Mr. Plunkett meant what he had said to Nessa. Next day, therefore, he
begged Mr. Blair to continue his investigation. Poor Mr. Blair, who had
completely accepted Nessa's view, took no longer the slightest interest
in the affair. Provided it was not Murtagh, he did not care who was
guilty. All he desired was to be left in peace.
However, since Mr. Plunkett was not satisfied, and had a strong will
to which Mr. Blair was accustomed to yield, there was nothing but to
send for Pat O'Toole and sift the matter to the bottom. Mr. Plunkett
sent a message to him to appear; Mrs. O'Toole put off the inevitable
announcement of his flight to the last moment; and it was not till
every one else was assembled in the study that it became known that he
was gone.
The news was received by Mr. Blair and Nessa as a simple proof of
Murtagh's innocence. But Mr. Plunkett held his own opinion much too
firmly to be easily shaken in it.
He believed that his wife had seen Murtagh at the fire, and Murtagh's
innocence was not established. The two boys were known to be friends,
and what was more likely than that Murtagh should have chosen Pat as an
accomplice? It was evident that they had some secret together, since
Murtagh's first action after the news of the fire had been made known
was to run away to the O'Tooles' cottage.
When the news of Pat's flight had arrived Murtagh had felt a grim
satisfaction at the prospect of Mr. Plunkett's discomfiture, thinking
as Nessa did that his own innocence was now fully established. Now as
he stood listening to the array of evidence brought forward to prove
his guilt, a turmoil of bitter indignation raged within him, and every
bit of sorrow for his own fault was swallowed up in angry rebellion
against what seemed to him wilful injustice. Stung to the quick, he
took a proud, unreasoning determination to say not one word in his
own defense, and after the first stormy flash that overspread his
countenance, he stood with eyes cast down and a white obdurate face
that defied all questioning.
It was not so with Winnie. Through her indignation and disgust a dim
suspicion, which she had herself rejected before, flashed suddenly into
belief. Mr. Plunkett was doing it on purpose. He did not really believe
Murtagh guilty, but he had a spite against him for what had happened in
the barn-yard, and this was his mean way of revenging himself.
Her cheeks flamed, and her eyes flashed with indignation; she clasped
her hands on the back of her head, and waited till Mr. Plunkett wound
up a somewhat elaborate argument by asking every one in the room to
decide whether he had not good grounds for believing Murtagh to be
guilty.
Then before any one could answer, she said in a cool, aggravating voice:
"Yes, I daresay, if we didn't all know you're doing this just because
you have a spite against Murtagh."
"Well!" exclaimed Cousin Jane, "these children are allowed to talk in
the funniest way I ever heard."
"I don't see why things shouldn't be fair," returned Winnie. "Mr.
Plunkett keeps on telling us we are telling lies, and why mayn't we
tell him the same? If you won't believe what Murtagh says, I don't
see why you should believe what Mr. Plunkett says. Mr. Plunkett says
Murtagh did this because of what happened in the barn-yard, but it's a
_great deal_ more likely Mr. Plunkett's trying to get Murtagh into a
scrape to revenge himself for what happened. Just as if Murtagh would
ever bother his head to be revenged on anybody like him!"
The supreme scorn of the last words was unmistakable, and Mr. Blair,
in some astonishment, said with quiet dignity: "Winnie, that seems a
strange way to speak to Mr. Plunkett. Every one who knows him knows
that nothing could be more impossible to him."
"The idea of children talking like that to a grown-up person!" remarked
Cousin Jane.
"That's always the way," cried Winnie, her pent-up wrath bursting forth
at last. "Just because we are children, we're to hold our tongues
and let people say what they like to us, and tell all sorts of lies
about our doing things we didn't do; and then if we say a word about
them doing a thousand times worse things, we're told to be quiet. But
I don't care what five hundred million grown-up people say, Murtagh
didn't do this, and Mr. Plunkett knows he didn't just as well as I do."
Mr. Blair looked at her in still greater surprise. At last, with a sort
of instinct that it would be safest to have her near Nessa, he said:
"You may go and sit down, now, my dear; Nessa will make room for you, I
daresay, on the sofa beside her."
He glanced over at Nessa as he spoke with such a comical expression
of despair that they both nearly laughed, to Cousin Jane's intense
indignation.
Mr. Blair, however, became grave again at once, and turned to Mr.
Plunkett to listen to all the reasons he was urging in favor of some
serious punishment being inflicted upon Murtagh. Too courteous to
interrupt, Mr. Blair listened patiently till he had ceased speaking.
But then instead of at once answering Mr. Plunkett, he turned to
Murtagh and said:
"Murtagh, will you give me your word of honor that you were not at this
fire, and that you did not in any way wilfully cause it?"
Murtagh had stood immovable while Mr. Plunkett was speaking; but his
anger was at all times easy to melt, and there was a ring of trust and
friendliness in his uncle's tone which made him look up straight into
Mr. Blair's face with bright, fearless eyes and answer at once:
"Yes; I give you my word of honor."
