COMRADE CHILDREN AT THE FURRY FARM
Well, Marg brought that child home with her, and when she did, she was
so excited that she scarce knew what she was doing; bringing an old
house on her head, as the saying is. But if she had known itself, or
had taken time to think, would that have hindered her?
Not it! She had been the best of a daughter, and a sister, and wife;
always doing for others, and forgetting herself. But with all the
love she had given out, there was more left still in her heart than
had ever been spent. It must have been waiting there for that baby of
Rosy’s. For once Marg got the feel of it in her arms, small and soft
and helpless, she knew it was what she had been hungry for, those years
upon years past, and had given up all hopes of ever having for herself.
And now, at last she had it, and she was satisfied. No one else wanted
that grand little baby; no one else had any call or claim to it. It
wasn’t of the Union Marg was thinking, really; let alone of Grennan’s
being so poor a little home, that to have another mouth there to fill
wasn’t lightly to be thought of. No, she made no account of these
things. They were all lost in the one wish that was burning in her
heart. She must have that child for her very own.
And curious, too, it was, how little Marg seemed to consider Mickey
himself in this matter, as if she didn’t care how he’d feel about the
little newcomer! In fact, the night she brought the baby home, she
was more like an old ewe with her lamb than anything else; on for
fight with even a strange dog that may happen by. And poor old Mickey,
sitting there so peaceable!
To give him his due, there never was a word said by him, as if he
objected to the fuss of having the child there. Of course, it altered
things a good deal. A baby coming into a house always does. And hasn’t
it a right to? What are children for, only to teach us, in their own
little way, by making us take care of them! Sent down from heaven they
are, to help to show us how to get there. It’s a queer sort of man, let
alone a woman, but will be the better of having to do with a child. For
you have to be good to it; and then it does good to you, back again.
Now, Mickey was one of the best, if slow and silent; but good and
all as he was, you may easily imagine that he’d feel a bit put about
betimes, at finding himself left to himself in such things as not
having the stick within reach; or putting his specs out of his hand and
forgetting where they were; or having to wait of a morning to have his
brogues laced upon his feet, because Marg would be engaged with the
child.
He’d say nothing; that was his way; just sit there, most patient. But
it’s often he’d be wondering how a thing so little would require so
much! For by the time Marg would have the baby bathed and dressed of
a morning, and hushoed off to sleep at night, let alone the feeding
of her through the day, there appeared to be little time for anything
else to be done. Not that Marg did neglect the work. She managed it by
getting up earlier and going to bed later, and so she would contrive to
overtake all. And the things to be done seemed to her less trouble than
ever now; because always there was the baby, waiting and wanting her,
Marg Heffernan, and no one else.
Marg would have been contented to spend all her time with the child,
petting it upon her knee, and playing with its fingers, or making
drakes’ tails out of the little soft wisps of hair upon the head of it!
Not that I’m wanting to make little of the child or her hair, either!
But at the beginning, she was next door to bald. As she grew big, she
grew nice, and had the loveliest head of yellow curls you might ask to
see. She had no touch of a Heffernan about her at all.
That was the child that lit on her feet and no mistake, when she was
brought to the Furry Farm! She that was well minded; too well, in fact.
Poor Marg could scarce bear the wind to blow or the sun to shine down
upon her; only watching every turn, as if she thought some danger was
waiting to happen to that child, if she took her own eye off her for a
minute.
There’s many a woman like that. And it may be right enough, as long as
the child is helpless in your arms, because then they’re easily hurt.
But it’s another case altogether when they begin to feel the little
feet under them, and are able to run about. It was then that the real
trouble began with little Bride.
Here’s how it was. Marg used to dress her up very grandly. Nothing was
too good for the child. What could be got at Melia’s shop wouldn’t
answer at all. So Marg would send off to Dublin, no less, by Tommy the
Crab, that had got on well in the world since the morning he sold the
pictures to poor Art and Rosy.... Tommy had a cart and horse now, and
was a higgler; going about buying up ducks and chickens and so on. And
he’d call in at the Furry Farm, and Marg would give him whatever eggs
or fowl she had to sell; and he would bring her back all manner of
fineries for little Bride, that he would choose when he’d be off in the
Big Smoke; and very nice the child looked in what came out of the grand
Dublin shop, Tommy being very tasty and experiented about such things.
But what matter how she looked? Who was there to take notice whether
it was a puce frock or a pink one she’d have on? Not one, except
Marg herself. The Furry Farm wasn’t a place that was apt to be much
frequented by people happening in, and Bride was too little still to be
taken where she’d be seen. She might as well have been dressed in sacks.
