PATSY REMEMBERS
"Shot's a good dog," Patsy Kenny was wont to observe in his slow way,
"an' his father before him was a good dog. Yet I wouldn't be sayin'
but what ould Shot, the grandfather, wasn't the pick o' the basket."
Old Shot had lived for five years after Sir Shawn O'Gara's marriage to
Mary Creagh, which had sorely offended and alienated Mrs. Comerford,
who had brought up the girl from childhood and loved her like a
daughter. When he had died it was by Lady O'Gara's wish that the dog
was buried in the grass-plot just outside the drawing-room window. She
could see the mound from the window recess, where she sat to write her
letters, in which she kept her work-table, the book she was reading,
and various other belongings; she had screened it off so that the deep
recess was like a little room to itself.
"When I look up and see the mound instead of Shot it always hurts me,"
she had said in early days. "But then I feel that he likes to be near."
"He was so fond of you, Mary," her husband often said, "fonder even, I
believe, than he was of me."
"Oh, no, Shawn, not that. No one could take your place with Shot. But
he accepted me, dear old dog, and I am very proud of it."
That was before Shot's son had aspired to take his father's place,
while he was still indeed one of a likely litter of puppies in the
stable-yard, just beginning to be cast off by Judy who had other things
to do in a sporting Autumn besides looking after a lot of sprawling,
big-pawed puppies, who were quite independent of her and becoming
rather unmanageable.
It was also before old Shot had begun to return to his friends as
nothing more tangible than a padding of soft paws on the stairs, a
movement under the dining-table, where he had been accustomed to lie in
life, a sound of a dog lying down with a sigh, or getting up from the
hearthrug before the billiard-room fire.
These manifestations had sometimes perturbed visitors to Castle Talbot;
but intimates at the house had come to accept as its owners did these
sounds of a presence that was never seen. No one was any longer
incommoded by it except young Shot, who would get up uncomfortably and
lie at a distance, his nose on his paws, regarding with a wistful
melancholy the place from which he had been driven forth.
"Meself an' ould Shot'll never lave the Master till we have to," Patsy
Kenny had said to Lady O'Gara, to whom he was as much attached as old
Shot had been.
"Me an' Shot'll stick by the Master," he had often said in his own
mind, and sometimes aloud, when he was out in the paddocks with the
horses and there was no human ear to listen to him. Then he would have
a vision of a young man in a grey suit, slender and elegant, face
downward on the grass and he calling out to some one to forgive him.
"Sure God help him, he has suffered," he would add as the memory came
to him.
Patsy, who had been taking a short cut by the wood to the stable-yard
when he had come upon that sight,--it was long ago--had gone away
terrified and aching with pity for the misery he had surprised. Sir
Shawn O'Gara had interfered once to save little Patsy from a beating
and had been rewarded disproportionately by a silent ardent devotion,
at which no one,--he himself least of all,--had ever guessed. Patsy
had liked Mr. Terence Comerford too. He was handsomer, the people
thought, than Sir Shawn, being golden-haired, blue-eyed and ruddy, and
very big and broad-shouldered, with a jolly greeting for every one.
Many a time he had let Patsy hold his horse and flung him a sixpence
for it. The peasants had no eye for the beauty and distinction of Sir
Shawn O'Gara's looks, his elegant slenderness, the somewhat mournful
depths of his eyes which were of so dark a grey that they were almost
black. Too foreign looking, the people pronounced him, their idea of
foreigners being bounded by their knowledge of a greatly-daring Italian
organ-grinder who had once come over the mountains to Killesky with a
little red-coated monkey sitting a-top of the organ, to the great joy
of the children. That had been a record rainy season, and the
organ-grinder and the monkey had both sickened for the sun, and would
have died if old Lady O'Gara, who was half-Italian herself, had not
heard the tale and sent the man back to his own country.
"He'd be askin' Mr. Terence to forgive him because maybe he was vexed
wid him about poor Bridyeen," Patsy had often thought since. "An'
maybe because Miss Mary Creagh had always liked him better than Mr.
Terence, though she was too much afraid of Mrs. Comerford, to say it.
Or maybe 'twas that he couldn't save him from Spitfire. Not but what
she was kind enough, the crathur, if he hadn't took to floggin' her."
Very rarely Patsy thought on the man who had cursed him in the ditch
that night long ago. He was only an accidental terror of the night
crowded with terrors, from which Patsy had reached his grandfather's
door and tumbled in "about the flure" in a fainting condition. He had
queer hazy memories that the old man was kind, that the two little eyes
which had often blazed fury at him, were dim with tears. He did not
know if he dreamt it or not that he had heard his grandfather telling
the other old men around the turf fire that he, Patsy, was a good
little lad, but that he had to be strict with him to keep him good.
