THE O'SHEE.
Mrs. O'Brien returned to the house. She was in a very bad humour; in
fact, in a shocking humour; and the first person she met was Maureen.
"Ha--ho, come here, charity child!"
Maureen, who was dusting the drawing-room assiduously, did not move a
muscle, but went on with her work.
"Do you hear me, Maureen? I have spoken to you."
"No, you haven't," said Maureen. "You spoke to somebody you called
a charity child--I'm not that. Do you want me for anything special,
step-auntie?"
"Yes. I want to put a spoke in your wheel. Charity child or not at the
present moment, you will be one soon."
"Step-auntie, why are you so unkind to me?" The sweet brown eyes became
slightly moist and the lovely rosy lips trembled.
"Affected little piece," said Mrs. O'Brien. "Now, you listen to me.
Whatever you call yourself now, you _will_ be a charity child soon, but
I wish to give you a message. Tell that ridiculous old uncle of yours
that as he chose to appropriate my phaeton and horse and my coachman
to drive to Kingsala, I have made arrangements to go on most vital
business to see Colonel Herbert at Rathclaren."
"Rathclaren!" cried Maureen; "but that's a long way off. You will never
walk the nine miles, step-auntie."
"You hold your chatter. I know what I'm about. Jacobs has gone to fetch
Farmer Barrett's young colt and dogcart. I'm going to drive there."
Maureen clasped her hands, and her pretty soft face turned white.
"Oh, step-auntie, don't--don't, I beg of you. The only colt that Farmer
Barrett has got is The O'Shee, and he's not half nor quarter broken in
yet. Oh, _please_, auntie, let me go for you. I will take any message
you like. I'll bring Colonel Herbert to see you. Please, please, don't
trust yourself to that high dogcart and Jacobs, who can hardly drive
anything, and The O'Shee. I don't mind a bit walking nine miles, and
I'll do it for you. Please let me."
But Mrs. O'Brien was too angry to be prudent.
"Charity child," she said, "go on with your dusting, and leave me
alone. When your uncle returns, you will be able to tell him where I
am. Now, I'm off to put on my finery. If you like to make yourself
useful, which you never do like, you can come up with me to my bedroom
and fasten my boots."
Maureen obeyed. Mrs. O'Brien's room was dainty, and
fashionable-looking, and there were all sorts of silver brushes and
boxes and trays on the table, and different condiments for improving
the complexion and making the fiery blue eyes look more fiery than ever.
Little Maureen, bending down in her shabby frock, with her soft brown
hair falling about her shoulders, made a strange contrast to the
haughty dame. Several times she tried to speak again, to urge, to
beg, to implore, but Mrs. O'Brien was now absorbed in her toilet. She
wanted to make herself look very effective when she visited Colonel
Herbert. At last she was dressed in a style which seemed to please
her. She wore a silk dress of soft pink and a toque to match with that
horrible osprey, which Maureen so hated, for she knew, she had learnt
the terrible cruelty that takes place in obtaining the osprey. Although
she was supposed to be uneducated, she was the sort of little girl who
was always picking up odds and ends of knowledge. At last there came
the clatter of wheels, the shout of Jacobs' voice, and the sound of a
horse's hoofs as he trod the avenue.
"Oh, auntie, if you _only_ wouldn't," said the beseeching little
Maureen.
"Child, I will. There is no saying what may happen if I don't go."
"May--may--I mean, would you like me to come with you?"
"You--you little brat--no. Get out of my way!"
Maureen said no more. Mrs. O'Brien with considerable difficulty found
herself mounted on the tall dogcart, and soon The O'Shee, the lady, and
the groom were out of sight. They went like a gust of wind, as Maureen
said afterwards. Her heart was beating wildly. She was full of untold
terror. She had no one to confide in, however, so she went, in her
accustomed, steadfast sort of way, to prepare the best dinner she could
think of for Uncle Pat. Pegeen always loved to have her in the kitchen,
and soon she was very busy shelling peas and removing the stalks from
enormous strawberries and whipping up a great bowl of cream. She hoped
that step-auntie would stay a very long time with Colonel Herbert, and
that her darling Uncle Pat would come back tired, weary, no doubt, but
with no one to worry him, when he sat down to his excellent dinner.
