But as they reached _terra firma_ the first bell rang for dinner,
reminding them that it would be useless to go yet to the Red House. Mr.
Plunkett would not be down-stairs till the afternoon.
They had nothing to give Theresa to eat, so Winnie and Bobbo went off
to the garden to get her some apples, while Murtagh and Rosie returned
to the schoolroom. There they found Nessa waiting anxiously for news.
During their absence the wildest reports had come up from the village.
The child's disappearance had naturally caused a great sensation in the
little place. It had been the topic of all conversation for several
days. In many minds it had been vaguely connected with the attempt upon
Mr. Plunkett's life, and if some of the inhabitants of the village
were better informed as to the latter event, there was a very general
impression that "there were terrible things going about."
Cabins were left unswept, dinners uncooked, pigs unfed. The whole
population of the little village turned out into the street, and
wondered, and conjectured, and shook their heads, and had a little
drink at the shop at the corner just to keep up their spirits; till
from one cause or another they had worked themselves into a state
of mind in which accuracy was far from being one of the predominant
qualities.
Rumors and conjectures spread like wild-fire. In vain Mrs. Donegan
and Nessa tried to find out the truth. Some said one thing and some
another, and poor old Donnie so implicitly believed always the worst
account, that Nessa grew thoroughly confused, and felt half-terrified
at the barbarism of a place where every one seemed to think it quite
natural and probable that a little girl should be carried off and
murdered in order to annoy her mother.
"Oh, I am so glad you have come back!" she exclaimed, as Murtagh and
Rosie entered the schoolroom. "Tell me what is true about Mrs. Daly's
little girl. Your countrymen talk so wildly I really cannot understand
them."
"If you can't understand Irishmen you can't understand me," replied
Murtagh, throwing himself into an arm-chair.
His tone was almost rude. Nessa flushed a little, and turning to Rosie
she continued:
"They told us such dreadful stories. They said--they said--the floor of
the hut was covered with blood; but one said one thing and one another
till it was not possible to understand. It is not true, is it? It
cannot be true."
It was too much; Rosie could not bear it. Her only answer was a burst
of tears.
"Oh, _Mon Dieu_!" said Nessa. "Her poor mother! Is it so bad as that?
Is she really dead?"
"No more dead than I am!" exclaimed Murtagh, springing from the chair
and walking impatiently to the window.
Rosie sobbed on, and Nessa, now utterly bewildered, put her arms round
her, and asked soothingly, "What is it that makes you cry?"
Rosie twisted herself out of Nessa's arms and made no answer. Nessa
looked inquiringly towards Murtagh, but he was standing with his back
turned to her, staring out of the window, and almost counting every sob
of Rosie's.
At last he turned and said quietly, "Don't you think you had better go
up-stairs, Rose?"
Without stopping her tears Rosie went slowly out of the room, and they
heard her sobs growing fainter and fainter as she walked away down the
long passage.
"What is it?" asked Nessa, half-timidly, as the sound of the last sob
died away. "Is it something about the little girl, or have you--" She
stopped, fearing to offend Murtagh by suggesting that they might have
quarrelled.
Poor Murtagh was at his wit's end. In despair he turned round to his
cousin with a mute pleading look that said more than words. There were
no tears in his eyes. They were like the eyes of some dumb animal in
pain; they did not ask for help--they seemed only to implore a little
patience. Nessa had never seen a child look like that; she felt as
though she were in the presence of a real trouble.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she exclaimed almost involuntarily, and then
remembering that Murtagh was only a little fellow she put her arms
round his neck and kissed him.
"Don't be so sad," she said.
Murtagh's heart bounded at her kindness. It was nearly five years since
any one had caressed him so. He kissed her warmly back again, tears
that had not been there before springing to his eyes.
The luncheon-bell ringing loudly, they all moved away together to the
dining-room.
Ellie was in high spirits, and Murtagh and Nessa devoted themselves to
the little lady, till towards the middle of dinner Winnie and Bobbo
came in from the garden.
"You are rather late," said Nessa.
