A SETTLED GIRL
It’s often remarked, that one wedding brings on another; as if, you’d
really think, the men were like sheep, and if one ventures, the rest of
the flock will follow the same way, even if it’s over a cliff or down
the face of a quarry-hole. And that is how the neighbours accounted
to themselves for what occurred at the Furry Farm, not long after the
affair at Dempsey’s that is after being related. You’d think poor
Mickey had had enough bad luck to daunt a younger man than he was. Two
fine young girls he had been after, and still, there he was, without
a woman at home to look after the place for him. But in spite of all,
he appeared to feel an interest in anything of the sort that would be
going on, as if he thought by that means to get some insight into how
the thing should be managed. Still he couldn’t but feel that he had
had enough of looking for young, foolish persons, and that it would be
fitter for him to be thinking of one more his own standing in life. He
may have thought this out for himself, or it may have been pure Chance
that brought him and Marg Molally together; if there is such a thing
as Chance! Anyway Dark Moll had a hand in it too, as usual with such
affairs about Ardenoo. It certainly was Moll’s doing that Marg was at
the wedding at Dempsey’s, and that began the whole business, though
Mickey never cast a thought on Marg that day scarcely, nor she on him,
except to be kind to him; and that she was to every one there; she
couldn’t be different.
As for Moll, the design she had in persuading Marg to go to the wedding
had nothing at all to do with Mickey or the Furry Farm.
At that time, there was not a more lonesome creature in all Ardenoo
than Margaret Molally! She had not long before buried her father; and
that left her without one but herself, in the little place they had,
a bit up the boreen that borders Dempsey’s farm. So she was sitting
inside by the fire, one fine morning, because she had no heart to do
anything else, when she heard some one coming along towards the house;
and by the knock-knock of a stick upon the path she guessed it to be
Dark Moll. And so it was.
“God save all here!” said Moll, groping her way forward, till she felt
the half-door, and could lean in over it. Blind and all as she was, it
was seldom Moll missed her mark.
“God save yourself, kindly, Moll,” said Marg, getting up to bring the
blind woman in; “but, sure, there’s no one here now with me, only
meself; and not long I’m to be left here, either, by all I hear!”
Her tears began to flow down again as she said this.
“I got a slight knowledge of that,” said Moll, when she got herself
settled on the stool by the fire, that Marg led her to; “just a whimper
of it that is going about through the people. But it’s hard-set a poor
blind body does be, to get at the rights of a story. Ay, acushla! it’s
easy to deceive Dark Moll! But what I understand is,” she went on,
“that you’ll have to quit out of this; and, moreover, they are all on
the same word about it, that it’s bad treatment for your poor father’s
child! Ay, indeed!”
“Sure, who ever heard of a girl being a herd over a farm!” said
Margaret.
That was the means of living the Molallys had had. The father was herd
on a small holding of land. He was a weakly, delicate man, that was
seldom able for a whole day’s work, though willing always to do his
best. But he was a nice, respectable person, that could be depended on,
and he had the good word of all that knew him.
“A _girl_ made herd?” said Moll; “well, I dunno! and still they all
tell me that it was yourself did the weight of the work here, instead
of the poor father, those years past!”
“There was no one else,” said Margaret.
“Wasn’t there Larry, your brother?” said Moll; “and he had a right to
have stopped at home here, to help them that reared him, and only the
two of you in it; instead of galloping off to America, the way he did,
and leaving all to you to do....”
“That’s all gone by now,” said Marg. She didn’t want to hear Larry
blamed; though it was his fault that she was left now poor and alone.
The name Larry Molally had in Ardenoo was, that he was “a bad bird, as
ever flew! an arch-thief, mixing himself up in every mischief about the
place, ever since he could mitch from school.”
In spite of that, and a great deal more that the neighbours never knew,
the mother doted on Larry. It’s often the case, and the worse a child
behaves, the more anxious the mother is to make excuses for him; as
if he was blind or deaf, or even had not right sense. God knows, maybe
that is so, and they go wrong because they have not the wit to know the
difference!
“Your poor mother that fretted for Larry!” said Moll, with a change of
tune as she noticed how Marg spoke of the matter.
“She did so!” said Marg; “she got little and humpy, and poor-looking in
herself, no matter what you’d try to do for her! She never would stir
out of that chimney-corner, only spinning and knitting stockings to
have ready for Larry, against he’d come home to her! God help her! and
there they are yet, hanging by a cord across the chimney, the very way
she had them, when she was took bad....”
“Ay! died off in the clap of your hand, so she did!” said Moll. “Well I
remember it! The light of Heaven be with her soul, and the soul of your
father, this day, I pray; and what was it ailed him, acushla?”
“A cold he took,” said Marg; “a cold that went in on him, and turned
to a suggestion on the lungs. It was there, the doctor said, the whole
demur was; and he lasted very short, only the week, and went off in the
night-time, quiet and easy.”
“I’m proud to hear that,” said Moll; “and, moreover, so best, not to
see him suffer long; for when a disease like that gets its hold on you,
all the doctors from this to Jarminy won’t be of the least assistance!
But sure, we all have to go, when our time comes round; and welcome be
the will of God!”
“It leaves me terrible lonesome here this day!” said Margaret, wiping
her eyes on her apron.
“Ay are ye lonesome,” said Moll, “and lonesome again, to the back of
that! But God Almighty gives some people very quare treatment....