But if you do put good clothes on a child that size, you are making
trouble for yourself, unless you can spend all your time watching them;
the clothes, I mean. It would take a person all their time, running
after one like little Bride, to keep her from doing destruction on her
grandeur. Marg had plenty of other work that had to be done, so she
began teaching the child the fashion of keeping quiet, and sitting on
her creepy-stool in the corner. Brigeen was easily taught, being very
biddable, so she’d sit there, quite good, till you’d have to pity her,
waiting till Marg would give her leave to run out for a little while.
Too anxious poor Marg was about the child, in every way! afraid of
being too kind to her, and spoiling her by too much love; a thing
impossible, if it’s right love; and afraid, too, of ever being cross
enough to say a harsh word to her, let alone to punish the child, and
she without either father or mother to take her part. Many a mother
with an only child is not half as careful as Marg was with little
Bride, that wasn’t her own at all, except through her own goodness. If
only Marg could have taken a leaf out of Kitty Grennan’s book! Kitty,
that had a houseful of children to contend with by that time, but took
things rough and ready, so that her long family was less bother to her
than the one at the Furry Farm was to Marg.
Why, if little Bride cried...! But it was seldom that occurred. How
could it? Bride was healthy and gay, and moreover had the best of care
in every way. What had she to cry for?
And still in all, there’s one thing that none of us can do well
without, and that is, liberty to do what we want in our own way. And as
well, children want some one the same age as themselves, to be company
to them. Now, little Brigid had neither friends nor freedom. And that
was hard on her, although, God knows! Marg meant nothing but kindness.
The child began to be lonesome and forgotten-looking. Marg herself
noticed it at times, and wondered what ailed her pet. She could not
guess; but supposing she could, what was she to do? She might put her
two eyes upon sticks, and it would be no use. A grown person can never
go back and be a little child again. And that was what ailed little
Bride mostly; the want of another child to play with.
Now, strange enough, it was old Moll Reilly that first really seemed
to know what the child was pining for. Dark and all as she was, she’d
find out things that were going on, often far better than them that had
their sight. She was sitting inside at Heffernan’s one evening, Marg
being gone off to the well, and Heffernan himself outside seeing about
the business being done, so that only Moll and the child were in the
kitchen. And little Bride, after standing for some time with her finger
in her mouth, came sidling over to the stool where Moll was sitting by
the fire, and crept in as close as she could to the old woman, as if
for company.
“Why aren’t you off somewheres outside?” said Moll to the child,
“playing about in the fields, where maybe you’d chance to meet up with
the young Grennans? Or up on the Furry Hills? Grand it does be, there!”
“I can’t,” said Bride, “because me mammy doesn’t like me to be anywhere
that she can’t see me. Sometimes I do be put out into the yard, where
she can be keeping an eye on me from the house; and she shuts the big
gate that opens out into the fields ... the way I’ll be safe from the
cows ... but they come to the other side of the gate and look through
it at me with their wicked ould eyes ... and I do be afeard of them....
And all round the yard, there’s walls and sheds, too high to look
over.... Only there’s one little spot where the wall is all broken and
very low down ... and it’s there I do mostly go; where the little old
bits of a house are....”
“And what do you be doing there, alanna?” said Moll.
“Making a chaney-house,” said little Bride; “all the old jugs and cups
that gets broken, me mammy gives them to me, and I have a big big round
stone there to make them into little bits.... I’d bring you there, only
you’d not be able to see how grand I have it!”
“That’s a quare place for you to be! and do you never be lonesome there
without one only yourself?” said Moll.
And little Brigid laughed, and said, “Indeed and I’m not lonesome!
there does always be some one with me there, where I make the
chaneys....”
“Your mammy, is it?” says Moll.
“No, no! it’s not me mammy!” said Brigid, looking down at the floor and
then all round the kitchen as if she was puzzled; “it’s ... it’s some
one ... I don’t know....”
“What are they like, that do be there with you?” asked Moll.
Brigid made no answer to this, but began twisting her little hands
together, and kicking one foot to and fro. And there was no more to be
said then, for here was Marg back with her can of water swinging by
her side; and Heffernan himself, limping in to look for his tea. And
the kettle hadn’t boiled, and the fire was low, and things seemed all
behindhand.
Marg fed the child, and thought to get her off to her bed at once. But
whatever queer spirit was in little Bride, whether it could have been
that she was excited by the talk she had been having with Moll about
the old bits of ruined wall and her chaney-house and the “some one”
that was always there with her or not, it’s hard to say; only Marg
could get no good of her at all. She would do nothing she was bid, only
running this way and that way, and laughing when Marg pretended to get
angry with her.
But at long last, Moll, knowing that Mickey was getting worn out with
it all and she herself in the want of her supper, thought she’d put in
her word.
So she said, “There now; too much laughing ends in crying. See here,
Bridie, be a good child! Look at ... look at how well little Judy and
Pat are behaving, playing about there and no bother to any one ...”
and she pretended to be watching, or rather listening to a couple of
children at the other end of the kitchen.
