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+ font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal;} /* page numbers */ + + .poem {margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 15%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span {display: block; margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: 1em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + .poem span.pn { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; right: 2%; + font-size: 75%; + text-align: right; + text-indent: 0em; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + color: silver; background-color: inherit; + font-variant: normal;} /* page numbers in poems */ + + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of An Isle in the Water, by Katharine Tynan + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: An Isle in the Water + +Author: Katharine Tynan + +Release Date: February 25, 2010 [EBook #31391] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ISLE IN THE WATER *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, Jeannie Howse and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<hr /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> + +<div class="tr"> +<p class="cen" style="font-weight: bold;">Transcriber's Note:</p> +<br /> +<p class="noin">Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has been preserved.</p> +<p class="noin" style="text-align: left;">Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. +For a complete list, please see the <span style="white-space: nowrap;"><a href="#TN">end of this document</a>.</span></p> +</div> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<hr /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> + +<h2>AN ISLE IN THE WATER</h2> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<hr /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> + +<h1>An<br /> +Isle in the Water</h1> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> + +<h4>BY</h4> +<h2>KATHARINE TYNAN</h2> +<h4>(Mrs. H.A. Hinkson)</h4> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> + +<h5>LONDON: ADAM & CHARLES BLACK<br /> +NEW YORK: MACMILLAN & CO.<br /> +1896</h5> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<hr /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> + +<h4>TO</h4> +<h2>JANE BARLOW</h2> +<h4>THESE UNWORTHY PRESENTS</h4> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="toc" id="toc"></a><hr /> +<br /> + +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> +<br /> + +<div class="centered"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" width="60%" summary="Table of Contents"> + <tr> + <td class="tdr" width="10%"> </td> + <td class="tdl" width="70%"> </td> + <td class="tdr" width="20%" style="font-size: 80%;">PAGE</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">1.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#I">The First Wife</a></td> + <td class="tdr">1</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">2.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#II">The Story of Father Anthony O'Toole</a></td> + <td class="tdr">12</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">3.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#III">The Unlawful Mother</a></td> + <td class="tdr">28</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">4.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#IV">A Rich Woman</a></td> + <td class="tdr">49</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">5.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#V">How Mary came Home</a></td> + <td class="tdr">67</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">6.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#VI">Mauryeen</a></td> + <td class="tdr">84</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">7.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#VII">A Wrestling</a></td> + <td class="tdr">102</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">8.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#VIII">The Sea's Dead</a></td> + <td class="tdr">112</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">9.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#IX">Katie</a></td> + <td class="tdr">122</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">10.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#X">The Death Spancel</a></td> + <td class="tdr">136</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">11.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#XI">A Solitary</a></td> + <td class="tdr">148</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">12.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#XII">The Man who was Hanged</a></td> + <td class="tdr">168</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">13.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#XIII">A Prodigal Son</a></td> + <td class="tdr">184</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">14.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#XIV">Changing the Nurseries</a></td> + <td class="tdr">201</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="tdr">15.</td> + <td class="tdlsc"><a href="#XV">The Fields of my Childhood</a></td> + <td class="tdr">209</td> + </tr> + </table> +</div> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="I" id="I"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>I</h2> + +<h3>THE FIRST WIFE</h3> +<br /> + +<p>The dead woman had lain six years in her grave, and the new wife had +reigned five of them in her stead. Her triumph over her dead rival was +well-nigh complete. She had nearly ousted her memory from her +husband's heart. She had given him an heir for his name and estate, +and, lest the bonny boy should fail, there was a little brother +creeping on the nursery floor, and another child stirring beneath her +heart. The twisted yew before the door, which was heavily buttressed +because the legend ran that when it died the family should die out +with it, had taken another lease of life, and sent out one spring +green shoots on boughs long barren. The old servants had <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span>well-nigh +forgotten the pale mistress who reigned one short year; and in the +fishing village the lavish benefactions of the reigning lady had quite +extinguished the memory of the tender voice and gentle words of the +woman whose place she filled. A new era of prosperity had come to the +Island and the race that long had ruled it.</p> + +<p>Under a high, stately window of the ruined Abbey was the dead wife's +grave. In the year of his bereavement, before the beautiful brilliant +cousin of his dead Alison came and seized on his life, the widower had +spent days and nights of stony despair standing by her grave. She had +died to give him an heir to his name, and her sacrifice had been vain, +for the boy came into the world dead, and lay on her breast in the +coffin. Now for years he had not visited the place: the last wreaths +of his mourning for her had been washed into earth and dust long ago, +and the grave was neglected. The fisherwives whispered that a +despairing widower is soonest comforted; and in that haunted Island of +ghosts and omens there were those who said that they <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>had met the dead +woman gliding at night along the quay under the Abbey walls, with the +shape of a child gathered within her shadowy arms. People avoided the +quay at night therefore, and no tale of the ghost ever came to the +ears of Alison's husband.</p> + +<p>His new wife held him indeed in close keeping. In the first days of +his remarriage the servants in the house had whispered that there had +been ill blood over the man between the two women, so strenuously did +the second wife labour to uproot any trace of the first. The cradle +that had been prepared for the young heir was flung to a fishergirl +expecting her base-born baby: the small garments into which Alison had +sewn her tears with the stitches went the same road. There was many an +honest wife might have had the things, but that would not have pleased +the grim humour of the second wife towards the woman she had +supplanted.</p> + +<p>Everything that had been Alison's was destroyed or hidden away. Her +rooms were changed out of all memory of her. There was nothing, +nothing in the house <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>to recall to her widower her gentleness, or her +face as he had last seen it, snow-pale and pure between the long +ashen-fair strands of her hair. He never came upon anything that could +give him a tender stab with the thought of her. So she was forgotten, +and the man was happy with his children and his beautiful passionate +wife, and the constant tenderness with which she surrounded every hour +of his life.</p> + +<p>Little by little she had won over all who had cause to love the dead +woman,—all human creatures, that is to say: a dog was more faithful +and had resisted her. Alison's dog was a terrier, old, shaggy and +blear-eyed: he had been young with his dead mistress, and had seemed +to grow old when she died. He had fretted incessantly during that year +of her husband's widowhood, whimpering and moaning about the house +like a distraught creature, and following the man in a heavy +melancholy when he made his pilgrimages to the grave. He continued +those pilgrimages after the man had forgotten, but the heavy iron gate +of the Abbey clanged in his face, and since he <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>could not reach the +grave his visits grew fewer and fewer. But he had not forgotten.</p> + +<p>The new mistress had put out all her fascinations to win the dog too, +for it seemed that while any living creature clung to the dead woman's +memory her triumph was not complete. But the dog, amenable to every +one else, was savage to her. All her soft overtures were received with +snarling, and an uncovering of the strong white teeth that was +dangerous. The woman was not without a heart, except for the dead, and +the misery of the dog moved her—his restlessness, his whining, the +channels that tears had worn under his faithful eyes. She would have +liked to take him up in her arms and comfort him; but once when her +pity moved her to attempt it, the dog ran at her ravening. The husband +cried out: 'Has he hurt you, my Love?' and was for stringing him up. +But some compunction stirred in her, and she saved him from the rope, +though she made no more attempts to conciliate him.</p> + +<p>After that the dog disappeared from the warm living-rooms, where he +had been <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>used to stretch on the rug before the leaping wood-fires. It +was a cold and stormy autumn, with many shipwrecks, and mourning in +the village for drowned husbands and sons, whose little fishing boats +had been sucked into the boiling surges. The roar of the wind and the +roar of the waves made a perpetual tumult in the air, and the creaking +and lashing of the forest trees aided the wild confusion. There were +nights when the crested battalions of the waves stormed the hill-sides +and foamed over the Abbey graves, and weltered about the hearthstones +of the high-perched fishing village. When there was not storm there +was bitter black frost.</p> + +<p>The old house had attics in the gables, seldom visited. You went up +from the inhabited portions by a corkscrew staircase, steep as a +ladder. The servants did not like the attics. There were creaking +footsteps on the floors at night, and sometimes the slamming of a door +or the stealthy opening of a window. They complained that locked doors +up there flew open, and bolted windows were found unbolted. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>In storm +the wind keened like a banshee, and one bright snowy morning a +housemaid, who had business there, found a slender wet footprint on +the floor as of some one who had come barefoot through the snow;—and +fled down shrieking.</p> + +<p>In one of the attics stood a great hasped chest, wherein the dead +woman's dresses were mouldering. The chest was locked, and was likely +to remain so for long, for the new mistress had flung away the key. +From the high attic windows there was a glorious view of sea and land, +of the red sandstone valleys where the deer were feeding, of the black +tossing woods, of the roan bulls grazing quietly in the park, and far +beyond, of the sea, and the fishing fleet, and in the distance the +smoke of a passing steamer. But none observed that view. There was not +a servant in the house who would lean from the casement without +expecting the touch of a clay-cold finger on her shoulder. Any whose +business brought them to the attic looked in the corners warily, while +they stayed, but the servants did not like to go there alone. They +said <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>the room smelt strangely of earth, and that the air struck with +an insidious chill: and a gamekeeper being in full view of the attic +window one night declared that from the window came a faint moving +glow, and that a wavering shadow moved in the room.</p> + +<p>It was in this cold attic the dog took up his abode. He followed a +servant up there one morning, and broke out into an excited whimpering +when he came near the chest. After a while of sniffing and rubbing +against it he established himself upon it with his nose on his paws. +Afterwards he refused to leave it. Finally the servants gave up the +attempt to coax him back into the world, and with a compunctious pity +they spread an old rug for him on the chest, and fed him faithfully +every day. The master never inquired for him: he was glad to have the +brute out of his sight: the mistress heard of the fancy which +possessed him, and said nothing: she had given up thinking to win him +over. So he grew quite old and grizzled, and half blind as summers and +winters passed by. It grew a superstition with the servants to take +care of him, and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>with them on their daily visits he was so +affectionate and caressing as to recall the days in which some of them +remembered him when his mistress lived, and he was a happy dog, as +good at fighting and rat-hunting and weasel-catching as any dog in the +Island.</p> + +<p>But every night as twelve o'clock struck the dog came down the attic +stairs. He was suddenly alert and cheerful, and trotted by an +invisible gown. Some said you could hear the faint rustle of silk +lapping from stair to stair, and the dog would sometimes bark sharply +as in his days of puppyhood, and leap up to lick a hand of air. The +servants would shut their doors as they heard the patter of the dog's +feet coming, and his sudden bark. They were thrilled with a +superstitious awe, but they were not afraid the ghost would harm them. +They remembered how just, how gentle, how pure the dead woman had +been. They whispered that she might well be dreeing this purgatory of +returning to her dispossessed house for another's sake, not her own. +Husband and wife were nearly <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>always in their own room when she +passed. She went everywhere looking to the fastenings of the house, +trying every door and window as she had done in the old days, when her +husband declared the old place was only precious because it held her. +Presently the servants came to look on her guardianship of the house +as holy, for one night some careless person had left a light burning +where the wind blew the curtains about, and they took fire, and were +extinguished, by whom none knew; but in the morning there was the +charred curtain, and Molly, the kitchenmaid, confessed with tears how +she had forgotten the lighted candle.</p> + +<p>The husband was the last of all to hear of these strange doings, for +the new wife took care that they should never be about the house at +midnight. But one night as he lay in bed he had forgotten something +and asked her to fetch it from below. She looked at him with a disdain +out of the mists of her black hair, which she was combing to her knee. +Perhaps for a minute she resented his unfaithfulness to <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>the dead. +'No,' she said, with deliberation, 'not till that dog and his +companion pass.' She flung the door open, and looked half with fear, +half with defiance, at the black void outside. There was the patter of +the dog's feet coming down the stairs swiftly. The man lifted himself +on his elbow and listened. Side by side with the dog's feet came the +swish, swish of a silken gown on the stairs. He looked a wild-eyed +inquiry at his second wife. She slammed the door to before she +answered him. 'It has been <i>so</i> for years,' she said; 'every one knew +but you. She has not forgotten as easily as you have.'</p> + +<br /> +<hr style='width: 15%;' /> +<br /> + +<p>One day the dog died, worn out with age. After that they heard the +ghost no longer. Perhaps her purgatory of seeing the second wife in +her place was completed, and she was fit for Paradise, or her +suffering had sufficed to win another's pardon. From that time the new +wife reigned without a rival, living or dead, near her throne.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="II" id="II"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>II</h2> + +<h3>THE STORY OF FATHER ANTHONY O'TOOLE<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>On the wall of the Island Chapel there is a tablet which strangers +read curiously. The inscription runs:</p> + +<h3 class="sc">Father Anthony O'Toole</h3> + +<h4>FOR THIRTY YEARS THE SHEPHERD OF<br /> +HIS FLOCK</h4> + +<h4><i>Died 18th December 1812</i><br /> +Aged 80 years.</h4> + +<h4 style="margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%;">'He will avenge the blood of his servants, and will be +merciful unto his land, and to his people.'</h4> + +<p>Many a time has a summer visitor asked me the meaning of the Old +Testament words on the memorial tablet of a life that in all +probability passed so quietly.</p> + +<p>Any child in the Island will tell you the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>story of Father Anthony +O'Toole. Here and there an old man or woman will remember to have seen +him and will describe him—tall despite his great age, with the frost +on his head but never in his heart, stepping down the cobbles of the +village street leaning on his gold-headed cane, and greeting his +spiritual children with such a courtesy as had once been well in place +at Versailles or the Little Trianon. Plainly he never ceased to be the +finest of fine gentlemen, though a less inbred courtesy might well +rust in the isolation of thirty years. Yet he seems to have been no +less the humblest and simplest of priests. Old Peter Devine will tell +you his childish memory of the old priest sitting by the turf fire in +the fisherman's cottage, listening to the eternal complaint of the +winds and waters that had destroyed the fishing and washed the +potato-gardens out to sea, and pausing in his words of counsel and +sympathy to take delicately a pinch of the finest snuff, snuff that +had never bemeaned itself by paying duty to King George.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>But that was in the quite peaceful days, when the country over there +beyond the shallow water lay in the apathy of exhaustion—helpless and +hopeless. That was years after Father Anthony had flashed out as a man +of war in the midst of his quiet pastoral days, and like any Old +Testament hero had taken the sword and smitten his enemies in the name +of the Lord.</p> + +<p>Father Anthony was the grandson of one of those Irish soldiers of +fortune who, after the downfall of the Jacobite cause in Ireland, had +taken service in the French and Austrian armies. In Ireland they +called them the Wild Geese. He had risen to high honours in the armies +of King Louis, and had been wounded at Malplaquet. The son followed in +his father's footsteps and was among the slain at Fontenoy. Father +Anthony, too, became a soldier and saw service at Minden, and carried +away from it a wound in the thigh which made necessary the use of that +gold-headed cane. They said that, soldier as he was, he was a fine +courtier in his day. One could well believe it looking at him in his +old age. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>From his father he had inherited the dashing bravery and gay +wit of which even yet he carried traces. From his French mother he had +the delicate courtesy and <i>finesse</i> which would be well in place in +the atmosphere of a court.</p> + +<p>However, in full prime of manhood and reputation, Father Anthony, for +some reason or other, shook the dust of courts off his feet, and +became a humble aspirant after the priesthood at the missionary +College of St. Omer. He had always a great desire to be sent to the +land of his fathers, the land of faith and hope, of which he had heard +from many an Irish refugee, and in due time his desire was fulfilled. +He reached the Island one wintry day, flung up out of the teeth of +storms, and was in the Island thirty years, till the <i>reveille</i> of his +Master called him to the muster of the Heavenly host.</p> + +<p>Father Anthony seems to have been innocently ready to talk over his +days of fighting. He was not at all averse from fighting his battles +over again for these <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>simple children of his who were every day in +battle with the elements and death. Peter Devine remembers to have +squatted, burning his shins by the turf fire, and watching with +fascination the lines in the ashes which represented the entrenchments +and the guns, and the troops of King Frederick and the French line, as +Father Anthony played the war-game for old Corney Devine, whose +grass-grown grave is under the gable of the Island Chapel.</p> + +<p>Now and again a fisherman was admitted by special favour to look upon +the magnificent clothing which Father Anthony had worn as a colonel of +French Horse. The things were laid by in lavender as a bride might +keep her wedding-dress. There were the gold-laced coat and the +breeches with the sword-slash in them, the sash, the belt, the plumed +hat, the high boots, the pistols, and glittering among them all, the +sword. That chest of Father Anthony's and its contents were something +of a fairy tale to the boys of the Island, and each of them dreamt of +a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>day when he too might behold them. The chest, securely locked and +clamped, stood in the sacristy; and Father Anthony would have seen +nothing incongruous in its neighbourhood to the sacred vessels and +vestments. He generally displayed the things when he had been talking +over old fighting days, to the Island men mostly, but occasionally to +a French captain, who with a cargo, often contraband, or wines and +cigars, would run into the Island harbour for shelter. Then there were +courtesies given and exchanged; and Father Anthony's guest at parting +would make an offering of light wines, much of which found its way to +sick and infirm Island men and women in the days that followed.</p> + +<p>Father Anthony had been many placid years on the Island when there +began to be rumours of trouble on the mainland. Just at first the +United Irish Society had been quite the fashion, and held no more +rebellious than the great volunteer movement of a dozen years earlier. +But as time went by things became more serious. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>Moderate and fearful +men fell away from the Society, and the union between Northern +Protestants and Southern Catholics, which had been a matter of much +concern to the Government of the day, was met by a policy of goading +the leaders on to rebellion. By and by this and that idol of the +populace was flung into prison. Wolfe Tone was in France, praying, +storming, commanding, forcing an expedition to act in unison with a +rising on Irish soil. Father Anthony was excited in these days. The +France of the Republic was not his France, and the stain of the blood +of the Lord's Anointed was upon her, but for all that the news of the +expedition from Brest set his blood coursing so rapidly and his pulses +beating, that he was fain to calm with much praying the old turbulent +spirit of war which possessed him.</p> + +<p>Many of the young fishermen had left the Island and were on the +mainland, drilling in secrecy. There were few left save old men and +women and children when the blow fell. The Government, abundantly +informed of what went on in the councils of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>the United Irishmen, knew +the moment to strike, and took it. The rebellion broke out in various +parts of the country, but already the leaders were in prison. Calamity +followed calamity. Heroic courage availed nothing. In a short time +Wolfe Tone lay dead in the Provost-Marshal's prison of Dublin; and +Lord Edward Fitzgerald was dying of his wounds. In Dublin, +dragoonings, hangings, pitch-capping and flogging set up a reign of +terror. Out of the first sudden silence terrible tidings came to the +Island.</p> + +<p>At that time there was no communication with the mainland except by +the fishermen's boats or at low water. The Island was very much out of +the world; and the echoes of what went on in the world came vaguely as +from a distance to the ears of the Island people. They were like +enough to be safe, though there was blood and fire and torture on the +mainland. They were all old and helpless people, and they might well +be safe from the soldiery. There was no yeomanry corps within many +miles of the Island, and it was the yeomanry, tales of whose doings +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>made the Islanders' blood run cold. Not the foreign soldiers—oh no, +they were often merciful, and found this kind of warfare bitterly +distasteful. But it might well be that the yeomanry, being so busy, +would never think of the Island.</p> + +<p>Father Anthony prayed that it might be so, and the elements conspired +to help him. There were many storms and high tides that set the Island +riding in safety. Father Anthony went up and down comforting those +whose husbands, sons, and brothers were in the Inferno over yonder. +The roses in his old cheeks withered, and his blue eyes were faded +with many tears for his country and his people. He prayed incessantly +that the agony of the land might cease, and that his own most helpless +flock might be protected from the butchery that had been the fate of +many as innocent and helpless.</p> + +<p>The little church of gray stone stands as the vanguard of the village, +a little nearer to the mainland, and the spit of sand that runs out +towards it. You ascend to it by a hill, and a wide <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>stretch of green +sward lies before the door. The gray stone presbytery joins the church +and communicates with it. A ragged boreen, or bit of lane, between +rough stone walls runs zigzag from the gate, ever open, that leads to +the church, and wanders away to the left to the village on the rocks +above the sea. Everything is just the same to-day as on that morning +when Father Anthony, looking across to the mainland from the high +gable window of his bedroom, saw on the sands something that made him +dash the tears from his old eyes, and go hastily in search of the +telescope which had been a present from one of those wandering +sea-captains.</p> + +<p>As he set his glass to his eye that morning, the lassitude of age and +grief seemed to have left him. For a few minutes he gazed at the +objects crossing the sands—for it was low water—in an attitude tense +and eager. At last he lowered the glass and closed it. He had seen +enough. Four yeomen on their horses were crossing to the island.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>He was alone in the house, and as he bustled downstairs and made door +and windows fast, he was rejoiced it should be so. Down below the +village was calm and quiet. The morning had a touch of spring, and the +water was lazily lapping against the sands. The people were within +doors,—of that he was pretty well assured—for the Island was in a +state of terror and depression. There was no sign of life down there +except now and again the barking of a dog or the cackling of a hen. +Unconsciously the little homes waited the death and outrage that were +coming to them as fast as four strong horses could carry them. +'Strengthen thou mine arm,' cried Father Anthony aloud, 'that the +wicked prevail not! Keep thou thy sheep that thou hast confided to my +keeping. Lo! the wolves are upon them!' and as he spoke his voice rang +out through the silent house. The fire of battle was in his eyes, his +nostrils smelt blood, and the man seemed exalted beyond his natural +size. Father Anthony <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>went swiftly and barred his church doors, and +then turned into the presbytery. He flashed his sword till it caught +the light and gleamed and glanced. 'For this, for this hour, friend,' +he said, 'I have polished thee and kept thee keen. Hail, sword of the +justice of God!'</p> + +<p>There came a thundering at the oaken door of the church. 'Open, son of +Belial!' cried a coarse voice, and then there followed a shower of +blasphemies. The men had lit down from their horses, which they had +picketed below, and had come on foot, vomiting oaths, to the church +door. Father Anthony took down the fastenings one by one. Before he +removed the last he looked towards the little altar. 'Now,' he said, +'defend Thyself, all-powerful!' and saying, he let the bar fall.</p> + +<p>The door swung open so suddenly that three of the men fell back. The +fourth, who had been calling his blasphemies through the keyhole of +the door, remained yet on his knees. In the doorway, where they had +looked to find an infirm old man, stood a French colonel in his battle +array, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>the gleaming sword in his hand. The apparition was so sudden, +so unexpected, that they stood for the moment terror-stricken. Did +they think it something supernatural? as well they might, for to their +astonished eyes the splendid martial figure seemed to grow and grow, +and fill the doorway. Or perhaps they thought they had fallen in an +ambush.</p> + +<p>Before they could recover, the sword swung in air, and the head of the +fellow kneeling rolled on the threshold of the church. The others +turned and fled. One man fell, the others with a curse stumbled over +him, recovered themselves, and sped on. Father Anthony, as you might +spit a cockroach with a long pin, drove his sword in the fallen man's +back and left it quivering. The dying scream rang in his ears as he +drew his pistols. He muttered to himself: 'If one be spared he win +return with seven worse devils. No! they must die that the innocent +may go safe,' and on the track of the flying wretches, he shot one in +the head as he ran, and the other he pierced, as <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>he would have +dragged himself into the stirrups.</p> + +<p>In the broad sunlight, the villagers, alarmed by the sound of +shooting, came timidly creeping towards the presbytery to see if harm +had befallen the priest, and found Father Anthony standing on the +bloody green sward wiping his sword and looking about him at the dead +men. The fury of battle had gone out of his face, and he looked gentle +as ever, but greatly troubled. 'It had to be,' he said, 'though, God +knows, I would have spared them to repent of their sins.'</p> + +<p>'Take them,' he said, 'to the Devil's Chimney and drop them down, so +that if their comrades come seeking them there may be no trace of +them.' The Devil's Chimney is a strange, natural <i>oubliette</i> of the +Island, whose depth none has fathomed, though far below you may hear a +subterranean waterfall roaring.</p> + +<p>One of the dead men's horses set up a frightened whinnying. 'But the +poor beasts,' said Father Anthony, who had ever a kindness for +animals, 'they must want <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>for nothing. Stable them in M'Ora's Cave +till the trouble goes by, and see that they are well fed and watered.'</p> + +<p>An hour later, except for some disturbance of the grass, you would +have come upon no trace of these happenings. I have never heard that +they cast any shade upon Father Anthony's spirit, or that he was less +serene and cheerful when peace had come back than he had been before. +No hue and cry after the dead yeomen ever came to the Island, and the +troubles of '98 spent themselves without crossing again from the +mainland. After a time, when peace was restored, the yeomen's horses +were used for drawing the Island fish to the market, or for carrying +loads of seaweed to the potatoes, and many other purposes for which +human labour had hitherto served.</p> + +<p>But Father Anthony O'Toole was dead many and many a year before that +tablet was set up to his memory. And the strange thing was that Mr. +Hill, the rector, who, having no flock to speak of, is pretty free to +devote himself to the antiquities of the Island, his favourite study, +was a prime <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>mover in this commemoration of Father Anthony O'Toole, +and himself selected the text to go upon the tablet.</p> + +<p>In a certain Wicklow country-house an O'Toole of this day will display +to you, as they display the dead hand of a martyr in a reliquary, the +uniform, the sword and pistols, the feathered hat and the riding +boots, of Father Anthony O'Toole.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="III" id="III"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>III</h2> + +<h3>THE UNLAWFUL MOTHER<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>In the Island the standard of purity is an extraordinarily high one, +and it is almost unheard of that a woman should fall away from it. +Purity is the unquestioned prerogative of every Island girl or woman, +and it only comes to them as a vague far-off horror in an unknown +world that there are places under the sun and the stars where such is +not the case. The punishment is appalling in the very few cases where +sin has lifted its head amongst these austere people. The lepers' hut +of old was no such living death of isolation as surrounds an Island +girl who has smirched her good name. Henceforth there is an atmosphere +about her that never lifts—of horror for some, of tragedy for +others, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>according to their temperament. There she stands lonely for +all her days, with the seal set upon her that can never be broken, the +consecration of an awful and tragic destiny.</p> + +<p>I knew of such an one who was little more than a child when this +horror befell her. She has dark blue eyes and thick black lashes, and +very white skin. The soft dark hair comes low on her white forehead. +With a gaily-coloured shawl covering her head, and drawn across her +chin, as they wear it in the Island, she looks, or looked when I last +saw her, a hidden, gliding image of modesty. And despite that sin of +the past she is modest. It was the ignorant sin of a child, and out of +the days of horror and wrath that followed—her purging—she brought +only the maternity that burns like a white flame in her. The virtuous +were more wroth against her in old days that she carried her maternity +so proudly. Why, not the most honourable and cherished of the young +Island mothers dandled her child with such pride. No mother of a young +earl <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>could have stepped lighter, and held her head higher, than +Maggie when she came down the fishing street, spurning the very +stones, as it seemed, so lightly she went with the baby wrapped in her +shawl. She did not seem to notice that some of the kindly neighbours +stepped aside, or that here and there a woman pulled her little +daughter within doors, out of the path of the unlawful mother. Those +little pink fingers pushed away shame and contempt. The child was her +world.</p> + +<p>She was the daughter of a fisherman who died of a chest complaint soon +after she was born. Her mother still lives, a hard-featured honest old +woman, with a network of fine lines about her puckered eyes. Her hair +went quite white the year her daughter's child was born, but I +remember it dark and abundant with only a silver thread glistening +here and there. She has grown taciturn too; she was talkative enough +in the old days when I was a child in the Island, and, often and +often, came clattering in by the half-door to shelter <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>from a shower, +and sat till fine weather on a stool by the turf ashes, gravely +discussing the fishing and the prospects of pigs and young fowl that +season.</p> + +<p>There are three sons, but Jim was married and doing for himself before +the trouble befell the family. Tom and Larry were at home, Tom, gentle +and slow-spoken, employed about the Hall gardens. Larry, a fisherman +like his father before him. Both were deeply attached to their young +sister, and had been used to pet and care for her from her cradle.</p> + +<p>There is yet a tradition in the island of that terrible time when +Maggie's mother realised the disgrace her daughter had brought on an +honest name. There had been a horrified whisper in the Island for some +time before, a surmise daily growing more certain, an awe-stricken +compassion for the honest people who never suspected the ghastly +shadow about to cross their threshold. People had been slow to accept +this solution of Maggie's pining and weakness. This one had suggested +herb-tea, and that one had offered to <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>accompany Maggie to see the +dispensary doctor who came over from Breagh every Tuesday. But Maggie +accepted none of their offices, only withdrew herself more and more in +a sick horror of herself and life, and roamed about the cliffs where +but the gulls and the little wild Island cattle looked on at her +restless misery.</p> + +<p>Her mother was half-fretted and half impatient of her daughter's +ailing. She was a very strong woman herself, and except for a pain in +the side which had troubled her of late, she had never known a day of +megrims. She listened chafing to the neighbours' advice—and every one +of them had their nostrum—and heeded none of them. She had an idea +herself that the girl's sickness was imaginary and could be thrown off +if she willed it. When the neighbours all at once ceased offering her +advice and sympathy she felt it a distinct relief. She had not the +remotest idea that she was become the centre of an awe-stricken +sympathy, that her little world had fallen back and stood gaping at +her and hers as they might at one abnormally <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>stricken: if their +gabble ceased very suddenly and no more idlers came in for a chat by +the fireside she was not the one to fret; she had always plenty to do +without idle women hindering her, and, now the girl had her sick fit +on her, all the work fell to the mother's share.</p> + +<p>The girl's time was upon her before the mother guessed at the blinding +and awful truth. She was a proud, stern, old woman, come of a race +strong in rectitude, and she would scarcely have believed an angel if +one had come to testify to her daughter's dishonour. But the time came +when it could no longer be hidden, when the birth-pains were on the +wretched girl, and in the quietness of the winter night, her sin stood +forth revealed.</p> + +<p>Some merciful paralysis stiffened the mother's lips when she would +have cursed her daughter. She lifted up her voice indeed to curse, but +it went from her; her lips jabbered helplessly; over her face came a +bluish-gray shade, and she fell in a chair huddled with one hand +pressed against her side.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>The two men came in on this ghastly scene. The girl was crouched on +the floor with her face hidden, shrinking to the earth from the +terrible words she expected to hear. The men lifted the sister to her +bed in the little room. They forced some spirit between their mother's +lips, and in a few minutes the livid dark shade began to pass from her +face. Her lips moved. 'Take her,' she panted, 'take that girl and her +shame from my honest house, lest I curse her.'</p> + +<p>The two men looked at each other. They turned pale through their hardy +brownness, and then flushed darkly red. It flashed on them in an +instant. This was the meaning of the girl's sickness, of a thousand +hints they had not understood. Tom, with characteristic patience, was +the first to bend his back to the burden.</p> + +<p>'Whisht, mother,' he said, 'whisht. Don't talk about cursing. If +there's one black sin under our roof-tree, we won't open the door to +another.' He put his arm round her in a tender way. 'Come, achora,' he +said, as if he were humouring a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>child, 'come and lie down. You're not +well, you creature.'</p> + +<p>'Oh Tom,' said the mother, softening all at once, 'the black shame's +on me, and I'll never be well again in this world.'</p> + +<p>She let him lift her to her bed in one of the little rooms that went +off the kitchen. Then he came back to where Larry stood, with an acute +misery on his young face, looking restlessly from the turf sods he was +kicking now and again to the door behind which their young sister lay +in agony.</p> + +<p>'There's no help for it, Larry,' said Tom, touching him on the +shoulder. 'We can't trust her and the mother under one roof. We must +take her to the hospital. It's low water to-night, and you can get the +ass-cart across the sand. You'll take her, Larry, an' I'll stay an' +see to the mother.'</p> + +<p>They wrapped the girl in all the bedclothes they could find and lifted +her into the little cart full of straw. The Island lay quiet under the +moon, all white with snow except where a black patch showed a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>ravine +or cleft in the rocks. In the fishing village the doors were shut and +the bits of curtains drawn. It was bitterly cold, and not a night for +any one to be abroad. The ass-cart went quietly over the snow. The two +men walked by it, never speaking; a low moaning came from the woman in +the cart. They did not meet a soul on their way to the shore.</p> + +<p>At that point the Island sends out a long tongue of rock and sand +towards the mainland. At very low water there is but a shallow pool +between the two shores; over this they crossed. Sometimes the ass-cart +stuck fast in the sand. Then the men lifted the wheels gently, so as +not to jerk the cart, and then encouraging the little ass, they went +on again. When they had climbed up the rocky shore to the mainland, +and the cart was on the level road, they parted. Before Tom turned his +face homewards he bent down to Maggie. 'You're goin' where you'll be +taken care of, acushla. Don't fret; Larry'll fetch you home as soon as +you can travel,' he said. And then, as if he <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>could scarcely bear the +sight of her drawn face in the moonlight, he turned abruptly, and went +striding down the rocky shore to the strand.</p> + +<p>Because Tom and Larry had forgiven out of their great love, it did not +therefore follow that the shame did not lie heavily on them. Tom went +with so sad a face and so lagging a step that people's hearts ached +for him; while young Larry, who was always bright and merry, avoided +all the old friends, and when suddenly accosted turned a deep painful +red and refused to meet the eyes that looked their sympathy at him.</p> + +<p>A few weeks passed and it was time for the girl to leave the hospital. +There had been long and bitter wrangles—bitter at least on one +side—between the mother and sons. She had sworn at first that she +would never live under the roof with the girl, but the lads returned +her always the same answer, 'If she goes we go too.' And by degrees +their dogged persistence dulled the old woman's fierce anger. Maggie +came home, and the cradle was established <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>beside the hearth. At first +the brothers had whispered together of righting her, but when she had +answered them a question—a dull welt of shame tingling on their +cheeks and hers as though some one had cut them with a whip—they knew +it was useless. The man had gone to America some months before, and +was beyond the reach of their justice.</p> + +<p>But the child throve as if it had the fairest right to be in the +world, and was no little nameless waif whose very existence was a +shame. He was a beautiful boy, round and tender, with his mother's +dark-blue eyes, and the exquisite baby skin which is softer than any +rose-leaf. From very early days he crowed and chuckled and was a most +cheerful baby. Left alone in his cradle he would be quietly happy for +hours; he slept a great deal, and only announced his waking from sleep +by a series of delighted chuckles, which brought his mother running to +his side to hoist him in her arms.</p> + +<p>He must have been about a year old when I first saw him. Maggie +intruded <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>him on no one, though people said that if any one admired +her baby it made her their lover for life. I happened to be in the +Island for a while, and one evening on a solitary ramble round the +cliffs I came face to face with Maggie,—Maggie stepping high, and +prettier than ever with that rapt glory of maternity in her face which +made ordinary prettiness common beside her.</p> + +<p>I saw by the way she wisped the shawl round her full white chin that I +was welcome to pass her if I would. But I did not pass her. I stopped +and spoke a little on indifferent topics, and then I asked for the +baby. A radiant glow of pleasure swept over the young mother's +healthily pale face. She untwisted the shawl and lifted a fold of it, +and stood looking down at the sleeping child with a brooding +tenderness, almost divine. He was indeed lovely, with the flush of +sleep upon him and one little dimpled hand thrust against her breast. +'What a great boy!' I said. 'But you must be half killed carrying +him.' She laughed out joyfully, a sweet ringing laughter like the +music of bells. 'Deed <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>then,' she said, ''tis the great load he is +entirely, an' any wan but meself 'ud be droppin' under the weight of +him. But it 'ud be the quare day I'd complain of my jewel. Sure it's +the light heart he gives me makes him lie light in my arms.'</p> + +<p>But Maggie's mother remained untouched by the child's beauty and +winsomeness. Mother and daughter lived in the same house absolutely +without speech of each other. The girl was gentleness and humility +itself. For her own part she never forgot she was a sinner, though she +would let no one visit it on the child. I have been told that it was +most pathetic to see how she strove to win forgiveness from her +mother, how she watched and waited on her month after month with never +a sign from the old woman, who was not as strong as she had been. The +pain in her side took her occasionally, and since any exertion brought +it on she was fain at last to sit quietly in the chimney-corner a good +deal more than she had been used to. She had seen the doctor, very +much against her will, and he had said her heart was affected, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>but +with care and avoiding great excitement, it might last her to a good +old age.</p> + +<p>Maggie was glad of the hard work put upon her. She washed and swept +and scrubbed and polished all day long, with a touching little air of +cheerfulness which never ceased to be sad unless when she was crooning +love-songs to the baby. She made no effort to take up her old friends +again, though she was so grateful when any one stopped and admired the +baby. She quite realised that her sin had set her apart, that nothing +in all the world could give her back what she had lost, and set her +again by the side of those happy companions of her childhood.</p> + +<p>As the time passed she never seemed to feel that her mother was hard +and unrelenting. She bore her dark looks and her silence with amazing +patience. Usually the old woman seemed never to notice the child; but +once Maggie came in and saw her gazing at the sleeping face in the +cradle with what seemed to her a look of scorn and dislike. She gave a +great cry, like the cry of a wounded thing, and snatching the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>child, +ran out with him bareheaded, carrying him away to the high cliffs +covered with flowers full of honey, and there she crooned and cried +over him till the soothing of the sweet wind and the sunshine eased +her heart, and the blighting gaze that had fallen upon her darling had +left no shadow.</p> + +<p>For her two brothers she felt and displayed a doglike devotion and +gratitude. The big fellows were sometimes almost uneasy under the love +of her eyes, and the thousand and one offices she was always doing for +them to try to make up to them for her past. They had come to take an +intense interest, at first half shamefaced, in the baby. But as he +grew older and full of winning ways, one could not always remember +that he was a child of shame, and he made just as much sunshine as any +lawful child makes in a house. More indeed, for in all the Island was +never so beautiful a child. The sun seemed to shed all its rays on his +head; his eyes were blue as the sea; his limbs were sturdy and +beautiful, and from the time he began to take notice <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>he sent out +little tendrils that gathered round the hearts of all those who looked +upon him. So kind is God sometimes to a little nameless child.</p> + +<p>But to see Maggie while her brothers played with the boy, tossing him +in their arms, and letting him spring from one to the other, was +indeed a pretty sight. You know the proud confidence with which an +animal that loves you looks on at your handling of her little +ones—her anxiety quite swallowed up in her pride and confidence and +her benevolent satisfaction in the pleasure she is giving you. That is +how Maggie watched those delightful romps. But the old woman in the +chimney-corner turned away her head; and never forgot that Maggie had +stolen God's gift, and that the scarlet letter was on the boy's white +forehead.</p> + +<p>As the years passed and the boy throve and grew tall, I heard of +Maggie becoming very devout. 'A true penitent,' said Father Tiernay to +me, 'and I believe that in return for the patience and gentleness with +which she has striven to expiate <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>her sin God has given her a very +unusual degree of sanctity.' In the intervals of her work she was +permitted as a great privilege to help about the altar linen, and keep +the church clean. She used to carry the boy with her when she went to +the church, and I have come upon him fast asleep in a sheltered +corner, while his mother was sweeping and dusting, with a radiant and +sanctified look on a face that had grown very spiritual.</p> + +<p>But still the old mother remained inexorable. I am sure in her own +mind she resented as a profanation her daughter's work about the +church. She herself had never entered that familiar holy place since +her daughter's disgrace. Sunday and holiday all these years she had +trudged to Breagh, a long way round by the coast, for mass. All +expostulations have been vain, even Father Tiernay's own. Whatever +other people may forget, the sin has lost nothing of its scarlet for +her.</p> + +<p>It was the last time I was on the Island that I was told of Maggie's +marriage. Not to an Island man: oh no, no Island man <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>would marry a +girl with a stain on her character, not though she came to be as high +in God's favour as the blessed Magdalen herself. He was the mate of a +Scotch vessel, a grave, steady, strong-faced Highlander. He had come +to the Island trading for years, and knew Maggie's story as well as +any Islander. But he had seen beyond the mirk of the sin the woman's +soul pure as a pearl.</p> + +<p>Maggie could not believe that any man, least of all a man like +Alister, wanted to marry her. 'I am a wicked woman,' she said with hot +blushes, 'and you must marry a good woman.'</p> + +<p>'I mean to marry a good woman, my lass,' he said, 'the best woman I +know. And that is your bonny self.' Maggie hesitated. He smoothed back +her hair with a fond proprietary touch. 'We'll give the boy a name,' +he said, 'and before God, none will ever know he's not my own boy.'</p> + +<p>That settled it. Jack was a big lad of six now, and would soon begin +to understand things, and perhaps ask for his father. It opened before +her like an incredible <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>exquisite happiness that perhaps he need never +know her sin. She put her hand into Alister's and accepted him in a +passion of sobbing that was half joy, half sorrow.</p> + +<p>The brothers were all in favour of the marriage. They loved her too +much not to want her to have a fair chance in a new life. Here on the +Island, though she were a saint, she would still be a penitent. It +came hardest on Tom,—for Larry was soon to bring home a wife of his +own, but neither man talked much of what he felt. They put aside their +personal sorrow and were glad for Maggie and her boy.</p> + +<p>But Maggie's mother was consistent to the last. No brazen and +flaunting sinner could have seemed to her more a lost creature than +the girl who had been so dutiful a daughter, so loving a sister, so +perfect a mother, all those years. Tom told her the news. 'I wash my +hands of her,' she said. 'Let her take her shame under an honest man's +roof if she will. I wish her neither joy nor sorrow of it.' And more +gentle words than these Tom could not bring her to say.</p> + +<p>So Maggie was married, the old woman <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>preserving her stony silence and +apparent unconcern. She only spoke once,—the day the girl was made a +wife. It was one of her bad days, and she had to lie down after an +attack of her heart. Maggie dressed to go to the church and meet her +bridegroom. She was not to return to the cottage, and her modest +little luggage and little Jack's were already aboard the Glasgow brig. +At the last, hoping for some sign of softening, the girl went into the +dim room where her mother lay, ashen-cheeked. The mother turned round +on her her dim eyes. 'What do you want of me?' she asked, breaking the +silence of years. The girl helplessly covered her eyes with her hands. +'Did you come for my blessing?' gasped the old woman. 'It is liker my +curse you'd take with you. But I promised Tom long ago that I would +not curse you. Go then. And I praise God that Larry will soon give me +an honest daughter instead of you, my shame this many a year.'</p> + +<p>That was the last meeting of mother and daughter. They say Alister is +a devoted husband, but he comes no more to the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>Island. He has changed +out of his old boat, and his late shipmates say vaguely that he has +removed somewhere Sunderland or Cardiff way, and trades to the North +Sea. Tom is very reticent about Maggie, though Miss Bell, the +postmistress, might tell, if she were not a superior person, and as +used to keeping a secret at a pinch as Father Tiernay himself, how +many letters he receives with the post-mark of a well-known seaport +town.</p> + +<p>Poor Maggie! Said I not that in the Island the way of transgressors is +hard?</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="IV" id="IV"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>IV</h2> + +<h3>A RICH WOMAN<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>Margret Laffan was something of a mystery to the Island people. Long +ago in comparative youth she had disappeared for a half-dozen years. +Then she had turned up one day in a coarse dress of blue and white +check, which looked suspiciously like workhouse or asylum garb, and +had greeted such of the neighbours as she knew with a nod, for all the +world as if she had seen them yesterday. It happened that the henwife +at the Hall had been buried a day or two earlier, and when Margret +came asking a place from Mrs. Wilkinson, the lord's housekeeper, the +position was yet unfilled and Margret got it.