That’s a darling fine lot of little goslings you have there ... as
well as a poor body like me can see ... I mean, can tell by the _yeep!
yeep!_ of them. They’ll be worth good money to you, one of these days!
How many have you in the flock?”
“Six-and-twenty,” said Margaret, “but sure, I have no heart for them or
anything, now! and don’t know where I can get a roof over my own head,
let alone the hens and geese, and the poor cow, that’s after having
twin calves, the finest that you could lay eyes upon!”
“Twin calves!” said Moll; “that always is for luck!”
“Och, for luck!” said Margaret. “There’s no such thing for me as luck.
I often wish I was done with everything....”
“Ora, what kind of talk is that to be having!” said Moll; “you’re just
down a bit in yourself, girl dear! But you won’t be so! To-morrow’s a
new day. And did you hear the great fine wedding they’re to have above
at Dempsey’s; for Kitty and old Mickey Heffernan?”
“I heard nothing about it, only that it was to be,” said Marg, “and
could scarce believe it. But sure, let every one please themselves! But
as for the wedding, I don’t know a ha’porth about it!”
“No, nor couldn’t,” said Moll, “living the way you do, up this lonesome
place! But you’ll be there of course?”
“I’ll wait till I’m asked!” said Marg.
“And isn’t that what brought me here,” said Moll quickly, so quickly
that Marg never suspected it was a lie of Moll’s. She was so well used
to saying whatever would serve her turn that any one might be deceived
into believing her. But what Moll said to herself, by way of excuse,
was that she knew well Marg would be welcome, for Kitty Dempsey had a
heart as big as a box and would welcome any old friend, such as Marg
Molally, with a _ceud mile failte_!
“Of course you’re asked,” Moll went on, “and expected, too; and why
would you not go? Hold up your head! there’s money bid for ye!”
“I’m done with all that sort of talk now,” said Marg; “that may be left
to the young girls....”
“I dunno about that!” said Moll; “it mightn’t be too late at all for
you. God’s good. And you never can tell what floor you’ll meet your
luck on!”
“I have no great wish for going,” said Margaret, then.
“Well, please yourself, and your friends will like you the better!”
said Moll; “only it’s too sure I am that your father’s child would be
welcome at that wedding! The Dempseys had always a great wish for the
Molallys; and along with that, I was thinking in meself, that if you
were there, you would be giving a hand with the poor old mother. She’s
more helpless this minute than an infant child; God look down on all
them that has no use of their legs!”
“That’s another thing altogether,” said Marg; “maybe I would take a
streel up there.... Mrs. Dempsey often was kind to us....”
“Her tongue that was the worst of her ...” said Moll, “but maybe she
couldn’t help it.”
“Her bark was worse than her bite,” said Marg; “and now, Moll, sit over
to the table, and take share of the bit of dinner....”
And when that was over, Moll went off to the Dempseys’, and made it all
right with Kitty about Margaret Molally being asked to the wedding.
The reason Moll wanted that done was, to bring round a plan she was
trying to work out. It was for her own good, but she oughtn’t to be too
much blamed for that! Any one like Moll has to think for themselves.
She was just depending out of God and the neighbours; along with any
little trifle she could make out by the old fiddle, playing at fairs,
or wakes or weddings, as the case might be. But it wasn’t much she ever
got in that way, and she never expected more than a few coppers. People
can’t give what they have not got. There were other helps that Moll
looked to; such as stopping at Molally’s for a night or so, and getting
a meal there, when she would be in that direction. The Molallys were
good to her; and so she didn’t like the notion of Marg’s leaving that
house, and maybe whoever would come after her might not be so agreeable.
This is why Moll was making up a match in her own mind, for Margaret,
with a boy that was a second cousin’s son of her own, and that was
very well acquainted with Mickey Heffernan, being in fact his spokesman
at that time, and having made up the match for him with Kitty Dempsey.
Moll knew that this boy, Jack Rorke by name, would be at the wedding,
of course; and her idea was to get him and Marg acquainted. Then there
might be another wedding, between them; Jack Rorke might slip in for
the herding that old Molally used to have, and Marg could remain on in
her home. But above all, in that case, Moll would still be able to stop
there when it suited her, and get the best of treatment, as she always
had, from the Molallys.
Moll was right about the Dempseys.
“It’s proud we’ll be to see any old friends here that day, such as one
of the Molallys,” said Big Cusack, who was managing the whole thing for
Kitty.
“I was sure of that,” said Moll, “and I’m ready and willing to call
over and bring poor Marg any message you send....”
Cusack was sitting outside the door, smoking a pipe, and he went on to
say, “What I often do be thinking is, why isn’t that fine decent girl
married herself?”
“Musha, then you couldn’t tell, nor no one could!” said Moll; “nor yet
how a thing of the kind might come about still!”
“Good and hard-working she is,” said Cusack, “and comes of a decent
stock. And I understand she has a snug little fortune, that the poor
father laid by for her, too. I don’t know, in this world wide, what the
boys can be thinking about, that she’s not married long ago! They have
no sense, or one of them would have had her before this!”
“Well, it’s often I heard it said,” answered Moll, “that every dog has
his day; and that every woman gets her chance; and so it will be with
Marg!”
She was thinking of the young cousin she had in her mind, to marry
Marg. Little she or any one else except herself and the one boy knew
that Margaret Molally had had her chance, years ago, and had let it
pass her by! Marg was like other girls in that. But the difference was
in herself.
