After that, life went uneventfully for a time with Tim and me. Now that
the cabin was empty father visited us seldom. His voyages took him
longer than before, and we had a shrewd guess that they were not all in
search of fish; for little enough of that he brought home. Young as we
boys were we knew better than to ask him questions. Only when he showed
us his pocket full of French coin, or carried up by night a keg of
spirits that had never been brewed in a lawful distillery, or piloted
some foreign-looking craft after dark into one of the quiet creeks along
the coast, or spent an evening in confidential talk with his honour and
other less reputable characters, we guessed he was embarked on a
business of no little risk, which might land him some fine day, with a
file of marines to take care of him, in Derry Jail.
For all that, I would fain have taken to the sea with him; for every day
I longed more for the open life of a sailor, and chafed at the shackles
of my landsman's fate. What made it worse was that one day, sorely
against Tim's will, my father ordered him to get ready for the sea,
leaving me, who would have given my eyes for the chance, not only
disappointed, but brotherless and alone in the world.
But I must tell you how this great change in our fortunes came to pass.
It was about a year after my mother's death when, one dark night, as
father and we two sat round the peat fire in the cabin, father telling
us queer stories about the Frenchmen, and icebergs in the Atlantic, and
races with the king's cruisers, that the door opened suddenly, and a
woman I had never seen before looked in.
"Biddy McQuilkin, as I'm a sinner!" said my father, taking the pipe from
his lips, and looking, I thought, not altogether pleased. But he got
up, as a gentleman should.
"Arrah, Mike, you may well wonder! I hardly know myself at all, at all.
And there's the boys. My! but it's myself's glad to see the pretty
darlints." And she gave us each a hug and a kiss.
Somehow or other I did not at first take kindly to Biddy McQuilkin. She
was a stout woman of about mother's age, with little twinkling eyes that
seemed to look not quite straight, and gave her face, otherwise comely
enough, rather a sly expression. And I guessed when she made so much of
us that it was perhaps less on our account than on my father's.
As for father, I think he felt pretty much as I did, and had not the
cunning to conceal it.
"I thought you were in Paris, Biddy?" said he.
"So I was, and so, maybe, I'll be again," said the widow, taking her
shawl from her head, and seating herself on a stool at the fire. "'Twas
a chance I got to come and see the folk at home while the master and
mistress are in Galway seeing what they can save out of the ruin of
their estate there. Ochone, it's bad times, Mike; indeed it is. Lonely
enough for you and me and the motherless boys. I've a mind to stay
where I am, and settle down in the ould country."
My father looked genuinely alarmed.
"Lonely!" said he with a laugh; "like enough it is for you, poor body,
but not for me. I promise you I've plenty to think of without being
lonely."
"Like enough," said she with a sigh. "It's when you come home now and
again to the empty house you'll be feeling lonely, and wishing you'd
some kindly soul to mind you, Mike Gallagher."
But my father was not going to allow that he was lonely even then; for
he guessed what it would lead to if he did.
"I'm well enough as I am," said he. "But since you're so lonely, Biddy,
why not get yourself a husband?"
She looked up with her little blinking eyes, and was going to speak.
But my father, fairly scared, went on,--
"It's not for me, who'll never marry more, not if I live to a hundred,
thank God, to advise the likes of you, Biddy. But there's many a likely
man would be glad of you, and I'd give him my blessings with you. You
need company. I don't; leastways none better than my pipe and my
glass."
She turned her face away rather sadly, and sat with her chin on the palm
of her hand, blinking into the fire.
"What about the boys?" she said, not looking up.
"They're rightly," said my father shortly.
She gave a short, grating laugh, and was about to speak again, when
there fell a footstep outside, and his honour looked in.
He had come to see father, who was to sail again to-morrow, and was
fairly taken aback to see what company we had.
Biddy rose and courtesied.
"The top of the morning to your honour," said she. "Faith, I'm proud to
see you looking so well."
"What brought you here, Biddy?" said his honour.
"'Deed, I had a longing to see my friends and the ould country, that's
why."
His honour looked round the cabin. Tim lay asleep curled up in the
corner, and I, wide-awake, sat up and listened to all they said.
"Go down and make fast his honour's boat, Barry," said my father.
I obeyed reluctantly, for I was curious to know what these three had to
say to one another.
I found his honour's boat already fast, and returned as quickly as I
could to the cabin.
Biddy's shrill voice, as I came near, rose above the other two.
"It served your turn, Maurice Gorman," said she. "You know as well as
me one of the two boys is--"
"Whisht!" exclaimed my father; "there he is."
And as I entered the talk suddenly dropped, and I felt quite abashed to
see them all look at me as they did.
"Well, well, Biddy," said his honour presently, "you're a decent woman,
and I'll help you. You shall have the forty pounds when you get back to
Paris. My agent there will see to it, and you shall have a letter to
him."
"Your honour's a gentleman," said Biddy with a courtesy. "Maybe you'll
make it a little more, to save a poor widow another journey over to see
you. Sure, forty pounds wouldn't keep me in France for six months."
"Well, well, we'll see. Come to Knockowen to-morrow evening, Biddy."
Biddy departed with a curious look in her eyes, and somewhat consoled
for my father's indifference to her charms.
"You sail to-morrow?" inquired his honour when she had gone.
"I do," said my father. "I'm away to Sheep Haven to join her at cock-
crow."
His honour turned and caught sight of me standing by the fire. He
beckoned me to him, as he had done once before, turned my face to the
light, and stared at me.
Then he looked up at father.
"He's no look of you, Mike."
"So you may say," replied my father, with a knowing glance at his
honour. "Tim's liker me, they say."
His honour looked up with a significant nod.
"Well, Mike, I've said I'll see after one of the lads, for their dead
mother's sake. Which will it be?"
"I'm thinking of taking Tim with me," said my father.
"Very good. I'll see to Barry then."
"Och, father," I cried, "take me to sea."
"Howld your tongue, ye puppy," said my father. "Can't you hear his
honour say he'll see to you? There's many a lad would be glad of the
chance."
"But Tim hates the sea, and I--"
"Be silent wid ye," roared my father, so angrily that he woke Tim.
"Tim," cried I, determined to make one more desperate effort, "you're to
go to sea, and I'm to be kept ashore at Knockowen."
"Sea, is it?" roared Tim. "I'll run away--no sea for me."
"And I'll run away too," shouted I. "No Knockowen for me."
But it was of no avail; protest as we would, we had to do as we were
bid. That very hour, with nothing but a little book that was once my
mother's, and a few poor clothes, and Con the dog at my heels, I
followed his honour down to the boat and left my old home behind me.
And before dawn of day Tim was trudging surlily at my father's heels
across country, on his way to join the _Cigale_ at Sheep Haven.