FINNIGAN'S MARE.
"I do not set my life at a pin's fee."—_Hamlet._
HELEN'S preparations for departure were rapidly accomplished; she
had no voluminous wardrobe to pack, no circle of farewell visits to
pay. Moreover, she was possessed by a feverish desire to escape, as
far as possible, from maddening pianos, piles of uncorrected exercise
books, and the summons of the inexorable school bell. She set out for
Crowmore on the appointed date, with a delightful sense of recovered
freedom, but—as far as her unknown relatives were concerned—strictly
moderate expectations. Precisely a week after she had received her
uncle's invitation, behold her rumbling across dear, dirty Dublin, in
a dilapidated four-wheeler, drawn by a lame horse—her tender heart
would not suffer her to expostulate with the driver on their snail's
pace, and as the result of her benevolence, she missed her train by
five minutes, and had the satisfaction of spending a long morning, in
contemplating the advertisements in the Broadstone terminus! At length,
after four hours' leisurely travelling, she was deposited at a shed
labelled "Bansha," the nearest station to Crowmore. Bag in hand, she
stepped down on the platform and looked about her; she was apparently
the only passenger for that part of the world, and there was no one
to be seen, except a few countrymen lounging round the entrance—the
invariable policeman, and one porter. She gazed about anxiously, as the
train steamed slowly away, and discovered that she was the cynosure of
every eye, save the porter's, and he was engrossed in spelling out the
address on her trunk.
"You'll be for the Castle, miss?" he remarked at last, straightening
his back as he spoke.
"No, for Crowmore, Mr. Sheridan's," she replied, walking out through
the station-house over into the station entrance, in the vague hopes of
finding some conveyance awaiting her, and her baggage—but all that met
her anxious eyes was a little knot of countrymen, who were gossiping
round a rough rider, on a heavy-looking brown colt.
"Shure, Mr. Sheridan's and the Castle is all wan, miss," said the
porter, who accompanied her, carrying her bag. "The young ladies wor
here this morning, in a machine from Terryscreen, they expected you on
the twelve,—and when you were not on that, they made sure you were
coming to-morrow—they'll be here thin."
This was but cold comfort to Helen. "How far is it to Crowmore?" she
asked.
"Well, it's a matter of in or about six mile."
"And how am I to get there?"
"Faix, I don't rightly know! unless Larry Flood gives you a lift on
the mail; ayther that, or you could get an asses' car up the street,"
indicating a double row of thatched cottages in the distance.
"And when do you think Larry Flood will be here?" inquired the young
stranger—ignoring his other humiliating suggestion.
"Troth, an' it would be hard to say!—it entirely depends on the humour
he's in—he calls for the letters," pointing to a bag in the doorway,
"just as he takes the notion, sometimes he is here at five o'clock, and
betimes I've known him call at one in the morning!"
A sudden interruption made him turn his head, and he added, with
a triumphant slap of his corduroy leg, "Begorra, you are in luck,
Miss,—for here he is now!"
As he spoke, a red outside car, drawn by a wild-looking chestnut,
wearing a white canvas collar, and little or no harness, came tearing
into the station, amidst a cloud of dust. The driver was a wiry little
man, with twinkling eyes, that looked as if they were never closed, a
protruding under-lip, and an extravagantly wide mouth. He was dressed
in a good suit of dark tweed, and wore a green tie, and a white caubeen.
"What's this ye have with ye, the day, Larry?" demanded one of the
idlers, as he narrowly examined the animal between the shafts. "May
I never," he added, recoiling a step backwards, and speaking in an
awe-struck tone; "if it isn't Finnigan's mare!"
"The divil a less!" rejoined Larry, complacently. "Finnigan could get
no good of her, and the old brown was nearly bet up. I'll go bail
she'll travel for _me_," he added, getting off the car as he spoke, and
giving the collar a hitch.
But this proud boast was received in ominous silence, and all eyes
were now riveted on Mr. Flood's recent purchase—a white-legged,
malicious-looking, thorough-bred—that was seemingly not unknown to
fame.
"Well," said a man in a blue-tail coat, after a significantly long
pause; "it's not that she won't travel for ye, there's no fear of
_that_, I hope you may get some good of her, for she's a great mare
entirely—but she takes a power of humouring."
