*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74263 ***





  The
  Folk of Furry Farm

  The Romance of an Irish Village

  By
  K. F. Purdon

  With an Introduction by
  George A. Birmingham

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons
  New York and London
  The Knickerbocker Press
  1914




  COPYRIGHT, 1914
  BY
  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  The Knickerbocker Press, New York




CONTENTS


                                                PAGE

         INTRODUCTION                              v

  CHAPTER

     I.--THE FURRY FARM                            1

    II.--THE GAME LEG                             37

   III.--THE “REST OF HIM”                        57

    IV.--A DAYLIGHT GHOST                        105

     V.--MATCHMAKING IN ARDENOO                  146

    VI.--A SETTLED GIRL                          182

   VII.--AN AMERICAN VISITOR                     226

  VIII.--ROSY AT FURRY FARM                      278

    IX.--COMRADE CHILDREN AT THE FURRY FARM      314




INTRODUCTION

WITH A NOTE ON THE PEOPLE OF THE PLAIN

BY GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM


It is the duty of the writer of an introduction, as I understand
his position, to provide what Mr. Bernard Shaw calls “First Aid to
Critics.” That is to say, it is my business to explain the position
which Miss Purdon holds in modern Irish literature and to say why her
work is interesting and in what respects it is good. I do not feel in
the least inclined to point out the weaknesses of her writing. For one
thing, there are plenty of reviewers in the world who will do that,
and apparently take pleasure in doing it. For another, although like
all human works this book is imperfect, I have enjoyed reading it and
have been too much interested in what I read to be impressed by the
faults which must, no doubt, exist. I shall, therefore, provide aid
only to the kinder sort of critic, to him who is sufficiently wise
to appreciate Miss Purdon’s work. I shall save him a lot of trouble,
for, if he reads this introduction, he will be able to allow himself to
enjoy Miss Purdon’s writing without bothering himself about what he is
to say in his review. I shall tell him that.

The first point about _The Folk of Furry Farm_ to which I wish to
draw attention is that it is written in prose. This may seem to be a
commonplace and obvious kind of fact, but in reality it has a certain
importance which might very well be overlooked. Miss Purdon belongs
to the Irish Literary Movement, and it has, as yet, produced very
little prose and less prose fiction. At the beginning the movement
was inspired by the hero tales of ancient Ireland and the mysticism
in which they are enveloped. These tales came down from the days of
paganism, and paganism, as everybody who appreciates the Irish Literary
Movement knows, was a wonderful and romantic thing, far superior to
the dowdy materialism of Christianity. Also, our literary movement
fed a good deal upon fairies. Who could write in ordinary prose about
subjects so fascinating as folk-lore and fairies? Mr. Yeats and his
followers could not. They wrote mystic and, as time went on, rather
incomprehensible verse. With them were a number of what we may call
politically patriotic poets like “Ethna Carbery” and Miss Milligan.
They were easier to understand, but were still a long way from the
commonplace things of ordinary life. Then came another band of writers,
headed by Mr. Padraic Colm, who gave us splendid poems about ploughers
and drovers, but still felt it necessary to drag in Dana and Wotan
occasionally. Mr. James Stephens, in his verse, went a step beyond
them, for his is the genius which can make the back street beautiful.
Poetry can get no nearer to realism than James Stephens and Joseph
Campbell.

Meanwhile the Abbey Theatre had been founded and the energies of
many young Irish writers were absorbed in composing plays for it.
It developed in much the same way as the poetry did. At first the
drama was almost as mystic and far-away as the early lyrics. Then
came Synge, the greatest of all the Abbey Theatre writers, who put
a gorgeous language into the mouths of rather squalid but intensely
human peasants. The tendency of his followers had been to emphasise the
squalidness but to leave out the poetry and a good deal of the human
nature. The lines written by Max Beerbohm about Mr. Masefield might
very well be applied to some of them:

  A swear word in a village slum
  A simple swear word is to some;
  To ... something more.

In verse and drama alike the mystic has given way to the materialist,
high poetry to realism. But as yet the Irish Literary Revival has
produced very little ordinary prose literature and hardly any fiction.
Apart from Lady Gregory’s poetic “Kiltartan” prose, the best that has
been produced has generally been of a journalistic kind. I do not mean
that it has been journalese, but that it has appeared in newspapers
and periodicals, and has been concerned primarily with questions of
the day. To mention only two examples, no modern work of its kind has
been more brilliant than the articles in _The Homestead_ written by
“AE.,” while Mr. Arthur Griffith’s editorials for _The United Irishman_
and _Sinn Féin_ are often worthy of comparison with the best that came
from the pen of Mitchel. Of a more permanent kind were the critical
articles of “John Eglinton,” many of them published originally in the
now defunct _Dana_.

There have been, of course, a number of Irish novelists and essayists
who have made great names for themselves, but they have not drawn
their inspiration from the movement which produced the poets. Mr.
George Moore has viewed the Irish Literary Revival as a spectator.
His original inspiration was not from Ireland. Miss Somerville and
Miss Ross are the successors of Lever. No corner of the mantle of Mr.
Standish O’Grady has fallen upon them. They would have written just the
same if there had been no Gaelic League, no fairies, and no ancient
Irish heroes. For Oscar Wilde and Bernard Shaw Ireland can claim just
the same sort of credit, and no more, as she can claim for Sheridan and
Goldsmith. Standish O’Grady, the father of the whole movement, wove
historical romances out of incidents in Irish history. He has had few
or no followers.

There are signs now that the literary movement, having worked from
the highest to the most materialistic in prose and drama, is going to
follow the natural course of development and express itself in prose
fiction. Mr. James Stephens, one of the most brilliant of our poets,
has deserted verse and taken, quite suddenly, to novel-writing. Already
he has earned fame and an assured position. I am inclined to think
that he is typical of a wide change of which Miss Purdon is another
example. If she had published a book ten or fifteen years ago it would
probably have been verse. Happily this is to-day, and she has found a
scope for her abilities more suitable to them than poetry.

I hope that Miss Purdon will not resent being called part of a
movement. When she has written a few more books and read reviews of
them she will become quite accustomed to this particular kind of
insult. In reality she holds a position a little apart from other
Irish authors. Her distinction is that she has chosen a new part of
the country to write about. I do not know exactly where the Furry
Farm is, but I am inclined to place it somewhere in the western part
of Leinster, in Meath or Kildare, on the great plain which fattens
cattle for the market. Other Irish writers, whether they wanted humour,
romance, or mysticism, have gone to the maritime counties for their
material. Galway, Cork, and Wicklow provide scenes for most of the
plays which are acted in the Abbey Theatre. Some poets write about
Donegal, others prefer North-East Ulster, and a few brave spirits have
ventured into the streets and suburbs of Dublin. But I cannot remember
that any plays or poems of importance have been written about the
people of the central plain. They are regarded, for some reason obscure
to me, as unworthy of a place in literature. They have, so one would
gather, lost the virtues of Gaeldom without acquiring the sentimental
regard for them which rescues Dublin from the reproach of “seoninism.”
The accepted view of literary Ireland is that the people of Meath are
as uninteresting as the bullocks which they herd.

Miss Purdon comes to us to prove the contrary. A great merit of her
work is the fidelity with which she reproduces the dialect of the
peasants about whom she writes. I do not know the western Leinster
speech myself, but I am certain that Miss Purdon deals with it
faithfully. She could not--no single person could--have invented _all_
the phrases and expressions which she has put into the mouths of the
characters of her stories. We have in her book the living tongue
spoken by a neglected class of Irishmen. I do not say that the people
of Meath and Kildare have the magic glamour of Celtic mysticism. I am
no judge of such things. I have seldom succeeded in recognising it
even in places where I know that it must be. But Miss Purdon’s people
have imagination. How else would they say of a lonely place, “There
wasn’t a neighbour within the bawl of an ass of it”? If they had not
humour, they would not think of saying, “His pockets would be like
sideboards, the way he’d have them stuck out with meat and eggs and so
on.” The men who use expressions like these cannot possibly be stupid,
and Miss Purdon makes them very real. They are, as their speech shows,
of a type different from that of the peasantry of the Atlantic coast.
Perhaps they have no appeal to make to poets; but they must certainly
be capable of providing material for many plays and novels. Miss Purdon
has discovered a new country, found a fresh subject for the pens of
Irish writers.

                                                                G. A. B.




  The
  Folk of Furry Farm




The Folk of Furry Farm




CHAPTER I

THE FURRY FARM


There isn’t one now at Ardenoo that could tell you rightly about the
Heffernans, or when the first of the name had come in upon the Furry
Farm. People would remark that they were “the oldest standards about
the place, and had been there during _secula_.” And some said that in
the real old ancient times, it was Heffernans that had owned the whole
countryside, and had been great high Quality then, until they were
turned out of their home, through their being Catholics. Of course such
things did occur, but not often. There would not be many willing to be
mixed up in such dirty work. And, moreover, those that came in on land
in that way, mostly always did it to keep their place warm for whoever
had had to quit out. There’s a lot of nature in people, more than
they get credit for. That’s how things don’t turn out as bad as you
might expect very often. And of course along with all, there’s a great
satisfaction in getting the better of the law.

It’s likely some friend of the Heffernans had stood to them in this
way, when they had had to leave, and had just held the land for them,
till they could slip back upon it again. But they had never said how it
was. A queer, silent sort they were ever and always, that would never
have much talk out of them about anything that would be going on, let
alone about themselves.

But however it came to pass, at the time I am going to tell you about,
there was nothing left of what had been once a very great fine kind
of a place, only a bit of a ruined house, like, with the remains of a
roof made of slabs of bog-oak over part of it, and it all reducing away
under the weather.

Whatever it used to be, the Heffernans I knew would just fasten a calf
in it, maybe, or put a goose to hatch there the way her mind wouldn’t
be riz, it being a very quiet corner. And it was necessary to have
every such little business as that going on at the Furry Farm, if you
wanted to be able even to pay the rent, let alone live yourself out of
the land. For the Heffernans had to pay rent now, as well as another;
and for land that was no great shakes, being very poor and thin. The
best of it they never got back at all.

Betimes you’d hear it remarked in Ardenoo, how that they and their
land were well matched. For if some of their bottom-land was sour, so
was the Heffernan temper; and they could be as crabbed and contrary in
their ways as the furze that was bristling over their own hills. And
in another thing they were like their farm. Whatever treatment they
got, that’s what they’d give. If you acted well by a Heffernan, they’d
do the same by you; but they’d never pass over a bad turn; and, troth!
there’s more than the Heffernans of the opinion that it’s only a fool
that forgets! And so by their land. Hungry as it was, it would always
return some sort of a crop, in proportion to the way it was tilled and
manured. But it and its owners weren’t much to look at; you had to know
them well, before you could find out the good there was in them.

In the course of time, there was a Heffernan in the Furry Farm,
Michael by name, that was what you might call a chip of the old block.
Quiet-going in himself, he was; silent and fond of industering; and a
bit near about money, on the top of all. You’ll often see people like
that; as if them that worked hard had no time for enjoying what they
make; whereas people that are poor and through-other will spend their
last penny twice as free as what one like Heffernan would spend his
first. And what’s more, they’ll get far better value out of it, too.

But that was just Michael’s way of going on; he’d sooner be putting
up money in the old stocking than spending it on an odd spree. And he
had every right to please himself. For he had no one else, barring
a sister, older than himself, and twice as curious in her ways, and
she with a tongue in her head as long as to-day and to-morrow. Many’s
the time she let Mickey feel the length and breadth of it, but he had
the fashion of never making her an answer, no matter what. It was the
best of his play to say nothing. A man scarce ever can get the better
of a woman that starts to give him a tongue-thrashing. Sure they do
have great practice at it; and small blame to them! isn’t it the only
thing they can do, to have their say out? Heffernan held his whisht in
particular, because he knew well what would happen. The sister would
get that outrageous mad with him, when she couldn’t make him as angry
as herself, that she’d have to quit out; go away for weeks at a time
she would, to friends in Dublin. Then poor Mickey would have great ease.

As far as she was concerned, that is, for he’d have the place to
himself. But he never slackened on the work, only would be at it, early
and late; so much so, that the people would be wondering why he’d
bother his head with it all.

“And he ’ithout one in it, only himself!” they’d cry; “and no signs
of he to be looking out for a wife, either! A middling stale boy poor
Mickey should be, at this present!”

That was true enough, and along with that, he was no great beauty, to
look at. The sister was worse again; as ugly as if she was bespoke.
Still in all, she never gave up all hopes of she getting married. But
that’s the way with a-many a one, as well as Julia Heffernan.

Well, there came the day that she riz a shocking row all out with
Mickey; and for what, neither man nor mortal could tell; no, nor Julia
herself, let alone Mickey. Off with her, to some third or fourth cousin
of theirs in England.

“Luck’s a king and Luck’s a beggar!” says she; “and a body never knows
whose flure it’s waiting on, for you!”

“Sure it’s leaving it behind you, maybe, you are! going off that-a-away
in such a hurry!” says Mickey.

Not but what he was praying for she to be gone. But he knew if he let
on to her how anxious he was to get shut of her, the sorra toe she’d
stir. The same as if you were driving a pig. You must pull it back, if
you want it to go on.

“Leaving it behind me, indeed!” says she; “no, but it’s hardship and a
dog’s life I’m leaving! I’ve stopped here long enough, slaving the skin
off me bones for ye!” says she.

So Mickey said no more, only drove her off himself on the side-car to
the train, with her box; and when she was gone, “A good riddance of bad
rubbish!” said Mickey to himself; and was getting up on the car again,
when he perceived on the platform, as if he was after getting off the
train, a young boy, a sort of a cousin of his own, by the name of Art
Heffernan.

They passed the time of day, of course, and then had some further
discourse, and it appeared that Art was out of a job. He had no means,
no, nor a home; not one belonging to him any nearer nor Mickey. All
his people were either gone to America, or to the old churchyard of
Clough-na-Rinka, he said.

So Mickey then preffered him the chance of coming back with him to the
Furry Farm for a bit, till he’d have time to look about him.

“I don’t mind if I do,” says Art; “but if I stop awhile and work about
the place, what will you do for me in the way of payment?”

“Duck’s wages; the run of your bill,” says Mickey.

“Throw in a shuit of clothes and a pair of brogues, twice a year; and
the grass of the little heifer I have,” says Art, “and I don’t mind
trying how we’ll get on for a bit.”

Mickey agreed to that. He was at a short at that time, with Julia gone
off, and no one likely at hand to do the work about the house, let
alone the farm. And Art was well worthy of what he got. He was a smart,
willing boy; able and ready to put his hand to whatever was required to
be done about the whole place. And Mickey was contented with him. By
this plan, he hadn’t to pay out money in wages; a thing he never had
any wish for was, to part money.

It all went on very well. Art worked early and late, and was always
agreeable and civil-spoken; so that the two of them, Heffernans both,
appeared always to be the best of friends. And the people began saying
among themselves, that Art was as apt as not to be coming in on the
Furry Farm, when the present man would be done with it. That would be
natural enough. But the thing turned out very different, in the heel of
the hunt, from what any one was laying out then about the Heffernans.

There chanced to be a poor widow woman living in a little bit of a
house that was edged in upon the Furry Farm. She paid some small trifle
of rent to Mickey for it and a garden there was to it. She had no one
in this living world in it only herself and a young slip of a girl, a
daughter of hers.

In a case of the kind, you’ll mostly always find there will be some one
or other ready to do the lone woman a good turn, such as the lend of a
hand in the getting of the turf, and the planting of the potatoes, and
so and so on. And Heffernan that was always counted to be a good enough
neighbour, in his own way, would say to Art of an evening, “When you
have this, that, and th’other done ... the pigs fed, and the horses
made up for the night, and water and turf left into the kitchen, you
may’s well take and mosey off down to the Widdah Rafferty’s, and see
does she want a hand with anything there.”

“All right!” Art would cry, he being, as I said, a very willing, handy
boy, ready for any job as soon as he’d have the one in hand completed.
So off he’d go; and Mickey would sit down in the chimney-corner, and
light his pipe, and swell himself out with the satisfaction of thinking
how that the poor widdah’s work was getting done, and still he to be at
no loss in life about it.

This went on for some time, till Heffernan began to take notice how
that Art appeared to be getting more and more anxious for his evening
job.

He thought this over for a while, and then says he to Art: “You’re in a
tearing hurry to-night to get all done,” he says; “and to be off from
about the place,” says he; “I doubt did you take time to more than half
milk them cows!” he says.

“The cows is right enough!” says Art, and he scrubbing away at himself
with a lump of yellow soap, and pumping water over himself till you’d
think he wanted to flood the yard.

“And where’s the sense in going to all that nicety?” says Mickey, “and
you about planting praties! washing your hands and face, no less, as
if it was a Sundah morning!”

Art got very red, but he made Mickey no answer, nor never did. He
just put the spade on his shoulder, and h-away with him to the Widdah
Rafferty’s.

When he came back that night, “I dunno in this earthly world what you
do be at, at all at all,” says Mickey to him, “but it appears as if
your whole illemint was for Rafferty’s and spending your time doing the
work there. A body would think that the girl there should be middling
sizeable and strong by this, and able to do her share of whatever small
matter of business they’d have in a place of the kind, and for they to
not be looking for so much assistance. It was another thing altogether,
while she was a child!”

Thinks Art to himself, “It was, so!” and out loud says he, “I never do
go in it, only when the day’s work here is over.”

This vexed Mickey; for wasn’t it as much as to say, up to his face,
that he begrudged the widdah woman what Art did for her; whereas he
had no objections in life to it, as long as his own business wasn’t
interfered with. There’s plenty of that kind of good-nature in the
world; the same as the way people have of giving away things they
can’t use themselves, and then they expect great praise for doing what
costs them nothing. But sure, you mightn’t expect too much from the
likes of Heffernan.

He said no more then, only the very next evening a while after Art had
quit off to Rafferty’s didn’t Mickey make up his mind to take a waddle
off there himself, and see what was going on.

“An’ a fine evening it is, too,” he says to himself, quite
cheerful-like; “and the ground in the finest of order for getting in
the spuds.”[1]

For it was one of those long, clear spring’s days, when the birds are
just beginning to tune up, and you can imagine to see a growth in the
grass, and a change taking place upon the trees and hedges, as if some
one was hanging veils of purple and green between you and them. But
the sorra leaf is out on them yet! There’s nothing to be seen only
bare branches, and the sting of winter is in the wind still. The days
does be long and bright, so much so that a body is apt to imagine that
the hard weather is all gone away, and that there’s to be nothing only
what’s warm and pleasant from that out. And still in all, it’s the
lonesomest time, and the time you’ll fret the most, of the whole year.

Heffernan had none of these things in his mind, and he making his way
along to the Widdah Rafferty’s; only planning he was how to get up
a-nigh it, without he to be seen himself.

It was along a bit of a _boreen_[2] the house was; and as Mickey came
within sight of it, “I see no signs of work to be doing presently in
this garden!” says he, and he craning his neck, and making himself as
small as he could. And what he was after saying was true enough. You
could just take notice of Art’s spade, stuck up straight in a half-dug
furrow. But sight nor light of man nor mortal there wasn’t to be seen
in the garden that Art was supposed to be planting.

On steps Heffernan; and now he begins to hear the pleasant little
hum-hum of a spinning-wheel. The sound of it inside must have deadened
the noise of his brogues and he going along the rough boreen, so as
that he was enabled to get up close to the house annonst-like, and have
a peep at what was going on there, without any one knowing he was in it
at all.

Well, he looked in, and troth, there was no delay on him to do so. He
mightn’t have been so cautious. For the people inside were too much
taken up with themselves and their own goings-on to think of looking
round for any one else.

There was the Widdah Rafferty, sitting in the chimney-corner at her
wheel; but the sorra much spinning she was doing, with the way Art had
her laughing, going on with his antics, himself and the daughter. In
spite of all the hardship, Mrs. Rafferty was a very contented sort of
a person, never going to meet trouble, as the saying is. Laughing at
Art she was, and her daughter, Rosy. The two of them were sitting on a
form, letting on to be very hard at work, cutting the seed potatoes,
and they with a kish[3] upon the floor foreninst them, to throw the
seed into, according as they’d have it ready.

“That’s never Rosy Rafferty!” thinks Heffernan to himself. Mickey,
as you know, was never one to be having much discourse with the
neighbours, beyond that he’d just pass the time of day with them. And
that’s how he had never chanced to see the girl, no more than that he
might meet her now and then, going along the road, with her shawl over
her head, and her eyes on the ground, and she with the mother, on their
way to Mass. Poor and all as the Widdah Rafferty was, she made a shift
someways or other to rear this one child of hers very nice and tender.
She’d never agree to let her go off to dances at the cross-roads, or
the like of that, without she could be with her, herself. And in troth,
Rosy Rafferty was as beautiful a young creature as ever the sun shone
down upon; with cheeks like hedge roses, and a pair of big, soft eyes
that you’d think ... well, in fact, it would be a thing impossible
to put down upon paper what such a girl looks like. Every eye forms
a beauty for itself. What delights me, you wouldn’t maybe give a
_thraneen_[4] for. But it was given up to Rosy that there wasn’t the
peel of her in all Ardenoo, in the regard of looks, and along with
that, she was as shy as a filly, and as sweet as a little bird.

To Mickey Heffernan in especial, that had never passed much remarks
about any girl, it appeared something altogether strange and new, to
see the bright little face of her, shining there in the dim, smoky
cabin, like a lovely poppy among the weeds of a potato-patch.

“Mind yer eye!” she was saying to Art, “or you’ll cut the hand off of
yourself!”

“Which eye?” says Art, and he with his own two eyes turned full upon
Rosy; and, in troth, what a fool he’d be to have them anywhere else;
“which eye do ye mane? Is it the eye in me head, or the eye in me hand
I’m to mind?” Meaning, of course, the bud of the potato he was after
cutting. “Och, begorra! there’s the knife after slipping on me....”

“There now!” says Rosy, “didn’t I tell you!” and with that she turns
gashly pale, at the sight of the blood. So it was the mother that had
to see to Art’s wound. She stopped the wheel, and came over to look at
it.

“Phoo! what at all!” she says; “sure, that’s a thing of nothing! It
will be well afore you’re twice marrit!”

“I dunno about that!” says Art, not wanting to be done out of Rosy’s
commiseration; “there’s an imminse pain in it at this present.”

“Think as little of that as I do, and there won’t be a bother on ye!”
says the Widdah; “and what’s this you’re after giving me to bandage it
with, Rosy? Sure it’s not your good silk hankercher that I bought for
you, off of Tommy the Crab, only last Easter was a twelvemonth! Pshat!
girl dear, won’t any old polthogue do well enough for that cut thumb of
Art’s!”

At this word, Rosy whips the purty little scarf into her pocket, and
she with cheeks upon her as red as scarlet. Well! to see the look Art
gave her! If Rosy was a Queen, and she after offering to bestow her
crown upon him, he couldn’t have appeared more thankful and delighted.
And sure, may be after all, a Queen would have one crown for using
every day, and a good one laid by for Sundays as well; whereas, all the
neckerchers that Rosy had in this wide world was just that pink one the
mother had bought her out of Tommy the Crab’s basket.

Well, that all passed off, and when the mother was back at her wheel,
and Rosy beginning on the praties again, says she to Art, Rosy I mean,
“You’ll cut no more seed here to-night,” she says, “and you may’s well
be making the road back to Heffernan’s short now as you’re no more use
here,” says she.

“Is that all you want wid me?” says Art; “if so, it’s as good for me to
be off at wanst, as to be staying here, and wearing out me welcome!”

“What a hurry you’re in!” says Rosy then to him, and she looking up
at him with a laugh in her eyes that would coax the birds off of the
bushes; “but sure maybe it’s what you’d liefer, to be back with Mr.
Heffernan beyant....”

“Is it him?” says Art; “troth, it’s him that’s the quare ould company
to spend an evening wid! and no more diversion in him, nor there’s fur
on a frog....”

Art was at this time picking the praties out of the sack, and handing
them to Rosy according as she’d be ready to cut them. And this was to
help on with the work, by the way of; but every time he done that,
wouldn’t he double his big fist over her little fingers and hold them
tight, the way he’d get her to look up at him; and then they’d both
take to go laugh.

“Look at that, for a Murphy!” says Art, holding up a big potato; queer
and lumpy and long-shaped it was; “isn’t that the very livin’ image
of ould Mickey himself! See here; the big nose ... and the weeny slit
eyes, like pig’s eyes ... and the mouth, like nothing so much as a
burst slipper ...” and that was all true enough.

“You’ll see likenesses that-a-way often,” says the Widdah Rafferty,
checking the wheel to join in the chat; “I remimber to see a head of
cabbage wanst, flat Dutch it was, and it as like ould Father Mulhall as
could be, the heavens be his bed, I pray! very round-about and fat in
the body he was. And that kittle there, hasn’t it the very appearance
upon it of ould Tommy the Crab? wid the quare pintey little nose of
him? And that puts me in mind ... it’s time to be wettin’ the sup of
tay. Off to the well wid the two of yiz....”

Heffernan outside the door heard this, and waited for no more, only
slipped off, quiet and easy, afore any of them had put a stir upon
themselves. And that gave him no trouble; for Art and Rosy were that
taken up with one another, that the Widdah had to chastise them more
than once, afore she could get them to go. So Heffernan was able to
quit, without being seen by any of them.

He had heard all he wanted; ay, and more than he liked! But divil’s
cure to him! what call had he to take and go listen to what wasn’t
meant for him! He was all in a flutter and he going off home with
himself. He didn’t like being made fun of; and faith! there’s few of
us does! But that was the least part of what was working in his mind,
like the wind on a field of ripe oats, twisting and turning it hither
and over. And the storm that was stirring Heffernan’s thoughts was, the
look of Rosy and she sitting there smiling up at Art. That was what had
him upset.

Young boys and girls are a bit too ready to forget that a man’s
courting days doesn’t be always over, when the grey begins to show in
his beard. No, in troth! and so by Heffernan. There was a warm stir
about his heart and he stepping along up the boreen, back to his own
place, and a feel like the spring sunshine came over him, and he tried
to sing a bit of “The Bunch of Green Rushes,” but sure he hadn’t it
right, nor couldn’t remember it, he hadn’t heard it those years past.

When he got back to his own place, what should he do, only root out a
little cracked looking-glass that had been thrown by since God knows
when! He took it down off of the top of the dresser, and he rubbed the
dust from it with the sleeve of his old coat, and then he went over to
the door with it in his hand, to get the last of the daylight on it,
the way he’d see did he look as old all out as he knew himself that he
was.

Well, what he seen there was noways encouraging; so he flings the glass
back again, and goes over to the chimney-corner, and sits down. It was
just the end of the day, as I said; the light was beginning to fail,
and still there was too much of it for him to want to shut up the house
or go light a candle, or that. And it was too cold for a body to care
for being outside, unless they had some business to attend to.

So Mickey just sat there, with no one only himself, in the dusky
kitchen; and all the cheerfulness he thought to see before was gone.
The place seemed to him to have a desolate appearance upon it, that
he had never noticed before. But the sorra change was on it, no more
than the night will have got any darker really, when you go out into
it after you being for a while in a room that was full up of light. It
was himself that was different, after seeing into Rafferty’s, where
the fire was small enough, God knows! but the hearth was swep’ up tidy
and nice. The table was old and shaky there, but it was scoured as
white as the snow. And the wheel was singing its own little song of
cheerful work, and there was talk and laughing going on; and, above
all, the gay shining little head of Rosy, that lit it up, like a bit
of sunshine come down out of the skies. Whereas Heffernan’s kitchen
was all through-other, just as they had got up after their dinners ...
plates and pots and praty-skins all lying hither and over. The fire was
nigh-hand out, and it all as silent as the grave.

“And not a sod of turf left in!” says Heffernan to himself; “that’s a
nice way for Art to be leaving the place, and he ped to mind it!”

Out with him to the clamp, to get an armful of turf; and didn’t the two
pigs meet him full, and they coming back from the garden, after they
rooting there to their heart’s content.

“There’s more of it, now!” he thinks to himself; “and a nice job I’ll
have of it, striving to get them back to their sty! Bad scran to
Art! I never seen such work! Cock him up, indeed! going off to his
_randy-voos_, instead of minding his business!”

But it was really himself that Mickey ought to have blamed in regard
to the pigs, with his fidgeting about and not fastening the door of
the pigsty right, that had a loose hinge and required humouring, and
had a right to be mended, along with all. But to the day of his death,
Heffernan blamed them pigs on Art. And, still, he never let on a word
to him of what was after happening about them. He was too angry,
besides having a slow tongue. It was only in to himself he’d talk and
argue.

“I wondher, now, what else Art neglected here,” he thought, “to make
off wid himself to Rafferty’s! How anshis he is, about the Widdah’s
work! In troth, it’s kissin’ the child for the sake of the nurse he
is! Coortin’, are ye? Maybe there’ll be more nor one word to be said
about that! I might manage to clip yer wings for ye, me boyo, as sure
as there’s a leg in a pot! And of all the chat he was having out of
him...! But sure Art could talk down a hedgeful of sparrows, anny day
of the year!”

There’s the way he kept thinking over the thing, and there’s how he
began first having a bad suspicion of Art, that the poor boy never
earned. But just because he never spoke of what was in his mind, it
kept rolling over and over there, till there was nothing so bad but
what he thought Art was capable of it.

Art never minded. Heffernan was always a bit dark in himself. So Art
never got the chance of saying a word for himself, nor knew he was
being watched and blamed and he going on the one way, off wid himself
every evening to Rafferty’s, and would come back that happy and smiling
that Mickey would be madder nor a wet hen, looking at him.

So there’s the way it went on with the two of them; Heffernan sour and
silent and miserable in himself; and Art noways put about, only quite
gay and satisfied from morning till night.

At last Heffernan made up his mind what he’d do. There came an evening
... a summer’s evening it was, more betoken ... and when Art walked
into Rafferty’s as usual, he found Rosy drowned in grief, and she
crying down the tears as if she was after losing all belonging to her.

“Ora, what’s a trouble to ye, Rosheen acushla!” says Art; but it was a
while afore he could get an answer out of her she was that fretted and
put about. But at long last she told him. Mr. Heffernan, she said, that
was wanting to marry her.

“What!” says Art, bursting out into a big laugh; “ould Heffernan
to think to marry _you_! he that might be your father! ay, or your
grandfather to the back of that, ready!”

But Art was wrong about that. Heffernan wasn’t that far on at all.

“That’s a nice joke to be putting out upon a body!” he says, “for of
coorse it’s only nonsense ...” and he looks hard at her; “say it’s only
joking y’are, Rosy!”

“The sorra joke!” says poor Rosy, and she looking at him most pitiful,
and her cheeks and eyes wet with the tears; so much so that Art thought
well of doing his best to dry them for her; and Rosy went on, “He was
down here this morning, talking to me mother....”

“Well?”

“Well, sure, what was I to do, only say that I wouldn’t agree to him;
and then he got vexed, and says he to me mother, ‘Go off,’ he says, ‘to
Father Connellan, and let him at her, to see to bring her to raison!’
And och! Art, jewel, what will I do, at all at all!”

“Sure, never heed them!” says Art, very stout.

“That’s all very fine! but they’ll all be agin me! Too sure I am that
Father Connellan will be for Mickey, on account of the good wedding ...
all the money he has! And he has promised me mother to bring her to the
Furry Farm, as well as me, and to give her every comfort. He says he’s
after getting word of some one that is going to marry his sister beyant
there in England. So then, there wouldn’t be Julia on the flure, to
contind wid. And me mother is to have a side-car to drive to Mass of a
Sundah; and a slip of a sarvint-girl to be ordhering about, and every
comfort, if only I’ll agree to take him. And of coorse she’s getting
middling ould and wakely in herself ... so there it is now!”

“Well, don’t you cry any more, annyhow, Rosy!” says Art;
“look-at-here, if he wants a wife so terrible bad, and is so anshis to
have your mother at the Furry Farm, why wouldn’t he take her there, and
l’ave the two of us in p’ace and qui’tness?”

“That’s only foolishness!” says Rosy.

Still, the notion started her off to laugh, and that was what Art
wanted. But sure, when people is young, it’s easy diverting their minds
from whatever has them annoyed. So Rosy and Art began talking and going
on, and before very long they had clean forgotten old Heffernan and
everything else, only theirselves.

That was all well enough, for that turn. But soon it became well known
to them both, that it was apt to turn out no laughing matter for them.
For, as Rosy had said, they were all against Art and for Heffernan. And
the mother, in particular, gave Rosy neither ease nor rest, morning,
noon, and night, only fighting the girl to take a man that, as she
said, had a good means, and could keep her like a Princess.

A woman like the Widdah Rafferty is not to be blamed for doing the like
of that. She couldn’t but be a bit cowardly in herself, and she left
the way she was, without one to come between her and the world. Gay
and pleasant as she was mostly, she knew enough of hardship to think a
power of the offer Heffernan was after making, saying he would do for
her as well as for Rosy. And the thoughts of the Furry Farm! All the
stock upon it, and the kitchen with full and plenty in it; sides of
bacon, and lashins and lavins of milk and turf and praties and meal ...
well, sure she couldn’t but be tempted with all that, for herself as
well as for Rosy. Indeed she was of the opinion that she was doing the
best she could for her child, as often as she’d begin argufying with
her; abusing poor Art, and puffing up Heffernan.

But all she done by that was, to make poor Rosy fret; and what else did
she expect?

Through it, not a word ever passed between the two men upon the
business. Heffernan, as I said, was always a good warrant to hold his
tongue. He thought now he had the thing so sure that he need only wait
a bit. He knew how poor the Raffertys were. He didn’t want any upset or
unpleasantness with Art, that maybe the boy would take and quit off,
and leave him there wid himself, and not as much as one about the place
to do a hand’s turn there.

Heffernan was a slow-going sort of a man. The people all had it that
he was a bit thick. But, anyway, he knew well enough what he was able
for, and what he ought to let alone. He had no wish in life for getting
shut of Art, till he’d have some one in his place, in on the ways of
the Furry Farm. And he wanted to make sure of Rosy and the mother
there, afore his own sister would be maybe hearing about it, and he
knew her to be that conthrary, that he wouldn’t put it past her to come
off home at once, to spoil all his plans. He scarce ever heard a word
from her, only there was a sketch going round Ardenoo of some talk of
a match being made for her, what Rosy had mentioned to Art. Mickey was
beginning to have good hopes out of that, thinking she might get some
man to marry her there that wouldn’t know the differ. So he was doing
his endeavours to hurry the thing up with Rosy, or at least with the
mother; and sorra word out of his head to Art; and Art the same with
him.

But Art would be nigh-hand mad betimes, with the way old Heffernan
would look at him, as much as to say, “I have ye now, me boyo!” But
he never axed to pass any remarks, good or bad. Why would he? He was
sure of Rosy, so there would be neither use nor sense in having words
with Mickey, that could do you a bad turn, as soon as look at you. And
Art then took the notion that the Widdah Rafferty wasn’t all out as
agreeable and pleasant-spoken to him as she had a right to be; not that
she was to be blemt in that! So he and Rosy took to meeting with one
another outside the house; at the well, maybe, or gathering sprigs for
the fire, or the like of that; and it wasn’t their fault if they did it
secretly.

It was in this way that Rosy was coming from the Chapel one evening,
when Art met up with her, by the purest of accidents, of course. They
had plenty to talk about, as is always the way with the likes of them.
And if it was mostly about themselves, sure, that’s what most of us
finds very interesting and agreeable.

“I’m in dread,” says Rosy, “this while back, that it’s what Mr.
Heffernan has some iday of coming at me mother soon now for the
rent....”

“Sure, what’s that, only a flea-bite!” says Art.

“Ah, but isn’t there four years owing? and how is that going to be ped?
unless we can get to pacify him someways. And we behindhand at the
Shop ... and do you mind how the young turkeys died ‘on’ us last year?
and that has left us very short ever since. And now the praties isn’t
looking any too well....”

“In spite of you telling me to mind me eye, and we cutting the seed!”
says Art; and then the both of them had to laugh, thinking how simple
he near cut the thumb off of himself that evening. It’s a small thing
will amuse a boy and girl like Rosy and Art. God knows they’ll have
whips to fret and worry over, before their day is done here! So why
wouldn’t they laugh as long as they can?

Well, and so Art would laugh right enough while he’d be in company
with Rosy. But all the whole time he’d keep thinking and planning; and
when the next fair-day of Clough-na-Rinka came round, and he had to be
up and off before daylight with stock of Heffernan’s to sell there,
didn’t he bring his own bullock amongst them! Grass for him was in
Art’s agreement with Mickey, and I needn’t say that that animal hadn’t
the worst spot of the farm, neither was there any fear of he to be
overlooked at foddering-time, as long as there was a wad of hay left.
But sure that’s only human nature, to look after your own. No matter
how kind you are to others, you’ll always have the most heart for
yourself.

Art’s bullock was that fine a beast, that he was sold at top price,
and the money was in Art’s pocket, long before Mickey Heffernan came
bowling up to the fair-green, on the side-car, in time for the regular
business of the day. And how he got on there, and what price he got for
his stores, is neither here nor there now. Art passed no remarks to him
in regard to his own sale; sure, why would he? And as soon as he had
done with Heffernan’s cattle, he slipped off with himself, and Mickey
went home without seeing him again.

The next morning, when Heffernan went to go to get up, behould ye!
sight nor light of Art there wasn’t to be got about the whole town.

“And it’s too sure I am,” thinks Mickey to himself, “that he wasn’t in
till late, whatever divilmint he was at! for I’d have heard him, up
to nine o’clock, annyway! Nice conduction it is for he to be having,
stopping out that-a-way, and neglecting his business, that he’s ped
to do here for me! And now, where at all should he be, and isn’t here
seeing about things this morning, only leaving all to me! But I’ll not
fau’t him; sure it’s not long he’ll be in it. I can bid him to go, in
another little while, anny day I like! Only, where the mischief is he
now! Maybe it’s what he’s taking to go to Rafferty’s, airly as well
as late. Sure it’s only losing his time he is, and making a laugh of
himself he is as well; but divil mend him! standing up wid impidence he
is, this minute!”

Off with Heffernan then to Rafferty’s, without even waiting to break
his fast. When he got there, who should he see, only Tommy the Crab,
airly and all as it was; and he with his pack upon the ground and
talking away to the Widdah Rafferty.

She that gave the lepp when she seen Heffernan! the same as if she was
half afraid of he hearing what Tommy had to say. But Mickey never said
a word, only made a kind of a bow of the head when she passed him the
time of day, and stood there.

“Good mornin’, Mr. Heffernan,” says Tommy, that had a tongue in his
head like the clapper of a bell; “I hope I see you as well as I’d
wish you and all belonging to ye! and that you may never be sick till
I’m doctor enough to cure ye! and that won’t happen, till you’re that
small, that you’ll have to stand up upon a sod of turf, to look into a
naggin! Well, sure, you’re just in time here to get the news that I’m
about telling to Mrs. Rafferty.”

Heffernan never said one word, not even to ax, “What is it?” and so
Tommy goes on, “I slep’ out last night, under the big furzy bush there
below at the cross-roads, bekase I was a bit late and I coming from
the fair. And along wid all, I had no great command of meself, after
me day there, you persave. So, as I was a-loath to disturb any dacint
house, knocking the people up to ax a bed from them, I just laid
meself down there, where I had the best of shelter. Ay, and slep’ the
best, too, till this morning, bright and airly, when I wakened hearing
voices. And what should it be, only young Art, from beyant at your
place, Mr. Heffernan, and little Rosy Rafferty, and they coming along
the road to’arst me!”

“The Lord save us!” says the Widdah; “sure it’s not in airnest you are!
and I having it laid out that it was what she was just a piece off from
me in the fields, and she gethering a few sprigs for kindling....”

“Well, sure, you should know! and maybe that’s what she _was_ at; and
that Art was helping her. I couldn’t rightly say. Only, if they were
at that, they must have changed their minds, and have left the sprigs
in the gaps they were stopping ...” and as he said the word, Heffernan
gave a kind of a snort, for there was nothing he had more enmity to,
than the fashion women does have, of pulling the bushes out of holes in
the fences that he’d be after getting filled up. The weight of them
would liefer do that, nor to pick up what little kindling-wood they’d
want off the ground, and mostly always there’s plenty lying loose to
their hand.

Tommy went on with his story, and a smirk on his face when he saw the
way he had Mickey annoyed about the sprigs.

“Ay indeed! Nobody else in this earthly world, only their two selves!
There they were, and they coming along, looking half proud of
themselves, and half afraid; and their eyes round over their shoulders
every minute, as if they were afraid of some one coming after them. And
the big hurry there appeared to be on them!

“When they seen me, they stopped short.

“‘In the name of God,’ says I to them, ‘where are yiz off to, at this
hour,’ says I, ‘and the stars not out of the sky yet?’

“Art laughed, but Rosy blushed up.

“‘Oho!’ says I, ‘what colour’s red? and is this what yiz are up to?’

“But they said nothing, only Art whips a whole big handful of money out
of his pocket carelesslike, as if it was just that much dirt.

“‘What have you there?’ says he; and begins turning over every ha’porth
in the pack on the ground beside me, the mouth of it being open; and
his hands shaking as if he was all of a thrimble; and Rosy watching him
with her eyes dancing, and still not asking to touch annything herself.

“‘I have all soarts here,’ says I to him, making answer, ‘but sure
it’s what I’m thinking it should some kind of a ring yous will be
wanting....’

“‘You just got it!’ he says; ‘but I doubt have you one good enough for
us ... ah! there’s a nice neckercher ... we’ll take that, at anny rate
... do you remimber, Rosy? Is this as good as the one you offered to
tie up that cut of mine...?’ and they both laughed out.

“‘I’d wish it a taste brighter,’ he says.

“‘Sure, isn’t it grand!’ says she ... ‘but Art! look at them for
pickthers!’ and couldn’t stop herself, only taking up first one and
then another....

“‘Would you wish e’er a one of them?’ he says.

“‘They’d be aisy carrit,’ says I; ‘and more betoken, yous wouldn’t be
getting them so raisonable as I can sell them, from them that has shops
and rent to pay....’

“‘They’d look pleasant and homely, annywhere we’d be!’ says Rosy.

“So they chose out a half-dozen or so; the Death of Lord Edward; and
Emmet in the Dock, and so and so on; and they bid me to bring this one
to you, and I was to say how that they were off to the Big Smoke[5] to
have the wedding there, at your sister’s....”

“Ay, she’s there in Dublin, this linth of time,” says the Widdah, quite
composed now, and she smiling all over with joy.

For there’s the way it is wid women. When they get a daughter marrit,
no matter to who, they’ll be that proud, the weight of them, that they
wouldn’t call the King their cousin. And along with all, of course, Art
Heffernan was known to be a very choice boy, only for he being poor.
But, as it was often said at Ardenoo, why need that stop him in the
getting of a wife? Why mightn’t he as well be a poor man as a poor boy?

“And to think of them sending me a keepsake!” says the mother; “dear,
but that pickther is beautiful, the way it’s drew out!”

“There’s a crack across the face of it,” says Mickey; and there’s the
only word he had out of them.

“So there is! and I never to observe it till you spoke!” says the
Widdah, and she looking ready to go cry.

