Maggie Paterson stood on the edge of the frozen surface of Lough
Legaltian and looked about her with a dreary sense of loneliness.
Round her were several groups of chattering girls; they glanced at
her furtively from time to time, and she felt that they were talking
of her; she wished to speak to them, but the reputation of her
father's sternness, the life apart that she had led, and the barriers
of custom, which are so strong in country life, stood between them.
Some of them she knew by name, nearly all by sight; but though they
were of her own age and station, she had never played with them; she
had never gone to school like other children; she had always lived at
home with her silent, gloomy father, who thought of nothing but his
religion.
Now, as she stood there, a spectator of the life in which she should
have shared, and the joyous shouts of her compeers rang in her ears,
blended with the metallic whir of the skates upon the ice, a bitter
feeling of rebellion welled slowly up in her young heart. All the
joys of childhood and of youth, which she had never known, all the
repressed instincts of her vigorous young life, called aloud in her
for outlet, and a slowly gathering wave of restlessness, of
resentment against all the forms of her narrowed life, swept over her.
Her eyes, bent inward upon herself, no longer saw anything of what
was happening around her. A young man, clashing his skates together,
came up and sat down near her to put them on; he was one of many now
hurrying from their work in the winter twilight, to make use of a
spell of frost which comes but seldom in the moist climate of
Donegal. He looked at her hesitatingly, got up, and sat down again
nervously; but she noted nothing. She saw a vision of herself
learning to know the inward meaning of life; she felt a craving for
some being outside herself to whom she might be necessary, for whom
she might experience some feeling other than the merely dutiful
affection which she bore to her father as a matter of habit. And
with that vision before her fixed gaze, she moved out slowly over the
lake.
When she came to herself she found herself standing in the middle of
the ice, while a figure on skates was hovering distractedly about
her. She looked at him, and as soon as he caught her eye, he dashed
boldly up and said,--
'Good-evening, Miss; can I help you on with your skates?'
She remembered him now; she had seen his face on the rare occasions
when she passed through her father's shop; he was the manager of the
drapery department. His name was Johnny Daly.
'I can't skate,' she said pathetically, feeling that this was the
last drop in her cup of bitterness.
'I can teach you, if you like,' he replied diffidently.
'Father doesn't like me to be out alone. I oughtn't to be here now.
He would be right mad if he knew it,' she answered, with an
exaggerated gratitude that she had at last found some one who
appeared to take an interest in her.
'Perhaps you would like me to see you home then?'
'Thanks, I should like it very much later on. But I am not going
home just yet. Now I am here, I intend to enjoy myself.'
The defiance of her tone was so very much out of proportion to the
mild manner in which she was taking her enjoyment, that the young man
felt inclined to laugh. To cover his embarrassment, and at the same
time to display his skill, he began gravely to execute figures round
her. Unaccustomed to outdoor exercises, the girl looked with wide
eyes of admiration at his process of 'showing off.' But by this time
they had worked out into the centre of the lough, where the spring
which fed it bubbled up in a clear open space. In doing a backward
roll he approached dangerously near the edge; she opened her mouth to
cry out; at that moment his skate caught in a roughness of the ice;
he fell backwards with a crash, and broke through the thin ice into
the black water beyond.
Maggie screamed for help, and dark figures came flitting along the
ice towards her. But they were a long way off, and she saw she must
depend upon herself if the young man's life was to be saved. He came
up and clutched at the edge of the ice, which broke off in his
fingers, and he disappeared again; it was evident that he could not
swim.
Rapidly the girl unwound her long knitted scarf from about her neck,
knotted her purse in the end of it, and flung it to him as he rose
the second time.
He seized it eagerly, and gasping from the chill of his sudden
immersion, said,--
'Shure you're an angel, Miss Maggie; hold on a bit, don't pull till I
tell you.'
Then he gradually broke his way through the thin ice till he came to
a thickness sufficient to bear his weight.
'Now pull,' he said, and when the rescuers arrived on the spot they
found their work already done, and Daly trying to persuade his
master's daughter that she oughtn't to shake hands with him while he
was so wet.
Before the others arrived within earshot, she said to him with a
motherly air, 'Now run away home and get your wet things changed, or
you'll catch cold. To-morrow is Sunday, and I'll see you at church.'
At the church porch the next morning, at twelve o'clock, Maggie found
the usual assemblage of young men sitting upon tombstones and
lounging against the headstones of graves, as they watched the
congregation enter. This particular morning they were massed
together like a herd of bullocks eying a strange dog, and all gazed
steadfastly at Johnny Daly, who was sitting on a large tombstone by
himself swinging his legs disconsolately. Behind them the bare
barnlike church was squatly silhouetted against the sky. When he saw
her his face brightened, and he came up to her with an air of relief.
'Good-morning,' she said; 'are you coming into church with me?'
'If I may,' he replied, looking at her curiously.
'Of course,' she said promptly, and they passed into church and
entered a pew together.
All through the service she noticed that he watched her closely, and
copied her every movement. The rest of the congregation stared at
the pew in a manner that made her feel very uncomfortable, and seemed
greatly in excess of the occasion.