"Shure she knocked Finnigan's new spring car to smithereens ere last
week," put in the rider of the coarse-looking brown colt, "not a bit of
it was together, but the wheels, and left Finnigan himself for dead on
the road. Humouring, how are ye?" he concluded, with a kind of scornful
snort.
"You got her chape, I'll engage, Larry, me darlin'," remarked another
of the idlers.
"Faix, and I paid enough for her," returned her owner stoutly. "It
isent every wan that would sit over her! she does be a bit unaisy in
herself betimes" (a delicate allusion to her well-known habits of
kicking and bolting). "Howd-somever, she's a grand goer, and I bought
her designedly on purpose for the post.—'Tis _she_ can knock fire out
of the road."
"Oh! them sprigs of shellelagh can all do that," acquiesced a
bystander, who had hitherto observed a benevolent neutrality; "but they
does be dangerous bastes."
"What's that you have there, Tom?" inquired Larry, looking at the rough
rider.
"Oh! a terrible fine colt of Mr. Murphy's—I'm just handling him a bit,
before the next cub-hunting."
"He is a great plan of a horse," said the man in the blue coat,
speaking with an air of authority, and his hands tucked under his long
swallow-tails.
"Look at the shoulder on him!" exclaimed a third connoisseur.
All this was by no means agreeable to Mr. Flood, considering the tepid
praise bestowed on his own purchase.
"What do you think of her, Larry?" inquired the rider. "Come now, give
us your opinion?" he added in a bantering tone.
"Well, I think," said Larry, gladly seizing this opportunity to pay
off Tom, the horsebreaker, and eyeing the animal with an air of solemn
scrutiny. "Well, now, I'll just tell ye exactly what I think—I thinks
he looks _lonely_."
"Arrah, will ye spake English!" cried his rider indignantly; "shure,
lonely has no meaning at all—nor no sinse."
"I just mane what I say—he has a lonely look," and with a perceptible
pause, and a wink to the audience, he added, "for the want of a plough
behind him!"
At this joke there was a roar of laughter from all, save Tom, the
horse-trainer, who glared at Larry in a ferocious manner that was
really fearful to witness, but Larry, nothing daunted, turned to the
porter with an off-hand air, and said,—
"Anything for me, Pat?"
"Nothing at all—barrin' the mails—and this young lady! I'm after
telling her, you'll lave her at the gate. She's going to the Castle,
only"—approaching nearer, and whispering behind his hand, with a
significant glance at Finnigan's mare.
"Oh, the sorra a fear!" rejoined Larry, loudly, and then addressing
Helen, he said,—
"Up ye git, miss, and I'll rowl ye there as safe as if ye were in a
sate in church."
It was all very well to say "Up ye git," but, in the first place,
there was no step to the car, and in the second, it is by no means an
easy feat, to climb on any vehicle when in motion, and Larry's rampant
investment kept giving sudden bounds and playful little prancings, that
showed her impatience to be once more on the road. However, by dint
of being held forcibly down by the united strength of two men, she
consented to give the lady passenger an opportunity of scrambling up on
the jarvey, and Larry, having produced a horse-sheet (with a strong
bouquet of the stable), wrapped it carefully about her knees—then
mounting on the other side of the vehicle himself, he laid hold of the
reins, and with a screech to his friends to "give her her head,"—they
were off, as if starting for a flat race—accompanied by a shout of
"Mind yourself, miss," from the friendly porter, and "Safe home,
Larry," from the little knot of spectators, who were gathered round the
station door.
At first, all the "So-hoing" and "Easy now, my girl," might just as
well have been addressed to the hard flint road, along which they were
rattling. The "girl" kept up what is known as "a strong canter" for
the best part of a mile, and Helen's whole energies were devoted to
clinging on with both hands, as the light post-car swung from side to
side with alarming velocity.
"You need not be the laste taste unaisy, she's only a bit fresh in
herself," said Larry, soothingly, "and after a while when she settles
down, you'll be delighted with the way she takes hould of the road."