“Sure it will never be noticed!” says Tommy, “and moreover, I took a
pinny off of the price, in compliment to that little defect,” and I’m
not saying but he did. “Here!” says Tommy, “I’ll give you a nail into
the bargain to hang it up by; and there’s a brave lump of a stone, to
drive it in, and make it all safe upon the wall. Where will you wish to
have it, mam?”

“Here, where I can be seeing it, and I sitting at the wheel,” says she.

So Tommy hammered in the nail.

“What’s the name of the pickther?” says the Widdah, and she standing
back a piece off, the way she could get a good look at it.

“It’s called ‘The Flight of the Wild Geese,’” says Tommy, with a grin.

And Heffernan just gave one laugh out of him; like the cough of a sick
sheep it was, and turned about and went home.




CHAPTER II

THE GAME LEG


Heffernan’s house at the Furry Farm stood very backwards from the
roadside, hiding itself, you’d really think, from any one that might
be happening by. As if it need do that! Why, there was no more snug,
well-looked-after place in the whole of Ardenoo than Heffernan’s always
was, with full and plenty in it for man and beast, though it wasn’t to
say too tasty-looking.

And it was terrible lonesome. There wasn’t a neighbour within the bawl
of an ass of it. Heffernan of course had always been used to it, so
that he didn’t so much mind; still, he missed Art, after he going off
with little Rosy Rafferty. That was nigh-hand as bad upon him as losing
the girl herself. He had got to depend on Art for every hand’s turn,
a thing that left him worse when he was without him. And he was very
slow-going. As long as Julia was there, she did all, and Heffernan
might stand to one side and look at her. And so he missed her now,
more than ever; and still he had no wish to see her back, though even
to milk the cows came awkward to him.

He was contending with the work one evening, and the calves in
particular were leaving him distracted, above all, a small little
white one that he designed for Rosy, when he’d have her Woman of the
House at the Furry Farm. That calf, I needn’t say, was not the pick of
the bunch, but as Mickey thought to himself, a girl wouldn’t know any
better than choose a calf by the colour, and there would be no good
wasting anything of value on her. At all events it would be “child’s
pig and daddy’s bacon,” most likely, with that calf. But, sure, what
matter! Rosy was never to have any call to it, or anything else at the
Furry Farm.

Those calves were a very sweet lot, so that Mickey might have been
feeling all the pleasure in life, just watching them, with their soft
little muzzles down in the warm, sweet milk, snorting with the pure
enjoyment. But Mickey was only grousing to get done, and vexed at the
way the big calves were shoving the little ones away, and still he
couldn’t hinder them. Art used to regulate them very simple by means
of a little ash quick he kept, to slap the forward calves across the
face when they’d get too impudent. But as often as Mickey had seen him
do that, he couldn’t do the same. The ash quick was so close to him
that if it had been any nearer it would have bitten him. Stuck up in a
corner of the bit of ruin that had once been Castle Heffernan it was.
But it might as well have been in America for all the good it was to
Mickey.

“I wish to God I was rid of the whole of yous, this minute!” says he
to himself, and he with his face all red and steamy, and the milk
slobbering out of the pail down upon the ground, the way the calves
were butting him about the legs.

That very minute, he heard a sound behind him. He turned about, and my
dear! the heart jumped into his mouth, as he saw a great, immense red
face, just peeping over the wall that shut in his yard from the boreen.
That wall was no more than four feet high. Wouldn’t any one think it
strange to see such a face, only that far from the ground! and it with
a bushy black beard around it, and big rolling eyes, and a wide old hat
cocked back upon it? You’d have to think it was something “not right”;
an Appearance or Witchery work of some kind.

But, let alone that, isn’t there something very terrifying and
frightful in finding yourself being watched, when you think you’re
alone; and, of all things, by a man? The worst of a wild beast wouldn’t
put the same bad fear in your heart.

“Good-evening, Mr. Heffernan,” says the newcomer, with a grin upon him,
free and pleasant; “that’s a fine lot of calves you have there!”

Heffernan was so put about that he made no answer, and the man went on
to say, “Is it that you don’t know me? Sure, you couldn’t forget poor
old Hopping Hughie as simple as that!”

And he gave himself a shove, so that he raised his shoulders above the
wall. A brave big pair they were, too, but they were only just held up
on crutches. Hughie could balance himself upon them, and get about, as
handy as you please. But he was dead of his two legs.

“Oh, Hughie...!” says Heffernan, pretty stiff, “well, and what do you
want here?”

“Och, nothing in life....”

“Take it then, and let you be off about your business!” says Mickey as
quick as a flash for once; and he that was proud when he had it said!

Hughie had a most notorious tongue himself, but he knew when to keep
it quiet, and he thought it as good to appear very mild and down in
himself now, so he said, “_My_ business! sure, what word is that to
say to a poor old fellah on crutches! Not like you, Mr. Heffernan,
that’ll be off to the fair of Balloch to-morrow morning, bright and
early, with them grand fine calves of yours. The price they’ll go!
There isn’t the peel of them in Ardenoo!”

“Do you tell me that?” says Heffernan, that a child could cheat.

“That’s what they do be telling me,” says Hughie. He could build a nest
in your ear, he was that cunning. He thought he saw a chance of getting
to the fair himself, and a night’s lodging as well, if he managed right.

“I wish to goodness I could get them there, so,” says Mickey, “and
hasn’t one to drive them for me!”

“Would I do?” says Hughie.

Heffernan looked at him up and down.

“Sure you’d not be able!”

“Whoo! Me not able? Maybe I’m like the singed cat, better than I look!
I’m slow, but fair and easy goes far in a day! Never you fear but I’ll
get your calves to Balloch, the same way the boy ate the cake, very
handy....”

The simplest thing would have been for Heffernan to take and drive the
calves himself. But he never had the fashion of doing such things.
Anyway it wouldn’t answer for the people to see a man with a good means
of his own, like Mickey, turning drover that way.

So he thought again, while Hughie watched him; and then says he,
“You’ll have to be off out of this before the stars have left the sky!”

“And why wouldn’t I?” says Hughie; “only give me a bit of supper and a
shakedown for the night, the way I’ll be fresh for the road to-morrow.”

Hughie was looking to be put sitting down in the kitchen alongside
Heffernan himself, and to have the settle-bed foreninst the fire to
sleep in. But he had to content himself with the straw in the barn and
a plateful carried out to him. Queer and slow-going Heffernan might be,
but he wasn’t thinking of having the likes of Hopping Hughie in his
chimney-corner, where he had often thought to see little Rosy Rafferty
and she smiling at him.

Hughie took it all very contented. Gay and happy he was after his
supper, and soon fell asleep on the straw, with his ragged pockets that
empty, that the Divil could dance a hornpipe in them and not strike
a copper there; while Mickey above in bed in his own house, with his
fine farm and all his stock about him, calves and cows and pigs, not
to speak of the money in the old stocking under the thatch ... Mickey
couldn’t sleep, only worrying, thinking was he right to go sell the
calves at all; and to be letting Hughie drive them!

“I had little to do,” he thought, “to be letting him in about the place
at all, and couldn’t tell what divilment he might be up to, as soon
as he gets me asleep! Hughie’s terrible wicked, and as strong as a
ditch! I done well to speak him civil, anyway. But I’ll not let them
calves stir one peg out of this with him! I’d sooner risk keeping them
longer....”

There’s the way he was going on, tossing and tumbling and tormenting
himself; as if bed wasn’t a place to rest yourself in and not be raking
up annoyances.

So it wasn’t till near morning that Mickey dozed off, and never wakened
till it was more than time to be off for the fair.

Up he jumped and out to stop Hughie. But the yard was silent and empty.
Hughie and the calves were gone.

Mickey was more uneasy than ever.

“A nice _bosthoon_[6] I must be,” he thought, “to go trust my
good-looking calves to a _k’nat_[7] like Hughie! And he to go off
without any breakfast, too...!”

Heffernan was a good warrant to feed man or beast. But he mightn’t have
minded about Hughie, that had plenty of little ways of providing for
himself. His pockets would be like sideboards, the way he would have
them stuck out with meat and eggs and so on, that he would be given
along the road. Hughie was better fed than plenty that bestowed food
upon him.

Balloch, where the fair is held, is the wildest and most lonesome
place in Ardenoo, with a steep rough bit of road leading up to it,
very awkward to drive along. Up this comes Heffernan, on his side-car,
driving his best, and in a great hurry to know where would he come on
Hughie. He had it laid out in his own mind that sight nor light of
his calves he never would get in this world again. So it was a great
surprise to him to find them there before him, safe and sound. His
heart lightened at that as if a millstone was lifted off it.

And the fine appearance there was upon them! Not a better spot in the
fair-green, than where Hughie had them, opposite a drink-tent where the
people would be thronging most. And it was a choice spot for Hughie
too. Happy and contented he was, his back against a tree, leaning his
weight on one crutch and the other convenient to his hand.

“So there’s where you are!” says Mickey, when he came up.

“Ah, where else!” says Hughie, a bit scornful. Sure it was a foolish
remark to pass, and the man there before him, as plain as the nose on
your face. But Hughie was puzzled, too, by the look of relief he saw
on Mickey’s face. He understood nothing of what Heffernan was after
passing through. It’s an old saying and a true one, “Them that has the
world has care!” but them that hasn’t it, what do they know about it?

While Hughie was turning this over in his mind, Mickey was throwing
an eye upon the calves, and then, seeing they were all right, he was
bandying off with himself, when Hughie said, “Terrible dry work it is,
driving stock along them dusty roads since the early morning!” and he
rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth with a grin.

At that, Mickey put his hand into his pocket and felt round about, and
then pulled it out empty.

“I’ll see you later, Hughie,” says he, “I’ll not forget you, never
fear! Just let you wait here, till I have the poor mare attended to
that drew me here....”

So he went off to do this, and then into the drink-tent with him,
the way he could be getting a sup himself. But no sign of he to give
anything to Hughie. And there now is where Mickey made a big mistake.

He met up with a couple or three that he was acquainted with in the
tent, and they began to talk of this thing and that thing, so that it
was a gay little while before Mickey came out again.

When he did, “What sort is the drink in there, Mr. Heffernan?” says
Hughie.

Now what Mickey had taken at that time was no more than would warm the
cockles of his heart. So he looked quite pleasant and said, “Go in
yourself, Hughie, and here’s what will enable you to judge it!”

And he held out a shilling to Hughie.

“A bird never yet flew upon the one wing, Mr. Heffernan!” said Hughie,
that was looking to get another shilling, and that would be only his
due for driving the calves.

Mickey said nothing one way or the other, only went off, and left
Hughie standing there, holding out his hand in front of him with the
shilling in it, lonesome.

He that was vexed! He got redder in the face than ever, and gave out
a few curses, till he remembered there wasn’t one to hear him. So he
stopped and went into the tent and I needn’t say he got the best value
he could there.

But all the time, he was thinking how badly Heffernan was after
treating him, putting him off without enough to see him through the
fair even, let alone with a trifle in his pockets to help him on his
rounds. He began planning how he could pay out Mickey.

He got himself back to the same spot, near the calves, to see what
would happen. After a time he saw Heffernan coming back, and little
Barney Maguire was with him. A very decent boy Barney was, quiet and
agreeable; never too anxious for work, but very knowledgeable about
how things should be done, from a wake to a sheep-shearing. Heffernan
always liked to have Barney with him at a fair.

The two of them stood near the calves, carelesslike, as if they took no
interest in them at all.

A dealer came up.

“How much for them calves? Not that I’m in need of the like,” says he.

“Nobody wants you to take them, so,” says Barney, “but the price is
three pounds ... or was it guineas you’re after saying, Mr. Heffernan?”

Heffernan said nothing, and the dealer spoke up very fierce, “Three
pounds! Put thirty shillings on them, and I’ll be talking to ye!”

Mickey again only looked at his adviser, and says Barney, “Thirty
shillings! ’Tis you that’s bidding wide, this day! May the Lord forgive
you! Is it wanting a present you are, of the finest calves in all
Ardenoo!”

Heffernan swelled out with delight at that; as if Barney’s word could
make his calves either better or worse.

“Wasn’t it fifty-seven and sixpence you’re after telling me you were
offered only yesterday, Mr. Heffernan,” says Barney, “just for the
small ones of the lot?”

“Och! I dare say! don’t you?” says the dealer; “the woman that owns you
it was that made you that bid, to save your word!”

Poor Mickey! and he that hadn’t a woman at all! The dealer of course
being strange couldn’t know that, nor why Hughie gave a laugh out of
him then.

But that didn’t matter. Mickey took no notice. A man that’s a bit
“thick” escapes many a prod that another would feel sharp. So in all
things you can see how them that are afflicted are looked after in some
little way we don’t know.

The dealer looked at the calves again.

“Troth, I’m thinking it’s the wrong ones yous have here! Yous must have
forgotten them fine three-pound calves at home!”

And Mickey began looking very anxiously at them, as if he thought maybe
he had made some mistake.

“Them calves,” says the dealer slowly, “isn’t like a pretty girl, that
every one will be looking to get! And, besides, they’re no size! A
terrible small calf they are!”

“Small!” said Barney, “it’s too big they are! And if they’re little,
itself, what harm! Isn’t a mouse the prettiest animal you might ask to
see!”

“Ay is it!” says the dealer, “but it’ll take a power of mice to stock a
farm!” and off with him, in a real passion, by the way of.

But Barney knew better than to mind. The dealer came back, and at long
last the calves were sold and paid for. Then the luck-penny had to be
given. Hard-set Barney was to get Heffernan to do that. In the end,
Mickey was so bothered over it, that he dropped a shilling just where
Hughie was standing leaning his weight on the one crutch as usual.

As quick as a flash, he had the other up, and made a kind of a lurch
forward, as if to look for the money. But he managed to get the second
crutch down upon the shilling, to hide it; and then he looked round
about upon the ground, as innocent as a child, as if he was striving
his best to find the money for Mickey.

“Where should it be, at all at all?” says Hughie; “bewitched it should
be, to say it’s gone like that!”

And Heffernan standing there with his mouth open, looked as if he had
lost all belonging to him. Then he began searching about a good piece
off from where the shilling fell.

“It’s not there you’ll get it!” said Barney; “sure you ought always
look for a thing where you lost it!”

He went over to Hughie.

“None of your tricks, now! It’s you has Mr. Heffernan’s money, and let
you give it up to him!”

“Is it me have it? Sure if I had, what would I do, only hand it over to
the man that owns it!” says Hughie.

On the word, he let himself down upon the ground, and slithered over on
top of the shilling.

But quick and all as he was, Barney was quicker.

“Sure you have it there, you vagabone you! Give it up, and get off out
of this with yourself!”

And he caught Hughie a clip on the side of the head that sent him
sprawling on the broad of his back. And there, right enough, under him
was the shilling.

So Barney picked it up, and for fear of any other mistake, he handed it
to the dealer himself.

“It’s an ugly turn whatever, to be knocking a poor cripple about
that-a-way!” said the dealer, dropping the luck-penny into his pocket.

“Ach, how poor he is, and let him be crippled, itself!” says Barney;
“it’s easy seeing you’re strange to Ardenoo, or you’d not be
compassionating Hughie so tender!”

No more was said then, only into the tent with them again to wet the
bargain. Hughie gathered himself up. He was in the divil’s own temper.
Small blame to him, too! Let alone the disappointment about the
shilling, and the knock Barney gave him, the people all had a laugh at
him. And he liked that as little as the next one. You’d think he’d
curse down the stars out of the skies this time, the way he went on.

And it wasn’t Barney’s clout he cared about, half as much as Mickey’s
meanness. It was that had him so mad. He felt he must pay Heffernan out.

He considered a bit; then he gave his leg a slap.

“I have it now!” he said to himself.

He beckoned two young boys up to him, that were striving to sell a load
of cabbage plants they had there upon a donkey’s back, and getting bad
call for them.

“It’s a poor trade yous are doing to-day,” said Hughie; “and I was
thinking in meself yous should be very dry. You wouldn’t care to earn
the price of a pint?”

“How could we?” says the boys.

“I’ll tell you! Do you see that car?” and Hughie pointed to where
Heffernan had left his yoke drawn up, and the old mare cropping a bit
as well as she could, being tied by the head; “well, any one that will
pull the linch-pin out of the wheel, on the far side of that car,
needn’t be without tuppence to wet his whistle ...” and Hughie gave a
rattle to a few coppers he had left in his pocket.

“Yous’ll have to be smart about it too,” said he, “or maybe whoever
owns that car will have gone off upon it, afore yous have time to do
the primest bit of fun that ever was seen upon this fair-green!”

“Whose is the car?”

“Och, if I know!” says Hughie; “but what matter for that? One man is as
good as another at the bottom of a ditch! ay and better. It will be the
hoith of divarsion to see the roll-off they’ll get below there at the
foot of the hill....”

“Maybe they’d get hurted!” said the boys.

“Hurted, how-are-ye!” says Hughie; “how could any one get hurted so
simple as that? I’d be the last in the world to speak of such a thing
in that case! But if yous are afraid of doing it....”

“Afraid! that’s queer talk to be having!” says one of them, very stiff,
for like all boys he thought nothing so bad as to have “afraid” said to
him; “no, but we’re ready to do as much as the next one!”

“I wouldn’t doubt yiz!” said Hughie; “h-away with the two of you now!
Only mind! don’t let on a word of this to any sons of man....”

Off they went, and Hughie turned his back on them and the car, and
stared at whatever was going on the other end of the fair. He hadn’t
long to wait, before Heffernan and Barney and the dealer came out of
the drink-tent. Hughie took a look at them out of the corner of his eye.

“Ah!” he said to himself, “all ‘purty-well-I-thank-ye!’ after what they
drank inside! But wait a bit, Mickey Heffernan....”

The three men went over to where Heffernan’s car was waiting. The boys
were gone. The other two men helped Mickey to get his yoke ready. Then
he got up, and they shook hands a good many times. Heffernan chucked at
the reins and started off.

Hughie was watching, and when he saw how steadily the old mare picked
her way down the steep boreen, he began to be afraid he hadn’t hit on
such a very fine plan at all. And if Mickey had only had the wit to
leave it all to the poor dumb beast, she might have brought him home
safe enough.

But nothing would do him, only to give a shout and a flourish of the
whip, half-way down the hill. The mare started and gave a jump. She was
big and awkward, much like Mickey himself. Still, it was no fault of
her, that, when she got to the turn, the wheel came off and rolled away
to one side. Down came the car, Mickey fell off, and there he lay,
till some people that saw what was going on ran down the hill after
him, and got the mare on to her feet, and not a scratch on her.

But poor Mickey! It was easy to see with half an eye that he was badly
hurt.

“Some one will have to drive him home, whatever,” said Barney, coming
up the hill to look for more help, after doing his best to get Mickey
to stand up; and, sure, how was he to do that, upon a broken leg? “A
poor thing it is, too, to see how a thing of the kind could occur so
simple! and a decent man like Heffernan to be nigh-hand killed....”

“’Deed and he _is_ a decent man!” said Hughie; “and why wouldn’t he?
I’d be a decent man meself if I had the Furry Farm and it stocked....”

“He’s in a poor way now, in any case,” said Barney. “I doubt will he
ever get over this rightly! That’s apt to be a leg to him, all his
life!”

“Well, and so, itself!” said Hughie; “haven’t I two of them lame legs?
and who thinks to pity Hughie?”

“It’s another matter altogether, with a man like Mr. Heffernan,” said
Barney; “what does the like of you miss, by not being able to get
about, compared with a man that might spend his time walking a-through
his cattle, and looking at his crops growing, every day in the week?”

“To be sure, he could be doing all that!” said Hughie, “but when a
thing of this kind happens out so awkward, it’s the will of God, and
the will of man can’t abate that!”




CHAPTER III

THE “REST OF HIM”


This is how it happened with poor Mickey Heffernan that he was left
with a “game” leg, soon after he had had that falling-out with Art and
the Raffertys, on account of the little girl there. His sister Julia
came home, of course, as soon as she got word about the accident.
She looked after him well, and not alone that, but she managed the
outside work about the place too, till Mickey was so far recovered as
to be able to get about himself; at first on two crutches like Hughie
himself, and then by degrees he was well enough to do with just a stick.

Well and good. As long as he was helpless, and depending on Julia for
everything, she and he hit it off together, all right. A contrary woman
is often like that. She’ll let you do nothing, as long as you are well,
and would be able for a bit of sport and amusement. But once you are
laid up so that you could enjoy nothing, she’ll encourage you to do
the very things that would enrage her at other times.

This explains how it was that Julia flew into a tearing rage one
morning, when Mickey was on his feet again, because he asked for a
second egg for his breakfast. While he was in bed, she would be trying
to force food on him, when he had no appetite for anything; I’m not
saying that this is _why_ she pressed the things on him; but anyway,
now that he was up again and had a wish for food, it seemed as if she
grudged it to him.

With Julia, one word borrowed another, although Mickey never made her
answer. It saves quarrelling most times, but not with Julia. She would
work herself into a rage all the more when he kept quiet and seemed to
take no notice. Of course, that is an annoying thing. The end of it
was, that Julia went off again, to stay with some friends in Dublin it
was, this time.

It was a foolish step for Julia to take, but to be sure she did not
know what was in Mickey’s mind, nor how having lost little Rosy
Rafferty had not put him off the notion of getting a wife. It was only
more anxious than ever he was now to be married. He was just as glad to
be quit of Julia, the way he could be looking about him, without any
interference from her. In fact, he knew very well that his only chance
would be to take the ball at the hop, and look out for a woman that
would be suitable, when Julia would be out of the way.

How he managed in the long run to rid himself of Julia was a most
curious affair. Of all the people in Ardenoo, Peter Caffrey was the
last that he would have expected help from in the business.

Peter, or Peetcheen as he was mostly always called, was the only boy
that was left of the Caffreys at the cross-roads, before you come to
the turn leading on to Clough-na-Rinka. A very long, weak family of
them there used to be there. The poor mother found it hard to keep
going at all, particularly after the father died. In fact, Dark Molly
Reilly would say, she really thought Almighty God must have some little
way of His own of feeding people like the Caffreys, that no one knew
anything about.

They had the house for nothing, anyway. But a bad house it was; the
roof let in wet, every time rain fell, the same as if it was coming
through a sieve. And the smoke from the hearth curled up in clouds,
and escaped by the door just as freely as it did through the chimney.
It was old Peter Caffrey, Peetcheen’s grandfather, that he was called
after, that had built the house himself, and had managed to edge it
in on a piece of waste ground that no one could claim; so that’s how
there was no rent to be paid. That is a great help to any one, to be
rent-free; let alone to the Caffreys, that were always as poor as
Job’s dog. There never was one of them had two halfpence to jingle on
a tombstone. But still, poor and all as they were, they managed to be
cheerful and contented and would suffer on, someway. It was the mother
that saw to that.

One of the longest things that Peetcheen could look back on was the way
Miss O’Farrell from the Big House laughed one day that she happened to
be passing by and overheard Dark Moll passing the time of day with his
father.

“How are you, Jack?” said Moll, “and how’s the rest of ye, man dear?”

By that word, “the rest,” she meant his wife, the other part of him.
But Miss O’Farrell took it up wrong.

“The Rest?” she said; “why, that name fits Mrs. Caffrey like her skin!
And it’s you that are the lucky man, Jack Caffrey, to have Rest! For
there’s nothing like rest, in all this wide world!”

With that, she gave a little sob or sigh; it may have been because she
was out of breath, for she was walking very fast. What else could it
be? What trouble could be on the likes of Miss O’Farrell, living in a
fine house, with full and plenty of everything she could want in it,
and no one to interfere with her, except the father, and he doted down
on her, his only child?

“Won’t you come in and take a heat of the fire, miss?” said Mrs.
Caffrey, coming to the door very smiling. It would do you good to see
her, she was so nice and quiet and easy-going. Nothing ever hurried her
or put her about.

“I’m afraid I haven’t time to-day, thank you, Mrs. Caffrey,” said the
young lady, and off she went, at a sweep’s trot, you might say; and
left them standing there, Mrs. Caffrey with her hands under her apron,
looking after her till she was out of sight.

All that remained in Peetcheen’s mind. He was just after coming from
the well, he and the next smallest child, with a can of water slung
on a stick between them. It was pretty heavy, and they got it hard to
carry it; although before they had it landed into the kitchen for
their mother, more than half of it had spilled out, because they could
not keep it steady. And when they were rid of their burden, whatever
the other child did, Peetcheen just went off to rest himself; what he
was just in time to hear Miss O’Farrell say was such a good thing!

But without any such word from her, rest was a thing Peetcheen was
always ready for. He took after the mother in that. If there was no
stool ready for him ... and in houses like Caffrey’s furniture is never
too plentiful; nothing is, except children; every seat there was, two
would be wanting it; and the same with the food ... well Peetcheen
would just step aside, and wait.

Truth to tell, he was one of the sort that really is anxious for
nothing so much as to keep out of the way, and will let every one else
get in ahead of them. Above all, with work. Whenever there was talk of
a job to be done, Peetcheen was the last to make any attempt at it;
frightened, as it were, at the thought of it. This is how it came about
that when all the others of the Caffrey family went off, one here,
another there, according as a chance turned up, and as many as could to
America, Peetcheen was left on at home.

At Ardenoo, there was nothing scarcer than work; unless, maybe, money.
The labour went out when the machines came in. The tillage was all
given up, in any case. Every side you could see only grass farms, that
there would be no labour wanted for, only a herd with his collie-dog.
The farmers are blamed for this, but why would they not do what would
bring them in the best return? It’s only human nature, that nothing can
alter, only God, for every one to do the best he can for himself.

Besides, when there would be two or three looking for every job, why
wouldn’t a man take the best he could get to do it for him? That is how
Peetcheen was always left out in the cold. He never was the best at
anything. Civil-spoken and willing the creature was always. Somehow,
whatever he would attempt would go contrary on him though.

“I don’t know at all what sort of a _gaum_ you must be, Peetcheen!”
said Big Cusack to him, one day that they were drawing home his
turf from the bog, and Peetcheen had come along with no more than a
half-load; “a body would think it was teacakes for ladies you had laid
out so careful, instead of sods of turf!”

Peetcheen was standing, with his mouth open, staring at the half-empty
cart, and at last he said, “Sure I’m stupid, and always was! I filled
that cart full, when I was leaving the bog.... It’s what I have a right
to be hommered!”

“What use would it be, to go thrash ye?” said Cusack; “only a waste of
time! Letting the fine turf dribble out along the road, for the want
of fastening the creel in the back of the cart! You give me a disgoost
with yer foolishness! I have no patience with the like!”

Peetcheen made him no answer, and Big Cusack got madder than ever.

“It’s ashamed of yourself you ought to be,” he began again, “a big
_gobbeen_ like you, sitting at home, and taking the bit out of your
poor old mother’s mouth! Don’t let me see your big, useless carcass
here again! What ails you, that you can’t be a man or a mouse? Why
don’t ye strike off somewhere for yourself, where the people don’t know
you, and you might have a chance?”

“Well, from this out!” said poor Peetcheen.

The very next day, it was all over Ardenoo that Peetcheen was after
quitting.

Dark Moll went to see his mother about it.

“It’s not true what they’re all saying below there at the Shop, Mrs.
Caffrey, mam,” said she, “that Peetcheen has wint off from you?”

“Ay, is it true,” said the mother; “the poor child, he went off, ere
last night, and had nothing only a clean shirt and a pair of stockings
between him and the world...” and she began to cry.

“Just so,” said Moll, “like the boy going away to seek his fortune in
the old story, wid the half-cake and the blessing from his mammy....”

“He had that, whether or which,” said Mrs. Caffrey; “for a quieter,
better boy never broke bread! And there he is now gone off from me;
whatever riz his mind, that he couldn’t content himself at home here
with me?”

“God send him safe, whatever way he struck off!” said Moll; “and
lonesome you’ll be here, agrah! without your fine boy!”

“I miss him, the shockingest ever you knew!” said the mother, and she
wiped her eyes on the corner of her little shawl; “if it was no more
than the look of his brogues of an evening, and they steaming there by
the fire....”

“Ay, do ye miss him, and will, too!” said Moll, very compassionately;
“and the empty settle-bed and all! But if it would be consolations to
ye, I could stop here for a while, anyway, and keep an eye on things,
while you would have to be away; getting the water, or kindling ... or
below at the Shop....”

Well, Mrs. Caffrey had no wish for Moll to be there for a constancy for
different reasons. Moll was not very tasty in some of her ways, and she
had a very long tongue. But Mrs. Caffrey had no excuse ready, and so it
was easier to let the dark woman stay than to turn her away; and Mrs.
Caffrey always did the easiest thing.

This is how Moll got a stopping-place there for a time. It contented
her well. She had been very anxious to quit Molally’s, where she had
been. They were decent people enough, but the house was narrow, and
himself would be up striking lights at all hours, going out to look
after the ewes and lambs that he had in his care. He was a herd. Moll
felt it hard being disturbed out of her sleep. She thought she might do
worse than stop at Caffrey’s for a bit, anyway.

Peetcheen went off, and a wandering boy like him will often go far
enough, before he meets up with a chance of work. He was in Dublin for
a while, but he thought bad of having to keep on at it, ding-dong, the
whole day. He wanted to be somewhere that you need not be in a hurry,
and if you like, betimes you might turn up a bucket and sit on it, and
take a few blasts of a pipe; and not one to find fault with you for it.

But even at Ardenoo, a pet job like that is not very easy to find.
Peetcheen thought he had his fortune made, when he got work at fifteen
shillings a week, instead of the six he would get at Ardenoo. But he
had not reckoned on paying out for everything he wanted, even to his
washing, that the poor mother always did for him at home. He found
the money little enough, and he had nothing at all to send to her, as
he thought of doing. Maybe another boy would have managed better. But
Peetcheen was just himself, and not another! He had no great sense
about anything.

In Ardenoo, the neighbours would ask, “How is Peetcheen? what news have
you from him?”

“Ah, what but good news!” Mrs. Caffrey would answer. Indeed, if no news
is good news, she had nothing to complain about. There had never been
but the one letter from Peetcheen, and the most of it was taken up
sending remembrances and good wishes to this body and that, at home.

But the mother kept it safe, put up on top of the dresser, with her
Prayer Book, and her clean cap for Sunday.

Peetcheen did not keep that job for very long. He could not content
himself, where the work was so hard and constant. But what matter? he
would not be kept there in any case. He got the sack; and then he felt
he had had enough of town ways, and he wandered off into the country
again.

After some little time, he found himself back again, not too far from
home at all, only it chanced that he was not very well acquainted with
any part of Ardenoo, except just about his own home. So he did not know
the farmer’s place that he found himself near, one evening, that he
went up to, and asked shelter for the night.

It was the Furry Farm. But, as has been explained, that house was very
backwards, and Heffernan seldom left it, especially now that he was a
bit helpless, with the game leg. So it was small blame to Peetcheen not
to know where he was, or who it was he was speaking to. And Peetcheen
was very slow. Many a thing that every one else would know, he would be
as ignorant of as if he was a black stranger.

This turned out to his advantage now. For when he heard Mickey saying
that he wanted a handy boy about the place, Peetcheen made no remark
about Julia being gone off, though it had been common talk in Ardenoo,
before even he had left it. He just said, “If you’ll give me the
chance, sir, I’ll do me best to please ye!”

So Heffernan, after some further talk, agreed to that. He hired
Peetcheen. The place suited the boy down to the ground. It was no town
style there. Everything slow and easy-going. No one there, except
Heffernan and himself; and they were very much of the same gait of
going.

Farming is a grand business for them that are fond of keeping a pipe in
their mouths and their hands in their pockets. It’s often remarked that
when you do that, not much else finds its way in! But, then, not much
finds its way out. You’ll not get rich, maybe, but you can keep going.
Anyway, money isn’t everything.

Before Peetcheen had been very long at the Furry Farm, he began to
notice that Heffernan would seem a bit uneasy at times. He was very
silent. Often of an evening, he would go off somewhere with himself,
either limping on his stick, or maybe driving himself on the side-car.
While he would be away, Peetcheen would be left inside at the fire,
and nothing to keep him company unless to watch a pot boiling over the
hearth or something of that kind. But Peetcheen never objected to
that, because he would as soon be in one place as another, and maybe
sooner.

But one evening, Mickey stayed out very late. When he came in, he sat
down opposite Peetcheen, and pushed back his old hat, and says he,
blowing a big sigh out of him:

“It’s well for you, to be sitting there and nothing to torment you! And
you looking as if you had the world in your pocket!”

Peetcheen took a while to think this over, and then he said, “It
appears middling snug here! Plenty to eat and drink, and a good way of
lying down at night. And what more can a man want?”

“I want more, anyway!” answered Heffernan; “there’s a woman wanting
here, to have an eye over the place, and not let it be getting all
through-other the way it is....”

“Won’t the sister you were telling me of be back from Dublin...?”

Then Mickey looked at Peetcheen with a very pitiful eye.

“She will, in troth!” he said.

He took a few draws of his pipe, and then, “I may’s well tell you the
whole business!” he went on. At the same time, he did not; nor had the
smallest intention of telling it. But who ever does tell their whole
mind?

“The way of it is this,” said Mickey; “I’m wishing this length of time
to get a wife in here, and am looking about for some one that would
be suitable. But it’s tedious, and very severe work on a man like me.
There’s a power to be considered. There’s Julia, now; she that’s my
sister; her and whatever girl I’d take might not get on well together.
In fact, she would be dead against my bringing any one in on this
floor, as long as she’s on it herself. I was turning over in me own
mind, could I make up a match for herself ... that would settle it ...
but, sure, I tried that over and over ... at least, she did....”

“Hard to be plased, maybe?” said Peetcheen, lifting the pot off the
hooks.

“Och, I don’t know about that!” said Heffernan.

At the time, he was looking at Peetcheen standing with the big black
pot in his grip. And whatever his poor old mother might think of
Peetcheen, the boy was no beauty. But Mickey had a notion in his head,
and he thought he would see it out.

“A quiet, steady boy might do worse, you’d think, than get a
hard-working girl, settled and sensible and not too young or skittish
... and she with two heifers of her own ... and maybe a few odd pounds
in an old stocking as well....”

“They might, so,” agreed Peetcheen. He wondered what was making Mickey
so chatty.

Then, “Why don’t you get marrit yourself?” said Heffernan, with a grin.
And slow and thick as Peetcheen was, he began to guess what it was all
about.

“I might do so as well as another,” he made answer; “do you think would
the sisther try me?”

And to think that marrying was the last thing he had in his mind, when
he began lifting the pig’s pot, just a minute or so before! But Mickey
had it all laid out, and he did not care a straw who got Julia so long
as she would clear out of the house and leave him free to bring in a
wife.

“Ye have a house, ye tell me?” he said to Peetcheen.

“I have, so! and not a soul in it, only me mother, and she the quietest
creature!”

“How much land?” asked Heffernan.

Why he said that, is hard to know! Of course he must have had some
notion of the way it was with the Caffreys, he living so long in the
place. Still, it was always hard to tell what Mickey knew or did not
know! And he may have been trying to make out to himself that he really
thought he was making a good match for Julia.

“I never got the land measured,” said Peetcheen. You would think he was
humouring the thing. “I never got it measured; but there’s no rent to
be paid.”

Measured indeed! and rent to be paid, and for what? A bare patch of
weeds by the roadside that would not be enough to sod a lark!

Heffernan smoked on, and then Peetcheen began questioning in his turn,
“How much are you offering, with the two heifers?”

In fact, the boy did not know if he was standing on his head or his
heels! To hear himself being bid up in marriage like that! And for a
wife with a fortune of her own!

“Thirty pound!” said Heffernan.

“Forty!” said Peetcheen, very determined.

“Thirty and no more!”

“Forty and no less!”

Well, in the long run, they split the difference between them, and
settled the business then and there. Heffernan wrote off to the sister,
telling her that he was as good as married himself and that he had a
fine match made up for her, too; and she was to make no delay, for
fear the boy might change his mind, and go off without waiting to see
her.

Julia came on at once. And when she saw how things were shaping, of
course she had a good deal to say at first. But then she bethought
her that she might do worse than settle herself. She was getting on
in years. And the cousins that she had been with in Dublin used to be
talking about old maids, and that bachelors must be very scarce in
Ardenoo! It was more than ever Mickey expected that she would give in
so easily as she did, without making any great objection to Peetcheen,
who, of course, was no great things for one of the Heffernans to take
up with. But she gave in to take him. Heffernan and Peetcheen sprung
the thing on her suddenly, and she was taken unawares, as you’ll see it
done with a baulking horse. You can trick him into taking a jump that
he has refused many a time before, if you bring him up to it without
his knowing what you want.

Mickey had the wit to make the best of Peetcheen, by advancing him the
price of a new suit of clothes, and tan boots and even gloves, to be
married in. He wasn’t able to get them on, the gloves, I mean. But they
had a very neat appearance. Maybe they gave Julia more satisfaction
than anything else that her fortune was spent on. For of course it was
out of her money that Mickey paid for the fine clothes for Peetcheen.

The wedding passed off all right, and Mickey behaved very well, and
threw in a jennet and cart, along with the money and the two heifers.
And he allowed Julia to load up the cart with any mortal thing she
chose to lay claim to in the place; even to the churn and the griddle.
He did that, the way she would have no excuse for coming back and maybe
making unpleasantness when he’d have his own woman at the Furry Farm.

It was a satisfaction to him to know that there would be a good few
miles between him and the sister, once she was Mrs. Peetcheen. And when
he saw them safely started, Peetcheen driving the heifers, and Julia
sitting upon a stool in the cart, with all the things round her, “Glory
be! I never thought to get shut of her so simple!” said Heffernan. “But
God help poor Peetcheen, I pray!”

Peetcheen would have been surprised, if he had heard that word said.
It was only too contented he was, and he stepping out very proudly.
The new clothes would hardly hold him and his satisfaction, when he
thought of how well he was doing for himself.

“What will the neighbours say to me now?” he was thinking, “going off
the way I did, too thankful to any one that would give me a day’s work!
And look at me now! with the two beasts, and the wife and all! Sure,
it’s little I ever thought to see the day I’d have such things!”

And then he made up his mind that he would try not to be too uppish
with the old friends, when they would be passing him the time of day.
He determined to answer them very nice and civil, when they would ask
him, “How’s yourself, Peetcheen, and how’s the rest of you?”

Then he began to think of the old mother, and that he would like to
make her comfortable. A new shawl, he thought; and how well she could
sit in the big arm-chair that was the full up of the cart that Julia
was driving, very nearly.

He turned to look at it, because he was in front of the cart with the
cattle, and the jennet was slow, with all the big load that was on
her. Still, Peetcheen thought the whole thing was just behind him.
But behold ye! sight nor light of cart, or jennet, or Julia even he
couldn’t see! It was as if the ground had opened and swallowed them
down!

He did not know what in the wide world to think. There he stood,
looking up the road and down the road ... as if Julia could be coming
any way except after him! for how could she have got on ahead without
his knowing? But that was Peetcheen all over.

He thought he never saw anything so lonesome and silent as the same
road, lying still before and behind him, and white with dust. It was
the summer season of the year.

“If I go back,” thought he to himself, “I’m very apt to be missing her
at some cross-roads! It’s what she has took the wrong turn at one of
them, and not too far back ... it can’t be! for it’s not long since she
got me to steady the churn-dash in the back of the cart, the way it
wouldn’t be prodding into her back. The first man she meets will set
her right. In any case, I’d have little to do, to go look for her ...”
(and indeed Peetcheen was right there!) “for I’d have to take the two
little heifers with me. And that might be putting a couple of miles
more travelling on them. They’ll be slaved and tired enough, against I
have them home. And if I was to leave them here by themselves, while
I’d be going back for her, mightn’t I be summonsed? That wouldn’t
answer! No! it’s better for me to wait here and see won’t she come
along all right. And there is lots of good grass, that the cattle can
be having a little _fossick_[8] for themselves and a rest.”

Peetcheen was right in this. There was plenty of feeding for the beasts
there, going to loss, that they might as well have. Besides, when two
people go astray from one another, the best chance they have of coming
together again is for one of them to stop still. Peetcheen was thick
in the wits, but he thought of this. Besides, to do nothing was the
easiest for him. So he just sat down on a fine dry heap of stones that
was lying there ready for the road-contractor, filled his pipe, and
began to smoke. He might as well.

He had not finished that pipe altogether, when he heard the sound of
wheels. Along came the jennet, and Julia hard at work, prodding him
with the point of her umbrella, with her face very red, and her hair
all every way. It didn’t cool her a bit, to see Peetcheen sitting at
his ease, with his pipe, in the shade of a fine ash-tree.

“Where were you at all,” he said, getting up quite slowly off the
stones; “and what ailed you, to be so long after me upon the road?”

“What ailed me, indeed!” said the wife; “much you care! Stravaguing on
there in front of me, without a thought of what was becoming of me and
the jennet. And I bawlin’ me livin’ best when I got to the cross-roads,
and couldn’t get you to hear! How was I to know which way you went?
Faith, I was in two minds to go off back home again! only for you
having the two little heifers! And you lettin’ on not to hear me! Is it
deaf you are, along with everything else? And then the jennet, to take
and go stop on me, and I with the full up of me lap of me good cups and
saucers, so that I wasn’t able to stir, to get any good of the beast!
And then he gives a h’ise, and me fine big crock, that I have this ten
years and was bringing it with me, got bruk in two halves! And you,
standin’ there, with yer mouth open...!”

As if shutting his mouth would mend her crockery! But it vexed Julia
the more, that Peetcheen said nothing.

“To the mischief with the whole of them! and you, too!” she said, then;
and began flinging the rest of the crockery at Peetcheen, as hard as
she could; at least, that was what she thought of. But of course she
didn’t hit him; a woman never does; the thing she aims for is the last
thing she’ll strike. But she fired one after the other, pell-mell, till
she had all the cups smashed. And what else could she expect of cups
flung about like that? I don’t know; only when she saw them in bits,
she turned queer, and dropped down into the bottom of the cart, and
began to laugh and cry all together, as if she was mad.

The sight of this cowed Peetcheen. He stooped down, and began turning
over the bits of crockery, to see if e’er a one of them had escaped.
But no! Not a cup or plate of all Julia’s set but was broken into
smithereens.

Peetcheen still said nothing. He took the jennet by the head, started
the cattle on again, and followed himself with the cart.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now, I must explain that this wedding took place so suddenly, that no
more than what we call in Ardenoo a “sketch” of it had gone round among
the people. And even that had not reached old Mrs. Caffrey at all. So
that she had not had the slightest warning of what to expect, at the
very time that Peetcheen and the wife were making their way towards
her.

It was late in the day. She and Dark Moll were out--sitting by the
roadside, watching a clutch of young ducks just out of the shell, when
they heard a noise, and looked round, to see, first the two heifers,
and then the jennet and cart, with Peetcheen leading them, and Julia
seated up in state, driving along. She had come to pretty well by that
time. People that have tempers are often like that. They’ll be mad one
minute, and abusing you into the ground, and before you have had time
to take in all they were saying, they are ready to forget it, and be
quite agreeable again. Moreover, they expect you to do the same, which
is not so simple a matter as they think.

However, Peetcheen was very peaceable. As was usual with him, he
had never made Julia an answer. She had quieted down by degrees, so
that now he was enabled to explain the thing to his mother with some
appearance of comfort.

