of his complexion blushes, and then falling off as gray as the dead.
Before she'd half said her say he took up his _caubeen_, put it on his
head, and walked out of the place with an air as if he were dreaming.
Now he had an old carbine to frighten the crows, a crazy old thing
that was as likely to hurt the man who fired it as the thing that was
fired at. Black Shawn sat up all night cleaning it, and the grim mouth
of the man never relaxed, nor did the colour come back to his ashy
cheeks.
The next night he lay in wait for Mr. Ramsay-Stewart as he came home
from the county club-house in Ballinscreen, and shot at him, killing
poor Larry Byrne. It was only the length of the bridge from the police
barracks, and as it was but nine o'clock at night, Ballinscreen people
were up and about. So there wasn't much time for Black Shawn to see
what mischief the blunderbuss had done. He saw at the first glance
that one man was down in the dogcart, and another man swinging on by
his arms to the mouth of the terrified horse. But already people were
running across the bridge and shouting, and the dark quay seemed alive
with lights.
Luckily for Shawn the road away from the town was black as a tunnel.
It runs between the two stone walls that shut out Lord Cahirmore's
deer and black cattle from the public gaze. Down this black tunnel
raced Shawn, sobbing like a child, for the black fit was gone over and
the full horror of his crime was upon him. He was a quick runner, and
he got the advantage, for the police in their flurry stopped for a
minute or two debating whether to take the river banks or the road.
But in Shawn's head the pursuing footsteps beat, beat, while he was
yet far beyond them, and the trumpets of the Day of Judgment rang in
his miserable ears. He had the smoking gun in his hands, for he
hadn't the wit to get rid of it. And yet the man was safe, if he had
had his wits about him, for he was the last man for Mr. Ramsay-Stewart
to suspect or allow suspicion to fall upon.
Well, he raced on blindly, and all of a sudden, as he turned a corner,
a man flung up his arms in front of him, and then caught him by both
wrists. It was Murty Meehan, and more betoken, he was on his way to a
drilling of the Fenian boys in a quiet spot in Alloa Valley. Murty was
wiry, despite his years, and his grip seemed to Black Shawn like the
handcuffs already upon him. There was little struggle left in Shawn,
and he just stood sobbing, while his gun smoked up between him and
Murty.
'What black work is this, my fine fellow?' said Murty quietly.
Black Shawn came to himself, seeing he was stopped by a man and no
ghost.
'Let me go, for God's sake,' he sobbed out. 'I've shot Ramsay-Stewart
below at the bridge, and the police are after me.' Just then the moon
rolled from behind a cloud, and Murty Meehan saw his prisoner, saw
that he was young, and would be handsome if his face were not so
distorted by emotion. Now there came a sudden sound of footsteps
pelting along the road, and Shawn was taken with a tremor, though,
mind you, he was a brave man, and it was horror of his sin was on him
more than a fear of the rope. Murty Meehan made up his mind.
'Give me the gun,' he said. 'I'm old and worn-out, and I might have
had a son of your age.'
Shawn, hardly understanding, fled on the moment he was released. A bit
further the lord's wall gave way to iron palings, and not far beyond
was the open country and the road to the hills. Once in the hills
Black Shawn was safe.
But they found Murty Meehan with the smoking gun in his hand, and what
more evidence could be wanted? He was tried for the murder, and
pleaded 'Not guilty'; and the number of witnesses called to testify to
his character was enough to fill the court-house, but then, he
couldn't or wouldn't explain the gun, and the judge declared it was
the clearest case that had ever come before him. He was very eloquent
in his charge over such a crime being committed by an old man, and
expressed his abhorrence of poor Murty in a way that might have seared
the face of a guilty man, though it didn't seem to come home very
closely to the prisoner.
A month later Murty was hanged in Ballinscreen jail. He was many a day
in his quicklime grave before Black Shawn heard how another man had
suffered for his crime. After long wandering he had escaped to the
coast, and coming to a seaport town had been engaged by the captain of
a sailing vessel, short of hands, who was only too glad to give him
his grub and his passage in exchange for his work, and ask no
questions. But it was a time of storms, and the ship was blown
half-way to the North Pole, and as far south again, and arrived at New
York long after all hope of her safety had been given up. If Black
Shawn had known he would never have let an innocent man die in his
place. So said the neighbours, who had known him from his boyhood.