A very stiff hill moderated the pace, and Finnigan's mare, subsided
perforce into a slashing trot, and "took hold of the road" as if she
were in a passion with it, and would like to hammer it to pieces with
her hoofs. And now at last Helen ventured to release one hand, and
look about her; she was struck with the bright, rich verdure of the
surrounding scenery—Ireland was well named "The Emerald Isle," she
said to herself, as her eyes travelled over a wide expanse of grass,
thick hedges powdered with hawthorn, and neighbouring green hills,
seemingly patched with golden gorse. Very few houses were visible, no
sign of towns or smoky chimneys were to be descried—this was the real
unadulterated country, and she drew a long breath of satisfaction,
due to a sense of refreshment, and relief. Now and then they passed
a big empty place, with shuttered windows; now a prosperous-looking
farm, with ricks and slated out-buildings, and now a roadside mud
cabin. Finnigan's mare, dashing madly through poultry, pigs, goats, and
such sleeping creatures as might be imprudently taking forty winks,
in the middle of the little-used highway—which highway, with its
overhanging ash-trees, tangled hedges, and wide grass borders, was the
prettiest and greenest that Larry's passenger had ever beheld—this
much she imparted to him, and he being ripe for conversation,
immediately launched forth with the following extraordinary
announcement:—
"Och, but if ye had seen these roads before they were made! 'tis then
ye _might_ be talkin'! There was no ways of getting about in ould
times—no play for a free-going one like this," nodding exultingly at
the chestnut, who was flying down hill at a pace that made the post-car
literally bound off the ground. "She's going illigant now—these
chestnuts does mostly be a bit 'hot'—but where would ye see a better
traveller on all the walls of the worruld?"
"She is not quite trained, is she?"
"Well, not to say all _out_," he admitted reluctantly; "she's had the
harness on her about a dozen times, and she never did no harm—beyond
the day she ran away at Dan Clancy's funeral, and broke up a couple of
cars; and 'twas Finnigan himself was in fault—he'd had a drop. Shure,
she's going now like a ladies' pony! Maybe you'd like to take the reins
in your hands yourself, miss, and just _feel_ her mouth?"
But Helen, casting her eyes over the long, raking animal in front of
her, and observing her starting eyes, quivering ears, and tightly
tucked-in tail, had no difficulty in resisting Larry's alluring offer.
Little did she know the vast honour she was rejecting. Larry (like
most Irishmen) was not insensible to a pretty face, and rating this
young lady's courage beyond its deserts—owing to her equanimity during
their recent gallop, and the tenacity of her hold upon the jaunting
car—paid her the greatest compliment in his power, when he offered
her the office of Jehu. Helen having politely but firmly, declined
the reins, breathed an inward wish that the animal who had behaved
so mischievously at Dan Clancy's funeral, would continue her present
sober frame of mind until she was deposited at the gates of Crowmore.
And now Larry began to play the cicerone, and commenced to point out
various objects of interest, with the end of his whip, and the zest of
a native.
"That's Nancy's Cover," he said, indicating a patch of gorse.
"There does be a brace of foxes in it every season—that ditch
beyond,—running along in company with the cover, as far as your eye
will carry you,—goes by the name of 'Gilbert's Gripe,' because it
was there—a nephew of Mr. Redmond's I think he was, in the horse
soldiers—pounded every other mother's son in the field! Be jabers, I
never saw such a lep! and the harse—the very same breed of this mare
here—he never laid an iron to it! That's Mr. Redmond's place, in the
trees beyond, and beyant again is the Castle. What relation did ye say
ye wor to Mr. Sheridan?"
Helen was not aware that she had mentioned Mr. Sheridan at all, but she
replied,—
"His niece—his wife's niece."
"You never saw him, I'll go bail?"
"No, never; but why do you think so?"
"Troth, and 'tis easy known, if you _had_, you would not be wanting to
see him twice."
Larry grinned from ear to ear, but Helen's heart sank like lead, at
this depressing piece of intelligence.
"He is greatly failed since he buried the mistress," continued Mr.
Flood. "He is a poor innocent creature now, and harmless; he does be
always inventing weathercocks, and kites, and such-like trash, when he
ought to be looking after the place. Miss Dido does that; oh, she's a
clever wan. Just a raal trate of a young lady!"
"Do you mean that she manages the farm?"
