Chapter 2 PREPARATIONS.

"When I was at Lord Carrickmines's," began Bridget.

"Bother Lord Carrickmines!" said Miss Sylvia Graydon. "We know everything that happened at Lord Carrickmines', and that can't have been much, seeing you've lived in this house since before I was born."

"When I was at Lord Carrickmines's," went on Bridget with a kindling eye, "the young ladies-and sweet young ladies they were, Miss Mabel and Miss Alice-would have scorned to sit on the kitchen table swingin' their feet an' givin' advice they worn't asked for when there was work to be done in the house. They were more likely to come an' help--"

"In their pink and blue silks, Bridget dear. You know they always wore pink and blue silks. Besides, I only advised you for your good. You're going the wrong way entirely about mending that chair. The first time Sir Anthony sits on it he'll go flat on the floor."

"Well, then, it won't be you'll go flat on the floor, Miss Sylvy, so you needn't be talkin' about it. There, bother the thing! The more nails I drives in it the more it splits, till the cracks in it is like the spokes of a wheel. I believe 'tis you sittin' there givin' me impudence, Miss Sylvy. Sure it's the contrary ould thing entirely. I wish I'd never bothered after it."

"Why did you, then? Why can't he sit on his trunk, as Mick used to do? I'm sure he can't be better than Mick."

"There's a deal o' differ, Miss Sylvy, between the rank of a 'Sir' an' the rank of a meleetia leftenant, though Mr. St. Leger was a real nice young gentleman, when not led into mischief by you or Miss Pamela. You see, I learnt the differ when I was at Lord--"

"I'll tell you what, Bridget," said Miss Sylvia, jumping off the table, "I'll go and pick currants in the garden. You were saying yesterday they were dropping off their stalks for want of picking."

"Aye, do, dearie. I'll be makin' jam as soon as I get this weary cleanin' done, an' you'll help me with the stirrin', Miss Sylvy, an' write the labels for me?"

"That I will, Bridget, on condition you give me a pot for myself."

Bridget looked fondly after the slender young figure as it went out in the sunlight, followed by a very fat bull-dog which had been basking before the fire.

"There," she said to herself, "Miss Sylvy's real willin', if you only take her the right way. Sure, as I was sayin' to the master the other day, you'd never miss a young gentleman in the house as long as you'd Miss Sylvy. Miss Pamela's real pleasant, too, but give me Miss Sylvy, for all she's more like a boy nor a girl. But there, a household of females is apt to weigh on the spirits, as I say, so it's well we have Miss Sylvy, for the master's ever abroad or shut up wid his musty ould books."

At this moment a lieutenant of Bridget's appeared on the scene. This was Mrs. Murphy, a stout village matron, who had been brought in to assist in the great cleaning up, preparatory to the arrival of the new pupil.

The good woman was steaming like her suds, of which she carried a very dirty bucketful.

"Well, that job's done," she observed, "an' the room ought to be clane enough to sarve him another twelvemonth. I don't know what the gentry wants wid all the clanin' at all. 'Tis meself wouldn't like ould buckets o' suds rowled round the flure o' my little room at home. They say washin' flures is the cause of a many coulds. How is the work wid ye, ma'am?"

"I'm not progressin' much, ma'am. I was just tellin' Miss Sylvy that it was her sittin' and laughin' at me was puttin' out my hand. Sit down for a minute, ma'am, an' have a noggin o' buttermilk to cool ye. There's time enough to be pullin' up the master's ould carpet that hasn't been up in the memory o' man. He won't be home this hour yet."

"Gentlemen doesn't like clanin' times, Miss Flanagan," Mrs. Murphy observed, as she seated herself.

"Indeed, they're contrairy cratures, like all men. They like claneness, but they don't like to be claned. See how they're always moppin' themselves in could baths enough to give them their end, and yet water about their rooms is somethin' they can't endure. When I was at Lord Carrickmines's, the housekeeper put me, as it might be you, ma'am, to pelt an ould bucket o' water round his lordship's studio. He was a hasty man, an' he caught sight o' me enterin' the door-oh, bedad! he took the ould blunderbuss an' promised me the contints of it if I didn't quit."

"The master here's rale quiet, though. He won't be for murdherin' you, glory be to goodness!"

"I daresay he'll raise a pillalew all the time," said Bridget philosophically, "but 'tis no use mindin' him."

"Yez have great preparations anyway, an' people's comfort all out o' the windy. I suppose 'tis a rale grand young gentleman yez are gettin'?"

"Well enough, well enough," said Bridget loftily. "He's what ye call a baronite."

"Rowlin' in gould, I suppose?"

"Well, then, ma'am, I was never curious enough to ax his fortin'."

Undeterred by this glaring snub, Mrs. Murphy went on placidly:

"He'll be a fine match for wan o' the young ladies."

"He might be," assented Bridget, as if she had thought of it for the first time.

"Miss Sylvy now'll dazzle the eyes of him wid beauty. I wouldn't ask a greater beauty meself if I wor a young gentleman."

