It was only too true. It was difficult to say with whom the idea had
first originated, but after much talking with Emma and Mr. Plunkett,
Cousin Jane had announced that she could not take Murtagh with her
unless he were ready to confess his guilt. Mr. Blair was annoyed,
but there was no help for it. It was true that Murtagh had not been
altogether proved innocent. He could not be till Pat was found, and
till he was, everybody had, of course, a right to their own opinion.
The children were bitterly indignant, but Murtagh still said nothing.
The injustice seemed to him at first too impossible to be true; and
when he realized that it was true, the feelings it roused against Mr.
Plunkett were such he would have found it difficult to express. A sort
of astonished contempt filled his mind. He had not thought before that
Mr. Plunkett could be so bad as that, and if at times the thought of
his disappointment roused in him hot indignation, this new feeling of
sheer disgust made him shrink from even thinking much of Mr. Plunkett.
Frankie's disappointment was beyond expression. For perhaps the first
time in his life he behaved like the spoilt child he was. He would not
go to the sea at all, he said, or if he did, he wouldn't take a bit of
trouble to get well. He had set his heart on having his cousin with
him, and his mother vainly proposed instead companion after companion.
He didn't care for any of them, he said, and all the pleasure of his
winter was gone.
Cousin Jane had intended to punish Murtagh, not Frankie, and it had
seemed to her quite simple to take Bobbo in Murtagh's place. But Bobbo
and Winnie declared at once that they would not go anywhere with
people who said Murtagh told stories, and when Cousin Jane appealed to
Mr. Blair, he replied that he thought they had a right to decide for
themselves.
In despair at her son's trouble, Cousin Jane would have been glad to
change her mind and say that Murtagh might come, but Mr. Plunkett and
Emma both urged her to be firm. Mr. Plunkett alone would not perhaps
have had sufficient influence, but she was accustomed to be ruled by
Emma, and Emma was very determined.
Frankie locked himself into his room and would not see anybody. His
poor bewildered mother made herself wretched with thinking how ill he
would be after such excitement, and finally retired, almost in tears,
to her own room, declaring that she had never met such children, and
that she wished she had never come to Castle Blair to be mixed up in
all this trouble. Every one felt dreary and uncomfortable, and the
children wandered disconsolately about the house, muttering their
opinions of Mr. Plunkett, and wishing aloud that it wasn't Sunday, till
Nessa suggested that they should go and pay their weekly visit to Mrs.
Daly.
Nessa and Mrs. Donegan had been concocting certain plans for the
benefit of Mrs. Daly and one or two other people in the village, and
Nessa communicated them to the children. Falling readily into their
notion of being bound up into a tribe, she suggested how nice it would
be if the tribe could be of real use in the village, and the children,
delighted to see a grown-up person entering seriously into a project
which they had tried hard to persuade themselves was serious, were
hearty in their acceptance of her proposals.
Wild, fierce little things as they seemed, they were something like
lambs in lion's clothing. They were up in arms directly, and stormed
like stanch little Home Rulers, as they were, at anything they
considered unjust, but the slightest appeal to their sympathy was
enough to make them forget all about themselves.
The walk was quite pleasant, and it was delightful to find Mrs. Daly
sitting up, looking already much better for the wholesome dinner with
which Nessa and Donnie provided her every day. After that, they went to
see Mrs. O'Toole. The poor woman was in bitter grief, and she could not
be comforted. An inadvertent mention of Mr. Plunkett's name suddenly
roused a storm of rage that made Nessa turn pale and tremble, but the
passionate abandonment of grief that followed would have moved to tears
a harder heart than hers. Her sweet words of comfort were of little
use. When the children spoke hopefully of Pat being found and coming
back, the poor mother cried out with a despairing wail, "An' that'll be
the worst of all; oh, my heart's broken! my heart's broken!"
They had forgotten for the moment that if he came back, it would be
to go to prison. So they had to leave her in her desolation, and very
sadly, very wearily the children went back to the house. How much of it
all was their fault?
But Nessa had promised Mrs. Plunkett to go to the Red House that
afternoon to see little Marion, so she left them to pay her visit.
She was not the only visitor. Cousin Jane was there, and for no less a
purpose than to see with Mr. Plunkett whether after all she could not
take Murtagh with her.
