The children's waking on the following day was a very happy one. For
the last week the remembrance of Theresa had fallen like a cloud
upon them the instant they opened their eyes, but this morning they
sprang with light hearts from their beds. It was the day for Indian
letters too, the day that they all loved best in the fortnight. Out of
doors the sun shone, the wind was warm, birds were singing among the
reddening leaves, the river sparkled and flashed invitingly. It was
more like a day in August than October, and the children resolved to
enjoy it.
They danced with joyous faces into the dining-room. Their uncle was
not there, and the post-bag lying by his plate was locked. Murtagh
might peep as much as he pleased, his anxiety had to remain unsatisfied
till Mr. Blair made his appearance. But then, could anything be more
delightful?--a nice fat letter from papa for Murtagh, and one from
mamma for Rosie.
No sooner was Murtagh's handed to him than he bounded with it out of
the window. There Nessa saw him kiss it, turn head over heels three or
four times on the grass, and then tear away at full speed round the
corner of the house. Breakfast was nearly over when he returned, with a
radiant face, and handed the letter to Winnie to read, remarking, "It's
awfully nice."
"Yes; and isn't it nice that you are to have half a sovereign for your
birthday?" said Rosie.
"Oh, yes. Papa says I am to have one from Mr. Plunkett. Does he tell
you?"
"Yes," said Mr. Blair. "When is your birthday?"
"Wednesday week," replied Murtagh. "Come along out," he exclaimed,
after devoting about three minutes to his breakfast, "and let us read
what the pretty mother says. You come, too, Nessa. We'll go to the big
chestnut tree; that's where we always read their letters aloud." And
taking a bit of bread to supplement his hasty meal, he rose from the
table and led the way out.
"We get up in the branches," said Rosie, "and sometimes we pretend it's
a sort of church."
"Only, last letter day," said Winnie, "we pretended we were a family
of squirrels, and mamma's letter was a dear little white dove flown
over the seas to tell us not to steal nuts and apples from the other
squirrels. It's such fun pretending, and then we put little pieces in
the letters."
"And then we went off to Nut Wood to get ourselves some instead of
stealing," said Bobbo, "and when Winnie was up in the very top branch
of the bull's-eye tree, Mr. Plunkett came past and saw her, and called
out, 'What are you stealing those nuts for?'"
"And I thought about him being a squirrel, and running up and down the
trees whisking his tail," interrupted Winnie, "and I laughed so much I
tumbled off the tree, and gave myself such a whack I haven't quite got
well yet."
"And another day we were just Irish kings and queens, and papa's letter
was some river fairies come down to warn us about some scoundrelly
English taking our chief palace--that's the island. We rushed up there
at once, and lo and behold! that old piggamy, Mr. Plunkett, had chopped
down our watch-tower, a splendid old oak tree that had its branches
blasted with lightning, the only one on the island. So the English had
been there, true enough."
[Illustration: THE CHILDREN SHOWING NESSA THE GROUNDS.]
They chattered on in this fashion till the big chestnut was reached.
In a moment the children were in it, looking indeed not unlike a family
of squirrels as they scrambled about and peeped at Nessa through the
clusters of pointed leaves.
"Will it be difficult to get up there?" she asked, indicating a place
about four or five feet from the ground where the trunk spread out into
three great branches.
"Oh, no, no," exclaimed the children, "as easy as possible. Here, take
hold of our hands, and set your foot on that sort of bump lower down,
then you can walk up like going up-stairs."
They stretched out their hands, and in a moment Nessa was seated in the
tree.
"Shamrocks and Shillelaghs! There's Mr. Plunkett out again, and he's
seen you, Nessa," cried Winnie, in delight, "and oh, he does look so
jolly shocked!"
Nessa was enchanted with her novel position. "Never mind Mr. Plunkett,"
she said gaily. "Let us read the letters now."
"What shall we be to-day?" said Winnie. "Nessa couldn't be a squirrel
exactly, you know."
"We'll be Irish kings and queens," said Murtagh, "and Nessa will be a
stranger who has brought us these letters from a far-away king."
"Oh, yes," said Winnie. "And you'll live with us, and we'll discover
you're an Irish princess who was stolen away when she was a baby."
"Now," said Murtagh, when the letters were quite finished, "come along
with us, and we'll show you our dominions."
"Yes," said Rosie. "It's too bad; she's been here a whole week,
and we've never shown her our islands, nor nut-wood, nor the
mushroom-field, nor the mountains."
"I'll tell you what, Myrrh," exclaimed Winnie, struck by a sudden
inspiration, "we'll have a picnic up the mountains on your birthday.
What do you think of that?"
"Yes," said Murtagh, "and oh, Win, a plan has just come into my head.
Such a beauty! I'll tell you presently."
"Is it a secret?" asked Rosie.
"Yes. But I'll tell you too, by and by. Oh, it is so jolly; you'll
go crazy when you hear it." And being unable to turn head over heels
Murtagh relieved his feelings by springing to the ground.