Brigid, that had been rushing about, laughing and shouting, stopped
like a shot at that, and looked up at Moll.
“Where, where are they?” she said; “who’s Pat and Judy? ... where do
you see them...?”
“Look at them! Off there, beyant your mammy’s spinning-wheel, hiding
themselves ... that’s why you can’t see them ... and there, now! there
they are, going off good to their beds as soon as they’re told....”
At that Brigid, who had been all noise and movement, stood still; and
the laugh died off her lips, and her eyes grew big and shining, as she
looked up, but seeming to see nothing. And then she lifted her little
arms, and away she went, as if she was floating, floating, upon a wave
of the sea. And as she crossed the floor and disappeared through the
door of the kitchen, they could hear her saying in a half-whisper, “Are
you there, Judy? Is Patsy with you?”
And then she’d go on to answer her own question, “Ay, indeed, are we
here! and will be in bed and asleep before you....”
“And by that means,” said Moll, telling all this one day to Kitty
Grennan, that she had called in to see on her rounds, “by that means, I
got the better of the child, and she was no more trouble that evening,
and Marg was able to attend to the business and Heffernan himself, and
get all done. It’s no way to be going on, to have everybody waiting in
order to humour a child!”
“If it was my case,” said Kitty, “I’d just give her a few little
slaps....”
“So you would, and you’d be right, too. But Marg is that particular!
And what is little Brigeen there, only a cuckoo?”
“Not at all!” said Kitty; “where there’s a cuckoo in a nest, he’ll be
pushing out the other young birds, to take all himself. But there’s no
one at the Furry Farm for little Bride to be interfering with; there
she is, bird alone! And so, that’s how it comes to pass, what Dan was
telling me about, only last night, that he seen at Heffernan’s. He
chanced to be there a bit late, and a windy sort of a night it was,
and neither raining nor letting it alone, only the air dark with the
wet that ought to fall and wasn’t. And Dan said, you’d think there was
a whole troop of children playing and chattering and laughing, in the
corner of the yard where the bit of the old Heffernan castle is, they
say. It was afterwards he thought how queer it was! he was in too great
a hurry then, to pass any remarks, for we none of us care to be too
late crossing the Furry Hills at night....”
“You’re right in that, too!” said Moll.
“... but Dan said,” Kitty went on, “that it was after he got back here
he began to think it over ... and sure, he thought it was the strangest
thing, to say there was no one there only little Bride, and she was
going on talking and making answer then back to herself, as if she had
a couple of Comrade Children there with her ... and even dogs she was
talking to! One she called Bixey and another was Slangs; and she’d
scold them, most bitter and natural; and then she’d pet them and make
up friends with them again.... And sure there was neither child nor dog
in that place, only Bridie herself! It was a fright, Dan said!”
“So it was, a fright,” Moll said, “and appears most curious too! But
now I must be off about me business....”
“What hurry are you in?” said Kitty; “Dan is gone off to-day with
Heffernan ... some business or other....”
“If that’s so,” said Moll, “I may’s well give poor Marg a look in;
lonesome the crature does be there....”
So with that, she waddled off, big cloak and stick and all. She
guessed she had got all Kitty had to spare for her, there not being too
much in that house, by reason of all the children. And when she heard
of Mickey not being at home, she bethought her that it would be a good
opportunity for making a call at the Furry Farm. Marg, she knew, would
be more free to give, when himself wasn’t there.
But when Moll got to Heffernan’s, it wasn’t what she expected that
she found there. She looked to be brought into a quiet, orderly,
comfortable place, such as Marg’s kitchen had the name of always being;
and getting well fed and comforted in every way there. But the whole
place was upside down. Not a hand’s turn had been done there since the
breakfast was ett; everything through-other, and poor Marg herself
running up and down and here and there, like a mad-woman.
Little Brigid was sitting on her creepy-stool by the fire, pale and
shivering with the fright; and the big tears were streaming down her
face.
“Ora, what’s this at all at all? or what’s the matter?” said Moll, who
dark and all as she was, as I said before, could always give a good
guess at what was going on, and in particular if it was anything wrong.
“I’m distracted!” said Marg; “out of me seven senses I am, and don’t
know what I’m doing or saying, and has me poor little darlint there
terrified! It’s the teethaches I have, and never closed an eye these
two nights, only walking the floor ... and I tried all the remedies I
can hear of....”
“The teethaches!” said Moll; “God help you, then, but it’s you that
are to be pitied! Meself that used to be mortified with them, till
all the teeth fell out. I got some ease then. But as for remedies,
there’s no certain cure that ever I could hear of.... There’s charms,
of course. And then there’s that Fairy Doctor ... he lives on beyant
Clough-na-Rinka ... a seventh son he is, and does a lot of cures. It’s
often I used to be thinking if only he was at that work of doing cures
before my eyes got so bad ... but sure, it’s all the will of God! and
nothing to be done for them poor eyes now; that day’s gone by for me.
