I set out, with Barney as my guide; but Barney had stoutly declared that he would go only a part of the way, as he did not want to trust himself anywhere in the neighborhood of the schoolhouse.
"Sure I went to school there for the length of a whole winter," he said; "and the master drove the larnin' into my head. He was a kind man, except when the anger rose on him. But I was afeard of him, and at long last I ran away and hid, and wouldn't go next or nigh him any more."
"You were very foolish," I remarked. "He could have given you an education and prepared you to go to America, if such is your intention."
But Barney was not to be moved in his opinion, and went on beside me in dogged silence till we came to a turn in the road, where he left me, refusing to go a step further.
"You can't miss the road now, ma'am," he declared. "Just push along the way you're goin' till you come to the next turn and then you'll have the schoolhouse foreninst you."
I thanked him and walked on in the path directed, the cool mountain air fanning my cheeks, which were heated by the walk. It was an enchanting scene, and I stopped more than once before reaching that turn in the road described by Barney. There, sheltered to some extent by an overhanging crag, stood the cabin of the "mad schoolmaster," in one ofthe loveliest, as it was one of the wildest, spots in all that beautiful region.
I hesitated but an instant; then, stepping forward, knocked at the door. I opened it, after I had knocked several times without receiving any answer, and entered the cheerless schoolroom. It was quite undisturbed, as though this remarkable man still expected scholars. The rude seats were there, the cracked slates, the table which had served as the master's desk; a map or two still hung upon the wall. A heap of ashes was on the hearth; above it, hanging from a hook, the identical iron pot in which Niall, it was said, had been seen to boil the stones. There was something weird in the scene, and I felt a chill creeping over me. It required all my common-sense to throw off the impression that the rustic opinion of the occupant of the cottage might be, after all, correct.
As I looked around me and waited, the blue sky without became suddenly overclouded. I stepped to the window. A glorious sight met my eyes, but I knew that it meant nothing less than a mountain storm; and here was I in such a place, at a considerable distance from home. Mass after mass of inky-black clouds swept over the mountain, driven by the wind, obscuring the pale blue and gold which had been so lately predominant. The wind, too, began to rise, blowing in gusts which swept over and around the cabin, but mercifully left it unharmed, because of the protection afforded by the high rock. But it rattled the windows and whistled and blew, and finally brought the rain down in a fearful torrent. Flashes of lightning leaped from crag to crag, uniting them by one vast chain. Each was followed by a roar of thunder, re-echoed through the hills.
It was an awful scene, and I trembled with an unknown fear, especially when I felt rather than saw that some onewas close behind me. I turned slowly with that fascination which one feels to behold a dreaded object; and there, quite near me indeed, stood the schoolmaster. I suppose his coming must have been unnoticed in the roar of the tempest. I could not otherwise account for his presence. The strange cloak, or outer garment, which he wore seemed perfectly dry; and I wondered how he could have come in from such rain apparently without getting wet. The smile upon his lips was certainly a mocking one; and as I faced him thus I felt afraid with the same cold, sickly fear. His eyes had in them a gleam which I did not like—of cunning, almost of ferocity.
"You have come," he said, without any previous salutation, "to pry into a mystery; and I tell you you shall not do it. Rather than that you should succeed in the attempt I would hide you away in one of those hills, from which you should never escape."
I strove to speak, but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth; and I could only gaze into those strange, gleaming eyes of his, from which I was afraid to remove my own.
"You have come from America," he said; "perhaps it is to gether. And that you shall never do till my plans are completed."
"To get whom?" I faltered out.
"Whom?" he thundered in a terrible voice, which set me trembling more than ever. "You know whom. You are trying to win Winifred from me—the child of my heart, beautiful as the mountain stream, and wayward as the breeze that stirs its surface."
His face changed and softened and his very voice sunk to one of peculiar sweetness as he spoke of the child. But in an instant again he had resumed his former wildness and harshness of tone and demeanor.
"You are trying to win the child from me," he went on; "to destroy my influence over her, to upset my plans. But you shall not do it—I say you shall not do it!"
He glared into my face as he spoke, with an expression which only too closely resembled that of a wild beast. Words rose to my lips. I hardly knew what I said.
"But are you not a Christian—you are a God-fearing man?"
It was a strange question, and he answered it with a sneer fearful to see.
"God-fearing? I used to be so when I knelt, a gossoon, at my mother's knee; and when, a stripling, I led the village choir. But so I am not now. I have only one god, and that is gold."
He brought out the words with a fearful power, as though he hurled them against something. His voice actually rose above the storm, and he threw back his head as though in defiance of the very heavens.
I shuddered, but I spoke with more courage than I had hitherto done.
"If all that is true," I said, "surely you will see yourself that you are no companion for Winifred."
"No companion for my little lady?" he repeated in surprise, with that same softening of his face and tone I had before remarked. "There you are wrong. I guard her as the rock guards the little flower which grows in its crevice, as the gardener guards a cherished plant, as the miner guards his rarest gem. I teach her to pray, to kneel in church down yonder, to believe, to hope, to love; because all that is her shield and safeguard against the great false world into which she will have to go. Why, Father Owen himself has scarce done more for her on the score of religion. I tell her talesof the saints and holy people who sleep in the soil of Ireland; but all the while I am a sinner—a black sinner—with but one god, whom I worship with all my might, and for whom I slave day and night."
"You can not be what you say if you have done all that for Winifred," I ventured.
"I am what I say!" he cried, turning on me with a snarl. "And so you shall find if you attempt to meddle with me; for I have a secret, and if you were to discover that—" he paused—"I believe I would kill you!"
My fear was growing every instant, till I felt that I must faint away with the force of it; but I stammered out:
"I don't want to meddle with you or to discover your secret; I want to find out if you are a safe companion for Winifred, and if you will help me in a plan I have in view."
"A plan?" he said wildly. "I knew it was so. A plan to take Winifred away, to undo all my work, to thwart the plans which I have had in my mind for years! Beware how you make the attempt—beware, I tell you!"
