Murtagh in the meantime wandered alone through the woods above the
island. The defense of the hut was quite forgotten, and every other
feeling was cut short by horror. The shock of Royal's death had been
so sudden, so totally inconceivable beforehand, that it was only with
great difficulty he could realize it now. His mind seemed in a measure
benumbed. He went backwards and forwards through the woods with his
hands thrust deep into his pockets. Dead leaves fluttered down upon
his bare head and lay in golden drift on either side as his feet cut
furrows through the gathered layers, sunlight glinted through the
branches, a few birds were singing in the clear air; but it might have
been snowing for all Murtagh knew to the contrary.
A kind of instinct to be with Winnie in her trouble led his footsteps
after a time back to where she had been left, and the first outward
sounds which woke him from his abstraction were her violent sobs. A
thin screen of branches had prevented him from seeing her as he came
up, but now he looked through it and saw her lying upon the ground, her
arms thrown round Royal, her face buried in his dark curly coat, and
her whole body shaken with emotion.
"Royal, darling, you're not dead! You can't be dead, really!" she cried
passionately. Then, as her own sobs were the only sound and Royal lay
stiff and cold beneath them, she wailed out, "How could he do it? How
could he murder you?"
"Don't cry so, Win," he said, laying his face down on her head.
After a minute Winnie replied between her sobs: "Go away, please. I'd
rather be here. You can't ever make him alive again!"
For one moment she raised a face so swollen and tear-stained that
Murtagh was startled at the sight of it; but shaking back her hair she
dropped again into her former position with such evident desire to be
alone that Murtagh got up and went slowly into the wood.
He never remembered to have seen Winnie cry so and he could not bear to
think of her alone there without any comfort. He did not venture back
to her again, but he wandered about near where she lay, trying to think
of something to do to comfort her. At last he could bear it no longer,
and after watching her for a long time he called almost timidly:
"Win!"
She did not move. He called her a little louder, then a third and a
fourth time, but still she gave no kind of answer. His heart stood
still with a vague fear, and, scarcely knowing what he expected to see,
he went close and gently lifted some of the brown hair that fell in
confusion over her shoulder. She was fast asleep. Her head still rested
upon Royal's shaggy curls, one arm was thrown round him, and the little
face looked so white upon its rough black pillow that Murtagh bent very
close before he could feel sure that she was only asleep. Then he could
hardly have explained the relief that he felt. He thought he would go
and get Nessa to come before she wakened again, so he left her and went
towards the house.
But the day was far from finished yet; there was worse to come.
As he got down into the pleasure ground he was met by Rosie, her face
swollen and stained with crying.
"Oh, Murtagh!" she exclaimed. "Where have you been all day? I've been
hunting for you everywhere to tell you. Poor Frankie's dead; it came by
the telegraph to-day."
She burst out crying again as she spoke, but Murtagh did not. He looked
at her blankly as though he did not take in the sense of the words, and
then he said, "What?"
"Frankie's dead," she repeated, "and they never thought it would be so
sudden."
"Where's Nessa?" said poor Murtagh, with a confused, bewildered feeling
that she would somehow contradict this.
"In the drawing-room," replied Rosie, and she turned and followed
Murtagh.
"Don't you want to cry, Murtagh?" she asked curiously, after a minute.
"Bobbo is crying so, poor fellow, up in his own room. It is so
dreadful, too, isn't it, to think--" Here her tears overpowered her
again and she spoke no more.
At the drawing-room door Murtagh was met by Nessa. He could not speak,
and she, seeing that he knew all, just put her arms round him and
kissed him tenderly.
For an instant he clung to her, and a great sob shook his body, but
then he disengaged himself and looked up still dry-eyed.
"Winnie," he said; "come to her while she's asleep. And--and don't tell
her, or she won't come away all night."
"You'll be cold. I'll go and fetch your--" He put his hands up to
his temples with a dazed kind of expression as though he could not
remember the words he wanted, and added with an effort--"your coat and
things."
He rushed up the stairs and returned with Nessa's hat and jacket. He
helped her into them, and then they set off together for the wood.
Nessa stretched out her hand for his, and they went hand in hand the
whole way, but something in Murtagh's manner prevented a word from
being spoken.
It was almost dark when they reached the spot where Royal lay. They
found Winnie still lying beside him, but she was awake now and seemed
calmer. She sat up when she saw them; Nessa knelt down beside her and
kissed her; and though her tears began to flow again they were quieter
and more natural.