But for teethaches ... he’s most notorious for curing them. All he’ll
do, is just pass his hand across the bad tooth, and the pain leaves it
that instant minute....”
“I thought of him, over and over,” said Marg; “but how can I get to go,
and himself gone off with the side-car?... I’d have to walk every step
of the way. And it would be too far to carry the child; and worse to
be leaving her here by herself.... I wouldn’t know what might happen
her.... And the car’ll not be back till dark....”
“Sure, what of that?” said Moll; “can’t I be sitting here till either
of yous is back, and keep an eye ... I mean, be minding the child? and
let you go in the name of God!”
So that took place. Marg rolled her cloak about her and went flying off
at a sweep’s trot, to get cured by the Fairy Doctor; and Moll settled
herself in by the chimney-corner, in Mickey’s own big chair. She was a
very gay old body, the very sort that children always love to be with.
So before very long, she had little Brigid sitting on her lap, talking
away.
“You do be very lonesome here betimes, don’t you?” said Moll.
“I do, middling,” said Brigid; “I am this evening, with every one gone
off ... and Pat and Judy, that I do mostly have to play with, are
gone too. Off a long ways they are; gone to buy hay for foddering the
cattle, for the grass is beginning to run very short....”
That was the very word she had heard Heffernan saying when he was
starting off with Dan awhile before. And whatever Brigid knew to be
going on, she and her Comrade Children were to do the same.
“Where’s that you sent me mammy to?” she said then; “a Fairy Doctor, is
it? and what kind of a thing is that?”
“Oh, there’s different sorts of Fairy-men,” said Moll; “and, moreover,
of Fairy-women, too! Didn’t my very grandmother meet a Fairy-woman one
evening, and she coming home from a dance at the cross-roads; ay, and
the Fairy-woman had seven fairy children after her....”
“_Seven_ children!” said Brigid, growing red at the thought.
“... and they all dressed in grand red cloaks! And long hair as yellow
as butter in June, and it streaming down their backs ... and golden
crowns upon their heads....”
“... Upon their heads!” said Bride, with her eyes shining and her face
quite pale now at the thought of all this.
“Upon their heads, of course! where else?” said Moll; she might easy
have known better than to go on spouting out of her like that to the
innocent poor child ... “and riding upon ponies they do be ... white
ponies, with long tails flying behind them in the wind, they go so
fast....”
“Where, where? I’d like to see them!” said the child, her little voice
choking with wonder at all Moll was telling her.
“Whethen now, they do be in a-many places,” said Moll; “the Furry Hills
at the back of this very house used to be full up of them ... is still,
for all I know....”
With that, she bethought her of what Marg had said, about taking care
of the child. And she began to consider that maybe Bride’s mind might
get upset, and that she’d take the notion of going off to look for the
fairies herself.
So Moll went on to say, “But all that happened a very long time ago;
and little girls mustn’t be too venturesome, only do as they’re bid,
and then there will nothing happen to them!”
But it’s the first word that counts. Little Brigid took no heed of this
warning. She was standing beside Moll now, with the little rosy hand
laid upon the old woman’s checky apron, and she looking up at her, and
listening, listening, to every word that was said.
And now she went across to the half-door, that she was just able to
peep over, by standing upon her tippy-toes; and Moll could hear her
saying, in a whisper, “Pat! Judy! are yous there? Mind now and see to
get that hay off the carts and ... and....”
She stopped at that, because, like many another that might be wishing
to give directions, she didn’t know very well herself what ought to
be done. She used to listen to Marg and Mickey, without appearing to
mind them, and then, whatever they said, she would repeat it to the
Comrade Children, when no one would be by that would maybe laugh at
her. There’s nothing a child hates more than to be made fun of. But she
managed so that there wasn’t a hand’s turn done about the Furry Farm
but she would have the same going on, with herself and Pat and Judy.
Moll often said afterwards, that it gave her a turn as if she was
listening to something not right, to hear the little voice talking
away, and then answering itself back, “So we will, Brigeen, do all you
say! But when are you coming out here to play with us? Tired we are,
waiting on you....”
Before there was time to make any reply to that, Brigid ran back to
Moll, and said, “Here’s himself, coming back!”
On the minute, Moll began to stir herself. She never had any great
hopes out of Mickey, in the way of what he might give her. She knew how
hard he always got it, to part money; and so, as soon as she had it all
explained to him, about Marg being away, and had got the penny that
Mickey handed to her when he was down off the car, she said, “Now that
you’re here, Mr. Heffernan, I may’s well be making the road short. The
child will be right enough with you about the place ... and Dan too....”
Mickey didn’t say against her; he had no great wish for having Moll in
the kitchen.
