THE SQUIRE AND HIS GUESTS.
The great bell clanged out its hospitable boom for supper. Supper
was a great institution at the Castle. It was the meal of the day.
A heterogeneous sort of repast, at which every conceivable eatable,
every available luxury, graced the board. From tea, coffee, and bread
and butter to all sorts of rich and spiced dishes, nothing that the
good-humored Irish cook could produce was absent from the squire's
supper table.
It was the one meal in the day at which he himself ate heartily. The
squire ate enough then to satisfy himself for the greater part of the
twenty-four hours; for, with the exception of a frugal breakfast at
eight in the morning, which consisted of tea, bread and butter, and
two new-laid eggs, he never touched food again until the great evening
meal, which was tea, supper, and dinner in one.
People had easy times at Castle Mahun. There was no stiffness
anywhere. The rule of the house was to go where you pleased, and do
what you liked. Once a visitor there, you might, as far as Squire
O'Hara was concerned, be a visitor for all the rest of your natural
life. Certainly no one would think of hinting at the possibility
of your going. When you did take it into your head to depart, you
would be warmly invited to renew your visit at the first available
opportunity, and the extreme shortness of your stay, even though
that stay had extended to months, would be openly commented upon and
loudly regretted. But, as in each fortress there is one weak spot, and
as in every rule there is the invariable exception, the Squire did
demand one thing from his own family and his visitors alike, and that
was a punctual attendance in the lofty dining hall of the Castle at
suppertime.
Bridget heard the bell twanging and sounding, and knew that the summons
to appear at supper had gone forth. She mopped away her tears with a
richly embroidered cambric handkerchief, stuffed it into her pocket,
looked with a slight passing regret at some muddy marks which Bruin had
made on her silk dress, and prepared to return to the house.
"I wonder, Bruin," she said, "if my eyes show that I have been crying?
What a nuisance if they do. I'd better run down to the Holy Well before
I go into the house, and see if a good bathe will take the redness
away. Come along, Bruin, my dog, come quickly."
Bruin trotted on in front of Bridget. He knew her moods well. He had
comforted her before now in the summerhouse. No one but Bruin knew
what bitter tears she had shed when she was first told she must go to
England to school. Bruin had found her in the summerhouse then, and she
had put her arms round his neck and kissed him, and then she had mopped
her wet eyes and asked him as she did to-night if they showed signs of
weeping, and also as to-night the dog and the girl had repaired to the
Holy Well to wash the traces of tears away.
Bruin went on in front, now trotting quickly, and never once troubling
himself to look back. They soon reached the little well, which was
covered with a small stone archway, under which the water lay dark
and cool. Rare ferns dipped their leaves into the well, and some wild
flowers twined themselves over the arch, which always, summer and
winter, kept the sun from touching the water. It was a lonely spot not
often frequented, for the well had the character of being haunted, and
its waters were only supposed to act as a charm or cure on the O'Hara
family. Bridget, therefore, stepped back with a momentary expression of
surprise when she saw a woman bending down by the well in the act of
filling a small glass bottle with some of its water.
She was a short, stout woman of between fifty and sixty. Her hair was
nearly snow-white; her face was red and much weather-beaten; her small
gray, twinkling eyes were somewhat sunk in her head; her nose was broad
and _retroussé_, her mouth wide, showing splendid white teeth without a
trace of decay about them.
The woman looked up when she heard a footstep approaching. Then, seeing
Bridget, she dashed her glass bottle to the ground, and rushing up to
the young girl, knelt at her feet, and clasped her hands ecstatically
round her knees.
"Oh, Miss Biddy, Miss Biddy!" she exclaimed. "It's the heart-hunger I
have been having for the sake of your purty face. Oh, Miss Biddy, my
colleen, and didn't you miss poor Norah?"
"Of course I did, Norah," said Bridget. "I could not make out where you
were. I asked about you over and over again, and they said you were
away on the hills, sheep-shearing. I did think it was odd, for you
never used to shear the sheep, Norah."