People talk about girls and courting as if they were all made after the
one pattern, and what one does is the same as all the rest. But girls
are as different in their natures as in their looks. Some are all for
fun with any boy they meet; and others are as shy and as silent and
stiff as a young filly off the side of a mountain; and there are good
and bad of both sorts.
Margaret was one of the quiet ones; timid and proud and humble always,
though she needn’t have been, she was so fine and handsome. She would
take the eye, anywhere, so that you would think she might pick and
choose among the boys of Ardenoo. So whatever made her take a fancy to
Patsy Ratigan, it would be hard to explain. For he was what is known as
a “bit of a play-boy”; always up to some sport; as different from Marg
as dark is from day. But she thought that the sun shone out of Patsy;
and they would have made a match of it, sure enough, only for Marg’s
brother going off to America, the way he did.
That was what upset all Margaret’s plans. In the first place, she saw
very plainly that it would never do for her to be thinking of her own
concerns, or to dream of leaving the old people. The father was failing
in health, and the poor mother could do nothing but fret after Larry.
That wasn’t all. When Larry went, he had taken Marg’s fortune with him;
took it down from where it was hidden, up in the thatch, to pay his
passage to America! the money that was saved for Margaret, and that she
herself had helped to put together!
A mean, bad trick it was of Larry’s, so much so that the Molallys
could not say a word about it, for shame’s sake, to think that their
son should rob his own sister. At least, that is how Margaret and the
father felt. But the poor mother took his part even then, and said,
why wouldn’t he take it! Hadn’t a son as good a right as a daughter to
anything about the place? and better, too! And then she cried and said,
she never thought Marg would grudge his share to poor Larry! and he her
only brother, and no harm in him, only a bit of foolishness.
Marg said no more. But she knew well that once the money was gone, it
was gone for good and all; they need never hope to get so far before
the world again. And she would never marry into the Ratigans unless she
could bring money with her, to have them passing remarks about her and
her people.
Most of the money that Larry took away with him had been put together
by Mrs. Molally and Margaret. Whatever they made by their eggs and
butter and so on they saved for Marg’s fortune, and added it to
anything the father could lay by for the same purpose, after the rent
and other debts were paid. That was little enough! But the two women
would always be having something to sell. Mrs. Molally, in particular,
was noted for that. It was sometimes said that all she wanted was to
get Marg married and “from under her feet in the house, the way she
could have the place to herself and be looking after the father and
Larry, without any one else to interfere between them.” That might be;
she might have felt jealous of the way the father had, of looking to
Margaret for his pipe of an evening, or the clean collar for Mass on
Sunday. And many a mother has to let her girl get the upper hand of
her at her own fireside. But Mrs. Molally wouldn’t have that at all;
why would she, a fine, able woman she was, at that time? And she never
cared for Margaret a bit the way she did for Larry.
But all her plans failed with the poor woman. Her heart’s darling,
Larry, went off, without even saying good-bye to her or any one in
the old home ... of course, he might have been ashamed, seeing he was
robbing them at the same time; and Margaret was left with her, the
daughter that she would have given cheerfully, body and bones, for
Larry’s little finger. And all the savings of years gone too.
With things like that, Margaret made up her mind to give no more
encouragement to Ratigan, at least for a while. Still, she would
scarcely have broken with him the way she did, if she had seen him soon
after Larry disappeared. Her heart was very sore then, not alone the
disappointment and disgrace about Larry, but the way the mother was
taking it, as if she was inclined to lay blame upon Marg herself.
Ratigan had the fashion of strolling up of an evening to Molally’s,
on the chance of meeting Marg out through the fields; for she used to
go through them, to count the cattle, to save her father from walking
all the land, when maybe he would be feeling tired. Marg did that
faithfully for him, and I need not say, it came all the easier to her
when Patsy Ratigan would join her and have a chat with her.
She never knew, till after Larry went, how much she used to count on
seeing Ratigan; for although she had no intention of telling him, or
any one else, all that had taken place, it would have cheered her to
have a word with some one young like herself, and that would have been
able to speak of other things. The old people could do nothing but fret.
But Ratigan never came, for over a week. It was really nothing worse
than a bit of a spree that he was on, as had often occurred before,
without Margaret’s knowing exactly what was going on. But to have it
happen now! Margaret thought the wide world was overshadowed by their
trouble, and she could not understand why Ratigan did not come to help
to lighten it for her.
So she was half-wild with grief and longing and disappointment the
evening that Larry did at last appear again.
“Good-evening, Marg,” he called out to her, where she was standing in a
wide pasture-field; “let me get beyant them bullocks for you, and head
them back.... You’re a bit late, aren’t ye?”
She was, and it was growing dusk.
“I’m obliged to ye,” said Marg, feeling her face stiffening as she
spoke; “but when I want help, I’ll ask it!”
“What’s astray with ye?”
“Nothing in life,” she said, raising her eyes to Patsy’s face, and he
looked so smiling and careless that she could not stop herself from
going on, “only I’m of the opinion that every one should mind their own
business!”
“I’ll be making off with meself, in that case,” said Ratigan.
“You might do worse,” said Margaret.
And all the time, she could have bitten her tongue out, that said such
bitter things to him.
Ratigan was said to be a “bit short in the temper.” But any one might
have been vexed at what Marg had said then. He just turned off, and
went away, without another word. And not long afterwards, Margaret
heard that he, too, had quitted out for America.
There were people to say, that Patsy Ratigan had reasons of his own for
going, and that he didn’t leave until he could not do anything else.