The poor mother! She couldn’t believe her eyes nor her ears either
almost, when she saw this procession drawing up before her door, and
Peetcheen saying, “Well, mother! here I am! back to you! and bringing
in a new dauther, in the place of all them that’s gone off ‘on’ you.
Her and me is after getting marrit!” he ended.

Mrs. Caffrey stared at him, and then at Julia and all the belongings
she had around her. But all she could get out was, “She’s kindly
welcome in these parts!” before she fell into a kind of a weakness, and
staggered, so that Peetcheen had to go forward to help her back into
the house, while the wife was busy seeing to the things she had in the
cart.

Dark Moll was looking on at all this, but no one took much notice of
her. So by that she guessed that she was not wanted there, and made up
her mind to slip away. She gathered up her little possessions, and went
off at once to another stopping-place she had, not far away. And that
is how it happened that no one knew much at first about what had taken
place, when the new Mrs. Caffrey appeared upon the scene, or how the
old woman took to the notion of a daughter-in-law in her home.

But Moll took the first opportunity of making her way back to the
Caffreys’; and blind and all as she was, there was not a pin’s-worth
about the place that she could not tell about, and give as good an
account of it all as if she had the full use of her eyes.

“The new woman that Peetcheen’s after bringing home, is it?” she said;
“a very agreeable-spoken person she is!”

Julia could be all that when she chose.

“Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, I believe,” said Big Cusack, who
was talking to her. He was as proud as Punch to know that Julia was
gone out of the Furry Farm. For then he thought there need not be much
delay about Heffernan’s own marriage; and Cusack had a niece of his
own, Kitty Dempsey by name, that he wanted to make up a match for.
Kitty was only a young slip of a thing, but there was a bit of land she
was to come in for; and her Uncle Cusack, being an experiented man,
thought Heffernan would be more suitable for her, nor any young boy, on
that account.

“She’s as sweet as you please, that wife of Peetcheen’s, by all a
body hears,” he went on; and then he added, “but there’s such a thing
as being too sweet to be wholesome! She’s none too young, either! A
chicken her age won’t die with the pip!”

“No,” said Moll, “nor tear in the plucking! But sure, a boy like
Peetcheen couldn’t be too partickler!”

“You’re right there,” says Big Cusack; “and he wid a head upon him
that you’d think should fizz, if he put it into could water, it’s that
red! And the mouth of him! the same as if it was made wid a blow of a
shovel! Isn’t he great, that got a wife at all! let alone the forchune.
And has the two heifers at grass on my farm; and persuades the wife
that the field they’re grazing on belongs to himself! Peetcheen may be
slow, but he’s no such a fool as the people make him out!”

That was how Cusack spoke of him; and indeed, it was wonderful, all the
praise you’d hear of Peetcheen now, very different from what it was
before he went away, when every one would be making a hare of him. He
himself would walk about, very important, going over to “have a look at
the stock,” as if that would make them fatten any faster. And the way
he would give a cock to his _caubeen_ when he’d meet a neighbour, and
pass the time of the day with him! And on a Sunday, to see him yoking
up the jennet, to drive to Mass, feeling as good as the best! In fact,
after a bit, the neighbours began to laugh at him again. It might have
been jealousy.

“Cock him up, indeed!” Big Cusack said, when he had time to take this
all in; “letting on he’s a gintleman, all out, Peetcheen is! with
nothing to do, only ait his food! And in troth, the sorra long it will
take them, to ait whatever forchune the wife brought into the place! It
wasn’t much, I’ll go bail! There never was a Heffernan yet that would
part money without a wrangle for it; and Mickey the same!”

All this was true; but nothing seemed to trouble Peetcheen. He spent
the time the way I tell you; never appearing to imagine there was any
necessity for him to do anything more than that.

But he had the wife to reckon with. She was of a very different way of
thinking, and she very soon let him know her mind.

“What way is this to be going on?” she would say, “for a man to be at
home here under a body’s feet from morning to night, as if the place
wasn’t small enough, and in partickler since I brought me own good
furnicher into it! Hard-set I’ll be, ever to get meself used to the
likes of this house you brought me to!”

Julia was right enough in saying this. The Caffreys’ place was very
small and poor, compared to the Furry farmhouse, where she was reared.
And her things did crowd it up. The big chair alone took up the whole
side of the fire. But as well as that, she was only saying what was
true, when she spoke of Peetcheen sitting at home all day, as he had
the fashion of doing.

When she would attack him about this, and ask him, if there was no job
wanting to be done about his own place, why wouldn’t he go look for
work with a neighbour, Peetcheen always had an answer ready.

“Sure there’s no work going, these times! I must wait till the
haymaking comes on. Then there will be good pay to be earned. The
meadows is nigh-hand ripe this minute!”

So they were; Julia could see that for herself. But when Peetcheen went
to Big Cusack to ask for a job at the hay, he heard that all the work
had been laid out, and no more hands were needed.

“And didn’t I think,” said Cusack to him, “that you were too big a man,
all out, now, to take a fork in your fist; and you with the rich wife
and all!”

Peetcheen made no answer to this. He just went over to a shady spot,
and sat down there, to watch the work going on; went home to his
dinner, and then back with him to the hayfield, till quitting-time that
night.

That contented Julia. And when she asked him for his week’s pay from
Big Cusack, to go to the Shop, he saw no occasion to explain to her
that it was out of her own money, that Heffernan had handed to him in
the old stocking, that she was getting it. It satisfied her, and a man
will do a great deal for peace and quietness.

What you do once, comes very easy the next time. By this kind of
management, Peetcheen put the next few months over him very nice and
handy. Haymaking, and harvest, and turf-cutting, all happened along for
his convenience. He could go off, when any of them were on, and lob
about through the neighbourhood. I won’t say that he never did a tap of
work; he might, have, now and then. But it was seldom the like happened
to him.

This was all well and good, as far as Peetcheen himself was concerned.
But Julia was the sort of woman that never can be easy. No! and what’s
more never can let any one else be, either. So when Peetcheen kept out
of her way, and she hadn’t the excuse of him and his ways, she began to
turn on the poor old mother. A stirring, active little woman she was
herself. Julia would have the kettle boiling and the tea wet, while
another would be thinking of where to look for a bit of firing. But if
she was quick itself, that was no reason for her to go on the way she
did to old Mrs. Caffrey.

“Give me that besom, here!” she said to her one morning, snatching the
broom out of the old woman’s hand, and giving her a shove towards the
door; “be off out, and gether some kindling for the fire! that work is
all you’re fit for! Sick and tired I do be, looking at ye; and you not
done sweeping the flure yet!”

“God be wid the time I was young and strong; and able to sweep a flure
wid any one!” says Peetcheen’s mother.

“It’s a long time ago, if ever you were!” said Julia. “Be off wid
yourself now, and see can ye meet the higgler, and get him to come
and buy them ould hens of yours! Sorra bit can I give to me own good
Longshanks and Speckled Humbugs but what them ould scarecrows of yours
has it all ett on them!”

“There’s no price goin’ now for ould hens,” said old Mrs. Caffrey; “and
besides, I’m thinking it’s what they have a mind to go lay ... and eggs
dear....”

“They’ll lay none here, whether or which!” Julia said; “lay, indeed!
They wouldn’t know an egg, if they saw one!”

“There’s one tidy little hayro of a hen, her with the top-knot, that
I’d have a great wish for....”

“Don’t mind your wishing! they’ll all go; so now, mind what I’m telling
ye!” said Julia. And so they did.

“Bitther and wicked wid her tongue she is!” old Mrs. Caffrey would say;
but only to herself. She wouldn’t fret Peetcheen for the world, the
poor boy!

To give Julia her due, she was, as Dark Moll said, “a most notorious
rairer of fowl of every description.” She had money from the higgler
laid by already. But because she was lucky herself was no reason for
her to jeer at the old woman, when a while afterwards, the little ducks
that were out just the day Julia came there all died, one after another.

“What else could you expect, and they June birds?” she said. “No one
only a born fool would try to have them hatched then!”

Julia was right there, and in many another notion that she brought with
her from the Furry Farm. But people don’t always care so very much
for new ways being forced on them. Peetcheen and his mother above all
were not fond of changes. Julia would have a dinner of a Sunday that,
as she said, “a lord might be proud to sit down before!” a pig’s face
on a bolster of greens, it might be, or something like that. But no
one would have much wish for it, because there would always be so much
argument and scolding over it all.

They would have had far more comfort in the old times, with nothing
better than potatoes and salt, and maybe a bit of bacon or a salt
herring, by way of “kitchen.” Old Mrs. Caffrey would give you a
pleasant word with whatever she was sharing round and that helps out a
short dinner; what mostly was what she had, God help her!

However, it was Julia that ruled the roast at Caffreys’ the time I
speak of, and the rest of them had just to make the best of it. And
it’s a true saying, “Money makes the mare to go!” Of course every one
had to give in to Julia on account of the fortune she had.

Peetcheen stood it out pretty well, as long as there was a penny at
all left in the old stocking. But when the baby came, the money had to
be handed out very free. Before he knew where he was, the stocking was
empty; and Peetcheen, as usual, without a job. Not that that was any
great heart-break to him.

He was stravaguing along the road one evening by himself, with the pipe
in his mouth. It was lovely weather; the birds all singing, and the
grass getting long and green on every side. He was turning over in his
mind about the potato-patch he had; how would he get to pay for the
seed? and weren’t the weeds very high in it? and would he have to go
work in it himself? when he saw Dark Moll, sitting by the side of the
road, very comfortably. Of course he stopped and began to pass the time
of day with her.

“How’s all wid ye, Peetcheen?” asks Moll; “and above all, the woman
that owns ye? And the young son? and a darling fine boy he must be, by
all I can hear!”

“They’re well, I thank you and God,” answered Peetcheen; “and me
mother, _that_ proud out of the child! You’d think no one ever had a
child before, and she after rairing ten of her own! And this minute,
she’s leppin’ mad to begin again!”

“Ay! there’s the way!” said Moll.

Peetcheen smoked on a bit; and then says he, “A terrible expense this
is, on a man!”

“You may say that, agra!” said Moll; though well she knew in her heart
that there had been no christening worth mentioning at Caffreys’. The
old woman was all for a bit of a spree, but Julia would not hear of
it; “spending the money on foolishness that could be put to better
use!” was what she said. The neighbours knew well how it was. But Moll
didn’t want to pass any remarks about the thing, seeing she might be
looking for help to the Caffreys, any day; and it wouldn’t answer to be
offensive. So she only went on to say, “Sure the likes of you needn’t
mind a few shillings, here nor there, when it’s the first, and a son!
And you with them fine bastes at grass.... I hear they’re the talk of
the town, and a fine price they’d go at the fair to-morrow, if it was a
thing you’d have a mind to go sell them there.”

Moll said all this, because she felt vexed with Julia, not being asked
to the christening, such as it was. Besides, from the start, Julia let
her see very plain that she didn’t want her coming about the house
whenever she fancied, and taking up a seat in the chimney-corner,
as she had the fashion of doing. And Moll did not like getting the
cold shoulder that way, no more than any of us would; and she missed
Caffreys’, having been so used to it. Still, she had no meaning in what
she had said about the fair and the stock, and all that. But see what
came of that word!

Peetcheen bid Moll the time of day, and went on. It was to Big Cusack’s
he was making his way, thinking he might happen on a job there, or
settle something about help to do his own work. But the Big Man was
from home. Peetcheen could have found that out, without going there,
only he never thought of inquiring. So then he wavered off to Melia’s,
thinking that he might meet some one there that would give him an
advice about the thing.

He found a few comrade-boys of his in the shebeen, playing Twenty-five.
He joined in, with whatever few coppers he had left. It took a long
time, before they finished their game, so that it was pretty late when
he got home. But that was all the wrong he did. He had no drink taken.
There wasn’t a hair turned on him, when he walked into the house, so
why Julia should be so raging mad with him, no one could tell. But she
was and abused him up and down the banks; called him all the fools she
could lay her tongue to; and still in all Peetcheen never said a word
back to her.

But at last he got worn out, and left the house, thinking she might
have a better chance to quiet down if he wasn’t there. So he turned
back to Cusack’s, and spent the night in the Big Man’s barn.

Before he settled off to sleep, he had time to think over all that
was after occurring; the wife to be so contrary with him, and all
for nonsense, as a body might say. And then he considered over how
short the money was with him; and where would he turn for the next
few shillings Julia would be wanting from him. And then he got on to
remembering what Dark Moll was after saying.

He fell asleep, however, before very long; and wakened up bright and
early, with a great plan in his head.

This was, that he would drive off one of the two heifers that he had
got in Julia’s fortune, to the fair that Dark Moll was after reminding
him of; and a big price she brought. But Peetcheen and the likes of him
often have great luck.

After that had come to pass, a strange thing happened. For what
Peetcheen did with himself, or with the money that the people standing
by saw him getting paid into his hand, was more than any one at Ardenoo
knew, for many a long day, if ever they did. He just disappeared, so he
did, as if the Good People took him out of it.

“Isn’t it a fright, all out,” the neighbours would say, “to see how a
decent quiet man like Peetcheen could go out of that, and not one be
able to give any account of him to the wife or the poor ould mother!”

Julia was most outrageous; at first very angry, and then took to
fretting. But the old woman was twice as bad. God help her! she grew to
be like nothing so much as a ha’porth of soap after the week’s washing.

She was out along the road one day, with the baby in her arms, when
Dark Moll happened along, and of course began to chat; why not?

“And so that’s Peetcheen’s first, is it?” she says; “let me feel him in
me arrums! och, the weight of him! the darlint fine lump of a gossoon
that he is! Well, and how’s all goin’ on wid yiz these times!”

“Not goin’ on at all!” says Mrs. Caffrey; “heart-scalded I do be, wid
the frettin’ and annoyance and thinkin’ that it’s murthered me poor boy
must be, and he wid the price of the heifer in his pocket!”

“Och! murthered-how-are-ye!” says Moll, very confident in herself; “no!
no such a thing! It’s what he has went off to America! He’ll be sendin’
yous back plenty of money out of it, I’ll go bail!”

“Do ye tell me that?” said the mother, brightening up as Moll talked on
about it all. The old woman was getting a bit hard of hearing at that
time; and she took it up that Peetcheen had told Moll that he was going.

“Well, that’s the best I could wish to hear, if it’s a thing that he
wasn’t going to contint himself here at home with us; and too sure I am
that he’ll do well ... ay, and won’t forget his poor mother....”

Julia comes up to them, and whips the child from Moll, the same as if
she was dirt and not fit to touch him. That vexed Moll; small blame to
her! So when old Mrs. Caffrey began reeling out of her all that she
imagined Moll had said ... and a bit more that she didn’t say ... such
as that poor Peetcheen was working hard there beyant to send home money
to them, Moll never put her right. The old mother related it quite
cheerfully, thinking it would pacify Julia. But it didn’t. You never
saw so vexed a person.

“So, that’s where the price of me fine heifer is gone!” said Julia;
“and I that had him dead! drowned in a bog-hole ... or murthered....
Breakin’ me heart I was, about a villyin of the soart! Well ... all
I know is, them that thinks I’m goin’ to stop here and rair Peter
Caffrey’s babby for him is in a great mistake! I’ll not do it! I’ll go
after him, before I’m many days older!”

“Is it go to America? Sure, woman dear, you’d never find him! You might
as well go look for a needle in a haystack. America is a middlin’ big
place, mind ye!” said Moll.

No one knew better than Moll how to get round people. She was that
clever, she could knot eels, the people said. She knew what a foolish
notion it was of Julia’s, to go off to America; and that Julia herself
would soon cool on it, if she was let alone. So that’s why she
contradicted her.

“Fitter far, ay, and decenter, too, for a woman like you to stay
where you’re well off, in your good home, with Peetcheen’s mother for
company, and Peetcheen’s babby to be lookin’ at....”

“Mind yer own business, and be off about it, now!” said Julia, choking
with the anger; “what call have you to be putting in yer gab here? I
want no interference from you, or the likes of ye! Leave me to manage
me own affairs! I’ll see to make Peetcheen pay for what he’s after
doing ‘on’ me!”

And at that, Moll did turn about and waddle off. And she never let on
but it was a real fact about Peetcheen being in America. Sure, maybe
she believed it herself! A body that does as much talking as Moll might
get confused betimes. But a few evenings after that, she ventured over
to Caffreys’ again. She was most anxious to get back to that house; so
she wanted to find out how it was going on with Julia and her American
plan. She found her, fighting rings round her with the old woman, and
abusing Peetcheen into the dirt.

“Sure, what at all! wasn’t it only sthrivin’ to better himself he was?”
said Moll; “a good steady poor boy he was, always and ever!”

It was like oil on lit turf to Julia, to hear her put in a good word
for Peetcheen. When you want the woman to come round, in the case of
any little difference between her and the husband, you should find all
the fault you can with him. Then you’ll find the wife will wear horns,
and stand up for her husband, and turn on you. And Moll knew that as
well as any one. She could see how mad Julia would get, when she and
old Mrs. Caffrey would be all for compassionating Peetcheen, and saying
how good he was, and all to that. In fact, no one could say anything
bad that ever he did. To be sure, he never did anything, one way or the
other.

And now, here was Moll, very full of a letter she was after hearing
read out by one of the neighbours.

“It was wrote,” she said, “by one of the Caffreys, cousins of the
family here, that are out there so long, and doing well, too, they
appear to be, by what I hear....”

“So they are,” said old Mrs. Caffrey, perking up at this account of her
son’s people being set out to Julia; “and why wouldn’t they? and it’s
likely to them me poor child wint! God sind him safe!”

“And Amen to that, I pray!” said Moll; the same as if she herself
thought it was there he was.

Julia was listening to all this. It made her more set than ever about
going after Peetcheen. She was like the rest of us; only too ready to
believe what she wanted to believe. She took all this, about the letter
from the cousins, for proof that Peetcheen was really gone to America.

“And to think he should be out there, with full and plenty, I’ll be
bound; and me slavin’ here! I’ll not do it nor it’s not to be expected
that I would, either!”

She was just mad to be off. And there were few would miss her in
Ardenoo. Even Peetcheen’s baby would be far more contented, lying
on the granny’s knee, or with Dark Moll, than he ever was with his
mother. An infant is very easy put about; and Julia was very odd and
jerky in her ways. But, sure she could have had no nature in her, or
she never would have left the child.

Julia made no delay, only sold the second heifer to Big Cusack. Not
much she got out of the thing. The two beasts “had themselves ett,”
he said, “very nearly,” meaning that nearly the whole price was owing
to him for their grass. Peetcheen hadn’t paid a penny for them, since
first he got Big Cusack to take them in on his pasture-field. In fact,
Julia was none too well treated in the business of her fortune. It was
all gone now, except the few pounds she got from Mr. Cusack over the
heifers.

But “Divil’s cure to her!” was what was mostly said about her; “why
couldn’t she keep a civil tongue in her head, and not harish the
dacent boy out of the place that he was raired in; and the father and
grandfather before him?”

Julia of course heard nothing of this. There wasn’t one would be
willing to draw her tongue on them; and anyway, there would be no sense
in interfering. She never asked advice from man nor mortal; so she had
no chance of finding out how much truth there was in the story about
Peetcheen being in America. She went off, as soon as she could take
her passage.

A few days after she left, “Glory be!” says Dark Moll, sitting by the
fire, with old Mrs. Caffrey opposite to her, and the child asleep on
her lap, “glory be, there’ll be p’ace and quietness here now, anyway!
And I’ll come back, never you fear, acushla, the way you’ll not be
lonesome and fretted here wid yourself! Nor be at a short for some
sinsible person to take the babby out of your arrums while you’d be
out....”

But she never finished the sketch she was giving of what all she would
do. For at that word, old Mrs. Caffrey gave a screech that very nearly
lifted the thatch off the house.

“Oh, Peetcheen! Peetcheen!” she cried; “and is it yourself that’s in
it? Come over to meself, the way I’ll get a good look at ye! The Lord
save us! but where wor ye this lin’th of time, at all at all?”

“What’s all this?” said Moll; “what are you sayin’? Is it Peetcheen you
think is here? or could it be Something Not Right ... and the people
saying it was what he should be ‘away’ wid the Good People ... and me a
poor blind ould woman that can’t know what’s going on....”

But the same Moll was very hardy, and not easily daunted by man nor
mortal; just she said that wanting to get compassionated. But neither
Peetcheen nor his mother took any heed of her. For it _was_ Peetcheen,
right enough! and very slaved-looking he was; with his feet on the
world, you might say, his brogues were so worn and broken. And by that
sign, the people thought it was on the stray he must have been, ever
since he went off after selling the heifer at the fair.

But no one ever got much account of the business or of what became of
the money he had then; whether he spreed it all, or if he held on to
any of it. It was like as if he had brought back some of it, anyway.
For they had more appearance of comfort about them the next winter than
ever they had before. Peetcheen got a neighbour to draw home a nice
little bit of turf for the winter, from the bog; and there was a new
shawl for the mother, for going to Mass.

Peetcheen, you remember, had that laid out in his own mind, when
he was on his way home, after marrying Julia. And, moreover, the
big arm-chair, that Julia had put by, above in the room, the way it
wouldn’t be getting knocked about in the kitchen ... and as well, she
didn’t want Peetcheen to have the comfort of falling asleep in it, as
many a time he did ... well, that chair was brought back and put in the
chimney-corner. And many a comfortable snooze Peetcheen took in it now,
when he would feel inclined to rest himself; a wish he often had.

He’d sit there of an evening, when the people would drop in for a
_ceilidh_,[9] a habit they lost while Julia was there. But they came
again now, and would be very anxious to know all about where Peetcheen
had been. They got no great satisfaction.

“Where was I since?” Peetcheen would say; “well, I went as far as
Turn-Back! Ah! indeed! it _is_ a gay piece out of this, sure enough!”

Peetcheen wasn’t such a fool but that he could hold his tongue, when he
chose. And there’s many a wise adviser of a person that can’t do that,
to save their lives.

“You’ll be getting her back now,” said Big Cusack to him; “the Woman, I
mane, the Rest of ye....”

He was after hiring Peetcheen then, for the same job his father before
him had had. Ay, and what’s more, Peetcheen managed to hold on to it,
from that out.

Peetcheen had the fashion at times, that if he didn’t want to answer
a question in a hurry, he would push the old _caubeen_ down over his
face, and scratch the back of his head. He did that now; and then says
he, “I dunno, Mr. Cusack; I always h’ard tell, that it’s as good to
l’ave well alone! And I’d have no wish in life to be interferin’ with
anywan; let alone with a woman.”




CHAPTER IV

A DAYLIGHT GHOST


Heffernan of the Furry Farm, being lame now as well as old, thought it
would be the best of his play not to go too far to look for the wife
he was so anxious to bring home, now that he had Julia out of the way.
And this is how he took the notion of seeing whether he could get a
daughter of old Flanagan’s, a near neighbour of his. And as he said
to himself, he knew all about those people, and what way they were
situated, as to their little place and all to that.

“A man needn’t expect any fortune with one of his girls,” he thought;
“but what of the few pounds? The land lies very handy to me own farm,”
... and so it did. Flanagan’s land “merined” the Furry Farm; and it was
a wonder how two places so close together could be so different from
one another! They both lay upon the same range of the Furry Hills. But
whereas Heffernan’s was low down, and the house facing north, so that
it seldom got a blink of sunshine, the Flanagans had theirs half-way up
a slope the opposite side, where it had shelter, as well as all the sun
and south wind there was to be had. In fact, it was one of the sweetest
little places about the whole of Ardenoo. Greenan-more it was called,
an old name that is said to mean “the big sunny parlour,” or something
like that. It’s likely it got that name put upon it when there were
people living in the old rath up above at the top of the hill behind
the house. But of course there is nothing of a dwelling there now;
nothing, only a hollow, with a Lone Thorn growing in the middle of it,
and nettles and stones. Lonesome places, raths are! where the Good
People live, and their music can be heard, and they themselves be seen,
by them that are able to do so.

It would delight you, to look at Greenan-more! with the lake lying at
the foot of the hill on which the house stood. The limestone pushes up
there, close to the surface, and helps to keep the earth warm, so that
the grass grows earlier there than it does anywhere else about Ardenoo.
It’s a sweet grass, too. One bite of it is worth more to a beast than a
full feed off the low, sour bottoms of the Furry Farm.

The land was different on the two places; the houses were different;
and the people were different, too. Heffernan’s was well enough, in
the way of it being comfortable and plentiful; but it was lonesome and
no great appearance of tastiness about it. But Flanagan’s had a snug,
bright look. The two daughters were always contriving some little thing
to give it a look. It was all neat and clean; with a rose growing over
the door, and the walls whitewashed to that degree, that when the sun
shone on them, they would dazzle you, nigh-hand.

“Like a smile upon a rosy face!” Jim Cassidy used to think to himself,
when he would be taking a streel up the hill, of a Sunday or a holiday
evening. And when a boy takes to that kind of talk, it’s easy to guess
what he has in his mind.

With Jim, I may as well tell you, it was little Nelly Flanagan that he
was thinking about; though when he’d be there, it was all to chat to
the old father he had come, _by the way of_!

And Nelly that took no more heed of Jim than of any other boy about
Ardenoo! What was she, only a child! no more; as gay and as frolicsome
as a pet lamb. But still in all, Nelly was very nice, and biddable. She
would do anything in this world wide that the elder sister, Christina,
would say. And why wouldn’t she?

Here’s who were living at Greenan-more at that time: old Flanagan
himself; a real old Sport. Not a fair or a funeral, a wake or a wedding
in all Ardenoo, but he’d make it his business to be there; and with him
there lived his two girls, Christina and Nelly.

The mother had died soon after Nelly being born; had no great comfort
with Flanagan, and no wish to go on living. So when she felt herself
to be on the last, all she said was: “I’ll give the baby to you,
Chrissie!” There’s the pet name she had for her.

And Christina, that was only a little slip of a thing, about nine or
ten years old, took on at once to mind the infant, and was like a
little mother to her. Those that would be in and out of the house said
it was most amazing, the way she cared the little sister. She was very
wise and sensible, and as good as she could be, every way.

In fact, as time went on, the two sisters were just made upon each
other, as the saying is. They were always together; Christina made a
baby of Nelly and Nelly made a mother of Christina. And what caused
this the more with them was, the father being the sort he was; taking
very little heed of anything, only his own amusement. That is all
right enough, in its way. But it doesn’t help you to get on in this
world; and I don’t know is it apt to do much for you in the next. What
Flanagan and men like him don’t spend in their playing about, they
waste in idleness. Christina did as much as ever she could. But on a
farm, there’s always many things that a woman can’t do.

And this is how she began first to be thinking a good deal about Jim
Cassidy. For he was very smart. He would see with half an eye what was
wrong, and set it right while another would be wondering what ought to
be done. He was ready and willing to do anything in life for them at
Flanagan’s, so that Christina, that was what we call the sense-carrier
of the family, got to depend on Jim for every hand’s turn that wanted
doing about Greenan-more; such as the drawing home of the turf from
the bog; or getting the hay or oats saved, or buying in a couple of
young pigs to be fattened. Of course, the selling of the stock had to
be left to Flanagan himself; and that was the pity; and was little good
to either him or his girls. He would no sooner have the price of the
cattle or sheep or whatever it might be, paid into his hand, than he’d
go off on a spree, and then you couldn’t tell what he’d be up to; as
likely as not, never come home, till he’d have it spent.

What the girls had for themselves was anything they could make of the
butter and eggs, the geese and turkeys and so on. They were satisfied
enough, they didn’t want so much. So was the old father, contented in
his own way.

And here again, there was a wide difference between them and the
Heffernans. Poor Mickey, for all his industering, never took much
satisfaction out of what he worked so hard for; and as for Julia, she
was so crabbed always, that she used never to enjoy her own life, nor
let any one else enjoy theirs either; at least, as long as she remained
in Ardenoo; of course, she might have changed, going to America.

Yes, the Flanagans were peaceful and easy-going; all but Christina,
that favoured her dead mother, and as she got a bit older, used to feel
anxious betimes about many things. Of course this made her all the more
ready to look to Jim Cassidy for help. Like as if he was a brother,
she often said to herself. But there’s many a brother that wouldn’t be
as good-natured to a couple of sisters as Jim was in regard to the
Flanagans.

Christina having so much dependence out of Jim, then, small blame to
her, when, one evening as she was driving in the cows, and he came up,
she nearly fell out of her standing, when he said:

“I’m going off next week!”

“Going off! A--where, Jim?” she said, though she knew well, all the
time. There was only the one place for a boy like Jim to make for,
those times.

“To America! Where else?” said Jim. “The uncle that’s there beyant has
wrote me word, that he has me passage paid, and, moreover, has a good
job waiting on me. So why wouldn’t I go, and not to be stopping on
here; pulling the divil by the tail for the rest of me days!”

He stopped at that; and if he’d been looking at Christina, instead of
staring out over the lake, the way he was, he would have seen that she
had turned as white as a patch of bog-cotton. But he never looked at
her, only went on to say: “There’s only the one thing that I’m sorry
for leaving behind me! Sure, what need I care for going! a boy like me,
without one belonging to me left now in Ardenoo; or indeed the whole of
Ireland! Only the one thing for me to regret! that’s Greenan-more....”

And if he had chanced now to look at Christina, he would scarcely have
known was it her or Nelly that was standing beside him; for Christina’s
eyes were dancing, and her cheeks flushed and warm....

But Jim was still gaping out across the lake, as if he had never seen
till then the way it shimmered and flashed under the setting sun. He
saw nothing of the change in Christina, only went on: “Greenan-more!
ay, Greenan-more! that’s where me thoughts will be; that’s what I’m
fretting to leave behind; where I’d always love to be...! But you’ll
write to me, Christina....”

At the word, Christina felt happiness rising, rising like a warm wave
about her....

“... and you’ll tell me about every one, and everything that’s going on
in the place ...” Jim stopped a bit there ... and then, in a whisper,
“and about Nelly...?”

Then Christina felt the wave die down, and she grew cold. Everything
suddenly turned black and lonesome, all in a minute. She felt giddy,
as if the world had begun to sink away from under her feet. But she
said nothing. Indeed, why should she? Wouldn’t it be the queer world,
if people did what they say they do, and just told out whatever they
think? They don’t; nor they couldn’t; it would never answer....

All Christina could say, was: “Next week? why then, that’s short
notice!”

And Jim helped her to drive the cows into their shed, and got her the
stool, and she sat down and began to milk. Just the way he was always
helping her! and he stood beside her, for a bit, advising her about
this thing and that thing; and she felt as if it was all a dream.

But one thing was real enough to her. She knew Jim was only delaying
there, in the hopes of seeing Nelly coming out from the house, to
help to carry in the milk. And poor Christina felt ashamed of the
satisfaction it was to her, that as likely as not Nelly would forget
all about the cows, and the dairy, and the evening’s work.

She had that satisfaction; not a sight of Nelly was to be seen. And
Jim, after waiting a bit, thinking that maybe Christina would be
bidding him to come into the house, or stay to his supper there, just
went off home to wherever he was stopping.

He had short notice, sure enough, for so long a journey. But what
matter for that? If you have little, you travel light. Christina,
that was always busy at some industering, had a grand lot of stockings
of her own spinning and knitting, ready to put into his bundle. Nelly
had nothing, and she cried down tears to turn a mill, over that. But
Christina had the fashion still, when she would go to the Shop, that
she’d bring home a lucky-bag to Nelly, as if she was a child still.
She did that, the very day before Jim started. And what was in the
lucky-bag, but a grand breast-pin, that had a stone in it, shining like
a diamond, only of course it couldn’t be that! Nelly offered the pin to
Jim for a keepsake, and he was as proud as if it really _was_ a diamond
she had for him.

Jim went off, and of all the friends he left behind him you’d think
Christina cared the least. But there’s many a one like that. They’ll be
able for the day’s work, and will keep bright and busy; ay, and have
a smile and a pleasant word for every one. But underneath all that,
there’s something aching, aching...! unknown to all the world, except
themselves.

It’s like the “swallyin’-holes” you come on now and then in the boggy
bits of Ardenoo. You may be walking along, happy and contented, in
the sunshine, making your way through heather and brambles and fern;
sweet smells coming up to you from the bog-myrtle and meadow-sweet; and
suddenly with a gasp you stop short! There at your feet, you’ll see a
gaping hole, half hidden by moss and rushes ... and when you look down,
far, far below the warm, smiling surface of the bog, you see water,
black and deep and silent.

“It’s not me, at all; it’s Nelly he wants!” Christina kept saying to
herself, always, always, while she’d be going about her work, up and
down, early and late, as busy as ever she could be. Busier than ever,
indeed! It seemed now as if she never could rest, and couldn’t be easy,
unless she was doing something, for the old father, or little Nelly.

It’s dreadful, when you have to look on, at some one else getting the
very thing that you would give your heart’s blood for! Ah, dreadful!
even if it’s some one you love that’s robbing you. And it makes it no
better, if the one that’s getting what you want is maybe not caring two
straws about it; not even knowing it’s there to be had. Nelly didn’t;
she had no more notion of Jim and how he felt than the man in the moon.
Christina could not have held out at all if she had known.

I won’t say that Nelly didn’t feel a bit lonesome for Jim. She missed
him coming about the place, as he had the fashion of doing. But she
never thought much of anything, and she was so beautiful and so nice
every way, that she could not but be happy. Why, when she’d be going
to the chapel of a Sunday, the boys would be striving with one another
to get where they could have the full of their eyes of little Nelly
Flanagan. And a girl can’t but know something of what goes on in that
way; and feel it a satisfaction, too. There wasn’t one in Ardenoo could
hold a candle to Nelly in point of looks. Christina was well enough,
too, a very fine appearance of a girl she was, no doubt. But she was
older and more settled in her ways, than Nelly, hadn’t the same happy,
laughing looks and little tricks and fun. How could Christina be like
that and she with the weight of the work on her shoulders always, not
to speak of the care of Nelly, from the time she was born! It had made
her very quiet and grave in herself; as if she had left youth behind
her, long ago, though in years what was she but a girl still?

Jim wasn’t very long gone off, when what happened, only old Flanagan
took and died on the two poor girls. And you would wonder to see how
they lamented him; and he so little use to them, or indeed to himself
either, or any one else, except maybe the play-boys that he would be
consorting with, whenever he had the money to stand treat. And small
good that was going to be, to them or him!

Still, when any one is gone and laid in the grave, there’s no one going
to say anything but what is good of them; and so by old Flanagan. And
of course his own girls were the last to hear of any little faults or
follies he had to do with. That made it all the harder on them, when
things began to be looked into, and it was found out that there was
a lot of money owing on the farm. The girls had always trusted their
father, the way women mostly do. Christina had felt a bit anxious at
times, but still, she had managed to keep middling straight at the Shop
by bringing in her eggs and butter and so on, to exchange them against
whatever tea and sugar, flour and meal and soap and whatever else she
wanted in the housekeeping line. That was the way the weight of the
business was done at Melia’s. Christina knew pretty well how their
account stood there. But she never had any intelligence of anything
further. The father had the notion that many men have, that women
understood nothing about money, and the less they had to say to it
the better. So it was a terrible surprise to Christina when she found
out, after the father died, that there was rent owing on the farm. The
agent was very easy-going, and had let it run on out of good-nature
to old Flanagan. But now he was beginning to think that the two girls
would not be a very good mark for all that money. And although he
talked to them as kind as could be, he was beginning to hint to others
that maybe girls like the Flanagans would be as well off without the
responsibility of so much land, when there wasn’t a man to work it. He
really may have thought they would be better off in a smaller place.
But besides that, he knew well that old Heffernan would be glad enough
to get Greenan-more, because it lay so convenient to his own farm; and
that maybe if he could arrange to let him have it, he’d be getting
a hand-over for himself. And of course he wanted to do the best for
himself, like the rest of us.

Christina didn’t understand all these things, but she began to feel
very downhearted, as if there was trouble in store for them, when the
next rent-day was coming round, and she knew how little there was to
meet what was due. That was bad; but her own care, that no one knew of
but herself, was far worse. She could neither eat nor sleep, thinking,
thinking always.

Well, she was sitting at the door one evening, knitting, when who did
she see coming up the hill towards her but Mickey Heffernan. She spoke
to him very civilly, as she always would, but wondered greatly what
was bringing him there. For it was seldom he took the light from their
door, or indeed from any other door either. He lived to himself, and
so he, too, had little notion of what was going on about the place. It
would have been a big surprise to him, too, if any one had told him
that there was any idea of his getting Greenan-more.

But that nothing to the business he had really come about; a most
amazing thing it was! Christina could hardly believe her ears, when at
last Mickey brought it out.

It appeared that he had been taking notice of Nelly; had had a good
look at her, the day the father was in his burying. And now, nothing
would do him, only to see to get her to marry him.

And he said to Christina: “If I have your good word with her, the thing
is as good as done; she’ll agree to do what you say. And if she does,
you’ll never regret it! For I’ll regulate things for you, as well as
for her. And I needn’t say, my wife’ll never want ...” and all to that.

Christina listened to him with a whirling mind. All the thoughts that
came up before her then! She could not separate them from one another.
There was a bit of a song that kept repeating itself, about an old man
trying to get a young wife; and why the words went singing themselves
through her head----

  Who plans to wreck a singing voice, and break a merry heart,
  He calls a curse that shall be his, until his breath depart--

she did not know! She wasn’t even thinking of all they meant; only,
there they were. But she did say to herself that supposing such a thing
did come about, it might not be altogether too bad. Isn’t it often
said, “Better be an old man’s darling than a young man’s slave”? And
Heffernan was well known to be a good sort: kind and sober and honest,
queer and odd though he was in his ways. Ay, and he was what is known
as a “warm” man; one that had full and plenty, to bring a wife home to.
And Christina felt the comfort it would be to have him for a friend to
herself; and she knew the need there was for some one to stand between
her and the world. She was like most women: very timorous about money
that was owing, and above all, about rent being behind.

Then she thought, Nelly had never passed any remarks about Jim; no
more than any ordinary friend might. She was full as careless and gay
as when he went away. When Jim would write ... and it was seldom he
did, the letter was always to Christina. He would ask for Nelly, right
enough; but sure the weighty end of American letters is always asking
for this body and that body. Jim Cassidy’s were the same. Every one of
the neighbours would be mentioned by name. It would have only seemed
more particular if there had been nothing at all about Nelly.

So Christina had said to herself, that there was no occasion to be
making any talk with Nelly about Jim at all. Mightn’t he change his
mind? or never come back...? And now, when Heffernan had his say about
Nelly, Christina was sure it was just all for the best she had never
said a word to Nelly about what Jim had said to her. It would only have
been disturbing her mind.

Christina was all in a flutter, sitting there, with the knitting idle
in her lap for once, and Heffernan just waiting, and not a word more
out of his head. And still ... what ought she to say? what ought to be
done?

At last she said, “Nelly’s not in at this moment. Away at a bit of a
dance she is, down at the cross-roads....”

She stopped there, thinking maybe Heffernan would be put off his plan,
by hearing that about Nelly, and the father only so lately dead. And
Christina left to do the whole business that evening by herself. Not
that she minded that. She never grudged Nelly her fun. But she wondered
if Heffernan would blame Nelly.

“Not inclined for going she was,” she went on, “but I made her go, and
I’ll slip off by and by, to bring her home; sure, she’s young, the
crature!”

“She’ll mend of that!” said Heffernan.

After another silence, he got up to leave.

“I’ll not wait any longer to-night,” he said, “but if it would be
agreeable, I’ll drop round next Sunday, when there will be nothing else
to be done. We can settle the thing then at once.”

“Mind, you’ll have to speak to Nelly herself first!” said Christina. By
that she was trying to make herself believe that she was giving Nelly a
chance of thinking of Jim.

But only God knows what is in people’s minds! Surely, half the time
we don’t know ourselves. And the very things that are the most in our
thoughts are the things we get ourselves the most confused over. And
the more we try to see them clearly, the more confused we get.

With Christina, anyway, that’s how it was. Sleeping or waking, it
was Jim, Jim, Jim! always and ever; no matter what she was doing,
or who was there. What was he doing now? Was he just the same? And
was he really and truly as fond of Nelly as he had seemed to be that
evening?... And did Nelly care one _thraneen_ about him?

But she did want to act fairly by them both! And that was why she had
said to Heffernan that he must speak to Nelly herself first; she would
have no hand in it, until Nelly had had time to think. She wouldn’t say
a word to her, good, bad, nor indifferent, she thought.

“Whatever you say, I’ll agree to,” Heffernan said, the last thing as he
was waddling off; “but sure she’ll do as you bid her, I’m sure!”

There’s the way marriages are generally settled in Ardenoo.

The days passed on, and Christina never said a word to Nelly still. And
then, the very Sunday that she was expecting Heffernan to come again
to Greenan-more, wasn’t there a letter from Jim; and most surprising
news in it, this time.

It told that the uncle Jim had gone out to was after dying, very
suddenly, and had left all he had to Jim. This had happened some time
before, but Jim wouldn’t say anything about it, till he was sure. But
now the whole thing was settled up. He had the money; and he was coming
home at once.

Jim coming home! Jim coming home! Christina felt wild at the thought!
If he had the money, what delay would there be only to ask Nelly,
and she would have him, fast enough! The thing was as good as done.
Nelly was to the good yet, as long as there was nothing settled with
Heffernan. Oh, if only Jim’s uncle hadn’t died so smart! If only....
But must she tell Nelly? Why need she tell her? Let her alone! Sorra
hair Nelly would care! Let her marry Heffernan! One was as good to
Nelly, Christina really believed, as another! She would very soon
content herself at the Furry Farm ... and then.... Oh, if only
Heffernan would marry her at once, and end the thing! If once Nelly was
out of the way.

But Jim, Jim, that had trusted her with his secret! Christina began to
think of this now, and that Jim had told her everything, and as good
as asked her to look after Nelly for him! Would it be fair to Jim? How
could she play him such a dirty, mean trick, as to keep this news from
Nelly, knowing all it meant, knowing that Jim intended Nelly to hear it?

She _would_ tell Nelly. Of course she would! How could she do anything
else but tell her? But it appeared as if something always came in the
way that morning. She started off to find Nelly, and read the letter
with its wonderful news to her; and she couldn’t find her.

Christina had been to first Mass; and now Nelly was off to second Mass,
a bit late, as often happened her; and hurrying all she could, hoping
to get a lift on a neighbour’s car.... So she was a piece off, down the
hill, when Christina called to her; and not a foot she’d come back!

And what was Christina to do? There was the letter, burning in her
pocket, and never a chance of telling about it to Nelly, the one that
was most concerned; because, when she got back from the chapel, she had
Heffernan with her, all dressed out in his best; and Christina thought
it would not answer to have any talk of Jim then; and of course no
more it would.

The same thing, while the dinner was going on; no opportunity for a
word with Nelly.

“It isn’t to be, now!” Christina said to herself; she might indeed have
spoken to Nelly, if she had really made up her mind to it, but the
minute they were done eating, Heffernan said, “I may’s well have a look
at that hay you were telling me about, now. And this little girl will
show me the way!” meaning Nelly.

“Very well!” said Christina, wondering in herself how cute old Mickey
was, to make a chance for himself!

So they got up from the table. Heffernan took his stick, that he never
could do without, since his accident at the fair of Balloch, and
there was Nelly all smiling, quite ready; and off they went together;
December and May.

Before they were farther than the yard, Christina called after them:
“Nelly! Nelly, come here a minute...!”

“Ah, for what?” cried Nelly.