A sudden inspiration, perhaps from above, came to me, and I said as steadily as possible:
"It would be far better than making all these idle threats to confide in me and tell me as much or as little of your plans as you please. I am a stranger; I have no object in interfering in the affair, except that I am deeply interested in Winifred, and would do anything possible for her good. You love the little girl too, so there is common ground on which to work."
"God knows I do love her!" he cried fervently. "And if I could only believe what you say!"
He looked at me doubtfully—a long, searching look.
"You may believe it," I said, gaining confidence fromhis changed manner. Still, his eyes from under their shaggy brows peered into my face as he asked:
"You never read, perhaps, of the Lagenian mines?"—with a look of cunning crossing his face.
"In the lines of the poet only," I replied, surprised at the sudden change of subject and at the question.
Niall looked at me long and steadily, and my fear of him began to grow less. He had the voice and speech of an educated man—not educated in the sense which was common enough with country schoolmasters in Ireland, who sometimes combined a really wonderful knowledge with rustic simplicity. And he had scarcely a trace of the accent of the country.
"What if I were to take a desperate chance," he said suddenly, "and tell you all, all? I have whispered it to the stars, the hills, the running waters, but never before to human ears except those of my little lady. If you are true and honest, God deal with you accordingly. If you are not, I shall be the instrument of your punishment. I call the thunders to witness that I shall punish you if I have to walk the world over to do so; if I have to follow you by mountain and moor, over the sea and across whole continents."
A terrific flash of lightning almost blinded us as he took this tremendous oath, which terrified me almost as much as though I were really planning the treachery he feared. I covered my eyes with my hands, while crash upon crash of thunder that followed nearly deafened us. Niall sat tranquil and unmoved.
"I love the voice of the storm," he murmured presently. "It is Nature at its grandest—Nature's God commanding, threatening."
When the last echo of the thunder died away he turned back again to the subject of our discourse.
"If I should trust you with my secret," he began again, with that same strange, wild manner which led me to believe that his mind was more or less unhinged, "you will have to swear in presence of the great Jehovah, the God of the thunder, the God of vengeance, that you will not betray it."
"I can not swear," I said firmly; "but I will promise solemnly to keep your secret, if you can assure me that there is nothing in it which would injure any one, or which I should be bound in conscience to declare."
"Oh, you have a conscience!" cried this singular being, with his evil sneer. "Well, so much the better for our bargain, especially if it is a working conscience."
"And you have a conscience too," I declared, almost sternly; "though you may seek to deaden it—that Catholic conscience which is always sure to awaken sooner or later."
He laughed.
"I suppose I have it about me somewhere, and there will be enough of it any way to make me keep an oath." He said this meaningly; adding: "So, before I begin my tale, weigh all the chances. If you are a traitor, go away now: leave Wicklow, leave Ireland, and no harm is done. But stay, work out your treachery, and you shall die by my hand!"
I shuddered, but answered bravely:
"You need fear no treachery on my part—I promise that."
"Then swear," he cried,—"swear!"
"I will not swear," I said; "but I will promise."
"Come out with me," he roared in that voice of his, so terrible when once roused to anger, "and promise in the face of heaven, with the eye of God looking down upon you."
He seemed to tower above me like some great giant, some Titan of the hills; his face dark with resolve, his eyes gleaming, his long hair streaming from under the sugar-loaf hatdown about his shoulders. He seized me by the arm and hurried me to the door.
Hardly knowing what I did, I repeated after him some formula—a promise binding, certainly, as any oath. As I did so, by one of those rare coincidences, the sun burst out over the hills, flooding all the valleys and resting lovingly upon the highest mountain peaks.
"The smile of God is with us," Niall said, his own face transformed by a smile which softened it as the sunshine did the rocks. "And now I shall trust you; and if you be good and true, why, then, we shall work together for the dear little lady, and perhaps you will help me to carry out my plans."
"You must know," Niall began, "that Winifred is a descendant of the proud race which inhabited the castle wherein the child now lives. You are not, I am sure, acquainted with the history of her ancestors, nor shall I tell it. But for a thousand years they have been foremost in war, in minstrelsy, in beauty, in hospitality, in benefactions to the Church and in charity to the poor. Winifred is of that race and—" he paused and drew himself up with some pride—"and so am I."
Suddenly I uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
"I am the uncle of her father. This part of the story she has not learned; but she does know that for years it has been the dream of my life to restore the old castle, to bring back the fallen glories of our race. I, being a younger brother, was debarred from the line of succession. That fact early stirred me into bitterness; the more so as my elder brother, Winifred's grandfather, was of an easy and pleasure-loving temperament. Far from doing anything to improve matters, he seemed to let everything go. I gradually withdrew from all intercourse with my fellow men. I dwelt alone, in a secluded part of the castle, and gave myself up to study. I desired to master the secrets of the universe, and in the course of my studies I learned one thing."
He stopped and looked at me fixedly.
"And that is the secret which I have striven so hard to keep and which I am about to confide to you. But let thatpass for the present. My brother had an only son, and he was a son after my own heart. He seemed to combine in himself all the best qualities of our race. He was daring, generous, impulsive, yet steadfast and enduring. Gifted with great personal beauty, he had rare talents and a most winning manner. On him I built my hopes. He would in some way gain wealth, honor, renown. I thought I had already the key to the first, but I wanted him to win the others by his own efforts. I goaded him into action; I disgusted him with the life of a country gentleman which his father had led—and a poor and obscure one at that."
Niall sighed deeply as he resumed:
"Sometimes, after an interview with me, he would mount his white horse and gallop over the country, to control the agitation which my words had awakened in him. He went away at last to Dublin seeking fame. Every now and then he returned to tell me of his pursuits, and I urged him on more and more. Suddenly his interest began to slacken, and I saw that it had taken another direction. Next thing I heard he was married. His wife was a mere fine lady, though of a worthy stock. But I parted from Roderick in anger. We had a bitter quarrel. In his anger he called the old castle a ruin, laughed at my plans for restoring it, and declared he would never bring his wife there nor permit her to see its ruinous state. After that he went away."