So she went off, and Heffernan stumped into the house, and planked
himself down in his chair by the fire. He gave a look round, and there
he saw Brigid, sitting on her creepy, looking as if butter wouldn’t
melt in her mouth, she was so meek.
“Well, Missie!” said Heffernan; for there’s the name he had for the
child.
She said nothing, but he took no notice, and not long after, he fell
asleep. He was old, and tired after the long day he had had, driving.
Bride watched him for a while. Then, when she had made sure that he was
sound asleep, she rose up off her stool, and crept over very softly to
the half-door again.
She had no delay in opening it, because Mickey had not fastened it as
Marg always did, in a way the child did not understand yet. Brigid
peeped out. There was no one in sight. Dan was gone off, after unyoking
the old mare, to drive in the cows to be milked. There wasn’t a picture
of a man about the yard.
It was the kind of a spring’s evening that you would think it a sin to
stop in the house; cold and bright and no wind stirring. Here and there
you could hear a little bird tuning up, but there was little signs of
growth on anything yet. Little Bride thought something was saying to
her, “Come out! come out!” as she stood a minute half-ways through the
door.
She looked back at Heffernan. Was he really asleep, she wondered, or
only pretending? He gave a sigh, and she was satisfied and looked out
again, and said, in a whisper, “Are yous there? Patsy! have you the hay
above in the loft...?”
“Ay, have I!” she made answer to herself; “and me and Judy only waiting
on you, to go off to the chaney-house to play....”
“Is it there we’ll go?” said the real child.
“No! why would we?” said the Comrade Children; “we’re tired of playing
there! We’d like to go away, away! out beyant the yard, and up into
the rath on the hill ... and maybe we’d get to see some of the Good
People there and....”
“Sure I wouldn’t be let to do that!” said little Brigid.
“Och, come along!” answers the Comrade Children; “won’t your own Pat
and Judy be with you, and won’t let anything happen to you?”
“Do yous know the way?”
“Ay do we! weren’t we often there, and even went into the hill itself!
follied after the Fairy-woman that was looking for the sup of new milk
for the fairy baby, and it lying there upon her lap sick for the want
of nourishment! And it was we that ‘milked the tether’ for her to get
it from Marg’s dairy into the rath....”
“The time the grand big cow went back in her milk ... and me mammy was
that put out!... And will we see the fairy children, with their crowns
of gold upon them, and they riding, and long red cloaks upon their
backs, and...?”
“To be sure we will! see all there is to see!” said the Comrade
Children; “only let you hurry, and not be keeping us waiting here all
night on you....”
Then out of the door goes little Brigid, talking all the time to
herself, and answering herself back as if there was a whole regiment of
children in the place, instead of only herself.
She ran straight to that choice spot of hers, where the small little
remains of the old castle of the Heffernans was. And there she stood a
minute, listening, you’d think. All that remained there now of the old
building that had once been so grand and fine was a couple or three
bits of walls, half-roofed, very thick and strong. In one of them there
was a pointy long-shaped hole, like where the window of a chapel might
have been. Many a time Brigid had stood, and had looked at the hole,
and had longed to climb up and out through it, to see what was on the
other side, only Marg had always checked her. So of course the child
couldn’t but know that her mammy wouldn’t wish her to go through there.
But now it seemed as if she forgot all that! She scrambled up and out
through the window; she half fell, half jumped on to the long grass
outside. Of course she had no call to do the like; but don’t we all act
contrary at times? and it’s often you’ll hear it said, “Where’s the
sense in being young, if you’re not foolish?” Little Bride just picked
herself up; stood still a minute, looking back at the hole. Then she
held out the two little hands, the soft, rosy little hands that Marg
loved to kiss, as if to catch hold of other hands; and off she started,
running as fast as the little feet would carry her, towards the Hill of
the Rath, that was dim and fading already into the night.
Inside in the kitchen, Mickey slept ahead for a while; long enough in
fact for it to be middling dark when he began to stir himself and waken
up. Then he looked about him, and missed Marg, and remembered all that
was after happening, and that she was gone off, and the child left in
his charge. She had been sitting on her creepy in the corner. He looked
over to see if she was there still. The stool was, but the little girl
was gone.
At first, Heffernan didn’t mind so much, thinking it was only outside
Bride should be. So he gave a great shout of a call to her, and even
when there was no answer, he only thought, “She mustn’t be far; I did
no more than close me eyes for a minute of time!” half ashamed, the way
the most of us are about taking a doze by the fire; as if, you’d think,
it was one of the seven deadly sins to fall asleep anywhere only in
your bed.
But when no Bride appeared, after a bit Mickey grew uncomfortable in
himself. He got up and limped over to the door, to see could he see the
child in the yard. It wasn’t till he found that the night was settling
down dark and quiet, that the real lonesomeness came over him! He
called again, but of course there was nothing, only echo from the old
walls for him to hear. Little Brigid was too far away for any shout
from him to reach her.
