"Then I'll be off," she replied, jumping, as she spoke, from the window-sill to the flower-border beneath. "Come along, Guck, Guck, Guck." And the harsh sound of her duck-call filled the air as she walked away, the white flock waddling after her.
Murtagh was glad of it. It seemed to cover his nervousness a little as the door opened and Mr. Plunkett entered alone. Poor child!—he was very weak still, and his heart beat fast and his hands trembled as he watched Mr. Plunkett advance across the long room. But it was only for a moment. When Mr. Plunkett took one of the wasted hands in his, and asked him kindly how he was, he recovered himself and answered, "Oh, much better, thank you; they are all so kind, they make me well."
Then after a little pause, the flush mounting again to his cheek, "I wanted to see you because I wanted to tell you I am very, very sorry I was so near—being so dreadfully wicked." And the effort to speak of it brought tears to his eyes. They were driven back again at once, but Mr. Plunkett saw them. He had not expected any apology; he had been thinking how wasted and shadowy the boy still looked. He was taken by surprise, and he suddenly flushed and looked more confused than Murtagh.
Not that he did not think an apology was owing to him; but Murtagh had scarcely ever spoken even civilly to him before, and the brown eyes raised to his looked so humble and beseeching through their shimmering veil of tears, that he found himself remembering only all the hard things he had said and done to the boy.
"Don't say anything more," he said, looking straight before him out of the window; "perhaps there were faults on both sides."
"I didn't know how wicked it was. I thought it would be a great thing to do, because I thought—" he hesitated a little, not quite sure how much Mr. Plunkett would bear—"I thought you were oppressing the people, and it would set them free. And then Nessa said you weren't, and then little Marion—It was so dreadful; I knew about how wicked it was then, but I never, never would have tried if I'd known at first."
"Marion!" said Mr. Plunkett, turning his head, "what had she to do with it?"
"I was in the ditch near your garden, and you were carrying her, and she had her arms round you, and she seemed to love you so. It seemed almost like papa," said Murtagh, his voice dropping at the recollection. "It would have been so dreadful if anything happened to you then. And then you said, 'God knew you were doing the best you could for the people;' and I felt quite sure you were speaking the truth, and you really were trying, and you were only just making mistakes; and it seems so cruel people getting hurt for making mistakes."
Mr. Plunkett did not speak at once. After a moment he turned and said:
"I have made mistakes with you; but we must start fresh, and perhaps we shall get on better now."