When he had got about again he had heard that Sir Shawn O'Gara had been
very ill, that the shock of his friend's death had been too much for
him. Then one day the old Lady O'Gara had come to the cottage on the
edge of the bog to ask for him. It had got out that Patsy had seen
something of the terrible happening of that night, and she had been
very gentle and friendly with him, and had asked him if he would not
like to go to school; and afterwards what he would like to do.
He could see her delicate profile now if he closed his eyes, the olive
skin, the deep velvety eyes, the red lips. Even the country people did
not deny Lady O'Gara beauty, of a foreign sort. Though they would
never admire her as they admired Miss Mary Creagh.
Soon after Patsy had gone to school Lady O'Gara died, and a year later
Sir Shawn and Miss Mary Creagh were married. By this time Patsy had
become a favourite pupil with Mr. O'Connell, at the National Schools,
who thought that in time he might qualify for a "vit," seeing his love
for animals; but perhaps Mr. O'Connell's liking for Patsy was only
because he found in him an equal mind with his own about animals, Mr.
O'Connell's attachment to his dog, Sambo, being a cause of laughter to
most of his pupils. Patsy had a happy time with Mr. O'Connell; but the
necessary education for the veterinary profession in the matter of mere
book-learning he seemed either unable or unwilling to acquire, so he
went in time to the stables at Castle Talbot to qualify as he had
coveted for the hereditary position of stud-groom. Sir Shawn, since he
had married Miss Creagh, had taken to keeping racehorses; and Patsy
Kenny had a way with horses. He was a natural solitary as regarded his
kind. Many a pretty girl had looked Patsy's way invitingly, seeing in
him a steady, sober boy who might be trusted not to spend his wages in
drink, whose dreamy eyes and soft slow voice promised gentleness with a
woman; but Patsy never thought of the girls apparently. He was very
fond of his master, but his great devotion was for Lady O'Gara who, as
Miss Mary Creagh, had dazzled him when she came and went at Castle
Talbot, not forgetting if she met Patsy to stop and speak with him.
That devotion to Miss Mary, continued to Lady O'Gara, had perhaps
spoilt Patsy's chances of being happy after the manner of other men.
He would have said himself, perhaps, that with the horses to think of
he had no time to think about getting married. Certainly he did not
seem to find his bachelor state amiss. His little house, in the new
block of stabling, white walled, red-roofed, painted with cross beams
to its pointed gable, was kept with meticulous care. Patsy did his own
work. Lady O'Gara was right perhaps when she called him a natural
celibate.
Long, long ago old Judy Dowd and her granddaughter, Bridyeen, had left
Killesky,--for America. They had not gone away with the drafts of boys
and girls who went week after week during the Spring weather, leaving
Beragh station on their way to Liverpool with a great send-off from
friends and relatives, ending, as the train went, with cries of
lamentation that brought the other passengers to their carriage
windows, curious or sympathetic, according to their natures.
No: Judy Dowd and Bridyeen had gone off in an underhand manner, leaving
Mr. Casey, the solicitor, to dispose of the public-house and effects.
The neighbours had been rather indignant about it, and had made up
their minds as to the reason of this unsportsmanlike flitting. But by
the time they were saying to each other that Judy Dowd had a right not
to be spoiling her grand-daughter, making her pretty for the eyes of
gentlemen; that what could a girl want more than Barney Killeen, who
had a farm and an outside car, if he was sixty itself? that there was
no use humouring the fancies of girls: that they'd always known how it
would end: finally that it was well Bridyeen should be taken away
before she made a scandal in the parish--by that time the Dowds were no
more than a name and a memory.
Few people now remembered the old unhappy far-off things. Judy Dowd's
public-house in Killesky, which had been a very small affair, had made
way for Conneely's Hotel. There was not much hotel about it, but there
was quite a thriving shop, divided into two parts--one, general store,
the other public. If you were a person of importance and called at
Conneely's for refreshment you had it in "the drawing-room" upstairs,
where the Misses Conneely's drawings in chalk hung on the walls, and
their photographs adorned the chimney-piece, while their school prizes
were arranged neatly on the round table in the middle of the room,
flanking the wax flowers under a glass shade which made the centre
piece.
The Miss Conneelys had done well in the Intermediate. Their elder
brother was a priest. Father Tom's photograph was in the centre of the
chimney-piece a-top of the clock. They could play the piano and violin
and had fortunes when the time came for them to marry. Their mother
would never have permitted them to serve in the bar nor even behind the
drapery counter. They were black-haired, rosy, buxom girls, who set
the fashions in Killesky. There had been a sensation when Nora
Conneely came back from Dublin with a walking-stick, but after an
amazed pause Killesky--the young ladies of it,--broke out in
walking-sticks.