“What will I do, at all at all?” thinks Heffernan to himself; “I wish
to God Marg was back here! What a thing for her to go do, to be getting
the teethaches this day of all days, and leave me here to be annoyed
with the child going astray on me! And sure, if anything was to happen
little Missie, Marg would never over it!”
He felt now that he’d give a good deal to see little Bride come
trotting up to the door; and he strained his eyes out into the darkness
as if by that he thought he might get her back.
Many’s the time he had thought it long, when he’d have to wait his turn
till Marg would be done with the child; and he might sit there, lonely
and forgotten and as if he was no consequence, till the child would
be dressed and fed and all to that. But he had never said a word of
a complaint, and now it was all past. He could only see the look on
Marg’s face, when she’d have Brigid on her knee, warm and smiling after
her bath; or latterly, the way she’d be folding the little hands for
her, and getting her to say her prayers, before she’d be put into her
bed. Heffernan was half-wild, thinking how fretted Marg would be, if
she came home and found the child gone.
“She’d never stop here at all, wanting her!” he said to himself.
That minute, he heard Dan’s foot outside, and he called to him, and
gave him instructions. He wasn’t to mind anything, mare or cows either,
only run off to search for the child; first at the well, and then at
the old quarry-hole; and if he got no signs of her at either of those
places, he was to take off along the high-road, after a band of tinkers
that Heffernan and he had passed that day coming home after buying the
hay.
“Sure, what would they want with the child?” said Dan; “doesn’t the
like of them have the full up of their ass-carts of fine children of
their own?”
“Be giving me none of your chat!” said Heffernan to him, pretty severe;
and at that, off went Dan. He was anxious enough himself by then.
When Dan was gone, Mickey felt worse than ever.
“How am I to stop here,” he thought, “or how could I face Marg, if she
comes back to find Missie gone? Maybe it’s what she’d show fight....”
She might say, wasn’t it a queer thing, that he couldn’t look after the
child for one evening, and she that had always done everything for him,
those years past! And well he knew that himself! He couldn’t call to
mind any time that he had asked Marg to do a thing for him, but she was
ready for the job. And to say he couldn’t do that much for her, only
dropping off asleep...!
He couldn’t keep inside. He hobbled out into the yard again, and tried
to look through the darkness that had fallen now over everything around.
“It would be very simple for any one to go astray now, let alone a
little child!” he thinks to himself.
On the minute, he began to call to mind the time he had lost a lamb
once, and that it was above upon the Hill of the Rath he had found it.
“And why wouldn’t a child be the same as a lamb, and try to get up
higher always, when it would be lost?” he thought to himself; “and a
poor thing it would be, if anything was to happen Brigeen now and she
half reared ... and a Heffernan too ... and along with all, to think of
the way Marg is made upon her! thinks the sun rises and sets in that
child!”
With that, off stumps Heffernan, out through the yard into the fields
beyond, towards where the Hill of the Rath rose up, dark and bristly, a
piece off from the house. The moon was just commencing to rise, so that
he had some light to show him where to put his poor old feet and he
limping along.
He hadn’t been up the Furry Hills for many a day, not since he got the
game leg that indeed hindered him of a-many a thing he might be wishing
to do. But he set himself real courageous now to climb the Hill of the
Rath; and you’d wonder how sprightly he went up it.
And as he worked his way, he could call to mind many a queer story of
what was to be seen about that rath; stories he had heard from his very
father; how that, one day and they sowing oats, just about that time
of the year, didn’t there a weeny little red cap drop from out of the
rath, right where they were working! And some boy ran to pick it up,
but before he could reach it, my dear, didn’t a great furl of wind
rise it off of the ground and blew it back into the rath again! And
they all thought to hear a great laugh!
And another day, a third cousin of his father’s was gathering nuts,
and he a young boy at the time, and it was from trees that grew on the
side of the Hill of the Rath he was picking them. And suddenly, there
was a lovely young girl, and she dressed in green, smiling at him very
pleasant. And then she disappeared, as if the hill had opened to take
her in.
“It’s no place for a little child to be, whatever!” thought Heffernan
to himself; “and maybe would get a fright there that would last her for
her lifetime! Or maybe not be let come back at all, only a ‘Visit’ sent
in her place...!”
Mind you, it was hard work enough for any one at any time to get
up that hill, let alone an old lame fellow like Mickey, and it the
night. The place was all grown over, too, with briers and thorns and
nut-trees; and big stones lay loose here and there, and made the going
very rough. But Heffernan persevered on, until he got to the top, and
then he climbed down into the rath; and very lonesome it appeared, and
darker than ever the night was, when he got to the bottom of it, where
a very old, twisted thorn-bush grew.