Her mind was so divided between two opinions that she could not remain
firm in either. Accustomed for years to use Emma as her brain, she was
in the habit of taking for granted that Emma's opinion was right, and
with a simplicity and abnegation of self that would have been touching
had they not been so fraught with mischief, she did always what Emma
told her.
But though she was devoted to both her children, Frankie was the
darling of her heart. She was almost ashamed sometimes of loving him so
much.
Her love for Frankie had never before led her to contradict Emma, and
she really dared not. She would rather contradict Frankie himself, for
she was not afraid of him. He would love her all the same, and after a
time would understand and forgive her. But for all that she could not
bear to think of Frankie's winter being spoilt, and with a great effort
she had resolved that if Mr. Plunkett would support her, she would for
once oppose Emma and let Frankie have Murtagh.
This resolve had cost her four or five hours' fighting with herself in
the solitude of her own room. Nothing but the remembrance of Frankie's
locked door, and the dread that he might get ill and yet not let her
in to nurse him, would finally have prevailed; but at last, as picture
after picture passed before her mind of the terrible things he might
do if he were ill, and she not sitting by his bedside, she could bear
it no longer, and with sudden determination had started up and gone to
consult Mr. Plunkett.
She reached the Red House without adventure, and finding herself
thus far so brave, her hopes were raised quite high. But the little
effervescing spirit of courage died quickly away under the influence of
Mr. Plunkett's cold tones and grave looks.
In answer to her half-nervous, half-vehement suggestions he urged, with
a calm propriety of just determination, the necessity for Murtagh's
sake of some punishment being inflicted.
Still, though the arguments did not in the slightest degree change her
wish to take Murtagh with her, they had their effect in this way. She
felt that they ought to have changed it; that every one would expect
them to change it. They were unanswerable, and when Emma used them she
would have nothing to urge against them. All the reason was against
her. Her little bit of courage vanished. She could not possibly face
Emma unless some one would help her, and she dolefully resigned herself
and Frankie to the will of the stronger powers.
The matter was not quite settled when Nessa entered. Quickly gathering
the subject of the conversation, she ranged herself at once on Cousin
Jane's side. But that, by some strange contradiction, had more effect
than all Mr. Plunkett's arguments. Cousin Jane had been a little
offended by seeing Nessa installed as mistress at Castle Blair. And
directly Nessa advocated Murtagh's departure, Cousin Jane began to
understand the truth of all Mr. Plunkett urged against it.
She was scarcely conscious of what worked the change in her mind. It
was just an effect which people she did not like always had upon her;
and while Nessa was pleading Murtagh's cause with Mr. Plunkett, she
found herself growing almost reconciled to leaving him behind.
At length she stood up to go, saying to Mr. Plunkett:
"Well, I shall tell them it is your doing. I'm sure I would never have
the heart to do it by myself."
Mr. Plunkett was rather pleased that the children should know the
punishment came through him, and he assented willingly. It was a great
relief to Cousin Jane to find any one upon whom she could lay her
responsibility, and on her return she took refuge in saying that she
could not help it. Mr. Plunkett was determined they should not go. She
had been down to him to ask him again, and she could not do any more.
Of all the children Frankie seemed to feel most keenly the slight put
upon Murtagh, though after the first indignant outburst he avoided
with a kind of shrinking pain any allusion to his departure. Unable
to remain outside the heart of any one he loved, he understood and
forgave his mother, and by his redoubled tenderness to Murtagh, and the
wistful, yearning looks with which he followed him about, he seemed to
ask Murtagh to forgive her, too.
Greatly distressed by Frankie's trouble, Murtagh tried to console him,
showing himself perfectly cordial with Cousin Jane, and pretending
that he did not care so very much for the disappointment. Winnie, too,
did her very best, but Frankie was not to be comforted. He seemed to
have some secret reason for his depression, and though he followed
their footsteps like a shadow, he paid no heed to their attempts at
consolation.
The natural result of his trouble was that he became ill, and his
mother in despair was twenty times on the point of changing her mind.
But Emma told her that that was nonsense; as for Frankie's health, the
best thing she could do was to get him away to the sea at once.
So Cousin Jane, notwithstanding many tears and protestations of
affection to Frankie, held to her resolution, and the day of their
departure drew near.
But Frankie grew more and more ill, and the sight of his grief rendered
his little cousins more determinedly and bitterly indignant against Mr.