“I ... I have something to say to ye!” said Christina; and she wished
she hadn’t.

“Oh, won’t it keep?” says Nelly, that had often been called back that
way, to be told how to behave, and to not be wild ... and she had no
edge on for being lectured then.

She thought it was bad enough, having to go off with Mickey by
herself....

“That’s all right! come along!” said Heffernan.

He was thinking, the poor old man, that it was what Nelly wanted to be
hurrying off with him.

“Mind, now! I told you to listen to me!” said Christina, very serious.
Yet she was relieved when Nelly just laughed and went on to the
hayfield. And Christina called out, “I’ll be after you, Mr. Heffernan,
as soon as ever I have the place readied up. And glad I’ll be of an
advice about that hay.”

“Och, sure there’s no occasion for you to be in too great a hurry!”
said Heffernan, quite talkative.

When they were started, “I could do no more!” said Christina to
herself, looking after them, Nelly like a child, frisking along beside
Heffernan and his limp, and she chattering away to him and amusing him.
There’s the sort Nelly Flanagan was; always ready to please whoever was
next to her.

Plenty there are like that; plenty of girls, pretty and pleasant and
smiling. But there’s nothing more! no more than if it was a picture you
had hanging by a nail from your wall. But God made them, and the men
like them.

As I was saying a while ago, it’s hard to know exactly what is in your
own mind, let alone in another’s. But it’s likely that what Christina
was really thinking now was this: if once Heffernan spoke to Nelly, and
got her to pass her word to him, the thing would be settled, for good
and all. Heffernan would get the marriage over at once. An old man has
no time to lose, courting. Not that Mickey was what people in general
would count as old; only that was how the girls always talked about
him, he being so very settled and quiet-going in every way.

Along with that, she thought how that Nelly would be safe and contented
with him. He was good, and Nelly was easy-going and hadn’t any one else
in her mind. Christina was only too ready to think that.

But the great thing was, that if Nelly was out of the way ... mightn’t
anything happen, as soon as not! Christina did not put that into words,
even in her own mind. There was one thing sure, however. She wanted
Jim for herself. But that, too, she had to put away from her. The
loneliness of her! She had not one, in this world wide, to speak to.
If she had had itself, how could she! how could she!

As soon as Christina had all done, the dishes washed up, and the floor
swept over, and a bit thrown to the hens, she went off after Nelly and
Heffernan. She thought she wouldn’t be in too big a hurry. The day was
hot and bright and she would take her time.

She did that. When she got to the gate of the Big Meadow, and looked
across it down to the lake that lay beyond, she perceived Heffernan and
Nelly, and they standing, talking, with their backs to her, gazing out
over the water that rippled and flashed under the sunshine, just as it
was when Jim had told her he was going away, and for her to give him
news of Nelly.

Christina stopped when she caught sight of them. The thing was going on
just as she would wish it should. She might as well give Heffernan his
time to say all he wanted. He was slow. It would take him a good while
to make Nelly understand. She laid out that she would go across to join
them, of course, as she had arranged, but very nice and easy, taking
her time. She began by being very particular about hasping the gate; a
thing, in troth, that you can hardly be too careful about, on a farm.

It gave her some trouble, the gate being loose from the hinges, and
Christina remembered it was a job that Jim had meant to do for her, to
set that gate right, only he got such short notice about leaving for
America. When she had it secured again, she straightened herself up,
and turned round, so as to be facing the field she was going to cross.
What did she see, there half-way between herself at the gate, and Nelly
at the far end of the meadow, only Jim himself!

The sight left her eyes, near-hand, and small blame to her. She rubbed
them hard, and looked again. There he was, right enough. He was
laughing, as he had the fashion of doing, a quiet, half-shy smile, but
saying nothing. It was Jim all over. The field was so full of light
and heat that she felt dazzled. You could see little quivering waves
rising up into the air from the sun-cocks. Christina thought everything
was moving before her eyes. Except Jim. He stood there, quite quiet,
laughing still.

“Nelly doesn’t see him!” was the first thought that came into
Christina’s head; “Nelly doesn’t see him! and maybe he hasn’t seen
her! It’s not that side he’s looking, at all! It’s towards me he’s
turned.... Och, if only I can keep him that way...! till I’ll get down
to him ... and keep him in chat ... if only Heffernan had his say out
with Nelly, and gets her promise.... Oh, why did Jim come here, just
this minute! What at all brought him now! If only he’d have stayed away
another bit! Even an hour ... and not for he to be appearing, till it
would be settled.... An’ Nelly that doesn’t mind one, no more than
another ... what does Nelly care!”

With that word, in a clap, Christina begins to think of Jim! Jim, and
the look in his eyes, straight and full of longing and misery, while he
was beseeching of her to write him word of every one ... “and Nelly!”

It takes a long time to tell a thing, but you’ll make up your mind
quick enough. Christina had hers determined, before she had made her
way across the warm, smiling aftermath to the first line of sun-cocks.

Supposing Nelly didn’t care! Jim did. It was like a blow on a bruise
for Christina to have to feel that this was true. But when she did, and
saw what ought to be done, she lost no time.

“Jim!” she called out; and when he made no answer, “Jim!” again. Still
he said nothing; only stood there, laughing. So then she shouted out,
“Nelly! Nelly! look-at-here. See who’s in it!”

At the word, Nelly turned round, and in a second there she came, flying
like a bird up the field, the sun shining on her shining hair, and her
pink skirts floating this way and swelling that way, as she ran, and
kept calling out, “Jim! Jim! is it yourself that’s in it, at all at
all?”

She was like a bird, as I said, but a bird that was taking wing from a
cage.

To tell the truth, she wasn’t caring so much about poor Mickey and his
way of courting. She was listening to him, because she was too much
surprised to do anything else, and besides she couldn’t really imagine
he was in earnest, and was just letting him go stuttering on, and half
inclined to laugh in his face, only she was too kind to do the like....
But of course she’d far liefer have a boy more her own age and gait of
going to be looking out across the lake with, than Heffernan, Furry
Farm and all. So off she ran from him and towards Jim.

There you have them all; Nelly running lightly from one end of the
hayfield, and Christina stepping quickly from the other end of it, and
they both making for Jim who was standing between them. Surely either
of them would reach him quickly ... and of course, poor Christina
was full sure he would go a piece of the way down to meet Nelly! But
instead of that, he kept backing, and backing away from them; laughing
always, but saying nothing.

“What are you at, Jim?” said Nelly, flushed and out of breath, but
radiant with smiles of welcome. “Can’t you stop, and not be going on
that-a-way?”

Still Jim kept moving, moving away from them; sliding across the field,
and not a word out of his head, in spite of all Nelly could say. Then
he got to the stone wall that ran round the Big Meadow; and then over
with him, and Nelly and Christina coming after him.

When they got to the wall, they looked over it into the next field; a
big, flat pasture-field it was; broad and open to the blazing sunshine.
You’d think a mouse couldn’t stir there, without being seen. But sight
nor light of Jim the sisters could not get there.

“Where is he, at all at all?” said Nelly, her cheeks as red as roses
between the heat and the excitement she was in; “some trick he’s after
playing off on us! We’ll find him above at the house, never fear! And
to say he lepped the wall, and never stirred a stone off it!”

The wall was just made of loose stones, laid one upon another without
mortar. Cattle or sheep could knock a gap through them, ready.

The sisters looked at one another. Nelly turned white.

“Sure, Jim’s always souple,” said Christina, so quietly that you’d
never imagine she had a hair turned on her; “but now, let you make no
delay, only turn back to Mr. Heffernan, not to be leaving him there
with no one only himself ... sure that’s no right way to be going on!
Have manners, child dear!”

And to herself, Christina was saying, “To think she never took notice
of the breast-pin, and he with it in his tie!” for they were close
enough to see it; anyway, that pin sparkled in the sun. “I wonder does
she remember giving it to him, at all!”

“Let you come back with me, Chris!” said Nelly, coaxing her; as if she
was turning shy with Mickey, all of a sudden.

“What nonsense is this to be going on with?” said Christina a bit
short. But still in all, she went. She scarce ever could refuse Nelly
anything that she had the giving of.

And wasn’t it a small thing to do, to walk down a piece to meet old
Heffernan, compared to what Christina was after making up her mind to?

She was going to give Jim up! I mean, to give up thinking about him;
for the bitterest part of the thing was, that she had nothing else to
give up! Why would she come between Jim and what he wanted so much?

“... and Nelly!” he had said; “write me about everything that’s going
on about the place ... and Nelly!”

Something had died in Christina at these words.

To give up Jim! I won’t say it was like parting with a bit of herself;
for Christina had no such great liking for her own four bones, that
that would have troubled her much. And did anything trouble her now?
She felt all ice, as if she had no feeling left.

And what was she to do! What was she to do!

It seemed half her life, before they met Heffernan, coming puffing
and limping up the field. He hadn’t a word more out of him about the
business he had in hand, and seemed really vexed at the way Nelly had
run off from him.

“Cassidy? Jim Cassidy?” he said, when they went to explain the thing to
him; “why, what at all! there wasn’t a living soul in the meadow nor
isn’t now, only our three selves! Is it wanting to make me out a fool,
altogether, yous are? Maybe that’s not so easy done!”

He stopped at that, with his mouth open, as if he was surprised at
himself that he had said so much. He looked from one to another of
the two girls, as much as to say, “What excuses have yous to make to
me?” for he was quite offended. And when no one said anything, he just
turned off short, when they reached the gate leading out of the meadow,
and went home, as crabbed as you like.

But by that time Christina was past caring a pinch of snuff what he
did. She could think of nothing, only Jim. She thought she’d never get
back to the house quick enough, she was so full sure he would be there
waiting for them.

Leaning out over the half-door, she pictured him to herself, the way he
often was, before he went to America, laughing and kind. Her face was
white, and the two eyes burning, burning in it, as she went hurrying
on, across the yard, and into the house.

As for Nelly, she was all smiles and gaiety. Little she cared for
Heffernan, or what humour he was in, and he going off from that! She
was calling out, “Jim! Jim! where at all are you? what do you mean...?”
as she ran here and there looking for him, rosy and warm again in the
cheeks, as if they were playing a game of hide-and-seek.

But the sorra Jim could they find! High, low, or holy, there wasn’t a
sight of him to be seen; though Nelly hunted and searched and looked
and called, all over the place; while Christina, white and hot-eyed,
went about her usual work.

“A body would think you didn’t care, Chrissy,” said Nelly indignantly.

Care! Did she care about her chance of heaven?

Later in the evening, Nelly went straying off through the neighbours,
telling her story, about Jim being in the Big Meadow, and then going
off from them. Did This or That body see him? Nelly would ask, with
wide, innocent eyes. She was only laughed at. Nobody saw Jim Cassidy!
Let her go home and make up some better story than that, if she wanted
to entertain people.

“But we _did_ see him! the two of us saw him! and we even spoke to him!
And he made us no answer, only disappeared, the same as if the ground
had opened and swallowed him down!” Nelly insisted.

“Maybe so it did, but we’ll not swally your story!” was all the
satisfaction Nelly got.

So she went home to Christina and “Ah, Chrissy, do you think would it
be a warning, and that poor Jim just came back to tell us he’s dead,
there beyant in America?” said Nelly, beginning to cry down tears like
the rain.

But Christina never made her an answer. She couldn’t! What Nelly was
after saying, was what she had been thinking. But such thoughts never
seem so bad, till some one else puts them into words.

To think of Jim, Jim Cassidy dead! She nearly hated Nelly for saying
the word that ends everything ... except Love.

She put her hand into her pocket, and pulled out Jim’s letter, and gave
it to Nelly.

“That came this morning, and I never got the chance of showing it to
you all day, till now,” she said. And she kept watching Nelly from
under her eyelashes, to see would she mind it much.

But Nelly was a real child. She never thought of anything, except just
what a body would put before her in words. She said nothing as she
took the letter and read it. There was nothing in it, only about he
coming home; and the money he was after getting by the uncle that died.

Then: “Starting the day week this was wrote!” she said. “Well, well!
But sure he couldn’t be here yet, this len’th of time...! whether or
which....”

And then she gave a look at Christina, but she was as busy as a nailer
with one little thing or another about the kitchen, so that she took no
notice of the way that Nelly was staring her. And maybe it was as well
that Nelly got no encouragements to say, what was on the tip of her
tongue, how that Christina appeared noways glad or interested at the
thoughts of Jim coming home.

“And the luck that he’s after happening on! And they two that were
always the greatest of friends!”

That was what Nelly said to herself. But she never kept anything long
in mind, and so things went on at the Flanagans’. The sisters were in a
kind of bewilderment. Christina was going about, not speaking only when
she couldn’t help it, and she feeling as if she was moving through a
black fog, cold and dreadful, and Nelly upset, because she wasn’t used
to anything from Christina but petting. She’d wonder for a minute or
so what at all should be the matter with Chrissy, and then she’d start
her gay little lilt of a song again....

It appeared to Christina as if she had known all her life what was
going to happen, when, a few days later, as she was coming in with
the milk, what did she see, only Jim Cassidy, and he leaning over the
half-door, just as she had often fancied him. Leaning across it he was,
and Nelly standing just inside, and they two laughing and chattering
together and seeming as if they didn’t think there was another soul in
this living world, except their two selves.

Christina started back; and the can of milk dropped out of her hold.

“Oh, Chrissy! here’s Jim!” said Nelly, the words tumbling out over one
another and she between laughing and crying ... “and he only just after
landing....”

“What else, only just landed?” said Jim, looking from one to the other,
very puzzled; “what else would I do, only come on here straight?”

“But sure, didn’t we see you...? Ora, Chriss, look at the milk...!”

“Never mind now! come and give a hand to wipe it up!” said Christina,
and they all were glad of an excuse for doing something, Christina in
particular. For she was all of a tremble, and didn’t want that to be
seen.

So by this, one thing and another was spoken of, till at last Jim got
telling them about a queer dream he had had, while he was on the way
home.

“I thought to see the two of you,” he said, “in the Big Meadow, and
yous coming towards me, through the sunshine ... it appeared as if it
was a Sunday, with yous, and so it was with us in the ship, too ... I
remember it well....”

“Sure, if you saw us, we saw you, too!” said Nelly; “Sunday ... sure
enough! it was the day old Mickey Heffernan was....”

She stopped herself, and grew very red.

“The day Mickey Heffernan ... what?” said Jim.

“Ah, nothing at all!” said Nelly; “men does be shocking foolish betimes
... and quare conduction you got on with, that same day ... backing
away from us, as if you thought we had the scarleteen, or something
you’d take from us, that you wouldn’t let us within the bawl of an ass
of you...!”

“That _was_ quare and very quare, too!” said Jim; “but I’ll see not to
let the like occur again, if I can prevent it!”

He and Nelly began to laugh again. And they two were so taken up with
one another, that they never heeded Christina. She slipped away without
their knowing.

They didn’t miss her for long enough. Maybe it was bad of them; Jim
that had trusted her, and Nelly that she had given up all for. But
there’s what happened. And it was only natural, after all. Jim had
Nelly; and Nelly couldn’t but be taken up with all he had to say....
And then, Christina was one that no one ever thought wanted looking
after. So it wasn’t till it had grown dusk, that they began to wonder
where she was, and why wasn’t she there, to be making down the fire,
and seeing everything ready, as she always did. They waited a little
bit longer, and then another little bit longer ... and the time seemed
short enough, to Jim, anyway; till at last they got uneasy, and went
looking for Christina.

But they never saw her again.

They searched high and they searched low. They went to the neighbours,
thinking to find her somewhere off among them; though, as they
well knew, it was the last thing she thought of doing, idling and
_ceilidhing_[10] away from home of an evening. The neighbours came,
and helped, and there wasn’t a spot about the place but they searched,
calling and whistling and shouting for her; out all night with lanterns
and candles. Every one had a great wish for Christina. Why wouldn’t
they! she that was so good and kind. But she was not to be found.

They kept up the search, for days and days, thinking it might be that
some kind of weakness had come over the poor girl, and that they would
come on her somewhere, and she in a faint.

But not a sign of her ever they found.

Some thought it was what she might have slipped into the lake, when she
was turning out the cows after milking them, for it was down towards
the water they were driven of an evening. And that lake, it was well
known, had no bottom to it, in places; and it was supposed that the
water drained away through underground channels ... and if any one
chanced to get drawn into one of them ... well, there was no more to be
known of that person.

And more were of the opinion that she might have fallen into one of the
swallyin’-holes I mentioned. And anything that goes in there never
comes out any more.

It nearly killed Nelly, the fright and awfulness of losing Christina
that way. She fretted and pined, till the half of her wasn’t in it. And
Jim as bad, for he was as fond of Christina as Nelly was; just in the
same way, too; as if she was his sister.

       *       *       *       *       *

For many a long day, after Jim and Nelly were married, and living on
there in the old home, they would talk of Christina, and think maybe
she’d be coming back to them, just walk in on the door.... For they
always thought it wasn’t dead she was at all, only “away” with the Good
People in the old rath, at the top of the hill behind Greenan-more.

The door was always left open, and the fire strong, and food ready,
at night, and in particular on Hallow Eve, the way she could come in
there, if she had a mind to.

But she never did.

And so best. It’s a poor thing, to be looking at happiness through
another person’s eyes; even if you chance to be as fond of them as
Christina was of Nelly, let alone of Jim.

And it’s bad enough to fret for doing wrong. But isn’t it worse again
to have to feel yourself sorry, and you after doing what you knew was
right! as it was with Christina. But there’s many a thing that it’s
hard to explain, as well as what the Flanagans saw in the sunshine,
that day crossing the Big Meadow.




CHAPTER V

MATCHMAKING IN ARDENOO


There was of course a good deal of talk among the neighbours about all
that took place at Greenan-more, just soon after old Flanagan dying
there. To say nothing of the queer way Jim Cassidy appeared (as they
said), to the two girls, that Sunday evening, when they were out in the
hayfield, with old Heffernan ... and anyway, nothing was farther from
Nelly’s thoughts then than the same Jim! whatever poor Christina may
have had in her mind!... To say nothing of this at all, wasn’t it a
shocking affair to see a fine, good girl like Christina, going out of
this world the way she did! no one to know what became of her, no more
than if she never had been there at all!

Still, the people didn’t speak so much over it as you might expect.
They felt Nelly and Jim wouldn’t like it. Besides, there was talk of
Christina’s being “away”; and as every one knows, it doesn’t answer to
be too free-spoken about the Good People.

Very little of the talk reached Mickey Heffernan, as usual. He lived
very backwards, as has been said; he heard little, and he said less.
It was the fashion he had, and it served him well. It did now, for it
helped him to believe that no one knew a word about his having wanted
little Nelly Flanagan for himself. In fact, very few did and they soon
forgot it, there was so much else to be talked about. Mickey was very
proud to think that the business with Nelly had gone no further; any
man would feel the same. But instead of this taking the edge off him
for getting married, it only made him the more anxious to hear of some
other girl that would come in upon the floor of the Furry Farm. Julia
was gone out of his way; so why would he not strive to bring a wife in
there?

Little Kitty Dempsey was the next he looked to get; and a very curious
way that came about. Not that any man was to be blamed for fancying
Kitty! She had every one’s good word, the same little girl.

“A very nice little cut of a person,” it would be said of her,
“agreeable and pleasant-spoken in herself; noways uppish or short with
any one. And the darlint blue eyes of her, that she can say what she
chooses with! Sometimes they’ll laugh, like running water in sunshine;
and again, they’ll fill up, if she’s fretted, till they’d remind you
of nothing so much as a shower of an April day. And as straight she is
as a rush, and as light on her foot as a willy-wagtail; like a young
larch tree, slim and upright; and wouldn’t any one sooner be looking at
the like of that than at one that has been twisted and bent by the wind
on the side of a hill, or has had the half of it ett away by a hungry
colt? Oh, there’s some girls that there does be a power of marrying
on, before they can be settled! But troth! that’s not so with Kitty
Dempsey!”

In fact, at this time, though Kitty was young yet, it was the wonder of
Ardenoo that she wasn’t married long ago, for as they said, it wasn’t
her looks stood in her way; though she never got to be as rosy in the
face and _flauhoolich_[11] as her sisters all were. Many a time they
blamed Kitty for that, as if she could help how she looked! But the
father, old Dick Dempsey, would whisper to Kitty:

“Never mind, _asthore_! it isn’t always the big people that reaps the
harvest, Kitty!”

He was very nice and gay, the poor man, and always had a great wish
for Kitty, and stood up for her whenever he could. But Kitty was the
youngest of a long family; and as you may often notice in that case,
she seemed to come in for the fag-end of everything.

When she was no more than a child, she could see plain enough that
there wasn’t a dance or a fair, a wake or a wedding far or near, but
all the other girls would go off to, and have their fling of whatever
fun was to be had. And they would say to Kitty, “Better for you stop at
home and let your hair grow! you’ll have your turn by and by!”

But there was not really much difference in age between Kitty and the
next sister; only one had to stop at home, and somehow, Kitty was more
agreeable to do that than any of the others. Though, as she grew up
more, she often had a wish to go about, like another, and get her share
of sport; and when they’d say, she’d have to wait another little while,
and then let her take her turn, “To-morrow’s a long day!” Kitty would
cry. But that never did her any good.

She would feel it lonely enough, of an evening, when the others were
away off sporting somewhere, and only the old father and mother left
about the place. The only consolation Kitty had those times was when
she’d go off to the well for the can of water. Dan Grennan would be
very apt to be there or somewhere about, and then, of course, he’d
get the water for her to carry it home, as far as the back of the
turf-clamp. Dan was a neighbour, a decent, quiet boy, what we call a
“lone bird,” for he had no one belonging to him in the place.

Well and good; this got to be the habit most evenings, till Kitty’s
mother took notice that the water began to be very late coming in for
her cup of tea. So, out with her, one time, and she slipped along, very
quiet and easy, till she heard a laugh from behind the turf-clamp.
Round it she went; and there were Kitty and Dan, with the can of water
on the ground between them.

There’s where they were in error, not to have talked their fill below
at the well, and have done with the thing. But sure, young people are
all the same. When they begin to chatter and talk with one another,
they get it as hard to stop as if it was the sea they were striving to
empty out with a sieve.

It chanced that old Mrs. Dempsey was very thirsty at that present time,
which was what maybe had her so fractious. But indeed, at the best of
times, the turn of a straw would leave her as cross as an armful of
cats, she was so short in the temper.

“Well, Dan, me fine fellah!” she said; “and is it you that is in it?”

“It is, Mrs. Dempsey, mam,” answered Dan, quite civilly; and then he
added, “and no harm in that, I hope?”

He should not have said that; giving her an opening.

“Troth, I dunno about that!” said she, and was twice as vexed, because
poor Dan was so quiet-spoken with her; “that depends,” she says, “but
a boy that has nothing between him and the world only his two hands
has no call in life,” she says, “to be here, _colloguing_[12] with my
dauther!”

Mrs. Dempsey was a Cusack, and held herself very high. She turned to
Kitty, that was as red as roses by then.

“Off with ye, and bring in that water, that I’m sick and tired waiting
on!”

Kitty was ready enough to go. Ashamed she felt, to have that word said
to Dan, and she by. She went off, without giving him word or look. How
could she, with the mother stumping along behind her, as big as a bush
and as red as a turkey-cock!

“And she gobbling out of her, too!” said Dan to himself, as he sneaked
off, with a very sore heart. He was a fine, big, able boy, that you
would never think troubled his head about anything. But boys like that
have times that they want comforting, as well as another. Dan was out
of a job then, and he was intended to ask an advice of Kitty, whether
he ought to go to England for the harvest or not, only when he saw her,
he forgot everything else except little Kitty Dempsey. He was not to be
blamed for that. You would maybe have done the same yourself.

But the very next day after Mrs. Dempsey giving him his walking-papers,
as I said, Dan got a job of driving a lot of cattle out to Dublin
market. And when he had that done, he bobbed up against a comrade-boy
of his own, and this boy was after taking his passage to America. And
he was so lonesome in himself, to be going away, that he offered the
lend of money to Dan, the way they could go together. I needn’t say Dan
jumped at the chance.

But he had to start off as he stood; and no one at Ardenoo knew a word
about his going, for long enough. So there was many a mile of salt
water between poor Dan and Kitty, and still Mrs. Dempsey would be going
to the well herself of an evening. It was the price of her, to be
putting such rounds upon herself, and for what? But as Dan said long
after, when he and Kitty would be talking over things, “Divil’s cure to
them that has a bad suspicion of others!”

Kitty used to fret a good deal, wondering how it was that she never
saw Dan nor heard anything about him, since the time her mother caught
her and him together behind the turf-clamp. But she passed no remarks
to man nor mortal. And one day that she and the mother were at Melia’s
shop, where the post-office is, a letter was slipped to Kitty, that no
one saw only herself. Mrs. Melia knew well the sort old Mrs. Dempsey
was, and so did every one else about Ardenoo.

Kitty had to keep that letter in her pocket, and it burning a hole
there, till she was going to bed that night before she had any
opportunity of opening it. What was there inside of it, only a picture
of Dan, all done out so grand and fine, that you would scarcely know it
to be Dan at all, only his name was written under it. And on the back
of the picture there was this verse:

  When this you see,
  Then think of me, D. G.

So Kitty was not much the wiser about what had happened, when she got
this from Dan. But not long afterwards, she got word that it was in
America he was, and had good pay there. And then no one seemed to know
much more about Dan.

It wasn’t too long after this, that old Dick Dempsey, himself, Kitty’s
father, took and died on them; “harished out of the world,” some said,
by the wife he had, that could never think anything right that he did;
or any one else, for that matter, except herself. There’s a power of
people like Mrs. Dempsey.

It was the woe day for poor Kitty, when her father was gone, and she
and the mother left to manage for themselves. By this time all the
others were married, or gone off to America. And of course they all
said among themselves, that the farm that had reared the whole of them,
and had given snug fortunes to every girl that married out of it, ought
to be able to keep Kitty and the mother in the greatest of comfort.

So it should too; only there chanced to be a few bad seasons, when the
grass was short ... or the rain didn’t come till it wasn’t wanted, and
so the crops got spoilt in the saving. Every one else about Ardenoo was
in the same boat. Except for this: Mrs. Dempsey was of the opinion that
they were all fools but herself. That kept her down worse. She would
take no advice. She thought she knew better than men that had been
farming all their lives, while she had been rearing chickens and making
butter. Her great idea was, to spend nothing. She grudged doing that,
more than anything.

Now it is well known that the best fertiliser you can use on land is,
money. If you treat your land well, it will treat you well; a thing
that is true of more than farming.

But with Mrs. Dempsey it was take all and give nothing; above all, for
labour. She would keep no help for the house. So it was Kitty! here;
and Kitty! there, from dawn to dark. Kitty was never done. She was the
most willing little creature you could find in a day’s walk; as good as
ever was wet with water. But what avails all one girl can do on a farm?
with poultry and milk, turkeys and pigs, and then be expected as well
to do haymaking, or the thinning of turnips, or dropping potatoes, and
I don’t know what all besides. It was only folly to think any one pair
of hands could overtake all that.

And here again was another reason why poor Kitty was not to have her
chance of a bit of sport like another. At first, as I explained, she
had to step one side, in order that the sisters that were older, the
“ones that were next the door,” as they are called at Ardenoo, could
have their fling, there were so many of them there. And secondly she
had to stop at home now, because they were _not_ there! no one in the
place, only the old mother and Kitty. So that is how she never had any
other “coort” except Dan; and of course then she thought all the more
of him; the same as a hen with only one chicken. She’ll fuss and cluck
as much for it as if she had the whole clutch.

Girls that are allowed a bit of liberty, the way they can be putting a
whole lot of boys through their hands, as some do, are better off in a
way than Kitty was with Dan.

“One thing moiders another!” as the man with the toothache said, when
he felt the pain going into his ear. And if a girl has Phil, and Jack,
Mike, and Pat as well as Art, it’s likely she’ll not fret too much
about any of them if they go off, as Dan did.

However, you never know what turn a young mind will take. People
differ, as well as the things they happen up against. Kitty wasn’t like
other girls; and those that knew her best never wished that she was.

All the same, good and contented as she strove to be, it was hard
on her! Year in, year out, going on the one old gait; her nose for
ever to the grindstone. And along with all, if anything went wrong,
Mrs. Dempsey would take and scold at Kitty, most bitterly, as if the
girl was to be blamed when the potatoes turned black, or the oats got
lodged, beaten into the ground with the heavy dreeps of rain.

As for the fow! That was what had the old woman more annoyed than
anything. The rage she got into, one season, when a lot of young
goslings died! She said it was what Kitty had neglected them, and that
she cared for nothing, only idling her time over her geranium-pot. Now
it was true that Kitty did think a lot of that flower, and no one but
herself knew, or cared, that it was Dan Grennan that had brought it to
her, and it only a little weeny bit of a thing. Kitty had minded it
so well, that it flourished up the finest ever was seen. She was very
fond of flowers, but any little bit of a garden that ever she made,
something happened it; either the pigs rooted it, or the hens tore it
about. So to keep her geranium-pot safe, it was up on top of the pump
she had it, the time the goslings died.

Mrs. Dempsey was making for it, to fling it pot and all out of that,
when, behold ye! she was took bad all of a sudden. Some kind of Blessed
Sickness it was; and in the clap of your hand, it left her speechless,
and with no power of herself from the waist down, ever after. In fact
she didn’t last too long after this happening. But, of course, Kitty
nor no one could know but she might live for years yet.

When she was laid up that way, it left Kitty there, nothing but a bird
alone, as you might say; the mother good for nothing, only having to
be fed and minded, the same as an infant child, and twice as hard to
please as any baby. Kitty was that tender-hearted, that she fretted,
night, noon, and morning, when the old woman wasn’t able to speak;
though what all the neighbours were saying was, “Won’t poor Kitty have
great ease, now that the mother’s tongue is stopped, the ould torment!”

But to listen to Kitty, you would believe there never was another
mother so good on the face of the earth, as what she had herself.

Shortly after this taking place with the Dempseys, the fair-day of
Timahoe came round. Dark Moll Reilly was in it, of course, herself and
her fiddle. No wake nor wedding nor sport of any kind was right about
Ardenoo, without Moll.

There was people of the opinion that the dark woman could see more than
she let on to be able to; and that it was just a gait of going she
put on, the way she could get a better acquaintance with things that
were not meant for her. Certain it is that there wasn’t a stir, far or
near, or anything going on about Ardenoo, but what Moll always had the
first whimper of it. But no one ever heard a bad word from her, about
any son of men; nor she wouldn’t either. She knew only too well, that
she ought to be careful, and not have the people afraid of her tongue.
In that way, she had many a snug stopping-place, where she was always
made welcome, with her fiddle and her chat about everything, because
the people felt Moll wasn’t one to carry stories. Besides, she was a
knowledgeable person, and very understanding, and had made up many a
match among the neighbours at Ardenoo.

Going away from the fair she was, this day, when Big Cusack, that was
a brother of Mrs. Dempsey’s, overtook her on the road, and asked her
would she sit up on the side-car with him, and he could be giving her a
lift as far as he was going her way.

“I’m thankful to ye, sir,” said Moll, “but I wouldn’t wish to be too
troublesome....”

“Not the least trouble in life!” he said, and gave her his hand across
the well of the car, to help her up. And then, when they were jogging
on again, they fell into chat and the whole topic between them was,
poor Kitty Dempsey and the way she was left with the helpless old
mother; and she with ne’er a one in it but herself.

“But sure, she needn’t be so!” said Moll. “There’s plenty of boys would
be glad enough to be sending in their papers there ... and she your
niece, too, Mr. Cusack!”

“Troth, I’m not so sure about the boys at all!” said Big Cusack; “the
most of them, they put a high figure on themselves now. They’re not to
be caught with chaff, these times. Kitty Dempsey, indeed, with no stock
to speak of on the farm! And it all racked out, the mother taking in
grazing cattle, and letting them eat the roots out of the pasture ...
and the ditches choked ... and fences wanting to be made up ... let
alone the two years’ rent that’s owing on the place this minute....”

He had a sup taken at that time, or he wouldn’t have been so talkative.

“Do you tell me that! Dear, dear!” said Moll; though well she knew it
all before he spoke. But there’s no way so good to flatter people up,
as to listen to them talking as if it was all new to you, although you
might have the thing twice as well off, as they would that were telling
it. Dark Moll was well aware of this. Besides, being old and poor, as
well as blind, the creature! of course she knew she ought to be very
humble in herself. So she had the habit, as I said before, of being
very careful and exact in what she would say, and in particular to a
man like Big Cusack, a strong farmer that had a right to every respect.

“I do tell you that, and, moreover, I’m sure of it!” says he in answer.

“Troth, then, and I’m not one bit sure!” said Moll, “askin’ your pardon
and grantin’ your grace for the word, Mr. Cusack! But I think, and not
alone that, but it’s too sure I am that there’s plenty would jump at
little Kitty Dempsey, ould mother and all. Sure, she can’t last for
ever, God help her! and let her do her best. I know one, anyway, that
I’m too sure would take her,” says Moll, “this instant minute; a qui’t,
settled boy, wid money in the bank, as well as the snuggest place you
need ask to lay an eye upon! And he wanting a woman there, this len’th
of time! And well you know that I’m only saying what’s the truth!”

“Who is it you’re speaking of?” asks Cusack.

“Why, who but Mickey Heffernan!” said Moll, “away off at the
Furry Farm; he’s after marrying the sister Julia to a boy from
Clough-na-Rinka ... one of the Caffreys ... but that’s no consarn of
a man like you, Mr. Cusack! But poor Mickey hasn’t one to do a hand’s
turn for him now, barring himself. Sure he had a right to have looked
into the thing before this, and not be leaving himself the way he is.
And now he’s driving about the country, I hear, looking for a wife; and
his spokesman with him....”

“I have no great acquaintance with the man,” said Cusack.

“No, nor couldn’t,” said Moll; “Mickey was like the rest of the
Heffernans, great always at keeping himself to himself. And the
lonesome place he has! But sure, if it was arranged, can’t he come to
live at Dempsey’s, and be seeing after the two places from there, quite
handy?”

“That might answer,” says Cusack. “Middling ould he is, I believe?”

“No more than sixty, if he’s that, itself,” said Moll; “and as sound
as a trout; ay, and maybe would be better to Kitty than one of them
young bloomin’ boys that’s going these times, the sorra much good they
are only spreeing and play-acting.... But Mickey is not that way of
thinking ... real sober and.... Let me down off o’ the car, Mr. Cusack,
sir, if you please.... It’s to Biddy Fay’s I’m going for the night....”

“We’re past it,” said Cusack.

Moll knew that, as well as he did. But it came more natural to her to
tell a lie than the truth, even if it was to do her no good itself.

“Past the turn to Biddy’s are we? but sure we can’t be far,” said Moll;
“just stop if you please, sir, and let me down and give me a twist
round to set me going right, and may the Lord reward ye for helping the
poor dark ould woman!”

So Cusack did that; but it wasn’t to Biddy Fay’s Moll was steering; no,
but passed on, and made for the Furry Farm, as hard as she could go.
It was a long way, and she couldn’t make it that night at all. But the
next evening she got to Mickey Heffernan’s right enough.

There was no one within at that time, except the boy that was spokesman
to Mickey in looking for the wife. He was a neighbour’s son, well known
to Moll.

“So you haven’t Mickey marrit yet?” said Moll, when they had passed one
another the time of day.

“No, faith!” said the boy; “and sick and tired I am of the job! God and
the world wouldn’t plase Heffernan with a wife!”

“Och, wait till your own turn comes round, me hayro! maybe you’ll have
picking and choosing then....”

“When I want a wife, I’ll see to do the thing myself!” said the boy;
“I’ll have no interference, only go and kill a Hussian for meself! Why
can’t a man go and make it all right with the girl herself, and not to
be having all this ould botheration...?”

“Musha!” says Moll, “there’s a great deal to be looked into, besides
the girl!”

So then she went on to talk of Kitty, and they spoke about that over
and over and up and down; and at long last the spokesman agreed to
bring Heffernan across to Cusack’s the very next Sunday; and he sent
word by Moll.

That all came about; and very pleasant they were, all round. Heffernan
and a few more; tea they had and hot cake and punch afterwards.

“I thought to have the girl herself here,” said Cusack, “but she’s not
willing to leave the mother, that’s ‘donny’ this len’th of time; and
besides she’s a bit timersome in herself....”

“She’s none the worse of that!” says the spokesman; “and anyway, won’t
it be time enough, when we have all settled ... we’ll see her then....”

To make a long story short, they agreed about the whole thing, that
very evening; Cusack praising up the Dempseys’ farm, sure, and all the
fine grass it was able to grow; and the spokesman not one bit behind in
making much of the Furry Farm. Mickey himself said nothing, only sat
there smoking and looking into the fire.

And there’s the sort they were laying out for little Kitty Dempsey! and
he without a word to throw to a dog! But they never minded him; only
settled everything, even to having the wedding in a week from then.
Heffernan and the boy went off home, and Cusack went to his bed, very
satisfied with the work he was after putting over him.

Away with him the very next day to Dempsey’s to tell Kitty. He found
her very lonesome and fretted.

“I miss me poor mother, every hand’s turn,” she said; “now that she’s
laid by in her bed. And I dunno at all how I’ll get to mind her, the
way she should be attended to. Och, but it’s lonesome the place is,
without her voice, even to be faulting me! And the doctor’s bottles to
be paid for...!”

So the uncle begins then to advise Kitty about this thing and that,
and how it was a thing impossible for her to be thinking of going on
the way she was; she could never manage to do all. And then he worked
it round that she ought to get married. And in the end he spoke of the
fine match he was after making up for her.

“What! It’s not ould Mickey Heffernan!” said Kitty. “I never seen the
man, but I remember to hear me father, the heavens be his bed! speak of
him as a settled man, since I was the height of a bee’s knee! An old
fellah ...” and then Kitty took to go cry the father, that had always
been so good to her.

“Hut, what at all!” said Cusack; and then he began to reason cases with
Kitty over the marriage, reminding her that the mother was depending
out of her then; and what a good thing it would be for them both, for
Kitty to get Heffernan that was able and willing to pay up the rent
that was due on the Dempseys’ farm; and how would Kitty like for them
to be thrown out on the roadside, instead of being left in the old home
in comfort, and having some one sensible to do all for them?

Poor little Kitty! she cried down tears like the rain. For that was the
first that ever she heard of there being rent owing. It was the mother
that had managed badly to let that happen; she couldn’t help it, maybe;
and had never told Kitty a word about it.

Kitty said now, would the uncle wait a bit, till she could think it
over? But Cusack saw no sense in that; he being an experiented man
in business and money and all to that. He knew there might only be
unpleasantness, if there was any delay. And maybe Heffernan might
change his mind about paying up, and then wouldn’t he only have had his
trouble for nothing, and Kitty not settled, and where would the rent
come from? Cusack hadn’t it, nor wouldn’t know where to look for it.

So he just told Kitty that the gale-day was coming round very shortly,
and what was she going to do, to make up the rent? And that cowed her,
the crature! and she was always biddable. Sure she got the fashion of
it, from the time she was able to walk. So she gave in to what Big
Cusack said.

In due course, the day for the wedding came round. There was a great
gathering of the neighbours and friends at Dempsey’s, and everything
done in the greatest of style, four bridesmaids for Kitty no less.
Cusack wanted to do the thing right, when he went about it, and he took
on the ordering of it all.

Up bowls Heffernan’s side-car, and himself and his friends; and he
with a sprig of spearmint in his coat for a buttonhole-bit; feeling as
fresh in himself as a rolled ass. But he was as white as the snow about
the head, and as lame as a duck, the poor man! And when they saw him,
spraddling up towards the house, “Sure, that can’t be him that’s going
to be marrit!” said one of the bridesmaids. Not one of them ever laid
eyes on Mickey before. He was never one for going about, as I said, and
in particular had given up the fashion of even going to a wake, or any
place of the kind, where the boys and girls consort together, for years
past.

“Is it a wife he wants, or a coffin?” says another girl; “bad scran to
him, what a thing he wants to go do, to get a girl to marry him!”

I needn’t say, Kitty wasn’t let hear these remarks. But of her own
accord, when Heffernan got up to the door, she makes one fly, out of
the kitchen, and into her own little room, and begins to cry. And the
bridesmaids went after her, and clapped the door to, and began flinging
up their hands, and crying “Och, wirra, wirra!” till you’d think it
was keening at a funeral they were, and not at a wedding, where there
should be nothing but rejoicement.

The noise they made vexed Cusack.

“What nonsense is this?” he said; “let me have no more of it! Go after
Kitty,” he said, “and tell her I order her to come out here, at once!
and not to be making a Paddy FitzSummons’s grandmother of herself. Let
alone of every one else!” he says.

“Och, give her her time!” said Heffernan. It was remembered to him
after, that the only word he said at that time was to try to pass
things off agreeably.

A comrade-girl of Kitty’s, that knew the ins and outs of the whole
affair, went up into the room after her.

“Come back into the kitchen, Kitty agra!” she said; “and give over that
work.... Put by that pickther of poor Dan ... that’s all done with ...
and where’s the sense in heating up old broth...?”

But Kitty did nothing, only stand there with her face to the wall in a
corner, and she crying; while outside in the kitchen, Cusack was raging
like a lion.

“She should be made to come out here!” he said; “I seen girls before
now purshood through a bog, and had to be tied on the car, to get them
to the chapel, the way they could be married.... Well, Moll Reilly, and
is that yourself?”

“It is, it is, then! and God save all here!” said Dark Moll, very
breathless and hurried. “Where’s Kitty? Not that I could see her!
but sure I thought she would be coming to bid me the _ceud mile
failte_!”[13]

Cusack began to whisper to Moll, to explain what was going on. But she
seemed not to care to hear him, and only anxious to get into where
Kitty was.

“Let me at her; I’ll go talk to her!” said Moll, “and you’ll see I’ll
soon make her l’ave that, before I have done with her!”

And so she did, too. But it wasn’t exactly the way Cusack thought.

“Take care! Mind yourself!” said he to Moll, seeing her making a drive
for the door of Kitty’s room, the same as if she had the sight of her
eyes. But Moll was so taken up with what she had on her mind, that for
once she forgot she was blind.

“You’re wanting without there!” said Moll to the bridesmaids; and when
they were gone, said she, very quiet and easy, “Who do you think I’m
after seeing ... I mean, after meeting up with ... there, a while ago?”

“I dunno,” said Kitty, giving a great sob.

“... and he looking into the well ... and talking of how he used to be
rising cans of water there with you ... and then carrying them as far
as the turf-clamp....”

“Not Dan!” said Kitty. And she turned first as white as paper and then
as red as roses.

“Faith, who else?” said Moll.

“Ora, what made he come now? and it too late!” And Kitty began to cry
again.

“Late? the sorra late!” said Moll.

“Why wouldn’t it be late, and the wedding all fixed up? ... let alone
the rent that’s owing....” Kitty was thinking that Dan had come home as
poor as he went.

“Och sure! ‘divil dance on the rint!’--there’s the very word Dan
said!” said Moll; “it’s churns and ass-loads of money he has with him,
that he’s after bringing out of America!”

That was only foolish talk of Moll’s. A few pounds was all Dan had been
able to gather up while he was away. But it was enough, for all that.
To start with, he had given Moll a half-sovereign out of his purse, to
let him have a word with Kitty. Ay, and had promised her as much more,
if he got her. And Moll had never owned that much before in her life.
Whereas, all old Heffernan would be good for would be an odd copper or
two, and maybe an apronful of potatoes, whatever time they would be
going to waste.