</p> + +<p>Not every one would have cared for the post. Only a misanthropic +person <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>indeed would have been satisfied with it. The henwife's +cottage and the poultry settlement might have been many miles from a +human habitation, so lonely were they. They were in a glen of red +sandstone, and half the wood lay between them and the Hall. The great +red walls stood so high round the glen that you could not even hear +the sea calling. As for the village, it was a long way below. You had +to go down a steep path from the glen before you came to an open +space, where you could see the reek of the chimneys under you. Every +morning Margret brought the eggs and the trussed chickens to the Hall. +But no one disturbed her solitude, except when the deer, or the wild +little red cattle came gazing curiously through the netting at Margret +and her charges. There, for twenty-seven years, Margret lived with no +company but the fowl. On Sundays and holidays she went to mass to the +Island Chapel, but gave no encouragement to those who would have gone +a step of the road home with her. The Island women used to wonder how +she <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>could bear the loneliness.—'Why, God be betune us and harm!' +they often said, 'Sure the crathur might be robbed and murdhered any +night of the year and no wan the wiser.' And so she might, if the +Island possessed robbers and murderers in its midst. But it is a +primitively innocent little community, which sleeps with open doors as +often as not, and there is nothing to tempt marauders or even beggars +to migrate there.</p> + +<p>By and by a feeling got about that Margret must be saving money. Her +wage as a henwife was no great thing, but then, as they said, 'she +looked as if she lived on the smell of an oil-rag,' and there was +plenty of food to be had in the Hall kitchen, where Margret waited +with her eggs and fowl every morning. Certainly her clothes, though +decent, were worn well-nigh threadbare. But the feelers that the +neighbours sent out towards Margret met with no solid assurance. Grim +and taciturn, Margret kept her own counsel, and was like enough to +keep it till the day of her death.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>Jack Laffan, Margret's brother, is the village carpenter, a sociable +poor man, not the least bit in the world like his sister. Jack is +rather fond of idling over a glass with his cronies in the +public-house, but, as he is well under Mrs. Jack's thumb, the habit is +not likely to grow on him inconveniently. There are four daughters and +a son, a lad of fifteen or thereabouts. Two of the daughters are +domestic servants out in the big world, and are reported to wear +streamers to their caps and fine lace aprons every day. Another is +handmaiden to Miss Bell at the post office, and knows the contents of +all the letters, except Father Tiernay's, before the people they +belong to. Fanny is at home with her father and mother, and is +supposed to be too fond of fal-lals, pinchbeck brooches and cheap +ribbons, which come to her from her sisters out in the world. She +often talks of emigration, and is not sought after by the young men of +the Island, who regard her as a 'vain paycocky thing.'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jack has the reputation of being a hard, managing woman. There +was never <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>much love lost between her and Margret, and when the latter +came back from her six years' absence on the mainland, Mrs. Jack's +were perhaps the most ill-natured surmises as to the reasons for +Margret's silence and the meaning of that queer checked garb.</p> + +<p>For a quarter of a century Margret lived among her fowl, untroubled by +her kin. Then the talk about the money grew from little beginnings +like a snowball. It fired Mrs. Jack with a curious excitement, for she +was an ignorant woman and ready to believe any extravagant story. She +amazed Jack by putting the blame of their long ignoring of Margret +upon his shoulders entirely, and when he stared at her, dumb-founded, +she seized and shook him till his teeth rattled. 'You great stupid +omadhaun!' she hissed between the shakes, 'that couldn't have the +nature in you to see to your own sister, an' she a lone woman!'</p> + +<p>That very day Jack went off stupidly to try to bridge over with +Margret the gulf of nearly thirty years. He got very little help from +his sister. She watched him with <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>what seemed like grim enjoyment +while he wriggled miserably on the edge of his chair and tried to talk +naturally. At length he jerked out his wife's invitation to have a bit +of dinner with them on the coming Sunday, which Margret accepted +without showing any pleasure, and then he bolted.</p> + +<p>Margret came to dinner on the Sunday, and was well entertained with a +fat chicken and a bit of bacon, for the Laffans were well-to-do +people. She thoroughly enjoyed her dinner, though she spoke little and +that little monosyllabic; but Margret was taciturn even as a girl, and +her solitary habit for years seemed to have made speech more difficult +for her. Mrs. Jack heaped her plate with great heartiness and made +quite an honoured guest of her. But outside enjoying the dinner +Margret did not seem to respond. Young Jack was brought forward to +display his accomplishments, which he did in the most hang-dog +fashion. The cleverness and good-looks and goodness of the girls were +expatiated upon, but Margret gave no sign of interest. Once Fanny +caught her looking at her with a queer saturnine glance, that <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>made +her feel all at once hot and uncomfortable, though she had felt pretty +secure of her smartness before that. Margret's reception of Mrs. +Jack's overtures did not satisfy that enterprising lady. When she had +departed Mrs. Jack put her down as 'a flinty-hearted ould maid.' 'Her +sort,' she declared, 'is ever an' always sour an' bitther to them the +Lord blesses wid a family.' But all the same it became a regular thing +for Margret to eat her Sunday dinner with the Laffans, and Mrs. Jack +discovered after a time that the good dinners were putting a skin and +roundness on Margret that might give her a new lease of life—perhaps +a not quite desirable result.</p> + +<p>The neighbours looked on at Mrs. Jack's 'antics' with something little +short of scandal. They met by twos and threes to talk over it, and +came to the conclusion that Mrs. Jack had no shame at all, at all, in +her pursuit of the old woman's money. Truth to tell, there was +scarcely a woman in the Island but thought she had as good a right to +Margret's money as her newly-attentive <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>kinsfolk. Mrs. Devine and Mrs. +Cahill might agree in the morning, with many shakings of the head, +that 'Liza Laffan's avarice and greed were beyond measure loathsome. +Yet neither seemed pleased to see the other a little later in the day, +when Mrs. Cahill climbing the hill with a full basket met Mrs. Devine +descending with an empty one.</p> + +<p>For all of a sudden a pilgrimage to Margret's cottage in the Red Glen +became the recognised thing. It was surprising how old childish +friendships and the most distant ties of kindred were furbished up and +brought into the light of day. The grass in the lane to the glen +became trampled to a regular track. If the women themselves did not +come panting up the hill they sent the little girsha, or wee Tommy or +Larry, with a little fish, or a griddle cake, or a few fresh greens +for Margret. The men of the Island were somewhat scornful of these +proceedings on the part of their dames; but as a rule the Island wives +hold their own and do pretty well as they will. All this friendship +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>for Margret created curious divisions and many enmities.</p> + +<p>Margret, indeed, throve on all the good things, but whether any one +person was in her favour more than another it would be impossible to +say. Margret got up a way of thanking all alike in a honeyed voice +that had a queer sound of mockery in it, and after a time some of the +more independent spirits dropped out of the chase, 'pitching,' as they +expressed it, 'her ould money to the divil.' Mrs. Jack was fairly +confident all the time that if any one on the Island got Margret's +nest-egg it would be herself, but she had a misgiving which she +imparted to her husband that the whole might go to Father Tiernay for +charities. Any attempt at getting inside the shell which hid Margret's +heart from the world her sister-in-law had long given up. She had also +given up trying to interest Margret in 'the childher,' or bidding +young Jack be on his best behaviour before the Sunday guest. The young +folk didn't like the derision in Margret's pale eyes, and kept out of +her way as much as <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>possible, since they feared their mother too much +to flout her openly, as they were often tempted to do.</p> + +<p>Two or three years had passed before Margret showed signs of failing. +Then at the end of one very cold winter people noticed that she grew +feebler. She was away from mass one or two Sundays, and then one +Sunday she reappeared walking with the aid of a stick and looking +plainly ill and weak. After mass she had a private talk with Father +Tiernay at the presbytery; and then went slowly down to Jack's house +for the usual dinner. Both Jack and Mrs. Jack saw her home in the +afternoon, and a hard task the plucky old woman found it, for all +their assistance, to get back to her cottage up the steep hill. When +they had reached the top she paused for a rest. Then she said quietly, +'I'm thinkin' I'll make no more journeys to the Chapel. Father +Tiernay'll have to be coming to me instead.'</p> + +<p>'Tut, tut, woman dear,' said Mrs. Jack, with two hard red spots coming +into her cheeks, 'we'll be seein' you about finely <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>when the weather +gets milder.' And then she insinuated in a wheedling voice something +about Margret's affairs being settled.</p> + +<p>Margret looked up at her with a queer mirthfulness in her glance. +'Sure what wud a poor ould woman like me have to settle? Sure that's +what they say when a sthrong-farmer takes to dyin'.'</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jack was too fearful of possible consequences to press the +matter. She was anxious that Margret should have Fanny to look after +the house and the fowl for her, but this Margret refused. 'I'll be +able to do for myself a little longer,' she said, 'an' thank you +kindly all the same.'</p> + +<p>When it was known that Margret was failing, the attentions to her +became more urgent. Neighbours passed each other now in the lane with +a toss of the head and 'a wag of the tail.' As for Mrs. Jack, who +would fain have installed herself altogether in the henwife's cottage, +she spent her days quivering with indignation at the meddlesomeness of +the other women. She woke Jack up once in the night with a fiery +declaration that she'd speak to Father <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>Tiernay about the pursuit of +her moneyed relative, but Jack threw cold water on that scheme. 'Sure +his Riverince himself, small blame to him, 'ud be as glad as another +to have the bit. 'Twould be buildin' him the new schoolhouse he's +wantin' this many a day, so it would.' And this suggestion made Mrs. +Jack look askance at her pastor, as being also in the running for the +money.</p> + +<p>It was surprising how many queer presents found their way to Margret's +larder in those days. They who had not the most suitable gift for an +invalid brought what they had, and Margret received them all with the +same inscrutability. She might have been provisioning for a siege. +Mrs. Jack's chickens were flanked by a coarse bit of American bacon; +here was a piece of salt ling, there some potatoes in a sack; a slice +of salt butter was side by side with a griddle cake. Many a good woman +appreciated the waste of good food even while she added to it, and +sighed after that full larder for the benefit of her man and the weans +at home; but all the time there was <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>the dancing marsh-light of +Margret's money luring the good souls on. There had never been any +organised robbery in the Island since the cattle-lifting of the kernes +long ago; but many a good woman fell of a tremble now when she thought +of Margret and her 'stocking' alone through the silent night, and at +the mercy of midnight robbers.</p> + +<p>There was not a day that several offerings were not laid at Margret's +feet. But suddenly she changed her stereotyped form of thanks to a +mysterious utterance, 'You're maybe feeding more than you know, kind +neighbours,' was the dark saying that set the women conjecturing about +Margret's sanity.</p> + +<p>Then the bolt fell. One day a big, angular, shambling girl, with +Margret's suspicious eyes and cynical mouth, crossed by the ferry to +the Island. She had a trunk, which Barney Ryder, general carrier to +the Island, would have lifted to his ass-cart, but the new-comer +scornfully waved him away. 'Come here, you two gorsoons,' she said, +seizing upon young Jack <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>Laffan and a comrade who were gazing at her +grinning, 'take a hoult o' the thrunk an' lead the way to Margret +Laffan's in the Red Glen. I'll crack sixpence betune yez when I get +there.' The lads, full of curiosity, lifted up the trunk, and preceded +her up the mile or so of hill to Margret's. She stalked after them +into the sunny kitchen where Margret sat waiting, handed them the +sixpence when they had put down the trunk, bundled them out and shut +the door before she looked towards Margret in her chimney-corner.</p> + +<p>The explanation came first from his Reverence, who was walking in the +evening glow, when Mrs. Jack Laffan came flying towards him with her +cap-strings streaming.</p> + +<p>'Little Jack has a quare story, yer Riverince,' she cried out panting, +'about a girl's come visitin' ould Margret in the glen, an' wid a +thrunk as big as a house. Him an' little Martin was kilt draggin' it +up the hill.'</p> + +<p>His Reverence waved away her excitement gently.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>'I know all about it,' he said. 'Indeed I've been the means in a way +of restoring Margret's daughter to her. You never knew your +sister-in-law was married, Mrs. Laffan? An odd woman to drop her +married name. We must call her by it in future. Mrs. Conneely is the +name.'</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Jack, with an emotion which even the presence of his +Reverence could not quell, let what the neighbours described +afterwards as a 'screech out of her fit to wake the dead,' and fled +into her house, where on her bed she had an attack which came as near +being hysterical as the strong-minded woman could compass. She only +recovered when Mrs. Devine and Mrs. Cahill and the widow Mulvany, +running in, proposed to drench her with cold water, when her heels +suddenly left off drumming and she stood up, very determinedly, and +bade them be off about their own business. She always spoke afterwards +of Margret as the robber of the widow and orphan, which was satisfying +if not quite appropriate.</p> + +<p>We all heard afterwards how Margret <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>had married on the mainland, and +after this girl was born had had an attack of mania, for which she was +placed in the county asylum. In time she was declared cured, and it +was arranged that her husband should come for her on a certain day and +remove her; but Margret, having had enough of marriage and its +responsibilities, left the asylum quietly before that day came and +made her way to the Island. She had been well content to be regarded +as a spinster till she felt her health failing, and then she had +entrusted to Father Tiernay her secret, and he had found her daughter +for her.</p> + +<p>Margret lived some months after that, and left at the time of her +death thirty pounds to the fortunate heiress. The well-stocked larder +had sufficed the two for quite a long time without any recourse to +'the stocking.' There was very little further friendship between the +village and the Red Glen. Such of the neighbours as were led there at +first by curiosity found the door shut in their faces, for Mary had +Margret's suspiciousness many times <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>intensified. After the Laffan +family had recovered from the first shock of disappointment Fanny made +various approaches to her cousin when she met her at mass on the +Sundays, and, unheeding rebuffs, sent her a brooch and an apron at +Christmas. I wish I could have seen Margret's face and Mary's over +that present. It was returned to poor Fanny, with a curt intimation +that Mary had no use for it, and there the matter ended.</p> + +<p>I once asked Mary, when I knew her well enough to take the liberty, +about that meeting between her and her mother, after the door was shut +on young Jack's and little Martin's departing footsteps. 'Well,' said +Mary, 'she looked hard at me, an' then she said, "You've grown up +yalla an' bad-lookin', but a strong girl for the work. You favour +meself, though I've a genteeler nose." And then,' said Mary, 'I turned +in an' boiled the kettle for the tay.'</p> + +<p>The money did not even remain in the Island, for as soon as Margret +was laid in a grave in the Abbey—with a vacant space beside her, for, +said Mary, 'you <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>couldn't tell but I'd be takin' a fancy to be buried +there myself some day,'—Mary fled in the early morning before the +neighbours were about. Mary looked on the Island where so many had +coveted her money as a 'nest of robbers,' and so she fled, with 'the +stocking' in the bosom of her gown, one morning at low tide. She +wouldn't trust the money to the post office in the Island, because her +cousin Lizzie was Miss Bell's servant. 'Divil a letther but the +priest's they don't open an' read,' she said, 'an' tells the news +afterwards to the man or woman that owns it. The news gets to them +before the letter. An' if I put the fortune in there I'm doubtin' +'twould ever see London. I know an honest man in the Whiterock post +office I'd betther be trustin'.</p> + +<p>And that is how Margret's 'stocking' left the Island.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="V" id="V"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>V</h2> + +<h3>HOW MARY CAME HOME<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>The Island people seldom marry outside the Island. They are +passionately devoted to each other, but as a rule look coldly upon the +stranger. Swarthy Spanish sailors put in sometimes, and fair-skinned, +black-eyed Greeks, and broad-shouldered Norwegians, all as ripe for +love as any other sailor, but that they should carry away an Island +girl to their outlandish places over sea is a thing almost unheard of. +The Island girls are courted by their own blue-jerseyed +fisher-lads—and what a place for love-making, with the ravines and +caves in the cliff-sides, and the deep glens in the heart of the +Island, so lonely except for the lord's red deer and little fierce +black cattle. Why, if one of those foreign sailors attempted +love-making <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>with an Island lass, just as likely as not a pair of +little brown fists would rattle about his amazed ears; the girls there +know how to defend their dignity.</p> + +<p>But one spring there was a sensation little short of a scandal when it +became known that Mary Cassidy, the handsomest girl of the Island, was +keeping company with a Spanish sailor who had come into harbour on a +Glasgow barque. The stage of keeping company was not long. So violent +was the passion that flamed up between the two that there was no +gainsaying it. Mary was the one girl in a family of five tall +fishermen. Father and mother were dead—the father drowned in a wild +night while trying to make the treacherous mouth of the inadequate +harbour, the mother dead of her grief. Mary had known fathering and +mothering both from the brothers. She was the youngest of them all, +and their pride and glory.</p> + +<p>She was tall and generously proportioned, with ropes of red gold hair +round her small head, and her face had the colour of the sea-shell. In +her large brown eyes, sleepily <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>veiled by long lashes, smouldered a +hidden fire: her step was proud and fearless, and she was as strong as +a beautiful lithe young animal. The brothers brought her gay prints +and woollens and rows of beads when they came home with the fishing +fleet, and with these she adorned her beauty—a beauty so brilliant +that it glittered of itself.</p> + +<p>There was no use opposing her once she had fallen in love with Jacopo. +He was a handsome, dark fellow, with insinuating manners, and a voice +like a blackbird. When the two were together there was no one else in +the world for them. He had flamed up with the fierceness of his +southern nature: she with the heat of a heart slow to love, and once +fired slow to go out.</p> + +<p>When Jacopo had settled things with Father Tiernay and had gone on his +last trip before he should come to make Mary his wife, the girl walked +the Island like one transfigured. The light burned steadily in her +deep eyes, her cheeks flamed scarlet, her lips were red as coral. She +went about her household duties with her head in the air and her eyes +far away. The brothers <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>when they came home of an evening sat silent +in a ring, for the grief was on them: but if the girl knew she did not +seem to know. Of the five brothers not one had thought of marrying. +What any one might do as soon as the golden thread that held them +together was snapped no one could say; but they were grizzled or +grizzling men, and had long ago been put down by the Island folk as +confirmed bachelors.</p> + +<p>Father Tiernay had talked with Jacopo about his religion, and had +declared him an excellent son of Mother Church, so there was nothing +against him on that ground. The captain of his ship gave him a good +character, and Jacopo had been with him three seasons. He had a tidy +little house near Greenock, and a bit of money saved. Yet the brothers +were not satisfied. 'Why couldn't she have fancied a lad of the kindly +neighbours?' grumbled William, the eldest. And the youngest, Patrick, +answered in the same strain, 'Wasn't the Island good enough for her +but she must go to foreign lands?' And then five melancholy heads +shook in the twilight.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>They had a cold, awkward, insular distrust and shyness of the +Spaniard. They made no response to his professions of goodwill and +brotherhood, poured out fluently in his yet difficult Scots-English. +They noticed and commented afterwards upon his contemptuous shrug, +when one feast night he was invited to join the family at its +Rosary,—for they are devout people, the Islanders.</p> + +<p>Yet, distrust or no distrust, the girl must go to him. He came back +one summer day with a fine rig-out for his wedding, and a bonnet and +cloak for the bride such as were never dreamt of in the Island. She +was an impassioned bride, and as she came down the church with her +husband, her eyes uplifted and shining like stars, she seemed rather +to float like a tall flame than to walk like a mortal woman.</p> + +<p>Five men watched her then with melancholy and patient faces. The five +went with her to the boat on which she was to cross to the mainland to +take the Glasgow steamer. As the little ferry plied away from the pier +it was at her husband she <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>looked, not at them and the Island, though +it stood up purple and black, and she had well loved the rocks and +glades of it, and though they had fostered her.</p> + +<p>The five men went back to their lonely cottage and began to do for +themselves. They were handy fellows, as good at frying a fish as +catching it, and they were not minded to put a woman in Mary's place. +They kept the cottage tidy enough, yet it was a dreary tidiness. The +fire generally went out when it was no longer required for meals, and +as the brothers came in one after the other, from smoking a pipe on +the quay, they went to bed in the dark, or by the shaft of moonlight +that came in through the window overlooking the old Abbey and its +graves. They were always silent men, and now they grew more taciturn. +Even when at first letters came from Mary full of her husband and her +happiness, they spelt them out to themselves and did not take the +neighbours into their confidence. And more and more they came to be +regarded as 'oddities' by the Island people.</p> + +<p>About a year after Mary's marriage <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>there came a letter from Jacopo +announcing that she was the mother of a son. That child formed a +tremendous interest to his five uncles. They did not talk much about +it, but a speech from one or another told what was in all their minds.</p> + +<p>'The lad'll be fine and tall by this,' one would say. 'Ay,' the other +would respond, 'he'll be maybe walking by now.' 'He'll have the looks +of his mother,' suggested James. 'Ay: he was a fair child from the +beginning,' Thomas would agree.</p> + +<p>Seeing the child was so much in their minds it was strange none of +them had ever seen it. At first after she was married Mary had been +fond of pressing them to come to the Clyde, if it was only for a look +at her. But little by little the invitations had dropped off and +ceased. They had been shy of going in the early days. It was not that +they feared the journey, for some of the brothers had fared much +further afield than Scotland; but in their hearts, though they never +complained, they remembered how she had not looked back on them as the +ferry swung from the pier, and feared <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>that they might be but +half-welcome guests in the house of her husband.</p> + +<p>At first Jacopo often wrote for his wife, but after a time this too +ceased. Then the praises of him by degrees grew spasmodic. There were +often two or three letters in which his name found no place. The +brothers with the keenness of love noted this fact, though each of +them pondered it long in his mind before one evening Patrick spoke of +his fear, and then the others brought theirs out of its hiding-place.</p> + +<p>Mary had been going on for four years married, when in a wild winter +David and Tom were drowned. They were laid with many another drowned +fisherman in the Abbey graveyard. Mary wrote the other brothers +ill-spelt, tear-stained letters, which proved her heart had not grown +cold to them; and the three brothers went on living as the five had +done.</p> + +<p>It was a bitter, bitter spring when Mary's letters ceased altogether. +They had had a short letter from her early in January, and then no +word afterwards. February went by gray and with showers of sleet: no +word <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>came. In the first week of March there came a great storm, with +snow pelting on the furious wind. All the fishing boats were drawn +high on the land, and the fishers sat in their cottages benumbed, +despite the fires on the hearth, for the wind roared through doors and +windows and often seemed minded to take up the little houses and smash +them on the rocks as an angry child smashes a flimsy toy. No one went +out of doors, and the Cassidys sat with their feet on the turf embers +and smoked. The sky was lurid green all that March day, and in the +little cottage there was hardly light for the men to see each other's +brooding faces. If they spoke it was only to say, 'God betune us and +all harm!' or, 'God help all poor sowls at say!' when the wind rattled +with increasing fury the stout door and windows.</p> + +<p>It was some time in the afternoon that William spoke out of his +meditations. 'Boys,' he said, 'if the ferry goes to-morrow, and +they'll be fain to put out, for there isn't much food on the Island, +I'll start wid her in the name of God, and take the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>Glasga' boat. +It's on my mind there's something wrong wid our Mary.'</p> + +<p>The other two breathed a sigh of relief. 'The same was on my tongue,' +said one and the other, and almost simultaneously both cried, 'Why +should you go? Let me go.'</p> + +<p>'Stay where yez are, boys!' said the other authoritatively, 'an' get +what comfort yez can about the house. I'm thinkin' I'll be bringin' +the girsha home.'</p> + +<p>He gave no reason for this supposition, and they asked none. That +night the storm subsided, and though the sea was churned white as +wool, and no fishing boats would put out for days to come, the tiny +steam ferry panted its way through the trough of waters to bring +stores from the mainland. Will Cassidy was the only passenger, and he +carried with him small provision for himself, but at the last moment +Patrick had come running after him with a bundle of woollens.</p> + +<p>'It'll be fine and cold travelling back,' he panted, 'so I run over to +Clancy's (Clancy's was the village shop) and got a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>big shawl for her, +an' a small one for the child. The things'll be no worse for your +keeping them warm on the way over.'</p> + +<p>But William did not keep them warm in his brother's sense. He hugged +them under his big <i>cotamor</i>, and now and again he took them out and +regarded them with interest. Once he said aloud, 'Well, to think of +Patrick havin' the thought, the crathur'; and then put them hurriedly +back because a big wave was just sousing over the deck.</p> + +<p>The next evening he was in the streets of the unfriendly Scotch town +that was covered with snow. The green sky of the day of the storm had +fulfilled its prophecy and spilt its burden on the earth. As he passed +on, inquiring his way from one or another, there were few passengers +to enlighten him, and his footsteps fell with a muffled sound on the +causeways. At last he came to where the houses grew thinner, and found +the place he sought, a little cottage not far from the water's edge.</p> + +<p>There was a light in the window, but when he had knocked no one came +in <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>answer. He knocked two or three times. Then he lifted the latch +and went in. There was a woman sitting by the fireless grate. Her arms +were round a child on her bosom, and a thin shawl about her shoulders +trailed over the child's face. She did not turn round as he came in, +but he saw it was Mary's figure. He had to speak to her before she +looked up. Then she gave a faint cry and her frozen face relaxed. She +held out the child to him with an imploring gesture: it reminded him +of her running to him with a wound when she had fallen down in her +babyhood. He took the child from her and felt it very heavy. The +mother came to him gently and put her head on his rough coat. 'O +William,' she cried, 'he's dead; my little Willie's dead and cold. It +was at three o'clock the breath went out of him, and no one ever came +since.'</p> + +<p>He looked at the child then and saw that he was indeed dead. He put +her back gently in her chair, and laid the child's little body on the +bright patchwork quilt of the bed. He remembered that quilt: <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>it was +part of Mary's bridal gear. Then he came again to the mother and +soothed her, with her bright head against his rough coat.</p> + +<p>'Whisht, acushla,' he said, 'sure you're famished. Aisy now, till I +make a bit of fire for you.'</p> + +<p>The girl watched him with wide dry eyes of despair. He gathered the +embers on the hearth and set a light to them. He lit a candle and +extinguished the smoking lamp, which had apparently been burning all +day. Then he went here and there gathering the materials for a meal. +The kettle was soon boiling, and he made some tea and forced her to +drink a cup. He was very glad of its warmth himself, for he was weary +with long fasting. Afterwards he sat down beside her and asked for +Jacopo.</p> + +<p>'Him,' turning away her head, 'he's wid another woman.' She said no +more, and William asked no more. Instead, he said gently, 'Well, +acushla, you'll be putting together the few things you'll take with +you. There's a cattle boat going at six in the mornin', an' we can get +a passage by that.'</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>She looked up at him. 'But the child?' she said.</p> + +<p>'He'll go wid us,' the man replied. 'He'll sleep sweeter on the Island +than in this sorrowful town.'</p> + +<p>'May God reward you, William,' she said. 'You're savin' more than you +know. For if he'd come back I wouldn't answer for it that I wouldn't +have kilt him as he slep'.'</p> + +<p>The morning rose green and livid, with a sky full of snow though the +world was covered with it. Now and again the snow drifted in their +faces as they trudged through the streets before daybreak, and it came +dryly pattering when they were out on the waste of green waters +cleaving their way under the melancholy daylight. William had found a +corner for the woman under shelter of the bridge, and there she sat +through the hours with the dead child wrapped in her shawl, and the +cold of it aching at her heart. The snow came on faster, and the deck +passengers huddled in for shelter. 'God save you, honest woman,' said +a ruddy-faced wife to her. 'Give me <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>the child, and move yourself +about a bit. You'll be fair frozen before we're half way across.' Mary +shook her head with a gesture that somehow disarmed the kind woman's +wrath at the rejection of her overtures. 'That crature looks to me,' +she said to her husband, 'fair dazed wid the sorrow. Maybe it's the +husband of her the crature's after buryin'.' There were a great many +curious glances at Mary in her corner, but no one else had the +temerity to offer her help.</p> + +<p>William brought her a cup of tea at mid-day, which she drank eagerly, +still holding the child with one arm, but she pushed away the food he +offered with loathing.</p> + +<p>In the evening they disembarked, and from a pier swept by the north +wind were huddled into a train, ill lit and cold as the grave. Mary +crouched into a corner with her face bent over the dead child. 'A +quiet sleeper, ma'am,' said a cheerful sea-faring man. Mary looked at +him with lack-lustre eyes and turned away her head.</p> + +<p>Presently she began to sing, a quaint <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>old Island lullaby, which rang +weird and melancholy. William looked at her in alarm, but said +nothing, and the other passengers watched her curiously, half in fear. +She lifted her child from her knee to her breast, and held it there +clasped a moment. 'I can't warm him,' she said, looking helplessly at +all the wondering faces. 'The cold's on him and on me, and I doubt +we'll ever be warm again.'</p> + +<p>Presently they drew up at a bleak way-side station for the ferry, and +the brother and sister without a word stepped out in the night and the +snow. The man did not offer to carry the child. He knew it was no use. +But he put a strong arm round the woman and her burden, where the snow +was heaviest, and the wind from the sea blew like a hurricane.</p> + +<p>They were the only passengers by the ferry, and neither the ferryman +nor his mate knew Mary Cassidy, with the shawl drawn over her eyes. +But as they stepped ashore and touched the familiar rock on which she +and hers for many a forgotten generation had been born and cradled, +the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>piteous frozen madness melted away from her face. She turned to +her brother—</p> + +<p>'Tis the sad home-coming,' she said, 'but I've brought back all I +prized.' She snatched the ring from her finger suddenly and hurled it +out in the tossing waters, on which even in the dark they could see +the foam-crests. 'Now I'm Mary Cassidy again,' she said, 'and the +woman that left you is dead.' She lifted her shawl and kissed the +little dead face under it. 'You've no father, avic,' she said +passionately. 'You're mine, only mine. Never a man has any right in +you at all, but only Mary Cassidy.'</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="VI" id="VI"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>VI</h2> + +<h3>MAURYEEN<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>Against Con Daly's little girl there was never a word spoken in the +Island. Con had been well liked, God rest his soul!—but the man was +drowned nigh upon twenty years ago. There was some old tragic tale +about it, how he had volunteered to swim with a rope round his waist +to a ship breaking up a few yards from the rocks in a sea that a +gannet could scarcely live upon. He had pushed aside the men who +remonstrated with him, turning on them a face ghastly in the +moonlight. 'Stand aside, men,' he cried, 'and if I fail, see to the +girsha!' He was the strongest man in all the Island, and as much at +home in the water as a porpoise. They saw his sleek head now and again +flung out of the trough <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>of the waves, and his huge shoulders +labouring against the weight of the storm. Then suddenly the rope they +were holding fell slack in their hands,—they said afterwards it had +snapped on a jagged razor of rock,—and the man disappeared. A day or +two later his battered and bruised body was flung up on the bathing +strand, where in summer the city ladies take their dip in the sea. He +was buried with some of the drowned sailors he had tried to rescue, +and an iron cross put at his head by the fishermen. But for a long +time there was a talk that the man had gone to meet his death gladly, +had for some reason or another preferred death to life; but people +were never quite sure if there was anything in it.</p> + +<p>The Islanders had looked askance at Ellen Daly, Con's wife, before +that, though to her husband she was the apple of his eye. She had been +a domestic servant on the mainland when Con Daly met and married her, +and she had never seemed to have any friends. She had been handsome in +her day, at least so some people thought, but there were women on the +Island who said they <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>never could abide her, with her pale face and +sneering smile, and her eyes that turned green as a cat's when she was +angry. However, she never tried to ingratiate herself with the women: +if the men admired her it was as much as she asked. When she liked she +could be fascinating enough. She bewitched Mrs. Wilkinson, the +housekeeper at the Hall, into taking her on whenever his Lordship +filled the house with gentlemen and an extra hand was needed. She was +deft and clever, and could be insinuating when it served her purpose. +But the friendship of the Island women she had never desired, and when +her husband was drowned there was not a fisher-wife to go and sit with +her in the desolate house. As the years went by her good looks went +with them. She yellowed, and her malevolent eyes took on red rims +round their greenness; while her dry lips, parted over her snarling +teeth, were more ill than they had been when they were ripe and ruddy.</p> + +<p>The neighbours were kind by stealth to Con's girsha. Those were long +days of her childhood when her mother was at work in <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>the Hall, and +the child was locked in the empty cottage; but many was the kind word +through the window, from the women as they passed up and down, and now +and again a hot griddle-cake, or some little dainty of the kind, was +passed through to the child as she sat so dull and lonely on her +little creepy stool.</p> + +<p>Poor little Mauryeen! She was a child with social instincts, and +often, often she used to wonder in those lonely hours why she might +not be out with the other children, playing at shop in the crevices of +the rocks, or wading for cockles, or dancing round in a ring to the +sing-song of 'Green Gravel,' or playing at 'High Gates.' Her mother +coldly discouraged any friendship with the children of her foes; and +little Mauryeen grew up a silent child, with something more delicate +and refined about her than the other children,—with somehow the air +of a little lady.</p> + +<p>But Mauryeen was not her mother's child to be without a will of her +own. As she grew from childhood to girlhood she began to assert +herself, and though <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>her mother tried hard to break her spirit she did +not succeed. After a time she seemed to realise that here was +something she had not counted upon, and to submit, since she could not +hope to fight it. All the same she hated the girl whom she could not +rule, hated her so furiously that the glitter of her eyes as she +looked at her from the chimney-corner was oftentimes murderous. For, +little by little Mauryeen grew to be friends with all the fishing +village.</p> + +<p>Even though she asserted herself the girl did her duty bravely and +humbly. Any mother of them all would have been proud to own Mauryeen. +When her mother had employment at the Hall Mauryeen took care of the +house, and having cleaned and tidied to her heart's content, sat in +the sun at her knitting till Ellen Daly came home to find a +comfortable meal prepared for her. The woman's one good quality was +that she had always been a good housewife, and the girl took after +her. Then when her mother was at home Mauryeen went out sewing to the +houses of the few gentry who lived on the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>hill; and the house was +well kept and comfortable, though an unnatural hatred sat beside the +hearth.</p> + +<p>The neighbours pitied and praised Mauryeen all the more. They used to +wonder how long it would last, the silent feud between mother and +daughter, especially since Mauryeen was so capable and clever that she +might for the asking join even Mrs. Wilkinson's chosen band of +handmaidens.</p> + +<p>The girl meanwhile throve as happily as though she lived in the very +sunshine of love rather than in this malignant atmosphere. She saw +little of her mother. The hours when they were under one roof were +few; and across the threshold she found abundant kindness and praise. +Mauryeen was small and graceful, with the olive-tinted fairness which +had been her mother's in her best days. But Mauryeen's blue eyes were +kindly and her lips smiled, and her soft voice was gentle; she had a +pretty way of decking herself which the fisher-girls could never come +by. Mauryeen in a pink cotton <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>frock, with a spray of brown seaweed in +her belt, might have passed for one of the young ladies who visited at +the Hall. If the other girls copied her pretty tricks of decoration +they carried the tame air of the mere copyist. But no one grudged +Mauryeen her charm; she was so kind and gentle, and she had always the +tragedy of that ghastly old mother of hers to stir pity for her. Then +too she always seemed so anxious that the other girls should look +well, and so willing to take trouble to this end, that no one could +envy her her own prettiness.</p> + +<p>There came a time when a young man of the Island, Randal Burke by +name, declared to Mauryeen that her voice could coax the birds off the +trees, and that her head when she listened was like the prettiest +bird's head, all covered with golden feathers. She had indeed a very +pretty way of listening, with her head on one side and her eyes bright +and attentive. Mauryeen was used to compliments, and could usually +hold her own in a bit of light love-making; but it was <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>remarkable +that at this speech of Randal Burke's she went pale. She always turned +pale when another girl would have blushed.</p> + +<p>Mauryeen's was a sudden and rapid wooing. The young fellow was fairly +independent, possessing as he did a little bit of land with his +cottage, as well as a boat. His mother was one of the most prosperous +women of the Island, and had been in days gone by Ellen Daly's +bitterest enemy. But for all that she welcomed Mauryeen tenderly as a +daughter.</p> + +<p>There was a terrible to-do when Mauryeen told her mother of her +intentions. She turned so livid that Mauryeen for all her brave heart +was frightened, and faltered. The old woman choked and gasped with the +whirlwind of passion that possessed her. As soon as she could speak +she hissed out:—</p> + +<p>'The day you marry him I curse you, and him, your house, your +marriage, and every child born of you.'</p> + +<p>Mauryeen's anger rose and shook her too like a whirlwind, but it drove +out fear.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>'And if you do, you wicked woman,' she said, 'it's not me it'll harm. +Do you think God will listen to the like of you or let harm befall me +and mine because of your curse?'</p> + +<p>For a day or two after Mauryeen's defiance her mother brooded in +quietness, only now and again turning on her daughter those terrible +green eyes. No word passed between the two, and meanwhile Randal Burke +was hastening the preparations for the marriage by every means in his +power. Father Tiernay had 'called' them at the mass three Sunday +mornings. The priest was greatly pleased with the marriage. Mauryeen +was a pet lamb of his flock, and he deeply disliked and distrusted her +mother.</p> + +<p>It was the feast day of the year on the Island, a beautiful bright +sunny June day. On a plateau the men played at the hurley and putting +the stone; and there was a tug of war for married men and single, and +after that for the women, amid much jollity and laughter. Above the +plateau the hill sloped, and that long sunny slope <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>was the place from +which the girls and women looked on at the prowess of their male kind. +That day out of all the year there was a general picnic on the hill, +and meals were eaten and the long day spent out of doors, till the +dews came on the grass.</p> + +<p>Now one of the events was a rowing contest, and the course was right +under the hill-slope. Father Tiernay every year gave a money prize for +the winner, and the distinction in itself was ardently coveted. Randal +Burke was rowing against another young fisherman, and it was not easy +to forecast the winner, both men were so strong, so practised, and so +eager in the contest.</p> + +<p>The race had begun, and the people on the hillside were standing up in +their excitement watching the boats, which were nearly dead level. +Mauryeen stood by Randal's mother, with one hand thrust childishly +within her arm, and the other shading her eyes from the bright sun. +Suddenly the people were startled by the sound of running feet, and +all looking in <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>one direction they saw Mauryeen's mother coming +without bonnet or cloak, her face working with passion and her hands +clenched. The people fell back before her. She had an evil reputation, +and for a minute or two they thought she had gone mad. Mauryeen, who +did not fall back with the others, found herself standing in the +centre of an empty space, while her mother panted before her, +struggling for words. All the women-folk behind pressed together and +craned over each other's shoulders, half alarmed and half curious.</p> + +<p>At last the woman found her breath. She pointed a yellow finger at the +girl, who stood before her with her head proudly lifted, and her eyes +amazed but fearless.</p> + +<p>'Look at her,' shrieked the beldame, 'all of you, and you, Kate Burke, +that boasts your family's the oldest on the Island. Look well at her! +Och, the good ould ancient blood! Look at <i>her</i>, for her blood's +ancienter still. Do you see anything of Con Daly in her?'</p> + +<p>The girl looked round with a forlorn sense of being held up to public +scorn, but <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>the women were huddling together, and the fear kept any +one from coming to stand by her side.</p> + +<p>'Look at her,' again shrieked the hoarse voice. 'D'yez know where she +gets her pride and the courage to dare me? She gets it from her +father, th' ould lord. Con Daly had never act nor part in her.'</p> + +<p>A scream, the like of which the Island had never heard, broke from +Mauryeen's lips. It was such a cry as if body and soul were tearing +asunder. With that scream she flung her arms above her head. The +little group, closing round her awe-stricken, looked to see her fall +face downward to the ground. But with a wild movement of her arms, as +if she swept the whole world out of her path, she fled down the hill +towards the village. Ellen Daly had vanished. No one had seen her go. +And down in the dancing bay at their feet Randal Burke proudly shot +ahead of his opponent and won the race.</p> + +<p>The girl meanwhile had fled on and on, with only the blind instinct to +hide her disgrace. The village was empty of all <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>but the sick and the +bed-ridden. There was not an eye on Mauryeen Daly as she fled by the +open doors. With a mechanical instinct she turned in at the door of +her mother's house. The cool darkness of it after the glare outside +was grateful to her. She closed the door and barred it. Then she +turned into a room off the kitchen, her own little room, where there +was a picture of the Mother of Sorrows with seven swords through her +heart, and dropped on the floor before the picture with an +inarticulate moaning.</p> + +<p>She lay there half unconscious, and only feeling her misery dumbly. On +the wall hung her blue cashmere dress, in which she was to have been +married a day or two later. On the chest of drawers was a box +containing the little wreath and veil her mother-in-law had presented +her with. But she saw none of these things, with her mouth and eyes +against the floor.</p> + +<p>She came back to life presently, hearing her name called. The voice +had called many times before she heard it. Now it was imperative, +almost sharp in its <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>eagerness. 'Open, acushla, open, or I burst the +door.' It was Randal's voice; and she answered it, advancing a step or +two, groping with outstretched hands, and a wild look of fear in her +dilated eyes. Then she heard the door straining and creaking, and a +man panting, striving outside. In a little while, almost before she +had time to stand clear of it, the door rattled on the floor, and her +lover leapt into the cabin.</p> + +<p>She put out her hands to fence him off, swaying blindly towards the +wall. He sprang to her with a murmur of pity, and was just in time to +catch her as her senses left her, and she lay a limp and helpless +thing in his arms.</p> + +<p>Father Tiernay was standing at his window gazing over a surpassingly +fair plain of sea, dotted with silver green islands. He was glad the +people had so fine a day for their sports. In the afternoon he would +be with them to distribute the prizes and congratulate the winners, +and to add to the general enjoyment by his presence; but this morning +he was alone, except for his deaf old housekeeper, and Jim the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>sacristan, who was too dignified to be out on the Fair Hill with the +others. The priest's look of perplexity deepened as he watched some +one climbing the steep hill to his house. 'It looks like Cody's ghost +carrying his wife's body,' he muttered to himself. The figure or +figures came nearer. At last his Reverence took in what he saw, and +made but one or two steps to the hall door. 'Come in here,' he said, +asking no questions, like a practical man; and indeed for a few +minutes the young fisherman was incapable of answering any. It was not +until the priest had forced some brandy between the girl's lips, when +they had laid her on a sofa, and her breath came fluttering back, that +Father Tiernay drew the lover aside into the window recess and learnt +in a few words what had happened.</p> + +<p>'She's so proud, my little girl,' pleaded the lover. 'She won't live +under the shame of it unless your Reverence 'ud help us out of it. +Couldn't your Reverence say the words over us? We've been called three +times, and I've the ring in my pocket. Oh, 'twas well that unnatural +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>woman calculated her time when our happiness was at the full. Couldn't +your Reverence do it for us?' he said again in a wheedling tone.</p> + +<p>His Reverence looked at him thoughtfully. Then he drew out his watch. +'Yes,' he said, 'there's time enough, and I think you're right, my +lad. Just step outside while I speak to her, for I see she's coming +to.'</p> + +<p>The young man whispered: 'God bless you, Father! If I waited till +to-morrow I'd never put the ring on her. I know the pride of her.' And +then he went out obediently.</p> + +<p>No one knew how Father Tiernay persuaded Mauryeen. But a little while +later a very pale bride stood up at the altar of Columb Island Chapel, +and was married, with Father Tiernay's housekeeper and the sacristan +for witnesses.</p> + +<p>When they were married Father Tiernay said to the bridegroom: 'Take +her home by the back road. You won't meet a soul, and I'll tell the +people when I join them what has been done. But above all, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>impress on +her that the story is a wicked lie.'</p> + +<p>So Mauryeen went home with her husband to his little cottage on the +cliffs. And in the afternoon, when Father Tiernay came to distribute +the prizes and to merry-make with his people, he raised his hand for +silence and addressed them.</p> + +<p>'Children,' he said, 'I hear there has been a grave scandal among you, +and a great sin committed before you this day. The wicked sought to +crush the innocent, as I believe, by bearing false witness, but the +wicked has not triumphed. A few hours ago I made Randal Burke and +Mauryeen Daly man and wife. And I give you solemn warning that the one +who gives ear and belief to the story of the miserable woman who +dishonoured herself to crush her innocent flesh and blood, shares in +that unnatural guilt.'</p> + +<p>So after a time Mauryeen crept back to the sunshine, and let herself +be persuaded that her mother was mad. No one on the Island saw Ellen +Daly again; they said she had crossed to the mainland by the +afternoon <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>ferry. She never came back, and there were some in the +Island who believed she had sold her soul to the devil, and that he +had claimed her fulfilment of the compact. But Mauryeen is an honest +man's wife, and whatever people may conjecture in their inmost hearts +as to the truth or falsity of her mother's tale, they say nothing, for +did not Father Tiernay declare such gossip to be a sin? But for all +that Mauryeen's ways are finer and gentler than those of any woman in +the Island.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="VII" id="VII"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>VII</h2> + +<h3>A WRESTLING<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>Mike Sheehan tossed awake in the moonlight. The gulls were quiet, and +there was no noise in the night save the sound that had rocked his +cradle—the Atlantic foaming up the narrow ravine before his door, and +withdrawing itself with a loud sucking noise. The cabin was perched on +a bleached hillside. A stony, narrow path went by the door and climbed +the ravine to the world; a bed of slaty rock slanted sheer below it to +the white tossing water. A dangerous place for any one to pass unless +he had his eyes and his wits well about him; but Mike Sheehan was such +a one, for he had the eye of the eagle over Muckross, he could climb +like the mountain goat, and could carry his <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>drink so well that no man +ever saw him less than clear-headed.