The walk was cut short by the astounding news of the Duke of Kilkenty’s penance. Beatrice could scarcely wait to tell it to her uncle, and the girls presently left the two together in the garden while they retired to their rooms to rest before dinner.
This formal meal was served at eight o’clock and Miss Campbell had earnestly adjured them to wear their very best, having overheard Lord Glenarm say that some of the county people were driving over for dinner.
“What luxurious lives these people lead,” she had exclaimed to Billie, “and they call themselves poor! Think of their servants and their housekeepers and their grand old homes. I suppose our little American homes are like so many rabbit holes to them after their fine castles and their grand city mansions.”
“There are plenty of little rabbit holes over here, too,” answered Billie, recalling the abode of Miss Felicia Rivers and the rickety houses in the Old Town at Edinburgh.
But who could think of rabbit holes at eight o’clock that evening, when with fluttering hearts the Motor Maids peeped over the balcony and saw below the great table, shining with silver and damask, on one side of a long screen always set up for meals, and on the other side some half dozen new guests added to the party? There was Beatrice in a simple white muslin, talking and laughing with a ruddy-faced, delightful young man with a budding mustache; there was Lord Glenarm, looking every inch the nobleman he was, conversing easily with the mother of the ruddy-faced young person; and there was Maria Cortinas, beautiful enough to be any lord’s lady, surrounded by a circle of admiring people.
Was it all a dream, they asked themselves. Were they really four humble little West Haven High School girls on a tour of the British Isles? And was that Maria, the daughter of old Mrs. Ruggles, who kept the Sailor’s Inn near West Haven? But it was all real enough, indeed, and presently Billie found herself seated next to a jovial gentleman with side whiskers who asked her a hundred questions about their motor trip across the continent. It seemed that their fame had gone before them, and the four girls were the objects of much polite and well-bred curiosity.
It was midnight before the last carriage departed. Then, each with a bedroom candlestick, they filed along the ghostly corridor to bed.
“I am that tired that the ghosts of the good fathers, if they walk to-night, will have to make a lot of noise to wake me up,” thought Billie, stretching herself in the comfortable little bed. “What would the monks think if they could see their cells now,” her thoughts continued, “with curtains at the windows and rugs on the floors and every other cell turned into a luxurious dressing-room? They would say ’vanitas vanitatum,’ I suppose.”
Then she sank into a deep sleep.
As the night wore on and the darkness outside deepened, because the moon had set and the sky was overcast, Billie had a dream. She thought that one of the good fathers was leading her by the hand through the long corridors, across the garden and into the ruined chapel on the other side. Many monks were in the church, chanting in a deep chorus over and over again the same words: “Vanitas vanitatum.” The wind howled and the air was damp and chill. Suddenly one of the monks held up his hand for silence; they crouched on their knees and a bell boomed out in the stillness.