“Poor Dan, and he only landed home yesterday!” said Moll; “and the fine
figure of a man that he is!”

“Ora, what will I do, at all at all?” cried Kitty, with the tears
pouring down her face. They two were shut into Kitty’s room, while
outside the kitchen was full up of people, fidgeting about, waiting for
the bride to appear and passing the time by looking at every mortal
thing in the place.

The table was all laid out for the wedding dinner, the greatest you
could see. And when any of the Dempseys’ friends would pass remarks,
carelesslike, on the fine white table-cloth, or the china teacups,
or the silver forks and spoons; they well knowing that all had been
borrowed from Miss O’Farrell above at the Big House ... on the minute,
Heffernan’s spokesman would cry out: “We’ve bigger and betther at home,
in our place!”

But in Kitty’s room: “What will you do, is it?” Moll was saying: “well,
seeing the strong faction that Heffernan has with him, there would be
neither sense nor reason in Dan Grennan’s coming in for you among them
all, and he without one, only himself; barring that he could r’ise a
ruction, like Phaudrig Crohoore! But he never could; and as he can’t
come to you, you’ll have to go to him.”

“How so?” says Kitty; “they’re the full up of the kitchen, so that I
couldn’t pass them by; and as for the window, it’s that small I needn’t
try that way; so what am I to do, Moll?”

“Troth, it’s you has little wit! What’s to ail you, only to put on my
cloak, and the hankercher over your head, and draw it well down over
your eyes ... and who’s to know is it Dark Moll or Kitty Dempsey?... I
mean, Mrs. Dan Grennan, that is to be...!”

“And then ... what am I to do, after?” said Kitty, with a trembling in
her voice. But there was a kind of little smile in her eyes, too.

Moll explained the thing.

“You’ll meet Dan below, there at the well. Sure it’s you that
mightn’t be surprised to see him there, nor he to see you, faith! And
Heffernan’s car is at the corner below, just out of sight of this
house.”

“But ... but....”

“And why not? Isn’t that car nearly yours, this minute, and haven’t
you every right, so, to take the lend of it? And maybe you never
would have the chance again! Lepp up on it, yourself and Dan! and off
wid yiz to the chapel. Ould Father Brogan is laid up in his bed, God
assist him from it, I pray! and it’s the new curate, that doesn’t know
Jack from Paddy in this parish, that had to be sent by Father Brogan
this morning, to marry you and ... who will I say, eh, Kitty? Is it
ould Heffernan with his critch and his white beard you’ll take, or
Dan? You have your choice. And there’s another thing! I gave word to
a brides-boy and girl to be waiting below there on the road, and go
with you, to give an appearance to it all, and the way you’d not feel
lonesome ... and....”

“Are ye coming, Kitty?” said Cusack, with a roar like a bull, he was so
impatient.

“What’ll I do at all at all?” says Kitty to Moll, most pitiful.

Moll opened the door a little bit.

“She’ll be wid yous, in one instant minute of time,” she said to Cusack
in a whisper; “wait until I go to the well for a sup of water, to
beethe her timples.... It’s no way for a girl to be getting marrit,”
says Moll, “to have a pair of red eyes, and a swelled nose upon her;
and well you know that, Mr. Cusack!”

“There’s water here in the kitchen,” said Cusack. So there was, plenty.

“That’ll not do, it must be drawn fresh,” said Moll.

“I’ll send a boy for it; here, Patsy! you’ll be soupler than Moll!”

“Ora, will you be aisy! that would not answer at all!” said Moll. “I
must go for it wid meself and no one else by; there’s a char-rum to be
said over the well ... and let no one speak a word to Kitty while I’m
doing all that!”

“Well, well, whatever you say!” said Cusack. He knew Moll to be an
experiented woman and so she had her way.

Moll then as soon as she had the door shut again on Cusack and all
the people, was taking off the cloak and handkerchief and giving all
instructions over again to Kitty, when, “Look-at-here!” said Cusack;
“more misfortunes!”

And over he rushed to the hearth, like a redshank, to where the dinner
was being cooked. A great, sudden cloud of steam was rising up, and
threatening to destroy everything. The pig’s face and greens was after
boiling over into the fire, and all the women gathered round, puffing
and blowing, striving to keep down the ashes that was powdering over
the fine elegant goose they had roasting in front of the fire. The
men just stood round, their hands in their pockets and their mouths
gaping open, not able to do a hand’s turn, only all very much engaged
wondering what would become of the dinner....

As Moll said after, ’twas God that done it, that started the thing, so
that she perceived ’twas little they would be thinking of Kitty. “Here
now, here’s your chance, and take it, girl dear! Throw the cloak about
ye, and dart while you’re young!”

On the word, there stepped out into the kitchen (to all appearance)
Dark Moll, with her head down, and off she went at a dog’s trot to the
well. And not one even took notice that she never asked to bring a
can, or even a noggin with her, to get the water in. In fact, not one
of the wedding-party thought of meddling with Moll (as they thought),
they were so taken up with the danger the goose was running with the
ashes.

But when all that was done with, they waited, and they waited; at long
last, first one and then another slipped out to try could they see what
was delaying Moll at the well.

“Where must she be, the ould rap?” said Cusack, very short.

“Here’s her cloak, anyway!” said a girl, picking it up where Kitty had
let it fall....

“Sure, that’s not Moll’s cloak, girl dear!” said another, giving her a
look to say no more.

There was a good deal of the people beginning to have a suspicion that
something was up.

“Your car is gone, Mr. Heffernan,” said one, and then the spokesman
said, “So it is! beyant there it was heeled up....”

“Where’s Kitty? where’s Kitty?” shouts Cusack, dashing back to the
house, and on into her room.

Of course, it was empty. Moll had watched her opportunity and had
slipped out of the house with the crowd, and whatever any one else
might have thought, Cusack took no notice, till he ran out again, and
met up with her near the well. It wasn’t till then that he began to
suspect some villainy.

“Where’s me niece? where’s Kitty, I ask ye? This is some of your
tricks, ye ould faggot, ye!” says Cusack, very fierce.

“Och, the Lord save us!” says Moll, pretending to cry; “and that he
may forgive you, Mr. Cusack, for having the bad thought of a poor
dark woman! Is it me to go do the like! Sure yous all seen me, and I
going off for the water ... and it’s what I must have took a wakeness
and I coming back ... fell out of me standing, so I did; sure, isn’t
there me cloak upon the ground, where I had to let it down off o’ me
shoulders....”

What could Cusack say to that? And, indeed, no more questions were
asked then. For the weight of the people could make a guess about what
was going on. And when the spokesman called out, that they should
pursue after them, for who could tell what might be happening to
Heffernan’s side-car, and a lot of other boys, ready for a bit of fun,
began yoking up, there wasn’t a bridle to be found! Stuck into the
heart of the turf-clamp they were; got there that night late. But no
one ever knew who put them there.

There was nothing more to be done, then, except to gather back into
the house, and wait. And by degrees, it appeared as if some that were
there knew more than they cared to tell. Whether they did not, it vexed
Heffernan’s party, who began to look inclined for fight. Only for Dark
Moll, indeed, there might have been a bit of a row, but she kept going
about from one to another, talking, and saying how that there was no
use in crying over spilt milk, and if Kitty itself was gone, wasn’t
there as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it? So they all did
their best to make the thing pass over quietly. The dinner was nearly
ready, and wouldn’t it be a pity, they all thought, to have it wasted!
And Heffernan’s spokesman, when Big Cusack said they might as well wait
and take their share of whatever was going, agreed, and added:

“We might as well! Sure won’t we have to stay, anyway, till they’re
back with the car! Mickey would be hard-set to go any distance with
that leg of his!”

The boy was young, and had no intention of losing his chance of
whatever sport there might be, no matter who got Kitty.

Heffernan as usual said nothing. He was looking very down in the mouth.
But who could wonder at that, after the way things had gone against him?

Before any more was said, back rolled the car, and Mickey and the
spokesman had to make the best they could of seeing it, with Dan and
Kitty sitting upon it! It was fortunate that the new curate that had
just married them came with them, for of course every one would be
anxious to have no unpleasantness before him. But, besides, there was
a girl with them, Margaret Molally by name, that they had expected to
the wedding, but had been delayed; so that when the car overtook her,
as she was hurrying along to Dempsey’s, she was glad enough to take the
lift they offered her. And Dan got her up beside him, he driving, while
Kitty and the curate sat together; and so Dan had an opportunity of
explaining the thing to Marg Molally.

Between her and the young priest, everything went off quite smoothly.
He suspected nothing, and so it was all the easier to keep up
appearances before him. As for Marg, she just went about from one to
another, now attending to the old bedridden mother, and now helping
with the cooking, or passing a pleasant remark to some of the
strangers that were there. Heffernan himself showed up well. No one
could have acted better than he did that day. He showed no spleen, but
when they all had their dinners taken, and a glass or two was given
round, to set the thing going, Mickey was the first to take the floor
with the bride, game leg and all; while Dark Moll played up her best
with “Haste to the Wedding!” and “The Joys of Matrimony.”




CHAPTER VI

A SETTLED GIRL


It’s often remarked, that one wedding brings on another; as if, you’d
really think, the men were like sheep, and if one ventures, the rest of
the flock will follow the same way, even if it’s over a cliff or down
the face of a quarry-hole. And that is how the neighbours accounted
to themselves for what occurred at the Furry Farm, not long after the
affair at Dempsey’s that is after being related. You’d think poor
Mickey had had enough bad luck to daunt a younger man than he was. Two
fine young girls he had been after, and still, there he was, without
a woman at home to look after the place for him. But in spite of all,
he appeared to feel an interest in anything of the sort that would be
going on, as if he thought by that means to get some insight into how
the thing should be managed. Still he couldn’t but feel that he had
had enough of looking for young, foolish persons, and that it would be
fitter for him to be thinking of one more his own standing in life. He
may have thought this out for himself, or it may have been pure Chance
that brought him and Marg Molally together; if there is such a thing
as Chance! Anyway Dark Moll had a hand in it too, as usual with such
affairs about Ardenoo. It certainly was Moll’s doing that Marg was at
the wedding at Dempsey’s, and that began the whole business, though
Mickey never cast a thought on Marg that day scarcely, nor she on him,
except to be kind to him; and that she was to every one there; she
couldn’t be different.

As for Moll, the design she had in persuading Marg to go to the wedding
had nothing at all to do with Mickey or the Furry Farm.

At that time, there was not a more lonesome creature in all Ardenoo
than Margaret Molally! She had not long before buried her father; and
that left her without one but herself, in the little place they had,
a bit up the boreen that borders Dempsey’s farm. So she was sitting
inside by the fire, one fine morning, because she had no heart to do
anything else, when she heard some one coming along towards the house;
and by the knock-knock of a stick upon the path she guessed it to be
Dark Moll. And so it was.

“God save all here!” said Moll, groping her way forward, till she felt
the half-door, and could lean in over it. Blind and all as she was, it
was seldom Moll missed her mark.

“God save yourself, kindly, Moll,” said Marg, getting up to bring the
blind woman in; “but, sure, there’s no one here now with me, only
meself; and not long I’m to be left here, either, by all I hear!”

Her tears began to flow down again as she said this.

“I got a slight knowledge of that,” said Moll, when she got herself
settled on the stool by the fire, that Marg led her to; “just a whimper
of it that is going about through the people. But it’s hard-set a poor
blind body does be, to get at the rights of a story. Ay, acushla! it’s
easy to deceive Dark Moll! But what I understand is,” she went on,
“that you’ll have to quit out of this; and, moreover, they are all on
the same word about it, that it’s bad treatment for your poor father’s
child! Ay, indeed!”

“Sure, who ever heard of a girl being a herd over a farm!” said
Margaret.

That was the means of living the Molallys had had. The father was herd
on a small holding of land. He was a weakly, delicate man, that was
seldom able for a whole day’s work, though willing always to do his
best. But he was a nice, respectable person, that could be depended on,
and he had the good word of all that knew him.

“A _girl_ made herd?” said Moll; “well, I dunno! and still they all
tell me that it was yourself did the weight of the work here, instead
of the poor father, those years past!”

“There was no one else,” said Margaret.

“Wasn’t there Larry, your brother?” said Moll; “and he had a right to
have stopped at home here, to help them that reared him, and only the
two of you in it; instead of galloping off to America, the way he did,
and leaving all to you to do....”

“That’s all gone by now,” said Marg. She didn’t want to hear Larry
blamed; though it was his fault that she was left now poor and alone.

The name Larry Molally had in Ardenoo was, that he was “a bad bird, as
ever flew! an arch-thief, mixing himself up in every mischief about the
place, ever since he could mitch from school.”

In spite of that, and a great deal more that the neighbours never knew,
the mother doted on Larry. It’s often the case, and the worse a child
behaves, the more anxious the mother is to make excuses for him; as
if he was blind or deaf, or even had not right sense. God knows, maybe
that is so, and they go wrong because they have not the wit to know the
difference!

“Your poor mother that fretted for Larry!” said Moll, with a change of
tune as she noticed how Marg spoke of the matter.

“She did so!” said Marg; “she got little and humpy, and poor-looking in
herself, no matter what you’d try to do for her! She never would stir
out of that chimney-corner, only spinning and knitting stockings to
have ready for Larry, against he’d come home to her! God help her! and
there they are yet, hanging by a cord across the chimney, the very way
she had them, when she was took bad....”

“Ay! died off in the clap of your hand, so she did!” said Moll. “Well I
remember it! The light of Heaven be with her soul, and the soul of your
father, this day, I pray; and what was it ailed him, acushla?”

“A cold he took,” said Marg; “a cold that went in on him, and turned
to a suggestion on the lungs. It was there, the doctor said, the whole
demur was; and he lasted very short, only the week, and went off in the
night-time, quiet and easy.”

“I’m proud to hear that,” said Moll; “and, moreover, so best, not to
see him suffer long; for when a disease like that gets its hold on you,
all the doctors from this to Jarminy won’t be of the least assistance!
But sure, we all have to go, when our time comes round; and welcome be
the will of God!”

“It leaves me terrible lonesome here this day!” said Margaret, wiping
her eyes on her apron.

“Ay are ye lonesome,” said Moll, “and lonesome again, to the back of
that! But God Almighty gives some people very quare treatment....
That’s a darling fine lot of little goslings you have there ... as
well as a poor body like me can see ... I mean, can tell by the _yeep!
yeep!_ of them. They’ll be worth good money to you, one of these days!
How many have you in the flock?”

“Six-and-twenty,” said Margaret, “but sure, I have no heart for them or
anything, now! and don’t know where I can get a roof over my own head,
let alone the hens and geese, and the poor cow, that’s after having
twin calves, the finest that you could lay eyes upon!”

“Twin calves!” said Moll; “that always is for luck!”

“Och, for luck!” said Margaret. “There’s no such thing for me as luck.
I often wish I was done with everything....”

“Ora, what kind of talk is that to be having!” said Moll; “you’re just
down a bit in yourself, girl dear! But you won’t be so! To-morrow’s a
new day. And did you hear the great fine wedding they’re to have above
at Dempsey’s; for Kitty and old Mickey Heffernan?”

“I heard nothing about it, only that it was to be,” said Marg, “and
could scarce believe it. But sure, let every one please themselves! But
as for the wedding, I don’t know a ha’porth about it!”

“No, nor couldn’t,” said Moll, “living the way you do, up this lonesome
place! But you’ll be there of course?”

“I’ll wait till I’m asked!” said Marg.

“And isn’t that what brought me here,” said Moll quickly, so quickly
that Marg never suspected it was a lie of Moll’s. She was so well used
to saying whatever would serve her turn that any one might be deceived
into believing her. But what Moll said to herself, by way of excuse,
was that she knew well Marg would be welcome, for Kitty Dempsey had a
heart as big as a box and would welcome any old friend, such as Marg
Molally, with a _ceud mile failte_!

“Of course you’re asked,” Moll went on, “and expected, too; and why
would you not go? Hold up your head! there’s money bid for ye!”

“I’m done with all that sort of talk now,” said Marg; “that may be left
to the young girls....”

“I dunno about that!” said Moll; “it mightn’t be too late at all for
you. God’s good. And you never can tell what floor you’ll meet your
luck on!”

“I have no great wish for going,” said Margaret, then.

“Well, please yourself, and your friends will like you the better!”
said Moll; “only it’s too sure I am that your father’s child would be
welcome at that wedding! The Dempseys had always a great wish for the
Molallys; and along with that, I was thinking in meself, that if you
were there, you would be giving a hand with the poor old mother. She’s
more helpless this minute than an infant child; God look down on all
them that has no use of their legs!”

“That’s another thing altogether,” said Marg; “maybe I would take a
streel up there.... Mrs. Dempsey often was kind to us....”

“Her tongue that was the worst of her ...” said Moll, “but maybe she
couldn’t help it.”

“Her bark was worse than her bite,” said Marg; “and now, Moll, sit over
to the table, and take share of the bit of dinner....”

And when that was over, Moll went off to the Dempseys’, and made it all
right with Kitty about Margaret Molally being asked to the wedding.

The reason Moll wanted that done was, to bring round a plan she was
trying to work out. It was for her own good, but she oughtn’t to be too
much blamed for that! Any one like Moll has to think for themselves.
She was just depending out of God and the neighbours; along with any
little trifle she could make out by the old fiddle, playing at fairs,
or wakes or weddings, as the case might be. But it wasn’t much she ever
got in that way, and she never expected more than a few coppers. People
can’t give what they have not got. There were other helps that Moll
looked to; such as stopping at Molally’s for a night or so, and getting
a meal there, when she would be in that direction. The Molallys were
good to her; and so she didn’t like the notion of Marg’s leaving that
house, and maybe whoever would come after her might not be so agreeable.

This is why Moll was making up a match in her own mind, for Margaret,
with a boy that was a second cousin’s son of her own, and that was
very well acquainted with Mickey Heffernan, being in fact his spokesman
at that time, and having made up the match for him with Kitty Dempsey.
Moll knew that this boy, Jack Rorke by name, would be at the wedding,
of course; and her idea was to get him and Marg acquainted. Then there
might be another wedding, between them; Jack Rorke might slip in for
the herding that old Molally used to have, and Marg could remain on in
her home. But above all, in that case, Moll would still be able to stop
there when it suited her, and get the best of treatment, as she always
had, from the Molallys.

Moll was right about the Dempseys.

“It’s proud we’ll be to see any old friends here that day, such as one
of the Molallys,” said Big Cusack, who was managing the whole thing for
Kitty.

“I was sure of that,” said Moll, “and I’m ready and willing to call
over and bring poor Marg any message you send....”

Cusack was sitting outside the door, smoking a pipe, and he went on to
say, “What I often do be thinking is, why isn’t that fine decent girl
married herself?”

“Musha, then you couldn’t tell, nor no one could!” said Moll; “nor yet
how a thing of the kind might come about still!”

“Good and hard-working she is,” said Cusack, “and comes of a decent
stock. And I understand she has a snug little fortune, that the poor
father laid by for her, too. I don’t know, in this world wide, what the
boys can be thinking about, that she’s not married long ago! They have
no sense, or one of them would have had her before this!”

“Well, it’s often I heard it said,” answered Moll, “that every dog has
his day; and that every woman gets her chance; and so it will be with
Marg!”

She was thinking of the young cousin she had in her mind, to marry
Marg. Little she or any one else except herself and the one boy knew
that Margaret Molally had had her chance, years ago, and had let it
pass her by! Marg was like other girls in that. But the difference was
in herself.

People talk about girls and courting as if they were all made after the
one pattern, and what one does is the same as all the rest. But girls
are as different in their natures as in their looks. Some are all for
fun with any boy they meet; and others are as shy and as silent and
stiff as a young filly off the side of a mountain; and there are good
and bad of both sorts.

Margaret was one of the quiet ones; timid and proud and humble always,
though she needn’t have been, she was so fine and handsome. She would
take the eye, anywhere, so that you would think she might pick and
choose among the boys of Ardenoo. So whatever made her take a fancy to
Patsy Ratigan, it would be hard to explain. For he was what is known as
a “bit of a play-boy”; always up to some sport; as different from Marg
as dark is from day. But she thought that the sun shone out of Patsy;
and they would have made a match of it, sure enough, only for Marg’s
brother going off to America, the way he did.

That was what upset all Margaret’s plans. In the first place, she saw
very plainly that it would never do for her to be thinking of her own
concerns, or to dream of leaving the old people. The father was failing
in health, and the poor mother could do nothing but fret after Larry.
That wasn’t all. When Larry went, he had taken Marg’s fortune with him;
took it down from where it was hidden, up in the thatch, to pay his
passage to America! the money that was saved for Margaret, and that she
herself had helped to put together!

A mean, bad trick it was of Larry’s, so much so that the Molallys
could not say a word about it, for shame’s sake, to think that their
son should rob his own sister. At least, that is how Margaret and the
father felt. But the poor mother took his part even then, and said,
why wouldn’t he take it! Hadn’t a son as good a right as a daughter to
anything about the place? and better, too! And then she cried and said,
she never thought Marg would grudge his share to poor Larry! and he her
only brother, and no harm in him, only a bit of foolishness.

Marg said no more. But she knew well that once the money was gone, it
was gone for good and all; they need never hope to get so far before
the world again. And she would never marry into the Ratigans unless she
could bring money with her, to have them passing remarks about her and
her people.

Most of the money that Larry took away with him had been put together
by Mrs. Molally and Margaret. Whatever they made by their eggs and
butter and so on they saved for Marg’s fortune, and added it to
anything the father could lay by for the same purpose, after the rent
and other debts were paid. That was little enough! But the two women
would always be having something to sell. Mrs. Molally, in particular,
was noted for that. It was sometimes said that all she wanted was to
get Marg married and “from under her feet in the house, the way she
could have the place to herself and be looking after the father and
Larry, without any one else to interfere between them.” That might be;
she might have felt jealous of the way the father had, of looking to
Margaret for his pipe of an evening, or the clean collar for Mass on
Sunday. And many a mother has to let her girl get the upper hand of
her at her own fireside. But Mrs. Molally wouldn’t have that at all;
why would she, a fine, able woman she was, at that time? And she never
cared for Margaret a bit the way she did for Larry.

But all her plans failed with the poor woman. Her heart’s darling,
Larry, went off, without even saying good-bye to her or any one in
the old home ... of course, he might have been ashamed, seeing he was
robbing them at the same time; and Margaret was left with her, the
daughter that she would have given cheerfully, body and bones, for
Larry’s little finger. And all the savings of years gone too.

With things like that, Margaret made up her mind to give no more
encouragement to Ratigan, at least for a while. Still, she would
scarcely have broken with him the way she did, if she had seen him soon
after Larry disappeared. Her heart was very sore then, not alone the
disappointment and disgrace about Larry, but the way the mother was
taking it, as if she was inclined to lay blame upon Marg herself.

Ratigan had the fashion of strolling up of an evening to Molally’s,
on the chance of meeting Marg out through the fields; for she used to
go through them, to count the cattle, to save her father from walking
all the land, when maybe he would be feeling tired. Marg did that
faithfully for him, and I need not say, it came all the easier to her
when Patsy Ratigan would join her and have a chat with her.

She never knew, till after Larry went, how much she used to count on
seeing Ratigan; for although she had no intention of telling him, or
any one else, all that had taken place, it would have cheered her to
have a word with some one young like herself, and that would have been
able to speak of other things. The old people could do nothing but fret.

But Ratigan never came, for over a week. It was really nothing worse
than a bit of a spree that he was on, as had often occurred before,
without Margaret’s knowing exactly what was going on. But to have it
happen now! Margaret thought the wide world was overshadowed by their
trouble, and she could not understand why Ratigan did not come to help
to lighten it for her.

So she was half-wild with grief and longing and disappointment the
evening that Larry did at last appear again.

“Good-evening, Marg,” he called out to her, where she was standing in a
wide pasture-field; “let me get beyant them bullocks for you, and head
them back.... You’re a bit late, aren’t ye?”

She was, and it was growing dusk.

“I’m obliged to ye,” said Marg, feeling her face stiffening as she
spoke; “but when I want help, I’ll ask it!”

“What’s astray with ye?”

“Nothing in life,” she said, raising her eyes to Patsy’s face, and he
looked so smiling and careless that she could not stop herself from
going on, “only I’m of the opinion that every one should mind their own
business!”

“I’ll be making off with meself, in that case,” said Ratigan.

“You might do worse,” said Margaret.

And all the time, she could have bitten her tongue out, that said such
bitter things to him.

Ratigan was said to be a “bit short in the temper.” But any one might
have been vexed at what Marg had said then. He just turned off, and
went away, without another word. And not long afterwards, Margaret
heard that he, too, had quitted out for America.

There were people to say, that Patsy Ratigan had reasons of his own for
going, and that he didn’t leave until he could not do anything else.
But Margaret knew nothing of that. Girls never do know half the queer
things that the boys are up to! If they did, there would be more of
them sitting contentedly at home, and better off there, than marrying.
But they won’t believe that, nor wouldn’t, if you were to put your eyes
upon sticks!

No, Marg knew nothing of Patsy’s wild doings. She thought he went
away because she had spoken so coldly to him that evening. And though
she often said to herself, that it was better so, and that anyway, on
account of the money being gone, she would have had to give him up,
still...!

Many and many a night, when all the world was asleep around her,
Margaret would be lying awake, and would cry a sackful, thinking of
Patsy, and wondering would he meet Larry, for weren’t they both in
America! And had she any right to be short with him?

She had done it all for the best, but even that won’t keep you from
fretting, when a thing is past, and you feel that you went against your
own heart, and still, you have room to wonder, were you right? or would
it have been better to have left it alone?

But Almighty God doesn’t ever bring back the past. Of course, He could,
if He chose; but all we know is, that He never does. Marg was often
heart-sick, going over what had been said, between herself and Ratigan,
that evening in the pasture-field. And it was long enough before she
gave up fancying that if only she looked down the boreen at dusk, she
would see Ratigan going along home from his work, with his coat thrown
loosely across his shoulders, and he whistling, and jigging a step now
and then. Patsy was as lovely a dancer of a reel as you need ask to
see. Margaret then did her best to stop thinking about him at all.

“I’ll not expect to hear a word afore Hollintide!” she would say to
herself, and begin maybe counting eggs she would be about bringing to
Melia’s shop. Then it was, “afore the Chrisemas”; and then “Shrove
Tuesday.” So she wore the time away, measuring it by the Saints’-days
and holidays. But not a sign did Ratigan make.

Not long after, the mother died; and with this new loss, the sharpness
of the pain round her heart about Patsy began to wear off, by degrees.
One consolation she had; not one but herself and Ratigan ever knew that
they had been “speaking”; as far as she could tell.

So the years rolled on, and Marg Molally was getting to be what you
might call a “settled girl”; quieter and more retired on herself than
ever. She seemed to have no wish for doing anything, except minding the
old father and their little place. And she was beginning to grow more
contented, every day that passed over her head. She had plenty to keep
her going, from dawn till dark; and, moreover, her heart was in her
work, for she was kind to every living thing under her care.

“It’s pets Marg makes, out of even the ducks she rears!” the neighbours
would say. “Blue ribbons you’ll see next, tied round the lambs’ necks!
sich nonsense to be getting on with! as if she wouldn’t have enough to
do, without that foolishness!”

Whether she ever went so far as that or not, I can’t say; but whatever
she had, throve ahead. And as for the young lambs that she would rear
on the cup, wouldn’t any one be fond of them! To see how they’ll run
races with one another, a whole flock of them! and play up and down a
sunny bank! Any one would feel delighted to be watching them.

And a lone woman like Marg has her feelings, just the same as one
that has a houseful of children. If you try to stop spring water from
running its own course, won’t it take and bubble out by some other
vent? And so by Marg. She had to be caring for something. And she did
it well; and, signs on it, there was a look of comfort and order about
her little home, that every one noticed. And money’s worth had gathered
there, too; though of course the old stocking that Larry had emptied
had never been filled again. Above all, the old father was cherished
and made happy, in every way that was possible. Marg thought nothing a
trouble that she could do for him. In fact, nothing was any trouble to
her, that he wished done. Love makes easy labour.

Then he died; and lonesome and fretted was Margaret, when she found
herself without him, and not knowing where she would turn to make
herself a home again.

And still she found herself going off to the wedding at Dempsey’s that
had occasioned so much talk at Ardenoo. Marg went, but she kept herself
very quiet all through. There was a great deal that wanted doing at
Dempsey’s that day, what with the helpless old woman and everything
else; and Marg would rather be putting her hand to business such as
getting dinner ready, or putting down the fire, than to be mixed up
with the young boys and girls and their jokes and fun.

That is how it happened that scarcely any one that was there took
notice of Margaret; and Heffernan in particular knew nothing of her
being there among the other people, until he had done the dance with
Kitty. It was no right thing to do, to persuade a man like Mickey that
was on in years, and stiff, as well as lame of one leg, till they got
him out on the floor to dance, just to raise a laugh. But what do young
people think of only to get their bit of fun where they can!

When the dance was over, Heffernan was ready to drop, puffing and
blowing, and he staggered over to where Dark Moll was sitting, playing
her fiddle, with Margaret close beside her. Up she jumped at sight of
Mickey, to leave a seat empty for the poor old fellow; and the way he
would not be thinking that she did that on purpose, she said, “Now
that’s over, we may as well be getting ready another round of tay;
dancing is drouthy work!”

So she went over to the hearth, to take up the teapot out of the ashes
where she was keeping it warm; and Dan Grennan was standing there, and
talking about all the sights and queer ways he met in America.

“And who should I bob up against, only last winter,” he went on, “but
a near neighbour of our own here ... one of the Ratigans ... yous
remember Patsy?”

At that word, Margaret turned very white, and she stooped down, as if
she wanted to rake the ashes together. And said some one, “How is Patsy
doing out there? Has he anny intentions of coming home for a wife, like
yourself?”

“Och, the divil an intention!” said Dan; “sure, isn’t he well settled
in there already? He’s marrit this len’th of time; to a widdy woman
with a fine shop and a family too....”

Marg raised herself up then, and her face was blazing, and her eyes
like coals of fire. But she said nothing; only went back, quiet and
easy, to the corner where she had been sitting, and began by offering
the first of the tea to Heffernan. And when he had it taken, he looked
up at Marg, very gratefully.

“That’s good!” he said; “that’s the way I like tay! hot and sweet, and
that strong, you could raddle lambs with it!”

Truth to tell, there was no scarcity nor meanness of any kind at that
wedding; Dark Moll found it hard to carry away her share of what was
left over, when every one had had enough.

In spite of what she got, and the good treatment she met with, she was
discontented in her own mind. For do what she would, she could not get
Margaret into discourse with the boy she had laid out for her. But Moll
was as steadfast as a weasel to any plan that ever she formed.

It might have been a month or more after the wedding at the Dempseys’,
that Mickey Heffernan was outside in front of his house, sitting on the
bit of old wall, because the height of it just favoured the game leg,
and enabled him to rest himself without having to stoop. He was feeling
lonesome, and looking as forgotten as a hen without a tail. Small
blame to him, if he did feel down in the mouth! after the trick that
was played on him, and that lost him the fine young wife he thought to
bring home to the Furry Farm. And then, to make it worse, to see how
simply little Barney Maguire could get a woman! and one that seemed
suitable every way you looked at it.

Mickey had been there for some time, when he heard a cough. He looked
round, and who was it, a few perch away on the road, but Dark Moll.

“Hi!” shouted Mickey to her; “where are you off to, in such a
murthering hurry, Moll?”

“Who’s that, that’s calling me, in the name of God?” said Moll, in a
small, weak kind of a voice, as if she was frightened at hearing him.

“Sure it’s only me ... Mr. Heffernan,” said Mickey; “who else?”

“The Lord save us! and is it a-by the Furry Farm I am?”

“Where else?” said Mickey.

“Well, now, isn’t it the poor case to have no use of your eyes,” said
Moll.

But well she knew where she was! and had intended in her own mind to
get a chance of talking to the boy, Jack Rorke, that she wanted for
Marg, and thought might be with Heffernan yet. And along with that,
she thought of having a chat with Heffernan himself to see if he would
be willing to put in a good word for Jack, and recommend him for the
herding that Marg was to be put out of, now the father was dead. For
Heffernan being a respectable, well-thought-of person, a character from
him would be worth having.

“Come along in, Moll,” said Heffernan, “and give us any news that’s
going!”

“I’ll take a sate, and be thankful to ye, Mr. Heffernan,” said Moll.
“But for news ... sorra bit of ‘chaw-the-rag’ there is to be had, as
far as poor ould Moll can tell!”

Moll knew that scarcely anything was being spoken over still at that
time, in all Ardenoo, but the wedding at Dempsey’s; and she didn’t want
to let Heffernan hear of that through her.

“And how did ye get this far?” asked Mickey.

“Shanks’ mare,” answers Moll. “Stopping below there at Molally’s I was
last night and thought to get carried, with Marg and the ass, when
they went off to the fair this morning. But at the last minute, she
made up her mind to part them twin calves of hers, if she could get
any kind of a price for them. Sure she doesn’t know what way to turn,
the crathur, and annoyed she is trying to think what to do, and she
having to quit out of her own little place ... so there was only room
for the two little bastes in the cart, and her and me had to walk; we
parted company a piece off and she went along on to the fair, and I
was to wait about.... I had no wish to go any farther, not feeling too
well.... And I wonder what luck poor Marg is having, or did she sell at
all? I hear there’s a big droop in the price of all stock. But sure,
it’s better for a body be moving somewhere, even if it’s only to get
you a prod of a thorn in the toe!”

“Marg? that’ll be a dauther of old Molally’s beyant, that is only after
dying?” said Heffernan.

“The very person,” said Moll; “nice and even-going and quiet, and the
girl the same. And not one in it now, only herself!”

“It’s a poor thing, to be with only a body’s self, then!” said Mickey;
“the same as me; I haven’t one about the place inside or out, but
meself; and I wanting to go to the fair to look for a couple or three
calves and pigs. But how could I and leave the house without one to
keep an eye on things here, while I’d be away!”

“Do you tell me that? why, where’s your sarvint boy, Jack Rorke it was
you had lastly!”

“Gone!” says Heffernan; “he gave me impidence; said, indeed, that he
had no notion of lighting the fire or swinging on a pot to boil ...
that it was girl’s work I was expecting of him. So with that, I let
out, and hit him a ding in the face. I thought to give him a knuckle in
the throat, but it was the jaw-bone I struck; and see the way it left
me! But sure I forgot; you can’t see that, or anything else!”

“The Lord help you!” said Moll, very pityingly. “And where is Jack?”

“I never laid an eye on him since,” said Heffernan, indifferently;
then, getting confidential, “I’m disappointed and put about, every way!
Look at me now, and I after getting all the house whitewashed, and even
a fresh load of gravel thrown down before the door ... and a new leg
after going into the kitchen table ... and all that trouble and expense
gone, for nothing as a body might say!”

“You may say that!” said Moll; “things do turn out very contrairy
betimes, and let people do their best endayvours! Here now,” she went
on, “is a pair of stockings I’m after knitting for Jack that’s a third
cousin of me own ...” for she wanted now to make some excuse up for
having come there at all; “but now, as he’s not with you, I dunno will
I give them to him at all!”

“He’s not worthy of them,” said Mickey, eyeing the stockings in Moll’s
hand, and from them looking down to where his own were showing above
the rims of his brogues, and thinking that there was scarcely an inch
of the same stockings but was holes, for the want of some woman to dam
them for him; “Jack’s not worthy of them. But as you have them this
far, if you’d sooner not be having to carry them back again, you can
just leave them here, and I’ll see to make some use of them.”

“They’d not be suitable for your wear, Mr. Heffernan,” said Moll;
“just only coarse, plain knitting of me own pattern....” Moll had no
wish to let Mickey have them at all. He was known to be a bit near and
“grabbish”; and she knew he’d not give her more than maybe a handful of
meal or a few potatoes for the stockings.

“Och, they’re not too bad at all,” said Heffernan. He liked nothing
better than to get something for nothing. So Moll then changed her tune.

“Well, sure you’re welcome to them! or anything else I’d have, only
they’re not good enough ... but a poor ould body like me, it’s little I
have at any time.... And is it gone for good Jack Rorke is?” she said.

“Good or bad, he’s gone out of this; and far better off I am, without
him or the likes of him!” said Mickey; “he’s as stupid as a kishful of
brogues. And lazy along with all!”

Heffernan went on talking like this, never remembering that Moll had
said Jack was a cousin of hers. But he was a bit stupid himself, as
well as the boy he was abusing. And Moll was too cute to let him see if
she was vexed. Anyway, what did she care about Jack? and in particular
when it was from a man like Heffernan that the talk and fault-finding
was coming.

“He was fit for nothing in life,” Mickey went on, “only standing about,
watching a hen to go lay! I’m well rid of Jack! But I’ll have to get
some one in his place! I’m not all out as souple as I used to be!”

Well, that minute a new plan came into Moll’s mind. She saw only too
plainly that Jack Rorke would have no chance of a character from
Heffernan; and without that, from the last man that had employed him,
Jack would never get the herding.

So, as quick as a flash, she began on a new tack.

“It’s a woman you want here, Mr. Heffernan! getting married is what you
have a right to be thinking about....”

She felt a trifle awkward in saying that word “married,” seeing the
hand she had had in the Dempsey wedding. But Heffernan made her no
answer. It appeared really as if he never knew rightly whether to laugh
or to be angry at the trick that Moll put Dan and Kitty up to. And, at
all events, Moll had been so cute over it, that she never got the share
of blame that was hers by right.

Moll began again, when she saw how quiet Mickey took what she said.

“You’re lonesome here, Mr. Heffernan, but I know a girl that’s worse
off, even! and faith! I’m thinking it’s what it’s a pity to be spoiling
two houses with the pair of yous!” and then she stopped.

Heffernan still said nothing, till he had the pipe filled again, and
drawing well. Then, when he had it going to his liking, he appeared to
take heart, and he said: “And who might that be? not that I’m one for
making up me mind in a hurry....”

“You’re right there, too!” said Moll; “and above all to be cautious,
before you tie a knot with your tongue that you can’t unloose with
your teeth! But now ... if you were to get word of a nice, decent
little girl, with a cow, and a couple of pigs and ... not to mention
the calves that ... and as purty a breed of geese as there is in
Ireland....”

“Well, and who are you talking about?” said Mickey, his mouth watering,
you’d think, to hear of all Marg’s stock.

“Why, who but Marg Molally!”

“I have no acquaintance with the girl,” said Mickey.

“Ay, have ye!” said Moll; “isn’t it her was at Dempsey’s that night ...
and brought you over the tay ... and aren’t you after hearing all about
her now from me, too!”

“Was that her at Dempsey’s?” said Heffernan; “and good tay it was, too!
She can’t be too young?”

“No,” said Moll; “but what does a sensible man, like yourself, with a
place that’s worth looking after, want with one of them whipsters of
girls, that would be for ever dressing herself up, and off to every
wake and wedding in the place. Far more comfort there will be with one
that would have her mind on her business, and be striving to keep a
man’s things together for him!”

“I’d always wish to have the place someways decent!” says Mickey.

“To be sure you would, and why wouldn’t ye? Whisht now! is that wheels
I hear?” said Moll.

“Faith, I believe so,” said Mickey; “them that hasn’t eyes has ears!”

“That will be Marg, coming back from the fair,” said Moll; “and now,
Mr. Heffernan, I may’s well be cuttin’ me stick and paring it along the
road, the way I won’t be keeping the poor girl waiting on me, below
there at the cross-roads. We have it laid out that we’ll meet there,
when she’s on her way home; and I’ll go back with her, to be company to
her this night, anyway, God help her!”

“I may’s well go that far with you,” says Mickey, getting down stiffly
from the wall, and reaching for the stick that he always had convenient
to his hand.

“In the name of God, then, do so!” said Moll.

Heffernan meant by that, to get a look at Marg; and so he did. For
there she was, waiting as Moll had said. She was standing by the little
ass, with her hand on its neck, and her head a bit bowed, and the look
in her face would put you in mind of the picture of the Virgin Mary in
the chapel, it was so sorrowful and patient. She was tired out, with
the heat of the day and the noise and confusion in the fair; and she
had on the big blue cloak that came to her from the mother. It was the
weight of two cloaks, it was so good and heavy. And she had a blue
handkerchief on her head, tied under her chin, and a grand big blue
apron, over her red skirt, that was made of wool from her own sheep,
and by her own two hands. Those colours were in the picture, too.

She and Heffernan passed the time of day with one another; and then he
asked, “Is it buying or selling you were to-day?”

“Striving to sell, I was,” said Margaret; “but could get no price worth
while; and besides I hadn’t it in my heart to part those two little
calves, unless I got a real good offer for them! But now I’m wishful
that I had got shut of them, at any money, and not have to bring them
home, and the poor ass gone lame on me!”

“Lame, is she?” said Mickey; and he hobbled over, to have a look at
what was wrong; and hard-set he was to stoop to look at the donkey’s
feet, he was so stiff.

“She is so, lame, and very lame!” said Marg; “as lame as a duck; I
doubt will she ever get home to-night, and then what will I do, at all
at all!”

She looked ready to cry.

Heffernan stood and thought; and Moll watched him as if she had her
sight, thinking to herself, “If only you’d let me manage the thing for
ye!”

But Moll knew when to hold her tongue.

At last, said Heffernan, “If it would be any convaniency to you to
leave ass and calves at my place, there a piece up the boreen, until
the lameness wears off, sure, why not, and welcome!”

Margaret said nothing for a minute, but while she was thinking what to
answer that would be suitable, Moll struck in her word, “Sure, that’s
the great plan, all out, of yours, Mr. Heffernan!”

“That ass,” Mickey went on, “will never get the cart and its burden
home to-night!”

Marg looked the ass all over, and even led her on a few paces, to see
if it was only that she was pretending; for asses have their tricks
betimes like that. But it was worse she was by then, scarcely able to
keep on her feet at all.

So Margaret gave in to what Heffernan said; and they all turned about,
and went up to the Furry Farm. A fine, comfortable place it was, too,
as far as sheds and hay and straw went, all very complete and plentiful.

So there was no delay in finding room for all Margaret’s belongings,
and settling them in great comfort. And then Heffernan said, “If yous
would step inside, I’ll be pleased to have your company to tay.”

“Troth and we will! it’s meself that’s very drouthy wid the great heat
of the day.... And that God may reward ye, Mr. Heffernan, for the kind
thought!” said Moll, beginning to speak very free, and then ending
humbly, when she thought of herself. But any one like Moll that has
to look out for themselves doesn’t like to lose the chance of a stray
meal. It was different with Marg. Still, she did not wish to seem
unfriendly with the man that had just been so good-natured to her; so
she and Moll went into the kitchen, Mickey showing them the way.

The look of it! Everything was in a muddle; the remains of the dinner
on the table; the floor not swept over; not a thing washed up, you’d
think, for a month of Sundays; hens picking about, and the dog with his
nose into the pig’s pot.

“Go ’long out o’ that!” said Mickey, making a whack at him with the
stick. He lost his balance and down he fell, with his head into the
fire, only as luck would have it, it was out.

“Och, murther! I’m kilt!” he cried.