But Margaret knew nothing of that. Girls never do know half the queer
things that the boys are up to! If they did, there would be more of
them sitting contentedly at home, and better off there, than marrying.
But they won’t believe that, nor wouldn’t, if you were to put your eyes
upon sticks!
No, Marg knew nothing of Patsy’s wild doings. She thought he went
away because she had spoken so coldly to him that evening. And though
she often said to herself, that it was better so, and that anyway, on
account of the money being gone, she would have had to give him up,
still...!
Many and many a night, when all the world was asleep around her,
Margaret would be lying awake, and would cry a sackful, thinking of
Patsy, and wondering would he meet Larry, for weren’t they both in
America! And had she any right to be short with him?
She had done it all for the best, but even that won’t keep you from
fretting, when a thing is past, and you feel that you went against your
own heart, and still, you have room to wonder, were you right? or would
it have been better to have left it alone?
But Almighty God doesn’t ever bring back the past. Of course, He could,
if He chose; but all we know is, that He never does. Marg was often
heart-sick, going over what had been said, between herself and Ratigan,
that evening in the pasture-field. And it was long enough before she
gave up fancying that if only she looked down the boreen at dusk, she
would see Ratigan going along home from his work, with his coat thrown
loosely across his shoulders, and he whistling, and jigging a step now
and then. Patsy was as lovely a dancer of a reel as you need ask to
see. Margaret then did her best to stop thinking about him at all.
“I’ll not expect to hear a word afore Hollintide!” she would say to
herself, and begin maybe counting eggs she would be about bringing to
Melia’s shop. Then it was, “afore the Chrisemas”; and then “Shrove
Tuesday.” So she wore the time away, measuring it by the Saints’-days
and holidays. But not a sign did Ratigan make.
Not long after, the mother died; and with this new loss, the sharpness
of the pain round her heart about Patsy began to wear off, by degrees.
One consolation she had; not one but herself and Ratigan ever knew that
they had been “speaking”; as far as she could tell.
So the years rolled on, and Marg Molally was getting to be what you
might call a “settled girl”; quieter and more retired on herself than
ever. She seemed to have no wish for doing anything, except minding the
old father and their little place. And she was beginning to grow more
contented, every day that passed over her head. She had plenty to keep
her going, from dawn till dark; and, moreover, her heart was in her
work, for she was kind to every living thing under her care.
“It’s pets Marg makes, out of even the ducks she rears!” the neighbours
would say. “Blue ribbons you’ll see next, tied round the lambs’ necks!
sich nonsense to be getting on with! as if she wouldn’t have enough to
do, without that foolishness!”
Whether she ever went so far as that or not, I can’t say; but whatever
she had, throve ahead. And as for the young lambs that she would rear
on the cup, wouldn’t any one be fond of them! To see how they’ll run
races with one another, a whole flock of them! and play up and down a
sunny bank! Any one would feel delighted to be watching them.
And a lone woman like Marg has her feelings, just the same as one
that has a houseful of children. If you try to stop spring water from
running its own course, won’t it take and bubble out by some other
vent? And so by Marg. She had to be caring for something. And she did
it well; and, signs on it, there was a look of comfort and order about
her little home, that every one noticed. And money’s worth had gathered
there, too; though of course the old stocking that Larry had emptied
had never been filled again. Above all, the old father was cherished
and made happy, in every way that was possible. Marg thought nothing a
trouble that she could do for him. In fact, nothing was any trouble to
her, that he wished done. Love makes easy labour.
Then he died; and lonesome and fretted was Margaret, when she found
herself without him, and not knowing where she would turn to make
herself a home again.
And still she found herself going off to the wedding at Dempsey’s that
had occasioned so much talk at Ardenoo. Marg went, but she kept herself
very quiet all through. There was a great deal that wanted doing at
Dempsey’s that day, what with the helpless old woman and everything
else; and Marg would rather be putting her hand to business such as
getting dinner ready, or putting down the fire, than to be mixed up
with the young boys and girls and their jokes and fun.
That is how it happened that scarcely any one that was there took
notice of Margaret; and Heffernan in particular knew nothing of her
being there among the other people, until he had done the dance with
Kitty. It was no right thing to do, to persuade a man like Mickey that
was on in years, and stiff, as well as lame of one leg, till they got
him out on the floor to dance, just to raise a laugh. But what do young
people think of only to get their bit of fun where they can!
When the dance was over, Heffernan was ready to drop, puffing and
blowing, and he staggered over to where Dark Moll was sitting, playing
her fiddle, with Margaret close beside her. Up she jumped at sight of
Mickey, to leave a seat empty for the poor old fellow; and the way he
would not be thinking that she did that on purpose, she said, “Now
that’s over, we may as well be getting ready another round of tay;
dancing is drouthy work!”
So she went over to the hearth, to take up the teapot out of the ashes
where she was keeping it warm; and Dan Grennan was standing there, and
talking about all the sights and queer ways he met in America.
“And who should I bob up against, only last winter,” he went on, “but
a near neighbour of our own here ... one of the Ratigans ... yous
remember Patsy?”
At that word, Margaret turned very white, and she stooped down, as if
she wanted to rake the ashes together. And said some one, “How is Patsy
doing out there? Has he anny intentions of coming home for a wife, like
yourself?”
“Och, the divil an intention!” said Dan; “sure, isn’t he well settled
in there already? He’s marrit this len’th of time; to a widdy woman
with a fine shop and a family too....”