It seemed as if Niall's emotion would at this point prevent him from continuing the story; but he controlled himself by an effort and went on.
"Roderick returned only once, dressed in deep mourning, and bringing with him a child about five years old. That was Winifred. He left her in care of Mrs. Meehan. He promised to come back some day or send for his daughter,but he gave no clue as to his own subsequent movements. I myself believe he went to America. Since then I have seen in the child the hope of our race. She has taken her father's place in my heart."
"But how came she to be ignorant that you were her father's uncle? Surely the neighbors, especially Mrs. Meehan, must have known."
"The neighbors knew nothing. I had lived, as I told you, in retirement, and had been absent, spending many years in the Far East. I had ceased to attend church once youth had passed, and was never seen in public. I vanished out of the memory of all save a few old servants, who dropped off one by one. Mrs. Meehan may suspect something of the truth, but she knows nothing for a certainty."
I smiled, remembering the dark hints the blind woman had thrown out.
"But how, then," I asked, "did you come to be known—"
"As the schoolmaster?" he put in. "I abandoned the castle for purposes of my own. I went to live in this cabin in the hills, and I took pupils—partly to divert attention from my real pursuits, partly to enable me to live."
I waited silently for the conclusion of the strange narrative; but he had fallen into profound thought, and sat staring at the floor, seeming to have forgotten my presence. At last he went on:
"Winifred, as I have said, was regarded by me as the hope of our race. Without revealing to her our relationship, I treated her with the deepest respect, in order to give her some idea of the importance of her position as heiress of an ancient house, which, though obscured for a time, is destined one day to be restored."
As the old man spoke thus, something of his formerexcitement returned, and he stood up, pacing the room, his eyes glowing and his features working convulsively. Now, nothing in the whole affair had more surprised me than the manner in which Niall had passed from a state of almost insane fury into the quiet courtesy of a well-bred man; so I waited till his excitement had once more subsided. Then he sat down again upon the three-cornered stool whence he had arisen, and continued:
"If Roderick be still living, I shall find him one day and restore his child to him. But it must be through me that this restoration is effected; and I must at the same time offer him the means of repairing the old castle and taking up again the life of a country gentleman."
"Have you any reason to think he is living?" I asked.
"Oh, I do not know!" Niall answered mournfully. "For many years he sent remittances and inquired for the child, saying that he would one day claim her. Lately both money and letters have ceased. A rumor reached me—I scarcely know how—that Roderick had married a second wife. Even if that be true, he must have changed indeed if he can forget his own child. I am haunted forever by the fear that he may, after all, be dead; or that, living, he might one day claim Winifred and take her away from Ireland forever. And that I will never permit."
I was half afraid of another outbreak; but it did not come. He went on, in a calm and composed tone of voice:
"I must confess that when I heard you were here—"
"You fancied, perhaps, that I was the second wife?" I said, smiling.
"What I fancied matters little!" he cried, almost brusquely. "But I made up my mind that if you had come here on such a mission, you should return disappointed."
"Now, I may as well admit," I said deliberately, "that I have had thoughts of carrying Winifred away."
He started.
"Not as the result of a preconcerted plan," I hastened to add; "for I never heard of Winifred nor of the castle till I came here, and I could not even now tell you the name of her father. I have heard him spoken of merely as Roderick."
"Roderick O'Byrne," said Niall, fixing his keen eyes upon my face.
It was my turn to start and to color violently, with the sudden recollection.
"So you do, perhaps, know Mr. Roderick O'Byrne, after all?" said the schoolmaster, dryly; and I saw that his former suspicions were revived.
"Know him? Why, yes. But as the father of Winifred—no."
"And where, may I ask, have you met him?"
"In New York city."
He bent eagerly forward.
"Tell me—oh, tell me how long ago was that?"
"Within the last six months."
"Then he is still alive?"
"He was when I sailed from New York," I assented.
Tears which he could not repress forced themselves from the old man's eyes and flowed down his cheeks. They were tears of joy and relief.
"O Roderick!" he murmured; "dear Roderick, son of my heart, you are upon the green earth still, and I feared you had left it for evermore!"
"Moreover," I went on, "you are altogether wrong in supposing he is married again."
"What's that you say?" he cried joyfully. "Living and still a widower?"
"Living and still a widower."
"You are sure of that?"
"Quite sure."
Niall muttered some exclamation in Irish, the meaning of which I did not know; then he turned upon me with a beaming smile.
"You are as the dawn that heralds a bright day, as the sun that peeps from out a dark cloud, as a flower thrusting its head through the snow!"
I sat watching the schoolmaster with real gratification at the pleasure I had given him. Then he asked:
"He never spoke to you of Winifred?"
"Never."
"Nor of Wicklow?"
"Nor of Wicklow."
"He has forgotten Ireland!" cried the old man bitterly. "He has become Americanized, as they all do."
"On the contrary," I observed. "I heard him speak once of Ireland, and in a way I shall never forget."
He looked at me with sudden keenness, even suspicion; and I smiled.
"I know what you are smiling at!" Niall cried, with one of those quick flashes of intelligence which reminded me of Winifred.
"Do you?" I said, laughing outright. "Well, then, I may as well tell you I was smiling at the suspicion I saw in your eyes—smiling at the contrast between my gray hairs and wrinkles and Roderick O'Byrne as I saw him last."
"Yet Roderick is no boy," argued Niall. "Roderick is close to forty."
"He has the secret of perpetual youth," I said, warming at the remembrance. "Winifred has it too; she will never grow old. But now my heart is more than ever in your plans, and I should like to possess your entire confidence,—to know, for instance, how the wealth is to be obtained with which to restore the ancient castle."
"That," said Niall, impressively, "is the secret which hitherto I have shared with no one save Winifred, and which I am about to impart to you. But remember your promise is as solemn, as binding as an oath."
"I remember," I said; "and I tell you once more that no word of your secret shall ever be repeated by me to any one without your express permission. Take my word for it."