“The Lord save us!” said Margaret; and she ran over, to pull him out
of the fire, as she supposed. She had a fine strong arm; and she had
him raised in no time.

“Are you much hurted?” she asked, in great concern.

“The sorra hurt,” he said; “but only for you....”

He was trembling all over. Any one on in years will feel a fall like
that to be a great shock.

“Sit down there, a minute or two,” said Margaret, and she pulled over
a big chair, and put him into it. It chanced to be the very chair he
always sat in.

“Rest yourself now, and I’ll do what’s required....”

That was always the way with Margaret. If anything had to be done,
she didn’t stop to ask, “Whose business is it?” and neither would she
interfere. But if she saw no one else making a move, then she did the
thing herself, and without making any talk about it.

Besides that, she felt very sorry for old Mickey, seeing him so
helpless. As long as he was moving about, and had his stick, he managed
right enough. But without it, and lying as he did after the fall, he
was as helpless as an infant.

“I believe the fire is black out, this minute!” said Heffernan,
beginning to laugh, and half ashamed of the fright he had got, when he
fell, and only into cold ashes.

“Sure it won’t long be so!” said Margaret; and she set to work and in
no time she had a blazing hearth, and the kettle on the boil.

“Do I hear the water sizzling out into the fire already,” said Moll;
“that’s a good sign of you, Marg!”

“How so?” said Marg.

“Sure, doesn’t all the world know that when a girl has good success
with a fire, and it kindles up quick for her, that’s a certain sign
that her ‘boy’ is thinking of her!”

Marg’s face fell, but neither Heffernan nor old Moll perceived the
change in her. So she pulled herself together, and got the supper ready
for the three of them, as if she had been used to the house all her
life. And when they were done, she washed up and put all straight,
while another would be thinking about it; and Heffernan sat in his big
chair, with the pipe in his mouth, and watched Marg moving about, and
looked very contented.

“That’s something like, now!” was all he said. But he was remembering
his sister Julia, and how smart and hard-working she had been; too
much so, in fact! because there were days when herself and her besom
would be too much for Mickey, and he would have no peace anywhere in
the house. Still, he didn’t like the dirt and confusion, now that Julia
was gone. So that’s why he enjoyed seeing Marg putting the things in
order again.

When she had it all finished, it was beginning to grow dusk, and said
Heffernan, “It’s a long step for yous to be getting home,” meaning
Molally’s, “and it’s middling late, and there’s the chance of people
along the road that might be a bit rough and noisy, after the fair. So
I’ll just throw the harness, on the ould mare, and drive ye back.”

That took place; but the only word he said that night of what might be
in his mind was when Moll and he had a word together, in a whisper,
after he had driven them up to the very door of Molally’s and Marg had
gone to the back of the house, for the key that she had hidden there
under a bunch of thistles.

Said Moll, “She becomes a side-car well!”

And he answered, “It’s a true word you’re saying!” By that, Moll
thought things were going as she wished.

No man ever was so tender of a lame ass as Mickey was of Marg
Molally’s, keeping her there, and feeding her on the best of hay and
even oats. And when Margaret would make inquiries about her, he never
would agree that she was fit to travel, yet. So there he kept her, and
the two calves; because they had to wait, till the ass would be well
enough to bring them back to Marg.

This is how things were, when Margaret got at last the news she had
been expecting so long; that the new herd was hired, and that she would
have to clear out as soon as she could. She knew, of course, that it
had to be. But that did not hinder her from feeling very fretted and
lonesome, thinking of the little home she was to leave, where she had
lived all her life, and had worked so hard. So she had no great heart
for the bride’s-party that was being given for Kitty and Dan Grennan at
Big Cusack’s, just about then. But she had promised Kitty that she’d
go; and Margaret Molally never was one to go back of her word.

Who was there, only Mickey Heffernan! As it turned out, the party was
meant for him, too, to try and bring him and Marg together. Dark Moll
had set the notion going, and all she spoke to agreed it would only be
right.

Marg was as innocent as the child unborn of what was going on. Her
mind was full of other things; between thinking how best she could
lend a hand that evening, and wondering what was before herself, and
she without a home, when she’d be only a few days older! So she never
perceived what Moll and Cusack and others as well were up to, trying to
help out Mickey’s courting ... if you could call it so!

“Did j’ever see two so hard to get into hoults with one another?” said
Dan to Kitty.

“You can’t get Marg to see what he’s after!” said she; “she has no more
intelligence of what Mickey wants....”

“Not like some...!” said Dan.

“Have behaviour, now,” said Kitty, pretending to be angry; “but of all
the simple girls...!”

Maybe that was just as well. For if Margaret had ever suspected what
was being thought about her and Heffernan, would she have done what she
did? Would she have come forward, when Mickey was leaving, to help him
on with his big frieze coat? And then, when no one else made a move,
would she go out of the house after him, and over to where his car was,
to help him up on it? Indeed, she felt puzzled and half indignant that
none of the others offered to do anything for the crippled old man.
But they were holding back, out of good-nature; while Margaret’s heart
was swelling with pity for him, and anger at their indifference.

“To think that Dan and the whole of them are there! and they well
knowing ... but when people is engaged with sport for themselves, they
forget very easy!” she ended, as with a great deal to do, she got
Mickey ready for the road.

“I’m obliged to ye!” said Heffernan, that never used two words where
one would do.

“It’s little enough, after all you done for me!” Margaret made answer.

Then he dropped his stick and she picked it up and handed it to him on
the car.

“I’d be badly off, without that!” he said.

She saw that he had the rug just laid loose across his knees, and she
tucked it well about him.

“That’s the good thought!” he said; “if I get anyways chilled, the pain
does be bad on me!”

“The nights do be cold enough,” said Marg.

She put the reins into his hand, and still he did not move, only sat
there, looking very helplessly down at Marg, as she stood beside him.

“Them calves of yours is doing lovely, with me at the Furry Farm!” he
said then.

“I’m proud to hear it, and very thankful to you, Mr. Heffernan!”

“Ora, what about it! but I’m thinking, this len’th of time, that ye
might do worse than to come and be looking after them yourself ...” and
then he dropped the stick again.

“I’m sorry to be troublesome to ye, about them, for so long,” said
Marg, picking up the stick again for him, “but if only I....”

“... If you’d come, for good and all,” said Mickey, “to mind them
calves ... and ... and everything else about the place, that’s going
to rack and ruin ... all for the want of a woman there.... So ... I’m
middling old now, but, sure, I can wait a bit ... maybe you couldn’t
bring your mind to take me at all ... only if you’d turn it over in
your mind....”

Margaret started at that, as if a shot had been fired off, close to her
ear. She turned red. At last she understood what he was driving at.
Then she grew white, and dizzy....

But her mind flew over everything! her home gone, and she left, lonely
and desolate, without a soul she cared for, to be looking after and
working for.

She looked up at Heffernan on the car, and the sight of him, with his
eyes fixed on her as if his life depended on what answer she would make
... and above all the useless foot hanging loose as he sat balanced
there, helpless, just as she had settled him ... these things melted
Margaret’s heart.

“You’ll ... you’ll think of it, maybe!” said Mickey, anxiously.

“Think!” said Margaret; “and what else do I be doing, only think!”
and she laughed even as she went on: “But it’s an ould saying I often
heard, ‘Thinking’s poor wit!’” and she ended with another laugh, that
had a sob in it, too.

“Then you’ll agree?” said Heffernan.

“At your request!” said Margaret.

There now is the whole account of how Heffernan got a wife at long
last, to bring into the Furry Farm. Of course there was talk about it.
Some said Mickey was just caught on the rebound, and took Marg after
losing the other girls.

“I b’lieve meself,” said Dan to Kitty, “it’s what Mickey couldn’t find
it in his heart to see them two calves leaving the Furry Farm; and
neither did he wish to have to pay Marg for them! Wasn’t it cheaper on
him marry her and have them for nothing? let alone a girl like her to
take care of them and him and all he has!”

“That’s no right way to be talking!” said Kitty; “won’t they both be
the better of one another? and if they don’t live happy, that you and I
may!”




CHAPTER VII

AN AMERICAN VISITOR


The talk about Heffernan being married at last had all died away, and
Marg was well settled in at the Furry Farm, busy and contented, looking
after the house and her old man there, when another affair arose at
Ardenoo that was the cause of a great deal of unpleasantness and worry.

A stranger from America turned up there; at least, that’s what he said
he was, and no one for long enough knew anything different. But it was
really Patsy Ratigan, no less, that had left Ardenoo years upon years
before, and in too great a hurry to leave any message to say why or
where he was going. Now he was back, and feeling none too sure what
kind of welcome would be waiting for him. So he thought, when he got
there, the day after he landed from America, that he’d keep himself
quiet, till he saw how the thing would go on.

The place looked to Patsy wider and more silent than ever; the people
fewer, and any he met, either they didn’t know him, or he couldn’t
put a name upon them. That was just what he wanted, really; and still,
he thought it very strange that everything was so changed from his
recollection of it! He forgot that the world and all it contains must
always be moving. If you come back to a place you left, even a very
short time before, you’ll always find something not the same as it was.
If it’s only a kettle that you leave swinging over the fire, while you
run out for a few sprigs to hurry it to boil, it won’t be the same when
you come in again. The water will be hotter or colder; the fire will be
stronger or maybe gone black out.

Patsy should have bethought himself of the length of time he had
been away, and then he wouldn’t have been so put out, to find things
different. And, indeed, whatever change he saw in Ardenoo, there was
more upon himself! Hard-set any of the neighbours would have been, even
the comrade-boys that knew him best in the old wild days, to make out
the thin rake of a fellow, ragged and light, that he used to be, in
this big, stout, heavy-looking man. And he dressed, moreover, in black
glossy clothes and a slouch hat; and with a gold watch-chain and ring
upon him.

Grand indeed Patsy looked! And still, as well-appearing as he was,
sitting resting himself by the side of the road, he was very uneasy in
his mind. For he was thinking that he was on the last of his cigars,
and wondering in his own mind how he was going to knock out another
smoke, let alone any other little necessary comfort he might want. Very
downhearted he was, and was feeling as lonesome as a milestone without
a number upon it, when somebody else came in sight, walking along very
brisk, although with a stick.

“I should know that person, anyway!” said Ratigan to himself; “she
seems familiar.... Why, if it isn’t Dark Moll Reilly! And she with the
ould shawl ... and the fiddle under it, on her back ... and all the
ould bags hanging round her, to gather whatever she’s given.... She’s
apt to have all the news of the place ... if there is any to know! If I
can get chatting with her ... and she’ll not see who I am....”

So when she got near where he was, he called out to her:

“Hi! you there! my good woman! where are you off to?”

At the words, Moll stopped short, and began poking with the stick, as
if to feel her way. It was as if hearing the voice had put a “blind”
upon poor Moll; like the bit of board, or old cloth, you’ll see
sometimes fastened across the face of a beast that is a rogue, to keep
it from straying out of its own pasture.

“I ask yer pardon, sir,” she said, “but sure, I’m dark, you perceive!
and couldn’t tell, no more nor the dead, where y’are or who y’are!”

With that, she dropped a curtsey, with her back to Ratigan, by the way
of that she was so confused.

“Here!” said Ratigan, getting up, and catching her by the hand, “come
over here, and sit down, and we can have a bit of discourse.... Just
come here I am, from America, only landed yesterday....”

“From America! do ye tell me that, sir!” said Moll; “and are well
acquainted with these parts, are you, sir?”

“Never set foot here, till now!” said Ratigan; “I just took me grip in
me hand, and started off on this trip. And some friends of mine across
the herring-pond were most anxious I should visit Ardenoo, and look up
some old connections of theirs, and bring them all the news.... It’s
when you’re away awhile from a place that you’ll be feeling queer and
lonesome for them you left behind there!”

Ratigan was always ready for any kind of play-acting, and he could tell
lies as easy as a dog can trot. He had made up this story, while Moll
was groaning and letting herself down upon the bank beside him, very
cautiously.

“Blind, are you? that’s a hard case!” he went on; “but I dare say
you’ll be able to give me the information I require. I have all the
names I was to ask after, wrote down here in my pocket-book,” he said,
pretending to take one out of his breast, but all he had there was an
old purse and it empty. “D ... D ... Dempsey ... ay, that’s the name of
one ... queer names, the most of them are! Now, what about them?”

“Och, the Dempseys!” said Moll; “why, the sorra one of that family is
left in the old place! by that name, at least. The last of them, little
Kitty, took and married a boy ... Dan Grennan it is ... and he after
coming home from America.... You never chanced to meet up wid a boy of
the name, out there, sir?”

“Never heard it, till this minute!” he said.

“Well, Grennan came home, and just was in time to get Kitty, that was
very near marrit upon old Heffernan of the Furry Farm.... And in luck
Dan was, too, to get his head in there at Dempsey’s ... and a nice
little girl for a wife he got, when he did cut his good days short,
marrying at all!”

“Married young, did he?” said Ratigan.

“Ay, did he; and a very decent, quiet man he is, and always was;
so that Kitty didn’t get the worst of it! They’re not to say too
out-of-the-way rich; for whatever little money Dan brought home with
him out of America didn’t stand them long. But God was good to Kitty;
is sending her the full up of the house of childher; and nineteen
turkeys she has, this year, let alone two pigs, and has the grass of
her cow, for doing the herding for ould Heffernan....”

“Heffernan of the Furry Farm?” said Ratigan; “that’s another I was to
ask about.... But from the description I was given of him, he should be
a great age by now! Or is he to the good at all?”

“Getting young again he is,” said Moll, “ever since he has Marg there
to be minding him and the place....”

“Marg! what Marg is that?” said Ratigan, a bit impatient.

“Why, who but ould Molally’s dauther!” said Moll; “she was none too
young, but even so, Mickey might be her father. But what won’t a girl
do, to get where there’s money! And he wid a head upon him as grey as a
badger!”

Now the reason Moll spoke like that was, she had a spleen in for Marg,
because she thought it was she herself had made up that fine match for
Marg, with old Heffernan, and that in consequence she ought to be as
free to go in and out at the Furry Farm as she used to be at Molally’s,
before Marg had quitted it, to become Mrs. Heffernan. But Mickey didn’t
like those ways, of having such as Moll too frequent visitors in his
house; and Marg never went against him.

“As grey as a badger, is he?” says Ratigan; “well, sure, there’s some
says, the bracketty[14] bird is the purtiest of the clutch!”

“Grey; and as lame as a crutch, to the back of that!” says Moll; “a
cant off the side-car that caused it. But Mickey was always weak about
the legs; born on a fair-day, as the saying is, with the two knees of
him boxing for sugar-sticks!”

“Lame of a leg, and grey in the head!” said Ratigan; “that’s a fancy
man for a girl to go take!”

“Marg was none too young herself, though fresh and active still,” said
Moll; “and when all fruit fails, welcome haws! She wanted some one. But
if you have any wish for more information than a poor ould blind body
can give you, sir, can’t you go give them a call at the Furry Farm?
They do be mostly always within.”

“Well, maybe I would do that,” said Ratigan; though not a notion he had
of doing any such thing.

So Moll gave him all the directions for finding his way, which Ratigan
knew as well as she did; and then she went off on her own business,
leaving him sitting still by the roadside.

“Divil may care what way you go, for _I_ don’t!” said Moll to herself,
when she got a piece off from Ratigan; “to say he was too mean even to
offer me the price of a pint, and I as dry as a limekiln, telling him
all the news!... Who is he now, at all? For I can’t believe that he’s
a stranger in these parts. He was too ready with his talk ... and too
anxious for news....”

She went on again, another little bit, thinking hard. Then, “I have it
now!” she thought, laughing to herself; “it’s that bright boyo, Patsy
Ratigan, as sure as God made little apples! And the great big size
of him now! The broad red face of him! and he the full of his skin;
instead of the way he was, so thin that there wasn’t as much fat upon
him as would grease a gimlet! And the thick back to his head! and used
to have a long neck upon him, like a distracted gander peeping down a
pump-hole to look for poreens!”[15]

Moll, as I said, had better use of her eyes than the people thought.
Still, she never would have known Ratigan again, only that her ears
were so sharp. It was his voice she knew.

“And why did he tell that story? It’s terrible to be a liar!” thought
Moll; “but sure, he must have some good reason.... Let you say nothing,
Moll Reilly,” she went on to herself, “until you see how the cat
jumps....”

Now it was true enough, what Moll had said to Ratigan about the
Heffernans not often going from about their own place. Mickey wasn’t
able for much travelling, on account of the bad leg; and Marg didn’t
feel it right to leave him. Besides, she had always been one to keep
herself to herself.

The place she went most to was Grennan’s. And so it happened some time
after Ratigan coming back, though no word of that had reached the
Furry Farm, that Marg said one evening to Mickey, “I have an occasion
for going over to Grennan’s ... some eggs that Kitty is gathering for
me ... and now, I have the churning done, and the butter made and all
cleared away. So I’ll bring a sup of the fresh buttermilk with me, for
it’s always welcome in a house like theirs; and it the Hallow Eve and
all....”

Dan Grennan had got in on Dempsey’s farm when he married Kitty. But
it was a small holding, and not worth much, by the time all the older
girls had been fortuned off it. And though Dan had brought some money
home with him out of America, it didn’t stand long, between rent that
was owing, and then old Mrs. Dempsey having to be buried, when her
time came; and of course Dan wanted to do the decent thing by Kitty’s
mother. So when all that was attended to, there wasn’t much coming in,
and Dan was glad enough to undertake the herding of the Furry Farm for
Heffernan. It lay convenient to their own little place, too.

Marg had another reason for wanting to go to Grennan’s that same
evening, but she didn’t want Mickey to know anything about it just then.

“Well, go, in the name of God!” said Heffernan, to her standing ready
to start; “and as you are going, you might as well throw an eye over
that young stock that I have there beyant. Dan is good, and very good;
but it’s the master’s eye that puts meat upon his beasts, and I’m not
able this len’th of time to be going across fields and rough ways....”

“Whatever you say yourself, I’ll do,” said his wife.

Marg never had any wish for going outside of her own work or
interfering with what belongs to men. But she would not disagree with
any word Mickey said. To give him his due, neither did he interfere
with her. He was only too contented and happy to have her there,
kind and good and peaceable; instead of Julia that had been such a
heart-scald to him for so long, that he didn’t know himself to be the
same, since he got shut of her, and had Marg to look to for everything.

She saw him settled comfortably by the fire, with his pipe for company,
before she set off, with her can swinging by her side; and, moreover,
a brave big lump of butter fresh off the churn, swimming in the milk.
She was bringing that a present to Kitty, for Marg was very nice and
free-handed in her ways. But there was no use in speaking of the
butter to Mickey. That might only bring on an argument. And a woman
has a good right to her churn and all that comes out of it. If she
chooses to give any of it away, why not? And if Mickey knew nothing
about it, he couldn’t object to it. Supposing he had any claim to the
butter, wouldn’t he be all the better of its being given in charity and
kindness, and he getting so far on in life? And they would never miss
it, no, nor twice as much.

Marg was counted a very lucky hand over a dairy, and always had good
yield from the milk. Near though she was to the Furry Hills, that were
well known to be full up of fairies, she never got any annoyance from
them, such as the Good People to “milk the tether” on her, or to take
away the value of the milk from her. But of course, that mightn’t
be luck, so much as that Marg knew what she was about. She was very
particular not to give away anything to a stranger that might come
borrowing from her on May Day; a mistake that has cost many a woman the
loss of a fine cow. And she never forgot to throw a grain of salt into
the churn, before she began to stir the dash. And as soon as ever she
had the butter taken off the churn, she took care to stick the first
bit against the wall, for the fairies. People can’t be too careful in
such things, especially if they live anyway near such a place as the
Furry Hills.

It was from those hills that Heffernan’s place had got its name of the
Furry Farm. The hills rose up, across his land, steep and sharp, like
the fin of a fish. High they were, and grown over with furze and ferns
and brambles and old thorn bushes, that of course no one would ask to
disturb. But anyway, you could never run a plough up such hills as they
were, so there was no occasion to interfere with anything that grew on
them.

In one part of the Furry Hills there was a gap, like a cleft, and the
old people said it had been made there by a fairy sword. A narrow road,
no more than a boreen, ran through that cleft; and hardly any one
used it, though it was handy enough for many purposes. But there was
great talk of fairies being thereabouts, and that fairy music could
be heard there, and so on. It might be, too, that the old boreen was
deserted because there was another road made, better and even handier
for cattle that would be going to fairs at Ardenoo or Balloch. But even
before that new road was there, the people would never go through the
cleft by themselves or late at night; and it was used as seldom as
possible. Except for this: not very far distant there lay a holy well,
that people would go to at certain times. But Marg could get across the
hills to Grennan’s without passing near the cleft at all.

She was supple and strong still, because she gave herself no time to
get stiff in the limbs, only always kept going about something or
other. So now it was no trouble to her to cross the hills, and strike
off through the fields to Grennan’s.

The instant minute after she saw Kitty and they had passed the time of
day with one another, “Any news yet?” asked Marg.

“The sorra news!” said Kitty; “me heart’s broke, so it is, fretting,
and Dan the same. And he tells me, he heard below there at Melia’s,
that there’s more cattle gone, the same way, as if the earth had opened
and swallowed them. No account of them to be got, high, low, or holy!
And not a night, since Dan missed that bullock out of the Big Field
here, but there’s a rosary said in this house at bedtime, for it to be
got back. The Lord forgive them that gets on with such work!”

“Did you ask St. Anthony?” said Marg; “he’s great, for things that are
lost. I remember to hear tell of an old woman that lost her rosary
once, and she having a great regard for it. So she used to ask St.
Anthony; and it was a twelvemonth after, she went to turn up the
mattress of her bed; and there was the rosary!”

“Look at that, now!” said Kitty; “well, sure, we might try him!”

“You could do no more, then,” said Marg; “but ... there’s the fair-day
of Balloch coming round ... and himself might take the notion of
selling there some of the cattle; and then he’ll have to be told about
the bullock being lost!”

“I suppose that will have to be!” said Kitty, and she ready to cry; “it
can’t be kept from him for ever! It was God that done it, that his leg
got too bad for him to be able to go round the place, to see the stock
and count them himself, this while back!”

Kitty meant no harm to Mickey by that saying; and Marg didn’t think it
of her.

“What way is he now?” Kitty went on; “it’s a long time since he took
the light from this door.”

“He’s well enough,” said Marg, “barrin’ for the leg, that has been
giving him great punishment this good while. Only for that, and that I
didn’t wish to be putting any other annoyance upon him, I would have
told him about the bullock being lost before now.”

“Wait another little weeny while!” said Kitty, coaxingly; “what would
we do at all, if he fell out with Dan?”

“Sure don’t I know that well! and have no wish in life to be making
trouble,” said Marg, “carrying stories and telling tales ... only ...
you see, he depends on me to bring him the report....”

She sat down then and began watching the children, while Kitty hung
down the kettle to wet a grain of tea.

“Ora, Kitty,” said Marg, jumping up, “mind the child! the baby will be
killed, if you don’t take heed! Little Mag isn’t able to be lifting
him....”

The little girl at Grennan’s was called after Marg herself, and Kitty
used to let her have the baby on the floor to nurse him.

“Och, never fear for them!” said Kitty; “here! I’ll put the two of them
outside the door with a pinch of sugar ... there now, Maggie; be good
and don’t be annoying me and I busy with Mrs. Heffernan; and take care
of the baby....”

Kitty never was one to have much talk about her babies, and in
particular when Marg that had none was by. But Kitty was right, to
let them mind themselves, and learn to do that, by being left alone.
If you’re always watching a child, and warning it about falling and
so on, it will never learn to be handy with the little feet or anyway
independent.

Kitty settled the children outside, then, and that left the kitchen
quiet, so that she could give Marg the cup of tea in peace and quiet,
and have a chat.

“I suppose,” said Kitty, while she was cooling a sup of her tea in the
saucer, “I suppose you heard tell of the American that’s beyant in
Clough-na-Rinka?”

“How would I hear,” said Marg; “that never goes anywhere, except to the
chapel, from one year’s end to the other!”

“I wonder at that!” said Kitty, “but there he is, this len’th of time,
stopping with the Widdah Grogan; and has her heart-scalded, by what I
hear, with his grand, particular ways! Wanting beefsteaks and pie for
his dinner, no less! as if he was a lord. And as for the talk he does
have out of him...!”

“Americans does mostly always be that way,” says Marg; “quare notions
they have, there beyant....”

“And for all that,” said Kitty, “in ways, you’d think him real
innocent; don’t ask the use of a bedroom at all, so he’s no trouble
that way ... go away now, Mags! and don’t be annoying me....”

Marg watched, while Kitty hunted the little girl again out of the
kitchen, to where she had the baby laid in a turf-basket; and Marg
wondered to herself, how Kitty could bear to have them out of her
sight. But she said nothing about that, only, “Has no bed! that’s a
quare way to be going on!”

“It appears,” Kitty explained, “that this is a man that got out of
his health there in America, and was ordered a voyage across the salt
water; and he knew people out there, that spoke to him of this place,
and how quiet and healthy you could be here. And above all things, he
says, he was warned never to sleep under a roof, if he could avoid
doing so. Well, you know that little canoe of a place Mrs. Melia has,
squeezed on at the back of her house? she keeps a bit of hay in it
for the pony, and it’s there the American asked to be let lie down at
night; says he has to have the fresh air. He has a bad foot, too, the
crature! the size of a pot it is with all the old rags and bandages he
keeps on it. Oh, very lame he is, with it, and says he always was,
from a child, and had a fortune spent on it, but can find no cure. So
there’s the way it is with him; he appears to have all the money any
one could require. Stands treat, regular, to the boys that gather in to
hear his stories, at Melia’s, and tells the shop-boy to score all up to
him. I’d as soon he’d let that part of it alone!” said Kitty; “Dan was
a bit too late coming home, a few nights ago, and then....”

Kitty sighed.

“It’s a seldom thing for that to occur with Dan!” said Margaret.

“Oh, ay! there’s not much to fault in Dan!” said his wife; “only a body
gets a bit anxious, for fraid he might get the fashion of being late
... maybe begin stravaguing the roads....”

“Well, if the American is the way you say, with the bad foot, they’ll
not go far, if they want his company!”

“Ay! that’s only God’s truth! and now speaking of a lame leg and the
like, what remedy are you trying for Mickey?”

“Nothing; for there seems no good in anything I can apply to give him
ease!” said Marg.

“Did you think of getting the water from the Holy Well?” said Kitty.

“I thought of that, over and over,” said Marg; “but I never got to
try it for him yet. Only this evening, and I coming along here, I was
intended to bring home a sup of the blessed water in the buttermilk
can. And so I will, too, for I can get it easily, on the way back. So
as soon as you can have the can readied out, I’ll be shortening the way
home,” says Marg.

“I’ll not ask to delay you, so,” said Kitty, “and it Hallow Eve and
all; and the daylight beginning to fade. And cold it’s turning, too!”

“I’ll not heed that!” said Marg; and away she went.

There was a touch of frost in the air; the grass felt crisp underfoot.
Dusk was gathering about the fields and the shadows began to lie very
thick and dark under the trees and hedges. Margaret even shivered a
little, as she hurried on. But that might be because all these lonesome
signs of the night seemed worse, after leaving Kitty’s kitchen, gay
and full up of the little chatter and laughing of the children, the
baby in Kitty’s arm, and little Maggie standing beside her mother, to
watch Mrs. Heffernan disappearing into the twilight. Marg loved to go
to Grennan’s, and see the children, and maybe now and then coax one
of them to sit on her knee and let her play with it. All the same,
she was sighing now, to think how silent and sober her own house was,
compared to Grennan’s.

She was thinking, going along, of the sound of the little voices there;
“like music!” she said to herself. And with that word, she started.
For, whether it was some echo carried on the wind from Grennan’s, or
whatever it might have been, that very moment she thought she heard
some sound of music coming out of the darkness to her as she was
passing through the Big Pasture-Field.

“What can it be? Sure, I often heard tell of fairy music, and how that
some can hear noises, like piannas and bugles, if they put their ear
to the ground, close by a rath. But that can only be foolishness! I’ll
not let the like of that talk stop me now, from going to the Holy Well,
if there’s a cure, or even some small relief to be got there, for that
poor leg of Mickey’s!”

So on she went, by the Furry Hills, until she got to the Holy Well,
close under the Cleft of the Fairy Sword.

“It’s well the moon is up,” thought Marg, “the way I’ll have no delay
in filling the can!”

The Holy Well lay in a corner, where the Big Pasture-Field sloped down
to a hollow. Many’s the time Marg had seen it, of a Saint’s Day,
with the lone thorn that leans out over the water all dressed up with
bits of ribbon, and even rags, that the people would tie there, when
there would be a Pattern at the Holy Well. And, besides, the girls had
a great fashion of going there on Hallow Eve, to try old charms and
“pistrogues,” “so that they might get to see whatever boy they were to
marry.”

Well, this time, when Marg came in sight of the Well, wasn’t it all hid
from her! ay and even the hollow where it lay was covered over with
white columns of mist, that rose, and wavered, moving this way and that
way as the night wind blew. It was steam from the Well, for the water
there is warm. Not hot enough to make tea and boil eggs, as Mickey used
to tell the people, but just nicely warm. And always in frost or cold,
you could see the steam rising from it.

But as long as Marg had been at the Furry Farm, she had never chanced
to see it like that. The Well lay a piece off from where she had
business. And Marg never had been one to go stravaguing the fields
for pleasure; and she wasn’t going to begin that fashion now, and she
married.

Marg began to go slower, and to feel a bit fearful in herself. It
was Hallow Eve, when, as everybody knows, the dead can come back to
visit those they love. And here was she, all alone among the wide,
silent fields, close to the Holy Well, with the moonlight white upon
everything. And not a sound, only the whisper, whisper, of the stream
that ran from the Well; and the soft, white clouds of steam, dancing
and beckoning like strange beings that had life, this way and that way
across the water....

“I’ll make no delay, for fraid I’d take fright altogether here!” she
said to herself; and she hurried forward to the brink of the Well, and
dipped in her can.

What did she see, when she straightened herself up again, but a Face,
at the other side of the Well, and it staring, staring at her.

Her heart stopped beating; then “Patsy!” she said, in a choked kind of
voice....

At the word, a puff of steam blew between her and the Face, and when
she was able to see clearly again, it was gone!

How Marg got home that night, she never knew. All of a tremble she was;
so much so, that her two shoes were full up with the water that kept
spilling out of the can, she was walking so unsteadily. But still she
kept on as fast as she could, and never let go her hold of the water
from the Holy Well, till she had it landed in upon the kitchen floor.
And proud she was to find herself there! and to be able to shut the
door, between herself and the black shadows that seemed to rise out of
the night, and to have been chasing and threatening upon her heels,
once she left the Holy Well, all the way across the dark, lonesome
fields.

But what was worse on her was, that the old fret seemed to be wakening
up in her heart; a sharp kind of pain, after all those years, at sight
of the boy that had treated her so queerly. She couldn’t tell why! but
there it was; and there’s others the same, that will always have a soft
corner in their hearts for any one they were young with; let alone that
they’d have a wish for, as poor Marg had for Ratigan.

And, “Was it Patsy that was in it?” she kept asking herself; “or could
it be that it was only some Appearance for Death ... or a Visit ... the
Lord be between us and harm, I pray!”

But now she was inside her own house, and it all seemed full of light
that was very bright after the dark night outside.... There was a
great look of comfort upon it. There were rows and rows of good
pewter plates and dishes and noggins, all shining and twinkling in the
blazing firelight, she had them so well scoured and polished up. And
the place was hung round with the fine sides of bacon that she had
cured; hanks of yarn she had spun, and stockings she had knitted, in
the chimney-corner, above her spinning-wheel of black oak. And Mickey
himself was sitting there, very much as she had left him, in his big
chair, close to the turf-box, the way he had it convenient to throw on
a few sods when they were needed to keep the big pot boiling. He had
his specs upon his nose and his pipe ready filled, and the newspaper on
his knee, reading in it now and again. Margaret never forgot to bring
that to him, every week, from Melia’s shop.

“You’re later than I thought,” said Heffernan to her.

“There’s what has me delayed,” said Margaret. “Kitty Grennan that bid
me try the water from the Holy Well on that leg of yours ...” and she
showed him what she had in the can.

“And is that what you were at!” said Mickey, looking as proud as Punch;
“getting the blessed water to beethe me leg. Well, sure, you can’t do
worse than try it! But I was getting really unaisy in me mind, for
fear of something having happened you ... and a body feels a thing of
the sort worse, if they’re helpless the way I am!”

“The sorra ha’porth is wrong with me!” said Marg.

And neither there was. And, of course, there was no occasion to tell
Heffernan about what had happened at the Holy Well. What could she
say? If it was an Appearance, well and good! there was no more to be
said. But if it was Ratigan...! and how could it be? How could he be
there, trying to play off some trick on her? Wouldn’t it be best to say
nothing?

How could it be Patsy? wasn’t he married in America, ay, long enough
before she was herself! And never had thought it worth his while to
send her one line, either to ask for news of herself, or to tell her
what he was doing with himself, out there. Just by chance, she had
heard of his marriage. And, in troth, only for hearing that, she might
be Marg Molally yet. You never can tell what small little word here or
there will get you to do a certain thing or to leave it alone.

Whatever came or went, then or at any other time, Marg never failed in
anything that could be done for Mickey. She was very fearful about
going to the Well, after seeing what she saw there, that first night.
And it should be done after dark, too; still, she persevered.

“It must be continued on,” said Dark Moll, that had a good knowledge of
such things, so that Marg thought well of consulting her, one day she
met her on the road; “you must go on wid it. And the water must be got
by one that has a wish for whoever has need of it; and that person must
go by themselves ... if the Holy Well is to do any good, that is!”

There wasn’t really one, on the face of this earth, to care one straw
about poor Mickey, only his wife. And Marg ... sure, it was more
compassion than anything else she felt for him, seeing how old and
lonely and helpless he was. Though, indeed, he was kind in his own
way to her, and showed great confidence and respect for her and all
she did, and she felt thankful to him, over and over, for that, and
for the good home he put her over. That’s a thing that is generally a
satisfaction to a woman, and it was to Margaret.

But with others, Mickey Heffernan was no great favourite. He had no
agreeable ways with him. He would do a kind turn for another, as soon
as the next one; but then again he had a fashion of taking the good
out of whatever he did that-a-way; the same as the cow that fills the
can, and then kicks it over. So it came about that there was no one to
go for the water for his leg but Marg herself. She went to the Holy
Well every evening of her life then. Sometimes it would be fairly
early, just duskish, and sometimes it would be late enough before she
would be ready to start off, but she never failed to go.

This was the way with Marg, and as nothing strange occurred for some
time, she was beginning to think that she had only imagined to see
Ratigan that Hallow Eve at the Holy Well, when she got another great
fright there. Bad as the first was, this was worse, so much so, that
she nigh-hand fell out of her standing.

She was making her way along by the Furry Hills, when suddenly there
was the greatest stamping and rustling and big clattering as if
cart-loads of stones were being thrown down the side of the Fairy
Cleft, and heavy sounds of grunting and breathing and snorting. And
then she thought there was something like a figure of a man, going
through the dusk, towards the Cleft, with a stick in his hand.

Margaret stopped and tried to think what it could mean.

“It can’t be Dan Grennan!” she said to herself; “for what would he be
doing here at this hour? God knows but it might be some villyans of
tinkers.... But whatever it is, I’ll have to find out who is there,
making so free, and coming in here upon our place!”

So, though she was as frightened a woman as could be, she gave a great
shout, thinking by that to frighten away whoever it might be.

It did frighten the man that was there! her voice lifted him off his
feet, he was so startled, the fields being generally so silent at that
hour.

He jumped up, and then he stopped; and the snorting and trampling feet
stopped, too. Then the figure, that Marg could just make out against
the pale yellow of the evening sky, where it was above the hill ... the
figure seemed to Marg to turn about, and then she could hear it coming,
coming quickly down the hill towards her.

She was frightened in earnest then. Her first thought was, that she’d
run away. But her knees gave under her. So she crouched down close to
the damp ground, thinking to escape being seen. And she had herself
dead and buried, in her own mind that is, when the man came up, and
stood still beside her.

“So you don’t know me, Marg Molally!” he said, in a very sad, mild
voice; “you don’t remember poor Patsy now! Nor couldn’t, I suppose!
Mrs. Heffernan is too big and grand a person now, to have any
recollection of the ould times!”

And with that, he turned on the light of a lantern he was carrying
under his coat; and Marg saw plainly who it was.

“In the name of God, Patsy Ratigan, it’s not you!” she said.

“Who else?” said he; “is it that I’m that changed a man, that you don’t
know me? But small blame to me to be changed! after all the want and
hardships I’m after putting over me! And small blame to you, either,
not to know me. It’s another story with you,” he says, “the same as
ever you look! not a day older than you were, the day you ... well,
sure, it’s bad to be raking up old sores! But if it was you that had
been away, and came back...! No matter what change there was upon you,
I’d know your skin upon a bush, so I would!”

Marg couldn’t but listen to him, for she was too much surprised to do
anything else. Puzzled too she was. For she was thinking of the Face
she had seen at the Well; and she had known that to be Patsy Ratigan.
And now here was a big, red-faced, puffy-looking man, saying that he
was Ratigan!

God knows, there’s many a thing remains a puzzle! not to speak of what
a body might chance upon, of a Hallow Eve.

But she got no time then to think this out, for of all the romancing
that ever was heard, and Ratigan reeled it out of him then.

“Little I thought, that when we’d meet, you would have forgotten me!”
he said; “but sure enough, there’s the way...!

  “The full pig in the sty
  Thinks little of the empty one passing by!

“And I working and slaving off there in America, and never thinking
when I came back, that I’d find meself forgot by every one, and you
marrit!”

“Marrit!” said Marg; “and what about yourself? and the widdah with her
shop ... and the six children?”

“Widdah? What widdah?” said Ratigan; “who was it at all that put
round that story upon me? I only wish I had him here!” says he, very
courageous, “and I’d soon show him the differ! And you to believe that
of me! I couldn’t have believed it of you ... only for seeing it now!
All I wonder is,” he went on, very bitter, “that it wasn’t ten widdahs!
and sixty children that they had laid out for me! And I that was
thinking of no one, only the girl at Ardenoo that I used to be helping
of an evening with the bullocks ... and of the welcome home she would
have for me, whenever I’d come back!”

Phwat! what he had in his mind was, that he had had enough of the hard
work in America, and the hurry and noise there, once the widdah died,
the crature. And her children took and threw Ratigan out of that; and
it appeared then that they owned the shop and money, once the widdah
was gone. And a loss it was to Patsy, that he hadn’t inquired fully
into the thing before he got married. But when he had to quit out of
the shop, where he had lived very nice and easy, and found he would
have to earn for himself, he began to turn over in his mind about
Ardenoo. Maybe Marg Molally was to the good still. And he knew her to
be a good warrant to work. Moreover, he remembered that Ardenoo was a
pleasant place for being idle in; and that’s what he liked best always.

What he said further then to Marg was, that all he’d care to do now
was, to have leave to rest himself awhile before going back again; and
that he was trying the water of the Holy Well for a bad foot he had.
But he had been advised to do the cure secretly, and that was how he
chanced to be coming there so late to the Fairy Cleft.

“But,” says Ratigan, “I never said, to man nor mortal except yourself,
who I am. You’re the only living soul in Ardenoo that I have any wish
to speak to; and I’ll trust to you to say nothing!”

“Very well!” said Marg, a bit puzzled why he should want nothing said.
But, like many another, she was proud to be told what no one else knew.

“And where do you stop?” said Marg then.

“Beyant in the town,” said Ratigan, telling the truth for once; “Mrs.
Melia that lets me sleep in the hay-loft that she has leaning up at
the back of the house; and then it’s not so expensive on a poor man
like Patsy. And, besides, I’d liefer not to be inside the shop; I can’t
abide the least smell of drink!”

Mrs. Melia could have told a different story about that, for the
American, as he was called at the shop, was the talk of the whole
place, the way he was going on with every play-boy that was there,
treating them all. And she could get no money out of him, only now and
then. He would always be telling her, that he was expecting funds from
his agent in America by the next mail.

Well, that agent lived quite convenient to Ardenoo! and was going about
on four legs, as long as he would be let. There was no doubt that
Ratigan had some way of getting money into his pocket; and also that
cattle and other things were disappearing, no one knew how; neither did
any one know whose turn it would be next.

There is something very curious about cows and the things that will
happen to them. Dark Moll had a story she was fond of relating, about
Andy McGuinness, long ago, that saw a strange woman dressed in green,
and long hair as yellow as butter flowing down her back, and she was
milking Andy’s fine cow one summer evening. So Andy caught the cow by
the tail, when the woman disappeared at sight of him. And by that means
he got inside the Furry Hills. And there was the fairy-woman he had
seen, and she with a fairy child in her arms. And Andy had to promise
her that she might take a pint of milk every night for the child. And
then he found himself out again with his cow safe in his own fields.
And after that he had no more trouble with her. She had been no use to
him up to that, giving only small sups of milk, and no yield of butter
upon even what she gave.

Well, Moll said, now that all the cattle were disappearing, that it
would be simple enough to find out all about them if only some one had
the spirit to go to the Fairy Cleft like Andy, and see what was taking
place there. She was right, too, as it happened, though not exactly in
the way she meant. But no one had any wish to take that advice.

“It’s easy for them to talk, that will do nothing themselves! advice is
always cheap!” they would say.

Ratigan, or the American, as the people called him, had a good deal to
say about the stealing of the stock.

“If it was away in the States that such a thing was going on,” he
said, “the whole countryside would join, and turn out to hunt the
cattle-thief! What good are the people here, anyway! Only for this bad
foot of mine, I’d start the thing meself!”

And with that he stuck out a foot as big as a beehive, to all
appearance. And who was to know that there wasn’t a ha’porth the matter
with the same foot? It was all play-acting he was, and by this talk he
made it easy for himself to come and go after dark, in and out of the
hay-loft at Melia’s.

“Dan Grennan,” said Ratigan another time, “Dan that had a great deal to
say over his glass last night about this business, and in particular
about a bullock that is missing off the Furry Farm. Strayed, as likely
as not! But I can’t help thinking of a saying I used to hear from an
Irishman I met over in America; how that the fox always smells his own
smell!”

There were some that heard him say this that were inclined to be angry.
It was no right thing to say of a decent neighbour. But the others
laughed it off. The American had a way of making jokes, and no one
minded much what he said, he being very free with his treats, too, to
every one.

All this time, poor Dan and Kitty were fretting their hearts out about
the bullock that was lost. They knew well that Heffernan would blame
them for the loss, and maybe bid them leave the place for some one
that would be more careful. And then what would become of them and the
little family? Marg did all she could, but the thing could not be kept
from Mickey’s knowledge for ever. He took it very hard.

You would really think that it was worse for him to be at a loss
than any one else that had met the same misfortune. And he with not
one in his house to care about providing for, except himself and the
wife! But God help him and all like him! Sure his money and money’s
worth appeared to be all he had, at that time anyway, to care about;
excepting only Marg herself, of course. And he was so well used by now
to her, and all her care and attention, that he scarcely knew himself
either how necessary she was to him, or how much he thought of her.

