ADVENTURES AT FARMER ANDERSON’S.
Peggy, notwithstanding the strangeness of her lot, slept softly and
soundly in that delicious bed. Never before had she known the cool,
delightful feel of fine linen sheets, never before had her curly head
reposed on a pillow of down. She slept, and in her sleep Molly and
Jessie stole softly into the room to look at her. Shading a candle, they
bent forward, and certainly their present view of the little face was
all that was charming. Not a trace of lack of refinement could be
perceived in those delicate features, those long, curly black lashes,
the true symbol of an Irish girl, and the well-formed, sensitive little
red mouth.
“Oh, we’ll win her yet!” whispered Molly. “And she’s worth winning,” she
added; “she’s a perfect darling.”
Even Jessie was silent with regard to the Irish child while the guardian
angel of sleep protected her.
But when Peggy awoke the next morning matters were very different. She
awoke early, as was her habit in Old Ireland. The stable clock had
struck four when she opened her eyes and stared about her. She had been
dreaming of the little old homestead and the hins and the turkeys—wasn’t
Colleen Bawn going to bring out her clutch of eggs that very mortal day?
“Twenty fluffy, downy chicks, as sure as I’m alive,” whispered Peggy;
and then she sat up in bed and stared around her. How far off—oh how far
off!—was Colleen Bawn and her brood of little yellow chicks; how far
away were the rest of the hins, and the pigeens—bless ’em—and the little
turkey poults, and the—the—oh all the home-things! What right had she,
Peggy Desmond, to be here, in this awful grand room, for all the world
like a palace fit for a king? How hateful was this soft white bed to one
accustomed to sleep on feathers, it is true, but with the coarsest
sheets and with the roughest blankets? And what right, for that matter,
had she to be in bed at all, at all, at this hour, instead of up and
busy? At home, wouldn’t her work come handy to her—cows to milk, calves
to cosset, lambs to pet, and all the other creatures to supply with
their breakfast? “Oh wurra me!” thought Peggy, “whativer’ll they do
widout me at all? Why, me grandma, she ain’t got the strength enough to
rise with the lark; it’s ‘Peggy mavourneen,’ she’ll be callin’ for an’
there’ll be niver a Peggy mavourneen to listen. Oh but I can’t stand
this, I can’t! And be the powers, what’s more! I’ll get up and dress me
anyhow. Then I’ll get out. Maybe there’ll be a hin or a cock or a bit ov
a wee calf for me to pet. I suppose they have a back yard. I’ll make for
it an’ see what sort o’ place they kape. Wouldn’t me heart light up if I
saw a big dirty pigeen?”
Accordingly Peggy put on her clothes. Their newness and softness drew
scornful remarks from her lips and anger from her heart. “Why, to glory
now, what do I want wid the likes of thim? It’s a morshial shame to
waste the good money on thim when ye can buy unbleached calico for
threepence a yard.”
But as Peggy had nothing else to wear she was forced to resort to the
soft clothing which had been purchased for her in London the day before;
and, finally, dressed in a little dark-blue serge skirt and a white
muslin blouse, she opened the French windows and stepped out. She found
herself on a part of the roof, which did not trouble her much, for she
was accustomed to climbing anywhere, and after some slight difficulty
she managed to spring into the welcoming arms of an old yew-tree, and
from thence to descend to the ground. The cool fresh morning air revived
her and raised her spirits; but, try as she would, she could nohow
manage to get into the back yard, for the simple reason that it was not
as yet open, the workmen not arriving until six o’clock.
Peggy sat down on a garden bench and looked around her. This was the
first time she had had any sense of liberty since her arrival. As long
as she was travelling with Mr. Wyndham she was nothing more nor less
than a prisoner; a prisoner surrounded by hateful luxury, it is true,
but still a prisoner. What she specially disliked in her present
surroundings was that sense of belonging to some one else, that sense of
being a prisoner. At home she could do exactly what she liked, the
O’Flynns never dreaming of interfering with their darling; but here all
was different. If she could retain her liberty she might in the end work
her way back to Ireland, and be once again a happy Kerry girl in her
cabin home. She thought and thought, and the more dazzling did the
prospect of liberty appear in her eyes. Presently she stole her hand
into her pocket, and to her relief and pleasure found that she was the
proud possessor of three shillings. Wyndham had given her the change the
day before, telling her that she might like to have the money to buy
stamps and such like things. Ah yes! but she would not waste it on
stamps. Was it not a nucleus which might be increased? To Peggy’s
ignorant little soul three shillings seemed a vast lot of money, and if
it were spent carefully it would go a long way. There was no doubt
whatever that Mr. Wyndham, kind gentleman though he was, and Mrs.