Having once got into the tree, Nessa would gladly have spent the
morning there. But the children had no notion of allowing the
appreciation of their roost to take that form, and for the next two or
three hours she was trotted backwards and forwards from one favorite
place to another, till when twelve o'clock came she was glad to go with
the children to the back door and receive at Donnie's hands a glass of
milk and a slice of brown cake. Then, leaving Nessa to enter the house
alone, they merrily scampered back to the chestnut tree to hold their
consultation.
Their wonderful plan was simply this: that they were to discover Nessa
to be the real princess of their tribe, and on Murtagh's birthday
they were to have on the mountains the grand ceremony of crowning and
receiving her into the tribe. It was the details of the plan that were
so specially delightful, Murtagh said; particularly one.
"Now then, listen," he said; "it's all been floating into my head the
whole of this morning, and I'll tell you just how I've planned it.
We'll have a regular grand--what d'ye call it? like when the Lord
Lieutenant was made Knight of St. Patrick, up--"
"Ceremony," interpolated Winnie.
"Yes, ceremony, up in the ruins. We'll make a throne of stones in
the middle of the court-yard, and decorate it with green branches.
Then we'll have garlands of evergreens and hollyhocks, and loop them
up on the walls all round, and we'll have a green ribbon and a wreath
of shamrocks. And I'll be sitting on the throne, and all the followers
standing round. Then you four will bring her up the mountain, and as
soon as she comes near, the followers will run forward and scatter
shamrocks on the ground for her to walk over, and she'll be led up to
the throne. Then I'll get down off the throne, and I'll say, 'Will you
reign over us, our princess? and will you promise to be true to our
tribe?' or something like that, and she'll say, 'Yes,' and I'll tie the
green ribbon round her arm. Then comes the beautiful part of the plan!
I'll make her promise to hate Mr. Plunkett and to defend us against
him."
"Oh, Murtagh!" exclaimed Rosie. "You won't be able to do that. You know
she's grown up, and she would never promise that."
"Yes, but you don't know how I'm going to do it," returned Murtagh,
triumphantly. "After I've put on the ribbon I'll take up the shamrock
wreath, and say: 'Kneel down, and promise to hate the Agents, and
defend your tribe against them.' She won't know, you see, about Mr.
Plunkett being an Agent; she'll only know about them being something
very bad, and so she'll say, 'Yes.'"
"Then she'll be bound to help us when we get into scrapes with him;
won't she?" asked Bobbo.
"Of course she will," returned Murtagh. "She'll be as much one of the
tribe as you are, then."
"Oh, I say, Myrrh," cried Winnie, clapping her hands, "it's perfectly
delicious. And look here, Myrrh, you must get a string for the violin
with sixpence of your birthday money, and we'll teach all the children
to sing some songs--'The Wearing of the Green,' and 'The Shan Van
Vaugh,' and--"
"Yes," said Murtagh, "but I haven't told you yet what we're going to do
with the rest of the money. We'll buy buns and things for the followers
to eat, and Donnie'll give us a lot of tea, so they'll have a kind of
school-feast after the ceremony; because, you know, they'll be awfully
hungry, and they will be so pleased.
"Isn't papa a dear old blessing of a father, remembering about my
birthday all that way off, and sending me half a sovereign?" exclaimed
Murtagh, gratefully pulling his letter out of his pocket and looking at
it. "I never knew any one like him in all my life, he does think about
things so. I wonder if he knew what a lot of fun we should have with
it!"
"Oh, and I'll tell you what we must do, Myrrh!" exclaimed Winnie.
"Every one of the followers must have a large green branch in his hand,
like Birnam wood in the theatre. You remember about Macbeth in the
theatre," she explained, seeing Rosie looked puzzled.
"Oh, yes, of course," replied Rosie, who didn't remember a bit. "We'll
get a lot of apples for the feast. They'll be nearly as great a treat
as cakes for the followers, because they never have any."
"Yes, yes," cried Bobbo. But Murtagh objected.
"No," he said decidedly, poking his letter into his pocket again. "We
won't."
"Hullo!" remarked Bobbo. "Why not?"
"Well," said Murtagh, looking at Winnie in hopes of support, "I don't
want to have anything wrong at all in this plan. It's just to be a bit
of fun."
"Oh, stuff!" said Rosie. "Apples are nothing."
"Yes, but," replied Murtagh, "papa gave us the money, and the grown-up
people would all say we oughtn't to take them, so I vote we leave the
things alone. He's sure to make it an excuse for talking to us."
It was Murtagh's plan, and Murtagh's birthday, so he had a right to
decide. But when the question of the apples was settled a thousand
other questions arose, and they were far from being all decided when
the second dinner-bell summoned the children to the house.
But the village children had to be made acquainted as soon as possible
with the fact that their services would be required, and as the tribe
that the children were so fond of talking about consisted exclusively
of their five selves, they felt that there was some difficulty about
calling together the honorary members upon whom they had so recently
conferred the rank and title of followers.
However, there was Pat O'Toole, a young friend and favorite of
Murtagh's, to whom they had once confided their notion of enrolling
themselves into a tribe, and there was Theresa Curran, who might fairly
now be said to belong to it, and with these two to help they would
easily be able to organize their festival.
It was all even more easy to arrange than the children had expected.