Niall stood up and looked all about him, examined the door and the window, went outside and walked around the cabin, tried the chinks in the walls; and when he was quite convinced that no living thing was in the vicinity, he drew a stool near, and, laying his sugar-loaf hat upon the floor, began to pour into my ears a tale which seemed almost magical. His appearance changed, too, as he went on with his narrative. His eyes, alight with enthusiasm, presently took on an expression merely of greed. The craving for gold was written on every line of his face. It was so plain a lesson against avarice that involuntarily I shuddered.
He tossed his hair from his forehead, while his features worked convulsively; and it was only when he left that part of the subject which related to mere gold, and rose once more to the plan he had in view of restoring the old castle, that he brightened up again. Then I saw in him one of those mysterious resemblances which run through a race: a likeness to Roderick—gay, handsome, and comparatively young; a likeness to Winifred herself.
I had a curious feeling of unreality as I sat there and listened. The old man might be Roderick O'Byrne himself after the passage of a score or more of years; the cabin might be an enchanted spot, which would vanish away at touch of a wizard's wand; and these rude chairs and tables might be condemned by the same strange witchery to remain forever inanimate. I had to shake myself to get rid of this feeling which crept over me, and seemed to overpower the sober common-sense, the practical and prosaic wisdom, which seem to spring from the American soil.
I had waited with breathless interest for what Niall might have to say; but he put his whole secret in the opening words of his narrative.
"I am," he began, "a gold-seeker—a hunter for treasure-trove."
"A gold-seeker?" I repeated, amazed and incredulous; though here was the explanation of many mysteries.
"Yes. Here, in these very mountains gold has been found time and time again. There were mines here scarce a hundred years ago; 'tis said that ten thousand pounds' worth of gold was dug up in two months. Ten thousand pounds! Think of it!"
Niall stopped, full of a suppressed emotion, which threatened, I thought, to shake his strong frame to pieces.
"The old minstrels sang of the gold—the yellow gold, the red gold; and, touching the strings of their harps, the bards told the kings of other days of treasure that had been buried—vases, ornaments, trinkets of all sorts—"
"But tell me," I interrupted, "have you found any of these things?"
"I have found these treasures time and again. Some of them are now in the British Museum, and the money for them in my cave at the Phoul-a-Phooka with the other valuables, save those which I gave to my little lady. My storehouse is in the loneliest spot, where the timorous dare not venture, where the wild horse of the legend keeps guard forme. Once I brought my little lady there, and her eyes were so dazzled she covered them with her hands."
I listened as in a dream.
"But gold?" I asked, in an awe-stricken voice. "Have you found—"
"About a hundred ounces," he replied, "of genuine pure gold. But what is a hundred ounces where tons, perhaps, lie buried?"
He sprang up and paced the room, a fever, almost of insanity, glowing on his cheeks and in his eyes. I watched with a new interest this man, who was making the hills and streams of his loved Ireland yield up this treasure.
"It seems like a fairy-tale," I said.
"It is not fairy gold," Niall cried, with a grim smile; "and it has cost me years of slavery. I have guarded the secret with my life. I have spent long, lonely years in this cheerless cabin, haunting the streams by night, washing and rewashing the precious clay in the chill dawn, testing the gold in the fire of yonder hearth, often when the rest of the world was sleeping. Gold has been my idol, my one devotion."
"Do you get the gold in large pieces?"
"In every size, from the tiniest sparkle worth about sixpence to a lump worth several shillings."
"It is wonderful, wonderful!" I could only repeat.
"My studies in the East helped me much in my work," Niall observed; "but indeed for years past the study of precious metals, and how to procure them, has been the one object of my life."
"Even should your secret come to light," I ventured to say, "surely there is enough for every one in the bowels of the earth."
"There may be," Niall cried wildly—"oh, there may be; but no one must know of it till I have got my portion! Besides, as all gold-seekers know, the gold is as uncertain as a fickle woman. Sometimes in a stream there is but a little, or there will be much in one portion of the river's bed and none at all in the other."
"Did Roderick know?" I asked.
"Never. I was but beginning my search when he went away. I would not have told him in any case. He would have wanted to share our good fortune with every one."
"Winifred knows?"
"Yes, she knows. I could trust her with my secret."
He fell into deep abstraction; and I, watching him, could scarcely realize that this quiet, thoughtful man was the same wild being who had terrified me during the storm. It showed me the fearful power of gold over the human heart, and how it was capable of changing an ordinary gentleman of studious habits into the semblance of a wild beast. He roused himself all at once to say:
"You spoke of some plan of yours for the child?"
"My plan for Winifred," I said boldly, though with some inward fear, "was to take her away with me to America, and put her at a convent school, where she should be educated as befits her station in life."
His face grew dark as I spoke, and he flashed upon me one of his old suspicious glances.
"You wanted to take her to America! How am I to know that you are not, after all, an agent sent by Roderick or by some of the mother's people?"
"You have only my word for it," I said, slightly drawing myself up. "I can offer no other proof."
"I suppose it is all right," he replied, with another keenlook and a deep sigh; "if not, then has misfortune indeed overtaken me."
This was said as if to himself; and presently, raising his voice, he asked:
"Pray what do they teach at these convent schools?"
"They teach their pupils to be Christian ladies," I answered warmly.
He was silent again for a moment or two, then he went on:
"I have grounded her in all her studies, and if she continues with me she will be thoroughly well instructed in many branches. But there are some things I can not teach her. I know that all too well."
"And those are precisely what the child would learn at a convent school," I put in eagerly.
"Think for a moment," he exclaimed vehemently, "what such a parting would mean to me! I am old. I might never see her again. Even if I can rely on your good faith once you are out of my sight, I will forever stand in fear of some evil befalling her, some mischance which would upset all my plans."
"I thought you intended to take her to America yourself?" I said.
"Yes; to find her father, and to persuade him to come back with us to his native land."
"But he might refuse."
"That would be unlikely, unless he was married again. In that case, I would bring Winifred back to be lady of the castle."
