THE LETTER
The queer thing is that Big Michael, slow and all as he was, happened to
be right about the letter from Art. It had been written, and, moreover,
it had reached Ardenoo post-office. But no one knew that for certain, or
what became of it, only a small little pup of a terrier dog belonging to
one of the Melia boys. This pup was just of an age that it was a great
comfort to his mouth to have something he could chew. He was lying
taking his ease, just under the counter where the letters got sorted.
And when, as luck would have it, Art's letter slipped down, of all
others! from the big heap of papers and all sorts that came very plenty
at that Christmas season, this little dog had no delay, only begin on
the letter. In two minutes he had "little dan" made of it!--nothing left
of it only a couple or three little wet rags that got swep' out the next
morning, and never were heard of again. Sure, why would they, when only
the pup knew anything about them? And he couldn't explain the thing,
even if he had wanted to. He escaped a few kicks by that. Still, dogs
often get into trouble the same way, God help them! without having
earned it at all.
Yes, the invitation for the Christmas was answered. The wife, Delia her
name was, had said nothing at first when it came. To tell the truth, she
was well satisfied where she was, with Art and the child all to herself,
in their one room in a back street. Up a lot of stairs it was, too, and
the other people in the house not to say too tasty in their way of going
on. But poor Delia thought it was all grand, with the little bits of
furniture herself and Art would buy according as they could manage it,
and the cradle in the corner by the fire.
Poor Art would smother there betimes, nigh-hand, when he'd think of the
Crooked Boreen, and the wide silence of the bog, with the soft sweet
wind blowing across it, and the cows and all, and the neighbours to pass
the time of day with, let alone the smell of the turf-fire of an
evening! Homesick the poor boy was, and didn't know it.
The way it came about that Art left home was, he got tired of things
there, the very things he wanted now. And there was some said, the
mother was too good and fond with him. She'd lay the two hands under his
feet any hour of the day or night; thought the sun shone out of him, so
she did. And Art was always good and biddable with her; never gave any
back-talk, or was contrary. But all the time he wanted to be himself. He
was much like a colt kept in a stall, well fed and minded, but he wants
to get out to stretch his legs in a long gallop all the time.
So there's why Art went off from Ardenoo to the Big Smoke, and got on
the best ever you knew. He was very apprehensive about machinery, could
understand it well, and got took on by a great high-up doctor to mind
his motor for him. The old people were that proud when they heard of it.
"Sure it's on the Pig's Back Art is now, whatever!" they said, "with his
good-lookin' pound a week!"
Wealth that sounded, away off in Ardenoo. But the sorra much spending
there is in it in a city, where you're paying out for everything you
want. Delia did the best she could with it, but it wouldn't do all she
wanted.
Still, she pleased Art. Small and white in the face she was, as Mrs.
Moloney had imagined her. Sewing she used to be, a bad life for a girl
to be at it all day. But she flourished up well after getting married.
And what Art had looked into, when he was courting, was the big,
longing-looking dark eyes of her, and the gentle voice and ways, and the
clouds of soft brown hair ... well, sure every eye forms a beauty of its
own. But Art might have done worse nor to marry Delia Fogarty that never
asked to differ from a word he said, till the notion came up of they
going to Ardenoo for the Christmas. When the letter asking them came, he
near riz the roof off the house, the shout he gave, he was that
delighted in himself to be going back home.
"But what's a trouble to you, Delia?" he says, when he had time to take
notice that she wasn't looking as rejoiced as he expected, only sitting
there with her eyes upon the child in her arms; "a body'd think you
didn't care about going at all!" he says, half vexed.
"I ... I'd like to go, Art," says Delia, "only I don't know do I want to
go or not.... I ... do you see ..."
"Well ... what?"
"Sure ... maybe ... how do I know will they like me or not! And me coat
all wore ... and ... and, moreover, I never got to get a right sort of a
hood for the child ... or a cloak...."
"Och, what at all, girl dear!" says Art, that was so excited at the
thoughts of getting home that nothing was a trouble to him; "not like
you! What else would they do! And the child ... well, now, isn't it well
we told them nothing about him, the way he'll be a surprise to them now?
The fine big fellah that he is! Sure it would be a sin to go put any
clothes on him at all, hiding the brave big legs of him!"
Delia had to laugh at that; and then Art went out and bought a grand
sheet of note-paper with robins and red berries and "The Season's
Compliments" at the top of it. And Delia wrote the letter upon this,
because she could write real neat and nice. Art told her every word to
say.
"DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER," it began, "I have pleasure in taking up
my pen to rite yous those few lines hopping they find yous in good
health as they leave us at this present thank you and God. I would
wish my love and best wishes to ..." and there were so many to be
remembered that Art told Delia to put in "all inquiring friends,"
and even shortened like that, the list hardly left room for saying,
"and we will go home for the Christmas and is obliged for the
kindness of asking and we will go by the last train Christmas Eve
and let yous meet that with Ling-gerin' Death and the cart and
we're bringing a Christmas box wid us that yous will be rejoiced to
see so I will end those few lines from your
"SON AND NEW DAUGHTER."
When that letter was finished and posted, Delia made no more of an
objection to going, only did the best she could, washing and mending her
own little things and the baby's. But let her do her best and they were
poor-looking little bits of duds! And many's the time, when Art was
away, that she'd cry, and wish to herself that there was no such a place
as Ardenoo on the face of this earthly world. But what could she do,
only please Art!
Well, the very evening before they were to start for Ardenoo, didn't Art
come home to her in great humour. "Look at here, Delia!" says he, with a
big laugh; "see the fine handful of money," and he held it out to her,
"that Himself is after giving me in a Christmas box! Now we'll do the
thing in real style! Come along out now, before the shops shut, and
we'll buy all before us!"
Well, if you were to see the two of them that night! the three, indeed,
for Delia wouldn't ever leave the child, only took him with her. To see
them looking in at the grand bright windows full of things! and going
in, Delia half afraid, but Art as loud and outspoken as a lord, spending
free as long as it lasted! To see him then going home with her and the
child, and he all loaded down with parcels! and opened them all out, the
minute they got back! All the things they bought out of that money! A
pipe and tobacco for Michael; a lovely cake with "Merry Christmas" in
pink sugar upon it, for Herself; the grandest of brown shoes and a hat
and feather for Delia, and as for the baby!... Delia could scarce
believe her eyes, all they had got for him, things she had been
wanting....
Art made her fit them all on, and when she held up the child to be
admired, with the loveliest of a soft white shawl rolled round him, "He
becomes it well," says Art; "and I suppose you think to make him look
better nor he is, by all that finery!"
"Your mother'll think him terrible small," said Delia, looking very
fretted again; but she kissed the baby, as much as to say, "Little I
care what she thinks!"
She said nothing about that part of it, though, only looked up at Art
with the beseeching eyes I mentioned before.
"Let that go round!" says Art; and he lifted the two of them in his arms
and kissed them both; and then when he had let Delia go, says he, "Me
mother is the smallest little crathureen herself, that ever you saw! So
she needn't talk! And sure what can you expect from a child not a month
old yet! And there's an ould saying and a true one, in Ardenoo, 'It's
not always the big people that reaps the harvest!' and so by this boy of
ours! We won't feel till he'll be working!"
"Working!" said Delia. And she unclasped the baby's fingers and kissed
the tiny hands inside, that were as soft and pink as rose-leaves, first
one hand and then the other. She never thought that every hand, no
matter how rough and strong, begins by being a baby's hand like the one
she was after kissing.
"Ay, work!" says Art, very determined; "it would amaze you or any one
that didn't know, the way the children grow up and get sense at Ardenoo!
the way if the old people seemed wishful for us to stop at home with
them, this little fellah of ours would soon ... but whisht!" before poor
Delia had time to say a word one way or other about this iday, "whisht!
what's this at all! A telegram! for me!"
[Illustration: HE KISSED THEM BOTH]
A telegram! Poor Delia turned gashly pale at the word, and hugged the
child closer to her, as if she thought that little bit of an
orange-coloured envelope might be going to do some destruction on her
treasure.
Art read it slowly to himself, while his face grew as long as to-day and
to-morrow; and says he, "Well, it can't be helped! The Master that's
after getting a hurried call to the country and will want me to drive
him ... so I'll not be at read'ness to go...." He looked anxiously at
Delia.
Not go to Ardenoo! Delia's heart leaped up.
"Sure, can't we stop where we are?" says she, with dancing eyes.
"Och, not at all!" says Art; "it wouldn't answer at all to be
disappointing them. And besides, it's down that side he wants to go ...
some sick child ... the Master I mean ... I'll likely be at Ardenoo
before you!"
"But, Art! ... is it go wid meself? What will I do at all at all?" and
Delia begins to cry.
"See here now," says Art, "don't be taking on, that way! You wouldn't
have me disappoint the Master ... after he being so good to us, too! The
fine grand little clothes we're after getting!... You'll be as right as
rain! Just wait till you're at Ardenoo, where every one knows me! Why,
you'll be with friends, that very minute! And you wrote it in the letter
yourself, what train to meet you at.... You wouldn't be fretting me
mother and she thinking to have us for the Christmas ... to make no
mention of the child at all!"
