Murtagh slept late next morning, and was wakened by Winnie who wanted
him to get up and come and inquire about Pat. Anxiety about Marion had
made him completely forget Pat, but now that trouble returned upon him
in full force. He got up and went with Winnie to see Mrs. O'Toole.
But nothing had been heard of Pat, and between her longing to see
the boy and dread least the police should find him, Mrs. O'Toole was
in terrible grief. The children could give her no comfort, and they
wandered sadly back to the house.
Frankie was in bed, but Cousin Jane came and told them they might go
in and see him. He had set his heart upon seeing them, and she could
not refuse when he was ill. She begged they would not put any of their
hardened notions into his head, but they were too glad of being able to
see Frankie to care for anything Cousin Jane said.
He welcomed them delightedly, eager to know what they had done
yesterday.
There was something very touching in the almost worshipful admiration
with which he regarded them. He thought them nearly perfect, and if he
had ever had a dream for himself it would have been to be like Murtagh,
and to do the things Murtagh did. Only he never dreamt anything for
himself; perhaps, poor little fellow, it did not seem to him worth
while. He would lie for hours upon the sofa, picturing to himself
Murtagh walking up before assembled rows of schoolboys to receive
impossible numbers of first prizes; Murtagh winning cricket-matches,
or Murtagh leading troops to battle. There was no wonderful feat in
history that Murtagh had not outdone many a time in Frankie's ambitious
imagination.
Troubled as Murtagh and Winnie were at their share in this misfortune,
it was very soothing to their sore consciences to talk with Frankie.
His ideas of right and wrong used to become very confused where Winnie
and Murtagh were concerned. All he thought about was how best to
comfort them, and in the end he invariably succeeded in proving, to his
own satisfaction at least, that they had been perfectly right.
They used to talk more of what they really thought with Frankie than
they did even to one another; and they confided to him now, in their
own odd scrappy fashion, the sore regrets by which they were assailed.
With all his goodwill, even Frankie was puzzled to reconcile their
resolutions on the mountain with the scene in the barn-yard that
so closely followed them. But then he said that Mr. Plunkett was
so nasty nobody could help being rude to him; and, of course, they
couldn't possibly know that one of the followers would set fire to his
haystacks. The whole misfortune, he finally declared, was as much owing
to Mr. Plunkett as to them. He would go out and be disagreeable when
Nessa told him they were excited. It was all his own fault; and then he
could not be contented without making false accusations, and trying to
get Murtagh into trouble.
Murtagh was not easily to be comforted, and Frankie exerted himself to
divert Murtagh's thoughts into another channel.
"Never mind, Myrrh, dear," he said, "Marion will soon be well now, and
I daresay they'll never find out which of your followers did it. Next
week we shall all three be down at the seaside, where you'll never see
Mr. Plunkett nor be worried with his rules. There will be nobody to
order you about there. We will all do just whatever we please, and this
whole affair will be forgotten by the time you come back."
After a time they called in Royal, and Frankie made him display his
various accomplishments. Bobbo and Rosie joined them later in the day,
and so they forgot to be unhappy for nearly the whole afternoon. Nessa,
in the meantime, had spent her day at the Red House, but Marion was now
quite out of danger, and towards four o'clock she prepared to return
home.
Mr. Plunkett would not let her walk alone, and as they went together
across the park he took the opportunity of thanking her warmly for all
that she had done. The doctor had told him that without her timely help
Marion might have died, and he was not a man to be ungrateful for any
real obligation.
It was one of those moments of unreserve that come sometimes after a
heavy strain.
"You may think me hard and cold," he said, "but Marion is to me more--"
Then strong as he was his voice faltered. Instead of words there came
only an inarticulate choking sound. He recovered himself immediately,
but he did not try to finish his sentence. Then he allowed himself to
be drawn on by Nessa's genuine admiration of his child to talk of her,
till Nessa found herself wondering how she could ever have thought him
so very disagreeable.
But as they emerged from under the trees and came in sight of the house
his voice suddenly changed, and he exclaimed:
"Can you wonder, then, that I am determined to punish to the uttermost
the heartless spite that in revenge for a just rebuke could imperil
such innocent lives? You, Miss Blair, a stranger, can have little
conception of all that we have been forced to suffer from Murtagh and
his brother and sisters, but now it passes a matter of inconvenience.
Impertinence and annoyance I could and would have endured, but to have
my child hurt, to have her life, her reason endangered, to gratify the
caprice of an insolent boy--"
He was transformed; he was no longer the correct Mr. Plunkett that
Nessa knew. His face was pale, his eyes full of a strange light; he was
a man,--a man struggling with a violent emotion.
"But you cannot think still that Murtagh set fire to your house?" she
exclaimed, standing still and looking up anxiously into his face. "It
was not Murtagh; I know it was not."
"You think you know, Miss Blair, but you are mistaken. I have known the
boy longer than you, and I tell you he is guilty."
"You did not see him on Wednesday evening after that scene with you,"
said Nessa, "and you did not see him yesterday, or you could not think
that. He was so sorry for you yesterday, and so anxious to help. If you
had seen his white sad face, you could not think it was a pretense.
Examine that other boy, and you will see that Murtagh is not guilty."
He replied quietly: "I cannot agree with you, Miss Blair; I am
perfectly willing that young O'Toole should be examined, but you have
only to count up the evidences of Murtagh's guilt to be yourself
convinced of the uselessness of the proceeding; his presence at the
fire; his confusion on finding himself discovered; his inability to
answer any of the charges made against him. Directly he left his
uncle's presence he rushed off to O'Toole's cottage. What could he
have wanted there if not to beg Pat to keep his secret safe? His very
anxiety about my poor child is only another reason for believing him
guilty. He dislikes me; he has no affection for her; and I cannot
believe he would have displayed such excessive anxiety had he not been
smitten with remorse and terror at the consequences of his act. If he
had come forward and confessed openly, instead of allowing the blame
to be half-shifted on to another, I might have entertained some softer
feeling towards him, but, as it is, I feel nothing but a just anger and
contempt. He has shown himself not only revengeful but cowardly and
dishonorable."
In vain Nessa pleaded Murtagh's cause. Mr. Plunkett had covered himself
again with his usual shell, and words had no effect.
At last she appealed to justice. "You ought to believe he is speaking
the truth till you are quite sure he is not," she said. "You have not
yet made any search among the people in the country."
"I am willing that every inquiry should be made, but I am perfectly
convinced of his guilt, and so long as he remains hardened in denial,
he must expect nothing but the utmost severity from me."
They had reached the gravel sweep that divided the park from the house,
and he bowed and left her. As she entered the hall she met Murtagh, who
had been watching her from Frankie's window, and who now came running
down to know how little Marion was.
"Better," said Nessa, "much better."
"You're dreadfully tired, aren't you?" said Murtagh.
"Yes," said Winnie, "of course she must be after being up all night.
Come along, Myrrh, we'll get her some tea. And you go and lie down in
your room," she added.
"Thank you," said Nessa, stooping to kiss the little brown forehead.
"Yes, I should like some tea." And as the two children ran away to the
kitchen she passed up the stairs.
A few minutes later they appeared in her room with their little tray.
They had arranged it after their own fashion, with a white napkin and
a tiny blue vase full of flowers. Winnie's cheeks were rosy with the
making of toast, and while Nessa drank her tea and admired the flowers
the two children watched her radiantly.
"We made it all ourselves," exclaimed Winnie, when the first cup was
nearly finished. "Donnie wasn't there, but we knew the water was
boiling, because the top of the kettle was bobbing up and down." Nessa
asked for a second cup, and the delighted children were as happy as
little kings because she found their tea so good.