</p> + +<p>Mike, with his six-feet-six of manhood, was well in request at the +country gatherings. But of late, said the folk, the man had turned +queer: in that melancholy, stately country by the sea, +madness—especially of the quiet, melancholic kind—is a thing very +common. A year ago a wrestling match between him and Jack Kinsella had +gathered two counties to see it. No man could say which was the +champion. Now one was the victor, again the other. They kept steady +pace in their victories. Jack was captain of the Kilsallagh team of +hurlers, Mike of the Clonegall. No one could say which captain led his +team oftenest to victory. The men had begun by being friends, and their +equality at first had only made them genial laughter. The wrestling was +on Sunday, after mass, in a quiet green place at the back of the +churchyard. The backers of the two champions took fire at the rivalry +long before the men themselves. That would be a great day for the men +and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>women of his following, when either champion should decisively +lead. But the day seemed ever receding in the future, and no one could +say which was the better man. June came, when not only the hurling, but +the wrestling, had its thin fringe of female spectators perched on the +low wall of the churchyard—girls mainly, with little shawls over their +soft hair, and their little bare feet tucked demurely under their +petticoats.</p> + +<p>The country people scarcely guessed at the time their two champions +became enemies. Indeed, it was a secret locked in their own breasts, +scarcely acknowledged even when in his most hidden moments each man +looked at the desires of his heart. It only showed itself in a new +fierceness and determination in their encounters. Each had sworn to +himself to conquer the other. The soreness between them came about +when by some sad mischance they fell in love with the same girl. Worse +luck, she wanted neither of them, for she was vowed to the convent: +the last feminine creature on earth for these two great <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>fighters to +think of, with her soft, pure eyes, her slender height, and her pale +cheeks. Any girl in the country might have jumped at either man, and +she, who wanted neither, had their hearts at her feet. She was shy and +gentle, and never repelled them so decisively as to make them give up +hope. In the long run one or the other might have tempted her to an +earthly bridal; but she made no choice between them; and each man's +chance seemed about equal when she slipped from them both into +Kilbride churchyard. When she lay there neither man could say she had +distinguished him by special kindness from the other. And their +rivalry waxed more furious with the woman in her grave.</p> + +<p>But six months later, and their battles still undecided, Jack Kinsella +fell sick and followed Ellen to Kilbride. Then Mike Sheehan was +without an equal for many miles. But little comfort it was to him, +with the girl of his heart dead, and the one man he had desired to +overthrow dead and unconquered. He secluded himself from the sports +and pastimes, and lived lonely <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>in his cabin among the gulls, eating +out his unsatisfied heart. Somehow it seemed to him that at the last +his rival had cheated him, slipping into the kingdom of souls hard on +the track of those slender feet he had desired to make his own. At +times he hated him because he had died unconquered; yet again, he had +a hot desire upon him, not all ungenerous, for the old days when he +met those great thews and sinews in heavy grips—when the mighty hands +of the other had held him, the huge limbs embraced him; and his eyes +would grow full of the passion of fight and the desire of battle. None +other would satisfy him to wrestle with but his dead rival, and indeed +he in common with the country people thought that no other might be +found fit for him to meet.</p> + +<p>Kilbride churchyard is high on the mainland, and lies dark within its +four stone walls. The road to it is by a tunnel of trees that make a +shade velvety black even when the moon is turning all the sea silver. +The churchyard is very old, and has no monuments of importance: only +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>green headstones bent sideways and sunk to their neck and shoulders in +the earth. A postern gate, with a flight of stone steps, opens from +Kilbride Lane. Here every night you may see the ghost of Cody the +murderer, climbing those steps with a rigid burden hanging from his +shoulder.</p> + +<p>But as Mike Sheehan ascended the steps out of the midnight dark he +felt no fear. He clanged the gate of the sacred quiet place in a way +that set the silence echoing. The moon was high overhead, and was +shining straight down on the square enclosure with its little heaped +mounds and ancient stones. Some mad passion was on Mike Sheehan +surely, or he would not so have desecrated the quiet resting-place of +the dead. There by the ruined gable of the old abbey was a fresh mound +unusually great in size. Mike Sheehan paused by it. 'Jack!' he cried +in a thunderous voice, hoarse with its passion. 'Come! let us once for +all see which is the better man. Come and fight me, Jack, and if you +throw me let Ellen be yours now and for ever!'</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>The blood was in his eyes, and the sea-mist curling in from sea. His +challenge spoken, he swayed dizzily a moment. Then his eyes saw. The +place seemed full of the sea-mist silvered through with the moon. As +he looked to right and left substantial things vanished, but he saw +all about him in a ring long rows of shadowy faces watching him. Many +of them he knew. They were the boys and girls, the men and women, of +his own village who had died in many years. Others were strange, but +he guessed them ghosts from Kilsallagh, beyond Roscarbery, the village +where Jack used to live. He looked eagerly among the folk he +remembered for Ellen's face. There was one who might be she, the ghost +of a woman veiled in her shadowy hair, whose eyes he could not see. +And then Jack was upon him.</p> + +<p>That was a great wrestling in Kilbride churchyard. The dead man wound +about the living with his clay-cold limbs, caught him in icy grips +that froze the terrified blood from his heart, and breathed upon him +soundlessly a chill breath of the grave <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>that seemed to wither him. +Yet Mike fought furiously, as one who fights not only to satisfy a +hate, but as one who fights to gain a love. He had a dim knowledge of +the fight he was making, a dim premonition that the dead man was more +than his match. The ghostly spectators pressed round more eagerly, +their shadowy faces peered, their shadowy forms swayed in the mist. +The ghost had Mike Sheehan in a death-grip. His arms were imprisoned, +his breath failed, his flesh crept, and his hair stood up. He felt +himself dying of the horror of this unnatural combat, when there was a +whisper at his ear. Dimly he seemed to hear Ellen's voice; dimly +turning his failing eyes he seemed to recognise her eyes under the +veil of ashen fair hair. 'Draw him to the left on the grass,' said the +voice, 'and trip him.' His old love and his old jealousy surged up in +Mike Sheehan. With a tremendous effort he threw off those paralysing +arms. Forgetting his horror he furiously embraced the dead, drew him +to the left on the grass, slippery as glass after <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>the summer heats, +for a second or two swayed with him to and fro; then the two went down +together with a great violence, but Mike Sheehan was uppermost, his +knee on the dead man's breast.</p> + +<p>When he came to himself in the moonlight, all was calm and peaceful. +An owl hooted from the ruined gable, and from far away came the bark +of a watch-dog, but the graveyard kept its everlasting slumber. Mike +Sheehan was drenched with the dews as he stood up stiffly from Jack +Kinsella's grave, upon which he had been lying. It was close upon +dawn, and the moon was very low. He looked about him at the quietness. +Another man might have thought he had but dreamt it; not so Mike +Sheehan. He remembered with a fierce joy how he had flung the ghost +and how Ellen had been on his side. 'You're mine now, asthoreen,' he +said in a passionate apostrophe to her, 'and 'tis I could find it in +my heart to pity him that's lying there and has lost you. He was the +fair fighter ever and always, and now he'll acknowledge me for the +better man.' And <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>then he added, as if to himself, 'Poor Jack! I wish +I'd flung him on the broken ground and not on the slippery grass. 'Tis +then I'd feel myself that I was the better man.'</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>VIII</h2> + +<h3>THE SEA'S DEAD<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>In Achill it was dreary wet weather—one of innumerable wet summers +that blight the potatoes and blacken the hay and mildew the few oats +and rot the poor cabin roofs. The air smoked all day with rain mixed +with the fine salt spray from the ocean. Out of doors everything +shivered and was disconsolate. Only the bog prospered, basking its +length in water, and mirroring Croghan and Slievemore with the smoky +clouds incessantly wreathing about their foreheads, or drifting like +ragged wisps of muslin down their sides to the clustering cabins more +desolate than a deserted nest. Inland from the sheer ocean cliffs the +place seemed all bog; the little bits of earth the people had +reclaimed were washed back <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>into the bog, the gray bents and rimy +grasses that alone flourished drank their fill of the water, and were +glad. There was a grief and trouble on all the Island. Scarce a cabin +in the queer straggling villages but had desolation sitting by its +hearth. It was only a few weeks ago that the hooker had capsized +crossing to Westport, and the famine that is always stalking +ghost-like in Achill was forgotten in the contemplation of new graves. +The Island was full of widows and orphans and bereaved old people; +there was scarce a window sill in Achill by which the banshee had not +cried.</p> + +<p>Where all were in trouble there were few to go about with comfort. +Moya Lavelle shut herself up in the cabin her husband Patrick had +built, and dreed her weird alone. Of all the boys who had gone down +with the hooker none was finer than Patrick Lavelle. He was brown and +handsome, broad-shouldered and clever, and he had the good-humoured +smile and the kindly word where the people are normally taciturn and +unsmiling. The Island girls were disappointed when Patrick brought <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>a +wife from the mainland, and Moya never tried to make friends with +them. She was something of a mystery to the Achill people, this small +moony creature, with her silver fair hair, and strange light eyes, the +colour of spilt milk. She was as small as a child, but had the gravity +of a woman. She loved the sea with a love unusual in Achill, where the +sea is to many a ravening monster that has exacted in return for its +hauls of fish the life of husband and son. Patrick Lavelle had built +for her a snug cabin in a sheltered ravine. A little beach ran down in +front of it where he could haul up his boat. The cabin was built +strongly, as it had need to be, for often of a winter night the waves +tore against its little windows. Moya loved the fury of the elements, +and when the winter storms drove the Atlantic up the ravine with a +loud bellowing, she stirred in sleep on her husband's shoulder, and +smiled as they say children smile in sleep when an angel leans over +them.</p> + +<p>Higher still, on a spur of rock, Patrick Lavelle had laid the clay for +his potatoes. He had carried it on his shoulders, every <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>clod, and +Moya had gathered the seaweed to fertilise it. She had her small +garden there, too, of sea-pinks and the like, which rather encouraged +the Islanders in their opinion of her strangeness. In Achill the +struggle for life is too keen to admit of any love for mere beauty.</p> + +<p>However, Patrick Lavelle was quite satisfied with his little wife. +When he came home from the fishing he found his cabin more comfortable +than is often the case in Achill. They had no child, but Moya never +seemed to miss a child's head at her breast. Daring the hours of his +absence at the fishing she seemed to find the sea sufficient company. +She was always roaming along the cliffs, gazing down as with a fearful +fascination along the black sides to where the waves churned hundreds +of feet below. For company she had only the seagulls and the bald +eagle that screamed far over her head; but she was quite happy as she +roamed hither and thither, gathering the coloured seaweeds out of the +clefts of the rocks, and crooning an old song softly to herself, as a +child might do.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>But that was all over and gone, and Moya was a widow. She had nothing +warm and human at all, now that brave protecting tenderness was gone +from her. No one came to the little cabin in the ravine where Moya sat +and moaned, and stretched her arms all day for the dear brown head she +had last seen stained with the salt water and matted with the +seaweeds. At night she went out, and wandered moon-struck by the black +cliffs, and cried out for Patrick, while the shrilling gusts of wind +blew her pale hair about her, and scourged her fevered face with the +sea salt and the sharp hail.</p> + +<p>One night a great wave broke over Achill. None had seen it coming, +with great crawling leaps like a serpent, but at dead of night it +leaped the land, and hissed on the cottage hearths and weltered gray +about the mud floors. The next day broke on ruin in Achill. The bits +of fields were washed away, the little mountain sheep were drowned, +the cabins were flung in ruined heaps; but the day was fair and sunny, +as if the elements were tired of the havoc they <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>had wrought and were +minded to be in a good humour. There was not a boat on the Island but +had been battered and torn by the rocks. People had to take their +heads out of their hands, and stand up from their brooding, or this +wanton mischief would cost them their dear lives, for the poor +resources of the Island had given out, and the Islanders were in grips +with starvation.</p> + +<p>No one thought of Moya Lavelle in her lonely cabin in the ravine. None +knew of the feverish vigils in those wild nights. But a day or two +later the sea washed her on a stretch of beach to the very doors of a +few straggling cabins dotted here and there beyond the irregular +village. She had been carried out to sea that night, but the sea, +though it had snatched her to itself, had not battered and bruised +her. She lay there, indeed, like that blessed Restituta, whom, for her +faith, the tyrant sent bound on a rotting hulk, with the outward tide +from Carthage, to die on the untracked ocean. She lay like a child +smiling in dreams, all her long silver hair about her, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>and her wide +eyes gazing with no such horror, as of one who meets a violent death. +Those who found her so wept to behold her.</p> + +<p>They carried her to her cottage in the ravine, and waked her. Even in +Achill they omit no funeral ceremony. They dressed her in white and +put a cross in her hand, and about her face on the pillow they set the +sea-pinks from her little garden, and some of the coloured seaweeds +she had loved to gather. They lit candles at her head and feet, and +the women watched with her all day, and at night the men came in, and +they talked and told stories, subdued stories and ghostly, of the +banshee and the death-watch, and wraiths of them gone that rise from +the sea to warn fishermen of approaching death. Gaiety there was none: +the Islanders had no heart for gaiety: but the pipes and tobacco were +there, and the plate of snuff, and the jar of poteen to lift up the +heavy hearts. And Moya lay like an image wrought of silver, her lids +kept down by coins over her blue eyes.</p> + +<p>She had lain so two nights, nights of starlit calm. On the fourth day +they were <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>to bury her beside Patrick Lavelle in his narrow house, and +the little bridal cabin would be abandoned, and presently would rot to +ruins. The third night had come, overcast with heavy clouds. The group +gathered in the death chamber was more silent than before. Some had +sat up the two nights, and were now dazed with sleep. By the wall the +old women nodded over their beads, and a group of men talked quietly +at the bed-head where Moya lay illumined by the splendour of the four +candles all shining on her white garments.</p> + +<p>Suddenly in the quietness there came a roar of wind. It did not come +freshening from afar off, but seemed to waken suddenly in the ravine +and cry about the house. The folk sprang to their feet startled, and +the eyes of many turned towards the little dark window, expecting to +see wild eyes and a pale face set in black hair gazing in. Some who +were nearest saw in the half-light—for it was whitening towards +day—a wall of gray water travelling up the ravine. Before they could +cry a warning it had encompassed the house, had driven door and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>window before it, and the living and the dead were in the sea.</p> + +<p>The wave retreated harmlessly, and in a few minutes the frightened +folk were on their feet amid the wreck of stools and tables floating. +The wave that had beaten them to earth had extinguished the lights. +When they stumbled to their feet and got the water out of their eyes +the dim dawn was in the room. They were too scared for a few minutes +to think of the dead. When they recovered and turned towards the bed +there was a simultaneous loud cry. Moya Lavelle was gone. The wave had +carried her away, and never more was there tale or tidings of her +body.</p> + +<p>Achill people said she belonged to the sea, and the sea had claimed +her. They remembered Patrick Lavelle's silence as to where he had +found her. They remembered a thousand unearthly ways in her; and which +of them had ever seen her pray? They pray well in Achill, having a +sure hold on that heavenly country which is to atone for the cruelty +and sorrow of this. In process of time they will come to think of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>her +as a mermaid, poor little Moya. She had loved her husband at least +with a warm human love. But his open grave was filled after they had +given up hoping that the sea would again give her up, and the place by +Patrick Lavelle's side remains for ever empty.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="IX" id="IX"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>IX</h2> + +<h3>KATIE<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>The little house where Katie lived was over the fields. She was a +dimpled, brown child, as soft as the yellow ducklings she used to +carry in her pinafore. Her little fat shoulders were bare as I +remember them, and you could see the line where the sunburn ended with +her frock and the whiteness began. She was the late child of a +long-married couple, vouchsafed long after they had given up hopes of +a living child.</p> + +<p>Her mother was an angular woman who walked a little crookedly, +throwing one hip into ungainly prominence as she went. Her face, too, +was brown as a russet apple, with a pleasant hard redness on the +cheeks. She had white teeth, brown eyes, and an <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>honest expression. +But people said she was a difficult woman to live with. She had +extreme ideas of her own importance, especially since the honest +fellow she was married to had become steward to his master, a 'strong +farmer,' as they say in Ireland, and the owner of broad acres. She +expected a certain deference from the folk she had grown up amongst, +and who were often not quite inclined to yield it. In a sense she was +a fortunate woman, for her good man was as much a lover as in the days +when he had come whistling his lover's signal, like any blackbird, to +call her out from her mother's chimney-corner. She told me about those +days herself when I was but a callow girl. I don't know why, except +from some spirit of romance in her, which she could not reveal to folk +of her own age and circumstances. She was the mother of many dead +babies, for never a one had lived but Katie; but the romance of her +marriage was still new. I remember one summer evening, when the low +sun shone between the slats of her dairy window, and I, on a creepy +stool by <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>the wall, alternately read <i>The Arabian Nights</i> and talked +to her while she gathered the butter from the churn, that her man came +in, and, not seeing me in the shadow, drew her head back and kissed +her brown face and head with a passion not all common after courting +days.</p> + +<p>The house was by the roadside, only shut off by its own garden-wall +and a high gate, which it was comfortable to lock of winter evenings. +There were two small rooms in it beside the kitchen and the dairy, and +a loft reached by a ladder, wherein to store many a sack of potatoes, +or wood for the winter firing. The kitchen was very pleasant, with its +two square windows full of geraniums in bloom, the pictures of saints +on its white-washed walls, the chimney-piece with its china +shepherdesses and dogs, and the dresser with a very fine show of +crockery. There was always a sweet smell of cream there from the +dairy, which opened on one side. The two rooms went off each side of +the fire-place. The walls were cleanly white-washed, the tiled floor +ochred; altogether <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>it was a charming little house for love to build a +home in.</p> + +<p>Little Katie, precious as she was, roamed at her own sweet will. No +harm could come to her in the fields where she strayed. She was +home-keeping, and never went far from her own doorstep; nor need she +for variety. On one side of the field there was a violet bank, mossy, +and hung over with thorn trees. Under the thorns it was possible to +hide as within a greenhouse, and children love such make-believe. On +the other side of the bank was a steep descent to a tiny stream +prattling over shining stones; and fox-gloves grew in the water with +the meadow orchis, and many other water-loving flowers. That field was +a meadow every year, and once hidden between the hedge and the +meadow-grasses a child was invisible to all but the bright-eyed birds, +who themselves have a taste for such mysteries, and the corn-crake, +which one thinks of as only half bird, that scuttled on Katie's +approach down one of a million aisles of seeding brown grasses.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>Then on the other side of the field there was a deep, dry ditch under +great curtains of blackberry bushes, which in autumn bore luscious +fruit. And by Katie's door, if she would sit in the sun, was a +primrose bank, about which the hens stalked and clucked with their +long-legged chickens or much prettier ducklings. Katie did not want +for playmates. She had none of her own kind, but was sociable to the +fowl and the pig in his stye, and the white and red cattle that +browsed in the pastures. She held long colloquies with the creatures +all day, and if it rained would fetch her stool into an out-house +which the hens frequented.</p> + +<p>But her grand playmate, the confidant and abettor of all her games, +was a placid motherly cat, which had grown up with Katie. A +good-natured workman had fetched the pretty brindled kitten from the +city, and had made an offering of it at the baby's cradle. Katie with +almost her first words called the cat after him. Pussy Hogan was the +brindle's name to her dying day. When I hear people say that cats have +no attachment for people I always make a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>mental reservation in Pussy +Hogan's favour. No dog could have shown a more faithful and moving +devotion. Katie's instincts in the direction of cleanliness led her to +wash Pussy Hogan in her kittenish days, till she was come to an age +for performing her own ablutions with the requisite care. Many a time +have I seen the child washing the kitten in soap-suds, and setting her +to dry on the primrose bank, which was in the face of the southern +sun, and there with admirable patience the creature would lie, paws +extended, till her little mistress deemed she was dry enough to get up +from her bleaching.</p> + +<p>But Pussy Hogan grew a handsome, stately, well-furred cat, despite her +washings; and it was pretty to see her stalking at the child's heels +everywhere, with much the same responsible air that a serious dog +might assume. For all her gravity, she was not above understanding and +enjoying those games under the hedgerows, when Katie set up house, and +made banquets with broken bits of crockery, to which she entertained +her admiring friend. Even in <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>the winter the cat trotted about over +snow and leaped roaring gullies, in attendance on her hardy little +mistress; as in summer she followed her to the evening milking, where +as a special favour Katie was permitted, with her dimpled fingers, to +draw a few spirts of the sweet-smelling milk.</p> + +<p>They were beginning to discuss Katie's schooling when she fell ill. +The grown people thought school would come hard upon her, she had been +so used to a life in the open air. She was very babyish too, even for +her age, though there were many younger than she perched on that +platform of steps in the Convent Infant School—pupils, so little and +drowsy-headed that two or three special couches had to be retained +close by to receive those who from time to time toppled off their +perch. I remember asking if Katie would take the cat to school, after +the manner of Mary and her lamb in the rhyme. I make no doubt Pussy +Hogan would have attempted the Irish mile of distance to the school +every day, if there were not pressure brought to bear to keep her at +home. However, the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>child was attacked by that horrible dread of +mothers, the croup. She was just the one to succumb, being a little +round ball of soft flesh. She only fought it a day and night, lifting +up her poor little hands to her straining throat incessantly. In less +than thirty-six hours Katie was dead.</p> + +<p>Her mother took it in a blank stupor. She scarcely seemed to heed the +friends who came and went, the Sisters of Mercy, in their black +bonnets and cloaks, the priest with his attempts at comfort. Her +husband sat by her those days, his eyes turning from the +heart-breaking face of his wife to the brown baby on the bed, as +piteous as a frozen robin. After the funeral the mother went about her +usual occupations. She milked the cow, fed the hens, churned, swept, +and baked as of old. Yet she did all those things as with a broken +heart, and it would have been less dreadful in a way to see her +sitting with folded hands. She was incessantly weeping in those months +that followed Katie's death. One would have thought that her eyes +would be drained dry, but still the tears followed each other <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>all day +long, and no one seemed able to comfort her. It was wretched enough +for her husband, poor fellow, coming home of an evening from his work, +but he did all unwearying patience could do to comfort her.</p> + +<p>The only desire she seemed to have in those days was that she might +keep Katie's pussy with her, but that was not gratified. The cat had +moped and fretted greatly during the child's short illness, and had +cried distressingly about the house when Katie lay dead. Then after +the funeral had gone she had turned her back on the desolate house, +and had walked across the couple of fields that separated it from the +farmhouse. She came into the big airy kitchen that July day with so +evident an intention of remaining that no one disputed her right. Once +she had a sudden impulse to go and seek her little mistress, and went +running and leaping over the long pastures to the low white house. +They said it was the thing that wakened Katie's mother from the first +merciful stupor of her bereavement, the cat running in and moaning +piteously about <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>the empty rooms, and the places where they had played +their jolly games. They said she inspected every possible place where +the child might be hiding, turning again and again, after moments of +disappointed bewilderment, to a new search. At last she gave it up, +and seemed to realise that Katie was gone. She turned then and trotted +back quickly to the farmhouse, from whence no one's coaxing afterwards +could bring her. Every one wanted that the poor mother should have her +as she seemed to crave, but the cat would not; she escaped over and +over from her captors, and at last we gave up trying to constrain her, +though her desertion seemed a new cruelty to the stricken woman across +the fields.</p> + +<p>I don't know how many months the mother's weeping went on. It was a +day close upon Christmas when I opened the half-door and went in and +saw, for the first time since the child's death, that her eyes were +dry. She was making bread at a table under the window, and her face +had grown wonderfully calm since I had last seen her. I made no +remark, but she led <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>up to the subject herself, with a pathetic, +wintry smile.</p> + +<p>'You remember the poem you read to me one day, miss,' she said, 'about +the dead child that couldn't be glad in heaven because its mother's +crying wet its fine dress?' I remembered perfectly; it was my poor +little way of trying to insinuate some comfort, for like many of her +class in Ireland, she loved poetry. 'Well,' she went on, 'I've been +thinking a power over it since. Who knows but that there might be the +truth behind it?' I nodded assent. 'Now there's Christmas coming,' she +said, 'and I think that would be a fine time for the children in +heaven, so I'm not going to spoil Katie's glory among them.'</p> + +<p>She didn't say much more after this curious little bit of confidence, +but it was a comfort to every one when she left off crying. Her +husband was rejoiced at the change. He began to build on it that +presently she would be cheerful once more, and they would be quite +happy again; for a man doesn't miss a child as a woman does, and, dear +as his little Katie was, the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>love of his boyhood was yet spared to +him, and could still make earth paradise if she would.</p> + +<p>However, there was a new cause for apprehension in those latter days. +I remember that the women shook their heads and looked gloomy when it +came to be known that Katie's mother was likely to have a baby in the +spring. She had been very ill before, and after this long interval and +all the trouble things were not likely to go easier with her. I know +the old doctor, who was kind and fatherly, and had been full of sorrow +about Katie, seemed vexed at the new turn of affairs. I heard him +telling a matron much in his confidence that he wouldn't answer for +the woman's life.</p> + +<p>She herself plucked up heart from the time she was certain that the +baby was coming. I don't think now that she expected to live through +it. She probably thought that through that gate she would rejoin +Katie. She was very sweet to her husband in those days, very gentle +and considerate to the neighbours, to whom she had <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>often been peevish +and haughty in old times. Many a one changed their former opinion of +her that winter, and her kindness made kindness for her. This +neighbour would often help her at the washing-tub, and that would send +her grown boy in at dinner-time to see if Katie's mother wanted wood +chopped or water carried. I am always glad to think of those four or +five months, when a great calm, as it seems to me, settled down on the +little house in the fields.</p> + +<p>The baby was born in April—dead, as people had feared. It was a boy, +and had died in being born. They said the little waxen image bore +traces of a pathetic struggle for life. As for the mother, she never +rallied at all; I think she would not. She passed away quite calmly, +with not a flutter of the eyelids to answer her husband, who prayed +for a parting word from her.</p> + +<p>They sleep together, mother and children, in Kilbride, in the shadow +of a great thorn-bush, and not far from St. Brigid's Tower. Lonely and +far as the churchyard is, there is not a Sunday in the year that the +husband <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>and father does not find his way there after mass, trudging +along that solitary way, between bare hedges or blooming, as +faithfully as the day comes round. All those things were over a dozen +years ago, and he is married again, to a spare, unattractive woman, +who looks after his food and clothes, and makes him in her way a very +excellent wife. She was long past middle age when he married her and +took her out of service. But there was no pretence of love-making +about it. She would be the first herself to tell you that her man's +heart was in Kilbride. She said to me once: 'He's a good man to me, +and I'm glad to do my duty by him; but if you talked to him about his +wife he'd think you meant Kitty, God rest her! Men's seconds, miss, +don't count.'</p> + +<p>She said it in a simple, open-faced way, but I thought there was a +homely tragedy concealed behind it. I am sure that in the heaven, of +which those Irish peasants think as confidently as of the next room, +he will forget all about poor hard-working Margaret, and will look +with eager eyes for the love of his youth.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="X" id="X"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>X</h2> + +<h3>THE DEATH SPANCEL<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>High up among the dusty rafters of Aughagree Chapel dangles a thin +shrivelled thing, towards which the people look shudderingly when the +sermon is of the terrors of the Judgment and the everlasting fire. The +woman from whose dead body that was taken chose the death of the soul +in return for a life with the man whom she loved with an unholy +passion. Every man, woman, and child in that chapel amid gray miles of +rock and sea-drift, has heard over and over of the unrepentant +deathbed of Mauryeen Holion. They whisper on winter nights of how +Father Hugh fought with the demons for her soul, how the sweat poured +from his forehead, and he lay on his face in an agony of tears, +beseeching <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>that the sinner whom he had admitted into the fold of +Christ should yet be saved. But of her love and her sin she had no +repentance, and the servants in Rossatorc Castle said that as the +priest lay exhausted from his vain supplications, and the rattle was +in Dark Mauryeen's throat, there were cries of mocking laughter in the +air above the castle, and a strange screaming and flapping of great +wings, like to, but incomparably greater than, the screaming and +flapping of the eagle over Slieve League. That devil's charm up there +in the rafters of Aughagree is the death-spancel by which Dark +Mauryeen bound Sir Robert Molyneux to her love. It is of such power +that no man born of woman can resist it, save by the power of the +Cross, and 'twas little Robert Molyneux of Rossatorc recked of the +sweet Christ who perished that men should live—against whose Cross +the demons of earth and the demons of air, the malevolent spirits that +lurk in water and wind, and all witches and evil doctors, are +powerless. But the thought of the death-spancel must have come +straight from the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>King of Fiends himself, for who else would harden +the human heart to desecrate a new grave, and to cut from the helpless +dead the strip of skin unbroken from head to heel which is the +death-spancel? Very terrible is the passion of love when it takes full +possession of a human heart, and no surer weapon to the hand of Satan +when he would make a soul his own. And there is the visible sign of a +lost soul, and it had nearly been of two, hanging harmlessly in the +rafters of the holy place. A strange thing to see where the lamp of +the sanctuary burns, and the sea-wind sighs sweetly through the door +ever open for the continual worshippers.</p> + +<br /> +<hr style='width: 15%;' /> +<br /> + +<p>Sir Robert Molyneux was a devil-may-care, sporting squire, with the +sins of his class to his account. He drank, and gambled, and rioted, +and oppressed his people that they might supply his pleasures; nor was +that all, for he had sent the daughter of honest people in shame and +sorrow over the sea. People muttered when they heard he was to <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>marry +Lord Dunlough's daughter, that she would be taking another woman's +place; but it was said yet again that it would be well for his tenants +when he was married, for the lady was so kind and charitable, so +gentle and pure, that her name was loved for many a mile. She had +never heard the shameful story of that forlorn girl sailing away and +away in the sea-mist, with her unborn child, to perish miserably, body +and soul, in the streets of New York. She had the strange love of a +pure woman for a wild liver; and she thought fondly when she caressed +his fine, jolly, handsome face that soon his soul as well as his dear +body would be in her keeping: and what safe keeping it would be.</p> + +<p>Sir Robert had ever a free way with women of a class below his own, +and he did not find it easy to relinquish it. When he was with the +Lady Eva he felt that under those innocent, loving eyes a man could +have no desire for a lesser thing than her love; but when he rode +away, the first pretty girl he met <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>on the road he held in chat that +ended with a kiss. He was always for kissing a pretty face, and found +the habit hard to break, though there were times when he stamped and +swore great oaths to himself that he would again kiss no woman's lips +but his wife's—for the man had the germ of good in him.</p> + +<p>It was a fortnight to his wedding day, and he had had a hard day's +hunting. From early morning to dewy eve they had been at it, for the +fox was an old one and had led the dogs many a dance before this. He +turned homeward with a friend, splashed and weary, but happy and with +the appetite of a hunter. Well for him if he had never set foot in +that house. As he came down the stairs fresh and shining from his +bath, he caught sight of a girl's dark handsome face on the staircase. +She was one of the servants, and she stood aside to let him pass, but +that was never Robert Molyneux's way with a woman. He flung his arm +round her waist in a way so many poor girls had found irresistible. +For a minute or two <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>he looked in her dark splendid eyes; but then as +he bent lightly to kiss her, she tore herself from him with a cry and +ran away into the darkness.</p> + +<p>He slept heavily that night, the dead sleep of a man who has hunted +all day and has drunk deep in the evening. In the morning he awoke +sick and sorry, a strange mood for Robert Molyneux; but from midnight +to dawn he had lain with the death-spancel about his knees. In the +blackness of his mind he had a great longing for the sweet woman, his +love for whom awakened all that was good in him. His horse had fallen +lame, but after breakfast he asked his host to order out a carriage +that he might go to her. Once with her he thought all would be well. +Yet as he stood on the doorstep he had a strange reluctance to go.</p> + +<p>It was a drear, gray, miserable day, with sleet pattering against the +carriage windows. Robert Molyneux sat with his head bent almost to his +knees, and his hands clenched. What face was it rose against his mind, +continually blotting out the fair and sweet <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>face of his love? It was +the dark, handsome face of the woman he had met on the stairs last +night. Some sudden passion for her rose as strong as hell-fire in his +breast. There were many long miles between him and Eva, and his desire +for the dark woman raged stronger and ever stronger in him. It was as +if ropes were around his heart dragging it backward. He fell on his +knees in the carriage, and sobbed. If he had known how to pray he +would have prayed, for he was torn in two between the desire of his +heart for the dark woman, and the longing of his soul for the fair +woman. Again and again he started up to call the coachman to turn +back; again and again he flung himself in the bottom of the carriage, +and hid his face and struggled with the curse that had come upon him. +And every mile brought him nearer to Eva and safety.</p> + +<p>The coachman drove on in the teeth of the sleet and wondered what Sir +Robert would give him at the drive's end. A half-sovereign would not +be too much for so open-handed a gentleman, and one so near <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>his +wedding; and the coachman, already feeling his hand close upon it, +turned a brave face to the sleet and tried not to think of the warm +fire in the harness-room from which they had called him to drive Sir +Robert.</p> + +<p>Half the distance was gone when he heard a voice from the carriage +window calling him. He turned round. 'Back! Back!' said the voice. +'Drive like hell! I will give you a sovereign if you do it under an +hour.' The coachman was amazed, but a sovereign is better than a +half-sovereign. He turned his bewildered horses for home.</p> + +<p>Robert Molyneux's struggle was over. Eva's face was gone now +altogether. He only felt a mad joy in yielding, and a wild desire for +the minutes to pass till he had traversed that gray road back. The +coachman drove hard and his horses were flecked with foam, but from +the windows Robert Molyneux kept continually urging him, offering him +greater and greater rewards for his doing the journey with all speed.</p> + +<p>Half way up the cypress avenue to <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>his friend's house a woman with a +shawl about her head glided from the shadow and signalled to the +darkly flushed face at the carriage window. Robert Molyneux shouted to +the man to stop. He sprang from the carriage and lifted the woman in. +Then he flung the coachman a handful of gold and silver. 'To +Rossatorc,' he said, and the man turned round and once more whipped up +his tired horses. The woman laughed as Robert Molyneux caught her in +his arms. It was the fierce laughter of the lost. 'I came to meet +you,' she said, 'because I knew you must come.'</p> + +<p>From that day, when Robert Molyneux led the woman over the threshold +of his house, he was seen no more in the usual places of his +fellow-men. He refused to see any one who came. His wedding-day passed +by. Lord Dunlough had ridden furiously to have an explanation with the +fellow and to horsewhip him when that was done, but he found the great +door of Rossatorc closed in his face. Every one knew Robert Molyneux +was living in shame <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>with Mauryeen Holion. Lady Eva grew pale and +paler, and drooped and withered in sorrow and shame, and presently her +father took her away, and their house was left to servants. Burly +neighbouring squires rode up and knocked with their riding-whips at +Rossatorc door to remonstrate with Robert Molyneux, for his father's +sake or for his own, but met no answer. All the servants were gone +except a furtive-eyed French valet and a woman he called his wife, and +these were troubled with no notions of respectability. After a time +people gave up trying to interfere. The place got a bad name. The +gardens were neglected and the house was half in ruins. No one ever +saw Mauryeen Holion's face except it might be at a high window of the +castle, when some belated huntsman taking a short-cut across the park +would catch a glimpse of a wild face framed in black hair at an upper +window, the flare of the winter sunset lighting it up, it might be, as +with a radiance from hell. Sir Robert drank, they said, and +rack-rented his <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>people far worse than in the old days. He had put his +business in the hands of a disreputable attorney from a neighbouring +town, and if the rent was not paid to the day the roof was torn off +the cabin, and the people flung out into the ditch to rot.</p> + +<p>So the years went, and folk ever looked for a judgment of God on the +pair. And when many years were over, there came to Father Hugh, +wringing her hands, the wife of the Frenchman, with word that the two +were dying, and she dared not let them die in their sins.</p> + +<p>But Mauryeen Holion, Dark Mauryeen, as they called her, would not to +her last breath yield up the death-spancel which she had knotted round +her waist, and which held Robert Molyneux's love to her. When the +wicked breath was out of her body they cut it away, and it lay twisted +on the ground like a dead snake. Then on Robert Molyneux, dying in a +distant chamber, came a strange peace. All the years of sin seemed +blotted out, and he was full of a simple repentance <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>such as he had +felt long ago when kneeling by the gown of the good woman whom he had +loved. So Father Hugh absolved him before he died, and went hither and +thither through the great empty rooms shaking his holy water, and +reading from his Latin book.</p> + +<p>And lest any in that place, where they have fiery southern blood in +their veins, should so wickedly use philtres or charms, he hung the +death-spancel in Aughagree Chapel for a terrible reminder.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="XI" id="XI"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>XI</h2> + +<h3>A SOLITARY<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>There was a difference of twenty years between the brothers, yet, to +look at them, it might have been more. Patrick, the younger, was +florid and hearty; the elder, James, was unpopular—a gray, withered +old churl, who carried written on his face the record of his life's +failure. His conversation, when he made any, was cynical. When he came +into a room where young people were enjoying themselves, playing cards +or dancing, his shadow came before him and lay heavily on the +merry-makers. Fortunately, he did not often so intrude; he was happier +in his room at the top of the fine house, where he had his books and +his carpenter's tools. If one of those young people <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>whom his cynicism +withered could have seen him at his carpentry, how different he would +have seemed! They would have seen him with his grimness relaxed, and +his gray face lit up with interest, and would have been amazed to hear +his low, cheery whistle, full and round as the pipe of a bullfinch; at +night, when his telescope swept the stars, and he trembled with the +delight of the visionary and the student, he was a new man. He was a +clever man, born out of his proper sphere, and with only so much +education as he had contrived to get at during a hard life. What came +to him he assimilated eagerly, and every one of those books in his +cupboard, rare old friends, had been read over a hundred times.</p> + +<p>He ought to have had a chance in his youth, but his father was the +last man in the world to encourage out-of-the-way ambitions in his +sons. Father and mother were alike—hard, grasping, and ungracious. +The father, on the whole, was a pleasanter person than the mother, +with her long, pale, horse-face and ready sneer; he was <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>only +uncompromisingly hard and ungenial to all the world.</p> + +<p>There were other children besides these two, all long since dead or +scattered. Two of the boys had run away and gone to America; their +first letters home remained unanswered, and after one or two attempts +they ceased to write. The one girl had slipped into a convent, after a +horrified glimpse at the home-life of her parents when she had +returned from her boarding-school. She had been sent away to a convent +in a distant town while still a mere child. She had come and gone in +recurring vacations, still too childish to be more than vaguely +repelled by the unlovely rule of her home. But at sixteen she came +home 'for good'; very much for evil, poor little Eily would have said, +as she realised in its full sordidness the grinding manner of life +which was to be hers. No wonder she wet her pillow night after night +with her tears for the pure and gentle atmosphere of the convent, for +the soft-voiced and mild-eyed nuns, and the life of the spirit which +shone ideally fair by this appalling life of the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>world. So, after a +time, she had her will and escaped to the convent.</p> + +<p>James could never understand why he, too, had not broken bounds, and +run off to America with Tom and Alick. Perhaps he was of a more +patient nature than they. Perhaps the life held him down. It was, +indeed, such a round of hard, unvarying toil that at night he was +content to drop down in his place like a dead man, and sleep as the +worn-out horses sleep, dreaming of a land of endless green pastures, +beyond man's harrying. Alick and Tom were younger. They had not had +time to get broken to hardship like him, and Patrick was yet a baby. +Friends or social pleasures were beyond their maddest dreams. Their +parents' idea of a life for them was one in which hard work should +keep them out of mischief. James could never remember in those days a +morning when he had risen refreshed; he was always heavy with sleep +when following the plough-horses, or feeding the cattle. Food of the +coarsest, sleep of the scantiest, were the rule of the house. Joy, or +love, or <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>kindness, never breathed between those walls.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the father was getting old, and a time came when he sat +more and more by the fire in winter, sipping his glass of grog and +reading the country papers, or listening to his wife's acrid tattle. +Mrs. Rooney hated with an extreme hatred all the good, easy-going +neighbours who were so soft with their children, and encouraged +dancing, and race-going and card-playing—the amusements of the Irish +middle classes. She had a bitter tongue, and once it was set agoing no +one was safe from it—not the holiest nor purest was beyond its +defilement.</p> + +<p>It was about this time that the labourers began to think the young +master rather more important than the old one; but for their +connivance, James Rooney could never have been drawn into Fenianism. +The conspiracy was just the thing to fascinate the boy's +impressionable heart. The poetry, the glamour of the romantic devotion +to Mother Country fed his starved idealism; the midnight drillings +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>and the danger were elements in its attraction. James Rooney drilled +with the rest, swore with them their oaths of fealty to Dark Rosaleen, +was out with them one winter night when the hills were covered with +snow, and barely escaped by the skin of his teeth from the capture +which sent some of his friends into penal servitude.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Rooney's amazed contempt when she found that her eldest son was +among 'the boys' was a study in character. The lad was not compromised +openly; and though the police had their suspicions, they had nothing +to go upon, and the matter ended in a domiciliary visit which put Mrs. +Rooney in a fine rage, for she had a curious subservient ambition to +stand well with the gentry.</p> + +<p>However, soon after that, as she was pottering about the fowl-yard one +bitter day—she would never trust anybody to collect the eggs from the +locked henhouse but herself—she took a chill, and not long afterwards +died. If she had lived perhaps James would never have had the courage +to assert himself and take the reins of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>management as he did. But +with her going the iron strength of the old man seemed to break down. +He fulfilled her last behest, which was that her funeral was to take +place on a Sunday, so that the farm hands should not get a day off; +and then, with some wonder at the new masterful spirit in his son, he +gave himself up to an easy life.</p> + +<p>This independence in James Rooney was not altogether the result of his +Fenianism. As a matter of fact, he had fallen in love, with the +overwhelming passion of a lad who had hitherto lived with every +generous emotion repressed. The girl was a gay, sweet, yet impassioned +creature who was the light of her own home. At that home James Rooney +had first realised what a paradise home may be made; and coming from +his own gloomy and horrid surroundings, the sunshine of hers had +almost blinded him. In that white house among the wheatfields love +reigned. And not only love, but charity, hospitality, patriotism, and +religion. There was never a rough word heard there; even the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>household creatures, the canary in the south window, the comfortable +cats, the friendly dogs, partook of the general sunniness.</p> + +<p>They were rebels of the hottest type. The one son had been out with +the Fenians and was now in America. His exile was a bitter yet proud +grief to his father and mother; but their enthusiasm was whetted +rather than damped by the downfall of the attempted rebellion. At +night, when the curtains were drawn and the door barred against all +fear of 'the peelers,' the papers that had the reports of the Dublin +trials were passed from hand to hand, or read aloud amid intense +silence, accompanied by the flushing cheek, the clenching hand, often +the sob, that told of the passionate feeling of the hearers.</p> + +<p>Sometimes Ellen would sing to them, but not the little gay songs she +trilled so delightfully, now when their friends were in prison or the +dock. Mournful, impassioned songs were hers, sung in a rich voice, +trembling with emotion, or again a stave of battle and revenge, which +set hearts beating and blood racing in the veins <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>of the listeners. At +such moments Ellen, with her velvety golden-brown eyes, and the bronze +of her hair, was like the poet's 'Cluster of Nuts.'</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That maidens sung.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They sang their land, the Saxon's slave,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In Saxon tongue.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, bring me here that Gaelic dear<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Which cursed the Saxon foe.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When thou didst charm my raptured ear<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Mo craoibhin cno!</i><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Among those admitted freely to that loving circle, James Rooney was +one held in affectionate regard. The man who had been the means of +bringing him there, Maurice O'Donnell, was his Jonathan, nay more than +his Jonathan, for to him young Rooney had given all his hero-worship. +He was, indeed, of the heroic stuff, older, graver, wiser than his +friend.</p> + +<p>James Rooney spoke to no one of his love or his hopes. For he had +hopes. Ellen, kind to every one, singled him out for special kindness. +He had seen in her deep eyes something shy and tender for him. For +some time he was too humble <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>to be sure he had read her gaze aright, +but at last he believed in a flood of wild rapture that she had chosen +him.</p> + +<p>He did not speak, he was too happy in dallying with his joy, and he +waited on from day to day. One evening he was watching her singing, +with all his heart in his eyes. Among people less held by a great +sincerity than these people were at the time, his secret would have +been an open amusement. But the father and mother heard with eyes dim +with tears; the young sisters about the fire flushed and paled with +the emotion of the song; the hearts of the listeners hung on the +singer's lips, and their eyes were far away.</p> + +<p>Suddenly James Rooney looked round the circle with the feeling of a +man who awakes from sleep. His friend was opposite to him, also gazing +at the singer; the revelation in his face turned the younger man cold +with the shock. When the song was done he said 'good-night' quietly, +and went home. It was earlier than usual, and he left his friend +behind him; for this one night he was glad not to have his company; +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>he wanted a quiet interval in which to think what was to be done.