CHAPTER XIII. FLY-AWAY.
Daisy, in her way, without being in the least intellectual, and without having the smallest taste for the great and ennobling things of life, was neverless clever. She had the artfulness of the crooked mind, and she could carry out her designs with exactitude and promptness. She pretended to be frightened, but neither she nor Henny knew what fear was. Henny was, in some ways, the better character—that is, if stupidity could be called good. She could hate with great vigour; she never dreamt of love unless, indeed, she loved Daisy. She liked to listen to Daisy's designs, which were always mischievous and wicked, but she could not carry them out herself, although she would be faithful to her sister to the last drop of her blood.
Daisy was the only person who really belonged to her. She had therefore a certain passion for this queer, crabbed nature. Therefore, she was led by Daisy, who told her that she must pretend to be fond of father, and she did pretend. She would have flirted with Dominic if he had allowed her, but Dominic knew how to keep her at a distance. Try as she might, try as she would, she could not bridge the gulf which stood between her and him. That gulf also extended itself between Dominic and Daisy. The fact was that he was an exceedingly sharp lad; he read their characters aright and, as far as lay in his power, protected his dear little cousin Maureen and his sweet baby sister Kitty from their machinations. But even Dominic could not guess what was passing through Daisy's mind on that special evening. He only noticed that she was in particularly good spirits, that she and Henrietta laughed and joked and whispered, and presently that they became suddenly quiet and sat one at each side of the Rector on the old Chesterfield sofa. They petted the Rector a good deal, calling him "father" and "dear father" and "dearest dad" and "ownest duck," and the poor Rector endured their most unwelcome embraces and their silly words until finally, in despair, he asked Maureen to sing for him.
Maureen sat down to the upright Broadwood and sang that most haunting of all melodies:
"Rich and rare were the gems she wore
And a bright gold ring on her hand she bore;
But oh! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems and snow-white hand.
"'Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,
So lone and lovely thro' this bleak way,
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold
As not to be tempted by woman or gold?'
"'Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm;—
For tho' they love woman and golden store,
Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more.'
"On she went and her maiden smile
In safety carried her round the green isle;
And blest forever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride."
The girl's sweet, clear voice ceased. It died away in a soft wave of most exquisite melody; her brown eyes were full of tears. She raised them to Dominic's face; he was astonished at those rare tears. He had, oh! so seldom, seen Maureen cry.
The boy bent towards her with all the true chivalry of a true Irish knight and gentleman. "What is it, mavourneen?" he whispered.
"It is only that I am glad, oh! so glad, that my father was an Irish gentleman and soldier," she replied, in a voice as low as his.
By this time the conspirators, as they called themselves, had left the room.
"There, you saw for yourself," said Henny. "Did you ever come across such affectation?"
"Never," said Daisy; "never!"
"I'm ready for anything now," said Henny.
"Well," said Daisy. "I think everything is complete. Garry always locks the stable door at ten o'clock. He sleeps exactly overhead. I do hate that Garry."
"Well, go on, Daisy. Don't mind about your hates now!"
Daisy laughed spitefully.
"It is at the present moment," she said, "exactly a quarter to ten. I unlatched one of the windows in the stable to-day, and I secured a dark lantern, and I want you to come out with me and help to push me through the window. It is easily done, and I can fasten it, or push it to at least, when I come out again. I'll crouch in a dark corner, and when I know Garry has gone to bed I'll light the dark lantern and measure the drops of laudanum. I have brought mumsie's measuring glass and the bottle, and I stole the dark lantern to-day when I knew no one was looking. Then when Fly-away is eating his hot mash, I'll pour in the laudanum, eighteen drops. I'll give him his quietus, don't you fear!"
"Daisy, you are not to kill him!"
"Henny-penny, don't be such a fool. Of course I won't kill him; is it likely? You leave everything to your clever little sister, and by to-morrow morning we'll have that sweet 'Rich and rare' roaring and squealing and kicking her heels in the drawing-room; and then we must both pet her like anything and sympathise like anything. The horse will recover, of course, but he'll be bad for a bit. That's all. Didn't Miss Duncom tell me about the safe dose. I'm no fool. Only do come along!"