"Oh, the beauty's there, never fear. You wouldn't find a sweeter angel than Miss Sylvy sittin' up in church on Sunday, wid the feathery hat she made herself, poor lamb. The little face of her, and the big shiny eyes, an' the darlin' hair puffed out about her. Och, indeed, you'd go a long way to bate Miss Sylvia in beauty."

"So the young gentleman'll think, I'll be bound."

"Indeed, then, I hope he won't be wastin' his time, for if he was to come makin' love to Miss Sylvy, 'tis as like as not she'd make a face at him."

"Well, then, it'll be Miss Pamela."

"May be, may be. Anyhow, it won't be Miss Sylvy, for she's just an imp of mischief, for all she has the face of an angel. The master calls her 'Boy.' 'I was lookin' for a boy,' says he, 'an' 'twas herself that come. But sure, after all,' says he, 'I'm not sure 'twas any mistake at all, at all.'"

"And now, Mrs. Murphy," said Bridget, with a sudden return to authority, "I'd be obliged to you if it was your work you was gettin' about, an' not sittin' here idlin' all day. Stir your lazy bones, woman, an' be off to the master's studio, or 'tis never done 'twill be at all."

"Well, indeed, ma'am," said Mrs. Murphy, with a justly aggrieved air. "Here I wouldn't be at all, exceptin' by your own invitation."

"Gentlemen doesn't like clanin' times, Miss Flanagan."

Bridget hurried upstairs through the quiet house flooded with morning sunshine. Carrickmoyle stood on a plateau, and looked away over the bleached country and the summer-dark coppices. It was a square house, kindly of aspect, despite its ruinous condition, and around it lay a rich old garden, full of damask roses and such wealth of fruit as only come with years to a garden.

An orchard, gnarled and overgrown, was down in the hollow. A delightful place it was to dream away a summer day, with no sound to break the stillness save only the moan of the wood-dove or the dropping of ripe fruit.

As Bridget went upstairs she paused at a window. Below her, flitting here and there through the raspberry canes and currant bushes, she caught a glimpse of Sylvia's blue frock.

"There she is, the lamb," muttered the old woman, her face softening. "There she is, wid that Mark Antony at her heels, helpin' himself to the raspberries, I'll be bound. An' she, pretty lamb! 'tis more she'll be atin' thin pickin', I'm thinkin'. But never mind, never mind, we can't be young but wance."

In the room intended for the new pupil Mary Graydon, the eldest of the three girls, was sitting, puckering her forehead over a mass of muslin that overflowed her lap.

"What are you in trouble about, Miss Mary?" asked Bridget.

"I don't know how to cut this into curtains for the window at all, Bridget dear," said the sweetest, most plaintive voice; "it's so narrow and the window so wide."

"What have you got at all, child? 'Tisn't your poor mamma's muslin slips?"

"It is indeed, Bridget. They were only going to pieces where they were, and we can't afford curtains, and I'm sure if mamma was alive she'd tell me to 'take them.'"

"Indeed, then, I'm sure she would, Miss Mary, for she was like yourself; she'd give the clothes off her back to anyone she thought wanted them worse. Give me the scissors, jewel, an' I'll just cut them out for you. I once got a prize in Major Healy's lady's sewin'-class for cuttin'-out when I was a girl; though you'd never believe it, to see the botch I made of the chair I was tryin' to mend."

"It isn't quite the same thing, Bridget, you know. Oh! thank you, that is clever. How are you getting on downstairs?"

"Pretty well, Miss Mary, but 'tis aisy does it wid that woman, Mrs. Murphy. She's a great ould gossip of a woman; 'tis no wonder Tim an' the childher are the shows of the place. I was hard put to it to shut her mouth-her tongue's longer thin my arm-an' get her to the master's studio before he came home."

"Oh, poor papa! You're surely not invading him, Bridget?"

"Aye, am I. The woman's up to her shoulders in dirty soap-suds by this time, unless she's found someone more ready to listen to her thin I was. There, Miss Mary, there's the curtain; I've made a nate job of it, haven't I?"

"You have indeed, Bridget. I wish you'd teach me some of your cleverness."

"Arrah! what would you want with the like? Sure, 'tis only by rayson of a little inconvaynience that rale blood-ladies like yourselves has to lift your hands, if it was only to wash your faces."

Mary Graydon shook her head. Hers was a face which seemed irradiated with a quiet inward light, and her eyes were gentler than the eyes of doves.

"You must teach me all you know, Bridget, for I shall always be poor."

"You mane when you marry Mr. St. Leger, Miss Mary?"

The girl nodded without speaking, but a sudden rush of happy colour covered her innocent face.

"Don't be thinkin' of that, my lamb. The ould lord'll come round before that. Sure he couldn't be as hard-hearted a naygur as he lets on."

"I'm afraid not, Bridget. He has a little son of his own now, you see, and so the less reason for forgiving papa."

Bridget lifted her eyes and hands.