</p> + +<p>Now, when he realised that Maurice O'Donnell loved her, he cursed his +own folly that he had dared to think of winning her. What girl with +eyes in her head would take him, gray and square-jawed, before the +gallant-looking fellow who was the ideal patriot. And Ellen—Ellen, of +all women living, was best able to appreciate O'Donnell's qualities. +That night he sat all the night with his head bowed on his hands +thinking his sick thoughts amid the ruin of his castles. When he stood +up shivering in the gray dawn, he had closed that page of his life. He +felt as if already the girl had chosen between them, and that he was +found wanting.</p> + +<p>That was not the end of it, however. If he had been left to himself he +might have carried out his high, heroic resolve to go no more to the +house which had become Paradise to him. But his friend followed him, +with the curious tenderness that was between the two, and with an arm +on his shoulder, drew his secret from him. When <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>he had told it he put +his face down on the mantelpiece by which they were standing, ashamed +to look O'Donnell in the face because they loved the same woman. There +was a minute's silence, and then O'Donnell spoke, and his voice, so +far from being cold and angry, was more tender than before.</p> + +<p>'So you would have taken yourself off to leave me a clear field, old +fellow!'</p> + +<p>'Oh, no,' said the other humbly, 'I never had a chance. If I had had +eyes for any one but her, I would have known your secret, and should +not have dared to love her.'</p> + +<p>'Dear lad!' said O'Donnell. 'But now you must take your chance. If she +chooses you rather than me—and, by heavens! I'm not sure that she +won't—it will make no difference, I swear, between us. Which of us +shall try our luck first?'</p> + +<p>They ended by drawing lots, and it fell to O'Donnell to speak first. A +night or two later he overtook James Rooney as the latter was on his +way to Ellen's house. He put his arm through Rooney's and said, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>'Well, old fellow, I've had my dismissal. I'm not going your way +to-night, but I believe your chance is worth a good deal. Presently I +shall be able to wish you joy, Jim.'</p> + +<p>They walked on together in a silence more full of feeling than speech +could be. At the boreen that turned up to the white house they parted +with a hand-clasp that said their love was unchanging, no matter what +happened. That night James Rooney got his chance and spoke. The girl +heard him with a rapt, absent-minded look that chilled him as he went +on. When he had done she answered him:—</p> + +<p>'I can never be your wife, Jim. I have made my choice.'</p> + +<p>'But——' stammered the lad.</p> + +<p>'I know what you would say,' she answered quietly. 'I gave the same +answer to Maurice O'Donnell. Why did two such men as you care for me? +I am not worth it, no girl is worth it. 'Tis the proud woman I ought +to be and am, but I can't marry the two of you, and perhaps I can't +choose.' She laughed half sadly. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>'Put me out of your head, Jim, and +forgive me. I'm away to the Convent at Lady Day.'</p> + +<p>And from this resolve it was impossible to move her. Whether she had +really resolved before on the conventual life, or whether she feared +to separate the two friends, no one knew. From that time neither +O'Donnell nor Jim Rooney was seen at the white house, and in the +harvest-time Ellen, as she said she would, entered St. Mary's Convent. +Jim Rooney never loved another woman, and when, in the following year, +Maurice O'Donnell went to New Orleans to take up a position as the +editor of a newspaper, Jim Rooney said good-bye to friendship as +lastingly as he had to love.</p> + +<p>The old father died, and left what wealth he had to be divided between +his two sons. For all the pinching and scraping it was not much; there +seemed something unlucky about the farm, poor, damp, and unkindly as +it was. Jim was a good brother to the young lad growing up. He kept +him at a good school during his <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>boyhood, and nursed his share of the +inheritance more carefully than he did his own. They had the +reputation of being far wealthier than they were, and many a girl +would have been well pleased to make a match with Jim Rooney. But he +turned his back on all social overtures, and by and by he got the name +of being a sour old bachelor, 'a cold-hearted naygur,' going the way +of his father before him. But the rule on the farm was very different, +every one admitted; to his men James Rooney was not only just but +generous.</p> + +<p>Presently the young fellow came home from school, gay and +light-hearted. He was a tall young giant, who presently developed a +fine red moustache, and had a rollicking gait well in keeping with his +bold blue eyes. He was soon as popular as James was the reverse, and +his reputation of being 'a good match' made him welcome in many a +house full of daughters.</p> + +<p>One day the youth came to his brother with a plan for bettering +himself. He wanted to draw out his share from the farm and to invest +it in a general shop <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>which was for sale in the country town, close +by. Now Jim Rooney had a queer pride in him that made the thought of +the shop very distasteful. The land was quite another thing, and +farming, to his mind, as ennobling an occupation as any under heaven. +But he quite understood that he could not shape the young fellow to +his ways of thinking. He said, gently: 'And why, Patrick, are you bent +on leaving the farm and bettering yourself?'</p> + +<p>The young fellow scratched his head awkwardly, and gave one or two +excuses, but finally the truth came out. He had a fancy for little +Janie Hyland, and she had a fancy for him, but there was a richer man +seeking her, and, said the young fellow simply, 'I'm thinking if the +father knew how little came to my share he'd be showing me the door.'</p> + +<p>'Does Janie know, Patrick?' asked the elder brother.</p> + +<p>'Oh, divil a thing!' said the younger, with a half-shamed laugh. 'I +don't trust women with too much; but if I had Grady's, I'd soon be a +richer man than <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>they think me. Old Grady cut up for a lot of money, +and he was too old for business. It's a beautiful chance for a young +man.'</p> + +<p>'Well, Patrick,' said the other at last, with a sigh, 'your share +won't buy Grady's, but yours and mine together will. I'll make it over +to you, and you can keep your share in the farm too. I'll work the +farm for you if you won't ask me to have anything to do with the shop. +Tut, tut, man!' he said, pushing away Patrick's secretly delighted +protests, 'all I have would come to you one day, and why not now, when +you think it will make you happy?'</p> + +<p>So Patrick bought Grady's and brought home Janie Hyland. He has +prospered exceedingly, and makes the lavish display of his wealth +which is characteristic of the Irishman. They have added to the old +house, thrown out wings and annexe, planted it about with shrubberies, +and made a carriage drive. Young Patrick, growing up, is intended for +the University and one of the learned professions, and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>Mrs. Patrick +has ideas of a season in Dublin and invitations to the Castle. Her +house is very finely furnished, with heavy pile carpets and many +mirrors, and buhl and ormolu everywhere.</p> + +<p>She feels her brother-in-law to be the one blot in all her splendour +and well-being. When Patrick first brought her home, she took a +vehement dislike to James, which has rather waxed than waned during +the years. He minds her as little as may be, working on the farm +during the day-time, and in the evening departing, with his slow, +heavy step, to his sanctum upstairs, where he has his books, his +carpenter's tools, and his telescope. Yet her words worry him like the +stinging of gnats, and the nagging of years has made him bitter.</p> + +<p>He turns out delightful bits of carving and cabinet-making from time +to time, and he mends everything broken in the house with infinite +painstaking. Up there in his garret-room the troubles fall away from +him, and he forgets the lash of Mrs. Patrick's tongue. The hardest +thing is <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>that she discourages the children's friendship for him, and +he would dearly love the children if only he might.</p> + +<p>The other women are rather down on Mrs. Patrick about it; indeed, Mrs. +Gleeson told her one day that the creature was worth his keep if it +was only for his handiness about the house. Patrick has grown used to +his wife's gibes and flings, which at first used to make him red and +uncomfortable. He has half come to believe in the secret hoard his +wife says old Jim is accumulating.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, the land is as poor as ever, for James has no money to +spend in the necessary drainage that should make it dry and sweet. His +share scarcely pays for his keep, and his money for clothes and books +and tools is little indeed. His shabbiness is another offence to Mrs. +Patrick. She has declared to some of her intimates that she will force +James yet to take his face out of her house, and go live on his money +elsewhere. She expresses her contempt to her husband for his brother's +selfishness in holding his share in the farm, when he <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>must be +already, as she puts it, 'rotten with money.' Patrick is too much +afraid of his wife to tell her now what he has so long kept a secret +from her.</p> + +<p>But James, in his high attic, looks upon the mountains and the sky, +and shakes off from him with a superb gesture the memory of her +taunts.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="XII" id="XII"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>XII</h2> + +<h3>THE MAN WHO WAS HANGED<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>It was outside the town of Ballinscreen, on the country side of the +bridge over the Maeve, that Mr. Ramsay-Stewart was shot at in the +League days, and that the shot struck a decent boy, Larry Byrne, a +widow's only son, and killed him stone dead. The man that fired the +shot would rather have cut off his right hand than hurt an innocent +creature like Larry,—but there, when you go meddling with sin and +wickedness, as often as not you plunge deeper into it than you could +ever have foreseen. Anyhow the old women, who turn out everything to +show the Lord's goodness, said it was plain to see that Larry was +fitter to go than his master, and that was why the shot glanced by Mr. +Stewart's ear to lodge in the poor <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>coachman's brain as he leant +forward, whipping up his horse with all his might, to get out of reach +of that murderous shower of shot.</p> + +<p>Now a few months later all you comfortable people that sit reading +your newspapers by an English fire, and thinking what a terrible place +Ireland must be to live in, were comforted by the news that the man +who shot Larry Byrne was swinging for it in the county jail at +Ballinscreen. But you never made such a mistake in your born lives. +That man was out on the mountains in the bleak, bitter winter weather, +was in hiding all day in the caves up there in the clouds on top of +Croghan, and by night was coming down to the lonely mountain +farmhouses to beg what would keep the life in his big hungry body. The +man that swung for the murder was as innocent as yourself, and more +betoken, though he was great on war and revolutions, would no more +fire on a man out of the dark night than you would yourself. He had +little feeling for sin and crime, always barring the secret societies, +by some considered a sin.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>It was beautiful to hear Murty Meehan,—that was his name, God rest +his soul!—having it out with old Father Phil on that same question. +Why, he told the priest that he himself belonged to a secret society, +for the matter of that, and the most powerful secret society of them +all. Father Phil used to end it up with a laugh, for he was fond of +Murty. He nearly broke his heart over the man when he was in jail, +waiting to go to the gallows, and wouldn't open his lips to clear +himself. Murty had been in every 'movement' from the '48 onwards. But +like all the other old Fenians, he thought worse of the League than +Mr. Ramsay-Stewart himself. His ideas were high-flown ones, and he +could put them in beautiful language, about freeing his country, and +setting her in her rightful place among the nations. But not by the +League methods. There was a bit of poetry of Davis he was fond of +quoting:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For Freedom comes from God's right hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And needs a godly train,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And righteous men must make our land<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A Nation once again.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>Many a time he hurled it at the Leaguers' heads, but they bore him no +malice; the worst they did was to call him a crank. I often think that +when Murty died on the gallows for a crime he hated, it was a +sacrifice of more than his life. Well, God be good to him!</p> + +<p>Murty hadn't a soul in the world belonging to him. His father and +mother died in the black '47, and the little girl he had set his heart +on sailed in a coffin-ship for New York with her father and mother in +the same bitter year, and went down somewhere out on the unkindly +ocean. She had hung round Murty's neck imploring him to go with her, +but Murty was drilling for the rising of the following year, and could +see no duty closer than his duty to his country. He promised to follow +her and bring her back if there were happier days in Ireland, but the +boat and its freight were never heard of after they left Queenstown +quay in that September of blight and storm. And so Murty grew with the +years into a pleasant, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>kindly old bachelor, very full of whimsies and +dreams, and a prophet to the young fellows.</p> + +<p>Now Mr. Ramsay-Stewart, though he kept himself and his tenants in hot +water for a couple of years, wasn't a bad kind of gentleman, and now +that things have settled down is well-esteemed and liked in the +country. But when he came first he didn't understand the people nor +they him, and there's no doubt he did some hard things as much out of +pure ignorance, they say, as for any malice. He'd put his bit of money +in the estate and meant to have it out of it, and he didn't like at +all the easy-going ways he found there. The old Misses Conyers who +preceded him were of a very ancient stock, and would rather turn out +themselves than turn out a soul of their people. They had enough money +to keep them while they lived; and 'pay when you can,' or 'when you +like,' was the rule on the estate. Every man, woman and child was +Paddy and Biddy and Judy to them. Oh, sure it was a bad day for the +tenants when they went; and more betoken, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>they had laid up trouble +for the man that was to succeed them.</p> + +<p>The people never gave Mr. Ramsay-Stewart a chance when he came. They +disliked him, and he was an upstart and a <i>gombeen</i> man and a usurper, +and such foolishness, in the mouths of every one of them. As if it was +his fault, poor gentleman, that the Misses Conyers never married, and +so let Coolacreva fall to strangers.</p> + +<p>Now there was a widow and her daughter, Mrs. Murphy and little Fanny, +that had a big patch of land on the estate, and the memory of man +couldn't tell when they'd paid a penny of rent for it. It was so +overgrown with weeds and thistles, and so strewn with big boulders, +that it was more like a boreen than decent fields. Well, it vexed Mr. +Ramsay-Stewart, who was accustomed to the tidy Scotch fields, +amazingly, and he got on his high horse that the widow should pay or +go.</p> + +<p>She couldn't or wouldn't pay, and she wouldn't go. She never thought +the crow-bar brigade would be set on her cabin; <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>but, sure, the new +landlord wasn't a man to stop short of his word, and one bleak, bitter +November day he was out with the police and bailiffs. Before the +League could put one foot before another the roof was off Mrs. +Murphy's cabin, the bits of furniture out in the road, and the pair of +women standing over them shaking their fists at the Scotchman, and +whimpering out the revenge they'd have, till Lanty Corcoran, a strong +farmer, took them home, and set them up snug and easy in one of his +outhouses.</p> + +<p>Fanny was a pretty little girl, a golden-ringleted, blue-eyed slip of +a <i>colleen</i>, with a sturdy and independent will of her own, that +belied the soft shy glances she could cast at a man. She was promised +to a boy over the seas, who was making a home for her and her mother +in America, and there was another boy in the parish, John Sullivan, or +Shawn Dhuv, as they usually called him because of his dark complexion, +was fairly mad about her. Shawn was well off. He was the cleverest +farmer that side of the country, just the kind of man Mr. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>Ramsay-Stewart wanted and was prepared to encourage when he got him. +His land was clean and well-tilled, and he had a fine stock of cattle +as well as horses, and hay, and straw, and machines that had cost a +handful of money, for he was quick to take up new-fangled notions. +People used to say Shawn would be a rich man one day, for he was +prudent, drank little, and was a silent man, keeping himself to +himself a good deal.</p> + +<p>Well, little Fanny had a hard time with the mother over her steady +refusals to have anything to say to Black Shawn. She was an +aggravating old woman, one of the whimpering sort; and sorely she must +have tried poor Fanny often with her coaxing and crying, but the +little girl was as stout as a rock where her absent boy was concerned.</p> + +<p>Shawn Dhuv heard in time of the eviction, and in a bad moment for +himself thought he'd press his suit once more; he knew he had the old +woman on his side, and he thought he might find the young one in such +a humour that she'd be glad <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>to accept his hand and heart, and the +cover of his little farmhouse. He had an idea too that he'd only to +ask Mr. Ramsay-Stewart for the Murphys' farm and he'd get it, and he +thought this would be a fine lever to work with.</p> + +<p>But he never made such a mistake, for little Fanny turned on him like +the veriest spitfire.</p> + +<p>'You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Black Shawn,' she cried, with +her eyes flashing, 'to keep persecuting a girl that's as good as wife +to another man. Why, if he was never in the world, do you think I'd +take one like you, that's plotting and planning to take our bit of +land before the ashes of our roof-tree are gone gray? If he was here +he'd know how to avenge us, and not till he had done it would he look +the girl he loved in the face.'</p> + +<p>She was holding forth like this, her words tripping each other up in +her anger; but sure, the poor little girl didn't mean what she was +saying about revenge; it was likely some hot words she'd picked up out +of the newspapers that came into her <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>head in her passion, and tripped +off her tongue without her knowing a word of what they meant.</p> + +<p>But Black Shawn heard her, turning first the deep red with which one +of his complexion blushes, and then falling off as gray as the dead. +Before she'd half said her say he took up his <i>caubeen</i>, put it on his +head, and walked out of the place with an air as if he were dreaming.</p> + +<p>Now he had an old carbine to frighten the crows, a crazy old thing +that was as likely to hurt the man who fired it as the thing that was +fired at. Black Shawn sat up all night cleaning it, and the grim mouth +of the man never relaxed, nor did the colour come back to his ashy +cheeks.</p> + +<p>The next night he lay in wait for Mr. Ramsay-Stewart as he came home +from the county club-house in Ballinscreen, and shot at him, killing +poor Larry Byrne. It was only the length of the bridge from the police +barracks, and as it was but nine o'clock at night, Ballinscreen people +were up and about. So there wasn't much time <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>for Black Shawn to see +what mischief the blunderbuss had done. He saw at the first glance +that one man was down in the dogcart, and another man swinging on by +his arms to the mouth of the terrified horse. But already people were +running across the bridge and shouting, and the dark quay seemed alive +with lights.</p> + +<p>Luckily for Shawn the road away from the town was black as a tunnel. +It runs between the two stone walls that shut out Lord Cahirmore's +deer and black cattle from the public gaze. Down this black tunnel +raced Shawn, sobbing like a child, for the black fit was gone over and +the full horror of his crime was upon him. He was a quick runner, and +he got the advantage, for the police in their flurry stopped for a +minute or two debating whether to take the river banks or the road. +But in Shawn's head the pursuing footsteps beat, beat, while he was +yet far beyond them, and the trumpets of the Day of Judgment rang in +his miserable ears. He had the smoking gun in his hands, for he +hadn't <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>the wit to get rid of it. And yet the man was safe, if he had +had his wits about him, for he was the last man for Mr. Ramsay-Stewart +to suspect or allow suspicion to fall upon.</p> + +<p>Well, he raced on blindly, and all of a sudden, as he turned a corner, +a man flung up his arms in front of him, and then caught him by both +wrists. It was Murty Meehan, and more betoken, he was on his way to a +drilling of the Fenian boys in a quiet spot in Alloa Valley. Murty was +wiry, despite his years, and his grip seemed to Black Shawn like the +handcuffs already upon him. There was little struggle left in Shawn, +and he just stood sobbing, while his gun smoked up between him and +Murty.</p> + +<p>'What black work is this, my fine fellow?' said Murty quietly.</p> + +<p>Black Shawn came to himself, seeing he was stopped by a man and no +ghost.</p> + +<p>'Let me go, for God's sake,' he sobbed out. 'I've shot Ramsay-Stewart +below at the bridge, and the police are after me.' Just then the moon +rolled from behind a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>cloud, and Murty Meehan saw his prisoner, saw +that he was young, and would be handsome if his face were not so +distorted by emotion. Now there came a sudden sound of footsteps +pelting along the road, and Shawn was taken with a tremor, though, +mind you, he was a brave man, and it was horror of his sin was on him +more than a fear of the rope. Murty Meehan made up his mind.</p> + +<p>'Give me the gun,' he said. 'I'm old and worn-out, and I might have +had a son of your age.'</p> + +<p>Shawn, hardly understanding, fled on the moment he was released. A bit +further the lord's wall gave way to iron palings, and not far beyond +was the open country and the road to the hills. Once in the hills +Black Shawn was safe.</p> + +<p>But they found Murty Meehan with the smoking gun in his hand, and what +more evidence could be wanted? He was tried for the murder, and +pleaded 'Not guilty'; and the number of witnesses called to testify to +his character was enough to fill the court-house, but then, he +couldn't <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>or wouldn't explain the gun, and the judge declared it was +the clearest case that had ever come before him. He was very eloquent +in his charge over such a crime being committed by an old man, and +expressed his abhorrence of poor Murty in a way that might have seared +the face of a guilty man, though it didn't seem to come home very +closely to the prisoner.</p> + +<p>A month later Murty was hanged in Ballinscreen jail. He was many a day +in his quicklime grave before Black Shawn heard how another man had +suffered for his crime. After long wandering he had escaped to the +coast, and coming to a seaport town had been engaged by the captain of +a sailing vessel, short of hands, who was only too glad to give him +his grub and his passage in exchange for his work, and ask no +questions. But it was a time of storms, and the ship was blown +half-way to the North Pole, and as far south again, and arrived at New +York long after all hope of her safety had been given up. If Black +Shawn had known he would never have let an innocent man die in his +place. So said <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>the neighbours, who had known him from his boyhood.</p> + +<p>They will tell you this story in Munster, as they told it to me, +sitting round the open hearth in the big farmhouse kitchens of winter +nights. Down there there is not a man that won't lift his hat +reverently when they name Murty.</p> + +<p>For long enough no one knew what became of Black Shawn, and when the +League was over and its power broken, and a better spirit was coming +back to men's hearts, many a poor boy was laid by the heels through +the use of that same name. Many in Munster will tell you of the +stranger that used to come to the farmhouses begging a rest by the +fire and a meal in the name of Black Shawn, and sitting there quietly +would listen to the rash and trustful talk of the young fellows about +fighting for their dear Dark Rosaleen, the country that holds men's +hearts more than any prosperous mother-land of them all. His name is a +name never mentioned in Ireland without a black, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>bitter curse, for he +was a famous informer and spy, own brother to such evil spawn as +Corydon, Massey, and Nagle. But 'tis too long a story to tell how the +spy masqueraded as Black Shawn, and I think I'll keep it for another +time.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>XIII</h2> + +<h3>A PRODIGAL SON<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>Mrs. Sheehy was blest with two sons. Of the elder she had seen little +since his early boyhood, when his love for handling tarry ropes and +sails, and his passion for the water-side, had resulted in his +shipping as cabin-boy on a China-bound ship. There was undoubted +madness in the Sheehy blood, but in this sailor son, so long as he +kept sober, there was no manifestation of it except it might be in a +dreaminess and romanticism uncommon to his class. He was an +olive-skinned, brown-eyed fellow, with such a refined face as might +have belonged to an artist or musician. He had the mellow colour +Murillo loved. The mad strain which, in the case of greatly gifted +people, has often seemed to be the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>motive power of genius, in him +took the form of a great cleverness,—an esoteric cleverness and +ingenuity added to the sailor's dexterity.</p> + +<p>But it is not with Willie I have to deal, though the story of his +marriage is a little romance in itself. It was Mick was the prodigal +son. Every one about the country knew and liked Mick. He was a bit of +an omadhaun, that is to say a simpleton,—but quite unlike the +shambling idiots of whom every village possessed one, who was a sort +of God's fool to the people, till some new legislation locked them all +up in the work-houses, poor things!</p> + +<p>Mick was a rosy-cheeked, innocent-looking lad, touched in the mind, +certainly, but exceedingly harmless, likeable and entertaining. He was +a strong fellow and when he 'took a hate (<i>i.e.</i> heat) o' work' he was +as good or better than the best in harvest or hayfield. His softness +procured for him a certain delightful immunity from responsibility. He +worked when in the humour, but race, or fair, or cock-fight, or +football match drew Mick irresistibly <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>from his labours. He was off to +every bit of 'divarsion' in the country, and when there were big races +at a distance Mick generally took the road a day beforehand, sleeping +out in the soft spring night if it was dry weather, trusting to a +convenient haystack or barn if it wasn't. He was known so widely that +at every farmhouse along the road he was sure of a bite. And on the +race-course every one was his friend; and the various parties +picnicking were greeted by Mick with uproarious shouts and a flinging +of his <i>caubeen</i> in the air, to signify his delight at meeting his +friends so far from home.</p> + +<p>Mick had the privileges of 'the natural,' as they call an idiot in +Ireland, with only a few of his disabilities. He was even known to +leave the church during a very tedious sermon of Father O'Herlihy's +and smoke a pipe outside while awaiting the rest of the congregation. +When he was tackled about this flagrant disrespect by his pastor, Mick +replied unblushingly, 'Sure, I didn't lave durin' the mass, your +Reverence: 'twas all over but a thing of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>nothing.' 'What do you mean +by that?' asked his Reverence severely. 'Sure, your Reverence's +sermon, I mane, what else?' responded Mick.</p> + +<p>Mick could be violent too in his cups, but somehow even his violence +was humorous. The village butcher once was imprudent enough to +remonstrate with him for drinking, while the drink was yet in him, and +Mick acknowledged the good advice by unhooking a leg of mutton and +belabouring him soundly, to the detriment of himself and his mutton, +till the police interfered. On another occasion he addressed his +energies to the Sisyphus-like task of endeavouring to roll a very +large water-barrel through his mother's very small door, all one +winter night, while his mother alternately coaxed and threatened. +Mick's pranks were endless, but lest they meet with a severer judge +than Mick ever met with, I spare you the recital of them.</p> + +<p>Now Mrs. Sheehy was far less tolerated and tolerable than either of +her peccant sons. She had a little withered face, with hard red +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>cheeks and bright, rather mad black eyes, set in a frame of crinkly +black hair. You might meet her on the road of a sweet summer morning, +trapesing, to use the expressive Irish word, along, with a sunshade +over her battered bonnet. Her attire was generally made up of very +tarnished finery,—a befrilled skirt trailing in the dust behind her, +and a tattered lace shawl disposed corner-wise over her shoulders. She +seemed always to wear the cast-off garments of fine ladies, and we had +an explanation of this fact. It was supposed that Mrs. Sheehy +represented herself to pious Protestant ladies, for about a radius of +twenty miles, as a Papist, who might easily be brought to see the +error of her ways, and as one who for her liberal tendencies was much +in disfavour with the priests. I know that to her co-religionists she +complained that Protestant charities were closed to her because she +had become a Catholic. There was a legend that Mrs. Sheehy came from a +Protestant stock, but I do not know whether this were true or merely +invented for convenience when the lady went asking alms.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>It was from some of these Protestant ladies the suggestion came that +Mick should go to America under some precious emigration scheme. They +are always, with their mistaken philanthropy, drafting away the boys +and girls from Ireland, to cast them, human wreckage, in the streets +of New York; always taking away the young life from the sweet glens +over which the chapel bell sends its shepherding voice, and casting it +away in noisome places, while at home the aged folk go down alone the +path to the grave.</p> + +<p>Now we always thought that Mrs. Sheehy must have suggested Mick as an +emigrant, for he was distinctly not eligible. But it was very easy to +puff up poor Mick's mind with pictures of America as a Tom Tiddler's +ground, and the mother did this in private, while in public she wrung +her hands over the wilful boy that would go and leave her lonesome in +her old age. Pretty soon the matter was settled, and Mick went about +as vain as any young recruit when he has taken the Queen's <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>shilling +and donned the scarlet, and has not yet realised that he has been a +fine fat goose for the fox-sergeant's plucking.</p> + +<p>But if Mick was full of the spirit of adventure, and looked forward to +that spring Wednesday when he should leave for Queenstown, his mother +made up for his heartless joy by her lugubriousness. As the time drew +near she would buttonhole all and sundry whom she could catch to pour +out her sorrows. The trailing gown and ragged lace shawl became a +danger signal which we would all flee from, an it were not sprung upon +us too suddenly. We had a shrewd suspicion that the tears Mrs. Sheehy +shed so freely were of the variety known as crocodile. Rumour had it +that Mick once out of the way she was to be accommodated comfortably +for life as a lodgekeeper to one of those emigrating ladies. Sometimes +she used to follow us to our very doors to weep, and on such occasions +would be so overcome with grief that it took a little whisky and water +and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>the gift of an old dress or some broken victuals to prepare her +for the road again.</p> + +<p>On the Tuesday of the week Mick was to start he made a farewell +progress round all the houses of the neighbourhood. We were called +into the big farmhouse kitchen about five of the afternoon to bid him +good-bye. Mick sat forward on the edge of his chair, thrusting now and +then his knuckles into his eyes, like a big child, and trying to wink +away his tears. We all did our best to console him, and after a time +from being very sad he grew rather uproariously gay. Mick was no +penman, but for all that he made the wildest promises about writing, +and as for the gifts he was to send us, the place should be indeed a +Tom Tiddler's ground if he were to fulfil his rash promises. Meanwhile +we all pressed our parting gifts on him; some took the form of money, +others were useful or beneficial, as we judged it. Mick added +everything to the small pack he was carrying, which had indeed already +swollen since he left home, and was likely to be considerably <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>more +swollen by the time he had concluded his round.</p> + +<p>Mick had got over the parting with his mother. The emigrants' train +started in the small hours, and the emigrants were to rendezvous at a +common lodging-house close by the big terminus. We inquired about poor +Mrs. Sheeny with feeling. Mick responded with a return of tears that +he'd left her screeching for bare life and tearing her hair out in +handfuls. The memory caused Mick such remorse at leaving her that we +hastened to distract his mind to his fine prospects once more.</p> + +<p>He delayed so long over his farewells to us that we began to fear he'd +never catch up with the other emigrants, for the road to the city was +studded with the abodes of Mick's friends, whom he had yet to call +upon. However, at last he really said good-bye, and we accompanied him +in a group to the gate of the farmyard, from which, with a last +distracted wave of his hands, the poor fellow set off, running, as if +he <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>could not trust himself to look back, along the field-path. It was +a dewy May evening after rain, and the hawthorn was all in bloom, and +the leaves shaking out their crumpled flags of tender green. The +blackbird was singing as he only sings after rain, and the fields were +covered with the gold and silver dust of buttercup and daisy. It was +sad to see the poor fellow going away at such a time, and from a place +where every one knew and was kind to him, to an unknown world that +might be very cruel. Once again as we watched him we anathematised the +emigration which has so steadily been bleeding the veins of our poor +country.</p> + +<p>We all thought of Mick the next morning, and imagined him on the +various stages of his journey to Queenstown, and the big liner. For a +week or so we did not see Mrs. Sheehy, but heard piteous accounts of +her prostration. The poor woman seemed incapable of taking comfort. +Report said that she could neither eat nor drink, so great was her +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>grief. We felt rather ashamed of our former judgments of her, and were +very full of good resolutions as to our future treatment of her. Only +Mary, our maid, disbelieved in this excessive grief; but then Mary is +the most profound cynic I have ever known, and we always discount her +judgments.</p> + +<p>Anyhow, when Mrs. Sheehy reappeared in our kitchen she looked more +wizened, yellow, and dishevelled than ever, and at the mention of +Mick's name she rocked herself to and fro in such paroxysms of grief +that we were quite alarmed. As for the benevolent ladies interested in +the schemes of emigration, their eyes would have been rudely opened if +they could have heard Mrs. Sheehy's denunciations of them. She called +them the hard-hearted ould maids who had robbed her of her one child, +who had persecuted her boy—her innocent child, and driven him out in +the cold world, who had left her to go down a lone woman to the grave. +Nor was this all, for she was an adept at eloquent Irish curses, and +she <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>sprinkled them generously on the devoted heads of the ladies +aforesaid. It was really rather fine to see Mrs. Sheehy in this tragic +mood, and we were all touched and impressed by her. We comforted her +with the suggestion that a letter from Mick was nearly due, and with +assurances, which we scarcely felt, that Mick was bound to do well in +America and prove a credit to her; and we finally got rid of her, and +were rejoiced to see her going off, with her turned-up skirt full as +usual of heterogeneous offerings.</p> + +<p>Well, a few days after this, some one brought us the surprising story +that Mick had returned or was on the way to return. One of the carters +had given him a lift on the first stage of his journey from Dublin, +and had left him by his own request at one of the houses where he had +had such a sorrowful parting a little while before. The man had told +Mick of his mother's grief, a bit of intelligence which somewhat +dashed the radiant spirits with which he was returning home. However, +he cheered up immediately: 'Tell th' ould woman,' <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>he said, 'that I +wasn't such a villain as to leave her at all, at all, an' that I'll be +home by evenin'. She'll be havin' a bit o' bacon in the pot to welcome +me.' The man told us this with a dry grin, and added, ''Tis meself +wouldn't like to be afther bringin' the poor ould woman the good news. +It might be too much joy for the crathur to bear.' This ironic speech +revived all our doubts of Mrs. Sheehy.</p> + +<p>Mick took our house on the way across the fields to his mother's +cottage. We received him cordially, though with less <i>empressement</i> +than when we had parted from him, for now we were pretty sure of +seeing Mick often during the years of our natural lives. We too told +him of his mother's excessive grief, as much, perhaps, with a selfish +design of hastening him on his way as anything else, for we had our +misgivings about Mick's reception.</p> + +<p>There were plenty of people to tell us of the prodigal's welcome. The +village had buzzed all day with the dramatic sensation of Mick's +return, but no one had told Mrs. Sheehy—though every one was on +tiptoe <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>for the hour of Mick's arrival. He came about six in the +evening, and having passed through the village was escorted by a band +of the curious towards his mother's cottage.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Sheehy lives in a by-road. On one side are the woods, on the +other the fields, and at this hour of the May evening the woods were +full of golden aisles of glory. Now Mrs. Sheehy had come out of her +house to give a bit to the pig, when she saw a group of people +advancing towards her down the sunshine and shadow of the road. She +shaded her eyes and looked that way. For a minute or two she could not +make out the advancing figures, but from one in the midst broke a +yell, a too-familiar yell, for who in the world but Mick could make +such a sound? Then her prodigal son dashed from the midst of the +throng and flew to her with his arms spread wide.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Sheehy seemed taken with a genuine faintness. She dropped the +'piggin,'—the little one-handled tub in which she was carrying the +rentpayer's mess of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>greens,—and fell back against the wall. The +spectators, and it seemed the whole village had turned out, came +stealing in Mick's wake. They were safe from Mrs. Sheehy's dreaded +tongue, for the lady had no eyes for them. As soon as she realised +that it was Mick, really her son, come back to her, she burst into a +torrent of abuse, the like of which has never been equalled in our +country. The listeners could give no idea of it: it was too continuous +and too eloquent. It included not only Mick, 'the villain, the thief +of the world, the base unnatural deceiver,' but ourselves, and all to +whom Mick had paid those farewell visits. Mick heard her with a grin, +and when she had exhausted herself she suddenly clutched him by his +mop-head, dragged him indoors, and banged the door to.</p> + +<p>She had apprehended the true state of the case. The potations at some +houses, the gifts at others, had been the causes of the failure of +Mick as an emigrant. When his round of visits was concluded he had +slept comfortably in a hay-stack till long <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>after the hour when his +fellow emigrants were starting from Kingsbridge. The next morning he +had gaily set out for 'a bit of a spree' in Dublin, and having sold +his passage ticket and his little kit, had managed, with the proceeds +and our gifts, to make the spree last a fortnight. For a little while +we deemed it expedient to avoid passing by Mrs. Sheehy's door, though +Mick assured us that it was 'the joy of the crathur had taken her wits +from her, so that she didn't rightly know what she was saying.'</p> + +<p>There was one more attempt made to emigrate Mick, but it was futile, +Mick declaring that 'he'd deserve any misfortune, so he would, if he +was ever to turn his back on the old woman again.' Mrs. Sheehy has +forgiven us our innocent share in keeping Mick at home with her. The +mother and son still live together, with varying times, just as the +working mood is on or off Mick. I believe his favourite relaxation of +an evening, when he stays at home, is to discover in the wood embers +the treasures which would have fallen to him if his love <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>for his +mother hadn't kept him from expatriating himself. The Hon. Miss +Ellersby's vacant gate-lodge has been filled up by Kitty Keegan, who +is Mrs. Sheehy's special aversion out of all the world.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>XIV</h2> + +<h3>CHANGING THE NURSERIES<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>To-day the fiat has gone forth, and we are already deep in +consultation over paper and paint, chintz, and carpeting. How many +years I have dreaded it; how many staved off, beyond my hope, the +transformation of those two dear rooms! They have been a shabby corner +in my big, stately house for many a day—a corner to which in the +long, golden afternoons I could steal for an hour and shut out the +world, and nurse my sorrow at my breast like a crying child. You may +have heard Catholics talk about a 'retreat,' a quiet time in which one +shuffles off earthly cares, and steeps one's soul in the silence that +washes it and makes it strong. Such a 'retreat' I have given my heart +in many and many an hour in the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>old nurseries. I have sat there with +my hands folded, and let the long-still little voices sound sweet in +my ear—the voices of the dead children, the voices of the grown +children whose childhood is dead. The voices cry to me, indeed, many a +time when I have no leisure to hear them. When I am facing my dear man +at the other end of our long dining-table, when I am listening to the +chatter of callers in my drawing-room, at dinner-parties and balls, in +the glare of the theatre, I often hear the cries to which I must not +listen.</p> + +<p>A mother has such times, though her matronhood be crowned like mine +with beautiful and dear children, and with the love of the best +husband in the world. I praise God with a full heart for His gifts; +but how often in the night I have wakened heart-hungry for the little +ones, and have held my breath and crushed back my sobs lest the dear +soul sleeping so placidly by my side should discover my inexplicable +trouble. In the nurseries that I shall have no more after to-day, the +memories of them <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>have crowded about my knees like gentle little +ghosts. There were the screened fire-place and the tiny chairs which +in winter they drew near the blaze, and the window overlooking the +pleasance and a strip of the garden, where the wee faces crowded if I +were walking below. Things are just as they were: the little beds +huddled about the wall; the cheap American clock, long done ticking, +on the mantelshelf; the doll's house, staring from all its forlorn +windows, as lonely as a human habitation long deserted; the cupboard, +through the open doors of which you may see the rose-bedecked cups +that were specially bought for the nursery tea. Am I the same woman +that used to rustle so cheerfully down the nursery corridor to share +that happy afternoon tea? From the door, half denuded of its paint, +peachy little faces used to peep joyfully at my coming; while inside +there waited my little delicate one, long gone to God, who never ran +and played with the others. I can see her still, with the pleasure +lighting up her little, thin face, where she sat sedately, her scarlet +shoes <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>to the blaze and her doll clasped to a tenderly maternal +breast.</p> + +<p>They will tear down the wall paper to-morrow, and the pictures of +Beauty and the Beast, and those fine-coloured prints of children and +doggies and beribboned pussy-cats that the children used to love. +There is one of a terrier submitting meekly to be washed by an +imperious small mistress. One of my babies loved that terrier so +tenderly that he had to be lifted morning and night to kiss the black +nose, whence the oily shine of the picture is much disfigured at that +point. He is grown now and a good boy, but less fond of kissing, and +somehow independent of his father and of me. There on the window +shutter is a drawing my baby, Nella, made the year she died, a strange +and wonderful representation of a lady and a dog. I have never allowed +it to be washed out, and perhaps only mothers will understand me when +I say that I have kissed it often with tears.</p> + +<p>I shall miss my nurseries bitterly. No one ever came there but myself +in those <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>quiet afternoon hours, and my old Mary, my nurse, who nursed +them all from first to last. She surprised me once as I sat strangling +with sobs amid the toys I had lifted from their shelves, the +dilapidated sheep, the Noah's Ark, the engine, which for want of a +wheel lies on its side, and a whole disreputable regiment of battered +dolls and tin soldiers. On my lap there were dainty garments of linen +and wool, every one of which I kissed so often with a passion of +regret. I have kept my baby clothes selfishly till now, hidden away in +locked drawers, sweet with lavender. To-day I have parted with them. +They are gone to dress the Christmas babies at a great maternity +hospital. Each one I set aside to go tore my heart intolerably. May +the Christmas Babe who lacked such clothing in the frost and snow, +love the little ones, living or dead, to whom those tiny frocks and +socks and shirts once belonged! Giving them away, I seem to have +wrenched my heart from the dead children; each gift was a separate +pang. The toys, too, go to-morrow to the Sisters of Charity, who have +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>a great house near at hand. A Sister, a virginal creature whom I have +seen holding the puny babies of the poor to a breast innocently +maternal, has told me of the children who at Christmastide have no +toys. This year they shall not go without; so I am sending them +all—the doll's house and the rocking-horse, and all the queer +contents of the nursery shelves, and the fairy stories well thumbed, +with here and there a loose page, and the boxes of bricks and the +clockwork mouse—all, all my treasures.</p> + +<p>Yet, if the children had all lived, I might yet have had my nurseries. +The three youngest died one after another: my smallest boy, whom I +have not ceased yet to regard as my baby, I kept in the nurseries as +long as I could. He has not yet outgrown his guinea-pigs, and his +bantams, his squirrels, and his litter of puppies. When he went to +school he commended each to my care, with tears he in vain tried +manfully to wink away. Dear little sweetheart, he gave way at last, +and we cried together passionately. But I wish he need not have <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>gone +for another year. He was more babyish than the others, more content to +remain long my baby. His first letters from school were tear-stained +and full of babyish thoughts and reminiscences. But he is growing +ashamed of the softness, I can see, and talks of 'fellows,' and +'fielding,' and 'runs,' and 'wickets' in a way that shows me that my +baby has put on the boy.</p> + +<p>It was not fair, I see, to have kept the nurseries so long. The boys +at the University, the girls, enjoying their first introduction to the +gay world, have wanted rooms for their friends, and generous as the +big house is, it does not do much more than hold its own happy brood. +The nurseries are to be made into a couple of charming rooms, the one +with a paper of tea-roses on a white satin ground, and yellow and +white hangings, and paint and tiles in the pretty grate. The other is +to be green and pink, with a suite of green furniture and rosy +hangings. I entered into it with zest as my girls debated it. But all +the time my heart cried out against <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>the devastation of its dreams. +To-morrow, when they begin to dismantle my nurseries, I do not know +how I shall bear it. I feel to-night as if they were going to turn the +gentle inhabitants out into the night and rain, the shades of my +little children who used to sit round the fire of winter evenings, or +by the window in the long, exquisite summer days. It is like long, +long ago, when Nella and Cuckoo and Darling died.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<a name="XV" id="XV"></a><hr /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span><br /> + +<h2>XV</h2> + +<h3>THE FIELDS OF MY CHILDHOOD<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">ToC</a></span></h3> +<br /> + +<p>They lie far away, gray with the mists of memory, under a veil of +distance, half-silver, half-gold, like the gossamer, so far that they +might never have been save only in dreams. They are not nearly so real +as the Eastern world of the stories I read yesterday, but I know where +they lie—common fields nowadays, and seldom visited. Yet, there was a +child once who knew every inch of them as well as the ant her anthill, +or the silvery minnow her brown well under the stone cover, to which +one descends by ancient water-stained steps.</p> + +<p>The fields are there, but their face somewhat changed, as other things +are changed. We were little ones when we came to live among them, in a +thatched house full of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>little nests of rooms, the walls of which were +run over by flowery trellises that made them country-like even by +candle-light. Of candle-light I have not much memory, for we went to +bed in the gloaming, when the long, long day had burned itself out and +the skies were washed with palest green that held the evening star; +and we slept dreamlessly till the golden day shot through the chinks +of the shutters, and we leapt to life again with a child's zest for +living. At the back of the house there was an overgrown orchard, a +dim, delicious place where the gnarled boughs made a roof against +heaven. It was our adventure, time and again, to escape through our +windows and wash our feet in the May dew before we were discovered. +One whole summer, indeed, these revels were hindered by a bull which +was pastured on the lush herbage. But how entrancing it was to hear +him roar at night, close by our bed's head, or to see his great shadow +cross the chink of moonlight in the shutter! Sometimes he ate the +rose-bushes that wreathed our window, and, rubbing <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>his gigantic +flanks against the house-wall, bellowed, while we shook in bed in +delicious tremors, and imagined our cosy nest a tent in the African +desert, with lions roaring outside. I remember the rooms so well: the +chilly parlour, only used when we had grown-up visitors, for we were +there in charge of a nurse; the red-tiled kitchen, with its settle and +its little windows opening inward; the door that gave on a grass-grown +approach; and the stone seat outside, where we sat to shell peas, or +made 'plays' with broken bits of crockery and the shreds of shining +tin pared by the travelling tinker when he mended the porringers. I +remember the very cups and saucers from which we drank our rare +draughts of tea—delicate china, with sea-shells on it in tones of +gray, the varied shapes of which gave us ever-new interest.</p> + +<p>As I look back, I can never see that house in unwinking daylight, +though it was perpetual summer then, and never a rainy day. Rooms and +passages are always dim with a subdued green light, the reflection, I +suppose, through the narrow <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>windows wreathed with verdure, and from +the grass and the plaited apple-boughs. But the spirit of improvement +has laid all waste, has thrown the wee rooms into ample ones, has +changed the narrow windows for bays and oriels, has thinned the +apple-trees for the sake of the grass. There was once a pond, long and +green, with a little island in the midst, where a water-hen had her +nest. I always thought of it as the pond in Hans Andersen's <i>Ugly +Duckling</i>, and never watched the ducks paddling among the reeds that I +did not look to the sky to see the wild geese, that were +contemptuously friendly with the poor hero, flecking the pearl-strewn +blue. The pond is filled up now with the macadam of a model farmyard. +Iron and stone have replaced the tumble-down yellow sheds, where we +drank sheep's milk in a gloom powdered with sun-rays; the two +shrubberies have gone, and the hedge of wild roses that linked the +trees in the approach to the house. Naught remains save the thatched +roof, many feet deep, the green porch over the hall door, the stone +seat round the streaky apple-tree <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>at the garden gate, and the garden +itself, where the largest lilies I have ever seen stand in the sun, +and the apple-trees are in the garden-beds, the holly-hocks elbow the +gooseberries, and the violets push out their little clumps in the +celery-bed.