He tossed and tumbled all night long, wakening Bobbo sometimes, and
frightening him by the wild things he called out in his sleep, and
next morning when he woke he was in such a state of nervous exaltation
as made even Bobbo's companionship almost too painful to be borne.
Only now did he fully realize that his share in this enterprise was
done, and the greatness of the catastrophe he was helping to bring
about seemed to begin to dawn upon him as the time for its fulfilment
approached. His heart thumped against his side; his lips and hands were
hot and dry. How was he to spend his day in the companionship of the
others without betraying himself?
He knew that he could not keep away from them all day without causing
remark and perhaps search; so he tried to force himself to feel calmer,
and when the breakfast bell summoned him to the dining-room, he went in
and took his usual seat at the table.
But so startling was his appearance that Nessa exclaimed anxiously,
"Murtagh dear, you are ill!"
His uncle looked up, and was shocked, too, at the face that his eyes
rested upon.
"Why, my boy," he said kindly, "what is the matter with you? Do you
feel pain anywhere?"
"I am quite well, thank you," said Murtagh. His uncle continued to look
anxiously at him. Nessa said no more, but put a cup of tea beside his
plate, laying her hand for one instant on his head as she passed back
to her own seat. Her touch thrilled through him in a way that was
almost pain. He drank some of the tea, and then his heart began to beat
less rapidly; so that when his uncle asked him if he had slept well, he
was able to answer more naturally, "Yes, thank you."
"Awfully queerly!" said Bobbo; "you were shouting out all sorts of
things all the time!"
His uncle made no remark, and breakfast proceeded in silence. But when
it was over Mr. Blair called Nessa back and told her that she had
better send for the doctor and let him see Murtagh.
"It can do no harm, at all events," he said, "and the child looks ill."
Breakfast had done Murtagh good, but he was in a state of feverish
unrest.
Every distant banging of a door, every step in the passage, every
sudden raising of voices, caused his heart almost to stand still with
expectation, for in his excitement yesterday evening he had not quite
clearly understood whether Pat did or did not intend to change the
plan of action he had described. All he knew was that he had done his
share, he had given the gun, and now at any moment Mr. Plunkett might
be killed with it.
He did not shrink, but as the time approached his mind had become so
filled with the horror of the deed that he felt not one grain of the
exultation he had expected. There came once or twice underneath all a
pricking doubt which for the moment turned his state of expectation
into agony.
Could it be that he was all wrong? Yesterday evening Pat had crushed
the dawning of this thought by the assertion that it was a doubt only
worthy of a child, and by the tales of injustice with which he had so
adroitly proceeded to fill Murtagh's mind. But it was impossible,
quite, to shake off the conviction that it must be cowardly to shoot at
a man in the dark when he suspects no danger.
Twice during the morning this conviction grew so strong as almost to
make the whole truth flash upon Murtagh, but he rejected it. Pat's way
of doing it might be cowardly, but the deed itself must be great.
The morning passed away; the terrible news that Murtagh was expecting
did not come; and it was just luncheon time when Rosie, returning from
a message to Nessa's room, remarked that Mr. Plunkett had been looking
over papers in the study all day, and that some lunch had just gone up
for him on Uncle Blair's tray. Then it had not happened yet, and it
could not happen for some time to come. Murtagh scarcely knew if he
were relieved to hear it, but the strain of momentary expectation was
gone, and he began to feel tolerably sure now that Pat intended to keep
to the plan he had described.
After a time, Murtagh, who had remained standing by the drawing-room
window, heard through the open door the sound of Mr. Plunkett's voice
and Mr. Blair's as they advanced towards the hall door. They were not
thinking of him apparently, for they were talking of some business
matter. Mr. Plunkett went out, and Mr. Blair called after him, "Seven
o'clock dinner, remember, Plunkett."
As Murtagh stood watching Mr. Plunkett walk briskly away over the
grass, all his horror of the way Pat had chosen for the execution of
his plan came back upon him in full force. Surely, surely, it was
treacherous to kill a man in the dark, when he was on the way home
from your very own house. He stood immovable, his eyes fixed upon
Mr. Plunkett, his head feeling as though it were really turning with
conflicting thoughts. Then some words of his uncle's fell upon his
ears. He was talking to Nessa in the hall.