"You must come home now, dear," said Nessa after a little time, gently
laying her cheek against the troubled face that rested upon her
shoulder, and almost unconsciously tightening the clasp of her arms as
she thought of the new trouble waiting at home.
Murtagh had stood watching them in silence, and now he only said, "We
will cover him with branches." He picked a branch of fir as he spoke
and gently laid it upon Royal's body. But there was in his tone such
resolute putting on one side of his own grief, such perfect patient
tenderness for Winnie, that Nessa could contain her tears no longer,
and she fairly sobbed.
She recovered herself immediately, and her tears served to compose
Winnie, who kissed her and got up and helped Murtagh to put the
covering upon Royal. The last branch was soon laid upon his head, and
then Winnie went slowly away with Nessa. But Murtagh stayed behind
and plunged again into the wood, where flinging himself upon the
ground, he gave way to all his grief. It was not only grief for Frankie
which brought those short fierce sobs and then the long bursts of
tears--tears that ran down unheeded into the ground on which he lay. It
was everything altogether that made the child so supremely miserable.
How long he lay there he did not know, but night had come when at last
sick and exhausted he sat up and leaned against a tree.
It was time to be going home, but he could not face the schoolroom
full of children. He would sleep there, he thought; and he was lying
down again at the foot of the tree, when it occurred to him that the
hut would be a better place. So he got up, and with some difficulty,
because of the darkness, he crossed the river and groped his way to
where the little island path made an opening in the thick brushwood.
He drew himself up the bank and advanced slowly, stretching out his
hands to feel for the door. He groped about unable, of course, to find
it, till presently his foot struck against something, a covered fire
apparently, for a shower of sparks flew upwards. He jumped to one side,
and a bright blaze flaming out displayed to his astounded eyes the
scattered rubbish, which was all that remained of their beloved hut.
The stones had been taken away, but the door and broken pieces of the
roof lay there upon the ground.
"The coward! he has taken advantage of--"
"Ay, and it isn't only your little play-place he's turned you out
of," said a familiar voice behind him in the bushes, "but my father
and mother's to be turned out of the place they've held backwards and
forwards this hundred years, because they can't pay the rent since it's
riz upon them last Michaelmas."
Murtagh started and turned round to see Pat O'Toole standing in the
full blaze of the firelight.
"Oh, Pat, Pat," he cried, springing towards him, "you've come back at
last!"
"I couldn't stop away at all," he replied. "I was up in the mountains,
and one and another of the boys gave me food, but I used to come down
o' nights, an' one night my mother was out fetching the goat, and the
tears were running down as she walked along, and so I couldn't help
it at all, but I just up and told her I was there. And look here, Mr.
Murtagh," he continued, dropping his voice and coming closer, "the boys
say he isn't a bit o' good, and now he's riz the rents there's the
Dalys'll have to go out, an' the Cannons; and there's many'll die o'
distress with the winter coming on, and the bad potatoes an' all; an'
I've been watchin' for you because I thought ye'd help me. And look
here, Mr. Murtagh, if ye'll get me a gun some way, I'll shoot him and
ha' done with it."
Pat's voice sank into a fierce, hoarse whisper as he ended, and his
face was bent down close to Murtagh's. Murtagh did not answer at once;
he could hardly believe that he was not dreaming, and Pat continued:
"It's a benefactor you'll be to the country. There's many and many a
one'll bless you far an' wide. There's Jim Cannon, brother to Cannon
down beyant there, has his wife and children in the Union, and he's
wanderin' about, daren't come home and do a bit o' decent work because
Plunkett's informed against him for a Fenian.
"And there's Mike Coyle and his wife and children had to turn out and
shift for themselves, because he wouldn't let the old man keep them
with him at home in his own place. And there's my mother and father
turned out of a place we've had from one to another this hundred year;
and Johnny Worsted taken from his work, and his old father and mother
dependin' upon him, and sent to prison, for nothing in the world but
knocking over a couple o' little hares. And look now, Mr. Murtagh,"
he added, dropping his voice again to a cautious whisper, "if he was
killed out o' the way it'd all come right, and I told the boys how
we were bound together in a tribe like, and you'd never fail us in
a pinch. There's many and many a heart'll be made glad through the
country. Isn't he oppressin' every one of us, and changin' all the old
ways that was good enough for them as was better than him? And look at
yerselves; isn't it just the same way with yez? Isn't he tyrannizin'
over yez, and doesn't mind a word anybody spakes to him, but only
havin' everything his own way? He doesn't care for any one's feelin's!
