“‘The hour the iron bell doth fall
Brings trouble to Kilkenty Hall;
If hatred turns to love before,
Trouble will not cross the door.’”
“What does that mean?” inquired Mary.
“Nobody has any more idea than you have. It is just an old saying that has always been connected with the bell. Kilkenty Hall, you know, is the home of my other uncle, the Duke. You see, the Hall always goes to the eldest son and the Abbey to the second son for his lifetime.”
“Suppose there isn’t any second son?” persisted Mary.
“But there always has been,” laughed Beatrice.
“Then little Arthur will be master of the Abbey some day,” thought Billie, but as Beatrice had kept well away from the subject of her lost cousin, the girls were careful not to mention his name. Billie’s mind was filled with vague suspicions and conjectures still too lost in the mists of uncertainty to put into words. Suppose, for instance, she sought out the terrible Duke of Kilkenty and told him—well, what would she tell him? Would it be a friendly act to bring certain disaster on the heads of probably innocent people just because she had seen a pair of small-sized man’s slippers and a child’s book of animals in a tenement house room in Edinburgh? Wherever little Arthur was, no doubt he was happier than he had ever been before.
All these thoughts were flying through her head, while she sipped her tea in the old garden late that afternoon. After tea, the five young girls went for a walk, Miss Campbell repaired to her room for a nap, and Maria and Lord Glenarm remained in the garden chatting.
In the valley back of the Abbey, Beatrice pointed out to them Kilkenty Hall, which was comparatively modern, having been burned to the ground and rebuilt within the last hundred years. Because it was like walking on a soft carpet to step on the springy turf and because also the air was cool and sweet, the friends joined hands and ran down the hillside laughing and shrieking at the tops of their voices. At the foot, following a path through a woodland, they presently came out near a little village, picturesque enough at a distance, but wretched in the extreme on closer view.
“These are the tenants of the Hall,” Beatrice explained. “The Duke has always detested Ireland and he won’t do anything for his Irish tenants.”
“What a shame,” exclaimed Billie. Everything she heard of this man painted him in more detestable colors.