Something white was under the shelter of that bush; no more, you might
think, than a gleam of the moonlight that was just beginning to peep in
over the edge of the hollow of the rath. But to Mickey that white thing
looked like the stray lamb he had found there, in that very spot, long
ago. He went over and stooped down, and laid his hand upon it; and what
was there, only little Brigid, lying there curled up like a kitten! And
she was so tired that when Heffernan picked her up, she only stirred
herself round in his arms, and settled herself off to sleep again.
Well, how Mickey got down that steep, rough path and he with the child
to carry, is more than I can tell you, or indeed more than he could
understand himself. But he did it. He got her safe home. When he had
her inside by the fire, he could see that her little face and arms
were scratched and bruised and torn with briers; and so were her grand
little clothes, and muddied, where she must have slipped and fallen a
few times.
“But what odds for all, when she’s found and safe at home, before Marg
is back!” said Heffernan to himself, as he was letting himself down
into his big chair very carefully, the way he wouldn’t waken little
Bride, lying asleep in his arms.
While all this was going on, Marg, God help her! was galloping along
on her way home, very happy at being rid of the teethaches, that had
left her soon after she had been with that Fairy Doctor. There’s people
very wise that will tell you such a thing can’t be, but you’ll see such
cures done about Ardenoo. It was so with Marg, anyway, and she was in
good heart, hurrying back to the child and Mickey and carrying a couple
or three little matters with her that she thought of when passing
Melia’s shop; a newspaper for Heffernan and a bit of tobacco, and a
sugar-stick for the child. And she was thinking the way long till she’d
get home to little Brigid, when didn’t she bob up against some one in
the dark; and who was it only Dan.
“What’s bringing you off here, Dan?” said she, “instead of attending to
the business at home; is there anything wrong...?”
Dan didn’t know how to begin to tell her.
“It was ... it was himself that bid me.... I was to make no delay for
anything, only look for the child along the road ... and sure, as like
as not....”
“The child! is it Bridie? What do you mean? Sure there’s nothing after
happening to her! Speak up, why don’t ye!”
“Sure isn’t that what I’m trying ... but she can’t be far, nor hadn’t
time to be really lost ... well, well!” as Marg rushed away from him,
“why wouldn’t she listen, and not go flying off that-a-way like a
mad-woman!”
Mad! Well that’s what Marg really was, and she racing along like the
wind, with a short hold of her skirts, and flinging her cloak and
parcels from her, hither and over, as she ran! What did she care about
them, about anything now? There was only room in her mind for the one
thought: little Brigid was gone.
Gone! Lost! and what is there that can happen, able to make you feel
more astray and lonesome, than to lose anything, even if it’s only a
button off your shirt? But of all things, to lose a child! All the
dreadful things that ever you heard come into your mind, and you make
up your mind that they’re all happening to that one child! Cold, you
think, and hungry; worst of all, tired and frightened, and crying out
for you to save it!
And then you wonder what at all made it go off! Did you speak sharp to
it, or give it a little slap, so that the child had gone off fretting
and sore-hearted; and never to come back in life again?
All these things, and more, passed through Marg’s mind, as she was
tearing along the dark, silent road. She kept saying to herself, with
a kind of sob, “What at all am I to do? Where should she be? To stray
off, in the night and cold ... sure she’ll get her death! What was Dark
Moll about, that she couldn’t do that much, and she with nothing else
to think of ... and how well it should be my poor little _laneen_ that
wandered away! how well the Grennans can have all theirs with them,
safe and warm, this night, and my one little pet to be lost ... lost! I
had little to do, to go leave the house at all, for any Fairy Doctor!
Sure, if I had stopped where I was, the pain might be gone by this! And
the little child ... and she so small ... God and His Holy Angels watch
over her, this night, I pray!”
And along with these ideas there came into Marg’s mind the thought that
when she’d get back to the house, there would be Heffernan, sitting by
the fire, smoking, maybe, and maybe taking a sleep in his chair as he
had the fashion of doing, easy and snug, and not casting a thought on
little Brigid. He never did appear to take much notice of the child.
And Marg felt now that she couldn’t stand that; it would make her hate
the very sight of Heffernan. To think he’d be there, just as usual,
warm and comfortable, and he near the close of his days, and her young
little darling that was only beginning to live, gone from her!
She was wild when she got to the door, and out of breath, so that she
had to stand a minute before she could raise the latch. And as she
was shaking at it, trembling all over, heart, soul, and body, behold
ye! what did she hear, only some one singing inside in the kitchen!
Singing, of all things! And a queer old cracked voice it was, too, that
was crooning out:
“There was a frog lived in a well,
Sing song, Kitty Katty Kimo.”
“The Lord save us! that must be Mickey I hear! that never lifted a lip
to sing in his mortial life before! Gone mad on me he must be, along
with all other misfortunes! But sure, what odds about that or anything
else, now!” thinks Marg to herself.
And at last she got the door open, and then she nearly fell into the
kitchen, being giddy as well as tired, not to speak of the fret that
was on her.
