THE CRIB
While all this was going on, Big Michael was sitting, snug and
comfortable, in the chimney-corner, opposite the wife, and she knitting,
knitting away still. Not a word was passing. She had Michael's supper
ready for him, hot and tasty, the same as ever. But he had no _goo_ for
it. What did he care was it good or bad! How could he feel gay and riz
up in himself, the way a body should at the Christmas, when he knew well
Herself had been crying away while he had been down at the stable?
If only she'd cheer up! If only she'd agree to have the place dressed
out, and the Crib and all the other little things done the same as ever!
It would do herself good, and they might be having a happy Christmas
after all, even if there was only the two of them there with themselves!
But he said nothing. Big as Michael was, and little as the Woman was
that owned him, it was she had the upper hand in the house. And good
right, too; she being a very understanding person, and considered to be
a good adviser of a woman all over Ardenoo. Michael was slow, but he was
wise enough to give in to the wife. So now when she showed no wish for
any of the things he was so made upon, he said no more about them; only
after a while says he, "I believe it's what I'll take a streel off to
see is the cow all right in the stable below...."
But what he really wanted was, to get away from the queer, unhappy feel
of the silent kitchen. He thought, too, he'd like another sight of the
dressed-out stable and the big Candle he had lit there. He meant to stop
a bit with those Christmas signs, and the ass, and the munch, munch of
the cow, filling the place with her fragrant breath.
Wasn't it a pity of the world that Herself was having none of the
pleasure? If only he could tell her what he had been doing! If only he
could get her to come too, and see how lovely the stable looked!
As he passed out on the door, the Vanithee looked after him. A kind of
pity rose warm in her heart, as she saw the fretted appearance was upon
the big man, like a cowed dog, with his tail drooping between his legs.
All the bygone Christmas Eves they had put in there together! Kind,
pleasant times, with little old nonsense and laughing, that no one
understood, only themselves! Art had been there, to be sure! He had been
the delight of the first of their Christmases, and the same always, till
he went off. But was it Michael's fault that the son wasn't there yet?
Sure poor Michael had done nothing to fret her! It wasn't he had
neglected to write! And wasn't it full as bad for him, Michael, that had
always been the fond father to Art! and had never rightly overed the
boy's quitting off the way he did! Oh, if only they had Art there again!
To have him going off with the father of a morning, cutting turf, or
making hay, or doing a bit of ploughing! and the two of them in to their
dinners and off again!... Why, to have that good time back, she'd even
welcome the poor-lookin' little scollop of a thing, and give her share
of the old home!...
Poor Michael! He that loved the Christmas! Like a child, he was! Most
men are, if they have any good in them; and God help them if they get a
woman that doesn't understand that, and can't make allowances when they
don't grow up!
Mrs. Moloney was as quick as Michael was slow. So, while he'd be
thinking about it, she had a stool over at the dresser and was up on it,
feeling for the Crib on the top shelf.
It was there, safe enough, and it wrapped in a newspaper. A small little
contraption of a thing it was, that she had bought off Tommy the Crab,
the peddling man, years before. Paid sixpence for it, too; and cheap he
told her it was at that money.
To see it first, it was no more than a middling sizeable Christmas card.
But it was really in three, or maybe four, halves that drew out like a
telescope. The first part showed the Kings kneeling with their offerings
and crowns upon their heads; then you could see the Shepherds, with
their crooks and they kneeling too; and in the middle of them all, the
Mother herself, with the Holy Child upon her knee. St. Joseph was at one
side, and the ox and the ass at the other; all complete, even to a grand
Star of silver paper, shining on the top of it all.
Mrs. Moloney put the Crib into one of the small square windows and drew
it out. Then she went back to the dresser for the candles to light it up
with. It looked nothing wanting them.
Not common candles she was going to use, but what had been blessed at
Candlemas, and that she had kept put by very carefully.
"I mustn't take them all," she thought, "the way, if one of us was to
take and die sudden, there would be a Candle ready to put into the dying
hand, to light the soul on its way! But there's a good few, and so ..."
Four she took for the four evangelists, and was just lighting them up,
when suddenly the door burst open, and with a rush and a laugh in came
... Art!
[Illustration: THE MOTHER WITH HER CHILD LYING VERY STILL]
"Mother!" he said; and in a moment had his arms round her, and was
kissing her lips.
"Oh, Art! so you did come, after all!" says she, with a catch in her
breath and a gush of joy to her heart. She had her son, her own son
again! And for a minute she forgot everything else--the missed letter,
Art's wife....
"Come? And why wouldn't I come? What else? Och, but it's grand, the
smell of the turf! And the Crib the same as ever! Och, mother, mother!
But where's Delia? Some tricks you and her is up to! Has them hid 'on'
me? Delia! Delia! where at all are you?"
At that the mother drew a piece away from him. Her face that had been
smiling and rosy even, like a girl's face, grew stiff and white.
"Delia! Delia! he can think of nothing else," she thought. It all came
back upon her, like a bad dream. Her son had a wife now! And she had
held out her hand to them, and they had slighted it!
What did Art mean, coming in like a strong wind? Gay and pleasant as
summer air at first, but his face changed and became black and stormy
and his voice was a strange, fierce voice, asking again, "Where's
Delia?"
"I know nothing about her! How could I?"
"Sure she was to be here ..."
"We got no word ..."
"No word! Is it that no one met them at the train? My God! what has
become of her and the child? And the night it was!"
The child? What child? the mother was trying to ask, but the words were
stopped on her lips, and Art was stopped at the door, in his mad rush
forth to look for his wife and baby, by the appearance before them of
Michael. Stopped them both, I say, but without a word being spoken. It
was just the look in the old man's face that made them both fall back a
step and stand still, looking at Michael in a sort of wonder and fright.
His eyes were shining, as if he had been in another world, and had
scarcely got back to earth again. He stood facing them for a minute with
the same far-away look; then he took each of them by the hand, and just
breathed out, "Come! come with me and see what's in the stable ..."
They went. The wind had fallen and the rain had ceased. A beautiful moon
had risen, and was shining, but you could not see her, only the light
she shed down from her throne on high through the soft white mist that
had risen from the wet ground and was wavering and dancing solemnly to
and fro, filling the space between heaven and earth, as if to veil the
sacred sights of the Holy Eve from mortal eyes. The father and mother
and son moved silently through the misty, gleaming silence, till they
reached the stable, where the Candle was burning steadily, and sending
forth its pure white light into the moonlit vapour.
Michael stepped on and was at the door first. He put his great arm
across, as if to ensure caution and reverence.
"Go easy, go easy, the both of yous! but sure, they might be gone back
already, and no one to have seen them, only meself!" he said in the same
awed whisper.
They peered in, for beyond the Candle were dusky spaces; yet its light
was enough to show them two figures there; a girl-mother with her child,
lying very still.
Was she asleep, or.... She was so white and small! The long dark hair
had been loosened and fell about her like a soft mantle; and close,
close to her heart lay the little child.
"Delia, Delia!" said Art.
"The Child!" said his mother.
Delia unclosed her eyes and looked up with a little smile. "I have him
here, safe!" she said.
And Michael, only half comprehending, fell on his knees and sobbed
aloud.
THE END
_Printed by_ R. & R. Clark, Limited, _Edinburgh_.