But now, he wouldn’t listen to one word she’d say about this loss, to
try to reconcile him to it; only he would keep on, ding-dong, from
morning to night and from night to morning, lamenting about the fine
beast that was gone, and saying that such a thing had never occurred as
long as he had been to the good himself. At last, he began to say that
he’d have to turn Dan and Kitty away.

Now this is the kind of talk Marg had to listen to, all day long, up
and down, this way and that way, the same thing over and over again,
till she grew sick of the very name of a bullock! So you could hardly
blame her, that she began to look forward to the evenings, when she
would be slipping off to the Holy Well, and the chance of seeing
Ratigan there and passing a few remarks with him. It happened pretty
often that they met in this way.

Ratigan still had the same pleasant manners with him, and the tongue
that could coax the birds off the bushes. Sometimes he’d be telling
Marg of all the troubles and hardships he met up with, out in America;
and then again, it would be nothing but about the money you could earn
and the fine times you could have there. And this would be, while he
would be carrying the can of blessed water a piece of the way home for
her. He never could abide, he’d cry, to see a woman have to work! as
long as he’d have a leg under him; and how that he himself was nearly
cured by the same Well. Now Marg could not but be glad to have her mind
diverted from poor Mickey with his complaints about the lost bullock as
well as his lame leg.

It was worse that Heffernan was growing over this matter as time went
on, instead of beginning to forget it. In fact, it wasn’t Mickey alone,
or even those only that had lost a beast themselves that were uneasy,
but all Ardenoo could do nothing but talk about the cattle being
stolen, and wonder whose turn would come next.

Now this thing is so simple that it’s curious more don’t turn their
hands to it. Horn brand or hide brand, they’re easily got rid of, with
the help of a file and a pair of scissors. And if you start early in
the night, you can travel a long way with whatever you may have to
drive, before the weight of the people will be out of their beds.
And if there chances to be a lonely spot like the Fairy Cleft anyway
convenient, that crowns you for the job. The beasts could be taken
there and along the disused boreen as handy as you like. Ratigan had it
all as fit for his requirements as if he had made it himself.

At last Heffernan made up his mind that he’d run no more risks
about having his cattle stolen. So he said to Marg, “The fair in
Clough-na-Rinka is coming on, and it would be as good for us to sell
that half-score of store cattle there as to leave them to be stolen,
like their comrade. They’ll sell at a loss,” he went on, with a sigh,
“but sure, little fish is sweet! and the rent has to be made up. And
it will only be worse to be keeping them back and having to fodder
them in the winter, and the hay none too plenty ... sure, they’d have
themselves ett against next May!”

“Whatever you say yourself,” said Marg, only too glad of the chance of
getting rid of the bullocks, and thinking that then maybe Mickey would
cease to be fretting and annoying himself over the one that was stolen;
“but how will you manage to get to the fair?”

“I know well that I’d have no right to go, and the leg the way it is
with me,” said Mickey, “but I think you’d do, if you were instructed.”

“I’ll go, if you say the word,” said Marg.

She felt glad of the chance. She would hardly say it, even to herself,
but she would like to get away for even that one day from poor Mickey.
Not that she’d let any one say a word against him, but she was worn
out of all comfort by his growling and complaining. Of course it was
the bad leg that helped to make him so contrary; and Marg never forgot
that, and would never make him an answer, no matter what he’d say.

“I can go away easy enough with the mare and side-car ...” for that is
how Mickey himself always went to fairs.

“Ora, what side-car do you want?” said Mickey a bit short; for now
along with all else, the poor old man was fretting because he could
not go to do the business himself, being sure, like every one, that he
could do it better than any one else; “what side-car do you mean? Can’t
ye take the little ass?”

“She’s very slow now,” said Marg, “and it will leave me that I’ll have
to be a long time away from you.”

“It’s lost for the want of work she is, this minute,” said Heffernan;
“fresh enough she is, this minute, to dance a cat off the high-road!
and as well, there’s a bit of ploughing that the mare could be at, here
at home....”

“I can walk; shanks’ mare will do me full as well as either ass or
mare!” said Marg, that had not one ounce of lazy flesh upon her bones.

So when the fair-day came round, she was up and off, bright and early,
before the stars were out of the skies, the cattle having been sent on
ahead with Dan Grennan. Marg had no delay in selling the stock, for
fine beasts they were; and to a dealer that she and Mickey were well
acquainted with, so that Marg felt no great anxiety about the business.

When they had the bargain closed, “Come along in here, Mrs. Heffernan,
mam,” said this dealer, “to Mrs. Melia’s, a decent woman she is and
keeps a decent house as you may wish to find. And I can be paying
you the money inside there, in the parlour, away out of the noise and
crowds in the street,” said he, “let alone the mud and gutther, with
the heavy rain that’s falling....”

“Very soft entirely it has turned, since the turn of the day,” said
Marg; “the cloak on me is heavy with the soaking wet.”

“You’re saying only the truth, mam,” said the dealer; “and all the more
reason for you to be getting into shelter, where we can be having a cup
of tea, or whatever other refreshment you like to put a name upon.”

“I thank you kindly,” said Marg; “indeed, I’ll be glad of something
warm to drink....”

Like many another woman, Marg had neglected herself in the matter
of food, and had never tasted bite nor sup since leaving home that
morning. And now that she had the selling of the cattle off her mind,
she remembered that, and began to feel very weak-like in herself.

So she raised no demur to going into Melia’s, and in particular because
she had observed Ratigan a piece off from her down the fair-green. He
was pretending not to know her. Marg was no hand at that work, and she
was glad not to have to meet up with him, before all the neighbours.
But Ratigan was keeping a close eye on her, all through. Not a turn of
Marg that day but he watched. And when he saw herself and the dealer
going into Melia’s, my dear, what did he do, only whipped round like
shot, in and out among the crowds of people and beasts of all kinds,
and up with him into the hay-loft. The big foot was no hindrance to
him, he would explain, only betimes. And anyway, every one was too much
taken up with their own concerns to mind much what the American was
about that evening.

The loft wasn’t to say very well built. There was a chink that he had
often found very convenient, for seeing what went on in Mrs. Melia’s
parlour. He put his eye to it now.

In due course, he saw all he wanted to see. There were Marg and the
cattle-dealer, drinking their tea and eating fried eggs and bacon; and
badly they both stood in need of their bit. Then the dealer pulled
out the purse, and counted out the money upon the table, that he was
paying for Mickey’s stock; and the luck-penny was handed back to him.
Ratigan’s mouth was watering at the sight, and when he saw Marg tying
up what she got, a full hundred pounds, in a strong bag, and fastening
that into the front pocket of her cloak, inside, a very safe spot.

“Yiz never got any account of the bullock that was lost ... not to say,
stole?” says the dealer.

“Never a word,” said Marg; “whoever done it, no one knows, nor can’t
think. And to say that all over the whole of Ardenoo such work to be
going on! Sure it’s a fright, so it is!”

“You may say that; a fright it is, sure enough!” says the dealer; “but
whoever it is, will soon be known! I have that from certain knowledge;
and that the polis has all ready, and will have the thief inside of the
barracks, before he’s a day oulder! so mind, now, I’m telling you!”

“It would be a charity, too!” said Marg; and then the dealer bid her
the time of day, and went off, to get the cattle home before it would
be dark night down upon him and them, and it raining hard still.

Marg was just thinking in herself, had she the money safe for Mickey,
and fidgeting with her hand to feel was it where she had put it, not
two minutes before, and she was thinking of the long road that lay
between her and the Furry Farm, where she’d be as apt as not to meet
with tinkers and queer people going along, after leaving the fair
and maybe they not so sober as they might be ... when the door of the
parlour opened, very easy, and in walked Ratigan. And not a limp was
upon him then! He had too many other things in his head, to remember
about his lame foot. But anyway, Marg was too much surprised to meet
him there quite suddenly, after she trying to not see him all day, to
remark on that. She was flustered, too, about the bag of money, not
having satisfied herself yet that she had it in the safest place.

She turned to face Ratigan, trying to look careless. But she felt
trembly and queer, meeting him there, in that little crowded-up
parlour. Someways, it wasn’t the same thing at all as when they would
be having just a chat in the dusk at the Holy Well, or straying along
through the quiet fields.

“Good-evening, Mrs. Heffernan, mam,” said Ratigan, very polite; “I seen
you over and over to-day ...” and he stopped short, and his eyes began
looking at her every way.

“Well, and if you did, and had anything to say, why didn’t you come up
and speak to me?” said Marg hurriedly.

It wasn’t what she wanted to say to him at all.

“Och sure, how was I to know would you wish that?” said Ratigan, very
humble in himself; and then Margaret’s heart softened towards him.

“You’re not going out in that dreep of rain?” says he, noticing that
Marg was pulling up her cloak about her shoulders, where she had it
undone, while she was drinking her cup of tea; “teeming out of the
skies it is, as if all the wathers of the salt seas I have to cross was
coming down upon Ardenoo!”

“I’ll have to face out, rain or no rain,” said Marg; “I have a long
ways before me!”

“I’ve a longer!” says he; and he puffed a big sigh out of him; “and has
to go wid meself....”

“You should be used to that!” says Marg.

He had her persuaded that he never was married at all.

“I ought to be, I know,” said Ratigan; “but I haven’t the short memory
I see with some people for the old times! But them that’s in heaven
themselves, finds it easy to forget all else; and thim that’s snug and
warm in their own home, has little thought for them that has to be
without in cold and wet and hardship!”

“There’s more a body wants than food and fire,” says Marg, as if she
was thinking out loud.

“Ay is there! that’s a true word!” said Ratigan.

He was thinking at that present, that he wanted the price of his
passage back to America, as badly as ever a man wanted anything! He
had squandered away the money he had got for the cattle he had stolen,
in paying Mrs. Melia some of what he owed her, and the rest drinking
and spreeing. And now he was after hearing through the chink in the
hay-loft all that the dealer had been saying to Marg. He knew about the
money she had been putting away; and he knew, too, about the polis, and
the danger he was in. And he felt that the sooner he could quit out of
that the better it would be for his health.

But how was he going to get away, and he without a penny to his name!
And it would take some days for him to get any more by that means he
was employing. And he must lose no time.

The only thing to be done was, to get a hold of that bag of money he
had seen with Marg. Have it he must, by hook or by crook! Maybe she’d
go with him. That would be the simplest, though not what he’d like
best. But he spoke to her very nice and soft, saying how he thought the
world and all of her, and trying to get to coax her....

“I must be shortening the road home!” was all Marg said in answer. And
she went over to the window, and stood there, looking out at where
the rain was coming down in white sheets of wet, and running down the
street in streams, all choked up with mud, after the traffic of the
day, and the trampling feet of the sheep and cattle. It wasn’t very
tempting; and she turned away from it, as if she couldn’t make up her
mind ought she to go, or to wait a while longer.

Ratigan all the time was watching her, like a cat with a mouse.

“Maybe it would be as good for you to start off at once!” he said;
“it’s not better it will be getting ... only the dark night coming
down....”

He was mad to be off, knowing it wouldn’t answer for him to be delaying
there, so close to the barracks, and even wondering how soon he’d have
to make a run for it, money or no money. But if only he could get Marg
outside the town, and on a lonely piece of the road, how simply he
could be coming along behind her in the dark, and take the bag from
her; and she never to know who he was. Or if she did itself, what loss!
A man like Ratigan can’t be too particular.

“No, it’s not better it will be getting!” he said again.... “Sure,
if only I dar’ go with ye, to see you safe ... but that mightn’t
answer....”

“The Lord save us!” says Marg, interrupting him there. “That’s Mickey!
I thought to know the rattling sound of the side-car; it never can go
by annonst....”

Sure enough, there it was, coming up the street, and Heffernan sitting
balanced upon it, looking little and bent and perished-looking, with
the dint of the wind and wet, in spite of the big frieze coat he had
on, with the collar shaving his ears, and his hands lost in the length
of the sleeves.

“Holy Mother of God!” said Marg, “sure it’s not down he’s wanting to
get, there, in that thronged place! He’ll be kilt dead! Wait, wait a
minute, Mickey!” she said, as if he could hear her through the window,
“wait! there’s no one can humour that poor leg only meself, when he
does be getting down off the car....” and in her hurry to save Mickey,
she threw off the heavy cloak and left it, money and all, down upon the
floor, and ran out, through the heavy _polters_ of rain, over to Mickey
upon the car.

“You’ll mind that for me!” she called out over her shoulder to Ratigan,
as she darted out of the door.

Mind it! Little delay Ratigan made, only whipped the bag of money out
of where Marg had it inside the cloak, and away with him, like a
redshank, by the back door.

“What at all brought you here, at this late hour?” said Marg, reaching
up her hand to help Mickey off the side-car.

“Well, when I saw the evening turning so wild and hard,” said Mickey,
“I thought bad of you having that long walk home, after such an early
start this morning. And along with all, I had a bad dream and I sitting
in the chimney-corner. I thought to see you in some great danger ...
and it was about the money you were after getting for the bullocks....
So Dan was back, and he gave me an account of all, and the good price
they made.... And I got him to throw the harness on the old mare ... it
was too bad a day for she to go plough.... I would have been here long
ago, if I’d been able to get ready meself.... But hurry now, girl dear!
you’re getting all wet ... and no cloak about you....”

“Sure, what matter! And I dreading the long walk home in the dark!”
said Marg, nearly ready to cry when she thought of the poor old lame
chap quitting his snug seat at home, to come look for her, at the very
time that she was listening to Ratigan with his foolish wild talk.

“I’ll just run back for the cloak,” said Marg, “and then there need be
no more delay upon us, only to get home in comfort!”

Well, there’s where it was, when she went back, and took up the cloak,
and just put her hand inside, to make sure she had the money, and it
wasn’t there! She nigh-hand fainted, with the fright. She couldn’t
believe it! She felt in all her pockets, over and over again. She
called out for Mrs. Melia, who came and helped her to look everywhere
about the room, and out in the wet street, over to where Mickey was
waiting on the side-car, and telling Marg to make haste and come on out
of that.

“What will you do, at all at all?” said Mrs. Melia ... “will you be
able to pacify Mickey? ... tell him ... what would you say? that you
left it here with me, and I having it locked up and had to go away....”

Mrs. Melia made that up out of the goodness of her heart, but Marg
wouldn’t agree.

“I can only say what happened,” she said.

She did that; and Heffernan looked terribly put about. But he took it
the best ever you knew. Far worse Marg herself was.

“We’ll go at once and notice the polis!” he said; “sure whoever took
the money can’t be far!”

So they did that; but they scarcely had their story told, when in
walked two constables, and Ratigan between them.

It was all up with him then! the butter came out of the stir-about in
earnest. The whole thing was opened up and explained. Great excitement
there was over it, and a trial of law, that you can hear talked about
still in Ardenoo.

What never was rightly known was, who told the polis. Some laid it on
Dark Moll, but others would not believe she’d do such a dirty mean
turn. Still, she had a spleen in for Ratigan, because he never gave her
so much as the price of a drink of porter; penny wise and pound foolish
as the saying is.




CHAPTER VIII

ROSY AT FURRY FARM


Kitty Grennan was just after starting the children off for school, of a
dark, rainy morning, coming up to the Christmas. She was readying-over
the house, stooping to make down a fire for the pig’s pot, when she
heard a quick, heavy step outside, and in comes Dan, very hurried.

“Musha then, Dan,” said Kitty, a bit short, “what brings you back here
so soon?”

She was feeling that she had a lot to get through, and that she could
do it better if there was no one in the place only herself.

“Sure, I thought,” she went on, “that if I seen you here by
dinner-time, it would be the soonest I need expect, after all you told
me last night had to be done, below there at that gap, to keep the
cattle from breaking out of their own fields.... But Dan, agra! is
there anything the matter with ye? You look pale-looking, someways ...
as if you were after seeing something not right ... a ghost or....
Gashly white you are indeed, God help ye!”

“The sorra ha’porth is wrong with me!” said Dan, “but as for what I
seen...! troth, it may be a ghost, or it may not! But the appearance
there was upon it was of little Rosy Rafferty, that marrit Art
Heffernan ... and we heard last week was after burying him, God rest
his sowl! supposing it’s true that he’s gone....”

“And is it true?”

“Och, so she says, and that poor Art was only lying a short time,
though out of his health for long enough ... but I must be off now....”

“Stop a minute, Dan! What brings her here now?”

“Wirra, if I know! going back home to the poor old mother, she says.
And now, will ye lave the way, and let me out on the door?”

Kitty was standing between him and it.

“To the mother! And is it that Rosy doesn’t know?”

“The sorra word she knows!”

“And you didn’t let on to her about it?”

“No! nor wouldn’t, for a pound-note. Let me get out of this place,
woman dear, I tell ye. She’ll be here in no time, and I’ll not stop to
be seeing her....”

“Ora, Dan, acushla, won’t you wait even till I’ll make her sensible of
what’s after happening...?”

“I’ll not! Where’s the use? It’s woman’s work, so it is! Let me go!
Sure, haven’t I to be off about me business!”

And with that, Dan made a bolt through the door, and was out of sight,
before you could look about you.

“What will I do at all at all?” said Kitty to herself, trembling and
watching the door.

She hadn’t long to wait, fortunately, for that would only have made her
more cowardly ... when up comes Rosy, and she with a young child in her
arms. As thin as a rake, Rosy was, and her face as white as the snow.

“Och, Rosy, and is it yourself that’s in it!” said Kitty, speaking very
fast; “come in here, _ahagur_, and sit down by the fire! Here, let me
take the child from you; you must be tired! Sure, they say a hen is
heavy if you carry it far enough, let alone a babby the size of this of
yours, the Lord love her, I pray!”

Kitty talked like that, because she was so upset and confused. The
baby was no size, scarcely. But it’s never too easy to know what to say
to them that are in trouble. So it was the last word she wanted that
Kitty could lay her tongue to then.

Rosy just sat down, and let Kitty take the child from her. And her two
hands dropped into her lap, and she sat there, with the big, hollow
eyes of her looking, looking all around, as if she was expecting to
find there something she had lost; and every minute giving a bit of a
cough, very low down and weak-sounding, as if that was all she was able
to do. Her hands were burning hot, but she shivered now and then, and
the wet from her clothes began rising in steam, with the heat of the
fire, for Kitty had her by the hearth.

“Well, and how are ye yourself?” Kitty went on, “and this little one
is cold, the cratyureen! I must get her a sup of warm milk. She’s
about the one size with our own babby here, that’s asleep above in the
room....”

“Ay, poor little Bride, that is,” said Rosy; “she’s all I have now,
since I lost poor Art....”

“We heard about that, but only a bare sketch of it, and couldn’t
rightly believe it,” said Kitty; “God help us all! the fine boy that he
was! And was he long sick, the poor fellah?”

“Ay! long enough for he to be tired of his bed, and of seeing me put
about for the want of his wages. That was what had him worse! It was a
chill he took, from a wetting he got, one night that one of the other
van-drivers was too drunk to look after his own horse, when they got
back to the stables. So Art did this man’s work, when he had his own
done, the way he wouldn’t maybe lose his job, let alone the poor horse,
that couldn’t be left without his feed and rub-down. That left Art very
late getting home. And you couldn’t warm him. Pains in the bones he
took. There was nothing I heard of but I tried with him. But all was of
no avail!”

“Glory be to God! to think he took his death so simple!”

“Ay and suffered terrible,” said Rosy, still looking all round the
kitchen, and talking quite hard and unconcerned you’d think; “and until
then, we had great comfort! He was earning fine pay at that job. But
it’s not long the purse will last, when there’s nothing coming in, and
a great deal going out, for medicine and doctors and nourishment....
But what I thought terrible bad of, was not being able to get down
here to see me poor mother! not for a long time. I managed to send
her a few little things, to put her over the Hollintide; but sure well
I know, she’d have given all the tea and sugar that ever came out of
Dublin, for the one sight of me!”

“Ay, so she would!” said Kitty; “but she wasn’t too badly off for
company then ... we went over to see her....”

“Well, and how did she appear then?”

“The best!” said Kitty; “Dark Moll was stopping with her at that time,
in the nights, anyway. And your mother was looking very comfortable and
all done out very nice; and the house the same.”

Kitty saw no occasion for telling Rosy that it was in bed the Widdah
Rafferty was that day, and scarcely able to turn herself round; and her
poor eyes strained crooked in her head, watching the door, for Rosy and
Art, that she was expecting down from town. And it was Kitty herself
that had swept over the place, and had settled up the old woman with a
white handkerchief about her neck, and a clean cap from under the bed,
where she was saving it up for Rosy to see on her, the way she would be
someway decent-looking then.

“I’m glad to get that account of her,” said Rosy; “many’s the time me
and Art spoke over her, and how we could not prevail with her to come
to us. We had her once, but she couldn’t content herself in Dublin.
Cart-ropes wouldn’t hold her; only grousing to get back to her own
little house; lonesome, she said, she felt, for the dresser with the
bits of chaneys of cups and jugs that she was looking at all her life;
and sure, the weight of them were no good! only cracked so that they
wouldn’t hold anything!”

“Sure it’s just whatever a body is used to!” said Kitty; “I chanced to
be going past her house, the day she got back to it. You’d wonder, to
see how proud she was, when she picked the key of the door out from
under the furze-bush, where she had hid it, when she went away....”

“Just two months was all she stopped with us,” said Rosy.

“A bit puzzled she was, at first, to open the door,” said Kitty,
“because the grass and weeds had all grown up round about the
furze-bush, and it was a good while before we could get the key. But
it was there, just as she had left it, for Heffernan never went next
nor near the place although it is on his land. But it appeared as if he
knew nothing about her going, or coming back either.

“So we opened the door that was stiff, and the key rusty and had to
be humoured. And there, when we got in, everything was just as she had
left it, even to a few sods of turf piled against the wall. And in that
way, we had no delay in lighting a bit of fire. I stopped awhile with
her, and got her in a sup of spring water. And she had plenty of little
vittles, that she said you had sent with her....”

“Ay, ’twas little she’d take from me ... and never could get to know
why she wouldn’t stop altogether!” said Rosy again, very pitiful, as if
she couldn’t but keep thinking of that.

“I never could find out rightly, what fault she had to being in
Dublin,” said Kitty; “but for one thing, says she to me, ‘It’s a
fright, so it is, the way they do be going along with the funerals in
Dublin! the horses trotting their living best, as if it was a hurry
the people were in, to get shut of whoever was dead, and have them out
of their sight, once the breath of life leaves the body! They appear
to have no nature in them at all, there beyant in the Big Smoke,’ she
says, ‘so much so that I’d far liefer to be at home in me own little
place here,’ she says, ‘with the little things and the ways that I was
always used to,’ she says.”

“Whethen now, she needn’t have minded that!” said Rosy; “we could have
brought up any of her own little _curey-careys_ that she had any wish
for ... and as for funerals! the Lord knows how she got such a notion
as that! Sure wouldn’t we have brought her back to Ardenoo, and buried
her in the old graveyard of Clough-na-Rinka, where all the family does
be buried? Poor Art! his people all belong to Dublin and it was with
them I laid him. But we’d have brought her back here, and laid her
alongside me poor father. She that was particular about his funeral!
She made him be carried the longest way round, and she went to the
greatest trouble ever you knew, for fear they’d be opening the grave
for him of a Tuesday.”

“I often heard that it was no right thing to do,” said Kitty. Neither
it is.

“He was worthy of it all, whatever!” said Rosy, letting herself go
back on the old days when she had both father and mother with her;
“dear! the kind father he was to me! ‘Look at your long _scursheen_
of a daughter!’ me mother would cry to him betimes, ‘off there she
is, idling and playing football with the boys! she has a right to be
checked!’ and all the answer me father would make was, ‘Let her alone!
the world will well larn her! she’ll have her own share of trouble,
time enough!’ And sure, so I had!” said Rosy, and with that word, she
began to cry.

“Ora, God comfort ye!” said Kitty, crying herself then. And she laid
the child down out of her arms, and went to compassionate Rosy.

But Rosy stood up, and flung away from her, and then threw herself down
upon the settle, and “Let me alone!” she said, “until I cry me fill!”

“Do that, God help ye!” said Kitty; “sure it will only ease your heart;
only not to be fretting too much....”

“And why wouldn’t I fret for Art, and cry him too, and he the best man
to me that ever stood in shoes! No matter what notion I took, even the
time I got the feathery hat with his week’s wages, he never as much as
said to me, ‘Ill you done it, Rosy!’”

And Kitty thought to let her have her cry out, and that she would say
nothing more to stop her. But Rosy lifted herself up again at that word
about Art, and said she, “What at all am I doing spending me time here,
instead of going off home at once? Sure won’t me mother be as bad as
meself, very nigh-hand, about Art, that she often said was the same as
a son to her?”

And she was making for the door, when Kitty said, “Rosy, acushla,
won’t you stop a bit longer, till the weight of the rain is over? And
I’m just about hanging down the kettle, to wet a cup of tea. It will
put some heart into ye. Sure it will only have your mother worse, if
you were to go in and you so poor-looking in the face. Fretting she’ll
be, then; and you with a cold upon you!”

Rosy was after giving a few little coughs out of her again.

“I’ll wait for no tea here!” said Rosy; “can’t I get all I want, at
home with her?”

“Don’t be asking to go there, Rosy!” said Kitty. And there she stopped;
and of all the white, frightened faces that ever was seen, Rosy’s was
the worst.

“Why? is _she_ dead too?” says she, as calm and quiet as if she was
just asking, “Is she gone to the chapel?”

“Och no! not at all! Dead? Why, what put that foolishness into your
head? But ... well, you see, she wasn’t to say too well at all this
length of time....”

“Sure that’s no news!” said Rosy; “out of her health she has been for
long enough. And isn’t that all the more reason for I to be with her,
that knows all her little ways...?”

“Very weakly entirely in herself she was, latterly,” said Kitty, “and I
could see no improvements in her, and ... and had no great comfort....”

“I used to be dreaming a power about her!” said Rosy.

“And it’s a long step, up that boreen, where your little place is, and
I wasn’t so well able to go look after your mother,” said Kitty, “when
this last baby came; a real little _shaan_ she is, very little and
donny in herself, and very contrary and cross, would do nothing only
bawl at first, so that I mightn’t lay her out of me arms, day or night
... and....”

Kitty stopped a minute, not knowing what she ought to say next.

“Well?” says Rosy, with the two burning eyes of her fastened on Kitty’s
face.

“Well, sure, Dan used to give her a look-in, as often as he could. And
he brought me word how that Mrs. Rafferty said she wasn’t too lonesome
at all. And that Moll Reilly was the best of company to her, bringing
her all the news of the whole country; and real useful and handy, in
spite of her having no use of her eyes; would get a few sprigs for the
fire or a sup of water from the well, as handy as any one else ...
and....”

Kitty stopped again here. It was much like a baulking horse being
brought up to a jump and slipping off to one side or the other, every
time you get close to it.

“She’ll not want Moll any more now!” said Rosy.

“No, indeed she’ll not!” said Kitty.

Of course, what she was thinking was, that where Mrs. Rafferty was at
that present, she’d have no need of thinking about the fire or water
either, only wait and take what she’d get, one of a crowd of other old
women.... “And so, as I was saying, I went up to the boreen to see your
mother, as soon as ever I could get to put the baby down and leave her
... and do you know, Rosy, it was the poor way I found your mother in!”

Kitty was beginning to think that it might be as good for her to say
something like that, so that Rosy might be got to understand how things
were, and that her mother was better away from the old home.

“Lying in the bed she was,” said Kitty, “and not able to sit up or move
herself; and the fire gone black out ... and no little refreshment
within her reach, only a bucket of cold water, that she could be
taking little sups out of, till Moll would be back at dark. But still,
she was contented enough, and said it was what Moll was real good
to her; and would share with her whatever little things she’d have
gathered up through the neighbours on her rounds; a grain of tea or a
bit of butter or maybe a cut of bacon; whatever it might be she’d....”

“She’ll not need to be depending out of Moll and her old _pucks_ of
bags any longer!” said Rosy, a bit proud in herself.

The Raffertys were a most respectable family always. Poor they might
be, and were, too; but they never said anything about that, or would
make a poor mouth, only strive to put the best foot foremost among the
neighbours. “And I’ll not forget it,” Rosy went on, “to poor Moll,
nor let her be the worse of any little attention or kindness that she
showed to me mother, all this time!”

God help her! and only He knew what poor Rosy had in her mind then, or
what way she thought she would have of rewarding Moll! But Rosy never
thought much. If she did, it wouldn’t have been the big surprise to her
that it was, to hear all Kitty had to tell her, in the end, about the
poor old mother.

Rosy stood up, and was making to go out, when Kitty said, “Arrah, won’t
you wait awhile with me?”

“It’s too long I’ve been already, delaying!”

“But sure, listen...!” and then Kitty stopped.

“Well?” said Rosy, half impatient.

“She’s ... she’s not there...!”

“What’s that you’re after saying to me? that me mother’s not in it?”

“Ora, Rosy _alanna_, don’t take it too hard! but you see, it was only
worse she was getting, and a week ago we sent for the doctor. And he
said it was no way for she to be left there with no one all day, only
herself; that it was the best of care she needed ... and she with no
use of herself, nor couldn’t even turn in the bed. And who was there,
to mind her? I could only go an odd time ... and so ... and so ... they
sent the sick-car and she was took off to the Union ... and....”

Kitty had to stop at that, for she and Dan had gone to help to lift
the poor weakly old woman from her bed into the sick-car, and she
remembered the white face of her, and the way she was shaken and
rattled from side to side, as they drove off with her, and Dan locked
the door, after they quenching the bit of fire upon the hearth....

“To the Union! Och, Mother! the Workhouse...!”

There’s all that Rosy said.

“She’ll be well minded there, Rosy ... by what they say!” said Kitty,
crying down big tears.

But Rosy appeared to hear nothing, only that one word, “The Union!” and
she jumped up, and off with her out of the door, and down the boreen,
flying through the pours of rain.

“The Lord help us now!” said Kitty; “what at all will I do? And the
child wakening up to cry!”

She ran to the cradle, and whipped up the poor little strange baby to
comfort it; and then back with her to the door. Dan was just slingeing
into sight, from the back of the turf-clamp.

“What came over you to stay away like that?” said Kitty to him; “and
there she’s gone racing off, once she heard about the mother being took
off ... and it raining buckets down out of the skies upon her ... and
she wid a cough....”

“Why did you let her go?”

“If you had stopped in, as I asked you, you’d know why!” said Kitty;
“but it’s to the Union she’s making now.... What ails you, to be
standing there talking, instead of going after her?”

“And what will I do, when I do catch her?” said Dan, very meek and
humble.

“What is there to do, only go with her? Isn’t the little ass yoked
there, that you had out with fodder to the bullocks this morning?
God be with the day the same ass fell lame, and had to be kept at
Heffernan’s.... Marg that was coming back from the fair with her....
But do you be off now ... here, take the ould umbrell’ with you, and
... and see here! the quilt from the bed will help to keep some of the
wet off her ... and let you throw a sack about your own shoulders....”

Dan did all that, and started the old donkey off as well as he could.
Short and sweet like an ass’s gallop, as the saying is, and she soon
failed at it, but he was able to overtake Rosy. And as soon as Kitty,
that was watching from the door, saw that he had got her settled into
the cart, she went back to Rosy’s baby, and began to cry.

“And the others all gone from her! Dublin must be a hard place to rear
a child. To think this is the only one she has left, God comfort her!”

But it wasn’t long Kitty could spend lamenting like that. She had too
much to do, what with minding the two babies, and warming and feeding
the other children, coming in wet and perished from school. So she
didn’t feel till it was dark night down upon her. And then she began
to think there must be something wrong, Dan was so long about getting
back. And she felt uneasy, the night was so hard. It seemed as if the
rain was never to stop.

Once she had the children all in bed and asleep, there wasn’t a sound
to be heard, only the dreep, dreep of the wet from the thatch, and
the crying of the wind in the chimney. She was sitting by the hearth,
rocking the cradle. Every minute was like an hour. Kitty would look up
at the old clock, and think something must have stopped it, the hands
were moving round so slowly.

Suddenly, at long last, the door opened, and in staggered Dan. Kitty
jumped up with her heart in her mouth; she was so spent with the long
loneliness and the watching, that even to see him, though she had been
expecting no one else, gave her a great start.

“Musha, Dan, what’s ‘on’ ye at all?” she said, taking him by the hand;
for he was so unsteady on his legs that she began to think he had drink
taken, though it was seldom Dan took a sup at all.

He never made her an answer, only let her put him sitting in front of
the fire, and there he remained and not a word out of his head; and the
wet steaming out of his clothes and he white with cold and pure misery.
Kitty was frightened when she got a good look at him. But she said
nothing, only gave him some hot tea, and when he had that taken, and
his wet brogues were pulled off, “Thank God!” he said, “that I’m safe
back again!”

“Ay, agra,” said Kitty; “but where did you leave poor Rosy? I never
thought she’d stop away from the child, above all....”

“Stop away? ay, and that’s what she’s apt to do!”

“Ora, Dan, what’s this you’re saying?”

And Kitty began to cry again.

The life was coming back to Dan and the colour to his face, and said
he, “I’ll tell ye now! no, poor Rosy you’ll never see again.... She’ll
scarce pass the night, the Lord have mercy on her soul!”

“Oh, Dan! is it the truth you’re telling me?”

“It is, it is, God’s truth! You spoke of me looking as if I was after
seeing a ghost, when I came in here this morning, to warn you that she
was coming. Well, when I was going along with her in the cart to the
Union, the heart would die in me betimes, the way she’d be going on....”

“What way?”

“Och, laughing mostly, and talking to herself. ‘Poor Art!’ she’d cry;
‘the day he near cut the thumb off himself, instead of one of the seed
potatoes!’ and then about some pickther they got from Tommy the Crab
... and something about Wild Geese ... romancing she must have been. I
could not know the half of what she was saying.

“Well, when we got to the Union, we were both as wet as if we were
after being ducked in the sea. I lifted Rosy down out of the cart, and
by good luck we were just in time to get in. They were about shutting
the gates.

“But in any case, they would have been hard-set to keep Rosy out! She
just ran straight on, and not a word out of her! I managed to get a
hold of her arm, and kept her in a bit, till I knew what way we ought
to go through that big awful place. I asked here and I asked there, and
at last we were put in charge of a young slip of a ... ward-maid, they
called her. And she got orders to bring us to a certain ward, and we’d
find Mrs. Rafferty there.

“Of all the cold, bare places ... the long passages and the white
walls and stone floors ... it would give you the shivers, only to look
about you there!

“At last we got to the ward, and you’d wonder where all the old women
came from, to fill it! It was as big as the chapel beyant ... but as
large as it was, it was small enough for all it had to hold. You could
scarcely drop a pin between the beds. And some of the women were asleep
and a few lay there middling quiet. But the weight of them were sitting
up, talking and laughing, or fighting with one another; and a few were
crying to themselves. And most of them had little weeny tin boxes in
their hands that they held out, begging you for a pinch of snuff. You’d
have to pity them, they were so anxious for it!

“We were brought to a bed at the far end of the room.

“‘There’s Mrs. Rafferty!’ said the ward-maid.

“Rosy stooped down.

“‘Mother!’ says she; and then she gave a start.

“‘That’s not her at all!’ said Rosy.

“‘Are ye sure? Look again!’ said the ward-maid, quite unconcerned.

“Rosy put her hand on my arm; it was like a live coal.

“‘Take me away!’ says she.

“We went through three rooms more, like that. Raffertys seemed as thick
as blackberries there. At every step, Rosy’s hand got heavier and her
face wilder.

“‘There’s only the one more,’ says the girl, ‘in that bed ...’ and she
pointed to a corner where there was a screen up; ‘troth, I believe yous
are late! Ay, the bed’s empty; she must have died since I was round
this morning ... sure I could have told yous....’

“‘I don’t believe a word of what you’re saying!’ says Rosy; and her
face was like scarlet now.

“‘Plaze yourselves!’ says the girl very impudent and hardened.

“But on the minute, up came a nun; she looked very nice and kind. But
what could she do! only bring us to make sure, where the dead does be
put ... and I won’t spake of that! But Rosy just saw that it was her
very mother that was lying there ... no more respect for her than if it
was a dumb brute mother-naked ... and so Rosy gave one little sigh out
of her, and sank away down from me, on to the cold, hard floor....

“In a dead faint she was. They got the doctor, to see if he could bring
her to.

“‘Sir,’ says I, ‘is there much a trouble to her?’

“‘There is, indeed,’ he says, ‘but there won’t be long!’ and then he
said something about her lungs having been in a bad way for some time
past; and now getting this chill, and the shock and all. There was
little could be done for Rosy; all the doctors in Dublin wouldn’t save
her.

“‘She’ll scarce pass the night,’ he said; and went off, for he appeared
to be very busy, and tired-looking he was, too. The nun and a couple
more carried off poor Rosy, and I waited about, thinking to get to see
the nun again. And so I did, after a long time. And she said I might go
home, for I could do no more there.

“‘You can’t see the poor young woman again,’ says she; ‘but it makes no
differ, for she knows no one; and I’ll see she gets proper care.’

“‘Oh sure I know that, mam,’ says I; ‘but if only she could have seen
the poor mother, just the once...!’

“So she questioned me a bit, up and down; and I related the whole
thing to her, and said, I thought very bad of leaving Rosy that was a
neighbour and so well acquainted with us both, there by herself, if
death was coming upon her; and says the nun, ‘I give you my word again,
she wouldn’t know you; she’s not aware of anything now, she’s so far
through! But I’ll promise you that I’ll look after her, so long as the
breath is in her, and I’ll see that everything possible is done for
her; and let you get off back home ... you’re wet and tired....’

“So she moved off, and I got the little ass ... she was no good to go
at all, by reason of the rain, that had her powerless ... but she’s
like all asses in that! But that’s what has me so late. And now we’ll
go to bed; I’ll have to be up at cockcrow in the morning....”

“For what?” says Kitty, “and you so tired!”

“That’s what I am, too; as betten as the road. But I must give word at
Heffernan’s of what’s after taking place!”

“Them two babbies is sleeping very peaceable,” says Kitty, taking a
last look at her own and Rosy’s, that she had put lying beside one
another, snuggled up like a pair of kittens on a shakedown in the
corner; “’twas God that done it, that poor Rosy left that child of hers
here with me, and she making off through the rain this morning....”

“Troth, I dunno!” says Dan; “I’m thinking we had enough of our own
here, without that little girleen of Art Heffernan’s as well!”

“Won’t we have plenty for all, with a blessing?” said Kitty; “and the
way they do be knocked about in the Union! I couldn’t bear the thoughts
of it!”

Dan said no more then. He went off, as soon as he could, the next
morning. And Kitty was to spend another lonely day, for he never came
back till it was night.

“Well?” said Kitty, running out to the door to meet him.

“Well, I went up,” said Dan, sitting down upon the settle, and
beginning to tell the whole story, “and they both were there,
listening, and never said a word, till I happened to mention the old
name; something I said about Rosy and Art _Heffernan_ do ye mind? And
the name had no sooner crossed me lips when ‘Yoke up!’ says Mickey;
‘and let you come along with me, Dan!’”

“‘For what?’ says Marg.

“What answer he made her, or if he made any at all, I can’t tell you,
but away we drove, Mickey and meself. And when we got to the Union,
there! wasn’t poor little Rosy in the dead-house too, alongside the
mother; the two of them lying there together....”

“The Lord receive them and mark them to grace, I pray!” said Kitty,
and she crossed herself.

“Heffernan went straight off,” said Dan; “and he never cried crack,
till he had all arranged to have them took to the Furry Farm, back to
his own place. And, moreover, has a funeral and wake ordered, in the
greatest of style!”

“The Lord reward him, whatever!” said Kitty; “... and the child...?
what did they say about her?”

“Whethen now, I dunno,” said Dan, looking a bit ashamed.

“I’ll go bail, you never as much as spoke of her!” said Kitty, quite
jealous about Rosy’s baby; “men does be very queer betimes. But you had
your share to be talking over!”

“Ay, we had so,” said Dan; “and along with all, Marg never gave me the
opportunity; very strange and silent in herself she was, all through.”

“Do you tell me that!” said Kitty.

“I was thinking in me own mind,” said Dan, “could she have any thought
of all the times ould Heffernan used to be going to Rafferty’s, and the
talk there was about he going to marry Rosy!”

“Ay, indeed!” said Kitty, “and the Widdah, the innocent poor woman that
she was! saying all she’d do, when she and Rosy would be settled in at
the Furry Farm!”

“Little she thought, those days, that it would be feet foremost the two
of them would be, going there!” said Dan.

Kitty thought a minute and then said she, “And as for whatever courting
old Mickey had with Rosy, sure Marg mightn’t mind that. ’Twas a thing
of nothing! Look at the len’th of time Heffernan was looking out, till
he got Marg to take him! He was always to be made a hare of, the same
Mickey, till now that he has her to look to and make him respected....
And neither might Marg care for the laugh that went round ... sure,
poor Art and Rosy weren’t half as bad as we ourselves....”

Fretted and all as she was, Kitty couldn’t but smile at the thought of
the trick she and Dan played on Heffernan.

“Marg will see that no one makes a fool of Mickey now, at any rate!”
said Dan; “but to give every one their merit, she’s as anxious as he is
now, to pay every respect to them that are gone.”

Kitty began to cry again at that.

“God’s good, that brought mother and child together in the latter end!”
said she; “and sure, they were just made upon one another, Rosy and
the Widdah Rafferty....”

The funeral took place, and a most pitiful sight it was, to see the two
coffins going off together, past the end of the little boreen where the
Raffertys used to live, and on to the graveyard of Clough-na-Rinka.
There was a fine wake before that; full and plenty of everything, so
that even Dark Moll hadn’t a word to say, only compliments.

“But what else could a body expect?” says she to Marg, “your mother’s
child couldn’t but do the thing decent, when you’d go about it! and the
same at the Furry Farm itself. A good dependence Mr. Heffernan is for
all that are living under him, and of course that’s what Kitty and Dan
Grennan are looking to, when they were so ready to agree to keep the
babby; and it a Heffernan, too!”

Marg made no answer to Moll about this. It’s a thing often to be
remarked, how that a man and his wife will grow to be like one another.
Marg Molally had never been much of a talker; and now that she was Marg
Heffernan, she wasn’t getting much practice at chin-wagging, and had
grown nearly as silent as Mickey himself.

She said nothing, but what Moll had remarked made her think. It’s a
little puff that will make a blazing fire. Moll had put into words what
had been floating through her own mind.

The little baby at Grennan’s! and it a Heffernan! Well Marg was aware,
though Mickey had never said so, that he’d wish to have one of the old
name to come after him. And she shared that feeling, in a way. She was
beginning to feel a pride in the Furry Farm and everything about the
place that was her home now. Why wouldn’t Art’s child have some rights
there? The people used to be saying, before Art had gone off with Rosy,
that he stood a good chance for coming in for whatever Mickey had to
leave. Then why not this baby?

But what would Heffernan himself say to this? He mightn’t care for it
at all. There would be the expense.... Marg had always been a careful
girl, but she was more so than ever now. She couldn’t be near and
narrow, like Mickey himself; it wasn’t in her. But she knew he’d like
to see her saving. So she got the fashion of it, to humour the old man
that was so good to her in his own way.... And how would he like to see
money being spent on Art’s child?