"No," said Norah, "but I was that distraught with grief I thought maybe
it 'ud cool me brain a bit. It's about Pat I'm in throuble, darlin'.
It's all up with the boy and me! We has waited for years and years, and
now there don't seem no chance of our being wedded. He's no better,
Miss Biddy. The boy lies flat out on his back, and there aint no
strength in him. Oh! me boy, me boy, that I thought to wed!"
"And where _is_ Pat, Norah?" said Bridget. "I asked about him, too, and
they said he had been moved up to a house on one of the hills, to get a
little stronger air. I was quite pleased, for I know change of air is
good for people after they get hurt. And why can't you be wed, Norah,
even if Pat is hurt? I should think he'd want a wife to nurse him
very badly now. Why can't you have a wedding while I'm at home, Norah
macree?"
"Oh, me darlin'--light of me eyes that you are--but where's the good
when the boy don't wish it himself? He said to me only yesterday, 'Me
girl,' said he, 'it aint the will of the Vargen that you and me should
wed this year, nor maybe next. We must put it off for a bit longer.'
I'm close on sixty, Miss Bridget, and Pat is sixty-two, and it seems as
if we might settle it now, but he don't see it. He says it was the will
of the Vargen to lay him on his back and that there must be no coorting
nor marrying until he's round on his feet again. I am about tired of
waiting, Miss Bridget; for, though I aint to say old, I aint none so
young nayther."
"But you have a lot of life left in you still, Norah," said Bridget.
"I'll go and talk to Pat to-morrow, and we'll soon put things right. I
was so dreadfully sorry to hear that he was hurt. And did you get my
letter that I wrote to you from school?"
"To be sure, darlin'! and why wouldn't I? and it's framed up in Pat's
cottage now, and we both looks at it after we has said our beads each
night. It was a moighty foine letter, Miss Biddy! Pat and me said that
you was getting a sight of larning at that foreign school."
"And did you get the money I sent you, Norah? I sent you and Pat two
whole pounds in a postal order. I was so glad I had it to give you. Two
pounds means a lot of money to an Irish boy and girl. Weren't you glad
when you saw it, Norah? Didn't it make you and Pat almost forget about
the accident and the pain?"
"Oh, Miss Bridget, alanna!" Norah's deep-set, good-natured, and yet
cunning eyes were raised in almost fear to the young girl's face. "Miss
Bridget, alanna, there worn't never a stiver in the letter. No, as sure
as I'm standing here; not so much as a brass bawbee, let alone gold.
Oh, alanna, someone must have shtole the beautiful money. Oh, to think
of your sending it, and we never to get it; oh, worra, worra me!"
Bridget turned rather pale while Norah was speaking.
"I certainly sent you the money," she said. "Didn't I tell you so in
the letter?"
Norah fumbled with her apron.
"Maybe you did, darlin'," she said evasively.
"But don't you _know_? It was principally to tell you about the money
that I wrote."
"Well, you see, darlin'--truth is best. Nayther Pat nor me can read,
and so we framed the letter, but we don't know what's in it; only we
knew from the foreign mark as it was from that baste of a school, and
that it must be from you."
"I think I must run in to supper now, Norah; there are some visitors
come to the Castle, and I'm awfully late as it is, and father may
be vexed. I'll ride up on Wild Hawk to-morrow to see Pat, and you
had better be there, and we'll find out where that money has got to.
Good-night, Norah; but first tell me what you were doing at the Holy
Well?"
"Don't you be angry with me, Miss Biddy. I thought maybe if I brought
a bottle of the water to Pat, and he didn't know what it was, and he
drank some as if it was ordiner water, that it would act as a love
philter on him, and maybe he'd consint to our being married before many
months is up. For I'm wearying to have the courtship over, and that's
the truth I'm telling ye, Miss Bridget. I am awfully afraid as Pat has
seen me gray hairs, and that they are turning the boy agen me, and that
he'll be looking out for another girl."