I sat thoughtful, musing over this plan, which seemed like a dream of romance. But Niall's voice broke in on my musings:
"Should I let the child go with you, it is on condition thatshe does not see Roderick until I give my consent; and should I want her back here in the meantime, she must come."
"She is not to see her father?"
"No, no! She must go direct to the school, and Roderick must not know of her presence there."
"It seems hard!" I murmured.
"Hard! But does he deserve better?" said Niall. "For whatever cause, he has left Winifred to my care and that of Mrs. Meehan all these years."
"That is true," I responded; "and I accept the conditions."
"It will be the saddest moment of my life when I see my little lady depart," Niall exclaimed; and already his face was drawn and haggard and his voice husky at the prospect. "But should my dream be realized, she will acquire the manner, the accomplishments, the graces which our Wicklow hills can not furnish. You are right; she must go."
I was at once touched and astonished at his ready compliance with my wishes. I had feared it might be a tedious task to overcome his objections. But the clear mind of the man had at once perceived the advantages of my plan.
"You see, I am putting entire trust in you. I am confiding Winifred to you. I have already told you my secret."
"You shall never have cause to regret either," I cried warmly. "And as for the conditions, they shall be put down in writing, and Winifred shall be restored to you when and where you desire."
"What will these hills be like without her!" he exclaimed, rising and going to the window.
There was again that wildness in tone and manner as of a mind which had become somewhat unsettled by the strange, wandering life he had led, with its fever of suspense and excitement.
"What will the greensward be like, child of my heart, when your foot no more shall press it? What will the hills be like when your eyes—asthore machree!—shall not look upon them? And the Glen of the Dargle shall have lost its charm when you are not there, its spirit!"
He tossed his arms above his head and rushed wildly from the cabin. I waited for a time; but as he did not return, I slowly followed the homeward path, content with what I had accomplished for one day, but wondering much at the strange revelations which Niall had made.
Before I reached home I suddenly met Winifred. Her face was clouded, and at first she scarcely noticed me.
"What is the matter with Niall?" she asked. "I met him and he would not look at me. I called his name, but he ran away and would not speak."
"He will tell you all in good time," I answered soothingly.
"It is you!" she said, looking at me keenly, with a glance like that of her kinsman. "You have been vexing him: saying something that he did not like."
"We must all have things said to us that we do not like, when it is for our good," I remarked gravely.
"I wish you had never come here! I wish you would go away!" Winifred exclaimed, stamping her little foot till it stuck in the soft earth.
"See, how useless is ill-temper!" I said; for I was rather annoyed by her petulance. "You have spoiled your pretty shoe. And as for going away, when I go, you will go too."
She turned pale, then trembled and stammered out a question or two:
"I—go—with you? Where?"
"All the way to America."
"To America!" said Winifred, in an amazement which seemed blended with fear or emotion of some sort.
"Yes; over the great sea," I went on, "where you will see many new and beautiful things."
"But I don't want to see them!" she replied, with an energy that startled me.
"That is not a nice way to put it, dear," I said gently. "I hope, indeed, you will be a very good girl and give me as little trouble as possible. You will have to leave your wilful ways in the mountains with the sprites."
"Niall will never allow it!" she cried, with childish triumph.
"Niall has just said 'Yes.' So I give you a month to prepare," I declared firmly. I had determined to exert my authority from that moment forward, as it was necessary that I should.
"Niall has said 'Yes'!" she repeated, drawing a sharp breath and speaking as one in a dream. Her lip quivered; two tears shone in her eyes, but she would not let them fall. Turning on me instead, with a curious tone of command, she asked:
"Who are you?"
"A friend."
"An enemy, I think!" said Winifred, and with that she turned sharply away and was soon hidden in the brushwood. But I heard her only a few moments afterward, sobbing aloud and calling, as Niall had done, on Nature:
"I can't leave the hills and the streams and the valleys! I can't leave Wicklow and the Dargle and the castle, and dear Granny and Moira and Barney and Niall! Oh, it would break my heart!"
She sobbed again for a few moments; then her voice rang out defiantly:
"I willnotgo! I will hide in the hills, as the O'Byrnes did in the wars. I will live in a cave like them and not go to that hateful America."
I went back to the inn, resolving to try to win the child over to my ideas as I had done her uncle. I foresaw many difficulties in the way; and as I sat down on the wooden bench outside the door I began to wonder if my idea was, after all, a mistaken one. The air was very fresh and pure after the storm; the verdure of that Emerald Isle, so fondly remembered by its exiled sons and daughters, was rich and glowing after the rain; and the hills were shrouded in a golden haze, darkening into purple near the summit. I sat and listened to a thrush singing in the lilac bush near which I had seen Winifred sitting on the morning of our visit to the castle, till a strange peace stole over me and I lost all my fears.
My next duty was to obtain Granny Meehan's consent to Winifred's departure for America. I found her sitting beside the hearth in her accustomed place, with the cat at her feet. Winifred was absent, and in the outer court was the pleasant sunshine falling over solitude. Only the fowls, so variously named by Winifred, disported themselves before the window.
Mrs. Meehan greeted me cheerfully and cordially, and I saw that no shadow of future events had fallen upon her yet. Our conversation at first was on the usual topics—the fine weather, the prospect of good crops. Then, as it were of a sudden, I remarked:
"Well, Mrs. Meehan, I have seen the schoolmaster."
Granny started, and stared at me in silence for a few moments.
"Where, then, ma'am dear?" she asked uneasily.
"In his own house."
"In the cabin up beyant there?" she cried in amazement. "Tell me was it up there?"
"Yes, in the cabin amongst the hills, on the day of the storm," I answered very calmly.
"The Lord be good to us, ma'am! And what took you to that fearsome place—in such weather, too? Couldn't you have got shelter anywhere else?"
She was quite pale at the thought.
"I went purposely, Mrs. Meehan; for I had made up my mind to ask him for Winifred."
"To ask him for Winifred!" she echoed in astonishment. Then her manner showed something of offence. "It was in my charge the colleen was left," she declared; "and 'tis I, and not Niall of the hill, that has the say about her."
"But I was sure of your consent already," said I, quietly.
