Castle Blair: A Story of Youthful Days

by Flora L. Shaw

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.