Part 36 (2/2)

”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.

<script>