"To be sure not!" says Delia. And she dried her eyes and said no more,
only got ready and went off the next day with the little child, as
smiling and gay as she could appear, waving her hand to Art that saw her
off at the Broadstone station, and did all he could to put her in heart.
But it's a long, long ways from the Big Smoke to Ardenoo. Hours and
hours it took that wet, wild day to get there. And Delia wasn't too well
accustomed to trains and going about. She managed to keep the child warm
and comforted all through, but when the train stopped at Ardenoo she was
that tired and giddy herself, that she scarcely knew what she was doing
or where she was to go.
She stood a minute on the platform, with the wind and rain beating down
upon her, till it had her even more confused. And the day was nearly
done, and no lamps lit yet. But she made out a porter and asked him, as
Art had bid her, for Mr. Moloney's ass-cart.
"Moloney's ass and dray? Ay," says the man, "Big Michael was in the Town
to-day at Melia's, and buying all before him, by what I hear. And not
too long ago it was ..."
"Would I ... could I find him ... where's that place you're after
mentioning?"
And Delia took a grip of the big hat, that the wind was getting at.
"Melia's shop? You can't miss it! There's ne'er another.... He should
have left it by now ... but let you go on along that road ..." and he
showed her where it lay, stretching off into the darkness, "and you'll
overtake him, ready! That ass is middling slow!"
The man guessed who this was speaking to him, for they all had heard
about Art and the wife being expected for the Christmas. And he had no
call to tell her to go off like that. Big Michael was nigh-hand at home
again by then. But he had a sup taken at that present, as often happens
at Christmas. Only he was a bit "on," he'd never have put such an iday
into Delia's head. To think of letting her start after Michael like
that!
But poor Delia knew no better than to follow fool's advice; how could
she? So she just asked some directions about the road, and then she
changed the child from one arm to the other and faced out in the night
and rain, and a wind that would blow the horns off a goose to overtake
the ass-cart. Little she thought that it was back at the Crooked Boreen
by then, near five good miles away!
For a while, she wasn't in too bad a heart at all. She was glad to be
out of the train, and she was expecting every step to get some signs of
Michael on in front. But the little light there was went altogether
before long; quenched, like, by the great rain and the heavy clouds that
hung low and dark in the skies. Delia began to feel it very lonesome!
But she kept going on; what else could she do?
At this time, what she thought worst of was, that the wet was spoiling
her good hat, after Art spending his money upon it, the way she could
make some kind of appearance foreninst his mother and the neighbours.
But what could she do to save it?
"The cut I'll be!" she thought; "all dreeped with rain!" And indeed the
hat, with its grand feather all broken and draggled, was a poor-looking
thing enough before she was half-ways to the Crooked Boreen. As for the
grand shoes with the high heels, they were like sponges upon her feet,
and she slipping in them as she stumbled along through mud and gutter to
her ankles.
But she kept going on! The baby lay warm and snug upon her heart. She
managed to keep him sheltered, anyway! Now and then she'd stop and put
her face down to his, to feel his sweet warm breath upon her cheek. Then
she'd go on again. That ass-cart! If only she could catch it! Wouldn't
it be Heaven to be taken off her aching feet and be carried along,
herself and the child, with some one that knew the way, and not to be
feeling lost, as she did now.
For by degrees that's what Delia had to think; she was lost. Still she
struggled on, the poor little bet-down thing that she was; so tired that
she only kept moving at all by clenching her teeth hard and saying out
loud, "I must! I must! A nice thing it would be for Art to not find me
when he gets home! I must keep going on! The baby would die if I was to
lie down..." for that is what she was more inclined for than anything
else.
The wind was coming in great gusts now, hindering her far worse than the
rain. It caught her skirts like the sails of a ship; it snatched at her
hat. She tried to hold it on, but a sudden strong blast came, just as
she was shifting the child again in her arms. Like a spiteful hand, it
tore the hat from her head and furled it away; and what could be done,
to get it again, in the storm and darkness? Delia cried at first,
thinking of the loss it was. But she minded nothing long, only the
tiredness and that still she must keep going on.
Suddenly she began to sing to the child:
I laid my love in a cradley-bed,
_Lu lu lu lu la lay_.
Little white love with a soft round head,
_Lu lu lu lu la lay_.
Before she had it done, she thought to see a light a piece off from her.
She made towards it. Out upon the bog itself she was now; and them that
saw her tracks after, said one of the holy Angels must have been guiding
her then, that she wasn't drownded, herself and the child, in a
bog-hole. She slipped here and she fell there on the wet, rough ground;
but she kept on till she reached the light. It was the Christmas Candle,
in Michael's stable, burning there, mild and watchful.