"If he does I'll never speak to him again," said Bridget slowly. "You
so faithful and so good! but now I must go in to supper, Norah."
Bridget ran scrambling and panting up to the house. Bruin kept her
company step by step. He entered the large dining hall by her side,
and walked with her to the head of the board, where she sat down in a
vacant chair near her father's side.
"You're late, alanna," he said, turning his fine face slowly toward her
with a courteous and yet reproachful glance.
She did not reply in words, but placed her hand on his knee for a
moment.
The touch brought a smile to his face. He turned to talk to Janet, who,
neatly dressed, and all traces of fatigue removed, was sitting at his
other side.
Lady Kathleen was attending to Sophy's wants at the farther end of the
table; but between them and the squire were several other visitors.
These visitors were now so accustomed to paying long calls at Castle
Mahun that they had come to look upon it as a second home. They were
all Irish, and most of them rather old, and they one and all claimed
relationship with Squire O'Hara. Nobody said much to them, but they ate
heartily of the good viands with which the table was laden, and nodded
and smiled with pleasure when the squire pressed them to eat more.
"Miss Macnamara, I _insist_ on your having another glass of sherry!"
the squire would thunder out; or, "Mr. Jonas O'Hagan, how is your lame
foot this evening? and are you making free with the beef? It is meant
to be eaten, remember; it is meant to be eaten."
Jonas O'Hagan, a very lean old man of close on seventy, would nod back
to the squire, and help himself to junks of the good highly spiced beef
in question. Miss Macnamara would simper and say:
"Well, squire, to _oblige_ you then, I'll have just a _leetle_ drop
more sherry."
The business of eating, however, was too important for the squire to do
much in the way of conversation.
Janet's small-talk--she thought herself an adept at small-talk--was
kindly listened to, but not largely responded to.
Bridget whispered to herself, "I must really tell Janet another day
that father must be left in peace to eat the one meal he really does
eat in the twenty-four hours."
Bridget herself did not speak at all. She scarcely ate anything, but
leaned back against her chair, one hand lying affectionately on Bruin's
head. Anxious and troubled thoughts were filling her young mind. What
had become of the two pounds she had given Janet to put into Norah's
letter?
She felt startled and perplexed. It was an awful thing to harbor bad
feelings toward a visitor. All Bridget's instincts rose up in revolt at
the bare idea. She thought herself a dreadful girl for being obliged to
rush away to the old summerhouse to cry; but bad as that was, what was
it in comparison to the thoughts which now filled her mind? Could it be
possible that Janet, sitting there exactly opposite to her, looking so
neat, so pretty, so tranquil, could have stolen those two sovereigns?
Could the girl who called herself Bridget's friend be a thief?
Oh, no, it was simply impossible.
Bridget had already discovered much meanness in Janet May. Janet, with
her own small hand, had led Bridget O'Hara into crooked paths.
But all that, bad as it was, was nothing--nothing at all in Bridget's
eyes, to the fact that she had stooped to be just a common thief.
"I thought that only very poor and starving people stole," thought the
girl to herself, as she broke off a piece of griddle cake and put it
to her lips. "Oh, I can't--I won't believe it of her. The postal order
must have been put into the letter, and someone must have taken it
out before it reached Pat's hands. Perhaps the postal order is in the
envelope all this time. When I ride over on Wild Hawk to-morrow to see
Pat I'll ask him to show me the envelope. It would be a good plan if I
took Janet with me. I can soon judge by her face whether she stole the
money or not. Of course, if she did steal it, I must speak to her, but
I can't do it on any part of the O'Hara estate. It would be quite too
awful for the hostess to accuse her visitor of theft."
"Biddy, alanna--a penny for your thoughts," said the squire, tapping
his daughter on her cheek.