"Troth, and who else? 'tisen't the poor simple ould gentleman—the Lord
spare him what senses he _has_—for he would make a very ugly madman!
Miss Dido minds the books, and the business, and the garden, and the
money—not that there's much of that to trouble her—and Darby Chute, a
man that lives at the 'Cross,' buys and sells a few little bastes for
her, and sees to the turf-cutting and the grazing. The shootin's all
let—a power of the land too. What the ould man does with the rent of
it, bates all."
"I suppose Darby Chute is a faithful old family servant?" said Helen,
her mind recurring to the ancient retainers of fiction.
"Bedad, he is _ould_ enough! but I would not answer for more than that;
he is Chute by name, and 'cute by nature, _I'm_ thinking! Mr. Sheridan
has a warm side to him, and laves him great freedom.—The ould steward
that died a few years back, was a desperate loss. Now _he_ was a really
valuable man; 'tis since then they have Darby, who was only a ploughman
before. I'm sorry for the two young ladies; they go about among the
people, so humble and so nice, as if they had not a shilling in the
world—and more betoken they haven't many.—I wish to the Lord they
were married! but they are out of the way of providence here,—there's
no quality at all, this side. They do say, young Barry Sheridan does be
entirely taken up with Miss Kate; but he's the only wan that's in it,
and no great shakes ayther; and in _my_ opinion——"
"Is there no one living over there?" interrupted his listener, averse
to such disclosures, and pointing to a long line of woods on the
horizon.
"Shure, diden't I tell you that it was all Mr. Redmond's, of
Ballyredmond?—The old people does be there, and an English young lady
betimes, she is mighty plain about the head. I never heard them put
a name on her," then in quite an altered tone, he added, excitedly,
"By the powers of Moll Kelly, but I see the Corelish post-car, there
ahead of us in the straight bit of road. Do you notice him, miss?
the weenchie little speck. I do mostly race him to the Cross of Cara
Chapel, where our roads part, and I'm thinking I've the legs of him
this time! Altho' he has the old piebald, and a big start; we will just
slip down by the short cut through the bog, and nail him neatly at the
corner!"
At first this announcement was Greek to his fare,—but she began to
comprehend what he meant, as he turned sharply into a bye-way, or
boreen, and started his only _too_ willing steed at a brisk canter!
"There's Cara Chapel," he said, indicating a slated building on the
edge of a vast expanse of bog. "You'll see how illegantly we will
disappoint him; he is on the upper road, and that puts a good mile on
him. It will be worth your while to watch his face, as we give him
the go-by, and finds we have bested him after all!!! Do you get the
smell of them hawthorns, miss? they are coming out beautiful," (as
they careered along a narrow, grassy, boreen, between a forest of
may-bushes, white with flower.) "And now here's the bog," he added,
proudly, as the boreen suddenly turned into a cart track, running
like a causeway through a wide extent of peat and heath, that lay far
beneath on either side, without the smallest fence, or protection.
It was an exceedingly awkward, dangerous-looking place, and they
were entirely at the mercy of Finnigan's mare, who rattled joyously
along, pricking her dainty ears to and fro, as if she was on the _qui
vive_ for the smallest excuse to shy, and bolt—and the pretext was
not wanting! An idle jackass, in the bog below, suddenly lifted up
his voice, and brayed a bray so startlingly near, and so piercingly
shrill, that even Helen was appalled; how much more the sensitive
creature between the shafts, who stopped for one second, thrust her
head well down between her fore-legs, wrenched the reins out of Larry's
hands,—and ran away!
"Begorra, we are in for it now," he shouted. "Hould on by your
eyelashes, miss; we will just slip off quietly at the first corner.
Kape yourself calm! Bad scram to you for a red-haired divil" (to the
mare). "Bad luck to them for rotten ould reins," reins now represented
by two strips of leather, trailing in the dust.
"Oh! murder, we are done!" he cried, as he beheld a heavily laden
turf-cart, drawn up right across the track.
"Oh, holy Mary! she'll put us in the bog."