Just look at the way he massacrated Miss Winnie's beautiful dog this
mornin', and she nearly cried her heart out over it. But he don't
care, he'd do it again to-morrow; and only took advantage of ye bein'
thinkin' o' that, to come and pull down your hut that was built before
ever he came here."
Pat's words stirred up all the fierce passion of last night, and the
feelings with which he had heard Nessa's story surged up again in his
heart. As he listened the blood went coursing swiftly through his
veins. Was not this a way to end it all? All the country round was
suffering as they were. The people looked to him to help them; would
not this be doing something indeed for freedom? He never in the least
realized what it was; how could he, a child of eleven? But it presented
itself vaguely to him as a grand and terrible action. Something in him
spoke loudly against Pat's reasoning, but so thoroughly was his whole
nature warped by the excitement of the last month that he mistook his
true instinct for cowardice, asking himself if John of Procida would
have hesitated so.
And while his decision was hanging thus in the balance, Pat brought
before him the picture of Winnie's grief and Mr. Plunkett's
indifference. The remembrance flashed through his mind of Hickey's
words in the morning--"It would serve old Plunkett right to be shot
with the very same gun," and with a sudden gust of passion he decided.
"Yes," he said, "I'll do it! You shall have the very gun he shot Royal
with."
"I knew ye'd help us!" replied Pat, exultingly. "I told the boys you
wouldn't fail us; ye have too much o' the real old spirit in ye."
It was done; he had given his promise; but if he had only hesitated one
minute longer all might have been different. Pat had only just answered
when a sound of scrambling on the other bank made Murtagh exclaim in a
hurried whisper, "Hide!" and there was barely time for Pat to conceal
himself in the bushes before Bobbo appeared followed by Nessa.
Poor little Nessa looked very white and tired, and a faint struggle to
smile died away in the attempt.
"I was nervous," she said; "I could not go to bed while you were out,
so Bobbo came with me. He thought you would be here. Will you not come
in now?"
"Yes," said Murtagh, "I'll come; you go on first."
Nessa looked at him in some surprise. She had expected to find him
prostrated with grief in some out-of-the-way corner, but here he was
standing up by a blazing fire, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes bright
with excitement. He really was incomprehensible.
"Our hut gone!" exclaimed Bobbo in dismay, standing still and surveying
the ruins. "He can't have been so mean--To take it to-day!" And with
the remembrance of all the day's troubles the tears came into his eyes.
"Yes," said Murtagh. Then in a hurried loud voice he continued: "Never
mind; let us go home. Get on the stones and help Nessa down."
His manner half frightened Nessa; she wondered whether he were ill. She
followed Bobbo, however, and Pat, putting his head out from his place
of concealment, whispered to Murtagh:
"To-morrow night, here."
"All right, here!" Murtagh replied, and he hastened after the others.
Nessa put her hand through his arm as they walked along. Murtagh knew
that she meant it partly as a caress, and he almost wished she would
not. He was in no mood for caresses. They spoke little. Murtagh asked
what time it was, and was told it must be eleven now. They had waited
till ten, Nessa said, before they started to look for him.
As they were nearing home, Murtagh roused himself with an effort from
his thoughts.
"Poor Nessa!" he said; "you must be nearly dead tramping about like
this. Why did you come for me?--I'd have done very well out there."
"I couldn't have you out there. I did not know where you were; I was
frightened." And there was a little tremble in Nessa's voice that
melted away a good deal of Murtagh's excitement.
In the schoolroom he found a little table prepared for supper.
"You have eaten nothing all day," said Nessa, and she insisted upon his
sitting down and trying to eat while she made some tea from a kettle
that stood boiling on the hob.
To please her he tried to eat, and under the influence of her gentle
ways and little tender cares he grew quieter and quieter. At last he
asked hesitatingly "if she had told Winnie yet?"
"Yes," she replied. "It was no use to keep it for the poor child to
hear in the morning. When she was in bed, I told her."
Murtagh sat looking into the fire for a few minutes with tears
glistening in his eyes, and then he asked:
"What did she--"
"Poor little thing!--she could not believe it at first, and then, then
it was very sad. She seemed to feel so much about Frankie having given
her Royal; it made it worse for her. She has cried herself to sleep
again now. I went in to look at her before we came out."
"I think I'll go to bed," he said in a choked voice.
"Good night, dear!" and she held him tight in her arms for a moment as
she kissed him.
Her tenderness brought back all the soft natural grief for his cousin,
and he cried himself to sleep with his mind full of thoughts of
Frankie's dear loving ways.