"I believe you, my boy!" replied Mr. Blair.
The clouds vanished from Murtagh's face, and with a clear, sunny smile
he looked across to Nessa for her congratulations.
"Plunkett," said Mr. Blair, "I feel how much truth there is in all
you say, and if I could for a moment believe Murtagh guilty, I would
leave it to you to decide his punishment. But though you have certainly
evidence enough to justify an opinion, you do not prove his guilt, and
I cannot help thinking that the presumptive evidence on the other side
is strong enough to make it only just to Murtagh that we should believe
him when he assures us on his word of honor that he is innocent." Mr.
Plunkett was too much annoyed to be able altogether to retain his calm
demeanor.
"Well," he replied, "I have nothing more to say. I believe him
to be guilty, and that I shall continue so to do till some other
person confesses to having committed the crime, without his help or
instigation."
"Believe away!" retorted Winnie. "Nobody cares in the least what you
think!"
"Winnie," said her uncle, "Mr. Plunkett is an old and respected friend
of mine."
Mr. Blair so seldom spoke to one of the children that even Winnie's
audacious tongue was silenced by the reproof.
"I am very sorry, Plunkett," continued Mr. Blair, "that we cannot
persuade you, but still I can't help hoping that when you think the
matter over, you will come round to our opinion."
"Nothing ever will persuade me," returned Mr. Plunkett, "and Murtagh's
guilty conscience can best tell him the reason why."
With those words he took up his hat and left the room.
The children were very little disturbed by his opinion. Murtagh's
innocence was established, and that was all they cared about. They
flocked round Murtagh, and carried him off with many expressions of
pleasure.
Nessa and Royal and the children spent a happy afternoon together.
Frankie was better again that day, and was able to be out with them;
all their troubles were over and gone--gone so completely that they
even seemed not to remember them as they raced and romped upon the
grass with Royal. He was a splendid dog,--big and broad-chested, but
agile as Winnie herself. And he enjoyed the fun of playing. When
he rolled the children over on the grass, and their peals of happy
laughter shook the air, you could almost fancy he was laughing too.
He sprang backwards and forwards from one child to another, his great
black tail whisking about in the air; but though he rolled them over
without ceremony he was thoroughly gentle; he would not have hurt them
for all the world. Even little Ellie, after a first terrified rush
into Nessa's arms, soon discovered that "she wasn't afraid."
They chattered and laughed all the afternoon, and fed Royal, and the
ducks, and the pigeons too, who came cooing and pluming themselves, and
walked about in such a dignified fuss, picking all manner of scraps
out of the grass. And when, for Frankie's sake, they had to go in,
though Nessa left them to rejoin Cousin Jane, they gathered round the
schoolroom fire and chattered and laughed all the same, and laid plans
for what they would do when they got away to Torquay with Frankie.
[Illustration: "THEY CHATTERED AND LAUGHED ALL THE AFTERNOON."]
He was so happy in the prospect, poor little fellow! He had not played
to-day; he had lain on the rug beside Nessa; but he quite forgot that.
He felt as though he had been playing too, and with faintly flushed
cheeks and sparkling eyes he sat curled up on the sofa listening in
delight.
"Why, of course, you'll be able to swim like two fishes before you come
back," he was acquiescing in answer to a remark of Murtagh's, when the
door opened and Emma came in. The room was dark now, and the children
thought it was Nessa.
"Do you hear, Nessa?" cried Winnie. "We intend to learn to swim at
Torquay, and to swim all about the sea into the caves and places where
nobody has ever been before."
"It's time for you to come and dress for dinner, Frankie," replied
Emma's voice; "and," she added, with some primness, as Frankie rose
reluctantly from the sofa, "you had better not make too many plans for
Torquay."
She turned and left the room as she spoke, but Frankie sprang after
her, exclaiming, "Emma, what do you mean about Torquay?" and her
answer was quite audible as she walked down the passage.
"I mean that of course mamma will not allow Murtagh to be your only
playmate for so many months if he persists in telling such stories.
There is no knowing what he might teach you."
Murtagh's cheek flushed as he heard the words, and from the other
children arose a chorus of:
"What a shame!"
"It can't be true!"
"There's something else we have to thank Mr. Plunkett for!"
"It's wicked and unjust," cried Winnie. "He knows as well as I do that
you didn't do it. I don't know how he can dare to pretend he doesn't.
It's enough to drive one mad; but there's one thing, Myrrh, if you
don't go, I won't; Cousin Jane needn't think I will."
"It's not true; it's only Emma's rubbish," decided Bobbo.
"Let us go and ask Nessa," said Murtagh, with a curious kind of
quietness in his voice, and while the others dashed off impatiently to
Nessa's room, he, thrusting his hands into his pockets, walked slowly
after them.