The girls slipped down the back-stairs and out into the yard. They were wearing dark cloaks, which completely covered their white dresses, and Daisy had her lantern, medicine glass, and bottle of laudanum all safely stowed away under her cloak. It was nearly ten o'clock. She hadn't a minute to spare. Making a desperate effort with the aid of Henny from behind, she pushed her way into the stable where the Arab neighed a trifle uneasily.
"I'm all right," she whispered to her sister. "The only thing is that I have broken the medicine glass. Well, I can easily guess the drops—sixteen. You get off to the house, Henny, or you'll be caught."
Henny scampered away, her heart palpitating with uneasiness. She saw a light under the drawing-room door as she sped by. The family had evidently not yet gone to bed. The Rector was reading some lovely poetry aloud, and Dominic and Maureen were listening. The Rector could read poetry like no man in the county. He was now delighting his young listeners with the "Prisoner of Chillon." His voice rose and swelled. Dominic stood up in a sort of rapture. As the pathos grew Maureen hid her little pale face against her uncle's sleeve. Whatever happened, she could not cry a second time that evening.
Meanwhile Daisy settled herself as comfortably as she could in the darkest corner of the stable. There was Fly-away's loose box close to her and a great bundle of hay for him to eat if he felt hungry. But he was a horse of perfectly regulated habits, and he invariably waited for his hot mash at ten o'clock.
The stable clock struck the hour, solemnly in great strokes. Fly-away pricked up his small ears. There came a sound outside—a man's step on the cobble-stones, then Garry entered with the mash, hot and delicious. He placed it just before the animal, stroked him affectionately on his black head and silky, satin-like sides, and said: "Good-night to ye, Fly-away. Slape well, my blessing." And then he left the stable, locking the door behind him.
Garry had intended to go into the kitchen for a bit, to have a chat with Pegeen and Burke, with both of whom he was a prime favourite, but something prompted him not to do it that night. He could not quite tell why. He said to himself afterwards that "he was sort of onaisy in his mind." He went up therefore at once to his bedroom and was preparing to go to rest when he saw something very peculiar and uncanny. It was no less than a streak of light, thin and like a shaft, which penetrated up through the beams of the roof of the stable and entered his room.
"May the Almighty presarve us," muttered the man. "Is it the pixies are about or what?"
He had not begun to undress. In a moment he had rushed down his step-ladder, and, going to the stable-door, unlocked it. Yes, he was in time—but only just in time. He saw a sight which he never forgot as long as he lived. He saw a girl with flaxen hair lit up to a very pale gold by means of the lantern. She was hastily uncorking a bottle of laudanum. She was so absorbed in her task, so much afraid of being interrupted and of not getting the deed done before Fly-away had finished his mash that a reckless spirit came over her.
She could not possibly wait to drop the laudanum into the mash, for the horse was eating rapidly and hungrily. Laying her dark lantern on the ground, she rushed into the loose box and dashed what she considered would be sixteen drops but what was in reality much more like three times that number, into the mash. Then with her dainty finger she stirred it round and round.
The horse, interrupted in his feed for the moment, was beginning to resume it when, like a flash, Garry took the basin that contained the hot mash, and put it outside on the cobble-stones, taking care, however, not to spill its contents. He then secured the girl's hand, the bottle of laudanum, which was really almost empty, and the dark lantern, and saying: "You come along o' me this minute!" he dragged the reluctant, terrified Daisy out of the place.
"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it!" she began to sob. "I was only going to give him a few drops. I wouldn't kill him for the world, nor would Henny. I wouldn't indeed! Oh, please, please, Garry, let me off; he hasn't touched one drop."
But Garry, though an Irishman, could on occasion be mute as though he was turned into stone. This was one of those occasions. The Rector had finished the "Prisoner of Chillon" and was repeating, as only he knew how,
"Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be.
Oh, hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!"
The two children were standing before him spell-bound with the ecstasy which his recitations of poetry always gave them. Suddenly in the brightly-lighted room there appeared Garry the groom, accompanied by a shrunken-up sort of girl, who was too much afraid to speak or look at any one. She would have rushed to the Rector for refuge, calling him father, dear father, but Garry had clutched her by her shoulder.