</p> + +<p>But the fields. It is only to the ignorant all fields are the same; as +there are some who see no individualities in animals because they have +no heart for them. Here and there hedges have been levelled and dykes +filled, and now their places are marked by a long dimple in the land's +face. The well in the midst of one has been filled up, despite the +warning of an old mountain farmer that ill-luck would surely follow +whosoever demolished the fairy well. Over it grew a clump of briar and +thorn-trees, where one found the largest, juiciest blackberries; that +too is gone, but, practically, the fields remain the same. There is +the Ten Acre field, stretching so far as to be weirdly lonely at the +very far end. Every part of it was distinct. You turned to the left as +you entered by a heavy hedge of wild-rose and blackberry. There the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>wild convolvulus blew its white trumpet gloriously and violets ran +over the bank under the green veil, and stellaria and speedwell made +in May a mimic heaven. I remember a meadow there, and yet again a +potato-digging, where we picked our own potatoes for dinner and grew +sun-burnt as the brown men and women who required so many cans of +well-water to drink at their work. Where the hedge curved there was a +little passage, through which the dyke-water flowed into the next +field. It was delightful to set little boats of leaf and grass upon +the stream, and to see them carried gaily by the current down that +arcade of green light. Some of the inquisitive ones waded after them, +and emerged wet and muddy in the next field. I preferred to keep the +mystery of the place, and to believe it went a long, long way. For +half the length of the field the water flowed over long grass that lay +face downward in it. To see it you had to lift the grass and the +meadow flowers. Once we were startled there in a summer dusk before +the hay was cut, when all the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>corn-crakes were crying out that summer +was in the land. As we threaded the meadow aisles, a heavy, dark body +leapt from its lair and into the dyke. It was a badger, we learnt +afterwards, and its presence there gave the place an attractive +fearsomeness. Half-way down, where a boundary hedge had once made two +fields of the Ten Acres, the low hedge changed to a tall wall of +stately thorn trees. Below their feet the stream ran, amber, pellucid, +over a line of transformed pebbles. By this we used to lie for hours, +watching the silver-scaled minnows as they sailed on. At the far end +there was watercress, and over the hedge a strange field, good for +mushrooms, but which bore with us a somewhat uncanny reputation.</p> + +<p>Across it you saw the gray house-chimneys of the lonely house reputed +to be haunted. Opposite its door stood an old fort on a little hill, a +noted resort of the fairies. Any summer gloaming at all, you might see +their hundreds of little lamps threading a fantastic measure in and +out on the rath. I never heard that any one <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>saw more of them than +those lights, which floated away if any were bold enough to approach +them, like glorified balls of that thistledown of which children +divine what's o'clock.</p> + +<p>At the other side of the Ten Acres was a fantastic corner of grass, +which was always a miniature meadow. There swung the scarlet and black +butterflies which have flown into Fairyland, and there the corn-crake +built her nest in the grass. It was a famous corner for +bird's-nesting, which with us took no crueller form than liking to +part the thick leaves to peep at the pretty, perturbed mother-thrush +on her clutch. Sometimes we peeped too often, and she flew away and +left the eggs cold. We saw the world from that corner, for one could +see through the hedge on to the road by lying low where the roots of +the hedge-row made a thinness. We should not have cared about this if +it were not that we could look, unseen ourselves, at the infrequent +passer-by, for the hedge grew luxuriantly. Further down it became +partly a clay bank, and there on the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>coarse grass used to hang +snail-shells of all sizes, and, as I remember them, of shining gold +and silver. The inhabitant was the drawback to all that beauty, yet +when we found an empty house, it was cold, dull, and with the sheen +vanished.</p> + +<p>Across the road was the moat-field, the great fascination of which was +in the wild hill that gave it its name. What the moat originally was I +know not. I think, now, it must have been a gravel-hill, for it was +full of deep gashes, of pits and quarries, run over by briar, alight +with furze-bushes. It must have been long disused, for the hedge that +was set around it—to keep the cattle out, perhaps—was tall and +sturdy, and grew up boldly towards the trees that studded it at +intervals. There was no other entry to it except by gaps we made in +the close hedge, and, wriggling through these, we climbed among briars +and all kinds of vegetation that made a miniature jungle overhead. +Near the top we emerged on stunted grass, with the wide sky over us, +and before us the champaign country stretching to the plains <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>of +Meath, and the smoke of the city, and the misty sea. Southwards there +were the eternal hills which grow so dear to one, yet never so +intimate that they have not fresh exquisite surprises in store. We +threaded the moat by paths between the furze, on the golden +honey-hives of which fluttered moths like blue turquoise. The +dragon-fly was there, and the lady-bird and little beetles in emerald +coats of mail. And over that the lark soared in a wide field of air to +hail God at His own very gates. Bitter little sloes grew on the moat, +and blackberries in their season; and if you had descended into one of +the many cups of the place, even long before the sun had begun to +slant, you liked to shout to your companions and be answered cheerily +from the human world. The moat had an uncanniness of its own; it was +haunted by leaping fires that overran it and left no trace. You might +see it afar, suffused by a dull glare, any dim summer night. So have I +myself beheld it when I have crept through the dews on a nocturnal +expedition: and though one of the commonplace <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>suggested that it might +have been the new moon rising scarlet behind the luxuriant vegetation +of the moat, that was in the unimaginative next day, and not when we +discussed the marvel in the scented darkness that comes between summer +eve and dawn.</p> + +<p>Then there was the well-field, where a little stream that fed the well +clattered over pebbles, made leaps so sudden down tiny inclines that +we called the commotion a waterfall, and widened under a willow-tree +into a pool, brown and still, where, tradition said, had once been +seen a trout. For sake of this glorious memory we fished long with +squirming worms and a pin, but caught not even the silliest little +minnow. This small game we used to bag, by the way, at will, by simply +lowering a can into the green depths of the well, where there was +always a tiny silver fin a-sailing. Once we kept a pair three days in +the water-jug, and finally restored them to their emerald dark. The +well-field was in part marshy and ended in a rushy place, where +water-cresses grew thick, and a little <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span>bridge led into the +neighbour's fields. There we found yellow iris, and the purple bee +orchis, and fox-gloves.</p> + +<p>Hard by was Nano's Field, which we affected only in the autumn, for +then we gathered crab-apples, of a yellow and pink, most delightful to +the eye. And also the particular variety of blackberry which ripens +first, and is large and of irregular shape, but, to the common +blackberry, what purple grapes are to the thin, green variety. And +again, there was the front lawn, where the quicken-berry hung in +drooping scarlet clusters above us, as we sat on a knoll, and a sea of +gold and white washed about us in May. But the fields make me +garrulous, and if I were to go on they that never tired the children +might weary the grown listener. Said I not they were seldom visited? +Yet their enchantment is still there for happy generations unborn. The +children and the fields and the birds we have always with us. I would +that for every child there might be the fields, to make long after a +dream of green beauty, though the world has grown <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>arid. Because the +dream seems so sweet to me I have gossiped of it, but have not named +half its delicate delights, nor some of the great ones: as the romps +in the hay fields, the voyage of discovery after hens' nests, the +mysteries of that double hedge that is the orchard boundary, and the +hidden places in gnarled boughs, where you perched among the secrets +of the birds and the leaves, and saw the crescent moon through a +tender veil of enchantment while yet the orange of the sunset was in +the west.</p> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> + +<h4>THE END</h4> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> + +<div class="block"><p class="noin"><i>Some of these stories have made their first appearance in the +pages of <span class="uni"> The Pall Mall Gazette</span>, <span class="uni">The Speaker</span>, <span class="uni">The +Englishwoman</span>, <span class="uni">The Monthly Packet</span>, <span class="uni">Black and White</span>, and <span class="uni">The +Family Circle</span>, to the Editors of which I am indebted for their +courteous permission to reproduce them here.</i></p></div> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> + +<h4><i>Printed by <span class="sc">R. & R. Clark, Limited</span>, Edinburgh.</i></h4> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<hr /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> + +<div class="tr"> +<p class="cen"><a name="TN" id="TN"></a>Typographical errors corrected in text:</p> +<br /> +Page 133: reremember replaced with remember<br /> +<br /> +<p class="cen">The sentence on page 47 really does say:</p> +The mother turned round on her her dim eyes.<br /> +</div> + +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<hr /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of An Isle in the Water, by Katharine Tynan + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ISLE IN THE WATER *** + +***** This file should be named 31391-h.htm or 31391-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/3/9/31391/ + +Produced by David Edwards, Jeannie Howse and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: An Isle in the Water + +Author: Katharine Tynan + +Release Date: February 25, 2010 [EBook #31391] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ISLE IN THE WATER *** + + + + +Produced by David Edwards, Jeannie Howse and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + + + + + + * * * * * + + +-----------------------------------------------------------+ + | Transcriber's Note: | + | | + | Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has | + | been preserved. | + | | + | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For | + | a complete list, please see the end of this document. | + | | + +-----------------------------------------------------------+ + + * * * * * + + + + +AN ISLE IN THE WATER + + + + + An + Isle in the Water + + + + BY + KATHARINE TYNAN + (Mrs. H.A. Hinkson) + + + + LONDON: ADAM & CHARLES BLACK + NEW YORK: MACMILLAN & CO. + 1896 + + + + + TO + JANE BARLOW + THESE UNWORTHY PRESENTS + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + +1. THE FIRST WIFE 1 + +2. THE STORY OF FATHER ANTHONY O'TOOLE 12 + +3. THE UNLAWFUL MOTHER 28 + +4. A RICH WOMAN 49 + +5. HOW MARY CAME HOME 67 + +6. MAURYEEN 84 + +7. A WRESTLING 102 + +8. THE SEA'S DEAD 112 + +9. KATIE 122 + +10. THE DEATH SPANCEL 136 + +11. A SOLITARY 148 + +12. THE MAN WHO WAS HANGED 168 + +13. A PRODIGAL SON 184 + +14. CHANGING THE NURSERIES 201 + +15. THE FIELDS OF MY CHILDHOOD 209 + + + + +I + +THE FIRST WIFE + + +The dead woman had lain six years in her grave, and the new wife had +reigned five of them in her stead. Her triumph over her dead rival was +well-nigh complete. She had nearly ousted her memory from her +husband's heart. She had given him an heir for his name and estate, +and, lest the bonny boy should fail, there was a little brother +creeping on the nursery floor, and another child stirring beneath her +heart. The twisted yew before the door, which was heavily buttressed +because the legend ran that when it died the family should die out +with it, had taken another lease of life, and sent out one spring +green shoots on boughs long barren. The old servants had well-nigh +forgotten the pale mistress who reigned one short year; and in the +fishing village the lavish benefactions of the reigning lady had quite +extinguished the memory of the tender voice and gentle words of the +woman whose place she filled. A new era of prosperity had come to the +Island and the race that long had ruled it. + +Under a high, stately window of the ruined Abbey was the dead wife's +grave. In the year of his bereavement, before the beautiful brilliant +cousin of his dead Alison came and seized on his life, the widower had +spent days and nights of stony despair standing by her grave. She had +died to give him an heir to his name, and her sacrifice had been vain, +for the boy came into the world dead, and lay on her breast in the +coffin. Now for years he had not visited the place: the last wreaths +of his mourning for her had been washed into earth and dust long ago, +and the grave was neglected. The fisherwives whispered that a +despairing widower is soonest comforted; and in that haunted Island of +ghosts and omens there were those who said that they had met the dead +woman gliding at night along the quay under the Abbey walls, with the +shape of a child gathered within her shadowy arms. People avoided the +quay at night therefore, and no tale of the ghost ever came to the +ears of Alison's husband. + +His new wife held him indeed in close keeping. In the first days of +his remarriage the servants in the house had whispered that there had +been ill blood over the man between the two women, so strenuously did +the second wife labour to uproot any trace of the first. The cradle +that had been prepared for the young heir was flung to a fishergirl +expecting her base-born baby: the small garments into which Alison had +sewn her tears with the stitches went the same road. There was many an +honest wife might have had the things, but that would not have pleased +the grim humour of the second wife towards the woman she had +supplanted. + +Everything that had been Alison's was destroyed or hidden away. Her +rooms were changed out of all memory of her. There was nothing, +nothing in the house to recall to her widower her gentleness, or her +face as he had last seen it, snow-pale and pure between the long +ashen-fair strands of her hair. He never came upon anything that could +give him a tender stab with the thought of her. So she was forgotten, +and the man was happy with his children and his beautiful passionate +wife, and the constant tenderness with which she surrounded every hour +of his life. + +Little by little she had won over all who had cause to love the dead +woman,--all human creatures, that is to say: a dog was more faithful +and had resisted her. Alison's dog was a terrier, old, shaggy and +blear-eyed: he had been young with his dead mistress, and had seemed +to grow old when she died. He had fretted incessantly during that year +of her husband's widowhood, whimpering and moaning about the house +like a distraught creature, and following the man in a heavy +melancholy when he made his pilgrimages to the grave. He continued +those pilgrimages after the man had forgotten, but the heavy iron gate +of the Abbey clanged in his face, and since he could not reach the +grave his visits grew fewer and fewer. But he had not forgotten. + +The new mistress had put out all her fascinations to win the dog too, +for it seemed that while any living creature clung to the dead woman's +memory her triumph was not complete. But the dog, amenable to every +one else, was savage to her. All her soft overtures were received with +snarling, and an uncovering of the strong white teeth that was +dangerous. The woman was not without a heart, except for the dead, and +the misery of the dog moved her--his restlessness, his whining, the +channels that tears had worn under his faithful eyes. She would have +liked to take him up in her arms and comfort him; but once when her +pity moved her to attempt it, the dog ran at her ravening. The husband +cried out: 'Has he hurt you, my Love?' and was for stringing him up. +But some compunction stirred in her, and she saved him from the rope, +though she made no more attempts to conciliate him. + +After that the dog disappeared from the warm living-rooms, where he +had been used to stretch on the rug before the leaping wood-fires. It +was a cold and stormy autumn, with many shipwrecks, and mourning in +the village for drowned husbands and sons, whose little fishing boats +had been sucked into the boiling surges. The roar of the wind and the +roar of the waves made a perpetual tumult in the air, and the creaking +and lashing of the forest trees aided the wild confusion. There were +nights when the crested battalions of the waves stormed the hill-sides +and foamed over the Abbey graves, and weltered about the hearthstones +of the high-perched fishing village. When there was not storm there +was bitter black frost. + +The old house had attics in the gables, seldom visited. You went up +from the inhabited portions by a corkscrew staircase, steep as a +ladder. The servants did not like the attics. There were creaking +footsteps on the floors at night, and sometimes the slamming of a door +or the stealthy opening of a window. They complained that locked doors +up there flew open, and bolted windows were found unbolted. In storm +the wind keened like a banshee, and one bright snowy morning a +housemaid, who had business there, found a slender wet footprint on +the floor as of some one who had come barefoot through the snow;--and +fled down shrieking. + +In one of the attics stood a great hasped chest, wherein the dead +woman's dresses were mouldering. The chest was locked, and was likely +to remain so for long, for the new mistress had flung away the key. +From the high attic windows there was a glorious view of sea and land, +of the red sandstone valleys where the deer were feeding, of the black +tossing woods, of the roan bulls grazing quietly in the park, and far +beyond, of the sea, and the fishing fleet, and in the distance the +smoke of a passing steamer. But none observed that view. There was not +a servant in the house who would lean from the casement without +expecting the touch of a clay-cold finger on her shoulder. Any whose +business brought them to the attic looked in the corners warily, while +they stayed, but the servants did not like to go there alone. They +said the room smelt strangely of earth, and that the air struck with +an insidious chill: and a gamekeeper being in full view of the attic +window one night declared that from the window came a faint moving +glow, and that a wavering shadow moved in the room. + +It was in this cold attic the dog took up his abode. He followed a +servant up there one morning, and broke out into an excited whimpering +when he came near the chest. After a while of sniffing and rubbing +against it he established himself upon it with his nose on his paws. +Afterwards he refused to leave it. Finally the servants gave up the +attempt to coax him back into the world, and with a compunctious pity +they spread an old rug for him on the chest, and fed him faithfully +every day. The master never inquired for him: he was glad to have the +brute out of his sight: the mistress heard of the fancy which +possessed him, and said nothing: she had given up thinking to win him +over. So he grew quite old and grizzled, and half blind as summers and +winters passed by. It grew a superstition with the servants to take +care of him, and with them on their daily visits he was so +affectionate and caressing as to recall the days in which some of them +remembered him when his mistress lived, and he was a happy dog, as +good at fighting and rat-hunting and weasel-catching as any dog in the +Island. + +But every night as twelve o'clock struck the dog came down the attic +stairs. He was suddenly alert and cheerful, and trotted by an +invisible gown. Some said you could hear the faint rustle of silk +lapping from stair to stair, and the dog would sometimes bark sharply +as in his days of puppyhood, and leap up to lick a hand of air. The +servants would shut their doors as they heard the patter of the dog's +feet coming, and his sudden bark. They were thrilled with a +superstitious awe, but they were not afraid the ghost would harm them. +They remembered how just, how gentle, how pure the dead woman had +been. They whispered that she might well be dreeing this purgatory of +returning to her dispossessed house for another's sake, not her own. +Husband and wife were nearly always in their own room when she +passed. She went everywhere looking to the fastenings of the house, +trying every door and window as she had done in the old days, when her +husband declared the old place was only precious because it held her. +Presently the servants came to look on her guardianship of the house +as holy, for one night some careless person had left a light burning +where the wind blew the curtains about, and they took fire, and were +extinguished, by whom none knew; but in the morning there was the +charred curtain, and Molly, the kitchenmaid, confessed with tears how +she had forgotten the lighted candle. + +The husband was the last of all to hear of these strange doings, for +the new wife took care that they should never be about the house at +midnight. But one night as he lay in bed he had forgotten something +and asked her to fetch it from below. She looked at him with a disdain +out of the mists of her black hair, which she was combing to her knee. +Perhaps for a minute she resented his unfaithfulness to the dead. +'No,' she said, with deliberation, 'not till that dog and his +companion pass.' She flung the door open, and looked half with fear, +half with defiance, at the black void outside. There was the patter of +the dog's feet coming down the stairs swiftly. The man lifted himself +on his elbow and listened. Side by side with the dog's feet came the +swish, swish of a silken gown on the stairs. He looked a wild-eyed +inquiry at his second wife. She slammed the door to before she +answered him. 'It has been _so_ for years,' she said; 'every one knew +but you. She has not forgotten as easily as you have.' + + * * * * * + +One day the dog died, worn out with age. After that they heard the +ghost no longer. Perhaps her purgatory of seeing the second wife in +her place was completed, and she was fit for Paradise, or her +suffering had sufficed to win another's pardon. From that time the new +wife reigned without a rival, living or dead, near her throne. + + + + +II + +THE STORY OF FATHER ANTHONY O'TOOLE + + +On the wall of the Island Chapel there is a tablet which strangers +read curiously. The inscription runs: + + FATHER ANTHONY O'TOOLE + + FOR THIRTY YEARS THE SHEPHERD OF + HIS FLOCK + + _Died 18th December 1812_ + Aged 80 years. + + 'He will avenge the blood of his servants, and will be + merciful unto his land, and to his people.' + +Many a time has a summer visitor asked me the meaning of the Old +Testament words on the memorial tablet of a life that in all +probability passed so quietly. + +Any child in the Island will tell you the story of Father Anthony +O'Toole. Here and there an old man or woman will remember to have seen +him and will describe him--tall despite his great age, with the frost +on his head but never in his heart, stepping down the cobbles of the +village street leaning on his gold-headed cane, and greeting his +spiritual children with such a courtesy as had once been well in place +at Versailles or the Little Trianon. Plainly he never ceased to be the +finest of fine gentlemen, though a less inbred courtesy might well +rust in the isolation of thirty years. Yet he seems to have been no +less the humblest and simplest of priests. Old Peter Devine will tell +you his childish memory of the old priest sitting by the turf fire in +the fisherman's cottage, listening to the eternal complaint of the +winds and waters that had destroyed the fishing and washed the +potato-gardens out to sea, and pausing in his words of counsel and +sympathy to take delicately a pinch of the finest snuff, snuff that +had never bemeaned itself by paying duty to King George. + +But that was in the quite peaceful days, when the country over there +beyond the shallow water lay in the apathy of exhaustion--helpless and +hopeless. That was years after Father Anthony had flashed out as a man +of war in the midst of his quiet pastoral days, and like any Old +Testament hero had taken the sword and smitten his enemies in the name +of the Lord. + +Father Anthony was the grandson of one of those Irish soldiers of +fortune who, after the downfall of the Jacobite cause in Ireland, had +taken service in the French and Austrian armies. In Ireland they +called them the Wild Geese. He had risen to high honours in the armies +of King Louis, and had been wounded at Malplaquet. The son followed in +his father's footsteps and was among the slain at Fontenoy. Father +Anthony, too, became a soldier and saw service at Minden, and carried +away from it a wound in the thigh which made necessary the use of that +gold-headed cane. They said that, soldier as he was, he was a fine +courtier in his day. One could well believe it looking at him in his +old age. From his father he had inherited the dashing bravery and gay +wit of which even yet he carried traces. From his French mother he had +the delicate courtesy and _finesse_ which would be well in place in +the atmosphere of a court. + +However, in full prime of manhood and reputation, Father Anthony, for +some reason or other, shook the dust of courts off his feet, and +became a humble aspirant after the priesthood at the missionary +College of St. Omer. He had always a great desire to be sent to the +land of his fathers, the land of faith and hope, of which he had heard +from many an Irish refugee, and in due time his desire was fulfilled. +He reached the Island one wintry day, flung up out of the teeth of +storms, and was in the Island thirty years, till the _reveille_ of his +Master called him to the muster of the Heavenly host. + +Father Anthony seems to have been innocently ready to talk over his +days of fighting. He was not at all averse from fighting his battles +over again for these simple children of his who were every day in +battle with the elements and death. Peter Devine remembers to have +squatted, burning his shins by the turf fire, and watching with +fascination the lines in the ashes which represented the entrenchments +and the guns, and the troops of King Frederick and the French line, as +Father Anthony played the war-game for old Corney Devine, whose +grass-grown grave is under the gable of the Island Chapel. + +Now and again a fisherman was admitted by special favour to look upon +the magnificent clothing which Father Anthony had worn as a colonel of +French Horse. The things were laid by in lavender as a bride might +keep her wedding-dress. There were the gold-laced coat and the +breeches with the sword-slash in them, the sash, the belt, the plumed +hat, the high boots, the pistols, and glittering among them all, the +sword. That chest of Father Anthony's and its contents were something +of a fairy tale to the boys of the Island, and each of them dreamt of +a day when he too might behold them. The chest, securely locked and +clamped, stood in the sacristy; and Father Anthony would have seen +nothing incongruous in its neighbourhood to the sacred vessels and +vestments. He generally displayed the things when he had been talking +over old fighting days, to the Island men mostly, but occasionally to +a French captain, who with a cargo, often contraband, or wines and +cigars, would run into the Island harbour for shelter. Then there were +courtesies given and exchanged; and Father Anthony's guest at parting +would make an offering of light wines, much of which found its way to +sick and infirm Island men and women in the days that followed. + +Father Anthony had been many placid years on the Island when there +began to be rumours of trouble on the mainland. Just at first the +United Irish Society had been quite the fashion, and held no more +rebellious than the great volunteer movement of a dozen years earlier. +But as time went by things became more serious. Moderate and fearful +men fell away from the Society, and the union between Northern +Protestants and Southern Catholics, which had been a matter of much +concern to the Government of the day, was met by a policy of goading +the leaders on to rebellion. By and by this and that idol of the +populace was flung into prison. Wolfe Tone was in France, praying, +storming, commanding, forcing an expedition to act in unison with a +rising on Irish soil. Father Anthony was excited in these days. The +France of the Republic was not his France, and the stain of the blood +of the Lord's Anointed was upon her, but for all that the news of the +expedition from Brest set his blood coursing so rapidly and his pulses +beating, that he was fain to calm with much praying the old turbulent +spirit of war which possessed him. + +Many of the young fishermen had left the Island and were on the +mainland, drilling in secrecy. There were few left save old men and +women and children when the blow fell. The Government, abundantly +informed of what went on in the councils of the United Irishmen, knew +the moment to strike, and took it. The rebellion broke out in various +parts of the country, but already the leaders were in prison. Calamity +followed calamity. Heroic courage availed nothing. In a short time +Wolfe Tone lay dead in the Provost-Marshal's prison of Dublin; and +Lord Edward Fitzgerald was dying of his wounds. In Dublin, +dragoonings, hangings, pitch-capping and flogging set up a reign of +terror. Out of the first sudden silence terrible tidings came to the +Island. + +At that time there was no communication with the mainland except by +the fishermen's boats or at low water. The Island was very much out of +the world; and the echoes of what went on in the world came vaguely as +from a distance to the ears of the Island people. They were like +enough to be safe, though there was blood and fire and torture on the +mainland. They were all old and helpless people, and they might well +be safe from the soldiery. There was no yeomanry corps within many +miles of the Island, and it was the yeomanry, tales of whose doings +made the Islanders' blood run cold. Not the foreign soldiers--oh no, +they were often merciful, and found this kind of warfare bitterly +distasteful. But it might well be that the yeomanry, being so busy, +would never think of the Island. + +Father Anthony prayed that it might be so, and the elements conspired +to help him. There were many storms and high tides that set the Island +riding in safety. Father Anthony went up and down comforting those +whose husbands, sons, and brothers were in the Inferno over yonder. +The roses in his old cheeks withered, and his blue eyes were faded +with many tears for his country and his people. He prayed incessantly +that the agony of the land might cease, and that his own most helpless +flock might be protected from the butchery that had been the fate of +many as innocent and helpless. + +The little church of gray stone stands as the vanguard of the village, +a little nearer to the mainland, and the spit of sand that runs out +towards it. You ascend to it by a hill, and a wide stretch of green +sward lies before the door. The gray stone presbytery joins the church +and communicates with it. A ragged boreen, or bit of lane, between +rough stone walls runs zigzag from the gate, ever open, that leads to +the church, and wanders away to the left to the village on the rocks +above the sea. Everything is just the same to-day as on that morning +when Father Anthony, looking across to the mainland from the high +gable window of his bedroom, saw on the sands something that made him +dash the tears from his old eyes, and go hastily in search of the +telescope which had been a present from one of those wandering +sea-captains. + +As he set his glass to his eye that morning, the lassitude of age and +grief seemed to have left him. For a few minutes he gazed at the +objects crossing the sands--for it was low water--in an attitude tense +and eager. At last he lowered the glass and closed it. He had seen +enough. Four yeomen on their horses were crossing to the island. + +He was alone in the house, and as he bustled downstairs and made door +and windows fast, he was rejoiced it should be so. Down below the +village was calm and quiet. The morning had a touch of spring, and the +water was lazily lapping against the sands. The people were within +doors,--of that he was pretty well assured--for the Island was in a +state of terror and depression. There was no sign of life down there +except now and again the barking of a dog or the cackling of a hen. +Unconsciously the little homes waited the death and outrage that were +coming to them as fast as four strong horses could carry them. +'Strengthen thou mine arm,' cried Father Anthony aloud, 'that the +wicked prevail not! Keep thou thy sheep that thou hast confided to my +keeping. Lo! the wolves are upon them!' and as he spoke his voice rang +out through the silent house. The fire of battle was in his eyes, his +nostrils smelt blood, and the man seemed exalted beyond his natural +size. Father Anthony went swiftly and barred his church doors, and +then turned into the presbytery. He flashed his sword till it caught +the light and gleamed and glanced. 'For this, for this hour, friend,' +he said, 'I have polished thee and kept thee keen. Hail, sword of the +justice of God!' + +There came a thundering at the oaken door of the church. 'Open, son of +Belial!' cried a coarse voice, and then there followed a shower of +blasphemies. The men had lit down from their horses, which they had +picketed below, and had come on foot, vomiting oaths, to the church +door. Father Anthony took down the fastenings one by one. Before he +removed the last he looked towards the little altar. 'Now,' he said, +'defend Thyself, all-powerful!' and saying, he let the bar fall. + +The door swung open so suddenly that three of the men fell back. The +fourth, who had been calling his blasphemies through the keyhole of +the door, remained yet on his knees. In the doorway, where they had +looked to find an infirm old man, stood a French colonel in his battle +array, the gleaming sword in his hand. The apparition was so sudden, +so unexpected, that they stood for the moment terror-stricken. Did +they think it something supernatural? as well they might, for to their +astonished eyes the splendid martial figure seemed to grow and grow, +and fill the doorway. Or perhaps they thought they had fallen in an +ambush. + +Before they could recover, the sword swung in air, and the head of the +fellow kneeling rolled on the threshold of the church. The others +turned and fled. One man fell, the others with a curse stumbled over +him, recovered themselves, and sped on. Father Anthony, as you might +spit a cockroach with a long pin, drove his sword in the fallen man's +back and left it quivering. The dying scream rang in his ears as he +drew his pistols. He muttered to himself: 'If one be spared he win +return with seven worse devils. No! they must die that the innocent +may go safe,' and on the track of the flying wretches, he shot one in +the head as he ran, and the other he pierced, as he would have +dragged himself into the stirrups. + +In the broad sunlight, the villagers, alarmed by the sound of +shooting, came timidly creeping towards the presbytery to see if harm +had befallen the priest, and found Father Anthony standing on the +bloody green sward wiping his sword and looking about him at the dead +men. The fury of battle had gone out of his face, and he looked gentle +as ever, but greatly troubled. 'It had to be,' he said, 'though, God +knows, I would have spared them to repent of their sins.' + +'Take them,' he said, 'to the Devil's Chimney and drop them down, so +that if their comrades come seeking them there may be no trace of +them.' The Devil's Chimney is a strange, natural _oubliette_ of the +Island, whose depth none has fathomed, though far below you may hear a +subterranean waterfall roaring. + +One of the dead men's horses set up a frightened whinnying. 'But the +poor beasts,' said Father Anthony, who had ever a kindness for +animals, 'they must want for nothing. Stable them in M'Ora's Cave +till the trouble goes by, and see that they are well fed and watered.' + +An hour later, except for some disturbance of the grass, you would +have come upon no trace of these happenings. I have never heard that +they cast any shade upon Father Anthony's spirit, or that he was less +serene and cheerful when peace had come back than he had been before. +No hue and cry after the dead yeomen ever came to the Island, and the +troubles of '98 spent themselves without crossing again from the +mainland. After a time, when peace was restored, the yeomen's horses +were used for drawing the Island fish to the market, or for carrying +loads of seaweed to the potatoes, and many other purposes for which +human labour had hitherto served. + +But Father Anthony O'Toole was dead many and many a year before that +tablet was set up to his memory. And the strange thing was that Mr. +Hill, the rector, who, having no flock to speak of, is pretty free to +devote himself to the antiquities of the Island, his favourite study, +was a prime mover in this commemoration of Father Anthony O'Toole, +and himself selected the text to go upon the tablet. + +In a certain Wicklow country-house an O'Toole of this day will display +to you, as they display the dead hand of a martyr in a reliquary, the +uniform, the sword and pistols, the feathered hat and the riding +boots, of Father Anthony O'Toole. + + + + +III + +THE UNLAWFUL MOTHER + + +In the Island the standard of purity is an extraordinarily high one, +and it is almost unheard of that a woman should fall away from it. +Purity is the unquestioned prerogative of every Island girl or woman, +and it only comes to them as a vague far-off horror in an unknown +world that there are places under the sun and the stars where such is +not the case. The punishment is appalling in the very few cases where +sin has lifted its head amongst these austere people. The lepers' hut +of old was no such living death of isolation as surrounds an Island +girl who has smirched her good name. Henceforth there is an atmosphere +about her that never lifts--of horror for some, of tragedy for +others, according to their temperament. There she stands lonely for +all her days, with the seal set upon her that can never be broken, the +consecration of an awful and tragic destiny. + +I knew of such an one who was little more than a child when this +horror befell her. She has dark blue eyes and thick black lashes, and +very white skin. The soft dark hair comes low on her white forehead. +With a gaily-coloured shawl covering her head, and drawn across her +chin, as they wear it in the Island, she looks, or looked when I last +saw her, a hidden, gliding image of modesty. And despite that sin of +the past she is modest. It was the ignorant sin of a child, and out of +the days of horror and wrath that followed--her purging--she brought +only the maternity that burns like a white flame in her. The virtuous +were more wroth against her in old days that she carried her maternity +so proudly. Why, not the most honourable and cherished of the young +Island mothers dandled her child with such pride. No mother of a young +earl could have stepped lighter, and held her head higher, than +Maggie when she came down the fishing street, spurning the very +stones, as it seemed, so lightly she went with the baby wrapped in her +shawl. She did not seem to notice that some of the kindly neighbours +stepped aside, or that here and there a woman pulled her little +daughter within doors, out of the path of the unlawful mother. Those +little pink fingers pushed away shame and contempt. The child was her +world. + +She was the daughter of a fisherman who died of a chest complaint soon +after she was born. Her mother still lives, a hard-featured honest old +woman, with a network of fine lines about her puckered eyes. Her hair +went quite white the year her daughter's child was born, but I +remember it dark and abundant with only a silver thread glistening +here and there. She has grown taciturn too; she was talkative enough +in the old days when I was a child in the Island, and, often and +often, came clattering in by the half-door to shelter from a shower, +and sat till fine weather on a stool by the turf ashes, gravely +discussing the fishing and the prospects of pigs and young fowl that +season. + +There are three sons, but Jim was married and doing for himself before +the trouble befell the family. Tom and Larry were at home, Tom, gentle +and slow-spoken, employed about the Hall gardens. Larry, a fisherman +like his father before him. Both were deeply attached to their young +sister, and had been used to pet and care for her from her cradle. + +There is yet a tradition in the island of that terrible time when +Maggie's mother realised the disgrace her daughter had brought on an +honest name. There had been a horrified whisper in the Island for some +time before, a surmise daily growing more certain, an awe-stricken +compassion for the honest people who never suspected the ghastly +shadow about to cross their threshold. People had been slow to accept +this solution of Maggie's pining and weakness. This one had suggested +herb-tea, and that one had offered to accompany Maggie to see the +dispensary doctor who came over from Breagh every Tuesday. But Maggie +accepted none of their offices, only withdrew herself more and more in +a sick horror of herself and life, and roamed about the cliffs where +but the gulls and the little wild Island cattle looked on at her +restless misery. + +Her mother was half-fretted and half impatient of her daughter's +ailing. She was a very strong woman herself, and except for a pain in +the side which had troubled her of late, she had never known a day of +megrims. She listened chafing to the neighbours' advice--and every one +of them had their nostrum--and heeded none of them. She had an idea +herself that the girl's sickness was imaginary and could be thrown off +if she willed it. When the neighbours all at once ceased offering her +advice and sympathy she felt it a distinct relief. She had not the +remotest idea that she was become the centre of an awe-stricken +sympathy, that her little world had fallen back and stood gaping at +her and hers as they might at one abnormally stricken: if their +gabble ceased very suddenly and no more idlers came in for a chat by +the fireside she was not the one to fret; she had always plenty to do +without idle women hindering her, and, now the girl had her sick fit +on her, all the work fell to the mother's share. + +The girl's time was upon her before the mother guessed at the blinding +and awful truth. She was a proud, stern, old woman, come of a race +strong in rectitude, and she would scarcely have believed an angel if +one had come to testify to her daughter's dishonour. But the time came +when it could no longer be hidden, when the birth-pains were on the +wretched girl, and in the quietness of the winter night, her sin stood +forth revealed. + +Some merciful paralysis stiffened the mother's lips when she would +have cursed her daughter. She lifted up her voice indeed to curse, but +it went from her; her lips jabbered helplessly; over her face came a +bluish-gray shade, and she fell in a chair huddled with one hand +pressed against her side. + +The two men came in on this ghastly scene. The girl was crouched on +the floor with her face hidden, shrinking to the earth from the +terrible words she expected to hear. The men lifted the sister to her +bed in the little room. They forced some spirit between their mother's +lips, and in a few minutes the livid dark shade began to pass from her +face. Her lips moved. 'Take her,' she panted, 'take that girl and her +shame from my honest house, lest I curse her.' + +The two men looked at each other. They turned pale through their hardy +brownness, and then flushed darkly red. It flashed on them in an +instant. This was the meaning of the girl's sickness, of a thousand +hints they had not understood. Tom, with characteristic patience, was +the first to bend his back to the burden. + +'Whisht, mother,' he said, 'whisht. Don't talk about cursing. If +there's one black sin under our roof-tree, we won't open the door to +another.' He put his arm round her in a tender way. 'Come, achora,' he +said, as if he were humouring a child, 'come and lie down. You're not +well, you creature.' + +'Oh Tom,' said the mother, softening all at once, 'the black shame's +on me, and I'll never be well again in this world.' + +She let him lift her to her bed in one of the little rooms that went +off the kitchen. Then he came back to where Larry stood, with an acute +misery on his young face, looking restlessly from the turf sods he was +kicking now and again to the door behind which their young sister lay +in agony. + +'There's no help for it, Larry,' said Tom, touching him on the +shoulder. 'We can't trust her and the mother under one roof. We must +take her to the hospital. It's low water to-night, and you can get the +ass-cart across the sand. You'll take her, Larry, an' I'll stay an' +see to the mother.' + +They wrapped the girl in all the bedclothes they could find and lifted +her into the little cart full of straw. The Island lay quiet under the +moon, all white with snow except where a black patch showed a ravine +or cleft in the rocks. In the fishing village the doors were shut and +the bits of curtains drawn. It was bitterly cold, and not a night for +any one to be abroad. The ass-cart went quietly over the snow. The two +men walked by it, never speaking; a low moaning came from the woman in +the cart. They did not meet a soul on their way to the shore. + +At that point the Island sends out a long tongue of rock and sand +towards the mainland. At very low water there is but a shallow pool +between the two shores; over this they crossed. Sometimes the ass-cart +stuck fast in the sand. Then the men lifted the wheels gently, so as +not to jerk the cart, and then encouraging the little ass, they went +on again. When they had climbed up the rocky shore to the mainland, +and the cart was on the level road, they parted. Before Tom turned his +face homewards he bent down to Maggie. 'You're goin' where you'll be +taken care of, acushla. Don't fret; Larry'll fetch you home as soon as +you can travel,' he said. And then, as if he could scarcely bear the +sight of her drawn face in the moonlight, he turned abruptly, and went +striding down the rocky shore to the strand. + +Because Tom and Larry had forgiven out of their great love, it did not +therefore follow that the shame did not lie heavily on them. Tom went +with so sad a face and so lagging a step that people's hearts ached +for him; while young Larry, who was always bright and merry, avoided +all the old friends, and when suddenly accosted turned a deep painful +red and refused to meet the eyes that looked their sympathy at him. + +A few weeks passed and it was time for the girl to leave the hospital. +There had been long and bitter wrangles--bitter at least on one +side--between the mother and sons. She had sworn at first that she +would never live under the roof with the girl, but the lads returned +her always the same answer, 'If she goes we go too.' And by degrees +their dogged persistence dulled the old woman's fierce anger. Maggie +came home, and the cradle was established beside the hearth. At first +the brothers had whispered together of righting her, but when she had +answered them a question--a dull welt of shame tingling on their +cheeks and hers as though some one had cut them with a whip--they knew +it was useless. The man had gone to America some months before, and +was beyond the reach of their justice. + +But the child throve as if it had the fairest right to be in the +world, and was no little nameless waif whose very existence was a +shame. He was a beautiful boy, round and tender, with his mother's +dark-blue eyes, and the exquisite baby skin which is softer than any +rose-leaf. From very early days he crowed and chuckled and was a most +cheerful baby. Left alone in his cradle he would be quietly happy for +hours; he slept a great deal, and only announced his waking from sleep +by a series of delighted chuckles, which brought his mother running to +his side to hoist him in her arms. + +He must have been about a year old when I first saw him. Maggie +intruded him on no one, though people said that if any one admired +her baby it made her their lover for life. I happened to be in the +Island for a while, and one evening on a solitary ramble round the +cliffs I came face to face with Maggie,--Maggie stepping high, and +prettier than ever with that rapt glory of maternity in her face which +made ordinary prettiness common beside her. + +I saw by the way she wisped the shawl round her full white chin that I +was welcome to pass her if I would. But I did not pass her. I stopped +and spoke a little on indifferent topics, and then I asked for the +baby. A radiant glow of pleasure swept over the young mother's +healthily pale face. She untwisted the shawl and lifted a fold of it, +and stood looking down at the sleeping child with a brooding +tenderness, almost divine. He was indeed lovely, with the flush of +sleep upon him and one little dimpled hand thrust against her breast. +'What a great boy!' I said. 'But you must be half killed carrying +him.' She laughed out joyfully, a sweet ringing laughter like the +music of bells. 'Deed then,' she said, ''tis the great load he is +entirely, an' any wan but meself 'ud be droppin' under the weight of +him. But it 'ud be the quare day I'd complain of my jewel. Sure it's +the light heart he gives me makes him lie light in my arms.' + +But Maggie's mother remained untouched by the child's beauty and +winsomeness. Mother and daughter lived in the same house absolutely +without speech of each other. The girl was gentleness and humility +itself. For her own part she never forgot she was a sinner, though she +would let no one visit it on the child. I have been told that it was +most pathetic to see how she strove to win forgiveness from her +mother, how she watched and waited on her month after month with never +a sign from the old woman, who was not as strong as she had been. The +pain in her side took her occasionally, and since any exertion brought +it on she was fain at last to sit quietly in the chimney-corner a good +deal more than she had been used to. She had seen the doctor, very +much against her will, and he had said her heart was affected, but +with care and avoiding great excitement, it might last her to a good +old age. + +Maggie was glad of the hard work put upon her. She washed and swept +and scrubbed and polished all day long, with a touching little air of +cheerfulness which never ceased to be sad unless when she was crooning +love-songs to the baby. She made no effort to take up her old friends +again, though she was so grateful when any one stopped and admired the +baby. She quite realised that her sin had set her apart, that nothing +in all the world could give her back what she had lost, and set her +again by the side of those happy companions of her childhood. + +As the time passed she never seemed to feel that her mother was hard +and unrelenting. She bore her dark looks and her silence with amazing +patience. Usually the old woman seemed never to notice the child; but +once Maggie came in and saw her gazing at the sleeping face in the +cradle with what seemed to her a look of scorn and dislike. She gave a +great cry, like the cry of a wounded thing, and snatching the child, +ran out with him bareheaded, carrying him away to the high cliffs +covered with flowers full of honey, and there she crooned and cried +over him till the soothing of the sweet wind and the sunshine eased +her heart, and the blighting gaze that had fallen upon her darling had +left no shadow. + +For her two brothers she felt and displayed a doglike devotion and +gratitude. The big fellows were sometimes almost uneasy under the love +of her eyes, and the thousand and one offices she was always doing for +them to try to make up to them for her past. They had come to take an +intense interest, at first half shamefaced, in the baby. But as he +grew older and full of winning ways, one could not always remember +that he was a child of shame, and he made just as much sunshine as any +lawful child makes in a house. More indeed, for in all the Island was +never so beautiful a child. The sun seemed to shed all its rays on his +head; his eyes were blue as the sea; his limbs were sturdy and +beautiful, and from the time he began to take notice he sent out +little tendrils that gathered round the hearts of all those who looked +upon him. So kind is God sometimes to a little nameless child. + +But to see Maggie while her brothers played with the boy, tossing him +in their arms, and letting him spring from one to the other, was +indeed a pretty sight. You know the proud confidence with which an +animal that loves you looks on at your handling of her little +ones--her anxiety quite swallowed up in her pride and confidence and +her benevolent satisfaction in the pleasure she is giving you. That is +how Maggie watched those delightful romps. But the old woman in the +chimney-corner turned away her head; and never forgot that Maggie had +stolen God's gift, and that the scarlet letter was on the boy's white +forehead. + +As the years passed and the boy throve and grew tall, I heard of +Maggie becoming very devout. 'A true penitent,' said Father Tiernay to +me, 'and I believe that in return for the patience and gentleness with +which she has striven to expiate her sin God has given her a very +unusual degree of sanctity.' In the intervals of her work she was +permitted as a great privilege to help about the altar linen, and keep +the church clean. She used to carry the boy with her when she went to +the church, and I have come upon him fast asleep in a sheltered +corner, while his mother was sweeping and dusting, with a radiant and +sanctified look on a face that had grown very spiritual. + +But still the old mother remained inexorable. I am sure in her own +mind she resented as a profanation her daughter's work about the +church. She herself had never entered that familiar holy place since +her daughter's disgrace. Sunday and holiday all these years she had +trudged to Breagh, a long way round by the coast, for mass. All +expostulations have been vain, even Father Tiernay's own. Whatever +other people may forget, the sin has lost nothing of its scarlet for +her. + +It was the last time I was on the Island that I was told of Maggie's +marriage. Not to an Island man: oh no, no Island man would marry a +girl with a stain on her character, not though she came to be as high +in God's favour as the blessed Magdalen herself. He was the mate of a +Scotch vessel, a grave, steady, strong-faced Highlander. He had come +to the Island trading for years, and knew Maggie's story as well as +any Islander. But he had seen beyond the mirk of the sin the woman's +soul pure as a pearl. + +Maggie could not believe that any man, least of all a man like +Alister, wanted to marry her. 'I am a wicked woman,' she said with hot +blushes, 'and you must marry a good woman.' + +'I mean to marry a good woman, my lass,' he said, 'the best woman I +know. And that is your bonny self.' Maggie hesitated. He smoothed back +her hair with a fond proprietary touch. 'We'll give the boy a name,' +he said, 'and before God, none will ever know he's not my own boy.' + +That settled it. Jack was a big lad of six now, and would soon begin +to understand things, and perhaps ask for his father. It opened before +her like an incredible exquisite happiness that perhaps he need never +know her sin. She put her hand into Alister's and accepted him in a +passion of sobbing that was half joy, half sorrow. + +The brothers were all in favour of the marriage. They loved her too +much not to want her to have a fair chance in a new life. Here on the +Island, though she were a saint, she would still be a penitent. It +came hardest on Tom,--for Larry was soon to bring home a wife of his +own, but neither man talked much of what he felt. They put aside their +personal sorrow and were glad for Maggie and her boy. + +But Maggie's mother was consistent to the last. No brazen and +flaunting sinner could have seemed to her more a lost creature than +the girl who had been so dutiful a daughter, so loving a sister, so +perfect a mother, all those years. Tom told her the news. 