They will tell you this story in Munster, as they told it to me,
sitting round the open hearth in the big farmhouse kitchens of winter
nights. Down there there is not a man that won't lift his hat
reverently when they name Murty.
For long enough no one knew what became of Black Shawn, and when the
League was over and its power broken, and a better spirit was coming
back to men's hearts, many a poor boy was laid by the heels through
the use of that same name. Many in Munster will tell you of the
stranger that used to come to the farmhouses begging a rest by the
fire and a meal in the name of Black Shawn, and sitting there quietly
would listen to the rash and trustful talk of the young fellows about
fighting for their dear Dark Rosaleen, the country that holds men's
hearts more than any prosperous mother-land of them all. His name is a
name never mentioned in Ireland without a black, bitter curse, for he
was a famous informer and spy, own brother to such evil spawn as
Corydon, Massey, and Nagle. But 'tis too long a story to tell how the
spy masqueraded as Black Shawn, and I think I'll keep it for another
time.
XIII
A PRODIGAL SON
Mrs. Sheehy was blest with two sons. Of the elder she had seen little
since his early boyhood, when his love for handling tarry ropes and
sails, and his passion for the water-side, had resulted in his
shipping as cabin-boy on a China-bound ship. There was undoubted
madness in the Sheehy blood, but in this sailor son, so long as he
kept sober, there was no manifestation of it except it might be in a
dreaminess and romanticism uncommon to his class. He was an
olive-skinned, brown-eyed fellow, with such a refined face as might
have belonged to an artist or musician. He had the mellow colour
Murillo loved. The mad strain which, in the case of greatly gifted
people, has often seemed to be the motive power of genius, in him
took the form of a great cleverness,--an esoteric cleverness and
ingenuity added to the sailor's dexterity.
But it is not with Willie I have to deal, though the story of his
marriage is a little romance in itself. It was Mick was the prodigal
son. Every one about the country knew and liked Mick. He was a bit of
an omadhaun, that is to say a simpleton,--but quite unlike the
shambling idiots of whom every village possessed one, who was a sort
of God's fool to the people, till some new legislation locked them all
up in the work-houses, poor things!
Mick was a rosy-cheeked, innocent-looking lad, touched in the mind,
certainly, but exceedingly harmless, likeable and entertaining. He was
a strong fellow and when he 'took a hate (_i.e._ heat) o' work' he was
as good or better than the best in harvest or hayfield. His softness
procured for him a certain delightful immunity from responsibility. He
worked when in the humour, but race, or fair, or cock-fight, or
football match drew Mick irresistibly from his labours. He was off to
every bit of 'divarsion' in the country, and when there were big races
at a distance Mick generally took the road a day beforehand, sleeping
out in the soft spring night if it was dry weather, trusting to a
convenient haystack or barn if it wasn't. He was known so widely that
at every farmhouse along the road he was sure of a bite. And on the
race-course every one was his friend; and the various parties
picnicking were greeted by Mick with uproarious shouts and a flinging
of his _caubeen_ in the air, to signify his delight at meeting his
friends so far from home.
Mick had the privileges of 'the natural,' as they call an idiot in
Ireland, with only a few of his disabilities. He was even known to
leave the church during a very tedious sermon of Father O'Herlihy's
and smoke a pipe outside while awaiting the rest of the congregation.
When he was tackled about this flagrant disrespect by his pastor, Mick
replied unblushingly, 'Sure, I didn't lave durin' the mass, your
Reverence: 'twas all over but a thing of nothing.' 'What do you mean
by that?' asked his Reverence severely. 'Sure, your Reverence's
sermon, I mane, what else?' responded Mick.