Pat and Theresa charged themselves with collecting the "followers,"
and Murtagh gleefully gave orders that they were to assemble that very
afternoon for a first singing practice on one of the little islands.
The children came dancing home, elated and happy. What a pity all days
were not like this day! Everything went well, and they felt so good and
bright as they raced and capered about the lawns.
Nessa went indoors on her return from the village, but they never went
in till evening, and to-day of all days it was impossible to sit still.
Alas! their little active feet were always tripping into mischief. They
took it into their heads to go and prepare the island for the singing
meeting. Unfortunately, they came upon Bland driving a horse and cart
through the river. The horse had refused to cross the bridge, which was
without a parapet; and as the children came up they found that Bland
had taken out the lading of the cart before driving through the water.
Large baskets of apples stood ranged side by side upon the bridge.
"Ha, ha!" cried Bland, as he landed the cart safely and began to load
it again. "We've conquered you at last, my young gentlemen. You'll have
to do without apples now whether you like it or not. Every one in the
garden was picked this morning by Mr. Plunkett's orders."
"I'm sure I don't care," replied Murtagh.
"Sour grapes, young gentleman!" replied Bland, chuckling. "I daresay
you were on your way to the garden now, if the truth were known."
"We weren't anything of the sort, as it happens," said Bobbo.
"We'd made up our minds this very morning not to take any," added Rosie.
"Easy talking. Words don't cost much; but I'd have been sorry to trust
you under a tree of ripe apples," returned Bland.
"Shut up your impudence," said Murtagh, "or I'll just turn one of these
baskets into the river, to show you how little we care for your old
garden stuff."
"Oh, ay. It's not so pleasant being circumvented. I don't wonder you
don't like it. But here's an end of your apple-eating for this winter.
In another hour every apple that was in the garden this morning will
be safe in the apple-room, and the key in Mr. Plunkett's pocket."
"Here, Myrrh," said Winnie, laughing, and pushing one of the heavy
baskets, "help me to give it a shove, and we'll teach them not to crow
before they're out of the bush. Hurrah, there it goes! What do you
think of that, Mr. Bland?" she cried triumphantly, as with the help
of a hearty push from Bobbo and Murtagh the basket toppled over into
the river, and a bushel of rosy-cheeked apples bobbed up and down in
the rapid current. Then, without waiting for any answer from indignant
Bland, the children all ran away, leaving him to finish loading his
cart, and to go to Mr. Plunkett with another complaint of their
unruliness.
"What a pity I did it, though, Myrrh! I'm very sorry," said Winnie,
with a queer twinkle in her eyes, as they stopped on the hall-door
steps.
"I'd like to see Mr. Plunkett's face when Bland tells him," said Bobbo,
laughing. "Why, we took more apples that way than we'd have taken in
two months just for eating!"
"I'm sorry all the same," returned Winnie, laughing in spite of herself.
"You don't look very bad," answered Murtagh. "Still, if you want to
cry, I'll run and get you a pocket-handkerchief."
Just then they overheard Nessa's voice through the open drawing-room
door, saying: "Have you asked Master Murtagh? He might possibly know
what has become of them."
"Master Murtagh's not far off, and if it's anything important, I've no
objection to go and ask his opinion," exclaimed Murtagh, confronting
Mrs. Donegan as she made her appearance through a doorway.
"'Deed, Master Murtagh," returned Donnie, "it's no matter for joking.
The only two decent shirts you have in the world have gone clean out of
your linen drawer. I've hunted for them high and low, and you'll have
to go to church to-morrow without a rag to your back."
Murtagh and Winnie burst out laughing, and Bobbo called out, "It wasn't
your shirts she had, was it?"
"Yes," ejaculated Winnie, through her laughter. "Oh, Donnie, for
goodness' sake, don't look so funny; you'll kill me with laughing. Look
here," she continued, "you needn't look so astonished; she wanted them
a great deal worse than Murtagh, and she hadn't got any money to buy
some."
"Do you suppose, I'd like to know, that I hemmed and stitched at them
shirts for you to give 'em away?" returned Mrs. Donegan, indignantly.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Miss, to go and leave your
brother without a thing to go to church in."
"I have a splendid new flannel petticoat," laughed Winnie, "and I'll
lend it to him with all the pleasure in life."
"It's time such doings were put a stop to," returned Mrs. Donegan. "Mr.
Murtagh, how could ye think of doing such a thing?"
"I've been to Mr. Murtagh," returned Murtagh, gravely, "and he says he
can't give any opinion on the matter."
"Then you may tell him from me he ought to be ashamed of himself, an'
it would be a good thing if he'd given his opinion before now. I'm sure
I have more bother than enough with him," returned Mrs. Donegan, for
once quite out of temper; "and now I'll have to stand and argufy half
an hour with Mr. Plunkett before I get the money for some new ones."
"Did you know where they were, Murtagh?" asked Nessa, coming to the
drawing-room door.
"Yes," replied Murtagh. And then Winnie explained how they had gone.
"Ye'd make a mighty generous churchwarden," remarked Donnie, as she
walked off in high dudgeon to the kitchen.