It’s sitting or lying on the top of the dresser that Barbara spent the
greater part of the next quarter. ’Twas seldom Brideen used speak to
her; and when she would speak, she’d only say, “Be a good girl, Barbara.
You see I’m busy. I must give attention to Niamh Goldy-Head. She’s a
Queen, you know, and she must be attended well.” Brideen was getting
older now (I believe she was five years past, or, maybe, five and
a-half), and she was rising out of a share of the habits she learned at
the start of her babyhood. It’s not “Brideen” she’d call herself now,
for she knew the meaning that was in the little word “I,” and in those
little tails “am” and “am not” when they’re put after “I.” She knew,
too, that it’s great the respect and the honour due to a Queen, over
what is due to a poor, little creatureen like Barbara.
I’m afraid Barbara didn’t understand this story at all. She was only a
little wooden doll, and, sure, ’twould be hard for its likes to
understand the heart of a girl. It was plain to her that she was cast to
one side. It’s Niamh Goldy-Head would sleep along with Brideen now; it’s
Niamh Goldy-Head would sit beside her at meal-time; it’s Niamh
Goldy-Head would go out on the hill, foot to foot with her, that would
lie with her among the fern, and would go with her gathering daisies and
fairy-thimbles. It’s Niamh Goldy-Head she’d press to her breast. It’s
Niamh Goldy-Head she’d kiss. Some other body to be in the place you’d
be, some other body to be walking with the person you’d walk with, some
other body to be kissing the mouth you’d long to kiss,--that’s the
greatest pain is to be suffered in this world; and that’s the pain was
in Barbara’s heart now, torturing her from morning till night, and
tormenting her from night till morning.
I suppose it’ll be said to me that it’s not possible for these thoughts,
or any other thoughts, to be in Barbara’s heart, for wasn’t she only a
wooden toy, without feeling, without mind, without understanding,
without strength? My answer to anybody who’d speak like this to me would
be:--_How do we know?_ How do you or I know that dolls, and wooden toys,
and the tree, and the hill, and the river, and the waterfall, and the
little blossoms of the field, and the little stones of the strand
haven’t their own feeling, and mind, and understanding, and
guidance?--aye, and the hundred other things we see about us? I don’t
say they have; but ’twould be daring for me or for anybody else to say
that they haven’t. The children think they have; and it’s my opinion
that the children are more discerning in things of this sort than you or
I.
One day that Barbara was sitting up lonesomely by herself in her
parlour, Brideen and Niamh Goldy-Head were in earnest conversation by
the fireside; or, I ought to say, Brideen was in earnest conversation
with herself, and Niamh listening to her; for nobody ever heard a word
out of the Queen’s mouth but only “Mam-a.” Brideen’s mother was outside
the door washing. The father was setting potatoes in the garden. There
only remained in the house Brideen and the two dolls.
It’s like the little girl was tired, for she’d spent the morning washing
(she’d wash the Queen’s sheet and blanket every week). It was short till
sleep came on her. It was short, after that, till she dropped her head
on her breast and she was in deep slumber. I don’t rightly understand
what happened after that, but, by all accounts, Brideen was falling down
and down, till she was stretched on the hearth-flag within the nearness
of an inch to the fire. She didn’t waken, for she was sound asleep. It’s
like that Niamh Goldy-Head was asleep, too, but, however, or whatever,
the story is, she didn’t stir. There wasn’t a soul in the house to
protect the darling little child from the death that was faring on her.
Nobody knew her to be in peril, but only God and--Barbara.
The mother was working without, and she not thinking that death was that
near the child of her heart. She was turning a tune to herself, and
lifting it finely, when she heard a “plop”--a sound as if something was
falling on the floor.
“What’s that, now?” says she to herself. “Something that fell from the
wall, it’s a chance. It can’t be that Brideen meddled with it?”
In with her in a hurry. It’s barely the life didn’t drop out of her,
with the dint of fright. And what wonder? Her darling child was
stretched on the hearth, and her little coateen blazing in the fire!
The mother rushed to her across the kitchen, lifted her in her arms, and
pulled the coat from her. She only just saved her. If she’d waited
another little half-moment, she was too late.
Brideen was awake now, and her two arms about the neck of her mother.
She was trembling with the dint of fear, and, sure enough, crying,
though it isn’t too well she understood the story yet. Her mother was
“smothering her with kisses and drowning her with tears.”
“What happened me, mama? I was dreaming. I felt hot, and I thought I was
going up, up in the sky, and that the sun was burning me? What happened
me?”
“It’s the will of God that my _stóirín_ wasn’t burnt,--not with the sun,
but with the fire. O, Brideen, your mother’s little pet, what would I do
if they’d kill you on me? What would your father do? ’Twas God spoke to
me coming in that minute!--I don’t know what sort of noise I heard? If
it weren’t for that, I mightn’t have come in at all.”
She looked round her. Everything was in its own place on the table, and
on the walls, and on the dresser,--but stay! In front of the dresser she
took notice of a thing on the floor. What was it? A little body without
a head--a doll’s body.
“Barbara fallen from the dresser again,” says the mother. “My
conscience, it’s she saved your life to you, Brideen.”
“Not falling she did it at all!” says the little girl, “but it’s how she
saw I was in danger, and she threw a leap from the top of the dresser to
save me. O, poor Barbara, you gave your life for my sake!”
She went on her knees, lifted the little corpse of the doll, and kissed
it softly and fondly.
“Mama,” says she, sadly, “since Niamh Goldy-Head came, I’m afraid I
forgot poor Barbara, and it’s greater the liking I put in Niamh
Goldy-Head than in her; and see, it’s she was most true to me in the
end. And she’s dead now on me, and I won’t be able to speak with her
ever again, nor to say to her that I’d rather her a thousand
times,--aye, a hundred thousand times--than Niamh.”
“It’s not dead she is at all,” says the mother, “but hurted. Your father
will put the head on her again when he comes in.”
“If I’d fall from the top of the dresser, mama, and lose my head, would
he be able to put it on me again?”
“He wouldn’t. But you’re not the same as Barbara.”
“I am the same. She’s dead. Don’t you see she’s not moving or speaking?”
The mother had to admit this much.
Nothing would convince Brideen that Barbara wasn’t killed, and that it
wasn’t to save her she gave her life. I myself wouldn’t say she was
right, but I wouldn’t say she wasn’t. I can only say what I said before:
How do I know? How do you know?
Barbara was buried that evening on the side of the hill in the place
where she and Brideen spent those long days of summer among the fern and
the flowers. There are fairy-thimbles growing at the head of the grave,
and daisies and buttercups plentifully about it.
Before going to sleep that night, Brideen called over to her mother.
“Do you think, mama,” says she, “will I see Barbara in heaven?”
“Maybe, by the King of Glory, you might,” says the mother.
“Do you think will I, daddy?” says she to her father.
“I know well you will,” says the father.
* * * * *
Those were the Adventures and Tragic Fate of Barbara up to that time.
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