The Motor Maids by Rose, Shamrock and Thistle Part 36

"And what is the banshee of Castle Abbey?" the four girls asked in an excited chorus.

"Now, if I tell you," exclaimed Beatrice, her blue eyes twinkling with fun, "you will be afraid to go to bed alone, and you know there is only one bed to a cell and it's a very small bed indeed!"

"Oh, please, please tell!" they cried.

"Well," said Beatrice, "the banshee of Castle Abbey isn't anybody at all. It's a noise--"

"A what?"

"It's a bell and it rings to announce an approaching death in the family."

"Where is the bell?"

"It is in the belfry of the old tower. But there is simply no way to climb to the top if anybody wanted to. No one can remember when steps have been there."

"Did you ever hear it?" asked Mary.

"No, indeed, and I hope I never shall, but the night Grandpapa died in London, old Michael, the gardener, claims to have heard it ring out three times."

It all sounded very remote and interesting to the four young Americans, who had been brought up in a place that did not antedate a hundred years, and still had once seemed old enough to them.

"Why don't they take down the bell?" asked Mary.

"Oh, there's a superst.i.tion about that, too, and an old verse:

"_'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.

"n.o.body 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.

As Beatrice led the way down the village street, ragged women and children, barefooted and unkempt, bobbed and courtesied to her. The alley, for it was hardly broader than one, widened at length into a broad sweep of green, on one side of which stood a very old church and, adjoining that, a small stone cottage in a garden. A priest was standing at the garden gate intently watching three men at work on the green with a measuring line and surveyor's instruments.

"Good-day to you, my lady," cried the old priest, whose jovial round face was wreathed in smiles. "And have you or your uncle heard some of the good news that's floating about the valley this day?"

"Why, no, Father O'Toole, what is it?" asked Beatrice surprised.

"Thanks be to G.o.d and all his holy saints, our prayers have been answered, and His Grace is turning the green into a new model village for his tenants. There's to be a schoolhouse on it, your ladys.h.i.+p. It's myself that has seen the plans with my own eyes, and, what is more, the church is to be rebuilt and no expense to be spared, and the rectory greatly enlarged."

"Why, Father O'Toole, I can't believe you!" cried Beatrice. "It seems too good to be true."

"'Tis true, though, my lady, and more to come. The O'Connors this very morning returned to their old home and word is out that Feargus may come back and no fear of arrest at all, at all."

Here was news, indeed, for the Motor Maids!

"But, Father O'Toole," cried Beatrice, "what has happened to His Grace?"

She had never called him uncle in all her life.

"It's maybe a penance to bring back the little Lord Arthur," said the good priest; "and I'm thinkin', too," he added in a lower voice, "the lad might be better off where he is, poor child. He wouldn't have lasted another year under that blackguard of a doctor."

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, s.h.i.+ning 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 n.o.bleman 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.

Billie was wide awake in an instant. She sat up in bed and listened. The ancient abbey was filled with ghostly sounds. The rain beat against the window and the wind howled mournfully. It seemed to be saying "_Vanitas vanitatum._"

"That's what I thought was the chanting of the monks," she said to herself. "I suppose I had one of my usual nightmares."

Back under the covers she crept, glad of the warmth and comfort after that gruesome dream.

CHAPTER XXIV.-WHEN HATRED TURNS TO LOVE.

The smiling summer landscape showed not a sign next morning of the disturbances of the night before. The rain-washed foliage glistened in the suns.h.i.+ne, and far below in the valley curled a ribbon of blue, hazy smoke. Billie, greatly refreshed from the sleep which had come to her after the storm, had almost forgotten the nightmare until the ringing of a bell in the distance brought it to mind. She touched an electric b.u.t.ton, as she had been directed to do by Beatrice, and presently a pretty Irish maid appeared carrying a tray on which was a gla.s.s of hot milk. A few minutes later she reappeared with a small basin of hot water. Billie wondered if this was to be her allowance. Probably in an ancient abbey hot water was scarce. But it was only a sample upon which she was to pa.s.s judgment.