"Yes, all things considered," he was saying, "it is strange, isn't it,
little one, that that man should be risking his life every day for
Murtagh's benefit?"
"How do you mean for Murtagh?" she asked.
"I thought I had told you how he constantly receives threatening
letters in consequence of the improvements he is making in the estate.
Many of these improvements will bear no fruit till long after my time,
and now that poor little Frankie is gone, Murtagh is the person who
will profit by them. I remarked that to Plunkett to-day, when he was
talking to me about this ejectment business, and I asked him why he
went on with it. He said, 'It is my duty, sir.'" Mr. Blair had spoken
slowly, and he ended with a little sigh.
"But surely, Uncle Blair," asked Nessa, "they could never really shoot
him?"
"I believe," replied Mr. Blair, "that if it were not well known that he
always carries a loaded pistol, he would be shot at to-morrow. Now the
risk is too great, for they know that if they miss him he is not likely
to miss them. His perfect fearlessness is greatly in his favor."
"O dear, what a terrible, dreadful, place!" sighed Nessa.
On his side of the drawing-room door, Murtagh stood horror-stricken at
the revelation that Mr. Plunkett was deliberately risking his life for
his benefit at the time that he was consenting to a plot to kill Mr.
Plunkett. He understood only in the vaguest manner how it came about
that it was for his benefit; still the mere fact that Mr. Plunkett knew
the danger and braved it deliberately, was in itself enough to arouse
in that impulsive little heart something akin to sympathy. Every
generous feeling in him was set at war with what Pat was going to do,
but still he felt with an acuteness of suffering beyond his years that
the cause of the people was just the same. If it had been right before
that Mr. Plunkett should die, it was right now. It had become odious
in him to have helped Pat, but Pat was just as right as ever, and in
passionate defense of him he entered the hall, exclaiming:
"Nessa, you and Uncle Blair don't know how he does things. You don't
know how he turns the people out of their houses, and sends them to
prison for nothing, and sees them starving in the winter-time and
doesn't care. No wonder they hate him. No wonder they want to kill him!
Every one says if Uncle Blair would go about himself, things would be
very different. He may make money, but oh! I wish it could never be for
me. I would rather starve than have that money that's robbed from them."
"He is not robbing them!" exclaimed Nessa, opening her great gray eyes
indignantly; "and even if he were, it's too dreadful hating like that
and watching to kill people. I'd rather be oppressed all my life than
be guilty of a cowardly murder."
"It's only what the Sicilians did," answered Murtagh. "It's not right
that a tyrant should go on doing what he pleases."
"It's not what the Sicilians did," returned Nessa; "they fought a brave
hand-to-hand struggle; they did not secretly murder a man who was going
fearlessly about amongst them; and what they did do they did only after
having tried every other means in their power. Besides, they fought
against real tyranny, and Mr. Plunkett is not tyrannizing over these
people; I know he is not, Murtagh. Uncle Blair has told me about it
lots of times. He's trying all he can to make things better for the
people, only they are so unreasonable; they expect to have everything
done for them, and they don't want to give anything in exchange. It is
quite fair when a lot of expensive improvements have been made that the
rent should be raised; and then when people are drunken and worthless
and won't take care of their land, of course they _have_ to be turned
out. Mr. Plunkett may be disagreeable," she added, "but I don't see why
they need hate him for that. We hate people, I suppose, when they are
wicked; but he isn't wicked; they are wicked when they can think for
one minute of such mean, cowardly revenge."
"You don't know, Nessa. He is wicked. He must be wicked. You'll drive
me perfectly mad if you talk like that. I believe everything's all
wrong together and nothing ever can be right."
And with this confused utterance of the despair that was fast
possessing him Murtagh would have rushed away out of doors, but Nessa
caught him in her arms, and thinking that her indignation had hurt him,
exclaimed penitently:
"Murtagh dear, I didn't mean you. Of course I never meant that for one
minute. I know very well that whatever else you are, you could never be
cruel and cowardly."
He did not speak; he had no right to her faith, no right to her love.