"And what made you sure of it, axin' your pardon for the question?"
"Your intelligence, your love for the girl, and your fear of Niall's influence over her."
She seemed mollified, and I went on:
"Your intelligence will show you it is for the best, your love for Winifred will make you wish the best for her, while your fear of Niall—"
"Speak lower, ma'am: he may be in hearin'!" she said anxiously. "He's that strange he does be appearin' when least you expect."
"Well, in any case, I knew you would not oppose her going with me to America."
"To America, is it?" cried the woman, bristling up as fiercely almost as Niall himself. "Oh, then, how am I to know that you're playin' me no tricks—that you haven't been sent to take her away from us?"
"Mrs. Meehan," I said gravely, "I gave you my word as a lady that I knew nothing of her till I came here."
"I ax your pardon!" she said humbly. "But, O ma'am dear, think of America, over the big ocean, and me sittin' here alone among the hills, powerless to go to her if she needs me!"
"She will be taken good care of," I said. "I shall puther in a convent, where she will be thoroughly educated and prepared for the part she has to play in life."
"And will she be goin' away from the old land forever?" she asked, clasping her feeble hand over her heart.
"By no means. It is my hope and wish that she come back here."
"But him you call the schoolmaster will never allow it!" she cried, with something of the same triumph which had appeared in Winifred's face.
"The schoolmaster has already given his consent," I said quietly.
"Given his consent!" repeated the old woman, flushing and paling; and then a great wonder seemed to overcome every other feeling. "You saw him in the cabin 'mongst the hills and you got his consent! But weren't you afeared, ma'am, to go there by yourself?"
"I was somewhat afraid at first," I admitted; "but I felt that for the child's sake it had to be done."
"And you'll take her away from me?" the old woman cried piteously. "How can you, ma'am?"
"Don't you see yourself how much the best thing it is for her?" I urged. "You are afraid of Niall's influence over her; she can not grow up as she is, roaming the hills, with no companions of her own age or rank."
She was silent a long time, and I thought she was praying.
"You are right, ma'am dear," she said tranquilly; "it is for the best, and it seems to be God's holy will. But when must it be?"
"We shall sail from here in August, I think," I answered. "And then I can place her in a convent near New York for the opening term of the school year. If she stays there even two or three years, it will make a great difference. And thenshe will come back to take her place at the castle, if it can be made habitable; or, at all events, in the neighborhood."
"But Miss Winifred's father is in the United States of America?" said the old woman, tremulously.
"Yes: he is in New York. I know him and have spoken to him."
The old woman's face flushed with a joyful, eager flush.
"You know my boy, the pulse of my heart—Roderick?"
"Yes," I answered. "I know him, I may say, well."
A look of trouble suddenly replaced the brightness of Granny Meehan's face.
"Then know too that if Roderick sets his eyes on Miss Winifred, we'll never see her more here in the old land."
There was something indescribably mournful in her tone.
"Himself will take her," she went on; "and who can say that his new wife will give her a mother's love or a mother's care?"
"He has no new wife!" I said—"no wife at all; and perhaps, among us, we can win him back to the old world—to Ireland, to Wicklow."
"Say that again, asthore machree!" cried the old woman,—"that he has no wife at all. Oh, then, sure there's hope for him comin' back!"
"Niall has made it a condition of his consent to Winifred's going," I observed, "that Roderick shall not see his child nor know of her presence in New York till the old man gives the signal."
"The old rap!" cried Granny, with sudden ire. "'Tis like him, the marplot, the—but the Lord forgive me what I'm sayin'! And hasn't he been a father to the little one, with all his queer ways and his strayin' about the hills when others were in their beds?"
"He is altogether devoted to her," I said; "and has a right to make what request he pleases."
"True for you, ma'am—true for you," said Granny. "And my old heart's so full with all you've told me that it seems as if the world was turned the wrong way round. Oh, what a desolate spot this will be when Miss Winifred's gone out of it!"
"Only for a time; and then, if all goes as we hope, think what happiness is in store for every one!"
"I'll try to think of it, ma'am,—indeed and I will," said Granny. "And, sittin' here in the dark alone, I'll be prayin', mornin', noon and night, that all may turn for the best."
"Your prayers will help more than anything else can," I declared; "be sure of that, and keep up your heart. But now I think I'll call upon the priest—Father Owen, I believe?"
"Yes: Father Owen Farley."
"Very well. I shall see him and tell him all about the matter. He may be a help to us, too."
I bade the old woman good-morning and went on my way, feeling that I had quite overcome the opposition of those interested in the girl. I had only to fear now some wilfulness on the part of Winifred herself, and I counted on Father Owen to help me in that direction. I had already discovered that she had a strong, lively faith, the robust piety so common among the children of Ireland, and the respect for priests which seems to come by instinct. I had heard her speak of Father Owen with a reverence beautiful to see in one so young.
As I went on my way to the chapel, the sun, which had been under a cloud, suddenly burst out from a sky of tender, dappled gray. There was a smell of the woods in the air,which a morning shower had brought forth; and a robin was singing as I approached Father Owen's residence. The songster sat on the bough of a tree, his red breast swelling with the melody he sent forth. His bright eye catching sight of me caused him to trill out more bravely than ever, as if to say: "See how this little Irish robin can sing! Did you ever hear a finer song than that?"
I think it was at the same thought Father Owen was laughing as I drew near. He stood in his little garden, a fine, venerable figure, with snow-white hair, worn rather long on his neck. He was about the medium height, thin to emaciation, with wonderfully bright eyes and the smile of a child. He turned at my approach. I introduced myself.
"You will know me best, Father," I observed, "as the lady from America."
"The lady from America?" he said. "I'm glad to meet you. Of course I've seen you in church and at the holy table. This is a real pleasure, though. Come into my little house now, and let me hear something of your wonderful country beyond the sea."
I followed, charmed with his courtesy.
"I was listening to that rogue of a robin," he said, as he led me in; "and I think he knew very well he had an auditor. Birds, I suppose, have their vanity, like the rest of us."