Wyndham, whom she did not take to at all, and Jessie, whom she
pronounced a foreigner out and out, and Molly, who was more to her
taste, but was also a foreigner, be the same token, all meant between
them, in some sort of fashion, to keep her prisoner. Now a prisoner she
would not remain, not while the good God had given her a strong pair of
legs, and there was liberty in the world. She made up her mind; she
would run away. There was no time like the present, “when all the
worruld of England seemed dead aslape, bad cess to it! But, be the same
token, this was the good-luck for her!”
She started from her seat, and, walking quickly, soon discovered a
stile, over which she mounted and got into a large meadow. Here some
bulls were feeding; there were three of them at least, and they all
raised their stout, stolid heads, and fixed their blinking little eyes
on the child. They had each of them a ring in his nose, and had short,
strong horns. Had the Wyndhams seen the bulls they would have rushed
screaming back into safety; but not so Peggy Desmond, she was no more
afraid of a bull than she was of a little bit of a heifer. Why should
she be at all, to be sure? She had put no hat on her curly head, and now
she stood still within an inviting range of the great beasts, looking
from one to the other with love and interest in her dark-blue eyes.
“Why thin, me darlin’s,” she called out, “is it lonely ye be, like
meself for all the wurrald? Ah wurra then, come along and let me pet ye!
Why thin, it’s home ye remind me of, and it’s the water to me eyes ye do
bring.”
It is a well-known fact that cows, and in especial bulls, are some of
the most absolutely curious creatures under the light of the sun; they
are, in short, at all times devoured with curiosity. To see a small
girl, therefore, standing calmly in their midst, and not running away
from them, as most small girls did, excited their curiosity to a painful
degree. They must investigate this person and find out what she was made
of, afterwards they could toss her or not just as the fancy took them.
Accordingly, bellowing slightly, and bending their heads, as was their
custom when after mischief, Farmer Anderson’s three fierce bulls came up
to examine that curiosity, Peggy Desmond. When they approached within
close reach of her, Peggy came up to the nearest, laid her hand on his
warm, soft red coat, said, “Ah thin, me darlin’, it’s mighty invitin’ ye
look;” and the next minute, laying hold of one of his short horns, she
sprang on his back, crept up toward his forehead, and began to pat him
between his horns, calling him endearing names and keeping her seat by
means of the horns. The beast gave an infuriated roar and rushed across
the field, his brothers following in an equal state of indignation.
Peggy patted, stroked, uttered endearing words, and by a sort of magic
kept her seat. The roar of the bull had been heard by Farmer Anderson,
whose house was quite close by; but when he appeared on the scene he, as
he afterwards expressed it, nearly died of the shock.
There was a pretty little strange girl seated on the back of Nimrod, who
was now going quietly about the field, having ceased to make any effort
to dislodge his unwelcome guest—or was she unwelcome any longer? Perhaps
her soft words and gentle, endearing expressions proved soothing rather
than otherwise to his turbulent spirit. Anyhow, he had ceased to attempt
to dislodge Peggy Desmond, who, laughing and singing, was thoroughly
enjoying her ride. The other two bulls were trotting after Nimrod, who
went round and round the great field a little faster each time.
Farmer Anderson stood as one stunned. “For the Lord’s sake, get down,
missy!” he shouted, “get down this minute, or Nimrod will bait you!”
But the dark-blue Irish eyes of Peggy looked calmly at Farmer Anderson.
She turned Nimrod by giving one of his horns a tug, and rode up to his
master.
“I’m likin’ me ride intirely,” she said; “and whatever’s the matter wid
ye? I’m doin’ no harm to the baste.”
“But the beast will do harm to you. Here, off you get! The Lord preserve
us, never did I see such a sight in the whole course of my life!”
As he spoke, the farmer, who was a big, burly man, lifted Peggy to the
ground, drove the bulls to the other side of the field, and taking the
girl’s hand led her into a narrow lane which happened to be an approach
to his own house.
“For the Lord’s sake tell me what you have been doing with my bull!” he
exclaimed.