"They are not worth even a farthing," she replied, coloring, however,
and starting away from his keen glance.
"Then, if our young friends have done their supper, you'll maybe take
them round the place a bit, colleen; they'll like to smell the sweet
evening air, and to---- By the way, are you partial to dogs, Miss May;
we have a few of them to show you if you are?"
"Oh, I like them immensely," said Janet. ("Horrid bores!" she murmured
under her breath.) "I don't know much about them, of course," she
added, raising her seemingly truthful eyes and fixing them on the old
squire. "I had an uncle once; he's dead. I was very fond of him; he had
a deerhound something like that one."
She nodded at Bruin as she spoke.
"Ah," said Mr. O'Hara, interested at once, "then you can appreciate
the noblest sort of dog in the world. Come here, Bruin, my king, and
let me introduce you to this young lady. This is a thoroughbred Irish
deerhound, Miss May; I wouldn't part with him for a hundred pounds in
gold of the realm."
The stately dog, who had been crouching by Bridget's feet, rose slowly
at his master's summons and approached Janet. He sniffed at the small
hand which lay on her knee, evidently did not think much of either it
or its owner, and returned to Biddy's side.
"You won't win Bruin in a hurry," said the squire. "I doubt if he could
take to anyone who hasn't Irish blood; but for all that, although he
won't love you, since I have formally introduced you to each other he'd
rather die than see a hair of your head hurt. You are Bruin's guest
now, and supposing you were in trouble of any sort during your visit
to Castle Mahun, you'd find out the value of being under the dog's
protection."
"Yes," said Janet, suppressing a little yawn. She rose from her seat as
she spoke. "Shall we go out, Biddy?" she said. "Will you take Sophy and
me round the place as your father has so kindly suggested?"
"Certainly," said Bridget; "we'll walk round the lake, and I'll show
you the view from the top of the tower. There'll be a moon to-night,
and that will make a fine silver path on the water. Are you coming too,
Aunt Kathleen?"
"Presently, my love, after I have been round to look at Minerva and the
pups."
The three girls left the hall in each other's company.
Sophy began to give expression to her feelings in little, weak,
half-hysterical bursts of rapture. "Oh, what a delightful place!" she
began, skipping by Bridget's side as she spoke. "This air does revive
one so; and _what_ a view!" clasping her two hands together. "Miss
O'Hara, how you are to be envied--you who live in the midst of this
beauty. Oh, good Heavens, I can't stand all those dogs! I'm awfully
afraid; I really am. Down, down! you _horrid_ thing, you! Oh, please,
save me; please, save me!" Sophy caught violent hold of Bridget's
wrist, shrieked, danced, and dragged her dress away.
About a dozen dogs had suddenly rushed in a fury of ecstasy round the
corner. Some of them had been chained all day, some shut up in their
kennels. All were wild for their evening scamper, and indifferent in
the first intoxication of liberty to the fact of whether they were
caressing friends or strangers. They slobbered with their great mouths
and leaped upon the girls, licking them all over in their joy.
The charge they made was really a severe one, and Sophy may easily have
been forgiven for her want of courage.
Janet, who disliked the invasion of the dogs quite as much as her
sister, favored that young person now with a withering glance; but
Bridget spoke in a kind and reassuring tone.
"I'm so sorry they should have annoyed you," she said; "I might have
known that you weren't accustomed to them. Daddy and I like them
to jump about in this wild fashion, but I might have known that it
wouldn't be pleasant to you. Down, this minute, dogs; I'm ashamed of
you! Down, Mustard; down, Pepper; down, Oscar; down, Wild-Fire. Do you
hear me? I'll use the whip to you if you don't obey."
Bridget's fine voice swelled on the evening breeze. Each dog looked at
her with a cowed and submissive eye; they ceased their raptures, and
hung their drooping heads.
"To heel, every one of you!" she said.
They obeyed, and the girls entered the shady but steep walk which hung
over the lake.