"Yes," replied Winnie; "we were getting apples, and Bland nearly
caught us, so we had to run round the long way. He did catch me, but
I wriggled away from him. We brought the apples all safe," she added,
turning to Murtagh.
"All right," said Murtagh, shortly.
Winnie glanced quickly from him to Nessa, and then subsided into
silence.
"I thought you ought not to take the apples," said Nessa.
"No," replied Bobbo, "but we had to; we wanted them."
The children were bad actors. Nessa wondered what was the matter, and
wondered why none of them made the slightest allusion to the event
which had apparently been so deeply interesting to them in the morning.
After luncheon she was standing before the drawing-room fire, when the
door opened and Murtagh ran in. To her surprise he threw his arms round
her and kissed her. Then, blushing a little at what he had done, he
said earnestly:
"You're awfully kind. I'll tell you about everything this evening," and
without waiting for her to answer he ran away again.
Rosie was with them, and having completely recovered from her fit of
crying she was very anxious now to regain her place in Winnie's and
Murtagh's esteem.
All the time that the others had been at dinner she had spent in
thinking. She felt really sorry for having broken down and cried
before Nessa. If Murtagh and Winnie had been angry with her for that,
she could have understood them much better. That did deserve their
contempt. "It was very hard, too," she thought, "just at the end, when
they were going to get the rent and have all the happy part of taking
Theresa home, that she should be separated from them, as it were, and
lose her share in the pleasure." Above all, she could not bear to be
thought cowardly and stupid. She liked people to be fond of her. The
result of her thinking was that she determined to do her best to coax
Mr. Plunkett to give them the rent. "For if I get the rent for them,"
she thought, "then they can't say I didn't do as much for Theresa as
any one."
Consequently she was in one of her very pleasantest humors as she
walked across the park, and Winnie and Murtagh wondered at her as
she talked brightly about what she was going to say to Mr. Plunkett,
sketched little scenes of Mrs. Daly's delight when Theresa was given
back to her, and dwelt pleasantly upon how "jolly" they would all feel
afterwards for having saved Theresa.
But though they wondered, they were certainly cheered, and felt far
bolder when they arrived at the Red House than they had done for some
time past.
"We want to see Mr. Plunkett, please, Biddy," said Rose to the servant,
who was hanging out clothes to dry.
"Faix it's roses at Christmas-time we'll be havin' soon," returned
Biddy, with a good-natured laugh. But the children were in no mood for
joking, so they walked soberly up to the door, while Rose asked what
room he was in.
"Ye're joking, Miss Rose," replied Biddy. "You wouldn't be goin' in to
him in rale earnest. Why, it's like a mad bull in a china shop he is
to-day, with the polis comin' in an' out, and one thing an' another."
"But we must go in," said Murtagh. "We have some business that we must
speak to him about."
"Sure, Mr. Murtagh, honey, is it going to be married ye are, and come
for him to draw out the dockiments?" answered Biddy, laughing outright.
"Stop being a donkey, Biddy," said Winnie, decidedly, "and tell us
where he is."
"Where is he? By St. Patrick, if he was where I'd like him to be, it's
the fardest end o' the pole from Biddy Connolly."
"Shut up your tomfoolery," said Bobbo, impatiently, while Winnie
exclaimed:
"Come along; let us go in without her."
But at that Biddy dropped the wet clothes she held into the basket, and
ran to the doorway.
"Is it mad ye are, Miss Rose? Ye can't go in there. The missus'd be out
upon me in a minnit if I let yez in."
"Do let us in," said Rose, coaxingly. "We've got business."
"I can't, Miss Rose. 'Deed I cannot. You don't know the bother he'd
kick up!"
"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Winnie, pushing past; "we can't help it;
perhaps it'll bother him well again."
And so with a little more insistence, and more expostulations from
Biddy, they made their way to the parlor and knocked at the door.
"Come in," called Mr. Plunkett.
"If ye will, ye will, an' I can't help yez," remarked Biddy, shaking
her head compassionately as the children went into the room.