“Why thin, it’s only a ride I was takin’ on him,” said Peggy.
“A ride on a bull! Wherever were you riz, girl?”
“In Ireland, sure, yer honour; we ain’t afeard of bulls in Ould
Ireland.”
“So I should say. You’re an uncommonly brave lass, you might have been
killed.”
“Not me. ’Tain’t any animal under the sun as ’u’d injure me. I’ve a
heart inside of me, ye see, to love thim all.”
The man looked at her attentively. “Whoever be you?” he said. “Your face
is strange to me.”
“Ah well, and that’s likely enough. I’m Peggy Desmond. I come from a
cabin in Ireland, County Kerry, as pretty a spot as ye could find on the
face of the globe.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“Nothing but killing meself wid grief.”
“I suppose you did want to kill yourself, and that’s why you got on
Nimrod’s back.”
“No, when I want really to kill meself I won’t go to Nimrod. I’m lookin’
out for a little bit of a place; do ye happen to know, sor, anyone who
would take a young girl who was accustomed to feeding hins and looking
afther the farm-work all by her lonesome? I can give a fine character of
meself from Mr. and Mrs. O’Flynn in County Kerry. You wouldn’t be
thinkin’ ov wanting wan like me, sor? I’d take small wages at first, and
I’d do yer biddin’, you’d find me rare an’ useful. I can’t help me
brogue, yer honour; but I’ve an honest heart, an’ I’ll work faithful and
long.”
“I should say you were accustomed to farm life,” said the man,
“otherwise you couldn’t possibly have ventured to mount Nimrod; but as
to your coming to us as servant—why now, you aren’t dressed like a
servant.”
“Oh for the Lord’s sake don’t mind me dress, yer honour. I’ve as nate a
little frock in me bit of a box as you could find. This is me best
Sunday-go-to-meetin’ frock, sor, an’ ef I’m to lose a good place because
of me dress, why, wurra, I don’t know how I’ll live, at all, at all!”
The man stared at the girl in perplexity. Her voice, her accent, what
she had done with regard to Nimrod, all seemed to speak to the truth of
her words. But she wore the dress of a lady. He had, of course, heard
nothing whatever with regard to the Wyndhams’ protégée; and, finally,
much puzzled, and knowing that he and his wife _did_ want just such a
sort of girl as Peggy professed herself to be, he took her hand and led
her toward the big farm-kitchen.
“You’ve a nice little bit of a boreen here,” said Peggy, as they walked
along.
“What are you calling it?”
“Boreen, just where we are standing now.”
“But we call that a lane in England.”
“Well, it’s a boreen in Ireland. I’m right glad ye’re takin’ me on.”
“I don’t say so for a minute, but I’ll speak to the missis about you.”
The “missis” was busy “scalding,” as she called it, a great dish of hot
meal for the fowls. She was a stout, red-faced woman, an excellent wife
of a farmer. As the farmer and Peggy entered the kitchen the dish, an
enormous one, nearly slipped from her hand, and a little bit of the very
hot meal scalded her fingers. In one instant Peggy had rushed up and
nipped the dish from her.
“Why, ma’am, for mercy’s sake, don’t hould it like that; ye’ll get
yerself scalded all to nothing! Let me go out an’ feed the hins. I’d
love to be at it!”
“Who in the world is the child?” asked the astonished woman; but Peggy
did not wait for any explanations with regard to her whereabouts or who
she was. With that dish of hot, comforting food in her arm, she was once
again back at Ballyshannon, as she called her home in the County Kerry;
once again the sniff of the warm meal assailed her nostrils, her
dark-blue eyes sparkled with ecstasy, and she ran into the yard and made
a peculiar shout to the fowls, the unmistakable shout which every highly
respectable fowl in the whole of Christendom understands, the shout
which means food, and nothing but food. They surrounded her in a
trice—geese, ducks, hens, chickens, turkeys. With the utmost carefulness
and the most splendid genius, she arranged her food, giving the fierce
gobblers the coarse bits, and reserving the dainty morsels for the
little chickens and the small “hins,” as she called them. The farmer and
the farmer’s wife watched her from the door of the house.
“I never did!” said the farmer. “If you believe me, Mary Ann, I might
have been cut in two by a knife at that minute, to see her sitting as
cool as brass on the back of Nimrod, with no more fear than if she were
sitting in the easy-chair by the fire! And now look at her with those
fowls. Whoever on earth is she? She’s more like a fairy than a girl.”