'I wash my +hands of her,' she said. 'Let her take her shame under an honest man's +roof if she will. I wish her neither joy nor sorrow of it.' And more +gentle words than these Tom could not bring her to say. + +So Maggie was married, the old woman preserving her stony silence and +apparent unconcern. She only spoke once,--the day the girl was made a +wife. It was one of her bad days, and she had to lie down after an +attack of her heart. Maggie dressed to go to the church and meet her +bridegroom. She was not to return to the cottage, and her modest +little luggage and little Jack's were already aboard the Glasgow brig. +At the last, hoping for some sign of softening, the girl went into the +dim room where her mother lay, ashen-cheeked. The mother turned round +on her her dim eyes. 'What do you want of me?' she asked, breaking the +silence of years. The girl helplessly covered her eyes with her hands. +'Did you come for my blessing?' gasped the old woman. 'It is liker my +curse you'd take with you. But I promised Tom long ago that I would +not curse you. Go then. And I praise God that Larry will soon give me +an honest daughter instead of you, my shame this many a year.' + +That was the last meeting of mother and daughter. They say Alister is +a devoted husband, but he comes no more to the Island. He has changed +out of his old boat, and his late shipmates say vaguely that he has +removed somewhere Sunderland or Cardiff way, and trades to the North +Sea. Tom is very reticent about Maggie, though Miss Bell, the +postmistress, might tell, if she were not a superior person, and as +used to keeping a secret at a pinch as Father Tiernay himself, how +many letters he receives with the post-mark of a well-known seaport +town. + +Poor Maggie! Said I not that in the Island the way of transgressors is +hard? + + + + +IV + +A RICH WOMAN + + +Margret Laffan was something of a mystery to the Island people. Long +ago in comparative youth she had disappeared for a half-dozen years. +Then she had turned up one day in a coarse dress of blue and white +check, which looked suspiciously like workhouse or asylum garb, and +had greeted such of the neighbours as she knew with a nod, for all the +world as if she had seen them yesterday. It happened that the henwife +at the Hall had been buried a day or two earlier, and when Margret +came asking a place from Mrs. Wilkinson, the lord's housekeeper, the +position was yet unfilled and Margret got it. + +Not every one would have cared for the post. Only a misanthropic +person indeed would have been satisfied with it. The henwife's +cottage and the poultry settlement might have been many miles from a +human habitation, so lonely were they. They were in a glen of red +sandstone, and half the wood lay between them and the Hall. The great +red walls stood so high round the glen that you could not even hear +the sea calling. As for the village, it was a long way below. You had +to go down a steep path from the glen before you came to an open +space, where you could see the reek of the chimneys under you. Every +morning Margret brought the eggs and the trussed chickens to the Hall. +But no one disturbed her solitude, except when the deer, or the wild +little red cattle came gazing curiously through the netting at Margret +and her charges. There, for twenty-seven years, Margret lived with no +company but the fowl. On Sundays and holidays she went to mass to the +Island Chapel, but gave no encouragement to those who would have gone +a step of the road home with her. The Island women used to wonder how +she could bear the loneliness.--'Why, God be betune us and harm!' +they often said, 'Sure the crathur might be robbed and murdhered any +night of the year and no wan the wiser.' And so she might, if the +Island possessed robbers and murderers in its midst. But it is a +primitively innocent little community, which sleeps with open doors as +often as not, and there is nothing to tempt marauders or even beggars +to migrate there. + +By and by a feeling got about that Margret must be saving money. Her +wage as a henwife was no great thing, but then, as they said, 'she +looked as if she lived on the smell of an oil-rag,' and there was +plenty of food to be had in the Hall kitchen, where Margret waited +with her eggs and fowl every morning. Certainly her clothes, though +decent, were worn well-nigh threadbare. But the feelers that the +neighbours sent out towards Margret met with no solid assurance. Grim +and taciturn, Margret kept her own counsel, and was like enough to +keep it till the day of her death. + +Jack Laffan, Margret's brother, is the village carpenter, a sociable +poor man, not the least bit in the world like his sister. Jack is +rather fond of idling over a glass with his cronies in the +public-house, but, as he is well under Mrs. Jack's thumb, the habit is +not likely to grow on him inconveniently. There are four daughters and +a son, a lad of fifteen or thereabouts. Two of the daughters are +domestic servants out in the big world, and are reported to wear +streamers to their caps and fine lace aprons every day. Another is +handmaiden to Miss Bell at the post office, and knows the contents of +all the letters, except Father Tiernay's, before the people they +belong to. Fanny is at home with her father and mother, and is +supposed to be too fond of fal-lals, pinchbeck brooches and cheap +ribbons, which come to her from her sisters out in the world. She +often talks of emigration, and is not sought after by the young men of +the Island, who regard her as a 'vain paycocky thing.' + +Mrs. Jack has the reputation of being a hard, managing woman. There +was never much love lost between her and Margret, and when the latter +came back from her six years' absence on the mainland, Mrs. Jack's +were perhaps the most ill-natured surmises as to the reasons for +Margret's silence and the meaning of that queer checked garb. + +For a quarter of a century Margret lived among her fowl, untroubled by +her kin. Then the talk about the money grew from little beginnings +like a snowball. It fired Mrs. Jack with a curious excitement, for she +was an ignorant woman and ready to believe any extravagant story. She +amazed Jack by putting the blame of their long ignoring of Margret +upon his shoulders entirely, and when he stared at her, dumb-founded, +she seized and shook him till his teeth rattled. 'You great stupid +omadhaun!' she hissed between the shakes, 'that couldn't have the +nature in you to see to your own sister, an' she a lone woman!' + +That very day Jack went off stupidly to try to bridge over with +Margret the gulf of nearly thirty years. He got very little help from +his sister. She watched him with what seemed like grim enjoyment +while he wriggled miserably on the edge of his chair and tried to talk +naturally. At length he jerked out his wife's invitation to have a bit +of dinner with them on the coming Sunday, which Margret accepted +without showing any pleasure, and then he bolted. + +Margret came to dinner on the Sunday, and was well entertained with a +fat chicken and a bit of bacon, for the Laffans were well-to-do +people. She thoroughly enjoyed her dinner, though she spoke little and +that little monosyllabic; but Margret was taciturn even as a girl, and +her solitary habit for years seemed to have made speech more difficult +for her. Mrs. Jack heaped her plate with great heartiness and made +quite an honoured guest of her. But outside enjoying the dinner +Margret did not seem to respond. Young Jack was brought forward to +display his accomplishments, which he did in the most hang-dog +fashion. The cleverness and good-looks and goodness of the girls were +expatiated upon, but Margret gave no sign of interest. Once Fanny +caught her looking at her with a queer saturnine glance, that made +her feel all at once hot and uncomfortable, though she had felt pretty +secure of her smartness before that. Margret's reception of Mrs. +Jack's overtures did not satisfy that enterprising lady. When she had +departed Mrs. Jack put her down as 'a flinty-hearted ould maid.' 'Her +sort,' she declared, 'is ever an' always sour an' bitther to them the +Lord blesses wid a family.' But all the same it became a regular thing +for Margret to eat her Sunday dinner with the Laffans, and Mrs. Jack +discovered after a time that the good dinners were putting a skin and +roundness on Margret that might give her a new lease of life--perhaps +a not quite desirable result. + +The neighbours looked on at Mrs. Jack's 'antics' with something little +short of scandal. They met by twos and threes to talk over it, and +came to the conclusion that Mrs. Jack had no shame at all, at all, in +her pursuit of the old woman's money. Truth to tell, there was +scarcely a woman in the Island but thought she had as good a right to +Margret's money as her newly-attentive kinsfolk. Mrs. Devine and Mrs. +Cahill might agree in the morning, with many shakings of the head, +that 'Liza Laffan's avarice and greed were beyond measure loathsome. +Yet neither seemed pleased to see the other a little later in the day, +when Mrs. Cahill climbing the hill with a full basket met Mrs. Devine +descending with an empty one. + +For all of a sudden a pilgrimage to Margret's cottage in the Red Glen +became the recognised thing. It was surprising how old childish +friendships and the most distant ties of kindred were furbished up and +brought into the light of day. The grass in the lane to the glen +became trampled to a regular track. If the women themselves did not +come panting up the hill they sent the little girsha, or wee Tommy or +Larry, with a little fish, or a griddle cake, or a few fresh greens +for Margret. The men of the Island were somewhat scornful of these +proceedings on the part of their dames; but as a rule the Island wives +hold their own and do pretty well as they will. All this friendship +for Margret created curious divisions and many enmities. + +Margret, indeed, throve on all the good things, but whether any one +person was in her favour more than another it would be impossible to +say. Margret got up a way of thanking all alike in a honeyed voice +that had a queer sound of mockery in it, and after a time some of the +more independent spirits dropped out of the chase, 'pitching,' as they +expressed it, 'her ould money to the divil.' Mrs. Jack was fairly +confident all the time that if any one on the Island got Margret's +nest-egg it would be herself, but she had a misgiving which she +imparted to her husband that the whole might go to Father Tiernay for +charities. Any attempt at getting inside the shell which hid Margret's +heart from the world her sister-in-law had long given up. She had also +given up trying to interest Margret in 'the childher,' or bidding +young Jack be on his best behaviour before the Sunday guest. The young +folk didn't like the derision in Margret's pale eyes, and kept out of +her way as much as possible, since they feared their mother too much +to flout her openly, as they were often tempted to do. + +Two or three years had passed before Margret showed signs of failing. +Then at the end of one very cold winter people noticed that she grew +feebler. She was away from mass one or two Sundays, and then one +Sunday she reappeared walking with the aid of a stick and looking +plainly ill and weak. After mass she had a private talk with Father +Tiernay at the presbytery; and then went slowly down to Jack's house +for the usual dinner. Both Jack and Mrs. Jack saw her home in the +afternoon, and a hard task the plucky old woman found it, for all +their assistance, to get back to her cottage up the steep hill. When +they had reached the top she paused for a rest. Then she said quietly, +'I'm thinkin' I'll make no more journeys to the Chapel. Father +Tiernay'll have to be coming to me instead.' + +'Tut, tut, woman dear,' said Mrs. Jack, with two hard red spots coming +into her cheeks, 'we'll be seein' you about finely when the weather +gets milder.' And then she insinuated in a wheedling voice something +about Margret's affairs being settled. + +Margret looked up at her with a queer mirthfulness in her glance. +'Sure what wud a poor ould woman like me have to settle? Sure that's +what they say when a sthrong-farmer takes to dyin'.' + +Mrs. Jack was too fearful of possible consequences to press the +matter. She was anxious that Margret should have Fanny to look after +the house and the fowl for her, but this Margret refused. 'I'll be +able to do for myself a little longer,' she said, 'an' thank you +kindly all the same.' + +When it was known that Margret was failing, the attentions to her +became more urgent. Neighbours passed each other now in the lane with +a toss of the head and 'a wag of the tail.' As for Mrs. Jack, who +would fain have installed herself altogether in the henwife's cottage, +she spent her days quivering with indignation at the meddlesomeness of +the other women. She woke Jack up once in the night with a fiery +declaration that she'd speak to Father Tiernay about the pursuit of +her moneyed relative, but Jack threw cold water on that scheme. 'Sure +his Riverince himself, small blame to him, 'ud be as glad as another +to have the bit. 'Twould be buildin' him the new schoolhouse he's +wantin' this many a day, so it would.' And this suggestion made Mrs. +Jack look askance at her pastor, as being also in the running for the +money. + +It was surprising how many queer presents found their way to Margret's +larder in those days. They who had not the most suitable gift for an +invalid brought what they had, and Margret received them all with the +same inscrutability. She might have been provisioning for a siege. +Mrs. Jack's chickens were flanked by a coarse bit of American bacon; +here was a piece of salt ling, there some potatoes in a sack; a slice +of salt butter was side by side with a griddle cake. Many a good woman +appreciated the waste of good food even while she added to it, and +sighed after that full larder for the benefit of her man and the weans +at home; but all the time there was the dancing marsh-light of +Margret's money luring the good souls on. There had never been any +organised robbery in the Island since the cattle-lifting of the kernes +long ago; but many a good woman fell of a tremble now when she thought +of Margret and her 'stocking' alone through the silent night, and at +the mercy of midnight robbers. + +There was not a day that several offerings were not laid at Margret's +feet. But suddenly she changed her stereotyped form of thanks to a +mysterious utterance, 'You're maybe feeding more than you know, kind +neighbours,' was the dark saying that set the women conjecturing about +Margret's sanity. + +Then the bolt fell. One day a big, angular, shambling girl, with +Margret's suspicious eyes and cynical mouth, crossed by the ferry to +the Island. She had a trunk, which Barney Ryder, general carrier to +the Island, would have lifted to his ass-cart, but the new-comer +scornfully waved him away. 'Come here, you two gorsoons,' she said, +seizing upon young Jack Laffan and a comrade who were gazing at her +grinning, 'take a hoult o' the thrunk an' lead the way to Margret +Laffan's in the Red Glen. I'll crack sixpence betune yez when I get +there.' The lads, full of curiosity, lifted up the trunk, and preceded +her up the mile or so of hill to Margret's. She stalked after them +into the sunny kitchen where Margret sat waiting, handed them the +sixpence when they had put down the trunk, bundled them out and shut +the door before she looked towards Margret in her chimney-corner. + +The explanation came first from his Reverence, who was walking in the +evening glow, when Mrs. Jack Laffan came flying towards him with her +cap-strings streaming. + +'Little Jack has a quare story, yer Riverince,' she cried out panting, +'about a girl's come visitin' ould Margret in the glen, an' wid a +thrunk as big as a house. Him an' little Martin was kilt draggin' it +up the hill.' + +His Reverence waved away her excitement gently. + +'I know all about it,' he said. 'Indeed I've been the means in a way +of restoring Margret's daughter to her. You never knew your +sister-in-law was married, Mrs. Laffan? An odd woman to drop her +married name. We must call her by it in future. Mrs. Conneely is the +name.' + +But Mrs. Jack, with an emotion which even the presence of his +Reverence could not quell, let what the neighbours described +afterwards as a 'screech out of her fit to wake the dead,' and fled +into her house, where on her bed she had an attack which came as near +being hysterical as the strong-minded woman could compass. She only +recovered when Mrs. Devine and Mrs. Cahill and the widow Mulvany, +running in, proposed to drench her with cold water, when her heels +suddenly left off drumming and she stood up, very determinedly, and +bade them be off about their own business. She always spoke afterwards +of Margret as the robber of the widow and orphan, which was satisfying +if not quite appropriate. + +We all heard afterwards how Margret had married on the mainland, and +after this girl was born had had an attack of mania, for which she was +placed in the county asylum. In time she was declared cured, and it +was arranged that her husband should come for her on a certain day and +remove her; but Margret, having had enough of marriage and its +responsibilities, left the asylum quietly before that day came and +made her way to the Island. She had been well content to be regarded +as a spinster till she felt her health failing, and then she had +entrusted to Father Tiernay her secret, and he had found her daughter +for her. + +Margret lived some months after that, and left at the time of her +death thirty pounds to the fortunate heiress. The well-stocked larder +had sufficed the two for quite a long time without any recourse to +'the stocking.' There was very little further friendship between the +village and the Red Glen. Such of the neighbours as were led there at +first by curiosity found the door shut in their faces, for Mary had +Margret's suspiciousness many times intensified. After the Laffan +family had recovered from the first shock of disappointment Fanny made +various approaches to her cousin when she met her at mass on the +Sundays, and, unheeding rebuffs, sent her a brooch and an apron at +Christmas. I wish I could have seen Margret's face and Mary's over +that present. It was returned to poor Fanny, with a curt intimation +that Mary had no use for it, and there the matter ended. + +I once asked Mary, when I knew her well enough to take the liberty, +about that meeting between her and her mother, after the door was shut +on young Jack's and little Martin's departing footsteps. 'Well,' said +Mary, 'she looked hard at me, an' then she said, "You've grown up +yalla an' bad-lookin', but a strong girl for the work. You favour +meself, though I've a genteeler nose." And then,' said Mary, 'I turned +in an' boiled the kettle for the tay.' + +The money did not even remain in the Island, for as soon as Margret +was laid in a grave in the Abbey--with a vacant space beside her, for, +said Mary, 'you couldn't tell but I'd be takin' a fancy to be buried +there myself some day,'--Mary fled in the early morning before the +neighbours were about. Mary looked on the Island where so many had +coveted her money as a 'nest of robbers,' and so she fled, with 'the +stocking' in the bosom of her gown, one morning at low tide. She +wouldn't trust the money to the post office in the Island, because her +cousin Lizzie was Miss Bell's servant. 'Divil a letther but the +priest's they don't open an' read,' she said, 'an' tells the news +afterwards to the man or woman that owns it. The news gets to them +before the letter. An' if I put the fortune in there I'm doubtin' +'twould ever see London. I know an honest man in the Whiterock post +office I'd betther be trustin'. + +And that is how Margret's 'stocking' left the Island. + + + + +V + +HOW MARY CAME HOME + + +The Island people seldom marry outside the Island. They are +passionately devoted to each other, but as a rule look coldly upon the +stranger. Swarthy Spanish sailors put in sometimes, and fair-skinned, +black-eyed Greeks, and broad-shouldered Norwegians, all as ripe for +love as any other sailor, but that they should carry away an Island +girl to their outlandish places over sea is a thing almost unheard of. +The Island girls are courted by their own blue-jerseyed +fisher-lads--and what a place for love-making, with the ravines and +caves in the cliff-sides, and the deep glens in the heart of the +Island, so lonely except for the lord's red deer and little fierce +black cattle. Why, if one of those foreign sailors attempted +love-making with an Island lass, just as likely as not a pair of +little brown fists would rattle about his amazed ears; the girls there +know how to defend their dignity. + +But one spring there was a sensation little short of a scandal when it +became known that Mary Cassidy, the handsomest girl of the Island, was +keeping company with a Spanish sailor who had come into harbour on a +Glasgow barque. The stage of keeping company was not long. So violent +was the passion that flamed up between the two that there was no +gainsaying it. Mary was the one girl in a family of five tall +fishermen. Father and mother were dead--the father drowned in a wild +night while trying to make the treacherous mouth of the inadequate +harbour, the mother dead of her grief. Mary had known fathering and +mothering both from the brothers. She was the youngest of them all, +and their pride and glory. + +She was tall and generously proportioned, with ropes of red gold hair +round her small head, and her face had the colour of the sea-shell. In +her large brown eyes, sleepily veiled by long lashes, smouldered a +hidden fire: her step was proud and fearless, and she was as strong as +a beautiful lithe young animal. The brothers brought her gay prints +and woollens and rows of beads when they came home with the fishing +fleet, and with these she adorned her beauty--a beauty so brilliant +that it glittered of itself. + +There was no use opposing her once she had fallen in love with Jacopo. +He was a handsome, dark fellow, with insinuating manners, and a voice +like a blackbird. When the two were together there was no one else in +the world for them. He had flamed up with the fierceness of his +southern nature: she with the heat of a heart slow to love, and once +fired slow to go out. + +When Jacopo had settled things with Father Tiernay and had gone on his +last trip before he should come to make Mary his wife, the girl walked +the Island like one transfigured. The light burned steadily in her +deep eyes, her cheeks flamed scarlet, her lips were red as coral. She +went about her household duties with her head in the air and her eyes +far away. The brothers when they came home of an evening sat silent +in a ring, for the grief was on them: but if the girl knew she did not +seem to know. Of the five brothers not one had thought of marrying. +What any one might do as soon as the golden thread that held them +together was snapped no one could say; but they were grizzled or +grizzling men, and had long ago been put down by the Island folk as +confirmed bachelors. + +Father Tiernay had talked with Jacopo about his religion, and had +declared him an excellent son of Mother Church, so there was nothing +against him on that ground. The captain of his ship gave him a good +character, and Jacopo had been with him three seasons. He had a tidy +little house near Greenock, and a bit of money saved. Yet the brothers +were not satisfied. 'Why couldn't she have fancied a lad of the kindly +neighbours?' grumbled William, the eldest. And the youngest, Patrick, +answered in the same strain, 'Wasn't the Island good enough for her +but she must go to foreign lands?' And then five melancholy heads +shook in the twilight. + +They had a cold, awkward, insular distrust and shyness of the +Spaniard. They made no response to his professions of goodwill and +brotherhood, poured out fluently in his yet difficult Scots-English. +They noticed and commented afterwards upon his contemptuous shrug, +when one feast night he was invited to join the family at its +Rosary,--for they are devout people, the Islanders. + +Yet, distrust or no distrust, the girl must go to him. He came back +one summer day with a fine rig-out for his wedding, and a bonnet and +cloak for the bride such as were never dreamt of in the Island. She +was an impassioned bride, and as she came down the church with her +husband, her eyes uplifted and shining like stars, she seemed rather +to float like a tall flame than to walk like a mortal woman. + +Five men watched her then with melancholy and patient faces. The five +went with her to the boat on which she was to cross to the mainland to +take the Glasgow steamer. As the little ferry plied away from the pier +it was at her husband she looked, not at them and the Island, though +it stood up purple and black, and she had well loved the rocks and +glades of it, and though they had fostered her. + +The five men went back to their lonely cottage and began to do for +themselves. They were handy fellows, as good at frying a fish as +catching it, and they were not minded to put a woman in Mary's place. +They kept the cottage tidy enough, yet it was a dreary tidiness. The +fire generally went out when it was no longer required for meals, and +as the brothers came in one after the other, from smoking a pipe on +the quay, they went to bed in the dark, or by the shaft of moonlight +that came in through the window overlooking the old Abbey and its +graves. They were always silent men, and now they grew more taciturn. +Even when at first letters came from Mary full of her husband and her +happiness, they spelt them out to themselves and did not take the +neighbours into their confidence. And more and more they came to be +regarded as 'oddities' by the Island people. + +About a year after Mary's marriage there came a letter from Jacopo +announcing that she was the mother of a son. That child formed a +tremendous interest to his five uncles. They did not talk much about +it, but a speech from one or another told what was in all their minds. + +'The lad'll be fine and tall by this,' one would say. 'Ay,' the other +would respond, 'he'll be maybe walking by now.' 'He'll have the looks +of his mother,' suggested James. 'Ay: he was a fair child from the +beginning,' Thomas would agree. + +Seeing the child was so much in their minds it was strange none of +them had ever seen it. At first after she was married Mary had been +fond of pressing them to come to the Clyde, if it was only for a look +at her. But little by little the invitations had dropped off and +ceased. They had been shy of going in the early days. It was not that +they feared the journey, for some of the brothers had fared much +further afield than Scotland; but in their hearts, though they never +complained, they remembered how she had not looked back on them as the +ferry swung from the pier, and feared that they might be but +half-welcome guests in the house of her husband. + +At first Jacopo often wrote for his wife, but after a time this too +ceased. Then the praises of him by degrees grew spasmodic. There were +often two or three letters in which his name found no place. The +brothers with the keenness of love noted this fact, though each of +them pondered it long in his mind before one evening Patrick spoke of +his fear, and then the others brought theirs out of its hiding-place. + +Mary had been going on for four years married, when in a wild winter +David and Tom were drowned. They were laid with many another drowned +fisherman in the Abbey graveyard. Mary wrote the other brothers +ill-spelt, tear-stained letters, which proved her heart had not grown +cold to them; and the three brothers went on living as the five had +done. + +It was a bitter, bitter spring when Mary's letters ceased altogether. +They had had a short letter from her early in January, and then no +word afterwards. February went by gray and with showers of sleet: no +word came. In the first week of March there came a great storm, with +snow pelting on the furious wind. All the fishing boats were drawn +high on the land, and the fishers sat in their cottages benumbed, +despite the fires on the hearth, for the wind roared through doors and +windows and often seemed minded to take up the little houses and smash +them on the rocks as an angry child smashes a flimsy toy. No one went +out of doors, and the Cassidys sat with their feet on the turf embers +and smoked. The sky was lurid green all that March day, and in the +little cottage there was hardly light for the men to see each other's +brooding faces. If they spoke it was only to say, 'God betune us and +all harm!' or, 'God help all poor sowls at say!' when the wind rattled +with increasing fury the stout door and windows. + +It was some time in the afternoon that William spoke out of his +meditations. 'Boys,' he said, 'if the ferry goes to-morrow, and +they'll be fain to put out, for there isn't much food on the Island, +I'll start wid her in the name of God, and take the Glasga' boat. +It's on my mind there's something wrong wid our Mary.' + +The other two breathed a sigh of relief. 'The same was on my tongue,' +said one and the other, and almost simultaneously both cried, 'Why +should you go? Let me go.' + +'Stay where yez are, boys!' said the other authoritatively, 'an' get +what comfort yez can about the house. I'm thinkin' I'll be bringin' +the girsha home.' + +He gave no reason for this supposition, and they asked none. That +night the storm subsided, and though the sea was churned white as +wool, and no fishing boats would put out for days to come, the tiny +steam ferry panted its way through the trough of waters to bring +stores from the mainland. Will Cassidy was the only passenger, and he +carried with him small provision for himself, but at the last moment +Patrick had come running after him with a bundle of woollens. + +'It'll be fine and cold travelling back,' he panted, 'so I run over to +Clancy's (Clancy's was the village shop) and got a big shawl for her, +an' a small one for the child. The things'll be no worse for your +keeping them warm on the way over.' + +But William did not keep them warm in his brother's sense. He hugged +them under his big _cotamor_, and now and again he took them out and +regarded them with interest. Once he said aloud, 'Well, to think of +Patrick havin' the thought, the crathur'; and then put them hurriedly +back because a big wave was just sousing over the deck. + +The next evening he was in the streets of the unfriendly Scotch town +that was covered with snow. The green sky of the day of the storm had +fulfilled its prophecy and spilt its burden on the earth. As he passed +on, inquiring his way from one or another, there were few passengers +to enlighten him, and his footsteps fell with a muffled sound on the +causeways. At last he came to where the houses grew thinner, and found +the place he sought, a little cottage not far from the water's edge. + +There was a light in the window, but when he had knocked no one came +in answer. He knocked two or three times. Then he lifted the latch +and went in. There was a woman sitting by the fireless grate. Her arms +were round a child on her bosom, and a thin shawl about her shoulders +trailed over the child's face. She did not turn round as he came in, +but he saw it was Mary's figure. He had to speak to her before she +looked up. Then she gave a faint cry and her frozen face relaxed. She +held out the child to him with an imploring gesture: it reminded him +of her running to him with a wound when she had fallen down in her +babyhood. He took the child from her and felt it very heavy. The +mother came to him gently and put her head on his rough coat. 'O +William,' she cried, 'he's dead; my little Willie's dead and cold. It +was at three o'clock the breath went out of him, and no one ever came +since.' + +He looked at the child then and saw that he was indeed dead. He put +her back gently in her chair, and laid the child's little body on the +bright patchwork quilt of the bed. He remembered that quilt: it was +part of Mary's bridal gear. Then he came again to the mother and +soothed her, with her bright head against his rough coat. + +'Whisht, acushla,' he said, 'sure you're famished. Aisy now, till I +make a bit of fire for you.' + +The girl watched him with wide dry eyes of despair. He gathered the +embers on the hearth and set a light to them. He lit a candle and +extinguished the smoking lamp, which had apparently been burning all +day. Then he went here and there gathering the materials for a meal. +The kettle was soon boiling, and he made some tea and forced her to +drink a cup. He was very glad of its warmth himself, for he was weary +with long fasting. Afterwards he sat down beside her and asked for +Jacopo. + +'Him,' turning away her head, 'he's wid another woman.' She said no +more, and William asked no more. Instead, he said gently, 'Well, +acushla, you'll be putting together the few things you'll take with +you. There's a cattle boat going at six in the mornin', an' we can get +a passage by that.' + +She looked up at him. 'But the child?' she said. + +'He'll go wid us,' the man replied. 'He'll sleep sweeter on the Island +than in this sorrowful town.' + +'May God reward you, William,' she said. 'You're savin' more than you +know. For if he'd come back I wouldn't answer for it that I wouldn't +have kilt him as he slep'.' + +The morning rose green and livid, with a sky full of snow though the +world was covered with it. Now and again the snow drifted in their +faces as they trudged through the streets before daybreak, and it came +dryly pattering when they were out on the waste of green waters +cleaving their way under the melancholy daylight. William had found a +corner for the woman under shelter of the bridge, and there she sat +through the hours with the dead child wrapped in her shawl, and the +cold of it aching at her heart. The snow came on faster, and the deck +passengers huddled in for shelter. 'God save you, honest woman,' said +a ruddy-faced wife to her. 'Give me the child, and move yourself +about a bit. You'll be fair frozen before we're half way across.' Mary +shook her head with a gesture that somehow disarmed the kind woman's +wrath at the rejection of her overtures. 'That crature looks to me,' +she said to her husband, 'fair dazed wid the sorrow. Maybe it's the +husband of her the crature's after buryin'.' There were a great many +curious glances at Mary in her corner, but no one else had the +temerity to offer her help. + +William brought her a cup of tea at mid-day, which she drank eagerly, +still holding the child with one arm, but she pushed away the food he +offered with loathing. + +In the evening they disembarked, and from a pier swept by the north +wind were huddled into a train, ill lit and cold as the grave. Mary +crouched into a corner with her face bent over the dead child. 'A +quiet sleeper, ma'am,' said a cheerful sea-faring man. Mary looked at +him with lack-lustre eyes and turned away her head. + +Presently she began to sing, a quaint old Island lullaby, which rang +weird and melancholy. William looked at her in alarm, but said +nothing, and the other passengers watched her curiously, half in fear. +She lifted her child from her knee to her breast, and held it there +clasped a moment. 'I can't warm him,' she said, looking helplessly at +all the wondering faces. 'The cold's on him and on me, and I doubt +we'll ever be warm again.' + +Presently they drew up at a bleak way-side station for the ferry, and +the brother and sister without a word stepped out in the night and the +snow. The man did not offer to carry the child. He knew it was no use. +But he put a strong arm round the woman and her burden, where the snow +was heaviest, and the wind from the sea blew like a hurricane. + +They were the only passengers by the ferry, and neither the ferryman +nor his mate knew Mary Cassidy, with the shawl drawn over her eyes. +But as they stepped ashore and touched the familiar rock on which she +and hers for many a forgotten generation had been born and cradled, +the piteous frozen madness melted away from her face. She turned to +her brother-- + +'Tis the sad home-coming,' she said, 'but I've brought back all I +prized.' She snatched the ring from her finger suddenly and hurled it +out in the tossing waters, on which even in the dark they could see +the foam-crests. 'Now I'm Mary Cassidy again,' she said, 'and the +woman that left you is dead.' She lifted her shawl and kissed the +little dead face under it. 'You've no father, avic,' she said +passionately. 'You're mine, only mine. Never a man has any right in +you at all, but only Mary Cassidy.' + + + + +VI + +MAURYEEN + + +Against Con Daly's little girl there was never a word spoken in the +Island. Con had been well liked, God rest his soul!--but the man was +drowned nigh upon twenty years ago. There was some old tragic tale +about it, how he had volunteered to swim with a rope round his waist +to a ship breaking up a few yards from the rocks in a sea that a +gannet could scarcely live upon. He had pushed aside the men who +remonstrated with him, turning on them a face ghastly in the +moonlight. 'Stand aside, men,' he cried, 'and if I fail, see to the +girsha!' He was the strongest man in all the Island, and as much at +home in the water as a porpoise. They saw his sleek head now and again +flung out of the trough of the waves, and his huge shoulders +labouring against the weight of the storm. Then suddenly the rope they +were holding fell slack in their hands,--they said afterwards it had +snapped on a jagged razor of rock,--and the man disappeared. A day or +two later his battered and bruised body was flung up on the bathing +strand, where in summer the city ladies take their dip in the sea. He +was buried with some of the drowned sailors he had tried to rescue, +and an iron cross put at his head by the fishermen. But for a long +time there was a talk that the man had gone to meet his death gladly, +had for some reason or another preferred death to life; but people +were never quite sure if there was anything in it. + +The Islanders had looked askance at Ellen Daly, Con's wife, before +that, though to her husband she was the apple of his eye. She had been +a domestic servant on the mainland when Con Daly met and married her, +and she had never seemed to have any friends. She had been handsome in +her day, at least so some people thought, but there were women on the +Island who said they never could abide her, with her pale face and +sneering smile, and her eyes that turned green as a cat's when she was +angry. However, she never tried to ingratiate herself with the women: +if the men admired her it was as much as she asked. When she liked she +could be fascinating enough. She bewitched Mrs. Wilkinson, the +housekeeper at the Hall, into taking her on whenever his Lordship +filled the house with gentlemen and an extra hand was needed. She was +deft and clever, and could be insinuating when it served her purpose. +But the friendship of the Island women she had never desired, and when +her husband was drowned there was not a fisher-wife to go and sit with +her in the desolate house. As the years went by her good looks went +with them. She yellowed, and her malevolent eyes took on red rims +round their greenness; while her dry lips, parted over her snarling +teeth, were more ill than they had been when they were ripe and ruddy. + +The neighbours were kind by stealth to Con's girsha. Those were long +days of her childhood when her mother was at work in the Hall, and +the child was locked in the empty cottage; but many was the kind word +through the window, from the women as they passed up and down, and now +and again a hot griddle-cake, or some little dainty of the kind, was +passed through to the child as she sat so dull and lonely on her +little creepy stool. + +Poor little Mauryeen! She was a child with social instincts, and +often, often she used to wonder in those lonely hours why she might +not be out with the other children, playing at shop in the crevices of +the rocks, or wading for cockles, or dancing round in a ring to the +sing-song of 'Green Gravel,' or playing at 'High Gates.' Her mother +coldly discouraged any friendship with the children of her foes; and +little Mauryeen grew up a silent child, with something more delicate +and refined about her than the other children,--with somehow the air +of a little lady. + +But Mauryeen was not her mother's child to be without a will of her +own. As she grew from childhood to girlhood she began to assert +herself, and though her mother tried hard to break her spirit she did +not succeed. After a time she seemed to realise that here was +something she had not counted upon, and to submit, since she could not +hope to fight it. All the same she hated the girl whom she could not +rule, hated her so furiously that the glitter of her eyes as she +looked at her from the chimney-corner was oftentimes murderous. For, +little by little Mauryeen grew to be friends with all the fishing +village. + +Even though she asserted herself the girl did her duty bravely and +humbly. Any mother of them all would have been proud to own Mauryeen. +When her mother had employment at the Hall Mauryeen took care of the +house, and having cleaned and tidied to her heart's content, sat in +the sun at her knitting till Ellen Daly came home to find a +comfortable meal prepared for her. The woman's one good quality was +that she had always been a good housewife, and the girl took after +her. Then when her mother was at home Mauryeen went out sewing to the +houses of the few gentry who lived on the hill; and the house was +well kept and comfortable, though an unnatural hatred sat beside the +hearth. + +The neighbours pitied and praised Mauryeen all the more. They used to +wonder how long it would last, the silent feud between mother and +daughter, especially since Mauryeen was so capable and clever that she +might for the asking join even Mrs. Wilkinson's chosen band of +handmaidens. + +The girl meanwhile throve as happily as though she lived in the very +sunshine of love rather than in this malignant atmosphere. She saw +little of her mother. The hours when they were under one roof were +few; and across the threshold she found abundant kindness and praise. +Mauryeen was small and graceful, with the olive-tinted fairness which +had been her mother's in her best days. But Mauryeen's blue eyes were +kindly and her lips smiled, and her soft voice was gentle; she had a +pretty way of decking herself which the fisher-girls could never come +by. Mauryeen in a pink cotton frock, with a spray of brown seaweed in +her belt, might have passed for one of the young ladies who visited at +the Hall. If the other girls copied her pretty tricks of decoration +they carried the tame air of the mere copyist. But no one grudged +Mauryeen her charm; she was so kind and gentle, and she had always the +tragedy of that ghastly old mother of hers to stir pity for her. Then +too she always seemed so anxious that the other girls should look +well, and so willing to take trouble to this end, that no one could +envy her her own prettiness. + +There came a time when a young man of the Island, Randal Burke by +name, declared to Mauryeen that her voice could coax the birds off the +trees, and that her head when she listened was like the prettiest +bird's head, all covered with golden feathers. She had indeed a very +pretty way of listening, with her head on one side and her eyes bright +and attentive. Mauryeen was used to compliments, and could usually +hold her own in a bit of light love-making; but it was remarkable +that at this speech of Randal Burke's she went pale. She always turned +pale when another girl would have blushed. + +Mauryeen's was a sudden and rapid wooing. The young fellow was fairly +independent, possessing as he did a little bit of land with his +cottage, as well as a boat. His mother was one of the most prosperous +women of the Island, and had been in days gone by Ellen Daly's +bitterest enemy. But for all that she welcomed Mauryeen tenderly as a +daughter. + +There was a terrible to-do when Mauryeen told her mother of her +intentions. She turned so livid that Mauryeen for all her brave heart +was frightened, and faltered. The old woman choked and gasped with the +whirlwind of passion that possessed her. As soon as she could speak +she hissed out:-- + +'The day you marry him I curse you, and him, your house, your +marriage, and every child born of you.' + +Mauryeen's anger rose and shook her too like a whirlwind, but it drove +out fear. + +'And if you do, you wicked woman,' she said, 'it's not me it'll harm. +Do you think God will listen to the like of you or let harm befall me +and mine because of your curse?' + +For a day or two after Mauryeen's defiance her mother brooded in +quietness, only now and again turning on her daughter those terrible +green eyes. No word passed between the two, and meanwhile Randal Burke +was hastening the preparations for the marriage by every means in his +power. Father Tiernay had 'called' them at the mass three Sunday +mornings. The priest was greatly pleased with the marriage. Mauryeen +was a pet lamb of his flock, and he deeply disliked and distrusted her +mother. + +It was the feast day of the year on the Island, a beautiful bright +sunny June day. On a plateau the men played at the hurley and putting +the stone; and there was a tug of war for married men and single, and +after that for the women, amid much jollity and laughter. Above the +plateau the hill sloped, and that long sunny slope was the place from +which the girls and women looked on at the prowess of their male kind. +That day out of all the year there was a general picnic on the hill, +and meals were eaten and the long day spent out of doors, till the +dews came on the grass. + +Now one of the events was a rowing contest, and the course was right +under the hill-slope. Father Tiernay every year gave a money prize for +the winner, and the distinction in itself was ardently coveted. Randal +Burke was rowing against another young fisherman, and it was not easy +to forecast the winner, both men were so strong, so practised, and so +eager in the contest. + +The race had begun, and the people on the hillside were standing up in +their excitement watching the boats, which were nearly dead level. +Mauryeen stood by Randal's mother, with one hand thrust childishly +within her arm, and the other shading her eyes from the bright sun. +Suddenly the people were startled by the sound of running feet, and +all looking in one direction they saw Mauryeen's mother coming +without bonnet or cloak, her face working with passion and her hands +clenched. The people fell back before her. She had an evil reputation, +and for a minute or two they thought she had gone mad. Mauryeen, who +did not fall back with the others, found herself standing in the +centre of an empty space, while her mother panted before her, +struggling for words. All the women-folk behind pressed together and +craned over each other's shoulders, half alarmed and half curious. + +At last the woman found her breath. She pointed a yellow finger at the +girl, who stood before her with her head proudly lifted, and her eyes +amazed but fearless. + +'Look at her,' shrieked the beldame, 'all of you, and you, Kate Burke, +that boasts your family's the oldest on the Island. Look well at her! +Och, the good ould ancient blood! Look at _her_, for her blood's +ancienter still. Do you see anything of Con Daly in her?' + +The girl looked round with a forlorn sense of being held up to public +scorn, but the women were huddling together, and the fear kept any +one from coming to stand by her side. + +'Look at her,' again shrieked the hoarse voice. 'D'yez know where she +gets her pride and the courage to dare me? She gets it from her +father, th' ould lord. Con Daly had never act nor part in her.' + +A scream, the like of which the Island had never heard, broke from +Mauryeen's lips. It was such a cry as if body and soul were tearing +asunder. With that scream she flung her arms above her head. The +little group, closing round her awe-stricken, looked to see her fall +face downward to the ground. But with a wild movement of her arms, as +if she swept the whole world out of her path, she fled down the hill +towards the village. Ellen Daly had vanished. No one had seen her go. +And down in the dancing bay at their feet Randal Burke proudly shot +ahead of his opponent and won the race. + +The girl meanwhile had fled on and on, with only the blind instinct to +hide her disgrace. The village was empty of all but the sick and the +bed-ridden. There was not an eye on Mauryeen Daly as she fled by the +open doors. With a mechanical instinct she turned in at the door of +her mother's house. The cool darkness of it after the glare outside +was grateful to her. She closed the door and barred it. Then she +turned into a room off the kitchen, her own little room, where there +was a picture of the Mother of Sorrows with seven swords through her +heart, and dropped on the floor before the picture with an +inarticulate moaning. + +She lay there half unconscious, and only feeling her misery dumbly. On +the wall hung her blue cashmere dress, in which she was to have been +married a day or two later. On the chest of drawers was a box +containing the little wreath and veil her mother-in-law had presented +her with. But she saw none of these things, with her mouth and eyes +against the floor. + +She came back to life presently, hearing her name called. The voice +had called many times before she heard it. Now it was imperative, +almost sharp in its eagerness. 'Open, acushla, open, or I burst the +door.' It was Randal's voice; and she answered it, advancing a step or +two, groping with outstretched hands, and a wild look of fear in her +dilated eyes. Then she heard the door straining and creaking, and a +man panting, striving outside. In a little while, almost before she +had time to stand clear of it, the door rattled on the floor, and her +lover leapt into the cabin. + +She put out her hands to fence him off, swaying blindly towards the +wall. He sprang to her with a murmur of pity, and was just in time to +catch her as her senses left her, and she lay a limp and helpless +thing in his arms. + +Father Tiernay was standing at his window gazing over a surpassingly +fair plain of sea, dotted with silver green islands. He was glad the +people had so fine a day for their sports. In the afternoon he would +be with them to distribute the prizes and congratulate the winners, +and to add to the general enjoyment by his presence; but this morning +he was alone, except for his deaf old housekeeper, and Jim the +sacristan, who was too dignified to be out on the Fair Hill with the +others. The priest's look of perplexity deepened as he watched some +one climbing the steep hill to his house. 'It looks like Cody's ghost +carrying his wife's body,' he muttered to himself. The figure or +figures came nearer. At last his Reverence took in what he saw, and +made but one or two steps to the hall door. 'Come in here,' he said, +asking no questions, like a practical man; and indeed for a few +minutes the young fisherman was incapable of answering any. It was not +until the priest had forced some brandy between the girl's lips, when +they had laid her on a sofa, and her breath came fluttering back, that +Father Tiernay drew the lover aside into the window recess and learnt +in a few words what had happened. + +'She's so proud, my little girl,' pleaded the lover. 'She won't live +under the shame of it unless your Reverence 'ud help us out of it. +Couldn't your Reverence say the words over us? We've been called three +times, and I've the ring in my pocket. Oh, 'twas well that unnatural +woman calculated her time when our happiness was at the full. Couldn't +your Reverence do it for us?' he said again in a wheedling tone. + +His Reverence looked at him thoughtfully. Then he drew out his watch. +'Yes,' he said, 'there's time enough, and I think you're right, my +lad. Just step outside while I speak to her, for I see she's coming +to.' + +The young man whispered: 'God bless you, Father! If I waited till +to-morrow I'd never put the ring on her. I know the pride of her.' And +then he went out obediently. + +No one knew how Father Tiernay persuaded Mauryeen. But a little while +later a very pale bride stood up at the altar of Columb Island Chapel, +and was married, with Father Tiernay's housekeeper and the sacristan +for witnesses. + +When they were married Father Tiernay said to the bridegroom: 'Take +her home by the back road. You won't meet a soul, and I'll tell the +people when I join them what has been done. But above all, impress on +her that the story is a wicked lie.' + +So Mauryeen went home with her husband to his little cottage on the +cliffs. And in the afternoon, when Father Tiernay came to distribute +the prizes and to merry-make with his people, he raised his hand for +silence and addressed them. + +'Children,' he said, 'I hear there has been a grave scandal among you, +and a great sin committed before you this day. The wicked sought to +crush the innocent, as I believe, by bearing false witness, but the +wicked has not triumphed. A few hours ago I made Randal Burke and +Mauryeen Daly man and wife. And I give you solemn warning that the one +who gives ear and belief to the story of the miserable woman who +dishonoured herself to crush her innocent flesh and blood, shares in +that unnatural guilt.' + +So after a time Mauryeen crept back to the sunshine, and let herself +be persuaded that her mother was mad. No one on the Island saw Ellen +Daly again; they said she had crossed to the mainland by the +afternoon ferry. She never came back, and there were some in the +Island who believed she had sold her soul to the devil, and that he +had claimed her fulfilment of the compact. But Mauryeen is an honest +man's wife, and whatever people may conjecture in their inmost hearts +as to the truth or falsity of her mother's tale, they say nothing, for +did not Father Tiernay declare such gossip to be a sin? But for all +that Mauryeen's ways are finer and gentler than those of any woman in +the Island. + + + + +VII + +A WRESTLING + + +Mike Sheehan tossed awake in the moonlight. The gulls were quiet, and +there was no noise in the night save the sound that had rocked his +cradle--the Atlantic foaming up the narrow ravine before his door, and +withdrawing itself with a loud sucking noise. The cabin was perched on +a bleached hillside. A stony, narrow path went by the door and climbed +the ravine to the world; a bed of slaty rock slanted sheer below it to +the white tossing water. A dangerous place for any one to pass unless +he had his eyes and his wits well about him; but Mike Sheehan was such +a one, for he had the eye of the eagle over Muckross, he could climb +like the mountain goat, and could carry his drink so well that no man +ever saw him less than clear-headed. + +Mike, with his six-feet-six of manhood, was well in request at the +country gatherings. But of late, said the folk, the man had turned +queer: in that melancholy, stately country by the sea, +madness--especially of the quiet, melancholic kind--is a thing very +common. A year ago a wrestling match between him and Jack Kinsella had +gathered two counties to see it. No man could say which was the +champion. Now one was the victor, again the other. They kept steady +pace in their victories. Jack was captain of the Kilsallagh team of +hurlers, Mike of the Clonegall. No one could say which captain led his +team oftenest to victory. The men had begun by being friends, and their +equality at first had only made them genial laughter. The wrestling was +on Sunday, after mass, in a quiet green place at the back of the +churchyard. The backers of the two champions took fire at the rivalry +long before the men themselves. That would be a great day for the men +and women of his following, when either champion should decisively +lead. But the day seemed ever receding in the future, and no one could +say which was the better man. June came, when not only the hurling, but +the wrestling, had its thin fringe of female spectators perched on the +low wall of the churchyard--girls mainly, with little shawls over their +soft hair, and their little bare feet tucked demurely under their +petticoats. + +The country people scarcely guessed at the time their two champions +became enemies. Indeed, it was a secret locked in their own breasts, +scarcely acknowledged even when in his most hidden moments each man +looked at the desires of his heart. It only showed itself in a new +fierceness and determination in their encounters. Each had sworn to +himself to conquer the other. The soreness between them came about +when by some sad mischance they fell in love with the same girl. Worse +luck, she wanted neither of them, for she was vowed to the convent: +the last feminine creature on earth for these two great fighters to +think of, with her soft, pure eyes, her slender height, and her pale +cheeks. Any girl in the country might have jumped at either man, and +she, who wanted neither, had their hearts at her feet. She was shy and +gentle, and never repelled them so decisively as to make them give up +hope. In the long run one or the other might have tempted her to an +earthly bridal; but she made no choice between them; and each man's +chance seemed about equal when she slipped from them both into +Kilbride churchyard. When she lay there neither man could say she had +distinguished him by special kindness from the other. And their +rivalry waxed more furious with the woman in her grave. + +But six months later, and their battles still undecided, Jack Kinsella +fell sick and followed Ellen to Kilbride. Then Mike Sheehan was +without an equal for many miles. But little comfort it was to him, +with the girl of his heart dead, and the one man he had desired to +overthrow dead and unconquered. He secluded himself from the sports +and pastimes, and lived lonely in his cabin among the gulls, eating +out his unsatisfied heart. Somehow it seemed to him that at the last +his rival had cheated him, slipping into the kingdom of souls hard on +the track of those slender feet he had desired to make his own. At +times he hated him because he had died unconquered; yet again, he had +a hot desire upon him, not all ungenerous, for the old days when he +met those great thews and sinews in heavy grips--when the mighty hands +of the other had held him, the huge limbs embraced him; and his eyes +would grow full of the passion of fight and the desire of battle. None +other would satisfy him to wrestle with but his dead rival, and indeed +he in common with the country people thought that no other might be +found fit for him to meet. + +Kilbride churchyard is high on the mainland, and lies dark within its +four stone walls. The road to it is by a tunnel of trees that make a +shade velvety black even when the moon is turning all the sea silver. +The churchyard is very old, and has no monuments of importance: only +green headstones bent sideways and sunk to their neck and shoulders in +the earth. A postern gate, with a flight of stone steps, opens from +Kilbride Lane. Here every night you may see the ghost of Cody the +murderer, climbing those steps with a rigid burden hanging from his +shoulder. + +But as Mike Sheehan ascended the steps out of the midnight dark he +felt no fear. He clanged the gate of the sacred quiet place in a way +that set the silence echoing. The moon was high overhead, and was +shining straight down on the square enclosure with its little heaped +mounds and ancient stones. Some mad passion was on Mike Sheehan +surely, or he would not so have desecrated the quiet resting-place of +the dead. There by the ruined gable of the old abbey was a fresh mound +unusually great in size. Mike Sheehan paused by it. 