Meanwhile the lady on the dogcart had a somewhat adventurous drive, for
The O'Shee, worthy of his name, bolted and jibbed and shied at every
single thing he met. Jacobs had not the slightest idea how to drive, so
Mrs. O'Brien, who had, whatever her faults, plenty of courage, took the
reins into her own hands, relegated the groom to the back seat, and by
dint of wild exertion and desperate efforts got The O'Shee to the gates
of Colonel Herbert's place, Rathclaren.
Now the dogcart was exceedingly shabby and the half-broken-in colt was
not a pretty object, as he stood quivering and shaking, nor was Jacobs
anything to boast of, for the only decent livery was worn by the
servant who had taken the Rector and his son to Kingsala. Mrs. O'Brien
therefore made up her mind to leave Jacobs and the colt and dogcart in
a remote shady lane, while she herself walked gracefully up the avenue
to Colonel Herbert's mansion.
Colonel Herbert was an old bachelor, one of the most noted hunters
in the neighbourhood, and exceedingly particular about his dress and
appearance. He had never liked Mrs. O'Brien, but he put up with her
for the sake of that good man, the Rector. He certainly disliked Mrs.
O'Brien's style of dress, which he considered most unsuitable for any
lady. He was, however, a gentleman--every inch of him--and when Mrs.
O'Brien explained that she had left her restless horse somewhere at the
gates, and would like to have a talk with him over a matter of extreme
privacy, he took her into his study, a luxuriously-appointed room, very
different from the poor Rector's, and inquired anxiously how his dear
friend the said Rector was.
"But poorly," said Mrs. O'Brien. "He may, however, revive; there is no
saying. He has had the best medical advice, and I suppose will soon be
himself again."
"I trust so, indeed," said Colonel Herbert. "Your husband, madam, is
one of the saints of God."
"I will be honest with you," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I dislike saints."
The Colonel was a little puzzled to know how to reply, and on such an
occasion he was invariably silent.
"What can I do for you?" he said, after a very long pause.
"Well, Colonel, I'm a lonely woman, and I've really no one with whom I
can talk matters over. You may possibly have heard that I personally am
well off."
The Colonel nodded very gravely.
"I have two dear, sweet daughters by my first husband. Their name is
Mostyn. When I married my husband, I don't mind confessing to you that
I was desperately in love with him."
"Quite so--quite so," said the Colonel, who hated the subject of love
more than anything in the wide world. "Mrs. O'Brien," he continued,
"you had a right to give your heart to so noble a fellow. There isn't
Patrick O'Brien's equal in the whole county."
"Ah, well," said Mrs. O'Brien, "you haven't lived with him day in and
day out. Anyhow, I was madly in love with him then, and I made a will
that in case of the extreme improbability of my dying before him,
my money, which amounts to fifty thousand pounds, should be divided
equally between the Rector, his children, a little girl called Maureen,
and of course my own two dear lovely girls. It was a noble thing to do,
don't you think so, Colonel Herbert?"
"I certainly agree with you, madam, and it must be a great relief to
O'Brien, dear fellow. I could guess that he was always a bit upset
about his dear little niece Maureen--for poor Maurice died so suddenly
he had not a penny to leave the child--and she motherless, and his
only one. I never saw a finer pair of fellows than Pat and Maurice. Of
course you have let the Rector know all about your fine determination,
Mrs. O'Brien?"
"Indeed, then, I have done nothing so silly," said Mrs. O'Brien. "I
must have been a bit mad when I made so ludicrous a will; but what will
not love aspire to? There is not much in it after all, for it can only
take effect if by a remote chance my poor weak husband survives me. If
I survive him, the will is so much waste paper; but to make all things
sure--for we never can tell what _may_ happen to us in this uncertain
world--I want either to have the will changed or to make a new one. To
be plain with you, Colonel, my feelings are not what they were----"
"Dear, dear," said the Colonel; "what can possibly have changed them?"
"Oh! a thousand things, Colonel Herbert; but principally that child--or
rather that _imp_ Maureen--I need not go into particulars; but you as
a gentleman must understand how a lady is placed. I have come here to
consult you. I want your sage advice on the subject of my new will."
"How do you want it altered?" asked Colonel Herbert.
