THE MAJOR AND HIS CHILD.
Maureen O'Brien had all her life been the sort of child who
instinctively thought of others rather than herself. In the long, long
ago, after the death of her sweet and beautiful young French mother,
she had comforted her father by every means in her power. But when
Maureen was very young and her father was feeling that he must bear
the parting with her, and must send her to his brother to England, his
own death put an end to the necessary sacrifice. The gallant Major was
badly wounded in one of those terrible border wars, while trying to
rescue a fellow-officer, from under the range of the enemies' guns. His
brother officer lived, but Major O'Brien, after lingering long enough
to obtain the Victoria Cross, and to see his only and most beloved
brother and his little child, passed away to join his sweet young wife
again; and Maureen, who all these six years of her young life had
been taken care of in the Hills, was brought back to Ireland by Uncle
Pat. There she was much loved both by Uncle Pat, who was so very like
father, and also by his dear first wife, a gentle lady who took the
orphan child to her heart of hearts.
In truth it would be difficult not to love Maureen, for there was
something wonderfully taking about her. She was like a little woman in
her ways, but she had the beautiful heart of a child. She was able to
see her father before he died, and the child's wonderful self-restraint
and courage amazed the Rector of Templemore.
"You are going up to God's good and beautiful world, daddy-mine," said
Maureen. "I have read about it time and again. Oh, no, daddy mine, I'm
not going to fret; it would be selfish for Maureen to fret; wouldn't
it, daddy?"
The dying soldier managed to whisper, "Yes, Maureen. Keep up your
heart, my brave one. You are going to my twin-brother, and Pat will be
good to you."
Then the soldier hero ceased to speak, but there came a shining light
of triumph into his eyes, and he looked up very joyfully, and thus he
entered into his eternal rest.
Maureen, who had promised not to fret, kept her word like the little
Briton she was, and she was in truth very happy as long as Auntie
Eileen lived; but one day the call came for auntie, and she too went
away--up--up--up like the lark, and Uncle Pat got very ill and the
doctors ordered him abroad. While there, in an evil moment, he met
the woman who became the second Mrs. O'Brien. What possessed him to
marry her could never be accounted for. People whispered, however,
each to the other, that _she_ had married him, taking the business
entirely into her own hands. Then, indeed, peace fled very quickly
from Templemore, and little Maureen began to feel the thorns of life
pricking her here, there, and everywhere.
Maureen, who tried her best to love everyone, did her utmost to love
her aunt. She thought that if once she could get possession of that
queer, wild, fierce heart, she might be able to help dear Uncle Pat,
but her efforts were unavailing. Still the child struggled on bravely,
as such children will. There are not many of them in the world; the
few there are, are little angels of light and messengers of peace; but
Maureen never thought of herself in any sense of the word whatsoever.
She was exceedingly anxious now about Uncle Pat; but what was she to
do about step-auntie. When in India she had learned the art of riding
perfectly. She could ride almost any buck-jumping pony in the station,
and she was the admiration of her father's regiment. She kept her seat
by a sort of miracle, and was adored and petted by all the ladies and
the gentlemen alike.
Since she had arrived at Templemore there was no horse for her to ride.
She missed this indulgence for a short time, but then she forgot it in
the real cares of life.
On this special day when step-auntie had gone to Rathclaren, and Uncle
Pat and Dominic were in Kingsala, the little girl felt remarkably
uncomfortable. There was great quiet in the house, for Denis and
Kitty were both at school, and Pegeen was in the best of humours, with
"Herself" away, and little missie, the darlin', keeping her company.
"Well, to be sure," said the old cook, when everything was prepared for
dinner. "I hope to the Lord the Colonel will keep herself until we has
had our male in paice and quiet. The likes of her was niver seen to my
way of thinking."
"Oh, please don't talk against her--please," said Maureen in her gentle
voice.
"And whyever not, to be sure, at all, at all? Why, if there's a nasty,
mane hag of a made-up woman in this wide, wide wurrld, it's herself.
It's breaking the masther's heart she be, and as to her cruelty to yez,
my purty wan, don't we all of us remark on it, and don't we just rage
about it? Oh, me fine lady indade!"
"Pegeen, please, Pegeen," said Maureen, "I want to ask you a question
so badly. You know step-auntie has gone away with Jacobs on Farmer
Barrett's very tall dogcart with The O'Shee between the shafts."
