural, thoroughly enjoying every moment of the beautiful summer night; so that the doubt came over me whether it was better, after all, to remove her from this idyllic life amongst the Irish hills. The sober common-sense, however, of next morning confirmed me in my previous opinion, and I took the first step toward the realization of that design by seeking an interview with the schoolmaster.