Marg raised herself up then, and her face was blazing, and her eyes
like coals of fire. But she said nothing; only went back, quiet and
easy, to the corner where she had been sitting, and began by offering
the first of the tea to Heffernan. And when he had it taken, he looked
up at Marg, very gratefully.
“That’s good!” he said; “that’s the way I like tay! hot and sweet, and
that strong, you could raddle lambs with it!”
Truth to tell, there was no scarcity nor meanness of any kind at that
wedding; Dark Moll found it hard to carry away her share of what was
left over, when every one had had enough.
In spite of what she got, and the good treatment she met with, she was
discontented in her own mind. For do what she would, she could not get
Margaret into discourse with the boy she had laid out for her. But Moll
was as steadfast as a weasel to any plan that ever she formed.
It might have been a month or more after the wedding at the Dempseys’,
that Mickey Heffernan was outside in front of his house, sitting on the
bit of old wall, because the height of it just favoured the game leg,
and enabled him to rest himself without having to stoop. He was feeling
lonesome, and looking as forgotten as a hen without a tail. Small
blame to him, if he did feel down in the mouth! after the trick that
was played on him, and that lost him the fine young wife he thought to
bring home to the Furry Farm. And then, to make it worse, to see how
simply little Barney Maguire could get a woman! and one that seemed
suitable every way you looked at it.
Mickey had been there for some time, when he heard a cough. He looked
round, and who was it, a few perch away on the road, but Dark Moll.
“Hi!” shouted Mickey to her; “where are you off to, in such a
murthering hurry, Moll?”
“Who’s that, that’s calling me, in the name of God?” said Moll, in a
small, weak kind of a voice, as if she was frightened at hearing him.
“Sure it’s only me ... Mr. Heffernan,” said Mickey; “who else?”
“The Lord save us! and is it a-by the Furry Farm I am?”
“Where else?” said Mickey.
“Well, now, isn’t it the poor case to have no use of your eyes,” said
Moll.
But well she knew where she was! and had intended in her own mind to
get a chance of talking to the boy, Jack Rorke, that she wanted for
Marg, and thought might be with Heffernan yet. And along with that,
she thought of having a chat with Heffernan himself to see if he would
be willing to put in a good word for Jack, and recommend him for the
herding that Marg was to be put out of, now the father was dead. For
Heffernan being a respectable, well-thought-of person, a character from
him would be worth having.
“Come along in, Moll,” said Heffernan, “and give us any news that’s
going!”
“I’ll take a sate, and be thankful to ye, Mr. Heffernan,” said Moll.
“But for news ... sorra bit of ‘chaw-the-rag’ there is to be had, as
far as poor ould Moll can tell!”
Moll knew that scarcely anything was being spoken over still at that
time, in all Ardenoo, but the wedding at Dempsey’s; and she didn’t want
to let Heffernan hear of that through her.
“And how did ye get this far?” asked Mickey.
“Shanks’ mare,” answers Moll. “Stopping below there at Molally’s I was
last night and thought to get carried, with Marg and the ass, when
they went off to the fair this morning. But at the last minute, she
made up her mind to part them twin calves of hers, if she could get
any kind of a price for them. Sure she doesn’t know what way to turn,
the crathur, and annoyed she is trying to think what to do, and she
having to quit out of her own little place ... so there was only room
for the two little bastes in the cart, and her and me had to walk; we
parted company a piece off and she went along on to the fair, and I
was to wait about.... I had no wish to go any farther, not feeling too
well.... And I wonder what luck poor Marg is having, or did she sell at
all? I hear there’s a big droop in the price of all stock. But sure,
it’s better for a body be moving somewhere, even if it’s only to get
you a prod of a thorn in the toe!”
“Marg? that’ll be a dauther of old Molally’s beyant, that is only after
dying?” said Heffernan.
“The very person,” said Moll; “nice and even-going and quiet, and the
girl the same. And not one in it now, only herself!”
“It’s a poor thing, to be with only a body’s self, then!” said Mickey;
“the same as me; I haven’t one about the place inside or out, but
meself; and I wanting to go to the fair to look for a couple or three
calves and pigs. But how could I and leave the house without one to
keep an eye on things here, while I’d be away!”
“Do you tell me that? why, where’s your sarvint boy, Jack Rorke it was
you had lastly!”
“Gone!” says Heffernan; “he gave me impidence; said, indeed, that he
had no notion of lighting the fire or swinging on a pot to boil ...
that it was girl’s work I was expecting of him. So with that, I let
out, and hit him a ding in the face. I thought to give him a knuckle in
the throat, but it was the jaw-bone I struck; and see the way it left
me! But sure I forgot; you can’t see that, or anything else!”
“The Lord help you!” said Moll, very pityingly. “And where is Jack?”
“I never laid an eye on him since,” said Heffernan, indifferently;
then, getting confidential, “I’m disappointed and put about, every way!
Look at me now, and I after getting all the house whitewashed, and even
a fresh load of gravel thrown down before the door ... and a new leg
after going into the kitchen table ... and all that trouble and expense
gone, for nothing as a body might say!”
“You may say that!” said Moll; “things do turn out very contrairy
betimes, and let people do their best endayvours! Here now,” she went
on, “is a pair of stockings I’m after knitting for Jack that’s a third
cousin of me own ...” for she wanted now to make some excuse up for
having come there at all; “but now, as he’s not with you, I dunno will
I give them to him at all!”