The owner of the turf-cart was toiling up the bank with a final
creel on his back, when he beheld the runaways racing down upon his
devoted horse and kish. His loud execrations were idle as the little
evening breeze that was playing with the tops of the rushes and the
gorse—Finnigan's mare was already into them! With a loud crash and a
sound of splintering shafts a thousand sods of turf were sent flying
in every direction. Helen was shot off the car and landed neatly and
safely in a heap of bog-mould that luckily received her at the side
of the road; Larry also made a swift involuntary descent, but in a
twinkling had sprung to his feet and seized his horse's head, calling
out to his companion as she picked herself up,—
"'Tis yourself that is the fine souple young lady, and not a hair the
worse; nayther is the mare, barrin' a couple of small cuts, and one of
the shafts is broke—faix, it _might_ have been sarious!"
"Arrah, what sort of a driver are ye, at all?" shouted the owner of the
turf-cart, breathless with rage, and haste. "Oh, 'tis Larry Flood—an'
I might have known!"
"And what call have you to be taking up the whole road?" retorted Larry
loudly. "The divil sweep you and your old turf kish, that was nearly
being the death of us!"
"Ah! and sure wasen't she running away as hard as she could lay leg to
groun'?"
"Well, and if she _was_; diden't she see you below in the bog, and take
you for a scarecrow? and small blame. Here, don't be botherin' me, Tim
Mooney, but lend a hand to rig up the machine, and the tackling."
Thanks to the turf-cutter's generous assistance, in a very short time
Mr. Larry Flood was enabled to come forward and announce to his fare,
who had dusted her dress from bog-mould and taken a seat on a piece of
wood, that "he was ready, if _she_ was."
The young lady accordingly rose, and followed him, and gravely
inspected the turn-out. The car was all down on one side still—the
result of a spring broken in the late collision—but the reins had been
knotted together, and the shaft was tied up with a piece of twine.
"It will hould all right," said Larry, following her eyes. "Any way, it
will carry _your_ distance, I'll go bail."
"Thank you; but I'm not going to try the experiment. I'm stiff enough
as it is; and one fall in the day is ample for the present."
"Fall! What fall? Sure ye only jumped off the car. Diden't I see you
with me own two eyes? And 'tis yourself that has them nice and tight
under yow! and in elegant proportion!—Meaning your ankles, Miss,—and
no offence."
"All the same I shall walk, fall or no fall," returned his late
passenger, with a scarlet face.
"You are a good mile off it yet," expostulated Larry. "How will you get
there?"
"On foot."
"And your bag; is that going on foot as well?"
"Perhaps you would leave it as you pass?"
"Indeed, and I will! Of course you are only English, and what could ye
_expect_; but at the first go off you were as stout as any lady that
ever sat on a car."
"Stout?" she echoed in supreme amazement. But perhaps in Ireland things
had different names.
"I mane stout-hearted! and now, after all, you are going to walk. To
_walk_!" he reiterated with indescribable scorn.
"Yes, and you will take the bag—_it_ has no neck to break."
"To be sure, I'll lave it with pleasure; but——" and here he paused
rather significantly.
"Of course I'll pay you," she said, fumbling for her purse. "How much?"
"Oh, well, sure—nothing at all! I would not be charging the likes of
you. 'Twas an honour to drive such a beautiful young lady."
"How much?" she repeated, with a little stamp of her foot.
"Well, thin, miss, since you are so _detarmined_, we won't quarrel over
two half-crowns; and if you would like me to drink your health in the
_best_ that was going," rubbing his mouth expressively with the back of
his hand, "we will say six shillings."
Helen immediately placed six shillings in his greedy palm.
"Thank you kindly, my lady! and may you live seven years longer than
was intended for you. It's not _my_ fault that I did not lave you at
your journey's end, as Tim Moony will allow. There's the mare," waving
his hand towards the wicked-looking chestnut; "there's the machine,"
indicating the battered car and twine-tied shaft; "and they are both
altogether and entirely at your service."
Helen shook her head resolutely, and made no other reply.
"Well, then, miss, as I see I can't _tempt_ ye, I suppose I may as well
be going; and I'll lave the bag inside the lodge. Keep on straight
after the Cross till you come to a pair of big gates—and there you
are."
Having given these directions and ascended to the driving-seat, so as
to have what he called "a better purchase on the baste," Larry muttered
a parting benediction, lifted his caubeen, and drove furiously away.