Mr. Plunkett was sitting in an arm-chair next the window, with his
back turned to the door. There was no one else in the room, and having
entered, the children stood hesitating for a moment near the door where
he could not see them. Now that they were actually in his room their
courage seemed all to have vanished. Their hearts were beating fast,
they had a queer sensation in their throats, and not one of them could
have spoken a word just then.
"Is that you, Marion?" inquired Mr. Plunkett, in a voice so gentle
that the children could scarcely believe it was Mr. Plunkett who was
speaking.
"No," faltered Rosie. Then plucking up courage she advanced towards
his chair, and said in her most winning manner: "I hope you're feeling
better now. It was so unlucky, wasn't it, that you fell under poor
Black Shandy?"
"Thank you; I am somewhat recovered," replied Mr. Plunkett in his usual
severe voice, and the children no longer doubted their ears.
"Did it hurt you very much?" inquired Rosie.
"I suffered considerably."
"I'm so sorry," said Rosie. "I do hate being hurt so." After a little
pause she continued, the color mounting to her cheeks, "We have come to
ask you a favor, and we do hope you'll grant it." Murtagh, Winnie, and
Bobbo came slowly into view, and Mr. Plunkett's face on seeing them did
not look as though he were going to grant a favor.
"By what door did you come in?" he inquired sharply.
"We came in together by the back door," answered Winnie.
"I should like to know where Bridget was. These Irish servants are all
alike, careless and gossiping. I suppose her mind is too much taken up
by the village mystery to allow her to pay any attention to work."
"I'd rather have one Irish than--" began Murtagh, indignantly, his
temper rising as usual in Mr. Plunkett's presence, but Winnie trod on
his foot and reduced him to silence.
"We all know, sir, that you would rather anything which gives you an
opportunity for contradiction," returned Mr. Plunkett, severely.
"Perhaps if you had had as much trouble as I have had about the
disappearance of this girl, you would prefer not to have the additional
one of seeing your servants abandon their work and leave your house
open to whoever chooses to enter."
Winnie nudged Murtagh again as a hint to remain silent, but a sense of
justice to Biddy made him answer:
"Biddy didn't run away from her work. She didn't want us to come in."
"And I suppose you thought my house was like your uncle's garden, to be
broken into at pleasure when you want something out of it. Bland has
just been with me, and he tells me you have been taking apples again.
If it were not for this unfortunate accident, I can assure you you
should be punished as you deserve."
Murtagh made no answer. After a short silence Mr. Plunkett turned to
Rosie and said, "Well, and what is the favor I am expected to grant?"
Poor Rosie felt that it was almost impossible now to ask it. She
blushed and stammered, "I--I--at least--we--I mean--"
"Be so kind as to speak plainly. I do not understand what you are
asking," said Mr. Plunkett.
Rosie looked as if she were going to cry, but Winnie in her clear voice
said:
"We want you, please, to let Mrs. Daly off paying the two sovereigns
she owes for her rent."
Now that it was out the children all breathed more freely. Rose
recovered herself, and they stood waiting anxiously for Mr. Plunkett's
reply.
He was surprised. He had expected them to ask something for themselves,
and he was fully prepared to refuse, but this request astonished him
so much that he paused. Though a hard man he was not at heart so
disagreeable as the children imagined. To them he could not speak
kindly, for he honestly believed them to be bad, but he spoke kindly to
his own well-brought-up children, and he had in his way felt sorry for
poor Mrs. Daly in her trouble.
For a moment he felt almost inclined to say yes. But then he considered
that there would be no necessity for the interference of the children,
and he felt in no way disposed to give them a gratification.
The children stood like little statues while he thought. It seemed a
good sign that he should take so long about it. At last the answer came:
"The paying of rent is a business transaction which does not in any way
concern you. You may be quite sure that as your uncle's representative
I will do whatever is right in the matter. And now, will you allow me
to beg that at another time you will not force your way into my house
when my servants tell you that it is contrary to my orders for any one
to be admitted." And Mr. Plunkett taking up a newspaper began to read.