Plunkett. There was no reason why they should not express as openly as
they pleased their opinions of his conduct, and they railed against him
in turn, as with each day their angry resentment of the injustice grew
stronger.
Nessa was so troubled by their state of mind that she asked Mr. Blair
to interfere so far at least as to establish a clear understanding that
Cousin Jane might take the children if she chose. But he was tired of
children and their concerns, and he only laughed at her a little, and
told her that when people are in Ireland they must do as the Irish
do--leave things to take care of themselves. It would all come right as
soon as Cousin Jane was gone.
Royal was the only refuge. He was always good-humored, always ready
to entice the children to play. He seemed to understand quite well
that they were in trouble, and to want to comfort them. When they were
talking angrily he would stand looking up into their faces with a
sort of half-puzzled, half-coaxing expression, that seemed to say: "I
can't understand a single word. What is the good of it all? Come and
play with me," and his invitation was almost always successful. Winnie
seldom could resist him long.
The moment he saw signs of relaxing in her face he would wag his tail
and bound away, looking back to see if she were coming. Then, if
she did not come at once, he would stop suddenly and stand with his
forepaws spread wide apart, his head down and his tail up, saying as
plainly as action could say it, "You can't catch me; now just try if
you can."
That invitation was always irresistible; the children would rush after
him in a body, and generally dog and children were in another moment
rolling over together in a heap. Then Royal would shake himself free,
and bound off again to have the same rolling repeated further on, till
the children forgot their troubles in a sheer romp.
The day before Cousin Jane's departure especially his success was
unbounded. Nessa was sitting in the schoolroom window watching the
children on the lawn, and she saw him try his process of consolation.
The children were talking together apparently about Frankie's going,
for they looked exceedingly gloomy. Royal gamboled round the group
trying to coax first one and then another to play with him. Winnie
at last knelt down, and throwing one arm round his neck seemed to be
telling him their troubles. He stood quite still for a moment looking
into her face. Then he sprang away, and stood wagging his tail and
looking back so roguishly that Winnie was proof against him no longer.
She bounded after him, and in another minute was lying on the ground
with Royal standing over her, playfully hitting him with her little
brown fists, while he rolled her from side to side with his muzzle.
The others rushed forward, and Royal in his turn was rolled over on
the grass. He was up in a minute, and ready to revenge himself. The
children's grievance was forgotten, and with merry peals of laughter
they raced from side to side of the lawn, over the empty flower-beds,
up to the house, down to the river's edge,--one minute attacking, the
next running away from the dog.
But suddenly in the midst of the laughter there came a great splash in
the river, and a sharp cry arose from three or four of the children:
"Fetch her, Royal; fetch her!"
Nessa knew that the river was not very deep; but the children were
excited, and in one of the pools, if they lost their heads--In an
instant she was on the bank. Quick as she was, Royal was quicker. By
the time she reached the children Winnie was standing dripping upon the
grass--laughing, panting, sputtering the water out of her mouth, and
rubbing it out of her eyes, while the others crowded round Royal with
many exclamations of delight.
Nessa's anxious face was received with peals of laughter. She asked
Winnie if she were hurt, but at that Winnie only laughed the more, till
at last Rosie explained:
"She didn't tumble in; she did it on purpose. We wanted to see whether
Royal would fetch her out."
"And then he did!"
"Isn't he a beauty! Did you ever know such a perfect dog?"
"It's just the same as if he had saved her life, because he thought
she'd tumbled in by accident!"
"Murtagh said Newfoundland dogs would! Oh, Winnie, you are lucky to
have him for your own."
"There, now, Miss Rosie; who was right, you or Murtagh?"
"Did he bite, Winnie?"
All the children were speaking at once, pouring out a volley of
cross-questions and remarks, interspersed with laughter and caresses of
Royal. But they managed to hear Nessa, as trying to forget fright she
replied laughingly:
"You are a set of reckless monkeys; come in and do penance now by
changing your clothes."
It was, however, only a transient gleam of brightness. They went out
again after tea while Frankie was at dinner, but they found the merry
fit was over. The gloom of Frankie's approaching departure surrounded
them. Their attempt at a game was a failure, and they soon wandered in
again to watch for him as he came out of the dining-room.