Mick could be violent too in his cups, but somehow even his violence
was humorous. The village butcher once was imprudent enough to
remonstrate with him for drinking, while the drink was yet in him, and
Mick acknowledged the good advice by unhooking a leg of mutton and
belabouring him soundly, to the detriment of himself and his mutton,
till the police interfered. On another occasion he addressed his
energies to the Sisyphus-like task of endeavouring to roll a very
large water-barrel through his mother's very small door, all one
winter night, while his mother alternately coaxed and threatened.
Mick's pranks were endless, but lest they meet with a severer judge
than Mick ever met with, I spare you the recital of them.
Now Mrs. Sheehy was far less tolerated and tolerable than either of
her peccant sons. She had a little withered face, with hard red
cheeks and bright, rather mad black eyes, set in a frame of crinkly
black hair. You might meet her on the road of a sweet summer morning,
trapesing, to use the expressive Irish word, along, with a sunshade
over her battered bonnet. Her attire was generally made up of very
tarnished finery,--a befrilled skirt trailing in the dust behind her,
and a tattered lace shawl disposed corner-wise over her shoulders. She
seemed always to wear the cast-off garments of fine ladies, and we had
an explanation of this fact. It was supposed that Mrs. Sheehy
represented herself to pious Protestant ladies, for about a radius of
twenty miles, as a Papist, who might easily be brought to see the
error of her ways, and as one who for her liberal tendencies was much
in disfavour with the priests. I know that to her co-religionists she
complained that Protestant charities were closed to her because she
had become a Catholic. There was a legend that Mrs. Sheehy came from a
Protestant stock, but I do not know whether this were true or merely
invented for convenience when the lady went asking alms.
It was from some of these Protestant ladies the suggestion came that
Mick should go to America under some precious emigration scheme. They
are always, with their mistaken philanthropy, drafting away the boys
and girls from Ireland, to cast them, human wreckage, in the streets
of New York; always taking away the young life from the sweet glens
over which the chapel bell sends its shepherding voice, and casting it
away in noisome places, while at home the aged folk go down alone the
path to the grave.
Now we always thought that Mrs. Sheehy must have suggested Mick as an
emigrant, for he was distinctly not eligible. But it was very easy to
puff up poor Mick's mind with pictures of America as a Tom Tiddler's
ground, and the mother did this in private, while in public she wrung
her hands over the wilful boy that would go and leave her lonesome in
her old age. Pretty soon the matter was settled, and Mick went about
as vain as any young recruit when he has taken the Queen's shilling
and donned the scarlet, and has not yet realised that he has been a
fine fat goose for the fox-sergeant's plucking.
But if Mick was full of the spirit of adventure, and looked forward to
that spring Wednesday when he should leave for Queenstown, his mother
made up for his heartless joy by her lugubriousness. As the time drew
near she would buttonhole all and sundry whom she could catch to pour
out her sorrows. The trailing gown and ragged lace shawl became a
danger signal which we would all flee from, an it were not sprung upon
us too suddenly. We had a shrewd suspicion that the tears Mrs. Sheehy
shed so freely were of the variety known as crocodile. Rumour had it
that Mick once out of the way she was to be accommodated comfortably
for life as a lodgekeeper to one of those emigrating ladies. Sometimes
she used to follow us to our very doors to weep, and on such occasions
would be so overcome with grief that it took a little whisky and water
and the gift of an old dress or some broken victuals to prepare her
for the road again.
On the Tuesday of the week Mick was to start he made a farewell
progress round all the houses of the neighbourhood. We were called
into the big farmhouse kitchen about five of the afternoon to bid him
good-bye. Mick sat forward on the edge of his chair, thrusting now and
then his knuckles into his eyes, like a big child, and trying to wink
away his tears. We all did our best to console him, and after a time
from being very sad he grew rather uproariously gay. Mick was no
penman, but for all that he made the wildest promises about writing,
and as for the gifts he was to send us, the place should be indeed a
Tom Tiddler's ground if he were to fulfil his rash promises. Meanwhile
we all pressed our parting gifts on him; some took the form of money,
others were useful or beneficial, as we judged it. Mick added
everything to the small pack he was carrying, which had indeed already
swollen since he left home, and was likely to be considerably more
swollen by the time he had concluded his round.
