"Ye bad ruffan," she said, "scarin' the wits out a' iverybody." The noise died down except for the wailing of a few children who were still frightened. Miss Courtney rang for a servant, and ordered her to turn the dog out. Jane explained that this was impossible; Toby was a valuable dog she had found, and she must take him home to his owner.

Miss Courtney would not listen to her. The dog was to be sent away at once. Jane, when she saw Miss Courtney was frightened of Toby, said she would take him away herself. But, to her surprise, this was not allowed. She was to stay, and the dog was to go. Miss Courtney would not listen to reason. It was nothing to her that Toby was valuable, that there was ten shillings reward for him, that Jane had had great trouble finding him. Jane was a wicked girl, she said, and the dog must go. Jane could not see why she was in disgrace--she had done nothing wrong. It was Toby who had frightened them. But astonishment soon gave place to tears. Miss Courtney made it plain that she must be obeyed. The servant, afraid to touch Toby herself, led Jane weeping to the front door to turn him out. The moment the door was opened Toby bounded away, dragging his chain after him. Once he stopped to look back; then, as Jane did not follow, he went on alone. The servant was unsympathetic; she knew nothing of the bewildered disappointment in Jane's heart. She said Jane deserved to be whipped. A far more awful punishment was in store. Jane was condemned to stand in the corner till she had fulfilled all the hours she had wasted in the streets.

Jane was terrified. She forgot the disgrace, forgot the lost reward, forgot the scorn the big girls would heap on her when they found she had no money. If she had to stay there till six o'clock Andy would go away without her, and she would have to walk all those long miles back to Rowallan in the dark alone. She begged Miss Courtney to let her go; she prayed G.o.d to soften Miss Courtney's heart. But it was all in vain. When the other children went home a Bible was put into her hands, and she was told to learn the fifty-first Psalm. She got no further than "Have mercy upon me, O G.o.d." Misery such as she had never known before overwhelmed her. Perhaps she would never get home again.

Anything might happen in those long, long hours. Everybody might die in her absence. Perhaps, when she got out of school at last, and tramped the long miles home, and ran past the shadow of the gates up the dark avenue, she would put her hand on the bell, and hear it echo in an empty house. Everyone would have grown up and gone away years ago, and left her.

The light began to fade from the sky, and Jane could bear her misery no longer. She determined to run away. She crept quietly across the floor to the door. As she opened it she heard Miss Courtney's footstep on the stairs. For a moment Jane's heart was sick with fear; then, in despair, she ducked her head, and charged for freedom. Miss Courtney went down three steps backwards way. Jane never stopped. She seized her coat and hat, and ran out into the street. There at the gate was the car, with Andy and Mick waiting for her. She gave a sob of relief at the sight.

"Drive quick, Andy," she begged as she climbed up; "I'm feared I've kilt her."

"Ould divil," said Mick sympathetically. "One a' the girls tould me what she done. All I got was a slap with the cane."

Jane was laughing and crying by turns. "Her two feet was up in the air, but I'm feared thon crack must 'a' split her skull."

When she was calmer Mick broke the news that Toby was not a red setter at all. "It's a wonder the polis wasn't after yez," said Andy from the other side of the car, "stealin' dogs out a' people's back yards."

Jane did not mind about Toby. She said it did not matter now, for she was never going back to Miss Courtney's again. She told Lull everything that evening. Lull thought Miss Courtney would forgive her, but Jane refused to go near the hated place again. So Patsy was sent to school with Mick, and Jane went back to do lessons with Mr Rannigan.

CHAPTER XV

AN ENGLISH AUNT

No one had invited the English aunt to come over, so when a letter arrived one morning saying she would be with them that same day, and would they send the carriage to the station to meet her, everyone was surprised. The children were delighted at the thought of a visit from an unknown aunt: they had thought Aunt Mary was the only aunt they had.

This strange Aunt Charlotte was their mother's sister, and, Patsy said, she was sure to bring them a present in her trunk. But Lull went about the house, getting ready a room in the nursery pa.s.sage, dusting the drawing-room, and opening the windows, with a look in her eyes that was not of pleasure.

"Don't ye want Aunt Charlotte to come?" Jane asked her.

"Want her?" Lull snapped. "Why couldn't she come when she was wanted sore? What kep' her then, an' me prayin' night an' day for her?"

Jane stopped in the middle of the drawing-room floor with a soup tureen full of dog-daisies in her hands.

"There, I'll quit bletherin'!" Lull added. "None of yous mind, thank G.o.d, but--if I had 'a' had a young sister struck dumb in morshial agony haythen Turks wouldn't 'a' kep' me from her."