The evening passed sadly. Frankie was tired and depressed; Cousin
Jane reproaching herself for having waited till so late in the season
to take Frankie to Torquay, and unable to conceal her anxiety at
the prospect of the approaching voyage; the children were gloomily
indignant.
By reason of the inconvenient hours of the trains the traveling party
was obliged to start at an early hour in the morning, and at six
o'clock the children were up to see it off.
The hall fire had not yet been made up for the day: yesterday's gray
embers smoldered in the hearth; and in the dreary light of the one
lamp Brown had put in the hall, they stood and watched the boxes being
brought down.
The door was open, outside it was still dark, and a fine rain was
falling which made the raw morning air damp and unpleasantly cold.
The children shivered as they waited, but Cousin Jane did not keep them
long. She came down first with Frankie to let him say good-by to his
cousins while Emma was occupied with last preparations. Poor Cousin
Jane's natural good nature triumphed at the last moment. She seemed to
have provided herself with half-crowns innumerable, and as she kissed
all the children she insisted on shoveling big silver pieces into their
hands. She said she hoped at all events to bring Frankie back for a
long visit in the spring, and as she bade Murtagh good-by, she added
warmly:
"I am very sorry you're not coming with us, Murtagh, and I'm sure
Frankie's as sorry as you are. Well, it's not my fault; I'd a great
deal rather have taken you than have you all disappointed."
The last words were perhaps more true than judicious, but at the moment
Emma came down, and Cousin Jane went to arrange the carriage for
Frankie.
It turned out to be a long process, and while the others gathered round
the carriage Frankie stood with Murtagh and Winnie in the deep window
recess, silently looking out at the wet steps and the dark figures
faintly illuminated by the yellow light of the carriage lamps.
The three little hearts were very full, but not a word was spoken till
at last Cousin Jane called, "Come now, sonnie! we're nearly ready."
At the sound of her voice Frankie turned slowly away from the
window; then, throwing his arms round Murtagh's neck, he kissed him
passionately three or four times. "Good-by," he whispered, "good-by!"
But there seemed to be something else he wanted to say. His deep
brown eyes were fixed upon Murtagh's face with a wistful, yearning
earnestness that made Murtagh, with one of his sudden impulses of
tenderness, pass his arm round Frankie's neck and whisper, "Never mind,
you'll soon come back!"
Winnie, who had been watching the preparations with a half-angry
feeling, suddenly felt a choking lump rise in her throat. She took one
of Frankie's hands, but Frankie seemed scarcely to notice her, and,
drawing a long breath, he continued in a rapid whisper:
"Myrrh, I must tell you now, because perhaps this is the last. I think
I'm dying; and I'm very glad, because you'll be much richer. They told
me about it when they wanted me to get well. And if I die before I come
back, you're to have my pony, and Winnie has Royal. And--and you won't
forget all about me, because I do love you so!" His voice faltered, and
neither Winnie nor Murtagh could speak. "I will always remember you
there," he added in a still lower whisper; "being dead can't make me
forget."
One last silent kiss from both the children, and he went slowly
towards the carriage trying to hide his emotion from his mother and
sister. Murtagh and Winnie forgot that any one was there, and tears
trickled unheeded over their cheeks as they stood together on the
threshold watching the little wasted figure descend the steps.
Royal was standing by the carriage. He understood the meaning of the
boxes, and looked wistfully from his little master to Winnie as if
uncertain which to forsake. Frankie stooped and kissed him. "Good-by,
Royal," he said; "you are hers now; mind you take good care of her.
Winnie," with a faint attempt to smile as he turned again to his
cousins, "I know you'll take good care of him."
The carriages drove away, and Brown not noticing the two children, shut
the hall door. They stood on the wet steps looking through the darkness
at the swiftly disappearing lights. They were too shocked and, as it
were, stunned by Frankie's words to be able to realize all at once what
they meant; but slowly, slowly, the full meaning dawned upon them.
They were never to see little Frankie again. They had said their last
good-by.
"Win, it can't be true! it can't be true!" exclaimed Murtagh.
"Oh, Myrrh, isn't it _dreadful_ being children?" cried Winnie. "We
can't go with him. Oh, I do hate Mr. Plunkett. I do hate him, so I do!"
And Winnie, who seldom cried, threw herself down on the steps in a
passion of tears.