"The same thought occurred to me, Father," I answered. "He did swell out his little throat so, and sent his eye wandering about in search of applause."
"There's a deal of human nature in birds," said the priest, laughing at the quaint conceit; "and in the lower animals as well—every cat and dog among them."
We chatted on from one subject to another, till at last I introduced that which had brought me.
"Father," I began, "I want to talk to you specially about Winifred, the orphan of the castle."
"Winifred!" he said, his face lighting up. "A lovable, charming child, but a bit wayward; pure and bright in spirit as yonder mountain stream, but just as little to be restrained."
"I thought I would like to hear your opinion of a plan I have formed with regard to her."
He bowed his head, with an inimitable courtesy in the gesture, as if to signify his willingness to hear, and fixed his dark eyes upon me.
"My idea is to take her to America and place her for a few years in a convent."
"America," he said thoughtfully, "is very far off; and if she has to live in Ireland, might it not be better to select a convent nearer home?"
Then I went more into details: told him of Roderick and of the possibility of bringing father and child together. His opposition—if opposition it could be called—vanished at once, and he cordially entered into the idea.
"Granny Meehan will certainly consent if we all think it best for the child," he said; "but what of that extraordinary being in the mountains up yonder? What of Niall?"
"He has consented."
"You amaze me!" cried the priest, holding up both hands in astonishment. "Surely it takes you Americans to accomplish anything." Then he added after a pause: "Did he mention his relationship to Winifred, which is a secret from all about here?"
"He did."
"He is a most singular character—a noble one, warped by circumstances," continued the priest, thoughtfully. "Avisionary, a dreamer. Poor Niall! he was a fine lad when I knew him first."
"You knew him when he was young, then?" I inquired.
"Yes, I knew him well. An ardent enthusiastic boy, brave and hopeful and devout. Now—but we need not discuss that. It is as well, perhaps, that the child should be withdrawn from his influence before she is older; though, mind you, his influence over her has hitherto been for the best."
"So I have every reason to think," I assented; "but, as you say, Father, growing older, the girl will require different surroundings."
After that we talked over our plans for the best part of an hour; and the old priest showed me his simple treasures—a crucifix of rarest ivory, so exquisitely carved that I could not refrain from expressing my admiration again and again. This, with a picture or two of rare merit, had come from Rome; and reminded Father Owen, as he said, of seminary days, of walks on the Campagna in the wonderful glow of an Italian sunset, of visits to churches and art galleries. He showed me, too, his books.
"They have supplied to me," he observed, "the place of companionship and of travel. I can travel in their pages around the civilized world; and I love them as so many old friends. In the long nights of winter I have sat here, listening to the mountain storm while I read, or the streams rushing upon their way when the frost set them free."
As he talked thus there was the sound of hasty, rushing feet in the hall, and Winifred burst into the room.
She threw upon the table an immense mass of bloom she had gathered on the banks of the Dargle; then rushed over to her beloved Father Owen, crying:
"O Father Owen, Father Owen! she wants to take me away with her to America, and it will break my heart—I know it will!"
The tears streamed down her cheeks, and she never noticed me in this wild outburst of grief.
"My child, my child," said Father Owen, "do you hear that robin singing outside there? And you, to whom God has given reason, are crying! The little robin sings in the sunshine and is calm in the storm."
"I can't help it, Father—I can't help it! The robin has no heart, but just feathers over his little bones."
Father Owen laughed, and even the girl smiled through her tears.
"Let me see sunshine again on your face," the priest said, "and hear the song on your lips. If you are going to America there's no misfortune in that—is there?"
"No misfortune to leave everything I love and go away with a stranger?"
"Not so great a stranger, Winifred," I ventured, reproachfully. "I thought we were to be friends."
The girl started at sound of my voice and blushed rosy red.
"I didn't know you were here!" she muttered confusedly.
"Well, it doesn't matter, my dear," I replied. "You have shown nothing more than natural feeling at the prospect of parting with the scenes and friends of your childhood. But I want to tell you now in presence of Father Farley that you are free to stay or go. I shall not force you to accompany me; for perhaps, after all, you will be happier here than there."
"Ah, happiness is not the only object of a life!" Father Owen said quickly. "Why, even that little bird yonder has to give up his songs in the sunshine sometimes and go to work. He has to build his nest as a shelter for his family, and he has to find them food."
He paused, looking out of the window at the little workman gaily hopping about as if making repairs in his dwelling, and thus pointing the moral and adorning the tale. When the priest turned round again to look at Winifred, her face was pale but composed, and her tears were dried on the delicate kerchief she drew from the folds of her cloak.
"To my mind it seems clear," said the priest, "that this lady's presence here just now is providential; and that her offer to take you to America is most kind, as it is most advantageous."
Winifred threw at me a glance which was neither so grateful nor so friendly as it might have been; but she looked so charming, her eyes still misty with tears and her curls falling mutinously about her face, that I forgave her on the spot.
"And yet I came here to tell you, Father Owen, that I wouldn't go!" she cried impetuously.
"Oh, did you?" said Father Owen. "Then you came here also to be told that you must go."
"Must!" I echoed. "Oh, no, Father—not that!"
"That and nothing else," insisted the priest. "I shall be sorry indeed to part from my Winifred"—his brown eyes rested on her with infinite kindliness. "I taught her her catechism; I prepared her for her first confession and holy communion, and to be confirmed by the bishop. I have seen her grow up like the flowers on yonder rocks. But she is not a flower: she has a human soul, and she has a destiny to fulfil here in this world. Therefore, when an offer is made to her which will give her every advantage that she now lacks, what are my feelings or Niall's or Granny's or hers?"
Winifred's eyes sought the floor in some confusion, and with a hint of new tears darkening them; for her old friend's words had touched her.
"She thinks, I suppose," he went on, "that because I am a priest I have no heart like the robin out yonder. Why, there is none of the little ones that I teach that do not creep into my heart and never get out, even when they come to be big stalwart men or women grown. But I put my feelings aside and say, 'What is best must be done.' And," continued the priest, "look at Granny! She will be left desolate in her blindness, and yet she bids you go. Poor daft Niall, too, will be a wanderer lonelier than ever without his little companion; but does he complain?"