'Jack!' he cried +in a thunderous voice, hoarse with its passion. 'Come! let us once for +all see which is the better man. Come and fight me, Jack, and if you +throw me let Ellen be yours now and for ever!' + +The blood was in his eyes, and the sea-mist curling in from sea. His +challenge spoken, he swayed dizzily a moment. Then his eyes saw. The +place seemed full of the sea-mist silvered through with the moon. As +he looked to right and left substantial things vanished, but he saw +all about him in a ring long rows of shadowy faces watching him. Many +of them he knew. They were the boys and girls, the men and women, of +his own village who had died in many years. Others were strange, but +he guessed them ghosts from Kilsallagh, beyond Roscarbery, the village +where Jack used to live. He looked eagerly among the folk he +remembered for Ellen's face. There was one who might be she, the ghost +of a woman veiled in her shadowy hair, whose eyes he could not see. +And then Jack was upon him. + +That was a great wrestling in Kilbride churchyard. The dead man wound +about the living with his clay-cold limbs, caught him in icy grips +that froze the terrified blood from his heart, and breathed upon him +soundlessly a chill breath of the grave that seemed to wither him. +Yet Mike fought furiously, as one who fights not only to satisfy a +hate, but as one who fights to gain a love. He had a dim knowledge of +the fight he was making, a dim premonition that the dead man was more +than his match. The ghostly spectators pressed round more eagerly, +their shadowy faces peered, their shadowy forms swayed in the mist. +The ghost had Mike Sheehan in a death-grip. His arms were imprisoned, +his breath failed, his flesh crept, and his hair stood up. He felt +himself dying of the horror of this unnatural combat, when there was a +whisper at his ear. Dimly he seemed to hear Ellen's voice; dimly +turning his failing eyes he seemed to recognise her eyes under the +veil of ashen fair hair. 'Draw him to the left on the grass,' said the +voice, 'and trip him.' His old love and his old jealousy surged up in +Mike Sheehan. With a tremendous effort he threw off those paralysing +arms. Forgetting his horror he furiously embraced the dead, drew him +to the left on the grass, slippery as glass after the summer heats, +for a second or two swayed with him to and fro; then the two went down +together with a great violence, but Mike Sheehan was uppermost, his +knee on the dead man's breast. + +When he came to himself in the moonlight, all was calm and peaceful. +An owl hooted from the ruined gable, and from far away came the bark +of a watch-dog, but the graveyard kept its everlasting slumber. Mike +Sheehan was drenched with the dews as he stood up stiffly from Jack +Kinsella's grave, upon which he had been lying. It was close upon +dawn, and the moon was very low. He looked about him at the quietness. +Another man might have thought he had but dreamt it; not so Mike +Sheehan. He remembered with a fierce joy how he had flung the ghost +and how Ellen had been on his side. 'You're mine now, asthoreen,' he +said in a passionate apostrophe to her, 'and 'tis I could find it in +my heart to pity him that's lying there and has lost you. He was the +fair fighter ever and always, and now he'll acknowledge me for the +better man.' And then he added, as if to himself, 'Poor Jack! I wish +I'd flung him on the broken ground and not on the slippery grass. 'Tis +then I'd feel myself that I was the better man.' + + + + +VIII + +THE SEA'S DEAD + + +In Achill it was dreary wet weather--one of innumerable wet summers +that blight the potatoes and blacken the hay and mildew the few oats +and rot the poor cabin roofs. The air smoked all day with rain mixed +with the fine salt spray from the ocean. Out of doors everything +shivered and was disconsolate. Only the bog prospered, basking its +length in water, and mirroring Croghan and Slievemore with the smoky +clouds incessantly wreathing about their foreheads, or drifting like +ragged wisps of muslin down their sides to the clustering cabins more +desolate than a deserted nest. Inland from the sheer ocean cliffs the +place seemed all bog; the little bits of earth the people had +reclaimed were washed back into the bog, the gray bents and rimy +grasses that alone flourished drank their fill of the water, and were +glad. There was a grief and trouble on all the Island. Scarce a cabin +in the queer straggling villages but had desolation sitting by its +hearth. It was only a few weeks ago that the hooker had capsized +crossing to Westport, and the famine that is always stalking +ghost-like in Achill was forgotten in the contemplation of new graves. +The Island was full of widows and orphans and bereaved old people; +there was scarce a window sill in Achill by which the banshee had not +cried. + +Where all were in trouble there were few to go about with comfort. +Moya Lavelle shut herself up in the cabin her husband Patrick had +built, and dreed her weird alone. Of all the boys who had gone down +with the hooker none was finer than Patrick Lavelle. He was brown and +handsome, broad-shouldered and clever, and he had the good-humoured +smile and the kindly word where the people are normally taciturn and +unsmiling. The Island girls were disappointed when Patrick brought a +wife from the mainland, and Moya never tried to make friends with +them. She was something of a mystery to the Achill people, this small +moony creature, with her silver fair hair, and strange light eyes, the +colour of spilt milk. She was as small as a child, but had the gravity +of a woman. She loved the sea with a love unusual in Achill, where the +sea is to many a ravening monster that has exacted in return for its +hauls of fish the life of husband and son. Patrick Lavelle had built +for her a snug cabin in a sheltered ravine. A little beach ran down in +front of it where he could haul up his boat. The cabin was built +strongly, as it had need to be, for often of a winter night the waves +tore against its little windows. Moya loved the fury of the elements, +and when the winter storms drove the Atlantic up the ravine with a +loud bellowing, she stirred in sleep on her husband's shoulder, and +smiled as they say children smile in sleep when an angel leans over +them. + +Higher still, on a spur of rock, Patrick Lavelle had laid the clay for +his potatoes. He had carried it on his shoulders, every clod, and +Moya had gathered the seaweed to fertilise it. She had her small +garden there, too, of sea-pinks and the like, which rather encouraged +the Islanders in their opinion of her strangeness. In Achill the +struggle for life is too keen to admit of any love for mere beauty. + +However, Patrick Lavelle was quite satisfied with his little wife. +When he came home from the fishing he found his cabin more comfortable +than is often the case in Achill. They had no child, but Moya never +seemed to miss a child's head at her breast. Daring the hours of his +absence at the fishing she seemed to find the sea sufficient company. +She was always roaming along the cliffs, gazing down as with a fearful +fascination along the black sides to where the waves churned hundreds +of feet below. For company she had only the seagulls and the bald +eagle that screamed far over her head; but she was quite happy as she +roamed hither and thither, gathering the coloured seaweeds out of the +clefts of the rocks, and crooning an old song softly to herself, as a +child might do. + +But that was all over and gone, and Moya was a widow. She had nothing +warm and human at all, now that brave protecting tenderness was gone +from her. No one came to the little cabin in the ravine where Moya sat +and moaned, and stretched her arms all day for the dear brown head she +had last seen stained with the salt water and matted with the +seaweeds. At night she went out, and wandered moon-struck by the black +cliffs, and cried out for Patrick, while the shrilling gusts of wind +blew her pale hair about her, and scourged her fevered face with the +sea salt and the sharp hail. + +One night a great wave broke over Achill. None had seen it coming, +with great crawling leaps like a serpent, but at dead of night it +leaped the land, and hissed on the cottage hearths and weltered gray +about the mud floors. The next day broke on ruin in Achill. The bits +of fields were washed away, the little mountain sheep were drowned, +the cabins were flung in ruined heaps; but the day was fair and sunny, +as if the elements were tired of the havoc they had wrought and were +minded to be in a good humour. There was not a boat on the Island but +had been battered and torn by the rocks. People had to take their +heads out of their hands, and stand up from their brooding, or this +wanton mischief would cost them their dear lives, for the poor +resources of the Island had given out, and the Islanders were in grips +with starvation. + +No one thought of Moya Lavelle in her lonely cabin in the ravine. None +knew of the feverish vigils in those wild nights. But a day or two +later the sea washed her on a stretch of beach to the very doors of a +few straggling cabins dotted here and there beyond the irregular +village. She had been carried out to sea that night, but the sea, +though it had snatched her to itself, had not battered and bruised +her. She lay there, indeed, like that blessed Restituta, whom, for her +faith, the tyrant sent bound on a rotting hulk, with the outward tide +from Carthage, to die on the untracked ocean. She lay like a child +smiling in dreams, all her long silver hair about her, and her wide +eyes gazing with no such horror, as of one who meets a violent death. +Those who found her so wept to behold her. + +They carried her to her cottage in the ravine, and waked her. Even in +Achill they omit no funeral ceremony. They dressed her in white and +put a cross in her hand, and about her face on the pillow they set the +sea-pinks from her little garden, and some of the coloured seaweeds +she had loved to gather. They lit candles at her head and feet, and +the women watched with her all day, and at night the men came in, and +they talked and told stories, subdued stories and ghostly, of the +banshee and the death-watch, and wraiths of them gone that rise from +the sea to warn fishermen of approaching death. Gaiety there was none: +the Islanders had no heart for gaiety: but the pipes and tobacco were +there, and the plate of snuff, and the jar of poteen to lift up the +heavy hearts. And Moya lay like an image wrought of silver, her lids +kept down by coins over her blue eyes. + +She had lain so two nights, nights of starlit calm. On the fourth day +they were to bury her beside Patrick Lavelle in his narrow house, and +the little bridal cabin would be abandoned, and presently would rot to +ruins. The third night had come, overcast with heavy clouds. The group +gathered in the death chamber was more silent than before. Some had +sat up the two nights, and were now dazed with sleep. By the wall the +old women nodded over their beads, and a group of men talked quietly +at the bed-head where Moya lay illumined by the splendour of the four +candles all shining on her white garments. + +Suddenly in the quietness there came a roar of wind. It did not come +freshening from afar off, but seemed to waken suddenly in the ravine +and cry about the house. The folk sprang to their feet startled, and +the eyes of many turned towards the little dark window, expecting to +see wild eyes and a pale face set in black hair gazing in. Some who +were nearest saw in the half-light--for it was whitening towards +day--a wall of gray water travelling up the ravine. Before they could +cry a warning it had encompassed the house, had driven door and +window before it, and the living and the dead were in the sea. + +The wave retreated harmlessly, and in a few minutes the frightened +folk were on their feet amid the wreck of stools and tables floating. +The wave that had beaten them to earth had extinguished the lights. +When they stumbled to their feet and got the water out of their eyes +the dim dawn was in the room. They were too scared for a few minutes +to think of the dead. When they recovered and turned towards the bed +there was a simultaneous loud cry. Moya Lavelle was gone. The wave had +carried her away, and never more was there tale or tidings of her +body. + +Achill people said she belonged to the sea, and the sea had claimed +her. They remembered Patrick Lavelle's silence as to where he had +found her. They remembered a thousand unearthly ways in her; and which +of them had ever seen her pray? They pray well in Achill, having a +sure hold on that heavenly country which is to atone for the cruelty +and sorrow of this. In process of time they will come to think of her +as a mermaid, poor little Moya. She had loved her husband at least +with a warm human love. But his open grave was filled after they had +given up hoping that the sea would again give her up, and the place by +Patrick Lavelle's side remains for ever empty. + + + + +IX + +KATIE + + +The little house where Katie lived was over the fields. She was a +dimpled, brown child, as soft as the yellow ducklings she used to +carry in her pinafore. Her little fat shoulders were bare as I +remember them, and you could see the line where the sunburn ended with +her frock and the whiteness began. She was the late child of a +long-married couple, vouchsafed long after they had given up hopes of +a living child. + +Her mother was an angular woman who walked a little crookedly, +throwing one hip into ungainly prominence as she went. Her face, too, +was brown as a russet apple, with a pleasant hard redness on the +cheeks. She had white teeth, brown eyes, and an honest expression. +But people said she was a difficult woman to live with. She had +extreme ideas of her own importance, especially since the honest +fellow she was married to had become steward to his master, a 'strong +farmer,' as they say in Ireland, and the owner of broad acres. She +expected a certain deference from the folk she had grown up amongst, +and who were often not quite inclined to yield it. In a sense she was +a fortunate woman, for her good man was as much a lover as in the days +when he had come whistling his lover's signal, like any blackbird, to +call her out from her mother's chimney-corner. She told me about those +days herself when I was but a callow girl. I don't know why, except +from some spirit of romance in her, which she could not reveal to folk +of her own age and circumstances. She was the mother of many dead +babies, for never a one had lived but Katie; but the romance of her +marriage was still new. I remember one summer evening, when the low +sun shone between the slats of her dairy window, and I, on a creepy +stool by the wall, alternately read _The Arabian Nights_ and talked +to her while she gathered the butter from the churn, that her man came +in, and, not seeing me in the shadow, drew her head back and kissed +her brown face and head with a passion not all common after courting +days. + +The house was by the roadside, only shut off by its own garden-wall +and a high gate, which it was comfortable to lock of winter evenings. +There were two small rooms in it beside the kitchen and the dairy, and +a loft reached by a ladder, wherein to store many a sack of potatoes, +or wood for the winter firing. The kitchen was very pleasant, with its +two square windows full of geraniums in bloom, the pictures of saints +on its white-washed walls, the chimney-piece with its china +shepherdesses and dogs, and the dresser with a very fine show of +crockery. There was always a sweet smell of cream there from the +dairy, which opened on one side. The two rooms went off each side of +the fire-place. The walls were cleanly white-washed, the tiled floor +ochred; altogether it was a charming little house for love to build a +home in. + +Little Katie, precious as she was, roamed at her own sweet will. No +harm could come to her in the fields where she strayed. She was +home-keeping, and never went far from her own doorstep; nor need she +for variety. On one side of the field there was a violet bank, mossy, +and hung over with thorn trees. Under the thorns it was possible to +hide as within a greenhouse, and children love such make-believe. On +the other side of the bank was a steep descent to a tiny stream +prattling over shining stones; and fox-gloves grew in the water with +the meadow orchis, and many other water-loving flowers. That field was +a meadow every year, and once hidden between the hedge and the +meadow-grasses a child was invisible to all but the bright-eyed birds, +who themselves have a taste for such mysteries, and the corn-crake, +which one thinks of as only half bird, that scuttled on Katie's +approach down one of a million aisles of seeding brown grasses. + +Then on the other side of the field there was a deep, dry ditch under +great curtains of blackberry bushes, which in autumn bore luscious +fruit. And by Katie's door, if she would sit in the sun, was a +primrose bank, about which the hens stalked and clucked with their +long-legged chickens or much prettier ducklings. Katie did not want +for playmates. She had none of her own kind, but was sociable to the +fowl and the pig in his stye, and the white and red cattle that +browsed in the pastures. She held long colloquies with the creatures +all day, and if it rained would fetch her stool into an out-house +which the hens frequented. + +But her grand playmate, the confidant and abettor of all her games, +was a placid motherly cat, which had grown up with Katie. A +good-natured workman had fetched the pretty brindled kitten from the +city, and had made an offering of it at the baby's cradle. Katie with +almost her first words called the cat after him. Pussy Hogan was the +brindle's name to her dying day. When I hear people say that cats have +no attachment for people I always make a mental reservation in Pussy +Hogan's favour. No dog could have shown a more faithful and moving +devotion. Katie's instincts in the direction of cleanliness led her to +wash Pussy Hogan in her kittenish days, till she was come to an age +for performing her own ablutions with the requisite care. Many a time +have I seen the child washing the kitten in soap-suds, and setting her +to dry on the primrose bank, which was in the face of the southern +sun, and there with admirable patience the creature would lie, paws +extended, till her little mistress deemed she was dry enough to get up +from her bleaching. + +But Pussy Hogan grew a handsome, stately, well-furred cat, despite her +washings; and it was pretty to see her stalking at the child's heels +everywhere, with much the same responsible air that a serious dog +might assume. For all her gravity, she was not above understanding and +enjoying those games under the hedgerows, when Katie set up house, and +made banquets with broken bits of crockery, to which she entertained +her admiring friend. Even in the winter the cat trotted about over +snow and leaped roaring gullies, in attendance on her hardy little +mistress; as in summer she followed her to the evening milking, where +as a special favour Katie was permitted, with her dimpled fingers, to +draw a few spirts of the sweet-smelling milk. + +They were beginning to discuss Katie's schooling when she fell ill. +The grown people thought school would come hard upon her, she had been +so used to a life in the open air. She was very babyish too, even for +her age, though there were many younger than she perched on that +platform of steps in the Convent Infant School--pupils, so little and +drowsy-headed that two or three special couches had to be retained +close by to receive those who from time to time toppled off their +perch. I remember asking if Katie would take the cat to school, after +the manner of Mary and her lamb in the rhyme. I make no doubt Pussy +Hogan would have attempted the Irish mile of distance to the school +every day, if there were not pressure brought to bear to keep her at +home. However, the child was attacked by that horrible dread of +mothers, the croup. She was just the one to succumb, being a little +round ball of soft flesh. She only fought it a day and night, lifting +up her poor little hands to her straining throat incessantly. In less +than thirty-six hours Katie was dead. + +Her mother took it in a blank stupor. She scarcely seemed to heed the +friends who came and went, the Sisters of Mercy, in their black +bonnets and cloaks, the priest with his attempts at comfort. Her +husband sat by her those days, his eyes turning from the +heart-breaking face of his wife to the brown baby on the bed, as +piteous as a frozen robin. After the funeral the mother went about her +usual occupations. She milked the cow, fed the hens, churned, swept, +and baked as of old. Yet she did all those things as with a broken +heart, and it would have been less dreadful in a way to see her +sitting with folded hands. She was incessantly weeping in those months +that followed Katie's death. One would have thought that her eyes +would be drained dry, but still the tears followed each other all day +long, and no one seemed able to comfort her. It was wretched enough +for her husband, poor fellow, coming home of an evening from his work, +but he did all unwearying patience could do to comfort her. + +The only desire she seemed to have in those days was that she might +keep Katie's pussy with her, but that was not gratified. The cat had +moped and fretted greatly during the child's short illness, and had +cried distressingly about the house when Katie lay dead. Then after +the funeral had gone she had turned her back on the desolate house, +and had walked across the couple of fields that separated it from the +farmhouse. She came into the big airy kitchen that July day with so +evident an intention of remaining that no one disputed her right. Once +she had a sudden impulse to go and seek her little mistress, and went +running and leaping over the long pastures to the low white house. +They said it was the thing that wakened Katie's mother from the first +merciful stupor of her bereavement, the cat running in and moaning +piteously about the empty rooms, and the places where they had played +their jolly games. They said she inspected every possible place where +the child might be hiding, turning again and again, after moments of +disappointed bewilderment, to a new search. At last she gave it up, +and seemed to realise that Katie was gone. She turned then and trotted +back quickly to the farmhouse, from whence no one's coaxing afterwards +could bring her. Every one wanted that the poor mother should have her +as she seemed to crave, but the cat would not; she escaped over and +over from her captors, and at last we gave up trying to constrain her, +though her desertion seemed a new cruelty to the stricken woman across +the fields. + +I don't know how many months the mother's weeping went on. It was a +day close upon Christmas when I opened the half-door and went in and +saw, for the first time since the child's death, that her eyes were +dry. She was making bread at a table under the window, and her face +had grown wonderfully calm since I had last seen her. I made no +remark, but she led up to the subject herself, with a pathetic, +wintry smile. + +'You remember the poem you read to me one day, miss,' she said, 'about +the dead child that couldn't be glad in heaven because its mother's +crying wet its fine dress?' I remembered perfectly; it was my poor +little way of trying to insinuate some comfort, for like many of her +class in Ireland, she loved poetry. 'Well,' she went on, 'I've been +thinking a power over it since. Who knows but that there might be the +truth behind it?' I nodded assent. 'Now there's Christmas coming,' she +said, 'and I think that would be a fine time for the children in +heaven, so I'm not going to spoil Katie's glory among them.' + +She didn't say much more after this curious little bit of confidence, +but it was a comfort to every one when she left off crying. Her +husband was rejoiced at the change. He began to build on it that +presently she would be cheerful once more, and they would be quite +happy again; for a man doesn't miss a child as a woman does, and, dear +as his little Katie was, the love of his boyhood was yet spared to +him, and could still make earth paradise if she would. + +However, there was a new cause for apprehension in those latter days. +I remember that the women shook their heads and looked gloomy when it +came to be known that Katie's mother was likely to have a baby in the +spring. She had been very ill before, and after this long interval and +all the trouble things were not likely to go easier with her. I know +the old doctor, who was kind and fatherly, and had been full of sorrow +about Katie, seemed vexed at the new turn of affairs. I heard him +telling a matron much in his confidence that he wouldn't answer for +the woman's life. + +She herself plucked up heart from the time she was certain that the +baby was coming. I don't think now that she expected to live through +it. She probably thought that through that gate she would rejoin +Katie. She was very sweet to her husband in those days, very gentle +and considerate to the neighbours, to whom she had often been peevish +and haughty in old times. Many a one changed their former opinion of +her that winter, and her kindness made kindness for her. This +neighbour would often help her at the washing-tub, and that would send +her grown boy in at dinner-time to see if Katie's mother wanted wood +chopped or water carried. I am always glad to think of those four or +five months, when a great calm, as it seems to me, settled down on the +little house in the fields. + +The baby was born in April--dead, as people had feared. It was a boy, +and had died in being born. They said the little waxen image bore +traces of a pathetic struggle for life. As for the mother, she never +rallied at all; I think she would not. She passed away quite calmly, +with not a flutter of the eyelids to answer her husband, who prayed +for a parting word from her. + +They sleep together, mother and children, in Kilbride, in the shadow +of a great thorn-bush, and not far from St. Brigid's Tower. Lonely and +far as the churchyard is, there is not a Sunday in the year that the +husband and father does not find his way there after mass, trudging +along that solitary way, between bare hedges or blooming, as +faithfully as the day comes round. All those things were over a dozen +years ago, and he is married again, to a spare, unattractive woman, +who looks after his food and clothes, and makes him in her way a very +excellent wife. She was long past middle age when he married her and +took her out of service. But there was no pretence of love-making +about it. She would be the first herself to tell you that her man's +heart was in Kilbride. She said to me once: 'He's a good man to me, +and I'm glad to do my duty by him; but if you talked to him about his +wife he'd think you meant Kitty, God rest her! Men's seconds, miss, +don't count.' + +She said it in a simple, open-faced way, but I thought there was a +homely tragedy concealed behind it. I am sure that in the heaven, of +which those Irish peasants think as confidently as of the next room, +he will forget all about poor hard-working Margaret, and will look +with eager eyes for the love of his youth. + + + + +X + +THE DEATH SPANCEL + + +High up among the dusty rafters of Aughagree Chapel dangles a thin +shrivelled thing, towards which the people look shudderingly when the +sermon is of the terrors of the Judgment and the everlasting fire. The +woman from whose dead body that was taken chose the death of the soul +in return for a life with the man whom she loved with an unholy +passion. Every man, woman, and child in that chapel amid gray miles of +rock and sea-drift, has heard over and over of the unrepentant +deathbed of Mauryeen Holion. They whisper on winter nights of how +Father Hugh fought with the demons for her soul, how the sweat poured +from his forehead, and he lay on his face in an agony of tears, +beseeching that the sinner whom he had admitted into the fold of +Christ should yet be saved. But of her love and her sin she had no +repentance, and the servants in Rossatorc Castle said that as the +priest lay exhausted from his vain supplications, and the rattle was +in Dark Mauryeen's throat, there were cries of mocking laughter in the +air above the castle, and a strange screaming and flapping of great +wings, like to, but incomparably greater than, the screaming and +flapping of the eagle over Slieve League. That devil's charm up there +in the rafters of Aughagree is the death-spancel by which Dark +Mauryeen bound Sir Robert Molyneux to her love. It is of such power +that no man born of woman can resist it, save by the power of the +Cross, and 'twas little Robert Molyneux of Rossatorc recked of the +sweet Christ who perished that men should live--against whose Cross +the demons of earth and the demons of air, the malevolent spirits that +lurk in water and wind, and all witches and evil doctors, are +powerless. But the thought of the death-spancel must have come +straight from the King of Fiends himself, for who else would harden +the human heart to desecrate a new grave, and to cut from the helpless +dead the strip of skin unbroken from head to heel which is the +death-spancel? Very terrible is the passion of love when it takes full +possession of a human heart, and no surer weapon to the hand of Satan +when he would make a soul his own. And there is the visible sign of a +lost soul, and it had nearly been of two, hanging harmlessly in the +rafters of the holy place. A strange thing to see where the lamp of +the sanctuary burns, and the sea-wind sighs sweetly through the door +ever open for the continual worshippers. + + * * * * * + +Sir Robert Molyneux was a devil-may-care, sporting squire, with the +sins of his class to his account. He drank, and gambled, and rioted, +and oppressed his people that they might supply his pleasures; nor was +that all, for he had sent the daughter of honest people in shame and +sorrow over the sea. People muttered when they heard he was to marry +Lord Dunlough's daughter, that she would be taking another woman's +place; but it was said yet again that it would be well for his tenants +when he was married, for the lady was so kind and charitable, so +gentle and pure, that her name was loved for many a mile. She had +never heard the shameful story of that forlorn girl sailing away and +away in the sea-mist, with her unborn child, to perish miserably, body +and soul, in the streets of New York. She had the strange love of a +pure woman for a wild liver; and she thought fondly when she caressed +his fine, jolly, handsome face that soon his soul as well as his dear +body would be in her keeping: and what safe keeping it would be. + +Sir Robert had ever a free way with women of a class below his own, +and he did not find it easy to relinquish it. When he was with the +Lady Eva he felt that under those innocent, loving eyes a man could +have no desire for a lesser thing than her love; but when he rode +away, the first pretty girl he met on the road he held in chat that +ended with a kiss. He was always for kissing a pretty face, and found +the habit hard to break, though there were times when he stamped and +swore great oaths to himself that he would again kiss no woman's lips +but his wife's--for the man had the germ of good in him. + +It was a fortnight to his wedding day, and he had had a hard day's +hunting. From early morning to dewy eve they had been at it, for the +fox was an old one and had led the dogs many a dance before this. He +turned homeward with a friend, splashed and weary, but happy and with +the appetite of a hunter. Well for him if he had never set foot in +that house. As he came down the stairs fresh and shining from his +bath, he caught sight of a girl's dark handsome face on the staircase. +She was one of the servants, and she stood aside to let him pass, but +that was never Robert Molyneux's way with a woman. He flung his arm +round her waist in a way so many poor girls had found irresistible. +For a minute or two he looked in her dark splendid eyes; but then as +he bent lightly to kiss her, she tore herself from him with a cry and +ran away into the darkness. + +He slept heavily that night, the dead sleep of a man who has hunted +all day and has drunk deep in the evening. In the morning he awoke +sick and sorry, a strange mood for Robert Molyneux; but from midnight +to dawn he had lain with the death-spancel about his knees. In the +blackness of his mind he had a great longing for the sweet woman, his +love for whom awakened all that was good in him. His horse had fallen +lame, but after breakfast he asked his host to order out a carriage +that he might go to her. Once with her he thought all would be well. +Yet as he stood on the doorstep he had a strange reluctance to go. + +It was a drear, gray, miserable day, with sleet pattering against the +carriage windows. Robert Molyneux sat with his head bent almost to his +knees, and his hands clenched. What face was it rose against his mind, +continually blotting out the fair and sweet face of his love? It was +the dark, handsome face of the woman he had met on the stairs last +night. Some sudden passion for her rose as strong as hell-fire in his +breast. There were many long miles between him and Eva, and his desire +for the dark woman raged stronger and ever stronger in him. It was as +if ropes were around his heart dragging it backward. He fell on his +knees in the carriage, and sobbed. If he had known how to pray he +would have prayed, for he was torn in two between the desire of his +heart for the dark woman, and the longing of his soul for the fair +woman. Again and again he started up to call the coachman to turn +back; again and again he flung himself in the bottom of the carriage, +and hid his face and struggled with the curse that had come upon him. +And every mile brought him nearer to Eva and safety. + +The coachman drove on in the teeth of the sleet and wondered what Sir +Robert would give him at the drive's end. A half-sovereign would not +be too much for so open-handed a gentleman, and one so near his +wedding; and the coachman, already feeling his hand close upon it, +turned a brave face to the sleet and tried not to think of the warm +fire in the harness-room from which they had called him to drive Sir +Robert. + +Half the distance was gone when he heard a voice from the carriage +window calling him. He turned round. 'Back! Back!' said the voice. +'Drive like hell! I will give you a sovereign if you do it under an +hour.' The coachman was amazed, but a sovereign is better than a +half-sovereign. He turned his bewildered horses for home. + +Robert Molyneux's struggle was over. Eva's face was gone now +altogether. He only felt a mad joy in yielding, and a wild desire for +the minutes to pass till he had traversed that gray road back. The +coachman drove hard and his horses were flecked with foam, but from +the windows Robert Molyneux kept continually urging him, offering him +greater and greater rewards for his doing the journey with all speed. + +Half way up the cypress avenue to his friend's house a woman with a +shawl about her head glided from the shadow and signalled to the +darkly flushed face at the carriage window. Robert Molyneux shouted to +the man to stop. He sprang from the carriage and lifted the woman in. +Then he flung the coachman a handful of gold and silver. 'To +Rossatorc,' he said, and the man turned round and once more whipped up +his tired horses. The woman laughed as Robert Molyneux caught her in +his arms. It was the fierce laughter of the lost. 'I came to meet +you,' she said, 'because I knew you must come.' + +From that day, when Robert Molyneux led the woman over the threshold +of his house, he was seen no more in the usual places of his +fellow-men. He refused to see any one who came. His wedding-day passed +by. Lord Dunlough had ridden furiously to have an explanation with the +fellow and to horsewhip him when that was done, but he found the great +door of Rossatorc closed in his face. Every one knew Robert Molyneux +was living in shame with Mauryeen Holion. Lady Eva grew pale and +paler, and drooped and withered in sorrow and shame, and presently her +father took her away, and their house was left to servants. Burly +neighbouring squires rode up and knocked with their riding-whips at +Rossatorc door to remonstrate with Robert Molyneux, for his father's +sake or for his own, but met no answer. All the servants were gone +except a furtive-eyed French valet and a woman he called his wife, and +these were troubled with no notions of respectability. After a time +people gave up trying to interfere. The place got a bad name. The +gardens were neglected and the house was half in ruins. No one ever +saw Mauryeen Holion's face except it might be at a high window of the +castle, when some belated huntsman taking a short-cut across the park +would catch a glimpse of a wild face framed in black hair at an upper +window, the flare of the winter sunset lighting it up, it might be, as +with a radiance from hell. Sir Robert drank, they said, and +rack-rented his people far worse than in the old days. He had put his +business in the hands of a disreputable attorney from a neighbouring +town, and if the rent was not paid to the day the roof was torn off +the cabin, and the people flung out into the ditch to rot. + +So the years went, and folk ever looked for a judgment of God on the +pair. And when many years were over, there came to Father Hugh, +wringing her hands, the wife of the Frenchman, with word that the two +were dying, and she dared not let them die in their sins. + +But Mauryeen Holion, Dark Mauryeen, as they called her, would not to +her last breath yield up the death-spancel which she had knotted round +her waist, and which held Robert Molyneux's love to her. When the +wicked breath was out of her body they cut it away, and it lay twisted +on the ground like a dead snake. Then on Robert Molyneux, dying in a +distant chamber, came a strange peace. All the years of sin seemed +blotted out, and he was full of a simple repentance such as he had +felt long ago when kneeling by the gown of the good woman whom he had +loved. So Father Hugh absolved him before he died, and went hither and +thither through the great empty rooms shaking his holy water, and +reading from his Latin book. + +And lest any in that place, where they have fiery southern blood in +their veins, should so wickedly use philtres or charms, he hung the +death-spancel in Aughagree Chapel for a terrible reminder. + + + + +XI + +A SOLITARY + + +There was a difference of twenty years between the brothers, yet, to +look at them, it might have been more. Patrick, the younger, was +florid and hearty; the elder, James, was unpopular--a gray, withered +old churl, who carried written on his face the record of his life's +failure. His conversation, when he made any, was cynical. When he came +into a room where young people were enjoying themselves, playing cards +or dancing, his shadow came before him and lay heavily on the +merry-makers. Fortunately, he did not often so intrude; he was happier +in his room at the top of the fine house, where he had his books and +his carpenter's tools. If one of those young people whom his cynicism +withered could have seen him at his carpentry, how different he would +have seemed! They would have seen him with his grimness relaxed, and +his gray face lit up with interest, and would have been amazed to hear +his low, cheery whistle, full and round as the pipe of a bullfinch; at +night, when his telescope swept the stars, and he trembled with the +delight of the visionary and the student, he was a new man. He was a +clever man, born out of his proper sphere, and with only so much +education as he had contrived to get at during a hard life. What came +to him he assimilated eagerly, and every one of those books in his +cupboard, rare old friends, had been read over a hundred times. + +He ought to have had a chance in his youth, but his father was the +last man in the world to encourage out-of-the-way ambitions in his +sons. Father and mother were alike--hard, grasping, and ungracious. +The father, on the whole, was a pleasanter person than the mother, +with her long, pale, horse-face and ready sneer; he was only +uncompromisingly hard and ungenial to all the world. + +There were other children besides these two, all long since dead or +scattered. Two of the boys had run away and gone to America; their +first letters home remained unanswered, and after one or two attempts +they ceased to write. The one girl had slipped into a convent, after a +horrified glimpse at the home-life of her parents when she had +returned from her boarding-school. She had been sent away to a convent +in a distant town while still a mere child. She had come and gone in +recurring vacations, still too childish to be more than vaguely +repelled by the unlovely rule of her home. But at sixteen she came +home 'for good'; very much for evil, poor little Eily would have said, +as she realised in its full sordidness the grinding manner of life +which was to be hers. No wonder she wet her pillow night after night +with her tears for the pure and gentle atmosphere of the convent, for +the soft-voiced and mild-eyed nuns, and the life of the spirit which +shone ideally fair by this appalling life of the world. So, after a +time, she had her will and escaped to the convent. + +James could never understand why he, too, had not broken bounds, and +run off to America with Tom and Alick. Perhaps he was of a more +patient nature than they. Perhaps the life held him down. It was, +indeed, such a round of hard, unvarying toil that at night he was +content to drop down in his place like a dead man, and sleep as the +worn-out horses sleep, dreaming of a land of endless green pastures, +beyond man's harrying. Alick and Tom were younger. They had not had +time to get broken to hardship like him, and Patrick was yet a baby. +Friends or social pleasures were beyond their maddest dreams. Their +parents' idea of a life for them was one in which hard work should +keep them out of mischief. James could never remember in those days a +morning when he had risen refreshed; he was always heavy with sleep +when following the plough-horses, or feeding the cattle. Food of the +coarsest, sleep of the scantiest, were the rule of the house. Joy, or +love, or kindness, never breathed between those walls. + +Meanwhile, the father was getting old, and a time came when he sat +more and more by the fire in winter, sipping his glass of grog and +reading the country papers, or listening to his wife's acrid tattle. +Mrs. Rooney hated with an extreme hatred all the good, easy-going +neighbours who were so soft with their children, and encouraged +dancing, and race-going and card-playing--the amusements of the Irish +middle classes. She had a bitter tongue, and once it was set agoing no +one was safe from it--not the holiest nor purest was beyond its +defilement. + +It was about this time that the labourers began to think the young +master rather more important than the old one; but for their +connivance, James Rooney could never have been drawn into Fenianism. +The conspiracy was just the thing to fascinate the boy's +impressionable heart. The poetry, the glamour of the romantic devotion +to Mother Country fed his starved idealism; the midnight drillings +and the danger were elements in its attraction. James Rooney drilled +with the rest, swore with them their oaths of fealty to Dark Rosaleen, +was out with them one winter night when the hills were covered with +snow, and barely escaped by the skin of his teeth from the capture +which sent some of his friends into penal servitude. + +Mrs. Rooney's amazed contempt when she found that her eldest son was +among 'the boys' was a study in character. The lad was not compromised +openly; and though the police had their suspicions, they had nothing +to go upon, and the matter ended in a domiciliary visit which put Mrs. +Rooney in a fine rage, for she had a curious subservient ambition to +stand well with the gentry. + +However, soon after that, as she was pottering about the fowl-yard one +bitter day--she would never trust anybody to collect the eggs from the +locked henhouse but herself--she took a chill, and not long afterwards +died. If she had lived perhaps James would never have had the courage +to assert himself and take the reins of management as he did. But +with her going the iron strength of the old man seemed to break down. +He fulfilled her last behest, which was that her funeral was to take +place on a Sunday, so that the farm hands should not get a day off; +and then, with some wonder at the new masterful spirit in his son, he +gave himself up to an easy life. + +This independence in James Rooney was not altogether the result of his +Fenianism. As a matter of fact, he had fallen in love, with the +overwhelming passion of a lad who had hitherto lived with every +generous emotion repressed. The girl was a gay, sweet, yet impassioned +creature who was the light of her own home. At that home James Rooney +had first realised what a paradise home may be made; and coming from +his own gloomy and horrid surroundings, the sunshine of hers had +almost blinded him. In that white house among the wheatfields love +reigned. And not only love, but charity, hospitality, patriotism, and +religion. There was never a rough word heard there; even the +household creatures, the canary in the south window, the comfortable +cats, the friendly dogs, partook of the general sunniness. + +They were rebels of the hottest type. The one son had been out with +the Fenians and was now in America. His exile was a bitter yet proud +grief to his father and mother; but their enthusiasm was whetted +rather than damped by the downfall of the attempted rebellion. At +night, when the curtains were drawn and the door barred against all +fear of 'the peelers,' the papers that had the reports of the Dublin +trials were passed from hand to hand, or read aloud amid intense +silence, accompanied by the flushing cheek, the clenching hand, often +the sob, that told of the passionate feeling of the hearers. + +Sometimes Ellen would sing to them, but not the little gay songs she +trilled so delightfully, now when their friends were in prison or the +dock. Mournful, impassioned songs were hers, sung in a rich voice, +trembling with emotion, or again a stave of battle and revenge, which +set hearts beating and blood racing in the veins of the listeners. At +such moments Ellen, with her velvety golden-brown eyes, and the bronze +of her hair, was like the poet's 'Cluster of Nuts.' + + I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave + That maidens sung. + They sang their land, the Saxon's slave, + In Saxon tongue. + Oh, bring me here that Gaelic dear + Which cursed the Saxon foe. + When thou didst charm my raptured ear + _Mo craoibhin cno!_ + +Among those admitted freely to that loving circle, James Rooney was +one held in affectionate regard. The man who had been the means of +bringing him there, Maurice O'Donnell, was his Jonathan, nay more than +his Jonathan, for to him young Rooney had given all his hero-worship. +He was, indeed, of the heroic stuff, older, graver, wiser than his +friend. + +James Rooney spoke to no one of his love or his hopes. For he had +hopes. Ellen, kind to every one, singled him out for special kindness. +He had seen in her deep eyes something shy and tender for him. For +some time he was too humble to be sure he had read her gaze aright, +but at last he believed in a flood of wild rapture that she had chosen +him. + +He did not speak, he was too happy in dallying with his joy, and he +waited on from day to day. One evening he was watching her singing, +with all his heart in his eyes. Among people less held by a great +sincerity than these people were at the time, his secret would have +been an open amusement. But the father and mother heard with eyes dim +with tears; the young sisters about the fire flushed and paled with +the emotion of the song; the hearts of the listeners hung on the +singer's lips, and their eyes were far away. + +Suddenly James Rooney looked round the circle with the feeling of a +man who awakes from sleep. His friend was opposite to him, also gazing +at the singer; the revelation in his face turned the younger man cold +with the shock. When the song was done he said 'good-night' quietly, +and went home. It was earlier than usual, and he left his friend +behind him; for this one night he was glad not to have his company; +he wanted a quiet interval in which to think what was to be done. + +Now, when he realised that Maurice O'Donnell loved her, he cursed his +own folly that he had dared to think of winning her. What girl with +eyes in her head would take him, gray and square-jawed, before the +gallant-looking fellow who was the ideal patriot. And Ellen--Ellen, of +all women living, was best able to appreciate O'Donnell's qualities. +That night he sat all the night with his head bowed on his hands +thinking his sick thoughts amid the ruin of his castles. When he stood +up shivering in the gray dawn, he had closed that page of his life. He +felt as if already the girl had chosen between them, and that he was +found wanting. + +That was not the end of it, however. If he had been left to himself he +might have carried out his high, heroic resolve to go no more to the +house which had become Paradise to him. But his friend followed him, +with the curious tenderness that was between the two, and with an arm +on his shoulder, drew his secret from him. When he had told it he put +his face down on the mantelpiece by which they were standing, ashamed +to look O'Donnell in the face because they loved the same woman. There +was a minute's silence, and then O'Donnell spoke, and his voice, so +far from being cold and angry, was more tender than before. + +'So you would have taken yourself off to leave me a clear field, old +fellow!' + +'Oh, no,' said the other humbly, 'I never had a chance. If I had had +eyes for any one but her, I would have known your secret, and should +not have dared to love her.' + +'Dear lad!' said O'Donnell. 'But now you must take your chance. If she +chooses you rather than me--and, by heavens! I'm not sure that she +won't--it will make no difference, I swear, between us. Which of us +shall try our luck first?' + +They ended by drawing lots, and it fell to O'Donnell to speak first. A +night or two later he overtook James Rooney as the latter was on his +way to Ellen's house. He put his arm through Rooney's and said, +'Well, old fellow, I've had my dismissal. I'm not going your way +to-night, but I believe your chance is worth a good deal. Presently I +shall be able to wish you joy, Jim.' + +They walked on together in a silence more full of feeling than speech +could be. At the boreen that turned up to the white house they parted +with a hand-clasp that said their love was unchanging, no matter what +happened. That night James Rooney got his chance and spoke. The girl +heard him with a rapt, absent-minded look that chilled him as he went +on. When he had done she answered him:-- + +'I can never be your wife, Jim. I have made my choice.' + +'But----' stammered the lad. + +'I know what you would say,' she answered quietly. 'I gave the same +answer to Maurice O'Donnell. Why did two such men as you care for me? +I am not worth it, no girl is worth it. 'Tis the proud woman I ought +to be and am, but I can't marry the two of you, and perhaps I can't +choose.' She laughed half sadly. 'Put me out of your head, Jim, and +forgive me. I'm away to the Convent at Lady Day.' + +And from this resolve it was impossible to move her. Whether she had +really resolved before on the conventual life, or whether she feared +to separate the two friends, no one knew. From that time neither +O'Donnell nor Jim Rooney was seen at the white house, and in the +harvest-time Ellen, as she said she would, entered St. Mary's Convent. +Jim Rooney never loved another woman, and when, in the following year, +Maurice O'Donnell went to New Orleans to take up a position as the +editor of a newspaper, Jim Rooney said good-bye to friendship as +lastingly as he had to love. + +The old father died, and left what wealth he had to be divided between +his two sons. For all the pinching and scraping it was not much; there +seemed something unlucky about the farm, poor, damp, and unkindly as +it was. Jim was a good brother to the young lad growing up. He kept +him at a good school during his boyhood, and nursed his share of the +inheritance more carefully than he did his own. They had the +reputation of being far wealthier than they were, and many a girl +would have been well pleased to make a match with Jim Rooney. But he +turned his back on all social overtures, and by and by he got the name +of being a sour old bachelor, 'a cold-hearted naygur,' going the way +of his father before him. But the rule on the farm was very different, +every one admitted; to his men James Rooney was not only just but +generous. + +Presently the young fellow came home from school, gay and +light-hearted. He was a tall young giant, who presently developed a +fine red moustache, and had a rollicking gait well in keeping with his +bold blue eyes. He was soon as popular as James was the reverse, and +his reputation of being 'a good match' made him welcome in many a +house full of daughters. + +One day the youth came to his brother with a plan for bettering +himself. He wanted to draw out his share from the farm and to invest +it in a general shop which was for sale in the country town, close +by. Now Jim Rooney had a queer pride in him that made the thought of +the shop very distasteful. The land was quite another thing, and +farming, to his mind, as ennobling an occupation as any under heaven. +But he quite understood that he could not shape the young fellow to +his ways of thinking. He said, gently: 'And why, Patrick, are you bent +on leaving the farm and bettering yourself?' + +The young fellow scratched his head awkwardly, and gave one or two +excuses, but finally the truth came out. He had a fancy for little +Janie Hyland, and she had a fancy for him, but there was a richer man +seeking her, and, said the young fellow simply, 'I'm thinking if the +father knew how little came to my share he'd be showing me the door.' + +'Does Janie know, Patrick?' asked the elder brother. + +'Oh, divil a thing!' said the younger, with a half-shamed laugh. 