"You stay here," he said. "I ha' got a story to tell. We near lost the horse; but for the Providence above, we'd ha' done it!"
"What horse?" said Maureen, turning ghastly.
"Your horse, miss—dear, darlin' Fly-away! I don't know what was over me. I took him his mash as usual, and he began to gobble it up hungry as ye plaze, and his coat never looked blacker or more like satin. Well, to be sure, I was satisfied enough with him, and I locked the stable-door as usual. But it was the Holy Vargin I think—I do believe it was—for I meant to go as usual to have a bit of a gossip with Pegeen and Burke, but somehow, your Riverence and Miss Maureen, I felt mighty quare, and sort of onaisy in me mind, so I went up to bed; and my room is just over the horse's loose box, as ye know, sir. Well, that room was made somewhat in a hurry when the Colonel gave the horse to Miss Maureen, and the planks weren't to say rightly jined—that is, on the floor, I mean, y'Riverence—and what should I see when about to lay meself on me bed, but a sthrake of light, sharp and clear and werry narrer coming up direct from below. Me heart it leeped into me mouth, and I was down in no time at all, and I unlocked the door, and the sight that met me—— Oh, may I never see a worse! There was this colleen pouring something out of a bottle into the mash, and the horse he was just bending his head to go on with his supper, and she, with her delicate fingers stirrin' the stuff round and round in the mash. It war then I cotched hold of her. First I lifted the mash and put it outside, and here's what she was giving to the horse, y'Riverence. She can't go for to deny it, for she did it herself. She had a dark lantern—one that belongs to the place, y'Riverence. Oh, my word, but I have saved my beauty, and don't you fret, colleen asthore, for I'll get a fresh mash in a clean dish and lay meself down alongside o' Fly-away for the whole of this blessed night. Good evening to you, sir. Good evening, colleen asthore. Masther Dominic, perhaps I might have a word with yez."
Dominic followed the honest fellow out of the room.
"Garry," he said, "is it possible she could be so wicked?"
"I tol't what I seen," said Garry. "I can't tel't no more. Oh, my word, my word. I'm all trimbling-like!"
"Garry, you are a right down splendid fellow. I'm going to give you a hot tumbler of punch, for well you deserve it. The horse is safe now."
"I left the bottle with the masther," continued Garry. "I wonder what was in it, that I do."
But the master and Maureen had read the words on the bottle: "Laudanum. POISON. Not to be taken internally."
Daisy stood sobbing before them. In her fright and Garry's sudden appearance she had emptied the greater part of the bottle into the mash. There was very little of it left.
"Maureen, my darling, will you go to bed?" said her uncle.
"Must I?" said Maureen.
"I would rather, dearest. I will come to you presently to your room. Your horse is safe, thanks to that good Garry."
The child went away, but she had a queer new sort of look on her face, a look she had never worn before, that no one had ever seen on the sweet face of Maureen. As she passed Daisy, she stopped for a minute, and forced the girl's small, terrified eyes to look at her.
"Do you know," said Maureen, "that for the first time in all my life I understand what hatred is? I—HATE—YOU!"
She left the room without another word. Daisy shivered. In the moment of getting her desire—for had she not longed for Maureen to hate her?—she found it like ashes, and worse than ashes, in her mouth. She still stood in front of the Rector with her eyes down, her freckled, colourless face very pale, only the freckles stood out and made a sort of ghastly relief to the awful pallor.
"Daisy, come here!" said the Rector.
Daisy approached very timidly, one step at a time. She walked delicately, as Agag of old.
"Daisy, will you explain this to me?"
"Will you listen to me, father?"
"Yes, I am here. I am prepared to listen. But first, I have something to say before you begin your story. I do not wish you or Henrietta ever again to call me father. I am not your father. Your father was a different sort of man. I married your mother, but during her lifetime I never once saw you. You came here, you and Henrietta, and turned this happy home into Bedlam. You shall address me, whenever you have occasion to in the future, as Mister O'Brien. You understand?"
"Ye-es. She said she hated me, and she looked—oh, how she looked!"
"Can you wonder? Aren't you amazed at her forbearance? Do you know that this is laudanum?"
He held up the little bottle.