“He’s not worthy of them,” said Mickey, eyeing the stockings in Moll’s
hand, and from them looking down to where his own were showing above
the rims of his brogues, and thinking that there was scarcely an inch
of the same stockings but was holes, for the want of some woman to dam
them for him; “Jack’s not worthy of them. But as you have them this
far, if you’d sooner not be having to carry them back again, you can
just leave them here, and I’ll see to make some use of them.”
“They’d not be suitable for your wear, Mr. Heffernan,” said Moll;
“just only coarse, plain knitting of me own pattern....” Moll had no
wish to let Mickey have them at all. He was known to be a bit near and
“grabbish”; and she knew he’d not give her more than maybe a handful of
meal or a few potatoes for the stockings.
“Och, they’re not too bad at all,” said Heffernan. He liked nothing
better than to get something for nothing. So Moll then changed her tune.
“Well, sure you’re welcome to them! or anything else I’d have, only
they’re not good enough ... but a poor ould body like me, it’s little I
have at any time.... And is it gone for good Jack Rorke is?” she said.
“Good or bad, he’s gone out of this; and far better off I am, without
him or the likes of him!” said Mickey; “he’s as stupid as a kishful of
brogues. And lazy along with all!”
Heffernan went on talking like this, never remembering that Moll had
said Jack was a cousin of hers. But he was a bit stupid himself, as
well as the boy he was abusing. And Moll was too cute to let him see if
she was vexed. Anyway, what did she care about Jack? and in particular
when it was from a man like Heffernan that the talk and fault-finding
was coming.
“He was fit for nothing in life,” Mickey went on, “only standing about,
watching a hen to go lay! I’m well rid of Jack! But I’ll have to get
some one in his place! I’m not all out as souple as I used to be!”
Well, that minute a new plan came into Moll’s mind. She saw only too
plainly that Jack Rorke would have no chance of a character from
Heffernan; and without that, from the last man that had employed him,
Jack would never get the herding.
So, as quick as a flash, she began on a new tack.
“It’s a woman you want here, Mr. Heffernan! getting married is what you
have a right to be thinking about....”
She felt a trifle awkward in saying that word “married,” seeing the
hand she had had in the Dempsey wedding. But Heffernan made her no
answer. It appeared really as if he never knew rightly whether to laugh
or to be angry at the trick that Moll put Dan and Kitty up to. And, at
all events, Moll had been so cute over it, that she never got the share
of blame that was hers by right.
Moll began again, when she saw how quiet Mickey took what she said.
“You’re lonesome here, Mr. Heffernan, but I know a girl that’s worse
off, even! and faith! I’m thinking it’s what it’s a pity to be spoiling
two houses with the pair of yous!” and then she stopped.
Heffernan still said nothing, till he had the pipe filled again, and
drawing well. Then, when he had it going to his liking, he appeared to
take heart, and he said: “And who might that be? not that I’m one for
making up me mind in a hurry....”
“You’re right there, too!” said Moll; “and above all to be cautious,
before you tie a knot with your tongue that you can’t unloose with
your teeth! But now ... if you were to get word of a nice, decent
little girl, with a cow, and a couple of pigs and ... not to mention
the calves that ... and as purty a breed of geese as there is in
Ireland....”
“Well, and who are you talking about?” said Mickey, his mouth watering,
you’d think, to hear of all Marg’s stock.
“Why, who but Marg Molally!”
“I have no acquaintance with the girl,” said Mickey.
“Ay, have ye!” said Moll; “isn’t it her was at Dempsey’s that night ...
and brought you over the tay ... and aren’t you after hearing all about
her now from me, too!”
“Was that her at Dempsey’s?” said Heffernan; “and good tay it was, too!
She can’t be too young?”
“No,” said Moll; “but what does a sensible man, like yourself, with a
place that’s worth looking after, want with one of them whipsters of
girls, that would be for ever dressing herself up, and off to every
wake and wedding in the place. Far more comfort there will be with one
that would have her mind on her business, and be striving to keep a
man’s things together for him!”
“I’d always wish to have the place someways decent!” says Mickey.
“To be sure you would, and why wouldn’t ye? Whisht now! is that wheels
I hear?” said Moll.
“Faith, I believe so,” said Mickey; “them that hasn’t eyes has ears!”
“That will be Marg, coming back from the fair,” said Moll; “and now,
Mr. Heffernan, I may’s well be cuttin’ me stick and paring it along the
road, the way I won’t be keeping the poor girl waiting on me, below
there at the cross-roads. We have it laid out that we’ll meet there,
when she’s on her way home; and I’ll go back with her, to be company to
her this night, anyway, God help her!”
“I may’s well go that far with you,” says Mickey, getting down stiffly
from the wall, and reaching for the stick that he always had convenient
to his hand.
“In the name of God, then, do so!” said Moll.
Heffernan meant by that, to get a look at Marg; and so he did. For
there she was, waiting as Moll had said. She was standing by the little
ass, with her hand on its neck, and her head a bit bowed, and the look
in her face would put you in mind of the picture of the Virgin Mary in
the chapel, it was so sorrowful and patient. She was tired out, with
the heat of the day and the noise and confusion in the fair; and she
had on the big blue cloak that came to her from the mother. It was the
weight of two cloaks, it was so good and heavy. And she had a blue
handkerchief on her head, tied under her chin, and a grand big blue
apron, over her red skirt, that was made of wool from her own sheep,
and by her own two hands. Those colours were in the picture, too.
She and Heffernan passed the time of day with one another; and then he
asked, “Is it buying or selling you were to-day?”