'I +don't trust women with too much; but if I had Grady's, I'd soon be a +richer man than they think me. Old Grady cut up for a lot of money, +and he was too old for business. It's a beautiful chance for a young +man.' + +'Well, Patrick,' said the other at last, with a sigh, 'your share +won't buy Grady's, but yours and mine together will. I'll make it over +to you, and you can keep your share in the farm too. I'll work the +farm for you if you won't ask me to have anything to do with the shop. +Tut, tut, man!' he said, pushing away Patrick's secretly delighted +protests, 'all I have would come to you one day, and why not now, when +you think it will make you happy?' + +So Patrick bought Grady's and brought home Janie Hyland. He has +prospered exceedingly, and makes the lavish display of his wealth +which is characteristic of the Irishman. They have added to the old +house, thrown out wings and annexe, planted it about with shrubberies, +and made a carriage drive. Young Patrick, growing up, is intended for +the University and one of the learned professions, and Mrs. Patrick +has ideas of a season in Dublin and invitations to the Castle. Her +house is very finely furnished, with heavy pile carpets and many +mirrors, and buhl and ormolu everywhere. + +She feels her brother-in-law to be the one blot in all her splendour +and well-being. When Patrick first brought her home, she took a +vehement dislike to James, which has rather waxed than waned during +the years. He minds her as little as may be, working on the farm +during the day-time, and in the evening departing, with his slow, +heavy step, to his sanctum upstairs, where he has his books, his +carpenter's tools, and his telescope. Yet her words worry him like the +stinging of gnats, and the nagging of years has made him bitter. + +He turns out delightful bits of carving and cabinet-making from time +to time, and he mends everything broken in the house with infinite +painstaking. Up there in his garret-room the troubles fall away from +him, and he forgets the lash of Mrs. Patrick's tongue. The hardest +thing is that she discourages the children's friendship for him, and +he would dearly love the children if only he might. + +The other women are rather down on Mrs. Patrick about it; indeed, Mrs. +Gleeson told her one day that the creature was worth his keep if it +was only for his handiness about the house. Patrick has grown used to +his wife's gibes and flings, which at first used to make him red and +uncomfortable. He has half come to believe in the secret hoard his +wife says old Jim is accumulating. + +Meanwhile, the land is as poor as ever, for James has no money to +spend in the necessary drainage that should make it dry and sweet. His +share scarcely pays for his keep, and his money for clothes and books +and tools is little indeed. His shabbiness is another offence to Mrs. +Patrick. She has declared to some of her intimates that she will force +James yet to take his face out of her house, and go live on his money +elsewhere. She expresses her contempt to her husband for his brother's +selfishness in holding his share in the farm, when he must be +already, as she puts it, 'rotten with money.' Patrick is too much +afraid of his wife to tell her now what he has so long kept a secret +from her. + +But James, in his high attic, looks upon the mountains and the sky, +and shakes off from him with a superb gesture the memory of her +taunts. + + + + +XII + +THE MAN WHO WAS HANGED + + +It was outside the town of Ballinscreen, on the country side of the +bridge over the Maeve, that Mr. Ramsay-Stewart was shot at in the +League days, and that the shot struck a decent boy, Larry Byrne, a +widow's only son, and killed him stone dead. The man that fired the +shot would rather have cut off his right hand than hurt an innocent +creature like Larry,--but there, when you go meddling with sin and +wickedness, as often as not you plunge deeper into it than you could +ever have foreseen. Anyhow the old women, who turn out everything to +show the Lord's goodness, said it was plain to see that Larry was +fitter to go than his master, and that was why the shot glanced by Mr. +Stewart's ear to lodge in the poor coachman's brain as he leant +forward, whipping up his horse with all his might, to get out of reach +of that murderous shower of shot. + +Now a few months later all you comfortable people that sit reading +your newspapers by an English fire, and thinking what a terrible place +Ireland must be to live in, were comforted by the news that the man +who shot Larry Byrne was swinging for it in the county jail at +Ballinscreen. But you never made such a mistake in your born lives. +That man was out on the mountains in the bleak, bitter winter weather, +was in hiding all day in the caves up there in the clouds on top of +Croghan, and by night was coming down to the lonely mountain +farmhouses to beg what would keep the life in his big hungry body. The +man that swung for the murder was as innocent as yourself, and more +betoken, though he was great on war and revolutions, would no more +fire on a man out of the dark night than you would yourself. He had +little feeling for sin and crime, always barring the secret societies, +by some considered a sin. + +It was beautiful to hear Murty Meehan,--that was his name, God rest +his soul!--having it out with old Father Phil on that same question. +Why, he told the priest that he himself belonged to a secret society, +for the matter of that, and the most powerful secret society of them +all. Father Phil used to end it up with a laugh, for he was fond of +Murty. He nearly broke his heart over the man when he was in jail, +waiting to go to the gallows, and wouldn't open his lips to clear +himself. Murty had been in every 'movement' from the '48 onwards. But +like all the other old Fenians, he thought worse of the League than +Mr. Ramsay-Stewart himself. His ideas were high-flown ones, and he +could put them in beautiful language, about freeing his country, and +setting her in her rightful place among the nations. But not by the +League methods. There was a bit of poetry of Davis he was fond of +quoting: + + For Freedom comes from God's right hand, + And needs a godly train, + And righteous men must make our land + A Nation once again. + +Many a time he hurled it at the Leaguers' heads, but they bore him no +malice; the worst they did was to call him a crank. I often think that +when Murty died on the gallows for a crime he hated, it was a +sacrifice of more than his life. Well, God be good to him! + +Murty hadn't a soul in the world belonging to him. His father and +mother died in the black '47, and the little girl he had set his heart +on sailed in a coffin-ship for New York with her father and mother in +the same bitter year, and went down somewhere out on the unkindly +ocean. She had hung round Murty's neck imploring him to go with her, +but Murty was drilling for the rising of the following year, and could +see no duty closer than his duty to his country. He promised to follow +her and bring her back if there were happier days in Ireland, but the +boat and its freight were never heard of after they left Queenstown +quay in that September of blight and storm. And so Murty grew with the +years into a pleasant, kindly old bachelor, very full of whimsies and +dreams, and a prophet to the young fellows. + +Now Mr. Ramsay-Stewart, though he kept himself and his tenants in hot +water for a couple of years, wasn't a bad kind of gentleman, and now +that things have settled down is well-esteemed and liked in the +country. But when he came first he didn't understand the people nor +they him, and there's no doubt he did some hard things as much out of +pure ignorance, they say, as for any malice. He'd put his bit of money +in the estate and meant to have it out of it, and he didn't like at +all the easy-going ways he found there. The old Misses Conyers who +preceded him were of a very ancient stock, and would rather turn out +themselves than turn out a soul of their people. They had enough money +to keep them while they lived; and 'pay when you can,' or 'when you +like,' was the rule on the estate. Every man, woman and child was +Paddy and Biddy and Judy to them. Oh, sure it was a bad day for the +tenants when they went; and more betoken, they had laid up trouble +for the man that was to succeed them. + +The people never gave Mr. Ramsay-Stewart a chance when he came. They +disliked him, and he was an upstart and a _gombeen_ man and a usurper, +and such foolishness, in the mouths of every one of them. As if it was +his fault, poor gentleman, that the Misses Conyers never married, and +so let Coolacreva fall to strangers. + +Now there was a widow and her daughter, Mrs. Murphy and little Fanny, +that had a big patch of land on the estate, and the memory of man +couldn't tell when they'd paid a penny of rent for it. It was so +overgrown with weeds and thistles, and so strewn with big boulders, +that it was more like a boreen than decent fields. Well, it vexed Mr. +Ramsay-Stewart, who was accustomed to the tidy Scotch fields, +amazingly, and he got on his high horse that the widow should pay or +go. + +She couldn't or wouldn't pay, and she wouldn't go. She never thought +the crow-bar brigade would be set on her cabin; but, sure, the new +landlord wasn't a man to stop short of his word, and one bleak, bitter +November day he was out with the police and bailiffs. Before the +League could put one foot before another the roof was off Mrs. +Murphy's cabin, the bits of furniture out in the road, and the pair of +women standing over them shaking their fists at the Scotchman, and +whimpering out the revenge they'd have, till Lanty Corcoran, a strong +farmer, took them home, and set them up snug and easy in one of his +outhouses. + +Fanny was a pretty little girl, a golden-ringleted, blue-eyed slip of +a _colleen_, with a sturdy and independent will of her own, that +belied the soft shy glances she could cast at a man. She was promised +to a boy over the seas, who was making a home for her and her mother +in America, and there was another boy in the parish, John Sullivan, or +Shawn Dhuv, as they usually called him because of his dark complexion, +was fairly mad about her. Shawn was well off. He was the cleverest +farmer that side of the country, just the kind of man Mr. +Ramsay-Stewart wanted and was prepared to encourage when he got him. +His land was clean and well-tilled, and he had a fine stock of cattle +as well as horses, and hay, and straw, and machines that had cost a +handful of money, for he was quick to take up new-fangled notions. +People used to say Shawn would be a rich man one day, for he was +prudent, drank little, and was a silent man, keeping himself to +himself a good deal. + +Well, little Fanny had a hard time with the mother over her steady +refusals to have anything to say to Black Shawn. She was an +aggravating old woman, one of the whimpering sort; and sorely she must +have tried poor Fanny often with her coaxing and crying, but the +little girl was as stout as a rock where her absent boy was concerned. + +Shawn Dhuv heard in time of the eviction, and in a bad moment for +himself thought he'd press his suit once more; he knew he had the old +woman on his side, and he thought he might find the young one in such +a humour that she'd be glad to accept his hand and heart, and the +cover of his little farmhouse. He had an idea too that he'd only to +ask Mr. Ramsay-Stewart for the Murphys' farm and he'd get it, and he +thought this would be a fine lever to work with. + +But he never made such a mistake, for little Fanny turned on him like +the veriest spitfire. + +'You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Black Shawn,' she cried, with +her eyes flashing, 'to keep persecuting a girl that's as good as wife +to another man. Why, if he was never in the world, do you think I'd +take one like you, that's plotting and planning to take our bit of +land before the ashes of our roof-tree are gone gray? If he was here +he'd know how to avenge us, and not till he had done it would he look +the girl he loved in the face.' + +She was holding forth like this, her words tripping each other up in +her anger; but sure, the poor little girl didn't mean what she was +saying about revenge; it was likely some hot words she'd picked up out +of the newspapers that came into her head in her passion, and tripped +off her tongue without her knowing a word of what they meant. + +But Black Shawn heard her, turning first the deep red with which one +of his complexion blushes, and then falling off as gray as the dead. +Before she'd half said her say he took up his _caubeen_, put it on his +head, and walked out of the place with an air as if he were dreaming. + +Now he had an old carbine to frighten the crows, a crazy old thing +that was as likely to hurt the man who fired it as the thing that was +fired at. Black Shawn sat up all night cleaning it, and the grim mouth +of the man never relaxed, nor did the colour come back to his ashy +cheeks. + +The next night he lay in wait for Mr. Ramsay-Stewart as he came home +from the county club-house in Ballinscreen, and shot at him, killing +poor Larry Byrne. It was only the length of the bridge from the police +barracks, and as it was but nine o'clock at night, Ballinscreen people +were up and about. So there wasn't much time for Black Shawn to see +what mischief the blunderbuss had done. He saw at the first glance +that one man was down in the dogcart, and another man swinging on by +his arms to the mouth of the terrified horse. But already people were +running across the bridge and shouting, and the dark quay seemed alive +with lights. + +Luckily for Shawn the road away from the town was black as a tunnel. +It runs between the two stone walls that shut out Lord Cahirmore's +deer and black cattle from the public gaze. Down this black tunnel +raced Shawn, sobbing like a child, for the black fit was gone over and +the full horror of his crime was upon him. He was a quick runner, and +he got the advantage, for the police in their flurry stopped for a +minute or two debating whether to take the river banks or the road. +But in Shawn's head the pursuing footsteps beat, beat, while he was +yet far beyond them, and the trumpets of the Day of Judgment rang in +his miserable ears. He had the smoking gun in his hands, for he +hadn't the wit to get rid of it. And yet the man was safe, if he had +had his wits about him, for he was the last man for Mr. Ramsay-Stewart +to suspect or allow suspicion to fall upon. + +Well, he raced on blindly, and all of a sudden, as he turned a corner, +a man flung up his arms in front of him, and then caught him by both +wrists. It was Murty Meehan, and more betoken, he was on his way to a +drilling of the Fenian boys in a quiet spot in Alloa Valley. Murty was +wiry, despite his years, and his grip seemed to Black Shawn like the +handcuffs already upon him. There was little struggle left in Shawn, +and he just stood sobbing, while his gun smoked up between him and +Murty. + +'What black work is this, my fine fellow?' said Murty quietly. + +Black Shawn came to himself, seeing he was stopped by a man and no +ghost. + +'Let me go, for God's sake,' he sobbed out. 'I've shot Ramsay-Stewart +below at the bridge, and the police are after me.' Just then the moon +rolled from behind a cloud, and Murty Meehan saw his prisoner, saw +that he was young, and would be handsome if his face were not so +distorted by emotion. Now there came a sudden sound of footsteps +pelting along the road, and Shawn was taken with a tremor, though, +mind you, he was a brave man, and it was horror of his sin was on him +more than a fear of the rope. Murty Meehan made up his mind. + +'Give me the gun,' he said. 'I'm old and worn-out, and I might have +had a son of your age.' + +Shawn, hardly understanding, fled on the moment he was released. A bit +further the lord's wall gave way to iron palings, and not far beyond +was the open country and the road to the hills. Once in the hills +Black Shawn was safe. + +But they found Murty Meehan with the smoking gun in his hand, and what +more evidence could be wanted? He was tried for the murder, and +pleaded 'Not guilty'; and the number of witnesses called to testify to +his character was enough to fill the court-house, but then, he +couldn't or wouldn't explain the gun, and the judge declared it was +the clearest case that had ever come before him. He was very eloquent +in his charge over such a crime being committed by an old man, and +expressed his abhorrence of poor Murty in a way that might have seared +the face of a guilty man, though it didn't seem to come home very +closely to the prisoner. + +A month later Murty was hanged in Ballinscreen jail. He was many a day +in his quicklime grave before Black Shawn heard how another man had +suffered for his crime. After long wandering he had escaped to the +coast, and coming to a seaport town had been engaged by the captain of +a sailing vessel, short of hands, who was only too glad to give him +his grub and his passage in exchange for his work, and ask no +questions. But it was a time of storms, and the ship was blown +half-way to the North Pole, and as far south again, and arrived at New +York long after all hope of her safety had been given up. If Black +Shawn had known he would never have let an innocent man die in his +place. So said the neighbours, who had known him from his boyhood. + +They will tell you this story in Munster, as they told it to me, +sitting round the open hearth in the big farmhouse kitchens of winter +nights. Down there there is not a man that won't lift his hat +reverently when they name Murty. + +For long enough no one knew what became of Black Shawn, and when the +League was over and its power broken, and a better spirit was coming +back to men's hearts, many a poor boy was laid by the heels through +the use of that same name. Many in Munster will tell you of the +stranger that used to come to the farmhouses begging a rest by the +fire and a meal in the name of Black Shawn, and sitting there quietly +would listen to the rash and trustful talk of the young fellows about +fighting for their dear Dark Rosaleen, the country that holds men's +hearts more than any prosperous mother-land of them all. His name is a +name never mentioned in Ireland without a black, bitter curse, for he +was a famous informer and spy, own brother to such evil spawn as +Corydon, Massey, and Nagle. But 'tis too long a story to tell how the +spy masqueraded as Black Shawn, and I think I'll keep it for another +time. + + + + +XIII + +A PRODIGAL SON + + +Mrs. Sheehy was blest with two sons. Of the elder she had seen little +since his early boyhood, when his love for handling tarry ropes and +sails, and his passion for the water-side, had resulted in his +shipping as cabin-boy on a China-bound ship. There was undoubted +madness in the Sheehy blood, but in this sailor son, so long as he +kept sober, there was no manifestation of it except it might be in a +dreaminess and romanticism uncommon to his class. He was an +olive-skinned, brown-eyed fellow, with such a refined face as might +have belonged to an artist or musician. He had the mellow colour +Murillo loved. The mad strain which, in the case of greatly gifted +people, has often seemed to be the motive power of genius, in him +took the form of a great cleverness,--an esoteric cleverness and +ingenuity added to the sailor's dexterity. + +But it is not with Willie I have to deal, though the story of his +marriage is a little romance in itself. It was Mick was the prodigal +son. Every one about the country knew and liked Mick. He was a bit of +an omadhaun, that is to say a simpleton,--but quite unlike the +shambling idiots of whom every village possessed one, who was a sort +of God's fool to the people, till some new legislation locked them all +up in the work-houses, poor things! + +Mick was a rosy-cheeked, innocent-looking lad, touched in the mind, +certainly, but exceedingly harmless, likeable and entertaining. He was +a strong fellow and when he 'took a hate (_i.e._ heat) o' work' he was +as good or better than the best in harvest or hayfield. His softness +procured for him a certain delightful immunity from responsibility. He +worked when in the humour, but race, or fair, or cock-fight, or +football match drew Mick irresistibly from his labours. He was off to +every bit of 'divarsion' in the country, and when there were big races +at a distance Mick generally took the road a day beforehand, sleeping +out in the soft spring night if it was dry weather, trusting to a +convenient haystack or barn if it wasn't. He was known so widely that +at every farmhouse along the road he was sure of a bite. And on the +race-course every one was his friend; and the various parties +picnicking were greeted by Mick with uproarious shouts and a flinging +of his _caubeen_ in the air, to signify his delight at meeting his +friends so far from home. + +Mick had the privileges of 'the natural,' as they call an idiot in +Ireland, with only a few of his disabilities. He was even known to +leave the church during a very tedious sermon of Father O'Herlihy's +and smoke a pipe outside while awaiting the rest of the congregation. +When he was tackled about this flagrant disrespect by his pastor, Mick +replied unblushingly, 'Sure, I didn't lave durin' the mass, your +Reverence: 'twas all over but a thing of nothing.' 'What do you mean +by that?' asked his Reverence severely. 'Sure, your Reverence's +sermon, I mane, what else?' responded Mick. + +Mick could be violent too in his cups, but somehow even his violence +was humorous. The village butcher once was imprudent enough to +remonstrate with him for drinking, while the drink was yet in him, and +Mick acknowledged the good advice by unhooking a leg of mutton and +belabouring him soundly, to the detriment of himself and his mutton, +till the police interfered. On another occasion he addressed his +energies to the Sisyphus-like task of endeavouring to roll a very +large water-barrel through his mother's very small door, all one +winter night, while his mother alternately coaxed and threatened. +Mick's pranks were endless, but lest they meet with a severer judge +than Mick ever met with, I spare you the recital of them. + +Now Mrs. Sheehy was far less tolerated and tolerable than either of +her peccant sons. She had a little withered face, with hard red +cheeks and bright, rather mad black eyes, set in a frame of crinkly +black hair. You might meet her on the road of a sweet summer morning, +trapesing, to use the expressive Irish word, along, with a sunshade +over her battered bonnet. Her attire was generally made up of very +tarnished finery,--a befrilled skirt trailing in the dust behind her, +and a tattered lace shawl disposed corner-wise over her shoulders. She +seemed always to wear the cast-off garments of fine ladies, and we had +an explanation of this fact. It was supposed that Mrs. Sheehy +represented herself to pious Protestant ladies, for about a radius of +twenty miles, as a Papist, who might easily be brought to see the +error of her ways, and as one who for her liberal tendencies was much +in disfavour with the priests. I know that to her co-religionists she +complained that Protestant charities were closed to her because she +had become a Catholic. There was a legend that Mrs. Sheehy came from a +Protestant stock, but I do not know whether this were true or merely +invented for convenience when the lady went asking alms. + +It was from some of these Protestant ladies the suggestion came that +Mick should go to America under some precious emigration scheme. They +are always, with their mistaken philanthropy, drafting away the boys +and girls from Ireland, to cast them, human wreckage, in the streets +of New York; always taking away the young life from the sweet glens +over which the chapel bell sends its shepherding voice, and casting it +away in noisome places, while at home the aged folk go down alone the +path to the grave. + +Now we always thought that Mrs. Sheehy must have suggested Mick as an +emigrant, for he was distinctly not eligible. But it was very easy to +puff up poor Mick's mind with pictures of America as a Tom Tiddler's +ground, and the mother did this in private, while in public she wrung +her hands over the wilful boy that would go and leave her lonesome in +her old age. Pretty soon the matter was settled, and Mick went about +as vain as any young recruit when he has taken the Queen's shilling +and donned the scarlet, and has not yet realised that he has been a +fine fat goose for the fox-sergeant's plucking. + +But if Mick was full of the spirit of adventure, and looked forward to +that spring Wednesday when he should leave for Queenstown, his mother +made up for his heartless joy by her lugubriousness. As the time drew +near she would buttonhole all and sundry whom she could catch to pour +out her sorrows. The trailing gown and ragged lace shawl became a +danger signal which we would all flee from, an it were not sprung upon +us too suddenly. We had a shrewd suspicion that the tears Mrs. Sheehy +shed so freely were of the variety known as crocodile. Rumour had it +that Mick once out of the way she was to be accommodated comfortably +for life as a lodgekeeper to one of those emigrating ladies. Sometimes +she used to follow us to our very doors to weep, and on such occasions +would be so overcome with grief that it took a little whisky and water +and the gift of an old dress or some broken victuals to prepare her +for the road again. + +On the Tuesday of the week Mick was to start he made a farewell +progress round all the houses of the neighbourhood. We were called +into the big farmhouse kitchen about five of the afternoon to bid him +good-bye. Mick sat forward on the edge of his chair, thrusting now and +then his knuckles into his eyes, like a big child, and trying to wink +away his tears. We all did our best to console him, and after a time +from being very sad he grew rather uproariously gay. Mick was no +penman, but for all that he made the wildest promises about writing, +and as for the gifts he was to send us, the place should be indeed a +Tom Tiddler's ground if he were to fulfil his rash promises. Meanwhile +we all pressed our parting gifts on him; some took the form of money, +others were useful or beneficial, as we judged it. Mick added +everything to the small pack he was carrying, which had indeed already +swollen since he left home, and was likely to be considerably more +swollen by the time he had concluded his round. + +Mick had got over the parting with his mother. The emigrants' train +started in the small hours, and the emigrants were to rendezvous at a +common lodging-house close by the big terminus. We inquired about poor +Mrs. Sheeny with feeling. Mick responded with a return of tears that +he'd left her screeching for bare life and tearing her hair out in +handfuls. The memory caused Mick such remorse at leaving her that we +hastened to distract his mind to his fine prospects once more. + +He delayed so long over his farewells to us that we began to fear he'd +never catch up with the other emigrants, for the road to the city was +studded with the abodes of Mick's friends, whom he had yet to call +upon. However, at last he really said good-bye, and we accompanied him +in a group to the gate of the farmyard, from which, with a last +distracted wave of his hands, the poor fellow set off, running, as if +he could not trust himself to look back, along the field-path. It was +a dewy May evening after rain, and the hawthorn was all in bloom, and +the leaves shaking out their crumpled flags of tender green. The +blackbird was singing as he only sings after rain, and the fields were +covered with the gold and silver dust of buttercup and daisy. It was +sad to see the poor fellow going away at such a time, and from a place +where every one knew and was kind to him, to an unknown world that +might be very cruel. Once again as we watched him we anathematised the +emigration which has so steadily been bleeding the veins of our poor +country. + +We all thought of Mick the next morning, and imagined him on the +various stages of his journey to Queenstown, and the big liner. For a +week or so we did not see Mrs. Sheehy, but heard piteous accounts of +her prostration. The poor woman seemed incapable of taking comfort. +Report said that she could neither eat nor drink, so great was her +grief. We felt rather ashamed of our former judgments of her, and were +very full of good resolutions as to our future treatment of her. Only +Mary, our maid, disbelieved in this excessive grief; but then Mary is +the most profound cynic I have ever known, and we always discount her +judgments. + +Anyhow, when Mrs. Sheehy reappeared in our kitchen she looked more +wizened, yellow, and dishevelled than ever, and at the mention of +Mick's name she rocked herself to and fro in such paroxysms of grief +that we were quite alarmed. As for the benevolent ladies interested in +the schemes of emigration, their eyes would have been rudely opened if +they could have heard Mrs. Sheehy's denunciations of them. She called +them the hard-hearted ould maids who had robbed her of her one child, +who had persecuted her boy--her innocent child, and driven him out in +the cold world, who had left her to go down a lone woman to the grave. +Nor was this all, for she was an adept at eloquent Irish curses, and +she sprinkled them generously on the devoted heads of the ladies +aforesaid. It was really rather fine to see Mrs. Sheehy in this tragic +mood, and we were all touched and impressed by her. We comforted her +with the suggestion that a letter from Mick was nearly due, and with +assurances, which we scarcely felt, that Mick was bound to do well in +America and prove a credit to her; and we finally got rid of her, and +were rejoiced to see her going off, with her turned-up skirt full as +usual of heterogeneous offerings. + +Well, a few days after this, some one brought us the surprising story +that Mick had returned or was on the way to return. One of the carters +had given him a lift on the first stage of his journey from Dublin, +and had left him by his own request at one of the houses where he had +had such a sorrowful parting a little while before. The man had told +Mick of his mother's grief, a bit of intelligence which somewhat +dashed the radiant spirits with which he was returning home. However, +he cheered up immediately: 'Tell th' ould woman,' he said, 'that I +wasn't such a villain as to leave her at all, at all, an' that I'll be +home by evenin'. She'll be havin' a bit o' bacon in the pot to welcome +me.' The man told us this with a dry grin, and added, ''Tis meself +wouldn't like to be afther bringin' the poor ould woman the good news. +It might be too much joy for the crathur to bear.' This ironic speech +revived all our doubts of Mrs. Sheehy. + +Mick took our house on the way across the fields to his mother's +cottage. We received him cordially, though with less _empressement_ +than when we had parted from him, for now we were pretty sure of +seeing Mick often during the years of our natural lives. We too told +him of his mother's excessive grief, as much, perhaps, with a selfish +design of hastening him on his way as anything else, for we had our +misgivings about Mick's reception. + +There were plenty of people to tell us of the prodigal's welcome. The +village had buzzed all day with the dramatic sensation of Mick's +return, but no one had told Mrs. Sheehy--though every one was on +tiptoe for the hour of Mick's arrival. He came about six in the +evening, and having passed through the village was escorted by a band +of the curious towards his mother's cottage. + +Mrs. Sheehy lives in a by-road. On one side are the woods, on the +other the fields, and at this hour of the May evening the woods were +full of golden aisles of glory. Now Mrs. Sheehy had come out of her +house to give a bit to the pig, when she saw a group of people +advancing towards her down the sunshine and shadow of the road. She +shaded her eyes and looked that way. For a minute or two she could not +make out the advancing figures, but from one in the midst broke a +yell, a too-familiar yell, for who in the world but Mick could make +such a sound? Then her prodigal son dashed from the midst of the +throng and flew to her with his arms spread wide. + +Mrs. Sheehy seemed taken with a genuine faintness. She dropped the +'piggin,'--the little one-handled tub in which she was carrying the +rentpayer's mess of greens,--and fell back against the wall. The +spectators, and it seemed the whole village had turned out, came +stealing in Mick's wake. They were safe from Mrs. Sheehy's dreaded +tongue, for the lady had no eyes for them. As soon as she realised +that it was Mick, really her son, come back to her, she burst into a +torrent of abuse, the like of which has never been equalled in our +country. The listeners could give no idea of it: it was too continuous +and too eloquent. It included not only Mick, 'the villain, the thief +of the world, the base unnatural deceiver,' but ourselves, and all to +whom Mick had paid those farewell visits. Mick heard her with a grin, +and when she had exhausted herself she suddenly clutched him by his +mop-head, dragged him indoors, and banged the door to. + +She had apprehended the true state of the case. The potations at some +houses, the gifts at others, had been the causes of the failure of +Mick as an emigrant. When his round of visits was concluded he had +slept comfortably in a hay-stack till long after the hour when his +fellow emigrants were starting from Kingsbridge. The next morning he +had gaily set out for 'a bit of a spree' in Dublin, and having sold +his passage ticket and his little kit, had managed, with the proceeds +and our gifts, to make the spree last a fortnight. For a little while +we deemed it expedient to avoid passing by Mrs. Sheehy's door, though +Mick assured us that it was 'the joy of the crathur had taken her wits +from her, so that she didn't rightly know what she was saying.' + +There was one more attempt made to emigrate Mick, but it was futile, +Mick declaring that 'he'd deserve any misfortune, so he would, if he +was ever to turn his back on the old woman again.' Mrs. Sheehy has +forgiven us our innocent share in keeping Mick at home with her. The +mother and son still live together, with varying times, just as the +working mood is on or off Mick. I believe his favourite relaxation of +an evening, when he stays at home, is to discover in the wood embers +the treasures which would have fallen to him if his love for his +mother hadn't kept him from expatriating himself. The Hon. Miss +Ellersby's vacant gate-lodge has been filled up by Kitty Keegan, who +is Mrs. Sheehy's special aversion out of all the world. + + + + +XIV + +CHANGING THE NURSERIES + + +To-day the fiat has gone forth, and we are already deep in +consultation over paper and paint, chintz, and carpeting. How many +years I have dreaded it; how many staved off, beyond my hope, the +transformation of those two dear rooms! They have been a shabby corner +in my big, stately house for many a day--a corner to which in the +long, golden afternoons I could steal for an hour and shut out the +world, and nurse my sorrow at my breast like a crying child. You may +have heard Catholics talk about a 'retreat,' a quiet time in which one +shuffles off earthly cares, and steeps one's soul in the silence that +washes it and makes it strong. Such a 'retreat' I have given my heart +in many and many an hour in the old nurseries. I have sat there with +my hands folded, and let the long-still little voices sound sweet in +my ear--the voices of the dead children, the voices of the grown +children whose childhood is dead. The voices cry to me, indeed, many a +time when I have no leisure to hear them. When I am facing my dear man +at the other end of our long dining-table, when I am listening to the +chatter of callers in my drawing-room, at dinner-parties and balls, in +the glare of the theatre, I often hear the cries to which I must not +listen. + +A mother has such times, though her matronhood be crowned like mine +with beautiful and dear children, and with the love of the best +husband in the world. I praise God with a full heart for His gifts; +but how often in the night I have wakened heart-hungry for the little +ones, and have held my breath and crushed back my sobs lest the dear +soul sleeping so placidly by my side should discover my inexplicable +trouble. In the nurseries that I shall have no more after to-day, the +memories of them have crowded about my knees like gentle little +ghosts. There were the screened fire-place and the tiny chairs which +in winter they drew near the blaze, and the window overlooking the +pleasance and a strip of the garden, where the wee faces crowded if I +were walking below. Things are just as they were: the little beds +huddled about the wall; the cheap American clock, long done ticking, +on the mantelshelf; the doll's house, staring from all its forlorn +windows, as lonely as a human habitation long deserted; the cupboard, +through the open doors of which you may see the rose-bedecked cups +that were specially bought for the nursery tea. Am I the same woman +that used to rustle so cheerfully down the nursery corridor to share +that happy afternoon tea? From the door, half denuded of its paint, +peachy little faces used to peep joyfully at my coming; while inside +there waited my little delicate one, long gone to God, who never ran +and played with the others. I can see her still, with the pleasure +lighting up her little, thin face, where she sat sedately, her scarlet +shoes to the blaze and her doll clasped to a tenderly maternal +breast. + +They will tear down the wall paper to-morrow, and the pictures of +Beauty and the Beast, and those fine-coloured prints of children and +doggies and beribboned pussy-cats that the children used to love. +There is one of a terrier submitting meekly to be washed by an +imperious small mistress. One of my babies loved that terrier so +tenderly that he had to be lifted morning and night to kiss the black +nose, whence the oily shine of the picture is much disfigured at that +point. He is grown now and a good boy, but less fond of kissing, and +somehow independent of his father and of me. There on the window +shutter is a drawing my baby, Nella, made the year she died, a strange +and wonderful representation of a lady and a dog. I have never allowed +it to be washed out, and perhaps only mothers will understand me when +I say that I have kissed it often with tears. + +I shall miss my nurseries bitterly. No one ever came there but myself +in those quiet afternoon hours, and my old Mary, my nurse, who nursed +them all from first to last. She surprised me once as I sat strangling +with sobs amid the toys I had lifted from their shelves, the +dilapidated sheep, the Noah's Ark, the engine, which for want of a +wheel lies on its side, and a whole disreputable regiment of battered +dolls and tin soldiers. On my lap there were dainty garments of linen +and wool, every one of which I kissed so often with a passion of +regret. I have kept my baby clothes selfishly till now, hidden away in +locked drawers, sweet with lavender. To-day I have parted with them. +They are gone to dress the Christmas babies at a great maternity +hospital. Each one I set aside to go tore my heart intolerably. May +the Christmas Babe who lacked such clothing in the frost and snow, +love the little ones, living or dead, to whom those tiny frocks and +socks and shirts once belonged! Giving them away, I seem to have +wrenched my heart from the dead children; each gift was a separate +pang. The toys, too, go to-morrow to the Sisters of Charity, who have +a great house near at hand. A Sister, a virginal creature whom I have +seen holding the puny babies of the poor to a breast innocently +maternal, has told me of the children who at Christmastide have no +toys. This year they shall not go without; so I am sending them +all--the doll's house and the rocking-horse, and all the queer +contents of the nursery shelves, and the fairy stories well thumbed, +with here and there a loose page, and the boxes of bricks and the +clockwork mouse--all, all my treasures. + +Yet, if the children had all lived, I might yet have had my nurseries. +The three youngest died one after another: my smallest boy, whom I +have not ceased yet to regard as my baby, I kept in the nurseries as +long as I could. He has not yet outgrown his guinea-pigs, and his +bantams, his squirrels, and his litter of puppies. When he went to +school he commended each to my care, with tears he in vain tried +manfully to wink away. Dear little sweetheart, he gave way at last, +and we cried together passionately. But I wish he need not have gone +for another year. He was more babyish than the others, more content to +remain long my baby. His first letters from school were tear-stained +and full of babyish thoughts and reminiscences. But he is growing +ashamed of the softness, I can see, and talks of 'fellows,' and +'fielding,' and 'runs,' and 'wickets' in a way that shows me that my +baby has put on the boy. + +It was not fair, I see, to have kept the nurseries so long. The boys +at the University, the girls, enjoying their first introduction to the +gay world, have wanted rooms for their friends, and generous as the +big house is, it does not do much more than hold its own happy brood. +The nurseries are to be made into a couple of charming rooms, the one +with a paper of tea-roses on a white satin ground, and yellow and +white hangings, and paint and tiles in the pretty grate. The other is +to be green and pink, with a suite of green furniture and rosy +hangings. I entered into it with zest as my girls debated it. But all +the time my heart cried out against the devastation of its dreams. +To-morrow, when they begin to dismantle my nurseries, I do not know +how I shall bear it. I feel to-night as if they were going to turn the +gentle inhabitants out into the night and rain, the shades of my +little children who used to sit round the fire of winter evenings, or +by the window in the long, exquisite summer days. It is like long, +long ago, when Nella and Cuckoo and Darling died. + + + + +XV + +THE FIELDS OF MY CHILDHOOD + + +They lie far away, gray with the mists of memory, under a veil of +distance, half-silver, half-gold, like the gossamer, so far that they +might never have been save only in dreams. They are not nearly so real +as the Eastern world of the stories I read yesterday, but I know where +they lie--common fields nowadays, and seldom visited. Yet, there was a +child once who knew every inch of them as well as the ant her anthill, +or the silvery minnow her brown well under the stone cover, to which +one descends by ancient water-stained steps. + +The fields are there, but their face somewhat changed, as other things +are changed. We were little ones when we came to live among them, in a +thatched house full of little nests of rooms, the walls of which were +run over by flowery trellises that made them country-like even by +candle-light. Of candle-light I have not much memory, for we went to +bed in the gloaming, when the long, long day had burned itself out and +the skies were washed with palest green that held the evening star; +and we slept dreamlessly till the golden day shot through the chinks +of the shutters, and we leapt to life again with a child's zest for +living. At the back of the house there was an overgrown orchard, a +dim, delicious place where the gnarled boughs made a roof against +heaven. It was our adventure, time and again, to escape through our +windows and wash our feet in the May dew before we were discovered. +One whole summer, indeed, these revels were hindered by a bull which +was pastured on the lush herbage. But how entrancing it was to hear +him roar at night, close by our bed's head, or to see his great shadow +cross the chink of moonlight in the shutter! Sometimes he ate the +rose-bushes that wreathed our window, and, rubbing his gigantic +flanks against the house-wall, bellowed, while we shook in bed in +delicious tremors, and imagined our cosy nest a tent in the African +desert, with lions roaring outside. I remember the rooms so well: the +chilly parlour, only used when we had grown-up visitors, for we were +there in charge of a nurse; the red-tiled kitchen, with its settle and +its little windows opening inward; the door that gave on a grass-grown +approach; and the stone seat outside, where we sat to shell peas, or +made 'plays' with broken bits of crockery and the shreds of shining +tin pared by the travelling tinker when he mended the porringers. I +remember the very cups and saucers from which we drank our rare +draughts of tea--delicate china, with sea-shells on it in tones of +gray, the varied shapes of which gave us ever-new interest. + +As I look back, I can never see that house in unwinking daylight, +though it was perpetual summer then, and never a rainy day. Rooms and +passages are always dim with a subdued green light, the reflection, I +suppose, through the narrow windows wreathed with verdure, and from +the grass and the plaited apple-boughs. But the spirit of improvement +has laid all waste, has thrown the wee rooms into ample ones, has +changed the narrow windows for bays and oriels, has thinned the +apple-trees for the sake of the grass. There was once a pond, long and +green, with a little island in the midst, where a water-hen had her +nest. I always thought of it as the pond in Hans Andersen's _Ugly +Duckling_, and never watched the ducks paddling among the reeds that I +did not look to the sky to see the wild geese, that were +contemptuously friendly with the poor hero, flecking the pearl-strewn +blue. The pond is filled up now with the macadam of a model farmyard. +Iron and stone have replaced the tumble-down yellow sheds, where we +drank sheep's milk in a gloom powdered with sun-rays; the two +shrubberies have gone, and the hedge of wild roses that linked the +trees in the approach to the house. Naught remains save the thatched +roof, many feet deep, the green porch over the hall door, the stone +seat round the streaky apple-tree at the garden gate, and the garden +itself, where the largest lilies I have ever seen stand in the sun, +and the apple-trees are in the garden-beds, the holly-hocks elbow the +gooseberries, and the violets push out their little clumps in the +celery-bed. + +But the fields. It is only to the ignorant all fields are the same; as +there are some who see no individualities in animals because they have +no heart for them. Here and there hedges have been levelled and dykes +filled, and now their places are marked by a long dimple in the land's +face. The well in the midst of one has been filled up, despite the +warning of an old mountain farmer that ill-luck would surely follow +whosoever demolished the fairy well. Over it grew a clump of briar and +thorn-trees, where one found the largest, juiciest blackberries; that +too is gone, but, practically, the fields remain the same. There is +the Ten Acre field, stretching so far as to be weirdly lonely at the +very far end. Every part of it was distinct. You turned to the left as +you entered by a heavy hedge of wild-rose and blackberry. There the +wild convolvulus blew its white trumpet gloriously and violets ran +over the bank under the green veil, and stellaria and speedwell made +in May a mimic heaven. I remember a meadow there, and yet again a +potato-digging, where we picked our own potatoes for dinner and grew +sun-burnt as the brown men and women who required so many cans of +well-water to drink at their work. Where the hedge curved there was a +little passage, through which the dyke-water flowed into the next +field. It was delightful to set little boats of leaf and grass upon +the stream, and to see them carried gaily by the current down that +arcade of green light. Some of the inquisitive ones waded after them, +and emerged wet and muddy in the next field. I preferred to keep the +mystery of the place, and to believe it went a long, long way. For +half the length of the field the water flowed over long grass that lay +face downward in it. To see it you had to lift the grass and the +meadow flowers. Once we were startled there in a summer dusk before +the hay was cut, when all the corn-crakes were crying out that summer +was in the land. As we threaded the meadow aisles, a heavy, dark body +leapt from its lair and into the dyke. It was a badger, we learnt +afterwards, and its presence there gave the place an attractive +fearsomeness. Half-way down, where a boundary hedge had once made two +fields of the Ten Acres, the low hedge changed to a tall wall of +stately thorn trees. Below their feet the stream ran, amber, pellucid, +over a line of transformed pebbles. By this we used to lie for hours, +watching the silver-scaled minnows as they sailed on. At the far end +there was watercress, and over the hedge a strange field, good for +mushrooms, but which bore with us a somewhat uncanny reputation. + +Across it you saw the gray house-chimneys of the lonely house reputed +to be haunted. Opposite its door stood an old fort on a little hill, a +noted resort of the fairies. Any summer gloaming at all, you might see +their hundreds of little lamps threading a fantastic measure in and +out on the rath. I never heard that any one saw more of them than +those lights, which floated away if any were bold enough to approach +them, like glorified balls of that thistledown of which children +divine what's o'clock. + +At the other side of the Ten Acres was a fantastic corner of grass, +which was always a miniature meadow. There swung the scarlet and black +butterflies which have flown into Fairyland, and there the corn-crake +built her nest in the grass. It was a famous corner for +bird's-nesting, which with us took no crueller form than liking to +part the thick leaves to peep at the pretty, perturbed mother-thrush +on her clutch. Sometimes we peeped too often, and she flew away and +left the eggs cold. We saw the world from that corner, for one could +see through the hedge on to the road by lying low where the roots of +the hedge-row made a thinness. We should not have cared about this if +it were not that we could look, unseen ourselves, at the infrequent +passer-by, for the hedge grew luxuriantly. Further down it became +partly a clay bank, and there on the coarse grass used to hang +snail-shells of all sizes, and, as I remember them, of shining gold +and silver. The inhabitant was the drawback to all that beauty, yet +when we found an empty house, it was cold, dull, and with the sheen +vanished. + +Across the road was the moat-field, the great fascination of which was +in the wild hill that gave it its name. What the moat originally was I +know not. I think, now, it must have been a gravel-hill, for it was +full of deep gashes, of pits and quarries, run over by briar, alight +with furze-bushes. It must have been long disused, for the hedge that +was set around it--to keep the cattle out, perhaps--was tall and +sturdy, and grew up boldly towards the trees that studded it at +intervals. There was no other entry to it except by gaps we made in +the close hedge, and, wriggling through these, we climbed among briars +and all kinds of vegetation that made a miniature jungle overhead. +Near the top we emerged on stunted grass, with the wide sky over us, +and before us the champaign country stretching to the plains of +Meath, and the smoke of the city, and the misty sea. Southwards there +were the eternal hills which grow so dear to one, yet never so +intimate that they have not fresh exquisite surprises in store. We +threaded the moat by paths between the furze, on the golden +honey-hives of which fluttered moths like blue turquoise. The +dragon-fly was there, and the lady-bird and little beetles in emerald +coats of mail. And over that the lark soared in a wide field of air to +hail God at His own very gates. Bitter little sloes grew on the moat, +and blackberries in their season; and if you had descended into one of +the many cups of the place, even long before the sun had begun to +slant, you liked to shout to your companions and be answered cheerily +from the human world. The moat had an uncanniness of its own; it was +haunted by leaping fires that overran it and left no trace. You might +see it afar, suffused by a dull glare, any dim summer night. So have I +myself beheld it when I have crept through the dews on a nocturnal +expedition: and though one of the commonplace suggested that it might +have been the new moon rising scarlet behind the luxuriant vegetation +of the moat, that was in the unimaginative next day, and not when we +discussed the marvel in the scented darkness that comes between summer +eve and dawn. + +Then there was the well-field, where a little stream that fed the well +clattered over pebbles, made leaps so sudden down tiny inclines that +we called the commotion a waterfall, and widened under a willow-tree +into a pool, brown and still, where, tradition said, had once been +seen a trout. For sake of this glorious memory we fished long with +squirming worms and a pin, but caught not even the silliest little +minnow. This small game we used to bag, by the way, at will, by simply +lowering a can into the green depths of the well, where there was +always a tiny silver fin a-sailing. Once we kept a pair three days in +the water-jug, and finally restored them to their emerald dark. The +well-field was in part marshy and ended in a rushy place, where +water-cresses grew thick, and a little bridge led into the +neighbour's fields. There we found yellow iris, and the purple bee +orchis, and fox-gloves. + +Hard by was Nano's Field, which we affected only in the autumn, for +then we gathered crab-apples, of a yellow and pink, most delightful to +the eye. And also the particular variety of blackberry which ripens +first, and is large and of irregular shape, but, to the common +blackberry, what purple grapes are to the thin, green variety. And +again, there was the front lawn, where the quicken-berry hung in +drooping scarlet clusters above us, as we sat on a knoll, and a sea of +gold and white washed about us in May. But the fields make me +garrulous, and if I were to go on they that never tired the children +might weary the grown listener. Said I not they were seldom visited? +Yet their enchantment is still there for happy generations unborn. The +children and the fields and the birds we have always with us. I would +that for every child there might be the fields, to make long after a +dream of green beauty, though the world has grown arid. Because the +dream seems so sweet to me I have gossiped of it, but have not named +half its delicate delights, nor some of the great ones: as the romps +in the hay fields, the voyage of discovery after hens' nests, the +mysteries of that double hedge that is the orchard boundary, and the +hidden places in gnarled boughs, where you perched among the secrets +of the birds and the leaves, and saw the crescent moon through a +tender veil of enchantment while yet the orange of the sunset was in +the west. + + +THE END + + + Some of these stories have made their first appearance in the + pages of _The Pall Mall Gazette_, _The Speaker_, _The + Englishwoman_, _The Monthly Packet_, _Black and White_, and _The + Family Circle_, to the Editors of which I am indebted for their + courteous permission to reproduce them here. + + +_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_. + + * * * * * + + +-----------------------------------------------------------+ + | Typographical errors corrected in text: | + | | + | Page 133: reremember replaced with remember | + | | + | The sentence on page 47 really does say: | + | "The mother turned round on her her dim eyes." | + | | + +-----------------------------------------------------------+ + + * * * * * + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of An Isle in the Water, by Katharine Tynan + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ISLE IN THE WATER *** + +***** This file should be named 31391.txt or 31391.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/3/9/31391/ + +Produced by David Edwards, Jeannie Howse and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +book was produced from scanned images of public domain +material from the Google Print project.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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