"Sakes alive!" cried Pegeen; "that nasty, ill-timpered, half-broken-in
colt? Herself must be mad--that's all I can say! Why, the farmer
was talking a week past that iver was; and he said he couldn't make
annytking o' the O'Shee, the little baste was so nasty in his timper.
Well, to be sure, _she'll_ break her neck, as sure as I'm here."
"Who'll break her neck," said Maureen, whose face turned like a white
sheet. "Is it the horse or step-auntie--or--or Jacobs?"
"Lord love ye, child, maybe it'll be the whole three ov 'em--I can't
say, I'm sure. Miss Maureen, set ye down this blessed minit, and I'll
git ye a drop of potheen."
"No, no; you know I never touch such a thing," said Maureen.
"Then whyiver have ye turned so white? Be the powers! ye can't luv
herself?"
"I--I think perhaps--perhaps I do a little," said Maureen. "If she
wouldn't call me 'charity child' I'd love her. Pegeen, darling, what
does charity child mean?"
"Bless yer swate heart, it's what ye'll niver be. Why, there ain't a
bhoy in Ireland that wouldn't stand up and say no to that!"
"Is it very awful?" asked Maureen.
"Don't ax no questions and ye'll be tolt no lies," was Pegeen's remark.
Maureen remained a minute or two longer in the kitchen, then she looked
at the clock and went slowly up to her shabby bedroom.
"Charity child or not," thought the little girl, "I must try and save
her. It's a long walk, but the day is early yet. I could quiet the poor
O'Shee. I haven't forgotten what father told me. How well I remember
his saying, 'Just a touch of your hand, Maureen, very firm and very
coaxing, and you'll get any horse to follow you round the world.'" So
the child in her little brown frock, which looked exceedingly shabby,
and with a small old, worn-out brown hat to match, started on her walk
to Rathclaren.
Nobody saw her go. The servants, taking advantage of both master and
mistress being absent, were talking loudly in the big kitchen. The
gardeners had joined the group. Pegeen was helping the company to
porter and great chunks of kitchen cake, and they were all laughing and
joking, praising Maureen, shaking their heads sorrowfully about the
masther, and grinning with delight at the way they hoped The O'Shee
would sarve herself.
Pegeen was a confirmed gossip, and told the story of what the child had
just said to her.
"Charity child, indade! Bless her, bless her! Why, I--I'd just _die_
for the likes uf her," said one of the men; and these remarks were
echoed by both men and women. "Their darling--their Miss Maureen--their
purty--purty wan! Why, now, ain't she just the light o' our eyes," said
one and all.
And meanwhile the dinner for the poor Rector was being destroyed in the
oven, the potatoes and peas were overboiled, and all that remained of
Maureen's nice dinner was a glass dish of piled-up strawberries and a
dish of cream.
"May the Vargin help me! The duck is done to rags!" cried Pegeen.
"Whativer now will Miss Maureen say, and the masther may be back, bate
out, anny minit. Oh, worra, worra, whativer am I to do?"
"I'll kill a fresh wan for yez and pluck it, and ye can push it in the
oven," offered an affectionate gardener, who, according to the Irish
way, preferred any business to his own.
Meanwhile Maureen went rapidly on her way. There was not a bit of the
country that she did not know as though it were a map stretched out
before her. She was therefore able to take several short cuts through
woods rich with summer foliage, where periwinkles and other flowers of
all sorts and descriptions grew in abundance, where moss pressed softly
under her feet, where the birds sang, the doves cooed, and all nature
was at rest and peace.
At another time Maureen would have stood silent in the midst of the
wood and clasped her hands and thanked God for His beautiful world, but
she was too anxious to do anything of the sort now. She must at any
risk, at any cost, save step-auntie. She was a very quick walker for
her age, and got over the ground in great style. Suddenly she found
herself close to Rathclaren, having gone most of the way through shady
woods and dells. Close to the gates of Rathclaren she distinctly saw
the marks of horses' hoofs, but as she examined them they seemed to be
going away from the stately old place. There was a decided scuffle at
the beginning of a boreen or lane, and then the marks of the said hoofs
going very fast indeed.
Maureen clasped her hands in distraction. She knew this boreen. It was
one of the most dangerous in the neighbourhood, and led straight to the
great bog of Anniskail. Suddenly she saw two men coming to meet her;
one was Colonel Herbert, who was always a special friend of hers, and
the other was poor Jacobs, who looked absolutely wild with distraction
and fear.