What did she see then, by the light of a fine turf fire, only himself
was sitting there, Mickey, in his own corner, where she imagined him as
she was running home. But what she never thought to see, he had little
Bride upon his knee, rocking and dandling her, as handy as you please.
Marg could scarce believe her eyes. She stood there, trying to get her
breath, and looking at the two there before her; and then she said,
“She’s not lost, then; thank God for all!”
And still she made no attempt to interfere with Mickey; she never did;
though now you could know by her that she was wild for the feel of her
heart’s treasure, her _cushla machree_, in her own arms.
The child opened her eyes, and looked up dreaming-like at Marg; then
slumbered off again, with her rosy cheek and the tumbled bush of yellow
hair croodled up against Mickey’s old frieze coat, the same as a lamb
with a ewe. And all the wisdom of the world couldn’t have shown her
better.
A little slow blush crept up over poor Mickey’s face. It was the first
time ever he balanced a child upon his knee, and he was doing it the
best, though awkward-appearing, with the child’s legs and one small
little arm hanging helpless, and her frock every way upon her. But he
thought he was great to have Brigeen hushoed off to sleep. “See that,
now,” says he, “sure a child is aisy minded, if only you go about it
right. Ay, and knewn where to go look for her, too, what noan of yous
knew, above on the Hill of the Rath....”
“You! you! was it yourself done that? and took that great imminse
climb.” The tears began to rain down Marg’s face; a seldom thing to be
seen. She went over to Heffernan and stooped down to kiss him.
“Aisy, aisy now,” says he; “if you’re not careful, you’ll have the
child awake!”
THE END
Carmen and Mr. Dryasdust
By Humfrey Jordan
Author of “The Joyous Wayfarer,” “Patchwork Comedy,” etc.
_12^o. $1.35_
Carmen has smouldering in the depths of her dark eyes much Southern
fire, and her heart holds, in addition to its warmth, not a little of
feminine guile. It is this latter possession, as well as her saner view
of life, which gives her the mastery over Mr. Dryasdust, whose academic
career has been devoted with rare singleness of purpose to a study of
the habits, physical peculiarities, and occasional vices of the common
fly. How Carmen comes to have her way, how Mr. Dryasdust comes to
surrender the ambition of a lifetime, and how Carmen’s feelings undergo
a change from tolerant affection to love that seeks a place, a real
place, in the life of the man with whom her own life is linked, is told
with many excellent touches of satire and not a little sly fun.
Horace Blake
By
Mrs. Wilfrid Ward
Author of “Great Possessions”
_$1.35 net. By mail, $1.50_
“Mrs. Ward has done much excellent work in the past, but she has done
nothing to come within measurable distance of this remarkably fine
book--a book quite off the ordinary lines, interesting from the first
page to the last, founded upon a psychological study of exceptionable
power. It is a very common thing in fiction to find ourselves presented
to a ‘great character,’ but as a rule we are obliged to accept the
creator’s word for his greatness. Mrs. Ward has contrived to make
Horace Blake really and indeed great--great in intellect, great in
evil, and great, finally, in good. He holds the reader captive just as
he is described as holding his world captive.”
_The World_, London.
_By the Author of
“Aunt Olive in Bohemia,”
“The Notch in the Stick,” etc._
The Peacock Feather
By
Leslie Moore
_$1.35 net. By mail, $1.50_
In a moment of reminiscent detachment the wearer of the Peacock feather
describes himself as “one whom Fate in one of her freakish moods had
wedded to the roads, the highways and hedges, the fields and woods.
Once Cupid had touched him with his wing--the merest flick of a
feather. The man--poor fool!--fancied himself wounded. Later when he
looked for the scar, he found there was none.” And so he wandered.
Here is a rare love story, that breathes of the open spaces and is
filled with the lure of the road.
_By the Author of “The Way of an Eagle,”
“The Knave of Diamonds,” etc._
The Rocks of Valpré
_By_ E. M. Dell
_Colored Frontispiece. $1.35 net_
The story of a girl who consents to wed the man who dominates her,
before she is awake to the fact that he is a stranger within her gates.
And when the “preux chevalier” of her child-life again comes on the
stage, she is quick to realize that this companion of her summer idyll
challenges with her husband the possession of her heart. The author
again proves her rare gift for character drawing, and her ability to
handle dramatic and delicate situations in a wholesome and graphic
manner.
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York London
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Potatoes.
[2] Lane-way.
[3] Basket.
[4] Stem of grass.
[5] Dublin.
[6] Fool.
[7] Rogue.
[8] Feed.
[9] Gossip.
[10] Gossiping.
[11] Burly.
[12] Talking confidentially.
[13] Hundred thousand welcomes.
[14] Speckled.
[15] Small potatoes.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized or underlined text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Superscripted text is preceded by a caret character: 12^o.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.