Lull flounced out of the room, and Jane was left standing in the middle of the floor. She had never heard Lull speak like that before. What did she mean? A young sister, she had said; their mother was the only sister Aunt Charlotte had. When was their mother struck dumb and Aunt Charlotte wouldn't come? Jane went out to the stable, where Andy Graham was putting the horse in the car. Honeybird was brushing his top hat for him at the far end of the stable, but Jane did not see her.

"Andy, when was mother struck dumb in morshial agony?" she said.

Andy dropped a trace. "By the holy poker! what put that in yer head?"

he said.

"Lull said Aunt Charlotte wouldn't come when she was wanted sore, an'

her young sister was struck dumb in morshial agony," said Jane.

"An' a fine ould clashbag Lull was to say the word," said Andy, picking up the trace.

"Tell us, Andy, an' I'll niver name it," said Jane.

"See here, Miss Jane," said Andy, "it's no talk for the likes a' yous to be hearin'. Sure, there's niver a wan would mind it at all if it wasn't for that ould targe of a Lull, an' it be to be as far back as the flood for her to forget."

"Go on, Andy; tell a buddy," Jane begged, "an' I'll not come over it to a livin' sowl."

"Sure, ye know all I know myself," said Andy. "The mistress was tarble bad, an' they sent for yer Aunt Charlotte, an' she wouldn't come."

"Why wouldn't she?" said Jane.

"G.o.d knows," said Andy. "She wouldn't, and Lull was clean dimented at the time for the want of her. An' I'm tellin' ye it got yer Aunt Charlotte an ill name about the place. There's many's the wan has it agin her to this day."

"Have you, Andy?" said Jane.

"Is it me! G.o.d forgive me, I could bear no malice. An' see an' forgit it yerself Miss Jane, for she'll be the good aunt to ye all yit."

Jane went slowly back to the house. She would have liked to consult Mick about it, but she had promised not to tell. The only thing to do was to wait till she could ask Aunt Charlotte herself.

Mick went to the station on the car to meet Aunt Charlotte. The others waited at the gate, two on each of the stone lions, to give a cheer when she arrived.

It was a long drive from the station, and they were stiff and cramped before the car came back, but Jane would not let them get down, for fear the car might turn the corner while they were down, and Aunt Charlotte would not get a proper welcome.

It came at last, and they hurrahed till they were hoa.r.s.e. Aunt Charlotte sat on one side, and Mick on the other. There was a tin box between them on the well of the car. As the car came nearer they saw that Mick was making signs, shaking his head and frowning, and when the car turned in at the gate Aunt Charlotte looked straight in front of her, and did not even glance at the welcoming party on the lions.

They got down, and followed up the avenue. In a minute they were joined by Mick. "Let's hide," he said; "she's an ould divil."

Silently they turned away from the house, across the lawn, and dropped over the wall into the road. They went up the road till they came to an opening in the wall on the other side, where they filed through, and struck out across the fields. Sheep were feeding on the spongy gra.s.s, and as they got farther away from home rocks and boulders began to appear, and at last a long line of clear blue sea. Mick led the way till they came to a flat rock jutting out like a shelf over the sea, and here they sat down.

"What did she do?" Jane asked.

"She said I was no gentleman," said Mick.

"What for?"

Mick began his tale.

"When the train come in I went up to her, an' sez I: 'How'r' ye?' Sez she: 'Who are you?' Sez I: 'I'm Michael Darragh.' 'Is it possible?'

sez she, an' ye should 'a' seen the ould face on her. Sez I: 'The car's waitin'.' 'Then tell the man to come for my luggage,' sez she."

"Oh Mick," gasped Jane, "what did ye do?"

"I didn't know what to do. I didn't like to say right out that Andy had got no livery on his legs, and daren't strip off the rug. So I sez: 'We'll get a porter to carry it out.' 'No,' sez she; 'I'd have to tip him. Tell the coachman to come.'"

"As mane as dirt," said Patsy.

"Sez I: 'He can't come, Aunt Charlotte, 'cause he can't get off the d.i.c.key.' 'What's the matter with him?' sez she. I was afraid I'd tell a lie, but I thought a bit, an' then I sez: 'He's disable.'"

"Good for you, Mickey Free!" Jane shouted.

"But it wasn't good, for when we started she begun astin' Andy what ailed him. Andy didn't know, so he said he was in the best of good health. Sez she: 'My nephew tould me you had been disabled.' 'Divil a fut, mem,' sez Andy; 'I'm as well as ye are yerself.' She got as red as fire, an' sez she: 'No gentleman tells lies, Michael!" Mick's face was white with anger.

"But ye tould no lie, Mickey dear," said Fly.

"An' ye couldn't tell her Andy had no white breeches," said Patsy.