There was enough positive about the Conneelys, the priest, the
prosperous self-satisfied girls, the managing capable mother, to make
people feel that there had always been Conneely's Hotel in Killesky.
If the old people remembered Julia Dowd's little public-house with its
thatched roof, the low ceiling and the fire of turf to which you could
draw a chair while you had your drink, the little parlour beyond which
was reserved for customers of a superior station, they did not talk
about it.
Inch too was shut up. Mrs. Comerford had gone away after Mary Creagh's
engagement to Sir Shawn O'Gara. She had taken it very ill,--as a slur
to her dead son's memory. She had always been an austere, somewhat
severe woman, but she had taken Mary Creagh from her dying mother's
arms, a child of a few weeks old, had reared her as her own and been
tender to her, with the surprising precious tenderness of a reserved,
apparently cold nature. Mrs. Comerford had gone to Italy and had never
since returned. Perhaps she would never come now, although the place
was kept from going to rack and ruin by James Clinch, the butler, and
Mrs. Clinch, who had been cook and had married the butler after Mrs.
Comerford had gone away.
All these things came back to Patsy Kenny in his solitary hours. He
was very fond of sitting on a log or a stone between his strenuous
working times, going over old days in his mind.
This June afternoon, rather wearied still by his struggle with
Mustapha, he was sitting on a block in front of his little house in the
stable-yard. Judy, a half-bred setter--the names of the animals at
Castle Talbot were hereditary--was lying at his feet. The pigeons were
pecking about him daintily. Only Judy's watchful, jealous eye
prevented their flying on to his knee or his shoulder.
The memories unfolded themselves like the scenes of a cinematograph,
slipping past his mind. He remembered Bridyeen Sweeney, whose delicate
beauty used to draw the gentlemen to Dowd's long ago. He contrasted
her in his mind with Nora Conneely whom he had met that morning as he
went to the post-office, wearing what he had heard called a Merry Widow
hat, and a tight skirt, displaying open-work stockings and high-heeled
shoes, a string of pearls about a neck generously displayed by the low
blouse she was wearing, her right hand twirling the famous
walking-stick.
"I dunno what at all came to Bridyeen," he murmured to himself. "She
was as pretty as a picture,--like a little rose she was, and so modest
in all her ways. Even my grandfather used to say there was nothing
against Bridyeen. I wouldn't have thought it of Mr. Terence either
that he'd be tryin' to turn the little girl's head and he the
Mistress's cousin an' they as good as promised. I only hope Master
Terence had time to repent, if the stories were true itself that the
people told. Sure maybe there was nothin' in it."
He had perhaps dozed off. He came awake suddenly to Judy's snarling.
Judy never gave the alarm for nothing. A man had come into the
stable-yard, quite obviously a tramp. Behind him came a woman and a
child of the same fraternity. The woman stood humbly in the wake of
the man, and the boy kept close to her. The man was a bad-looking
fellow, Patsy said to himself. Half-consciously he noticed the man's
hands, wicked-looking hands, covered with hair, the nails stubby and
broken. The long arms were like the arms of a monkey. His tattered
coat was velveteen. Patsy remembered to have seen the material on the
game-keepers of a big estate in the next county.
"'Ullo, matey," said this uninviting person, with an attempt at
jocularity. "'Ave you anythink to give a poor man out of a job?"
The truculent voice, with its attempt at oiliness, the small red eyes
under the shock of hair, the thick purple lips, had an extraordinary
effect on Patsy. He hated the tramp, yet he felt a queer sick fear of
him. Once, when Sir Shawn had taken him to England for a big race, he
had seen a dog destroy an adder, with the same mixture of
half-terrified rage and loathing he was feeling now.
"There's nothing for you here," he said gruffly. "You don't look as if
you had much taste for work."
Then he looked beyond the tramp to the woman and child. She was
decent, the poor creature, he thought. Her poor rags were clean and
mended. She had a shrinking, suffering air. The boy, who was about
nine years old, seemed to cling to her as though in terror of the burly
ruffian. He was pale and thin and even on this beautiful June day he
looked cold.
Patsy was suddenly gentle. He saw the glare in the tramp's eyes.
"Here's a shillin' for you," he said. "I've no job you'd care about.
But the woman and the child might like a cup of tay."
"All right," said the tramp, placated. "Tea's not in my way. I'll be
back in 'arf a mo'. Don't you be makin' love to my ol' woman."
He flicked his thumb and finger at the woman with an ugly jocularity:
then went, with the tramp's shambling trot, out of the stable-yard the
way he had come, down the back avenue which opened on to the road to
Killesky.