“Striving to sell, I was,” said Margaret; “but could get no price worth
while; and besides I hadn’t it in my heart to part those two little
calves, unless I got a real good offer for them! But now I’m wishful
that I had got shut of them, at any money, and not have to bring them
home, and the poor ass gone lame on me!”
“Lame, is she?” said Mickey; and he hobbled over, to have a look at
what was wrong; and hard-set he was to stoop to look at the donkey’s
feet, he was so stiff.
“She is so, lame, and very lame!” said Marg; “as lame as a duck; I
doubt will she ever get home to-night, and then what will I do, at all
at all!”
She looked ready to cry.
Heffernan stood and thought; and Moll watched him as if she had her
sight, thinking to herself, “If only you’d let me manage the thing for
ye!”
But Moll knew when to hold her tongue.
At last, said Heffernan, “If it would be any convaniency to you to
leave ass and calves at my place, there a piece up the boreen, until
the lameness wears off, sure, why not, and welcome!”
Margaret said nothing for a minute, but while she was thinking what to
answer that would be suitable, Moll struck in her word, “Sure, that’s
the great plan, all out, of yours, Mr. Heffernan!”
“That ass,” Mickey went on, “will never get the cart and its burden
home to-night!”
Marg looked the ass all over, and even led her on a few paces, to see
if it was only that she was pretending; for asses have their tricks
betimes like that. But it was worse she was by then, scarcely able to
keep on her feet at all.
So Margaret gave in to what Heffernan said; and they all turned about,
and went up to the Furry Farm. A fine, comfortable place it was, too,
as far as sheds and hay and straw went, all very complete and plentiful.
So there was no delay in finding room for all Margaret’s belongings,
and settling them in great comfort. And then Heffernan said, “If yous
would step inside, I’ll be pleased to have your company to tay.”
“Troth and we will! it’s meself that’s very drouthy wid the great heat
of the day.... And that God may reward ye, Mr. Heffernan, for the kind
thought!” said Moll, beginning to speak very free, and then ending
humbly, when she thought of herself. But any one like Moll that has
to look out for themselves doesn’t like to lose the chance of a stray
meal. It was different with Marg. Still, she did not wish to seem
unfriendly with the man that had just been so good-natured to her; so
she and Moll went into the kitchen, Mickey showing them the way.
The look of it! Everything was in a muddle; the remains of the dinner
on the table; the floor not swept over; not a thing washed up, you’d
think, for a month of Sundays; hens picking about, and the dog with his
nose into the pig’s pot.
“Go ’long out o’ that!” said Mickey, making a whack at him with the
stick. He lost his balance and down he fell, with his head into the
fire, only as luck would have it, it was out.
“Och, murther! I’m kilt!” he cried.
“The Lord save us!” said Margaret; and she ran over, to pull him out
of the fire, as she supposed. She had a fine strong arm; and she had
him raised in no time.
“Are you much hurted?” she asked, in great concern.
“The sorra hurt,” he said; “but only for you....”
He was trembling all over. Any one on in years will feel a fall like
that to be a great shock.
“Sit down there, a minute or two,” said Margaret, and she pulled over
a big chair, and put him into it. It chanced to be the very chair he
always sat in.
“Rest yourself now, and I’ll do what’s required....”
That was always the way with Margaret. If anything had to be done,
she didn’t stop to ask, “Whose business is it?” and neither would she
interfere. But if she saw no one else making a move, then she did the
thing herself, and without making any talk about it.
Besides that, she felt very sorry for old Mickey, seeing him so
helpless. As long as he was moving about, and had his stick, he managed
right enough. But without it, and lying as he did after the fall, he
was as helpless as an infant.
“I believe the fire is black out, this minute!” said Heffernan,
beginning to laugh, and half ashamed of the fright he had got, when he
fell, and only into cold ashes.
“Sure it won’t long be so!” said Margaret; and she set to work and in
no time she had a blazing hearth, and the kettle on the boil.
“Do I hear the water sizzling out into the fire already,” said Moll;
“that’s a good sign of you, Marg!”
“How so?” said Marg.
“Sure, doesn’t all the world know that when a girl has good success
with a fire, and it kindles up quick for her, that’s a certain sign
that her ‘boy’ is thinking of her!”
Marg’s face fell, but neither Heffernan nor old Moll perceived the
change in her. So she pulled herself together, and got the supper ready
for the three of them, as if she had been used to the house all her
life. And when they were done, she washed up and put all straight,
while another would be thinking about it; and Heffernan sat in his big
chair, with the pipe in his mouth, and watched Marg moving about, and
looked very contented.
“That’s something like, now!” was all he said. But he was remembering
his sister Julia, and how smart and hard-working she had been; too
much so, in fact! because there were days when herself and her besom
would be too much for Mickey, and he would have no peace anywhere in
the house. Still, he didn’t like the dirt and confusion, now that Julia
was gone. So that’s why he enjoyed seeing Marg putting the things in
order again.
When she had it all finished, it was beginning to grow dusk, and said
Heffernan, “It’s a long step for yous to be getting home,” meaning
Molally’s, “and it’s middling late, and there’s the chance of people
along the road that might be a bit rough and noisy, after the fair. So
I’ll just throw the harness, on the ould mare, and drive ye back.”
That took place; but the only word he said that night of what might be
in his mind was when Moll and he had a word together, in a whisper,
after he had driven them up to the very door of Molally’s and Marg had
gone to the back of the house, for the key that she had hidden there
under a bunch of thistles.