And a child that wasn’t her own! how would that be? Marg Heffernan was
really puzzled about it. She couldn’t let the thoughts of the little
child out of her mind; it kept coming between her and her work in
the daytime and her rest at night. And it was all the harder on her,
because she kept it all to herself. Speak of it to Mickey? She couldn’t
do that. If he’d say “no!” away would go the dreams.... For she never
went against her husband in anything. But if only....

There’s how she was considering the thing, over and over, up and down
and every way, one evening that she was crossing the fields to Kitty
Grennan’s. The fuss of the wake and funeral was over by then, and the
Furry Farm was more like itself again.

Before she reached the house at all, she could hear the singing and
laughing and noise going on inside, the same as ever, only more so.
And when she got there, and was leaning in over the half-door, there,
hadn’t Kitty the big washing-tub over by the fire, on the floor, and
she kneeling beside it, talking and chirping away, that it would do you
good to be listening to her.

“God bless your work!” said Marg.

“... And you, too!” says Kitty, just barely looking up at her, she was
so busy.

“What’s this at all you’re at, woman dear?”

“What indeed, only bathing me two little babbies I am!” said Kitty,
laughing through the steam.

Marg stood a minute, and then she said, “Is it that yous have that
child here yet?”

“Where else?” said Kitty.

“Well, I dunno,” said Marg; “I suppose every one knows their own
business best ...” and whatever came over her, to make her say that,
she didn’t know; as if she was faulting the Grennans.

But it made no odds what she said. Kitty gave her no answer. Maybe she
didn’t hear what Marg was after saying. She just burst out laughing.

“Ora, Marg, will you look-at-here!” she said; “you’d think little Miss
Heffernan, as I do call poor Rosy’s baby, was striving to r’ise herself
up out of the tub of water, the way she could get a look at you! She’s
the cunningest little crature...!”

Marg went in at that, and over beside the tub.

“Take care! take care, Kitty!” she said; “maybe you’d let one of them
slip ... and wouldn’t they be very easy drownded, and they so small!”

“Och, the sorra fear!” said Kitty; “I could be handling a half-score of
them, and be making me soul, at the same time!”

Of course, she was a practised hand by then.

“Let me! ah! let me be at them, too!” said Marg; and down with her on
her two knees, and began at the baby that was nearest to her in the
tub. And when she felt the soft little body in her hands, and the warm,
pleasant water with the soap-bubbles floating and winking upon it, her
own eyes began to shine, and her cheeks grew like roses. Ten years
younger she appeared to Kitty to become, that minute; and a shy, happy
smile on her mouth, like a girl again.

“There now,” said Kitty, lifting the other baby out upon her lap; “we
have one a-piece! But how did you know so well to take the right child?”

It was only by chance it happened. But Marg was holding the Heffernan
baby in her arms. And Kitty saw now that the tears were running down
poor Marg’s face. So she pretended not to see that, and began sharing
out the baby-clothes into two heaps, and instructing Marg, that had
never done the like before, how to dress the baby. And then she got its
food ready, and gave the cup into Marg’s hand.

And Marg did all, just as Kitty directed her, as mild as if she was an
infant child herself. Her eyes kept bright with tears, but they stopped
falling, and there remained the same soft smile upon her lips.

She never so much as lifted a look from the baby, till she had done
feeding her, and had her rocked to sleep upon her knee, Kitty sitting
opposite her and doing the same; and neither of the women speaking,
till the babies were sound asleep.

Then Marg stood up, with Rosy’s child in her arms, and she said, “Now
we must be off with ourselves; let you be putting the cloak about me!
there it is, upon the floor, where I let it down off me, before I began
at the child.... Mind now, take care what you’re doing! You might
smother the baby, easy. And now let me be shortening the way home. It
wouldn’t answer to be keeping this little _laneen_ out too late....”

“Is it taking her away with you, you are!” said Kitty, very astonished
at the thoughts of Marg walking off like that with the poor little
stray child in her arms.

“What else, what else? I can’t leave her after me! I’ll not go without
her! Och, Kitty, haven’t you the full up of the house of your own; and
why wouldn’t I have this one little child?”

“Why not, indeed?” said Kitty.

But it was to herself she said it. Marg never waited for any
answer, only walked off with the child. She never as much as said,
“Good-evening!” or turned her head to look at Kitty, and she standing
at the door with her own child hugged up to her.

“God help her, I think it’s what poor Marg must be bewitched, to go
do such a thing as that! And what will old Mickey say?” thinks Kitty,
turning back into the house, to lay her own baby into the cradle, and
feeling lonesome that the other one was gone. Kitty was foolish that
way.

And as Marg was moving home, she kept saying to herself, “What will
Mickey say? But I don’t care! I’ll not give you back, even to Kitty!
No! and sooner than the Union, I’ll walk the roads with you, _asthore_,
if there should be any objections made to you being at the Furry Farm!”

And every now and then, she’d kiss it and snug it up close to her very
heart. Then the baby would give a little whimper, and go off to sleep
again. She never really wakened at all, indeed; only lay so still, that
Marg stopped more than once, frightened, thinking it was what she had
the baby smothered.

But she needn’t have been uneasy about that! And as for Heffernan....

When Marg got home, she walked straight in to where Mickey was sitting
in the kitchen by the fireside. And she opened back her cloak; and the
child began to stretch herself in the heat, and to laugh and crow.

Mickey that was surprised! and no wonder. He nearly jumped off his
stool at the sight of the baby. And Marg was too excited and breathless
at first to explain the thing. He had time to take the pipe from his
mouth, and to knock the ashes out of it against the toe of his brogue,
before she got to say, and she catching her breath every minute with a
kind of a sob, “I’ve brought that child of Art’s here, out of Grennan’s
... and not to see her being sent to the Union beyant to be reared ...
and it would be a disgrace to the name of Heffernan ... and if there’s
a word of objections to be made to her, let it be said now! I can go
off somewhere else.... Not a fear of me, but I’ll be well able to earn
what will do the both of us ... well able I am ...” and she rocking
the baby in her arms, and keeping a tight hold upon it, as if she was
in dread of poor Mickey taking it from her.

Heffernan said nothing for a minute; always tedious he was; and says
Marg, beginning again, “I’ve brought the child here....”

“Ora, what else, woman dear?” said Mickey.




CHAPTER IX

COMRADE CHILDREN AT THE FURRY FARM


Well, Marg brought that child home with her, and when she did, she was
so excited that she scarce knew what she was doing; bringing an old
house on her head, as the saying is. But if she had known itself, or
had taken time to think, would that have hindered her?

Not it! She had been the best of a daughter, and a sister, and wife;
always doing for others, and forgetting herself. But with all the
love she had given out, there was more left still in her heart than
had ever been spent. It must have been waiting there for that baby of
Rosy’s. For once Marg got the feel of it in her arms, small and soft
and helpless, she knew it was what she had been hungry for, those years
upon years past, and had given up all hopes of ever having for herself.

And now, at last she had it, and she was satisfied. No one else wanted
that grand little baby; no one else had any call or claim to it. It
wasn’t of the Union Marg was thinking, really; let alone of Grennan’s
being so poor a little home, that to have another mouth there to fill
wasn’t lightly to be thought of. No, she made no account of these
things. They were all lost in the one wish that was burning in her
heart. She must have that child for her very own.

And curious, too, it was, how little Marg seemed to consider Mickey
himself in this matter, as if she didn’t care how he’d feel about the
little newcomer! In fact, the night she brought the baby home, she
was more like an old ewe with her lamb than anything else; on for
fight with even a strange dog that may happen by. And poor old Mickey,
sitting there so peaceable!

To give him his due, there never was a word said by him, as if he
objected to the fuss of having the child there. Of course, it altered
things a good deal. A baby coming into a house always does. And hasn’t
it a right to? What are children for, only to teach us, in their own
little way, by making us take care of them! Sent down from heaven they
are, to help to show us how to get there. It’s a queer sort of man, let
alone a woman, but will be the better of having to do with a child. For
you have to be good to it; and then it does good to you, back again.

Now, Mickey was one of the best, if slow and silent; but good and
all as he was, you may easily imagine that he’d feel a bit put about
betimes, at finding himself left to himself in such things as not
having the stick within reach; or putting his specs out of his hand and
forgetting where they were; or having to wait of a morning to have his
brogues laced upon his feet, because Marg would be engaged with the
child.

He’d say nothing; that was his way; just sit there, most patient. But
it’s often he’d be wondering how a thing so little would require so
much! For by the time Marg would have the baby bathed and dressed of
a morning, and hushoed off to sleep at night, let alone the feeding
of her through the day, there appeared to be little time for anything
else to be done. Not that Marg did neglect the work. She managed it by
getting up earlier and going to bed later, and so she would contrive to
overtake all. And the things to be done seemed to her less trouble than
ever now; because always there was the baby, waiting and wanting her,
Marg Heffernan, and no one else.

Marg would have been contented to spend all her time with the child,
petting it upon her knee, and playing with its fingers, or making
drakes’ tails out of the little soft wisps of hair upon the head of it!
Not that I’m wanting to make little of the child or her hair, either!
But at the beginning, she was next door to bald. As she grew big, she
grew nice, and had the loveliest head of yellow curls you might ask to
see. She had no touch of a Heffernan about her at all.

That was the child that lit on her feet and no mistake, when she was
brought to the Furry Farm! She that was well minded; too well, in fact.
Poor Marg could scarce bear the wind to blow or the sun to shine down
upon her; only watching every turn, as if she thought some danger was
waiting to happen to that child, if she took her own eye off her for a
minute.

There’s many a woman like that. And it may be right enough, as long as
the child is helpless in your arms, because then they’re easily hurt.
But it’s another case altogether when they begin to feel the little
feet under them, and are able to run about. It was then that the real
trouble began with little Bride.

Here’s how it was. Marg used to dress her up very grandly. Nothing was
too good for the child. What could be got at Melia’s shop wouldn’t
answer at all. So Marg would send off to Dublin, no less, by Tommy the
Crab, that had got on well in the world since the morning he sold the
pictures to poor Art and Rosy.... Tommy had a cart and horse now, and
was a higgler; going about buying up ducks and chickens and so on. And
he’d call in at the Furry Farm, and Marg would give him whatever eggs
or fowl she had to sell; and he would bring her back all manner of
fineries for little Bride, that he would choose when he’d be off in the
Big Smoke; and very nice the child looked in what came out of the grand
Dublin shop, Tommy being very tasty and experiented about such things.

But what matter how she looked? Who was there to take notice whether
it was a puce frock or a pink one she’d have on? Not one, except
Marg herself. The Furry Farm wasn’t a place that was apt to be much
frequented by people happening in, and Bride was too little still to be
taken where she’d be seen. She might as well have been dressed in sacks.

But if you do put good clothes on a child that size, you are making
trouble for yourself, unless you can spend all your time watching them;
the clothes, I mean. It would take a person all their time, running
after one like little Bride, to keep her from doing destruction on her
grandeur. Marg had plenty of other work that had to be done, so she
began teaching the child the fashion of keeping quiet, and sitting on
her creepy-stool in the corner. Brigeen was easily taught, being very
biddable, so she’d sit there, quite good, till you’d have to pity her,
waiting till Marg would give her leave to run out for a little while.

Too anxious poor Marg was about the child, in every way! afraid of
being too kind to her, and spoiling her by too much love; a thing
impossible, if it’s right love; and afraid, too, of ever being cross
enough to say a harsh word to her, let alone to punish the child, and
she without either father or mother to take her part. Many a mother
with an only child is not half as careful as Marg was with little
Bride, that wasn’t her own at all, except through her own goodness. If
only Marg could have taken a leaf out of Kitty Grennan’s book! Kitty,
that had a houseful of children to contend with by that time, but took
things rough and ready, so that her long family was less bother to her
than the one at the Furry Farm was to Marg.

Why, if little Bride cried...! But it was seldom that occurred. How
could it? Bride was healthy and gay, and moreover had the best of care
in every way. What had she to cry for?

And still in all, there’s one thing that none of us can do well
without, and that is, liberty to do what we want in our own way. And as
well, children want some one the same age as themselves, to be company
to them. Now, little Brigid had neither friends nor freedom. And that
was hard on her, although, God knows! Marg meant nothing but kindness.

The child began to be lonesome and forgotten-looking. Marg herself
noticed it at times, and wondered what ailed her pet. She could not
guess; but supposing she could, what was she to do? She might put her
two eyes upon sticks, and it would be no use. A grown person can never
go back and be a little child again. And that was what ailed little
Bride mostly; the want of another child to play with.

Now, strange enough, it was old Moll Reilly that first really seemed
to know what the child was pining for. Dark and all as she was, she’d
find out things that were going on, often far better than them that had
their sight. She was sitting inside at Heffernan’s one evening, Marg
being gone off to the well, and Heffernan himself outside seeing about
the business being done, so that only Moll and the child were in the
kitchen. And little Bride, after standing for some time with her finger
in her mouth, came sidling over to the stool where Moll was sitting by
the fire, and crept in as close as she could to the old woman, as if
for company.

“Why aren’t you off somewheres outside?” said Moll to the child,
“playing about in the fields, where maybe you’d chance to meet up with
the young Grennans? Or up on the Furry Hills? Grand it does be, there!”

“I can’t,” said Bride, “because me mammy doesn’t like me to be anywhere
that she can’t see me. Sometimes I do be put out into the yard, where
she can be keeping an eye on me from the house; and she shuts the big
gate that opens out into the fields ... the way I’ll be safe from the
cows ... but they come to the other side of the gate and look through
it at me with their wicked ould eyes ... and I do be afeard of them....
And all round the yard, there’s walls and sheds, too high to look
over.... Only there’s one little spot where the wall is all broken and
very low down ... and it’s there I do mostly go; where the little old
bits of a house are....”

“And what do you be doing there, alanna?” said Moll.

“Making a chaney-house,” said little Bride; “all the old jugs and cups
that gets broken, me mammy gives them to me, and I have a big big round
stone there to make them into little bits.... I’d bring you there, only
you’d not be able to see how grand I have it!”

“That’s a quare place for you to be! and do you never be lonesome there
without one only yourself?” said Moll.

And little Brigid laughed, and said, “Indeed and I’m not lonesome!
there does always be some one with me there, where I make the
chaneys....”

“Your mammy, is it?” says Moll.

“No, no! it’s not me mammy!” said Brigid, looking down at the floor and
then all round the kitchen as if she was puzzled; “it’s ... it’s some
one ... I don’t know....”

“What are they like, that do be there with you?” asked Moll.

Brigid made no answer to this, but began twisting her little hands
together, and kicking one foot to and fro. And there was no more to be
said then, for here was Marg back with her can of water swinging by
her side; and Heffernan himself, limping in to look for his tea. And
the kettle hadn’t boiled, and the fire was low, and things seemed all
behindhand.

Marg fed the child, and thought to get her off to her bed at once. But
whatever queer spirit was in little Bride, whether it could have been
that she was excited by the talk she had been having with Moll about
the old bits of ruined wall and her chaney-house and the “some one”
that was always there with her or not, it’s hard to say; only Marg
could get no good of her at all. She would do nothing she was bid, only
running this way and that way, and laughing when Marg pretended to get
angry with her.

But at long last, Moll, knowing that Mickey was getting worn out with
it all and she herself in the want of her supper, thought she’d put in
her word.

So she said, “There now; too much laughing ends in crying. See here,
Bridie, be a good child! Look at ... look at how well little Judy and
Pat are behaving, playing about there and no bother to any one ...”
and she pretended to be watching, or rather listening to a couple of
children at the other end of the kitchen.

Brigid, that had been rushing about, laughing and shouting, stopped
like a shot at that, and looked up at Moll.

“Where, where are they?” she said; “who’s Pat and Judy? ... where do
you see them...?”

“Look at them! Off there, beyant your mammy’s spinning-wheel, hiding
themselves ... that’s why you can’t see them ... and there, now! there
they are, going off good to their beds as soon as they’re told....”

At that Brigid, who had been all noise and movement, stood still; and
the laugh died off her lips, and her eyes grew big and shining, as she
looked up, but seeming to see nothing. And then she lifted her little
arms, and away she went, as if she was floating, floating, upon a wave
of the sea. And as she crossed the floor and disappeared through the
door of the kitchen, they could hear her saying in a half-whisper, “Are
you there, Judy? Is Patsy with you?”

And then she’d go on to answer her own question, “Ay, indeed, are we
here! and will be in bed and asleep before you....”

“And by that means,” said Moll, telling all this one day to Kitty
Grennan, that she had called in to see on her rounds, “by that means, I
got the better of the child, and she was no more trouble that evening,
and Marg was able to attend to the business and Heffernan himself, and
get all done. It’s no way to be going on, to have everybody waiting in
order to humour a child!”

“If it was my case,” said Kitty, “I’d just give her a few little
slaps....”

“So you would, and you’d be right, too. But Marg is that particular!
And what is little Brigeen there, only a cuckoo?”

“Not at all!” said Kitty; “where there’s a cuckoo in a nest, he’ll be
pushing out the other young birds, to take all himself. But there’s no
one at the Furry Farm for little Bride to be interfering with; there
she is, bird alone! And so, that’s how it comes to pass, what Dan was
telling me about, only last night, that he seen at Heffernan’s. He
chanced to be there a bit late, and a windy sort of a night it was,
and neither raining nor letting it alone, only the air dark with the
wet that ought to fall and wasn’t. And Dan said, you’d think there was
a whole troop of children playing and chattering and laughing, in the
corner of the yard where the bit of the old Heffernan castle is, they
say. It was afterwards he thought how queer it was! he was in too great
a hurry then, to pass any remarks, for we none of us care to be too
late crossing the Furry Hills at night....”

“You’re right in that, too!” said Moll.

“... but Dan said,” Kitty went on, “that it was after he got back here
he began to think it over ... and sure, he thought it was the strangest
thing, to say there was no one there only little Bride, and she was
going on talking and making answer then back to herself, as if she had
a couple of Comrade Children there with her ... and even dogs she was
talking to! One she called Bixey and another was Slangs; and she’d
scold them, most bitter and natural; and then she’d pet them and make
up friends with them again.... And sure there was neither child nor dog
in that place, only Bridie herself! It was a fright, Dan said!”

“So it was, a fright,” Moll said, “and appears most curious too! But
now I must be off about me business....”

“What hurry are you in?” said Kitty; “Dan is gone off to-day with
Heffernan ... some business or other....”

“If that’s so,” said Moll, “I may’s well give poor Marg a look in;
lonesome the crature does be there....”

So with that, she waddled off, big cloak and stick and all. She
guessed she had got all Kitty had to spare for her, there not being too
much in that house, by reason of all the children. And when she heard
of Mickey not being at home, she bethought her that it would be a good
opportunity for making a call at the Furry Farm. Marg, she knew, would
be more free to give, when himself wasn’t there.

But when Moll got to Heffernan’s, it wasn’t what she expected that
she found there. She looked to be brought into a quiet, orderly,
comfortable place, such as Marg’s kitchen had the name of always being;
and getting well fed and comforted in every way there. But the whole
place was upside down. Not a hand’s turn had been done there since the
breakfast was ett; everything through-other, and poor Marg herself
running up and down and here and there, like a mad-woman.

Little Brigid was sitting on her creepy-stool by the fire, pale and
shivering with the fright; and the big tears were streaming down her
face.

“Ora, what’s this at all at all? or what’s the matter?” said Moll, who
dark and all as she was, as I said before, could always give a good
guess at what was going on, and in particular if it was anything wrong.

“I’m distracted!” said Marg; “out of me seven senses I am, and don’t
know what I’m doing or saying, and has me poor little darlint there
terrified! It’s the teethaches I have, and never closed an eye these
two nights, only walking the floor ... and I tried all the remedies I
can hear of....”

“The teethaches!” said Moll; “God help you, then, but it’s you that
are to be pitied! Meself that used to be mortified with them, till
all the teeth fell out. I got some ease then. But as for remedies,
there’s no certain cure that ever I could hear of.... There’s charms,
of course. And then there’s that Fairy Doctor ... he lives on beyant
Clough-na-Rinka ... a seventh son he is, and does a lot of cures. It’s
often I used to be thinking if only he was at that work of doing cures
before my eyes got so bad ... but sure, it’s all the will of God! and
nothing to be done for them poor eyes now; that day’s gone by for me.
But for teethaches ... he’s most notorious for curing them. All he’ll
do, is just pass his hand across the bad tooth, and the pain leaves it
that instant minute....”

“I thought of him, over and over,” said Marg; “but how can I get to go,
and himself gone off with the side-car?... I’d have to walk every step
of the way. And it would be too far to carry the child; and worse to
be leaving her here by herself.... I wouldn’t know what might happen
her.... And the car’ll not be back till dark....”

“Sure, what of that?” said Moll; “can’t I be sitting here till either
of yous is back, and keep an eye ... I mean, be minding the child? and
let you go in the name of God!”

So that took place. Marg rolled her cloak about her and went flying off
at a sweep’s trot, to get cured by the Fairy Doctor; and Moll settled
herself in by the chimney-corner, in Mickey’s own big chair. She was a
very gay old body, the very sort that children always love to be with.
So before very long, she had little Brigid sitting on her lap, talking
away.

“You do be very lonesome here betimes, don’t you?” said Moll.

“I do, middling,” said Brigid; “I am this evening, with every one gone
off ... and Pat and Judy, that I do mostly have to play with, are
gone too. Off a long ways they are; gone to buy hay for foddering the
cattle, for the grass is beginning to run very short....”

That was the very word she had heard Heffernan saying when he was
starting off with Dan awhile before. And whatever Brigid knew to be
going on, she and her Comrade Children were to do the same.

“Where’s that you sent me mammy to?” she said then; “a Fairy Doctor, is
it? and what kind of a thing is that?”

“Oh, there’s different sorts of Fairy-men,” said Moll; “and, moreover,
of Fairy-women, too! Didn’t my very grandmother meet a Fairy-woman one
evening, and she coming home from a dance at the cross-roads; ay, and
the Fairy-woman had seven fairy children after her....”

“_Seven_ children!” said Brigid, growing red at the thought.

“... and they all dressed in grand red cloaks! And long hair as yellow
as butter in June, and it streaming down their backs ... and golden
crowns upon their heads....”

“... Upon their heads!” said Bride, with her eyes shining and her face
quite pale now at the thought of all this.

“Upon their heads, of course! where else?” said Moll; she might easy
have known better than to go on spouting out of her like that to the
innocent poor child ... “and riding upon ponies they do be ... white
ponies, with long tails flying behind them in the wind, they go so
fast....”

“Where, where? I’d like to see them!” said the child, her little voice
choking with wonder at all Moll was telling her.

“Whethen now, they do be in a-many places,” said Moll; “the Furry Hills
at the back of this very house used to be full up of them ... is still,
for all I know....”

With that, she bethought her of what Marg had said, about taking care
of the child. And she began to consider that maybe Bride’s mind might
get upset, and that she’d take the notion of going off to look for the
fairies herself.

So Moll went on to say, “But all that happened a very long time ago;
and little girls mustn’t be too venturesome, only do as they’re bid,
and then there will nothing happen to them!”

But it’s the first word that counts. Little Brigid took no heed of this
warning. She was standing beside Moll now, with the little rosy hand
laid upon the old woman’s checky apron, and she looking up at her, and
listening, listening, to every word that was said.

And now she went across to the half-door, that she was just able to
peep over, by standing upon her tippy-toes; and Moll could hear her
saying, in a whisper, “Pat! Judy! are yous there? Mind now and see to
get that hay off the carts and ... and....”

She stopped at that, because, like many another that might be wishing
to give directions, she didn’t know very well herself what ought to
be done. She used to listen to Marg and Mickey, without appearing to
mind them, and then, whatever they said, she would repeat it to the
Comrade Children, when no one would be by that would maybe laugh at
her. There’s nothing a child hates more than to be made fun of. But she
managed so that there wasn’t a hand’s turn done about the Furry Farm
but she would have the same going on, with herself and Pat and Judy.

Moll often said afterwards, that it gave her a turn as if she was
listening to something not right, to hear the little voice talking
away, and then answering itself back, “So we will, Brigeen, do all you
say! But when are you coming out here to play with us? Tired we are,
waiting on you....”

Before there was time to make any reply to that, Brigid ran back to
Moll, and said, “Here’s himself, coming back!”

On the minute, Moll began to stir herself. She never had any great
hopes out of Mickey, in the way of what he might give her. She knew how
hard he always got it, to part money; and so, as soon as she had it all
explained to him, about Marg being away, and had got the penny that
Mickey handed to her when he was down off the car, she said, “Now that
you’re here, Mr. Heffernan, I may’s well be making the road short. The
child will be right enough with you about the place ... and Dan too....”

Mickey didn’t say against her; he had no great wish for having Moll in
the kitchen.

So she went off, and Heffernan stumped into the house, and planked
himself down in his chair by the fire. He gave a look round, and there
he saw Brigid, sitting on her creepy, looking as if butter wouldn’t
melt in her mouth, she was so meek.

“Well, Missie!” said Heffernan; for there’s the name he had for the
child.

She said nothing, but he took no notice, and not long after, he fell
asleep. He was old, and tired after the long day he had had, driving.

Bride watched him for a while. Then, when she had made sure that he was
sound asleep, she rose up off her stool, and crept over very softly to
the half-door again.

She had no delay in opening it, because Mickey had not fastened it as
Marg always did, in a way the child did not understand yet. Brigid
peeped out. There was no one in sight. Dan was gone off, after unyoking
the old mare, to drive in the cows to be milked. There wasn’t a picture
of a man about the yard.

It was the kind of a spring’s evening that you would think it a sin to
stop in the house; cold and bright and no wind stirring. Here and there
you could hear a little bird tuning up, but there was little signs of
growth on anything yet. Little Bride thought something was saying to
her, “Come out! come out!” as she stood a minute half-ways through the
door.

She looked back at Heffernan. Was he really asleep, she wondered, or
only pretending? He gave a sigh, and she was satisfied and looked out
again, and said, in a whisper, “Are yous there? Patsy! have you the hay
above in the loft...?”

“Ay, have I!” she made answer to herself; “and me and Judy only waiting
on you, to go off to the chaney-house to play....”

“Is it there we’ll go?” said the real child.

“No! why would we?” said the Comrade Children; “we’re tired of playing
there! We’d like to go away, away! out beyant the yard, and up into
the rath on the hill ... and maybe we’d get to see some of the Good
People there and....”

“Sure I wouldn’t be let to do that!” said little Brigid.

“Och, come along!” answers the Comrade Children; “won’t your own Pat
and Judy be with you, and won’t let anything happen to you?”

“Do yous know the way?”

“Ay do we! weren’t we often there, and even went into the hill itself!
follied after the Fairy-woman that was looking for the sup of new milk
for the fairy baby, and it lying there upon her lap sick for the want
of nourishment! And it was we that ‘milked the tether’ for her to get
it from Marg’s dairy into the rath....”

“The time the grand big cow went back in her milk ... and me mammy was
that put out!... And will we see the fairy children, with their crowns
of gold upon them, and they riding, and long red cloaks upon their
backs, and...?”

“To be sure we will! see all there is to see!” said the Comrade
Children; “only let you hurry, and not be keeping us waiting here all
night on you....”

Then out of the door goes little Brigid, talking all the time to
herself, and answering herself back as if there was a whole regiment of
children in the place, instead of only herself.

She ran straight to that choice spot of hers, where the small little
remains of the old castle of the Heffernans was. And there she stood a
minute, listening, you’d think. All that remained there now of the old
building that had once been so grand and fine was a couple or three
bits of walls, half-roofed, very thick and strong. In one of them there
was a pointy long-shaped hole, like where the window of a chapel might
have been. Many a time Brigid had stood, and had looked at the hole,
and had longed to climb up and out through it, to see what was on the
other side, only Marg had always checked her. So of course the child
couldn’t but know that her mammy wouldn’t wish her to go through there.

But now it seemed as if she forgot all that! She scrambled up and out
through the window; she half fell, half jumped on to the long grass
outside. Of course she had no call to do the like; but don’t we all act
contrary at times? and it’s often you’ll hear it said, “Where’s the
sense in being young, if you’re not foolish?” Little Bride just picked
herself up; stood still a minute, looking back at the hole. Then she
held out the two little hands, the soft, rosy little hands that Marg
loved to kiss, as if to catch hold of other hands; and off she started,
running as fast as the little feet would carry her, towards the Hill of
the Rath, that was dim and fading already into the night.

Inside in the kitchen, Mickey slept ahead for a while; long enough in
fact for it to be middling dark when he began to stir himself and waken
up. Then he looked about him, and missed Marg, and remembered all that
was after happening, and that she was gone off, and the child left in
his charge. She had been sitting on her creepy in the corner. He looked
over to see if she was there still. The stool was, but the little girl
was gone.

At first, Heffernan didn’t mind so much, thinking it was only outside
Bride should be. So he gave a great shout of a call to her, and even
when there was no answer, he only thought, “She mustn’t be far; I did
no more than close me eyes for a minute of time!” half ashamed, the way
the most of us are about taking a doze by the fire; as if, you’d think,
it was one of the seven deadly sins to fall asleep anywhere only in
your bed.

But when no Bride appeared, after a bit Mickey grew uncomfortable in
himself. He got up and limped over to the door, to see could he see the
child in the yard. It wasn’t till he found that the night was settling
down dark and quiet, that the real lonesomeness came over him! He
called again, but of course there was nothing, only echo from the old
walls for him to hear. Little Brigid was too far away for any shout
from him to reach her.

“What will I do, at all at all?” thinks Heffernan to himself; “I wish
to God Marg was back here! What a thing for her to go do, to be getting
the teethaches this day of all days, and leave me here to be annoyed
with the child going astray on me! And sure, if anything was to happen
little Missie, Marg would never over it!”

He felt now that he’d give a good deal to see little Bride come
trotting up to the door; and he strained his eyes out into the darkness
as if by that he thought he might get her back.

Many’s the time he had thought it long, when he’d have to wait his turn
till Marg would be done with the child; and he might sit there, lonely
and forgotten and as if he was no consequence, till the child would
be dressed and fed and all to that. But he had never said a word of
a complaint, and now it was all past. He could only see the look on
Marg’s face, when she’d have Brigid on her knee, warm and smiling after
her bath; or latterly, the way she’d be folding the little hands for
her, and getting her to say her prayers, before she’d be put into her
bed. Heffernan was half-wild, thinking how fretted Marg would be, if
she came home and found the child gone.

“She’d never stop here at all, wanting her!” he said to himself.

That minute, he heard Dan’s foot outside, and he called to him, and
gave him instructions. He wasn’t to mind anything, mare or cows either,
only run off to search for the child; first at the well, and then at
the old quarry-hole; and if he got no signs of her at either of those
places, he was to take off along the high-road, after a band of tinkers
that Heffernan and he had passed that day coming home after buying the
hay.

“Sure, what would they want with the child?” said Dan; “doesn’t the
like of them have the full up of their ass-carts of fine children of
their own?”

“Be giving me none of your chat!” said Heffernan to him, pretty severe;
and at that, off went Dan. He was anxious enough himself by then.

When Dan was gone, Mickey felt worse than ever.

“How am I to stop here,” he thought, “or how could I face Marg, if she
comes back to find Missie gone? Maybe it’s what she’d show fight....”
She might say, wasn’t it a queer thing, that he couldn’t look after the
child for one evening, and she that had always done everything for him,
those years past! And well he knew that himself! He couldn’t call to
mind any time that he had asked Marg to do a thing for him, but she was
ready for the job. And to say he couldn’t do that much for her, only
dropping off asleep...!

He couldn’t keep inside. He hobbled out into the yard again, and tried
to look through the darkness that had fallen now over everything around.

“It would be very simple for any one to go astray now, let alone a
little child!” he thinks to himself.

On the minute, he began to call to mind the time he had lost a lamb
once, and that it was above upon the Hill of the Rath he had found it.

“And why wouldn’t a child be the same as a lamb, and try to get up
higher always, when it would be lost?” he thought to himself; “and a
poor thing it would be, if anything was to happen Brigeen now and she
half reared ... and a Heffernan too ... and along with all, to think of
the way Marg is made upon her! thinks the sun rises and sets in that
child!”

With that, off stumps Heffernan, out through the yard into the fields
beyond, towards where the Hill of the Rath rose up, dark and bristly, a
piece off from the house. The moon was just commencing to rise, so that
he had some light to show him where to put his poor old feet and he
limping along.

He hadn’t been up the Furry Hills for many a day, not since he got the
game leg that indeed hindered him of a-many a thing he might be wishing
to do. But he set himself real courageous now to climb the Hill of the
Rath; and you’d wonder how sprightly he went up it.

And as he worked his way, he could call to mind many a queer story of
what was to be seen about that rath; stories he had heard from his very
father; how that, one day and they sowing oats, just about that time
of the year, didn’t there a weeny little red cap drop from out of the
rath, right where they were working! And some boy ran to pick it up,
but before he could reach it, my dear, didn’t a great furl of wind
rise it off of the ground and blew it back into the rath again! And
they all thought to hear a great laugh!

And another day, a third cousin of his father’s was gathering nuts,
and he a young boy at the time, and it was from trees that grew on the
side of the Hill of the Rath he was picking them. And suddenly, there
was a lovely young girl, and she dressed in green, smiling at him very
pleasant. And then she disappeared, as if the hill had opened to take
her in.

“It’s no place for a little child to be, whatever!” thought Heffernan
to himself; “and maybe would get a fright there that would last her for
her lifetime! Or maybe not be let come back at all, only a ‘Visit’ sent
in her place...!”

Mind you, it was hard work enough for any one at any time to get
up that hill, let alone an old lame fellow like Mickey, and it the
night. The place was all grown over, too, with briers and thorns and
nut-trees; and big stones lay loose here and there, and made the going
very rough. But Heffernan persevered on, until he got to the top, and
then he climbed down into the rath; and very lonesome it appeared, and
darker than ever the night was, when he got to the bottom of it, where
a very old, twisted thorn-bush grew.

Something white was under the shelter of that bush; no more, you might
think, than a gleam of the moonlight that was just beginning to peep in
over the edge of the hollow of the rath. But to Mickey that white thing
looked like the stray lamb he had found there, in that very spot, long
ago. He went over and stooped down, and laid his hand upon it; and what
was there, only little Brigid, lying there curled up like a kitten! And
she was so tired that when Heffernan picked her up, she only stirred
herself round in his arms, and settled herself off to sleep again.

Well, how Mickey got down that steep, rough path and he with the child
to carry, is more than I can tell you, or indeed more than he could
understand himself. But he did it. He got her safe home. When he had
her inside by the fire, he could see that her little face and arms
were scratched and bruised and torn with briers; and so were her grand
little clothes, and muddied, where she must have slipped and fallen a
few times.

“But what odds for all, when she’s found and safe at home, before Marg
is back!” said Heffernan to himself, as he was letting himself down
into his big chair very carefully, the way he wouldn’t waken little
Bride, lying asleep in his arms.

While all this was going on, Marg, God help her! was galloping along
on her way home, very happy at being rid of the teethaches, that had
left her soon after she had been with that Fairy Doctor. There’s people
very wise that will tell you such a thing can’t be, but you’ll see such
cures done about Ardenoo. It was so with Marg, anyway, and she was in
good heart, hurrying back to the child and Mickey and carrying a couple
or three little matters with her that she thought of when passing
Melia’s shop; a newspaper for Heffernan and a bit of tobacco, and a
sugar-stick for the child. And she was thinking the way long till she’d
get home to little Brigid, when didn’t she bob up against some one in
the dark; and who was it only Dan.

“What’s bringing you off here, Dan?” said she, “instead of attending to
the business at home; is there anything wrong...?”

Dan didn’t know how to begin to tell her.

“It was ... it was himself that bid me.... I was to make no delay for
anything, only look for the child along the road ... and sure, as like
as not....”

“The child! is it Bridie? What do you mean? Sure there’s nothing after
happening to her! Speak up, why don’t ye!”

“Sure isn’t that what I’m trying ... but she can’t be far, nor hadn’t
time to be really lost ... well, well!” as Marg rushed away from him,
“why wouldn’t she listen, and not go flying off that-a-way like a
mad-woman!”

Mad! Well that’s what Marg really was, and she racing along like the
wind, with a short hold of her skirts, and flinging her cloak and
parcels from her, hither and over, as she ran! What did she care about
them, about anything now? There was only room in her mind for the one
thought: little Brigid was gone.

Gone! Lost! and what is there that can happen, able to make you feel
more astray and lonesome, than to lose anything, even if it’s only a
button off your shirt? But of all things, to lose a child! All the
dreadful things that ever you heard come into your mind, and you make
up your mind that they’re all happening to that one child! Cold, you
think, and hungry; worst of all, tired and frightened, and crying out
for you to save it!

And then you wonder what at all made it go off! Did you speak sharp to
it, or give it a little slap, so that the child had gone off fretting
and sore-hearted; and never to come back in life again?

All these things, and more, passed through Marg’s mind, as she was
tearing along the dark, silent road. She kept saying to herself, with
a kind of sob, “What at all am I to do? Where should she be? To stray
off, in the night and cold ... sure she’ll get her death! What was Dark
Moll about, that she couldn’t do that much, and she with nothing else
to think of ... and how well it should be my poor little _laneen_ that
wandered away! how well the Grennans can have all theirs with them,
safe and warm, this night, and my one little pet to be lost ... lost! I
had little to do, to go leave the house at all, for any Fairy Doctor!
Sure, if I had stopped where I was, the pain might be gone by this! And
the little child ... and she so small ... God and His Holy Angels watch
over her, this night, I pray!”

And along with these ideas there came into Marg’s mind the thought that
when she’d get back to the house, there would be Heffernan, sitting by
the fire, smoking, maybe, and maybe taking a sleep in his chair as he
had the fashion of doing, easy and snug, and not casting a thought on
little Brigid. He never did appear to take much notice of the child.
And Marg felt now that she couldn’t stand that; it would make her hate
the very sight of Heffernan. To think he’d be there, just as usual,
warm and comfortable, and he near the close of his days, and her young
little darling that was only beginning to live, gone from her!

She was wild when she got to the door, and out of breath, so that she
had to stand a minute before she could raise the latch. And as she
was shaking at it, trembling all over, heart, soul, and body, behold
ye! what did she hear, only some one singing inside in the kitchen!
Singing, of all things! And a queer old cracked voice it was, too, that
was crooning out:

  “There was a frog lived in a well,
  Sing song, Kitty Katty Kimo.”

“The Lord save us! that must be Mickey I hear! that never lifted a lip
to sing in his mortial life before! Gone mad on me he must be, along
with all other misfortunes! But sure, what odds about that or anything
else, now!” thinks Marg to herself.

And at last she got the door open, and then she nearly fell into the
kitchen, being giddy as well as tired, not to speak of the fret that
was on her.

What did she see then, by the light of a fine turf fire, only himself
was sitting there, Mickey, in his own corner, where she imagined him as
she was running home. But what she never thought to see, he had little
Bride upon his knee, rocking and dandling her, as handy as you please.
Marg could scarce believe her eyes. She stood there, trying to get her
breath, and looking at the two there before her; and then she said,
“She’s not lost, then; thank God for all!”

And still she made no attempt to interfere with Mickey; she never did;
though now you could know by her that she was wild for the feel of her
heart’s treasure, her _cushla machree_, in her own arms.

The child opened her eyes, and looked up dreaming-like at Marg; then
slumbered off again, with her rosy cheek and the tumbled bush of yellow
hair croodled up against Mickey’s old frieze coat, the same as a lamb
with a ewe. And all the wisdom of the world couldn’t have shown her
better.

A little slow blush crept up over poor Mickey’s face. It was the first
time ever he balanced a child upon his knee, and he was doing it the
best, though awkward-appearing, with the child’s legs and one small
little arm hanging helpless, and her frock every way upon her. But he
thought he was great to have Brigeen hushoed off to sleep. “See that,
now,” says he, “sure a child is aisy minded, if only you go about it
right. Ay, and knewn where to go look for her, too, what noan of yous
knew, above on the Hill of the Rath....”

“You! you! was it yourself done that? and took that great imminse
climb.” The tears began to rain down Marg’s face; a seldom thing to be
seen. She went over to Heffernan and stooped down to kiss him.

“Aisy, aisy now,” says he; “if you’re not careful, you’ll have the
child awake!”


THE END




  Carmen and Mr. Dryasdust

  By Humfrey Jordan
  Author of “The Joyous Wayfarer,” “Patchwork Comedy,” etc.

  _12^o. $1.35_


Carmen has smouldering in the depths of her dark eyes much Southern
fire, and her heart holds, in addition to its warmth, not a little of
feminine guile. It is this latter possession, as well as her saner view
of life, which gives her the mastery over Mr. Dryasdust, whose academic
career has been devoted with rare singleness of purpose to a study of
the habits, physical peculiarities, and occasional vices of the common
fly. How Carmen comes to have her way, how Mr. Dryasdust comes to
surrender the ambition of a lifetime, and how Carmen’s feelings undergo
a change from tolerant affection to love that seeks a place, a real
place, in the life of the man with whom her own life is linked, is told
with many excellent touches of satire and not a little sly fun.




  Horace Blake

  By
  Mrs. Wilfrid Ward
  Author of “Great Possessions”

  _$1.35 net. By mail, $1.50_

“Mrs. Ward has done much excellent work in the past, but she has done
nothing to come within measurable distance of this remarkably fine
book--a book quite off the ordinary lines, interesting from the first
page to the last, founded upon a psychological study of exceptionable
power. It is a very common thing in fiction to find ourselves presented
to a ‘great character,’ but as a rule we are obliged to accept the
creator’s word for his greatness. Mrs. Ward has contrived to make
Horace Blake really and indeed great--great in intellect, great in
evil, and great, finally, in good. He holds the reader captive just as
he is described as holding his world captive.”

                                                    _The World_, London.




  _By the Author of
  “Aunt Olive in Bohemia,”
  “The Notch in the Stick,” etc._

  The Peacock Feather

  By
  Leslie Moore

  _$1.35 net. By mail, $1.50_

In a moment of reminiscent detachment the wearer of the Peacock feather
describes himself as “one whom Fate in one of her freakish moods had
wedded to the roads, the highways and hedges, the fields and woods.
Once Cupid had touched him with his wing--the merest flick of a
feather. The man--poor fool!--fancied himself wounded. Later when he
looked for the scar, he found there was none.” And so he wandered.

Here is a rare love story, that breathes of the open spaces and is
filled with the lure of the road.




  _By the Author of “The Way of an Eagle,”
  “The Knave of Diamonds,” etc._


  The Rocks of Valpré

  _By_ E. M. Dell

  _Colored Frontispiece. $1.35 net_

The story of a girl who consents to wed the man who dominates her,
before she is awake to the fact that he is a stranger within her gates.
And when the “preux chevalier” of her child-life again comes on the
stage, she is quick to realize that this companion of her summer idyll
challenges with her husband the possession of her heart. The author
again proves her rare gift for character drawing, and her ability to
handle dramatic and delicate situations in a wholesome and graphic
manner.


  G. P. Putnam’s Sons
  New York      London




FOOTNOTES:

[1] Potatoes.

[2] Lane-way.

[3] Basket.

[4] Stem of grass.

[5] Dublin.

[6] Fool.

[7] Rogue.

[8] Feed.

[9] Gossip.

[10] Gossiping.

[11] Burly.

[12] Talking confidentially.

[13] Hundred thousand welcomes.

[14] Speckled.

[15] Small potatoes.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized or underlined text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Superscripted text is preceded by a caret character: 12^o.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74263 ***