Mick had got over the parting with his mother. The emigrants' train
started in the small hours, and the emigrants were to rendezvous at a
common lodging-house close by the big terminus. We inquired about poor
Mrs. Sheeny with feeling. Mick responded with a return of tears that
he'd left her screeching for bare life and tearing her hair out in
handfuls. The memory caused Mick such remorse at leaving her that we
hastened to distract his mind to his fine prospects once more.
He delayed so long over his farewells to us that we began to fear he'd
never catch up with the other emigrants, for the road to the city was
studded with the abodes of Mick's friends, whom he had yet to call
upon. However, at last he really said good-bye, and we accompanied him
in a group to the gate of the farmyard, from which, with a last
distracted wave of his hands, the poor fellow set off, running, as if
he could not trust himself to look back, along the field-path. It was
a dewy May evening after rain, and the hawthorn was all in bloom, and
the leaves shaking out their crumpled flags of tender green. The
blackbird was singing as he only sings after rain, and the fields were
covered with the gold and silver dust of buttercup and daisy. It was
sad to see the poor fellow going away at such a time, and from a place
where every one knew and was kind to him, to an unknown world that
might be very cruel. Once again as we watched him we anathematised the
emigration which has so steadily been bleeding the veins of our poor
country.
We all thought of Mick the next morning, and imagined him on the
various stages of his journey to Queenstown, and the big liner. For a
week or so we did not see Mrs. Sheehy, but heard piteous accounts of
her prostration. The poor woman seemed incapable of taking comfort.
Report said that she could neither eat nor drink, so great was her
grief. We felt rather ashamed of our former judgments of her, and were
very full of good resolutions as to our future treatment of her. Only
Mary, our maid, disbelieved in this excessive grief; but then Mary is
the most profound cynic I have ever known, and we always discount her
judgments.
Anyhow, when Mrs. Sheehy reappeared in our kitchen she looked more
wizened, yellow, and dishevelled than ever, and at the mention of
Mick's name she rocked herself to and fro in such paroxysms of grief
that we were quite alarmed. As for the benevolent ladies interested in
the schemes of emigration, their eyes would have been rudely opened if
they could have heard Mrs. Sheehy's denunciations of them. She called
them the hard-hearted ould maids who had robbed her of her one child,
who had persecuted her boy--her innocent child, and driven him out in
the cold world, who had left her to go down a lone woman to the grave.
Nor was this all, for she was an adept at eloquent Irish curses, and
she sprinkled them generously on the devoted heads of the ladies
aforesaid. It was really rather fine to see Mrs. Sheehy in this tragic
mood, and we were all touched and impressed by her. We comforted her
with the suggestion that a letter from Mick was nearly due, and with
assurances, which we scarcely felt, that Mick was bound to do well in
America and prove a credit to her; and we finally got rid of her, and
were rejoiced to see her going off, with her turned-up skirt full as
usual of heterogeneous offerings.
Well, a few days after this, some one brought us the surprising story
that Mick had returned or was on the way to return. One of the carters
had given him a lift on the first stage of his journey from Dublin,
and had left him by his own request at one of the houses where he had
had such a sorrowful parting a little while before. The man had told
Mick of his mother's grief, a bit of intelligence which somewhat
dashed the radiant spirits with which he was returning home. However,
he cheered up immediately: 'Tell th' ould woman,' he said, 'that I
wasn't such a villain as to leave her at all, at all, an' that I'll be
home by evenin'. She'll be havin' a bit o' bacon in the pot to welcome
me.' The man told us this with a dry grin, and added, ''Tis meself
wouldn't like to be afther bringin' the poor ould woman the good news.
It might be too much joy for the crathur to bear.' This ironic speech
revived all our doubts of Mrs. Sheehy.
Mick took our house on the way across the fields to his mother's
cottage. We received him cordially, though with less _empressement_
than when we had parted from him, for now we were pretty sure of
seeing Mick often during the years of our natural lives. We too told
him of his mother's excessive grief, as much, perhaps, with a selfish
design of hastening him on his way as anything else, for we had our
misgivings about Mick's reception.