"Where have you dropped from, baby?" said the pleasant voice of the
Colonel.
"Oh--oh, Colonel Herbert," gasped Maureen, "I know a little bit about
horses, being trained when I was in India, and--and I'm so _terrified_
about Auntie!--And what are you doing here, Jacobs?" The child's voice
got quite angry. "Why ever are you not with your mistress?"
"It warn't my fault, missie; it warn't, indade!"
"Oh, don't say whose fault it was. What has happened?"
"She laid the sthroke of the whip acrost me first and thin acrost The
O'Shee, and was it to be wondered at that the baste wouldn't sthand the
whip, niver having tasted it in all his life! He jest shivered from
head to foot, and afore I could git up ahint on the dogcart, he was off
and away like a streak o' greased lightning. She druv him herself and
whipped him all the time. I went up to tell the Colonel and----"
"Don't--don't say any more," said Maureen.--"Colonel, will you help
me?"
"I will, my dear little girl."
"There is Anniskail at the other end of this road," said the child.
"Oh, oh, how am I to bear it!"
"There's my dogcart coming down the avenue, dear. Jump up beside me,
and we'll go straight for the bog. I have ropes and things handy, and
we may pull her out if we don't delay a second."
Maureen, like a little sprite of the air, was soon seated beside the
Colonel on the dogcart. How fast they went--how fast! How close they
got to disaster, to tragedy unspeakable! The Colonel guessed the
worst; he did not attempt to speak. The child shivered but kept her
self-control.
Jacobs and the Colonel's own groom were seated at the back of the
dogcart. Colonel Herbert's powerful horse covered the ground with right
good-will. Almost the whole of the lane was more or less boggy, and
great splashes of soft mud flew up as the dogcart got over the ground.
Suddenly the Colonel pulled up his horse, threw the reins to his groom,
and motioned to Jacobs to follow him.
"There has been a spill," he said. "It is no sight for little girls.
You'd best stay where you are, Maureen, acushla. We'll do all that
human beings can, and a lot of peasants are there already."
"And do you think I am going to stay behind?" said Maureen. "Oh, there,
I see her pink dress! Oh, poor step-auntie! Yes, I will go--I will!
She has only fallen--she'll be all right. You can't keep me back--I
will go. She may call me charity child every day of her life, but I
don't mind. I'm going to her now."
The Colonel took the little hot hand. There was something impossible to
resist about Maureen.
In a very few minutes they found themselves the centre of a group of
rough-looking men and women.
"Ah, thin, bless yer heart, Colonel dear; ah, thin, it's the neck of
her is broke entirely. See for yer-self. She _was_ a foolish woman.
The bog would have quieted the horse, and she'd have had a few minutes
afore she went under; but no, she'd no sinse at all, at all, and out
she lepped on to that big lot o' stones, and the neck of her was broke."
"I war the first to find her, sir," said an old peasant. "I saw at
wanst she was as dead as a tenpenny nail, so I tuk her sash and made a
sort o' rope wid it and pulled the poor baste ashore. He's safe enough
is The O'Shee; but herself, glory be to God, she's bruk her neck! Why,
Miss Maureen, I didn't see ye, me darlint; don't ye cry now!"
"I'm not going to cry," said the child. "Do turn her round very gently.
Do at least _try_ to make her look nice! Poor, poor step-auntie, poor
step-auntie! Colonel, get me some water. I want to wash her face.
Colonel, you must help me to tell Uncle Pat."
The amazing presence of mind of the child soothed the excited Irish
folk. One after another they brought her what she required, and
finally the poor body was laid on a shutter and brought into a cabin
near by. It looked quite peaceful, and no one living had seen that
terrible leap nor heard that most piercing shriek.
"We must leave her here at present," said the Colonel, turning to
Maureen.
"Yes; she and I will stay together," said the child. "She isn't angry
with me any longer. God has taken away her anger. See, she smiles. You
must break it to Uncle Pat, Colonel. I'll stay with her until she can
be moved."
"She shall be moved to my house at Rathclaren," said the Colonel. "It
can easily be managed, my brave little girl. But you can do no good
here. Had you not better come with me?"
"No, no; I'll stay with her. She's not angry with me any longer.
Please, Colonel, be _very_ quick, and don't frighten Uncle Pat, for
he's far from strong."