"But are you going to let her off paying?" inquired Winnie; "we want to
know awfully badly."
"I shall do what I consider right after consulting with your uncle."
"Oh, I know Uncle Blair will say 'Give it to her,'" said Rosie; "and if
you would say 'Yes' now, we would be so very much obliged. We have a
most particular reason for wanting it."
"It will be quite time enough to consider such matters when something
more certain is known of the fate of the poor woman's daughter,"
returned Mr. Plunkett.
"Oh, but," said Rose, not feeling quite sure how much to tell, "perhaps
if it was quite certain about the money, then there would be some more
known about Theresa. You know," she added coaxingly, "there are such
wonderful little fairies in the world that know all about everything."
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Mr. Plunkett, sitting up straight in his
chair. "You can't mean to say!--" But there his feelings seemed to
become too strong for words, and he paused, looking at Murtagh.
"We mean to say," said Rose, in a pleasant voice, rapidly determining
that whatever happened she would not go away without letting him know
that they had Theresa, "that if you'll give us the rent for Mrs. Daly,
perhaps we'll find Theresa and bring her back all safe and sound. Don't
we, Murtagh?"
"But we mean to say, too," said Murtagh, grimly, looking at Rose, "that
we can't possibly find out anything about her, nor say a single word
more, unless we do get the rent."
"This is too much!" exclaimed Mr. Plunkett. "Do you mean to tell me,
you graceless young scoundrel, that your pranks are at the bottom of
all the trouble and worry we have had? Do you mean to say that for
your own amusement you have given me all this trouble with the police,
turned a whole village upside down for a week, and nearly killed a poor
suffering woman with anxiety for her lost child! I have no language to
express my opinion of you, sir."
"My dear James!" exclaimed Mrs. Plunkett, coming into the room at that
moment. "What is the matter? Rosie! Bobbo! Winnie! _and_ Murtagh!" she
added in astonishment. "How in the world did you get into this room?
Did you send for them, James? What have they been doing? You know,
dear, the doctors said you were not to be excited."
"It is of little use for doctors or for any one to lay down rules while
such children as these are allowed to run wild," replied Mr. Plunkett.
"Though you have confessed it yourselves," he continued, turning to
Murtagh, "I can scarcely believe that you can have behaved in a manner
so totally devoid of all Christian feeling. But it is the old story:
mischief is your god. So long as you can have the excitement of a bit
of mischief you care nothing at all for the feelings of others; and I
have no doubt it seems to you an excellent joke to persuade a dying
woman's child to run away, and to embitter the last days of a poor
mother's life.
"I suppose that between you, you have lost, or perhaps spent, the
money intrusted to the child, and now you think that to take it out
of your uncle's pocket will be an easy way of paying it back. It does
not surprise me in you, Murtagh; but was there not one among you," he
added, looking at the other three, "who could have remembered that you
hold the position of young ladies and gentlemen?"
"You see you set us such a good example of forgetting what a gentleman
is like, that we really couldn't be expected to remember," replied
Murtagh, coolly.
"When you come to my house I must beg that you will not be insolent,
sir," replied Mr. Plunkett, angrily.
"Come along, Myrrh; don't be silly," said Winnie, moving towards the
door. "How could he know why gentlemen do things?"
"Winnie," exclaimed Mrs. Plunkett, "how can you talk in such a way?"
"Mr. Plunkett shouldn't be so impertinent to Murtagh," returned Winnie,
who had two hot red spots in her cheeks.
"I never saw such children in my life. I'm sure I pity that poor young
girl who has to live amongst you," said Mrs. Plunkett, half crying. "To
speak of my husband in such a manner!"
"Serves him right!" ejaculated Bobbo.
"You deserve, every one of you, to have your ears boxed," exclaimed
Mrs. Plunkett.
"Catch us first," laughed Winnie. "Come along, Bobbo." She led the way
down the passage as she spoke, and in another minute they were far on
their way across the park, their cause hopelessly and irretrievably
lost.