"Well, I'm particularly anxious to settle all my money on my girls by
the first marriage. Can you assist me? Can you help a lonely woman to
put a wrong right?"
"My dear Mrs. O'Brien"--the Colonel rose impatiently from his seat--"it
is absolutely impossible for me to help you. I am a retired Army man,
not a lawyer. Go to a lawyer and he will draw you up any sort of will
you desire. Now I greatly fear I am due at the County Sessions. Will
you excuse me, madam? There are good lawyers in Cork and in Kingsala.
But may I ask you one question? I know a little about Mr. O'Brien's
affairs, and I am aware of the fact that he is especially interested in
his dear little niece Maureen, the daughter of one of the best fellows
that ever breathed. I suppose in readjusting your will or making a new
one, you will not forget that sweet child who is loved by everyone in
the place."
"Sweet child!" exclaimed Mrs. O'Brien. "Little you know her, Colonel.
I tell you she can _put on_ those manners, but she's a _nasty_ little
witch, and I _hate her_. Leave her a penny of my money--not I!"
"Then may God forgive you, madam. Now I'm afraid I must say
good-morning."
It so happened that Mrs. O'Brien left Colonel Herbert's house in a
towering rage. She had certainly got no comfort from that gentleman.
Had he seen the shabby dogcart, the wild, half-broken-in race-horse,
and poor Jacobs doing his best with him, matters might have turned out
differently, but he was absorbed in his own thoughts and made up his
mind to go and see the Reverend Patrick on the morrow.
"What possessed him to marry that woman?" was his thought.
By the time Mrs. O'Brien reached the dogcart, The O'Shee was in a wild
temper. He was stamping and pawing the ground and jumping from one side
of the road to the other.
"It's frighted to death I be of him, m'm," said Jacobs.
"You're a fool," said Mrs. O'Brien. "Here, hold his head while I mount."
But The O'Shee did not wish to have his head held, and the lady in the
pale pink silk dress had considerable difficulty in mounting into the
shabby dogcart.
"I'll give it to him, little beast," said Mrs. O'Brien, as she took the
whip from its place.
"For the Lord's sake, ma'am, don't lay _that_ on him. He's niver had a
_sthroke_ on him in his life. He'll go mad entirely, ma'am. Oh, Mrs.
O'Brien, ma'am, you'll be kilt entirely."
But Mrs. O'Brien's only reply was to touch Jacobs himself with the end
of the whip, and then, before he could get to his place at the back of
the dogcart, she laid the said instrument across The O'Shee's back.
The O'Shee stood still for a minute, quivering from head to foot in
unbounded amazement.
Jacobs tried to mount, but before he could do so, the lady and the
horse were away. They went like a whirlwind; they went, as Jacobs
described it afterwards, like a streak of lightning. In vain the angry
woman tried to pull in The O'Shee; in vain she laid the whip across his
shoulders. He was off--he was away. This was truly going--this was like
flying. For the first time a sensation of fear come over the woman. She
did not dare to look back, but she knew she was alone. She also knew
one thing, that she was not going in the direction of Templemore. The
horse had it his own way this time, and he was making straight as an
arrow from a bow to one of those celebrated Irish bogs, which devour
man and beast so that they are never heard of again. Once in the bog,
you never get out; you never can. Mrs. O'Brien knew it. She knew there
was only one way of helping herself. She must spring from the dogcart
before the horse reached the bog, the great bog of Anniskail.
Suddenly she flung the reins down; suddenly she made a leap from the
high dogcart on to a heap of stones on the soft narrow road. She gave
one terrible, piteous scream, and then lay still. Her head was doubled
under her very queerly, so that it did not seem to belong to her body.
An Irish peasant coming by presently came up to her, turned her round
and looked at her.
"Broken neck--dead on the spot," he said to himself; and then he
thought he would begin to spread the news, until suddenly he saw in the
midst of his anxiety and his great desire to be the first with such a
piece of information, the well-known head of Farmer Barrett's O'Shee
looking at him out of the bog. He was up to his neck and shoulders, and
all the fire had gone out of him.
The peasant untied the lady's pale pink sash. Little he cared about her
in comparison with the race-horse. Other peasants came to his relief,
and together they dragged the shivering animal out of the black, black
bog.