WHAT THE O'HARAS SAID TO ONE ANOTHER.
The race of human beings who can neither read nor write are fast
vanishing from the face of the civilized earth. They used, however, to
abound in great numbers in old Ireland, and, strange as it may seem,
these so-called uneducated people have proved themselves to be some of
the shrewdest in the world.
For, never reading the books of men, they are always perusing the
greater book of nature. Unacquainted with the art of writing, they
trust absolutely to their memories. The observation, therefore, of the
Irish peasant can scarcely be credited by those who have never come
across him.
Norah had made up her mind that Janet should not be released from the
hiding-place to which she and Pat had spirited her until she made full
confession of her own part in making Bridget unhappy. It is true Norah
had never heard the tale, but she seemed to know as much about it as if
she had been in everybody's confidence, and had even joined the Fancy
Fair Committee, and sat in Mrs. Freeman's schoolroom when Bridget,
under Janet's directions, cribbed her lessons.
If Bridget herself, however, wished Janet to be set free, there was no
help for it.
"You wait here, Miss Biddy," she said; "you needn't go for Miss Janet
May. I'll bring her to you in an hour at the farthest."
"Very well, Norah," said Bridget, "I'll wait for you here."
She sat down as she spoke, under the shelter of a large birch tree,
and, leaning her head against its silver stem, fell into a heavy sleep.
She dreamt in her sleep, and these dreams were so disquieting that she
could not help crying out and moaning heavily. She opened her eyes at
last to see her old father standing by her.
For a moment she could not remember where she was, nor what had
happened. The smile which always filled her eyes when she looked at
her dearly loved father came into them now; a gay word banished the
sorrowful lines from round her lips, and, with a little laugh, she rose
to her feet.
"How ridiculous of me to have gone to sleep in the wood," she exclaimed.
Then memory came back. She flushed first, and then turned deadly pale.
"You are in trouble, alanna," said Squire O'Hara. "I know that by the
look you wore in your sleep; I never saw my colleen wear a face so full
of sorrow before. There's something on your mind, acushla, and you are
afraid to tell your father. Maybe I frightened you a bit in the parlor
just now; if so, my heart's core, you must forgive me. I was taken
aback and put out, and we O'Haras are celebrated for our hasty tempers.
I am not angry now, however: my anger has passed like a morning cloud.
You tell me all that is vexing you, Biddy. Put your arms round me, and
whisper your trouble in my ears, my own colleen."
"And why should a beautiful young lady like that have any throuble,"
exclaimed another voice.
The squire and Bridget both started and turned round. Janet May and
Norah were coming up the little path, and even now stood by their sides.
"Here's the young Englisher lady," said Norah. "She's none the worse
for having spent one night with the Irish folk, and there's no
throuble, now that she has come back; is there, Miss Biddy?"
For one instant Bridget was silent.
Janet came up to her and spoke in a gentle, cheerful tone. "I am so
glad to be back with you, dear," she said. "I dare say you and the
squire were uneasy about me. Well, I had an adventure, and am none the
worse. I'll tell you all about it presently. Norah has something, also,
to say for herself; but she, too, will speak presently. Now I have one
request to make of the squire."
"What is that, my dear?" asked Dennis O'Hara.
"It is that no one shall be punished on my account," said Janet, in
her sweet, low tones. "There was just a little bit of a practical joke
played on me. You Irish are celebrated for practical jokes, are you
not? I came to no harm, and if I don't wish anyone to be punished, I
suppose my wishes are worth considering, as I was the only one who
suffered."
"You are by no means the only one who suffered, Miss May," said the
squire. "Look at Biddy, there. Why is her face so pale, and why are her
eyes so heavy? And as to practical jokes, I never heard that it was
the way of the Irish gentry to practice them upon their visitors. My
dear young lady, I appreciate your kind and generous spirit. It does my
old heart good to see you here safe and unharmed, but you must allow
me to deal with this matter in my own way. I am not thinking of it at
present, however. I want to have a word with my daughter Biddy. Will
you go into the house, Miss May? Biddy and I will follow you presently."
"No, Janet, stay here," said Bridget suddenly.
She threw up her head with something of the free action of a young race
horse, tossed her curly hair back from her broad brow, and looked first
at Janet and then at the squire.
There was something in the expression of her eyes which caused Janet,
as she afterward expressed it, "to shake in her shoes."
"Norah," continued Bridget, "you must stay here too. Now, father, I
will tell you something. I will tell you why your Biddy can never,
never again be the old Bridget you used to know and to love."
"Oh, don't," interrupted Janet. "See how hysterical you are, Bridget.
Don't you think, squire----"
"Hush!" thundered the squire. "Let the colleen speak."
"Father," continued Bridget, "I am a very unhappy girl. I have behaved
badly. I have been wicked; I have been dishonorable and--and deceitful."
"No, no, I don't believe that," said the squire. "Whatever you are,
you are not deceitful." Once again his face turned white, and an angry
light leaped out of his eyes.
"It is true," continued Bridget, "and--and _she_ tempted me--she,
Janet May. I never met anyone like her before. She tempted me; I don't
know with what motive. It isn't right to tell tales of a visitor; but
I--I _can't_ bear things any longer, and I have got so confused in
my mind that I don't know what is right and what is wrong. I don't
wish to excuse myself, but I do not think I'd have done the dreadful
things but for her. I wouldn't have done them, because they never would
have occurred to me. Perhaps that is because I am not clever enough.
I don't want to excuse myself, but she tempted me to do wrong, and I
did wrong, frightfully wrong, and I have been, oh, so miserable! And
Norah here--poor Norah--she guessed at my trouble, and she thought
she'd punish Janet. That's why Janet was away last night. It was very
wrong of Norah, too, but she did it out of love to me. Oh, father,
how miserable I am! Why did you send me to that English school? I can
never, never, _never_ again be your old Biddy; never again, father,
never as long as I live."
Here poor Bridget burst into such convulsive weeping that her words
became inaudible.
Suddenly she felt a pair of arms round her neck, and, looking up, her
lips touched her father's cheek.
"Let me go on," she said; "let me get it over."
"Not until you are better, colleen. There is not the least hurry. Come
down and sit with me in the bower near the Holy Well. We shall have it
all to ourselves."
"But the others," said Bridget--"Janet and Norah?"
"I sent them away. Why should they hear what one O'Hara has to say to
the other?"