“We must find out who she is. She’s too well-dressed to belong to us,
and yet she’s the very gal after my own heart,” said the farmer’s wife.
“I want a hearty, clever, natty sort of creature who’ll do her work in a
jiff without having to be told anything.”
Peggy, having got the fowls quite satisfied with their breakfast, now
came up glibly. “Where’s the milkin’-pails?” she asked.
“Why, you bit of a girl, you can’t milk cows,” said the farmer, laughing
as he spoke.
“Can’t I? You try me.”
“Well, we’re a hand short this morning, and twenty cows to be milked,”
said the farmer’s wife. “You can go along to the sheds. I’m quite
certain that Tom and Sam will be glad of your help.”
Tom and Sam were exceedingly glad of the help of Peggy Desmond. What
wonderful knack was there in those slim little fingers! The most
troublesome cows, those who, as a rule, knocked over the pail, were as
good and quiet as mice under her gentle manipulations, and what a lot of
delicious, frothy milk she got them to yield to her gentle touch! The
farmer and his wife regarded her as a perfect treasure.
“I wish we knew who she is. If she is respectable-like we could keep her
until the hay harvest and the wheat harvest are over,” said the farmer.
“We could, for sure,” said the farmer’s wife. “Well, anyhow, she has
earned her breakfast.”
It was now past six o’clock. The farmer’s wife went into the kitchen.
She put a frying-pan on the fire, cut great slices of bacon, broke in
about a dozen eggs, and began to fry.
“Come, you want your breakfast,” she said to the girl. “You milked right
well, I will say. I never saw a neater touch.”
“To be sure, ma’am, an’ why shouldn’t it be?”
“You must be hungry for your breakfast.”
“Oh there’s no hurry, bless ye, ma’am! Shall I lay the table for ye?”
“I don’t mind if you do, but you won’t be able to find the things.”
“I tell you what would be better. You let me attend to that fry on the
fire, an’ you lay the breakfast. Yes, I’m a bit hungry, no doubt ov
that, at all, at all.”
“You come from Ireland the farmer says.”
“That same I do, ma’am.”
“You must be glad to be in a decent, respectable country like England.”
“Is it me!” almost screamed Peggy. “Dacent, respectable! that’s all you
know. Ma’am, if ye want to bring the water from me eyes an’ to torture
me broken heart ye’ll spake like that ov Ould Ireland!”
“I don’t want to do that, of course, child.”
The meal was cooked to a turn, the farmer, his wife, and the upper
farm-servants sat around the board. Peggy enjoyed herself vastly, and
her spirits rose.
But when the meal had come to an end, the farmer’s wife said, “Now, I
want a word or two all by myself with you.”
“Yes, ma’am, right you be!”
“Well, first of all, tell me your name.”
“Oh whisht! ma’am, what a short memory the Almighty has given you!
Didn’t I say Peggy Desmond a score ov times?”
“Perhaps you did; but where are you living, Peggy Desmond?”
“At the back of beyont.”
“I never heard of that place. Where is it?”
“I can’t tell ye more than that. ’Tain’t far off, an’ yet it’s a good
way off.”
“Have you any one belonging to you in the place?”
“Niver a sowl, an’ that’s the truth I’m telling ye. I was torn from thim
as I loved, an’ I lived last night at the back of beyont, and here I be;
an’ if ye’ll take me I’ll work for ye for next to nothing. I want to
earn a few shillings to go back again to thim I love. I ain’t demented
or anything of that sort; but I’m sore, sore at heart. Me roots have
been torn up, an’ they’re bleeding all the time, only nothing on earth
comforts them like feedin’ the fowls an’ milking the cows an’ runnin’
about in yer farmyard.”
“Well, to be sure,” said the woman, “you’re about the queerest child I
ever heard of; you certainly don’t look mad, but you speak as if you
were. At the back of beyont! What on earth do you mean?”
“It’s the way we have ov speakin’ in Ireland, ma’am. You can’t blame me
for having the manners of me counthry.”
“Well, I’ll keep you for to-day, and I’ll give you—let me see—a shilling
a day and your meals.”
“Oh ma’am, may the Lord Almighty bless ye for ever and ever!”
The girl sprang forward, fell on her knees, clasped Mrs. Anderson’s
hand, and pressed it to her lips.