There were plenty of people to tell us of the prodigal's welcome. The
village had buzzed all day with the dramatic sensation of Mick's
return, but no one had told Mrs. Sheehy--though every one was on
tiptoe for the hour of Mick's arrival. He came about six in the
evening, and having passed through the village was escorted by a band
of the curious towards his mother's cottage.
Mrs. Sheehy lives in a by-road. On one side are the woods, on the
other the fields, and at this hour of the May evening the woods were
full of golden aisles of glory. Now Mrs. Sheehy had come out of her
house to give a bit to the pig, when she saw a group of people
advancing towards her down the sunshine and shadow of the road. She
shaded her eyes and looked that way. For a minute or two she could not
make out the advancing figures, but from one in the midst broke a
yell, a too-familiar yell, for who in the world but Mick could make
such a sound? Then her prodigal son dashed from the midst of the
throng and flew to her with his arms spread wide.
Mrs. Sheehy seemed taken with a genuine faintness. She dropped the
'piggin,'--the little one-handled tub in which she was carrying the
rentpayer's mess of greens,--and fell back against the wall. The
spectators, and it seemed the whole village had turned out, came
stealing in Mick's wake. They were safe from Mrs. Sheehy's dreaded
tongue, for the lady had no eyes for them. As soon as she realised
that it was Mick, really her son, come back to her, she burst into a
torrent of abuse, the like of which has never been equalled in our
country. The listeners could give no idea of it: it was too continuous
and too eloquent. It included not only Mick, 'the villain, the thief
of the world, the base unnatural deceiver,' but ourselves, and all to
whom Mick had paid those farewell visits. Mick heard her with a grin,
and when she had exhausted herself she suddenly clutched him by his
mop-head, dragged him indoors, and banged the door to.
She had apprehended the true state of the case. The potations at some
houses, the gifts at others, had been the causes of the failure of
Mick as an emigrant. When his round of visits was concluded he had
slept comfortably in a hay-stack till long after the hour when his
fellow emigrants were starting from Kingsbridge. The next morning he
had gaily set out for 'a bit of a spree' in Dublin, and having sold
his passage ticket and his little kit, had managed, with the proceeds
and our gifts, to make the spree last a fortnight. For a little while
we deemed it expedient to avoid passing by Mrs. Sheehy's door, though
Mick assured us that it was 'the joy of the crathur had taken her wits
from her, so that she didn't rightly know what she was saying.'
There was one more attempt made to emigrate Mick, but it was futile,
Mick declaring that 'he'd deserve any misfortune, so he would, if he
was ever to turn his back on the old woman again.' Mrs. Sheehy has
forgiven us our innocent share in keeping Mick at home with her. The
mother and son still live together, with varying times, just as the
working mood is on or off Mick. I believe his favourite relaxation of
an evening, when he stays at home, is to discover in the wood embers
the treasures which would have fallen to him if his love for his
mother hadn't kept him from expatriating himself. The Hon. Miss
Ellersby's vacant gate-lodge has been filled up by Kitty Keegan, who
is Mrs. Sheehy's special aversion out of all the world.
XIV
CHANGING THE NURSERIES
To-day the fiat has gone forth, and we are already deep in
consultation over paper and paint, chintz, and carpeting. How many
years I have dreaded it; how many staved off, beyond my hope, the
transformation of those two dear rooms! They have been a shabby corner
in my big, stately house for many a day--a corner to which in the
long, golden afternoons I could steal for an hour and shut out the
world, and nurse my sorrow at my breast like a crying child. You may
have heard Catholics talk about a 'retreat,' a quiet time in which one
shuffles off earthly cares, and steeps one's soul in the silence that
washes it and makes it strong. Such a 'retreat' I have given my heart
in many and many an hour in the old nurseries. I have sat there with
my hands folded, and let the long-still little voices sound sweet in
my ear--the voices of the dead children, the voices of the grown
children whose childhood is dead. The voices cry to me, indeed, many a
time when I have no leisure to hear them. When I am facing my dear man
at the other end of our long dining-table, when I am listening to the
chatter of callers in my drawing-room, at dinner-parties and balls, in
the glare of the theatre, I often hear the cries to which I must not
listen.