"Him wid a little son indeed! Cock him up wid a little son, an' him wid wan foot in the grave! Well, there's no gettin' over the ways of some people. But 'tis time for me to be gettin' about my work, or I'll be as bad as that Murphy woman. Just you call to me, Miss Mary, if you want to know anything; but don't go spoiling them eyes on Mr. Mick, puttin' too fine work into that baronite's curtains."

She went off then, and for a time there was silence in the room, broken only by the occasional efforts of Pamela's Irish terrier, Pat, to better Bridget's bed-making. The windows, brown-paper panes and all, were flung wide open, and there was a lovely prospect of plain and hill, and wood and river, stretching away into the pearl-grey distances. A little wind sang like a lullaby in the leaves of the sycamore outside the window, and from the garden below came a drowsy humming of bees.

But to the girl who sat there dreaming dreams a scene widely different presented itself. She saw a parched Indian plain and a row of low white buildings. All around there was a clearing, but beyond was the mass of the jungle, where the jackals cried by night and the lions roared thunderously. Somewhere in that baking place she saw the face she loved-the plain, honest, devoted face of Mick St. Leger, who had passed from the Militia to be a subaltern in a marching regiment. Five years at least would elapse before he came home-five years, with all their chances of trouble and loneliness, and, alas! of death.

Mary Graydon trembled over her sewing as the longing for her lover became almost intolerable. Then she snapped a thread off short, and lifted her eyes in a quiet way which had become natural to her when she was alone. She could not know what was happening to her dear boy under those deadly skies; but there was One who knew and whose love was greater still, and she could trust that love even if its will was to slay her.

There was a quick step on the stones, and the sound of someone rushing up two steps at a time.

"Oh! here you are, Molly," cried Pamela, rushing in breathless. "We've got home, papa and I; and the glass for these windows is all in a smash, and three of the new tumblers, and the youth's shaving-glass. And what do you think, darling? The youth's coming to-day-this afternoon. That dear old dunderhead of a father of ours has been reading 'Thursday' for 'Tuesday,' and has just had a telegram to undeceive him."

Mary lifted her hands in dismay.

"Dad's to meet him at Lettergort at four-thirty. It's just as well it happened, anyhow, for, instead of going into his study to read the Sentinel, I've headed him off for the stables to see if Frisky must have a shoe. So he hasn't discovered yet the terrible havoc among his household gods. Maybe, if we can get things to rights before he finds out, he'll never know his room has been cleaned at all, at all. I'm sure Mrs. Murphy will leave as few traces of the cleaning as possible."

"What are we to do, Pam?"

"Why, do nothing. It's just as well the glass is broken, for there'd be no time to put it in. Besides, I'm of Bridget's opinion, that brown paper's a deal comfortabler-looking in the could weather."

"But his dinner, Pamela?"

"Why, kill the red cock. He's been insufferable, strutting about with his hoarse crow, since he killed my dear bantam. Besides, he can't live much longer; you know he's very old."

"But won't he be tough? Besides, how are we to catch him?"

"As to the toughness, the youth will think it's the habit of Irish fowl. As to catching him, I think he might be trapped in the rose-bush opposite the hall-door, where he and his wives have taken to roosting; and a nice thing they've made of the rose-bush. He's so old, poor dear! that he goes to bed while yet the sun's high; but, mind, I'll have nothing to say to catching him, lest it should savour of revenge for my Dick."

"But, Pam, the house is upside down; and Sir Anthony comes at four-thirty, you say?"

"Four-thirty his train is due. But papa must take him a round that'll keep him till seven. You may trust Frisky, if Frisky gets a chance, though in the ordinary course of things they'd arrive here from Lettergort in half an hour. Then the train may be more late than usual, to oblige us."

"I suppose papa must keep him out?"

"Yes, of course, he must. It's an interesting country and a charming day. Later on, of course, he'll find out that Lettergort Station is only round the corner, so to speak; but he'll think the long drive was an aberration of his Irish host."

"But won't he be tired after his long journey?"

"He'll be more tired if he has to help us to catch the red cock; that is, if we don't succeed in surprising the poor thing."

"Yes, I suppose we'll have to ask papa to do that. And Pam, darling, do run down and see what Mrs. Murphy is doing in the poor dear's study. He has always been so happy there that it's a shame to disturb him with the knowledge that it has been invaded."

"Leave that to me. You'd say I was a born general if you saw the way I headed him off when he came in. I'll lock Mrs. Murphy in, if necessary, and then make a prodigious search for the key."

"Don't do that, Pam, darling."

"Only as a last resource. Never you fear, I'll keep the poor darling's mind undisturbed. You'll see he never suspects anything, even when I ask him at lunch where I shall find the quotation, 'Alas, unconscious of their doom, the little infants play.'"

And Pamela did ask him at lunch, and the poor gentleman gave her innocently the information she asked. Though, as she said afterwards, it was a shame to keep him in the dark, for he loved a joke so dearly that he would have enjoyed one even at his own expense.

Mary lifted her hands in dismay.