He disengaged himself as quickly as he could and rushed away, he didn't
care where--anywhere, anywhere to escape from the thoughts that came
hurrying upon him now.
If only he had had the slightest idea where Pat was to be found he
would have gone to him, and insisted that it should be done openly. But
he had not. He only knew that he was not to be on the island.
Scarcely knowing where he went, Murtagh nevertheless kept near the Red
House, declaring to himself that things must now take their course, but
at the same time feeling as though he in some measure protected Mr.
Plunkett by keeping close to him.
At last he threw himself upon the ground under a hedge, and he had not
been there many minutes when steps and voices on the other side roused
him from his miserable struggle.
He sat up, discovered that he was sitting under the hedge of Mr.
Plunkett's back garden, and as he began to take note of external
things, he became aware that Mr. Plunkett was walking along the path on
the other side of the hedge, carrying his little daughter in his arms.
There were gaps in the thickness of the hedge, and Murtagh could see
the pair quite distinctly. The child's head rested lovingly upon her
father's shoulder, the golden hair scattered a little over his sleeve.
One arm was round his neck, and the delicate little face was illumined
by that look of perfect contentment which is almost more beautiful than
a smile.
[Illustration: "MR. PLUNKETT WAS WALKING ALONG THE PATH ON THE OTHER
SIDE OF THE HEDGE."]
"How nice it is that you are so strong, Fardie," she said caressingly,
as they passed close by Murtagh.
"Are you comfortable, dear?" asked Mr. Plunkett.
"Yes, very," she replied, with a little sigh of pleasure.
They took one turn in silence down the path and back again. Then little
Marion spoke again, but this time there was a troubled sound in her
voice.
"Don't be late to-night, father, will you?"
"Not very, my pet," replied Mr. Plunkett; "but you must be sound asleep
long before I come."
"I'll shut up my eyes and try, Fardie, but I can't go to sleep when
you're out because--" And here the little voice trembled and stopped
short.
"Because what, dear?" said Mr. Plunkett, bending his head a little so
that his cheek touched her forehead.
"Because I think such dreadful things when I'm in the dark, and I get
so dreadfully, dreadfully frightened, Fardie, lest those wicked men
might kill you!"
The last words came out in a low tone, as though she feared that
uttering them might make what she dreaded more probable, and putting
her other arm up round her father's neck she clung to him tightly.
"Who let you hear of such things?" exclaimed Mr. Plunkett, in the stern
voice that Murtagh knew well.
"Mother often cries when you're out," said Marion; "and she says
perhaps you'll be brought in dead! But, Fardie, you mustn't, because I
_couldn't_ bear it!"
Mr. Plunkett did not speak immediately; then he said:
"My little daughter, you mustn't mind everything you hear people say,
but if such a thing ever did happen, you will be my own brave child,
won't you?--and you will like to think afterwards that your father died
at his work!"
"No, no, Fardie, I couldn't be brave then!" cried Marion. "I couldn't
stay alive with only mother! You won't let them do it? Promise, father!"
At that moment "mother's" voice made itself heard, calling: "Marion,
Marion, come in! How could you keep her out so late, James?"
"No, no, my pet; they shan't do it if I can help it!" replied Mr.
Plunkett, kissing her and hastily setting her down. "Now put all such
ideas out of your head, and run in to your mother; she's calling you."
The child went slowly away and Mr. Plunkett looking after her said
sadly:
"My poor little one, I suppose it will come upon you some day soon; and
yet, God knows, I am doing the best I can for them!"
He spoke to himself, but the words were loud enough to reach Murtagh's
ears, and they told him more than years of explanations could have done.
For the moment he felt as if he could almost have loved Mr. Plunkett.
He dashed out of the ditch and away across the park. Find Pat he must
and would. He saw it all in its true light now! How could he have
helped in such a fiendish plan?
It was easier to determine to find Pat than to find him. In the woods
by the island, on every island in their part of the river, in the
shrubberies, in every clump of trees that dotted the park, he searched
but searched in vain; and while he looked it grew dark.
But though he hurried from place to place he was comparatively calm
now. He had quite made up his mind what to do, and his energy was the
energy of resolution. He was not going to betray Pat by warning Mr.