"O Father Owen," cried Winifred, "I'll do whatever you say! You know I never disobeyed you in my life."
"That's a good child, now!" said the priest. "And I hope I wasn't too cross. Go to my Breviary there and you will find a pretty, bright picture. And here I have—bless me!—some sugar-plums. The ladies from Powerscourt brought them from Dublin and gave them to me for my little friend."
Winifred flew to the Breviary and with a joyful cry brought out a lovely picture of the Sacred Heart. The sugar-plums, however, seemed to choke her, and she put them in her pocket silently.
"When will you start for America?" asked the priest.
"The first week of August, perhaps," I answered; "so that Winifred may be in time for the opening of school."
"Well, then," said Father Owen, "it will be time enough to begin to cry on the 31st of July, Winifred my child; and you have a whole month before then."
Winifred brightened visibly at this; for a month is very long to a child.
"Meantime you will take your kind friend here, this good lady, to see the sights. She must know Wicklow well, at any rate; so that you can talk about it away over there in America. I wish I were going myself to see all the fine churches and schools and institutions that they tell me are there."
"You have never been in America, Father?" I inquired.
"Nor ever will, I'm afraid. My old bones are too stiff for traveling."
"They're not too stiff, though, to climb the mountain in all weathers," I put in. For the landlord had told me how Father Owen, in the stormiest nights of winter and at any hour, would set out, staff in hand. He would climb almost inaccessible heights, where a few straggling families had their cabins, to administer the sick or give consolation in the houses of death.
"And why wouldn't I climb?" he inquired. "Like my friend the robin, I have my work to do; and the worse for me if some of my flock are perched high up. 'Tis the worse for them, too."
I could not but laugh at the drollery of his expression.
"My purse is none of the longest either," he said, "and wouldn't reach near as far as America; and, besides, I'm better at home where my duty is."
This quaint, simple man of God attracted me powerfully, and I could not wonder at the hold he had upon his parishioners.
"Some of my poor people," he went on, "have no other friend than the soggarth; and ifhewent away what would they do at all? Winifred my pet, there's one of the geese just got into the garden. Go and chase it away; and I needn't tell you not to throw stones nor hurt it, as the boys do."
Winifred went off delightedly, and we saw her, with merry peals of laughter, pursuing the obstinate creature round and round the garden. No sooner did she put it out at the gate than it came in at a chink in the wall.
"Weary on it for a goosie!" said the priest; "though, like the rest of the world, it goes where it will do best for itself. But I want to tell you, my dear lady, while the child's away, how glad I am that she is going with you and to a convent. It was God sent you here. The finger of God is tracing out her way, and I'm sure His blessing will rest upon you for your share in the work."
At this moment Winifred, breathless from her chase, entered the room.
"Arrange your posy now, and take it over yourself to the church," said Father Owen; "and maybe I'll come over there by and by to play you something on the organ."
For it was one of Winifred's greatest pleasures to sit in the dim little chapel and listen to the strains of the small organ, which Father Owen touched with a master-hand. So the child, arranging the flowers—primroses chiefly, with theirpale gold contrasting with the green of the leaves—prepared to set out. I, taking leave of the priest, accompanied her, and sat down in a pew while Winifred went into the sacristy for a vase. She came out again and put the flowers at the foot of the Blessed Virgin's altar; then she knelt down just under the sanctuary lamp, and I saw her childish face working with the intensity of her prayer.
Presently we heard Father Owen coming in with Barney, who was to blow the organ for him. The brightness of the day was giving place to the shadows of the afternoon, and the colors were fading gradually from the stained windows. Only the light of the sanctuary lamp gleamed out in the dusk. The priest touched the keys lightly at first; then he began to play, with exquisite finish, some of the simple hymns to the Blessed Virgin which we had known since our childhood. "Hail Virgin, dearest Mary, our lovely Queen of May!" "On this day, O beautiful Mother!" "Oh, blest fore'er the Mother and Virgin full of grace," followed each other in quick succession. He passed from these to "Gentle Star of Ocean!" and finally to "Lead, Kindly Light."
The notes fell true and pure with a wonderful force and sweetness, which produced a singular effect. It seemed as if every word were being spoken direct to the soul. I felt as if I could have stayed there forever listening; and I was struck with the expression of Winifred's face as she came away from the altar, advancing toward me through the gloom. Her face, upturned to the altar, was aglow with the brightness of the sanctuary lamp.
"Isn't it beautiful?" she whispered.
I assented, and I saw that peace was made between us; for there was the old friendliness in look and tone. But I said, to make assurance doubly sure:
"This is a good place to forgive me, dear, and to think over my plan in its true light."
"You shall forgiveme! I ought to have been glad and grateful," Winifred answered quite humbly.
There was a great sadness in her voice, however; for the sorrows of childhood are very real and very deep, though they do not last.
"Father Owen plays every trouble away into peace," I observed.
"Yes," Winifred replied dreamily.
Then we heard Father Owen coming down from the loft, and we stepped outside, thinking to meet him there and thank him for his music. But instead he went directly into the church, and I returned thither to wait for his coming. I could just discern his figure kneeling on the altar-step, the altar-lamp forming a halo about his venerable head; and I heard his voice repeating over and over again, in accents of intense fervor: "My Jesus, mercy! My Jesus, mercy!" No other prayer only that.
I stole away, more impressed than I had ever been, out into the lovely summer twilight. Winifred's hand was locked in mine as we went.
"I hope," I said before we parted, "that you will soon be very happy over my project—or, at least, very brave."
"I shall try to be very brave," she answered; "and then perhaps I'll be happy. Father Owen says so, anyway."
"He is a wise man and a saint," I answered.
"Oh, yes!" she assented, with pretty enthusiasm. "He is just like St. Patrick himself."
After that she accepted the situation cheerfully, and I never again heard her protest against going to America. Father Owen had won the day.