"I happened to see a bottle of laudanum in my room a few days ago and meant to throw it away. My wife, your poor mother, often suffered from rheumatic pains and she used to like to rub the affected parts with a strong opiate. I did not approve the plan. Now please tell me how you came by this bottle."
"I went into your room when you were out and stole it."
"Then you deliberately meant to kill Maureen's lovely horse, that creature of life and fire? Could you do it, could you?"
"I did not mean to kill him. Henrietta was in the plan, too, and she—she said the horse mustn't be killed. I only meant to make him very, very sick."
"But why?"
"Because I hated Maureen."
"Ah, well," said Mr. O'Brien, "you have spoken the truth at last. Now understand me clearly—understand me fully. You and your sister go with me to-morrow to Jane Faithful's. I will arrange with her—I will tell her exactly what you are both like. Your sister is bad, but you are fifty times worse. You and Henrietta and I will leave for Jane Faithful's school by an early train to-morrow. You hated Maureen, the gentlest, the sweetest little girl in the world. Why have you been so cruel to her? Has she not tried by every power, every endeavour to love you—to be good to you; and yet you deliberately turned her young life into a living hell. You tried to ruin her piano. Did she answer you back? No. She only did what she could to have the noble instrument preserved. She asked Colonel Herbert to take care of it for the present. He asked in astonishment for her reason, but she would not give him any. Yes—you hated Maureen—you have said the words. You said also that you did not mean to kill the horse, but you put enough laudanum into his mash to kill several horses. Your word therefore goes for nothing.
"Perhaps you understand now what hatred to you feels like. I can well imagine that Maureen's hatred, when at last it is aroused, will be a very terrible thing; something like the hatred of an angry God. Come up with me at once to your room and your sister's room. I shall ask her if she was aware of what you were about to do. I think she will tell me the truth. Afterwards I will lock you both up in your bedroom. Your breakfast will be sent to you at an early hour. You had better pack to-night. You will both stay in that room until I myself come to fetch you in the morning. I will send Jane Faithful a wire to expect us. Come, Daisy—no screaming, please. Come at once."
The Rector hardly touched the little cold hand, but the miserable girl followed him as meek as a mouse.
When they reached the dismal, untidy room Mr. O'Brien put his question to Henrietta. She replied that she knew all about it, but had implored Daisy not to use enough of the medicine to kill the horse.
"That is enough," said the Rector. He locked the door and went away.
The two girls were locked into the ugly north bedroom, and then and there Daisy screamed and shrieked to her heart's delight, and Henny-penny bent over her and finally dashed cold water on her head, and so brought her to her senses.
"You little fool," she said. "I knew you'd make mischief. A nice time we have before us. Well, at least we can run away."
"Yes, we can run away. Oh, Henny, love me! It was awful when she said she hated me. She said it with such strange, strong power. Oh, Henny, I'm afraid of her now."
"Get into bed, gosling, and I'll lie down by your side. No, I don't quite hate you, but I think you are a poor sort. We can run away from that female, who I imagine keeps a school; but for the time being we must pretend to submit."
Meanwhile, the Rector went down to Maureen. She was standing icy-cold by her window. She had not attempted to undress. There was the same strange new look in her eyes.
"I don't want to hear the story, uncle," she said. "I'm too wicked, wicked. I hate—I hate—I hate!"
"My child—my darling. Come and get into my arms."
"No, I couldn't—I couldn't, not while I feel as I do now. Oh, Uncle Pat, Satan got into me when I said I HATE, and he's in me still."
The Rector saw that the child was terribly excited. He himself helped her to undress and made her lie down in her little bed, and gave her a certain soothing draught which he knew would be good for her and would make her sleep and forget her troubles.
All the time while she was dropping to sleep the Rector was holding her hand, and all that long time he prayed very hard. He prayed that the evil spirit might leave the sweetest nature in the world and that the good spirit of all perfection might return.
At last the child slept, and then Mr. O'Brien went and had a long talk with Dominic. He told him what his plans were, and put Maureen into his care whilst he was absent. He suggested that the Colonel and the Doctor might be sent for if necessary.
"She has got a frightful shock," he said; "a frightful shock."
"I'll manage her, dad," said Dominic; but the first streaks of the summer morning were illuminating the sky before the boy and his father lay down to sleep.