Plunkett if he could help it, and having thoroughly searched the park,
he watched Mr. Plunkett without any fear as he crossed it on his way to
dinner.
Then he entered the house, and fetching himself a cup of milk and some
bread from the servants' hall he sat quietly enough upon the door-step
while he ate it. Mr. Plunkett would not return home till ten o'clock,
so there was a long anxious time to wait before Pat was likely to be
found, and as Murtagh sat upon the step he planned with an almost
curious calmness all that must come after.
Pat must be helped somehow. The only way would be, Murtagh thought, to
tell his uncle all. Then he hoped things would be put properly right
for Pat, and it was with a lighter heart than he had had for a long
time that he got up to continue his search.
But the night was pitch dark, and towards half-past nine he was still
unsuccessful. He was keeping careful watch upon the time, and the
suspense now grew painfully intense, for he knew that if he had not
discovered Pat when the stable clock rung out a quarter to ten, there
would be nothing for it but to warn Mr. Plunkett. Was Pat not coming at
all? and if not, where and how should he ever find him?
At last he began to call gently, "Pat, Pat!" and after a minute a
cautious, "Whisht, sir!" from some bushes on his right told him that
Pat was there.
He bounded forward. "I began to think that I should never find you!" he
exclaimed. "Here, give me the gun! Oh, Pat, to think how awfully near
we were doing it!"
But Pat started back, holding the gun tightly, and asked in a tone
different from any he had ever used to Murtagh before, "What is it
you're meaning?"
"We were dreadfully wicked, really; he's not half so bad as we thought,
and it would have been just a cowardly murder," said Murtagh, his voice
conveying the horror that he felt.
"I don't care what it is," said Pat. "I'm going to do it this night."
"You shan't touch him," replied Murtagh. "You don't understand. He
isn't half so bad as we thought. This isn't the way; give me the gun."
"Look here, Mr. Murtagh, I don't want to hurt ye," replied Pat, in a
fierce whisper, "but if ye offer to touch that gun, I'll have to give
ye a knock that'll keep you quiet till it's all over."
"Are you mad, Pat? I tell you we were all wrong." And Murtagh stretched
out his hand for the gun.
"Right or wrong, it's all one to me. I won't stir out o' this till he's
as dead as a door-nail."
"You shan't touch him with that gun; I got it, and I'll have it back,"
replied Murtagh. As he spoke he seized the gun, and half succeeded in
wrenching it from Pat's grasp. Pat struck out at him a blow that made
him reel back and loose his hold for a moment, but he sprang forward
and seized the gun again. Pat tried to wrench it from him. Murtagh hung
on with all his strength; the gun went off in the struggle. Almost
instantaneously there was a second report. Something whizzed through
the bushes, and before Murtagh had time to realize what had happened
Pat had fled and he was standing alone with the gun in his hands, a
curious stiff sensation numbing his left arm. He stood there for a few
seconds; then he sprang out of the bushes and hurried towards the house.
The hall was full of light and commotion. The children were out upon
the steps, the servants had come from the kitchen, Nessa and Mr. Blair
stood by Mr. Plunkett, who in a perfectly calm voice was desiring Brown
to bring him a lantern.
"I heard no sound after I fired," he added, turning to Mr. Blair, "but
if any one is wounded, we must get a doctor for him, and if--if it
should be worse--"
"I trust it is not, I trust it is not," interrupted Mr. Blair; "but if
it should be so, Plunkett, remember we were fully agreed beforehand
that what you have done was the right thing to do."
"It is all right," cried Murtagh; "you haven't hurt him, and here's
your gun; you're quite safe now."
His arm was hurting, and his head swam, so that he staggered and
almost fell as he held out the gun to Mr. Plunkett.
"And he never fired at you at all; it was when I was trying to get the
gun from him that it went off. But oh, do be _kinder_ to the people.
They don't know anything about just; and he doesn't understand now;
they _can't_ understand."
And the tension of that awful day over at last, the excitement died
suddenly out of Murtagh's face, and Mr. Plunkett had just time to catch
him in his arms as he fell fainting to the floor.