Said Moll, “She becomes a side-car well!”
And he answered, “It’s a true word you’re saying!” By that, Moll
thought things were going as she wished.
No man ever was so tender of a lame ass as Mickey was of Marg
Molally’s, keeping her there, and feeding her on the best of hay and
even oats. And when Margaret would make inquiries about her, he never
would agree that she was fit to travel, yet. So there he kept her, and
the two calves; because they had to wait, till the ass would be well
enough to bring them back to Marg.
This is how things were, when Margaret got at last the news she had
been expecting so long; that the new herd was hired, and that she would
have to clear out as soon as she could. She knew, of course, that it
had to be. But that did not hinder her from feeling very fretted and
lonesome, thinking of the little home she was to leave, where she had
lived all her life, and had worked so hard. So she had no great heart
for the bride’s-party that was being given for Kitty and Dan Grennan at
Big Cusack’s, just about then. But she had promised Kitty that she’d
go; and Margaret Molally never was one to go back of her word.
Who was there, only Mickey Heffernan! As it turned out, the party was
meant for him, too, to try and bring him and Marg together. Dark Moll
had set the notion going, and all she spoke to agreed it would only be
right.
Marg was as innocent as the child unborn of what was going on. Her
mind was full of other things; between thinking how best she could
lend a hand that evening, and wondering what was before herself, and
she without a home, when she’d be only a few days older! So she never
perceived what Moll and Cusack and others as well were up to, trying to
help out Mickey’s courting ... if you could call it so!
“Did j’ever see two so hard to get into hoults with one another?” said
Dan to Kitty.
“You can’t get Marg to see what he’s after!” said she; “she has no more
intelligence of what Mickey wants....”
“Not like some...!” said Dan.
“Have behaviour, now,” said Kitty, pretending to be angry; “but of all
the simple girls...!”
Maybe that was just as well. For if Margaret had ever suspected what
was being thought about her and Heffernan, would she have done what she
did? Would she have come forward, when Mickey was leaving, to help him
on with his big frieze coat? And then, when no one else made a move,
would she go out of the house after him, and over to where his car was,
to help him up on it? Indeed, she felt puzzled and half indignant that
none of the others offered to do anything for the crippled old man.
But they were holding back, out of good-nature; while Margaret’s heart
was swelling with pity for him, and anger at their indifference.
“To think that Dan and the whole of them are there! and they well
knowing ... but when people is engaged with sport for themselves, they
forget very easy!” she ended, as with a great deal to do, she got
Mickey ready for the road.
“I’m obliged to ye!” said Heffernan, that never used two words where
one would do.
“It’s little enough, after all you done for me!” Margaret made answer.
Then he dropped his stick and she picked it up and handed it to him on
the car.
“I’d be badly off, without that!” he said.
She saw that he had the rug just laid loose across his knees, and she
tucked it well about him.
“That’s the good thought!” he said; “if I get anyways chilled, the pain
does be bad on me!”
“The nights do be cold enough,” said Marg.
She put the reins into his hand, and still he did not move, only sat
there, looking very helplessly down at Marg, as she stood beside him.
“Them calves of yours is doing lovely, with me at the Furry Farm!” he
said then.
“I’m proud to hear it, and very thankful to you, Mr. Heffernan!”
“Ora, what about it! but I’m thinking, this len’th of time, that ye
might do worse than to come and be looking after them yourself ...” and
then he dropped the stick again.
“I’m sorry to be troublesome to ye, about them, for so long,” said
Marg, picking up the stick again for him, “but if only I....”
“... If you’d come, for good and all,” said Mickey, “to mind them
calves ... and ... and everything else about the place, that’s going
to rack and ruin ... all for the want of a woman there.... So ... I’m
middling old now, but, sure, I can wait a bit ... maybe you couldn’t
bring your mind to take me at all ... only if you’d turn it over in
your mind....”
Margaret started at that, as if a shot had been fired off, close to her
ear. She turned red. At last she understood what he was driving at.
Then she grew white, and dizzy....
But her mind flew over everything! her home gone, and she left, lonely
and desolate, without a soul she cared for, to be looking after and
working for.
She looked up at Heffernan on the car, and the sight of him, with his
eyes fixed on her as if his life depended on what answer she would make
... and above all the useless foot hanging loose as he sat balanced
there, helpless, just as she had settled him ... these things melted
Margaret’s heart.
“You’ll ... you’ll think of it, maybe!” said Mickey, anxiously.
“Think!” said Margaret; “and what else do I be doing, only think!”
and she laughed even as she went on: “But it’s an ould saying I often
heard, ‘Thinking’s poor wit!’” and she ended with another laugh, that
had a sob in it, too.
“Then you’ll agree?” said Heffernan.
“At your request!” said Margaret.
There now is the whole account of how Heffernan got a wife at long
last, to bring into the Furry Farm. Of course there was talk about it.
Some said Mickey was just caught on the rebound, and took Marg after
losing the other girls.
“I b’lieve meself,” said Dan to Kitty, “it’s what Mickey couldn’t find
it in his heart to see them two calves leaving the Furry Farm; and
neither did he wish to have to pay Marg for them! Wasn’t it cheaper on
him marry her and have them for nothing? let alone a girl like her to
take care of them and him and all he has!”
“That’s no right way to be talking!” said Kitty; “won’t they both be
the better of one another? and if they don’t live happy, that you and I
may!”