Margaret O'brien, a great-aunt and seventy-five, knew she was near the
end. She did not repine, for she had had a long, hard life and she was
tired. The young priest who brought her communion had administered the
last rites--holy oils on her eyelids (Lord, forgive her the sins of
seeing!); holy oils on her lips (Lord, forgive her the sins of
speaking!), on her ears, on her knotted hands, on her weary feet. Now
she was ready, though she knew the approach of the dread presence would
mean greater suffering. So she folded quiet hands beneath her heart,
there where no child had ever lain, yet where now something grew and
fattened on her strength. And she seemed given over to pleasant revery.
Neighbors came in to see her, and she roused herself and received them
graciously, with a personal touch for each.--'And has your Julia gone to
New York, Mrs. Carty? Nothing would do her but she must be going, I
suppose. 'Twas the selfsame way with me, when I was coming out here from
the old country. Full of money the streets were, I used to be thinking.
Well, well; the hills far away are green.'
Or to Mrs. Devlin: 'Terence is at it again, I see by the look of you.
Poor man! There's no holding him? Eh, woman dear! Thirst is the end of
drinking and sorrow is the end of love.'
If her visitors stayed longer than a few minutes, however, her attention
wandered; her replies became cryptic. She would murmur something about
'all the seven parishes,' or the Wicklow hills, or 'the fair cove of
Cork tippy-toe into the ocean'; then fall into silence, smiling, eyes
closed, yet with a singular look of attention. At such times, her
callers would whisper: 'Glory b't' God! she's so near it there's no fun
in it,' and slip out soberly into the kitchen.
Her niece, Anna Lennan, mother of a fine brood of children, would stop
work for the space of a breath and enjoy a bit of conversation.
'Ain't she failing, though, the poor afflicted creature!' Mrs. Hanley
cried one day. 'Her mind is going back on her already.'
'Are you of that opinion? I'm thinking she's mind enough yet, when she
wants to attend; but mostly she's just drawn into herself, as busy as a
bee about something, whatever it is that she's turning over in her head
day in, day out. She sleeps scarce a wink for all she lies there so
quiet, and, in the night, my man and I hear her talking to herself. "No,
no," she'll say. "I've gone past. I must be getting back to the start."
Or, another time, "This is it, now. If I could be stopping!"'
'And what do you think she is colloguing about?'
'There's no telling. Himself does be saying it's in an elevator she is,
but that's because he puts in the day churning up and down in one of the
same. What else can you expect? 'Tis nothing but "Going up! going down!"
with him all night as it is. Betune the two of them they have me fair
destroyed with their traveling. "Are you lacking anything, Aunt
Margaret?" I call out to her. "I am not," she answers, impatient-like.
"Don't be ever fussing and too-ing, will you?"
'Tch! tch!'
'And do you suppose the children are a comfort to her? Sorra bit. Just a
look at them and she wants to be alone. "Take them away, let you," says
she, shutting her eyes. "The others is realer."'
'And you think she's in her right mind all the same?'
'I do. 'Tis just something she likes to be thinking over--something
she's fair dotty about. Why, it's the same when Father Flint is here.
Polite and riverintial at the first, then impatient, and, if the poor
man doesn't be taking the hint, she just closes up shop and off again
into her whimsies. You'd swear she was in fear of missing something?'
The visitor, being a young wife, had an explanation to hazard. 'If she
was a widow woman, now, or married--perhaps she had a liking for
somebody once. Perhaps she might be trying to imagine them young days
over again. Do you think could it be that?'
Anna shook her head. 'My mother used to say she was a born old maid. All
_she_ wanted was work and saving her bit of money, and to church every
minute she could be sparing.'
'Still, you can't be telling. 'Tis often that kind weeps sorest when
'tis too late. My own old aunt used to cry, "If I could be twenty-five
again, wouldn't I do different!"'
'Maybe, maybe, though I doubt could it be so.'
Nor was it so. The old woman, lying back so quietly among her pillows,
with closed eyes, yet with that look of singular intentness and
concentration, was seeking no lover of her youth; though, indeed, she
had had one once, and from time to time he did enter her revery, try as
she would to prevent him. At that point, she always made the singular
comment, 'Gone past! I must be getting back to the beginning,' and,
pressing back into her earliest consciousness, she would remount the
flooding current of the years. Each time, she hoped to get
further,--though remoter shapes were illusive, and, if approached too
closely, vanished,--for, once embarked on her river of memories, the
descent was relentlessly swift. How tantalizing that swiftness! However
she yearned to linger, she was rushed along till, all too soon, she
sailed into the common light of day. At that point, she always put
about, and laboriously recommenced the ascent.
To-day, something her niece had said about Donnybrook Fair--for Anna,
too, was a child of the old sod--seemed to swell out with a fair wind
the sails of her visionary bark. She closed her mind to all familiar
shapes and strained back--way, way back, concentrating all her powers in
an effort of will. For a bit she seemed to hover in populous space. This
did not disturb her; she had experienced the same thing before. It
simply meant that she had mounted pretty well up to the fountain-head.
The figures, when they did come, would be the ones she most desired.
At last, they began to take shape, tenuously at first, then of fuller
body, each bringing its own setting, its own atmospheric
suggestion--whether of dove-feathered Irish cloud and fresh greensward,
sudden downpour, or equally sudden clearing, with continual leafy drip,
drip, drip, in the midst of brilliant sunshine.
For Margaret O'Brien, ardent summer sunlight seemed suddenly to pervade
the cool, orderly little bed-chamber. Then, 'Here she is!' and a wee
girl of four danced into view, wearing a dress of pink print, very tight
at the top and very full at the bottom. She led the way to a tiny new
house whence issued the cheery voice of hammers. Lumber and tools were
lying round; from within came men's voices. The small girl stamped up
the steps and looked in. Then she made for the narrow stair.
'Where's Margaret gone to?' said one of the men. 'The upper floor's not
finished. It's falling through the young one will be.'
'Peggy!' called the older man. 'Come down here with you.'
There was a delighted squeal. The pink dress appeared at the head of the
stairs. 'Oh, the funny little man, daddy! Such a funny little old man
with a high hat! Come quick, let you, and see him.'
The two men ran to the stairs.
'Where is he?'
She turned back and pointed. Then her face fell. 'Gone! the little man
is gone!'
Her father laughed and picked her up in his arms. 'How big was he, Peg?
As big as yourself, I wonder?'
'No, no! Small.'
'As big as the baby?'