"BEYOND TH' MEADOWS AN' TH' CLOUDS"
When the bill-boards announced that I was to deliver a lecture on
"England in the Soudan" in the only hall in the town, Antrim turned out
to satisfy its curiosity. "How doth this man know, not having learned,"
the wise ones said, for when I shook the dust of its blessed streets
from my brogues seven years previously I was an illiterate.
Anna could have told them, but none of the wise knew her, for curiously
enough to those who knew of her existence, but had never seen her, she
was known as "Jamie's wife." Butchers and bakers and candlestick makers
were there; several ministers, some quality, near quality, the
inhabitants of the entries in the "Scotch quarter" and all the newsboys
in town. The fact that I personally bribed the newsboys accounted for
their presence. I bought them out and reserved the front seats for them.
It was in the way of a class reunion with me. Billy O'Hare had gone
beyond--where there are no chimneys, and Ann where she could keep clean:
they were both dead. Many of the old familiar faces were absent, they
too had gone--some to other lands, some to another world. Jamie was
there. He sat between Willie Withero and Ben Baxter. He heard little of
what was said and understood less of what he heard. The vicar, Mr.
Holmes, presided. There was a vote of thanks, followed by the customary
seconding by public men, then "God save the Queen," and I went home to
tell Anna about it.
Jamie took one arm and Withero clung to the other.
"Jamie!" shouted Withero in a voice that could be heard by the crowd
that followed us, "d'ye mind th' first time I seen ye wi' Anna?"
"Aye, 'deed I do!"
"Ye didn't know it was in 'er, did ye, Jamie?"
"Yer a liar, Willie; I know'd frum th' minute I clapped eyes on 'er that
she was th' finest wuman on God's futstool!"
"Ye can haave whativer benefit ov th' doubt there is, Jamie, but jist
th' same any oul throllop can be a father, but by G-- it takes a rale
wuman t' be th' mother ov a rale maan! Put that in yer pipe an' smoke
it."
"He seems t' think," said Jamie, appealing to me, "that only quality can
projuce fine childther!"
"Yer spakin' ov clothes, Jamie; I'm spakin' ov mind, an' ye wor behind
th' doore whin th' wor givin' it out, but begorra, Anna was at th' head
ov th' class, an' that's no feerie story, naither, is it, me bhoy?"
At the head of Pogue's entry, Bob Dougherty, Tommy Wilson, Sam
Manderson, Lucinda Gordon and a dozen others stopped for a "partin'
crack."
The kettle was boiling on the chain. The hearth had been swept and a new
coat of whitening applied. There was a candle burning in her sconce and
the thin yellow rays lit up the glory on her face--a glory that was
encased in a newly tallied white cap. My sister sat on one side of the
fireplace and she on the other--in her corner. I did not wonder, I did
not ask why they did not make a supreme effort to attend the lecture--I
knew. They were more supremely interested than I was. They had never
heard a member of the family or a relative speak in public, and their
last chance had passed by. There they were, in the light of a peat fire
and the tallow dip, supremely happy.
The neighbors came in for a word with Anna. They filled the space. The
stools and creepies were all occupied.
"Sit down, Willie," my father said. "Take a nice cushioned chair an' be
at home." Withero was leaning against the table. He saw and was equal to
the joke.
"Whin nature put a pilla on maan, it was intinded fur t' sit on th'
groun', Jamie!" And down he sat on the mud floor.
"It's th' proud wuman ye shud be th' night," Marget Hurll said, "an
Misther Armstrong it was that said it was proud th' town shud be t' turn
out a boy like him!"
Withero took his pipe out of his mouth and spat in the ashes--as a
preface to a few remarks.
"Aye," he grunted, "I cocked m' ears up an' dunched oul Jamie whin
Armshtrong said that. Jamie cudn't hear it, so I whispered t' m'self,
'Begorra, if a wee fella turns _up_ whin Anthrim turns 'im out it's
little credit t' Anthrim I'm thinkin'!'"
Anna laughed and Jamie, putting his hand behind his ear, asked:
"What's that--what's that?"
The name and remarks of the gentleman who seconded the vote of thanks
were repeated to him.
"Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed as he slapped me on the knee. "Well, well,
well, if that wudn't make a brass monkey laugh!"
"Say," he said to me, "d'ye mind th' night ye come home covered wi'
clabber--"
"Whisht!" I said, as I put my mouth to his ear. "I only want to mind
that he had three very beautiful daughters!"
"Did ye iver spake t' aany o' thim?" Jamie asked.
"Yes."
"Whin?"
"When I sold them papers."
"Ha, ha, a ha'penny connection, eh?"
"It's betther t' mind three fine things about a maan than wan mean
thing, Jamie," Anna said.
"If both o' ye's on me I'm bate," he said.
"Stop yer palaver an' let's haave a story ov th' war wi' th' naygars in
Egypt," Mrs. Hurll said.
"Aye, that's right," one of the Gainer boys said. "Tell us what th'
queen give ye a medal fur!"
They wanted a story of blood, so I smeared the tale red. When I finished
Anna said, "Now tell thim, dear, what ye tuk th' shillin' fur!"
"You tell them, mother."
"Ye tuk it t' fight ignorance an' not naygars, didn't ye?"
"Yes, but that fight continues."
"Aye, with you, but--"
"Ah, never mind, mother, I have taken it up where you laid it down, and
long after--" that was far as I got, for Jamie exploded just then and
said:
"Now get t' h--l home, ivery wan o' ye, an' give 's a minute wi' 'im
jist for ourselves, will ye?"
He said it with laughter in his voice and it sounded in the ears of
those present as polite and pleasing as anything in the domain of their
amenities.
They arose as one, all except Withero, and he couldn't, for Jamie
gripped him by a leg and held him on the floor just as he sat.
In their good-night expressions the neighbors unconsciously revealed
what the lecture and the story meant to them. Summed up it meant, "Sure
it's jist wondtherful ye warn't shot!"
When we were alone, alone with Withero, Mary "wet" a pot of tea and
warmed up a few farrels of fadges! and we commenced. Little was said,
but feeling ran high. It was like a midnight mass. Anna was silent, but
there were tears, and as I held her in my arms and kissed them away
Jamie was saying to Withero:
"Ye might take 'im fur a dandther out where ye broke whin we first met
ye, Willie!"
"Aye," Willie said, "I'm m' own gaffer, I will that."
I slept at Jamie Wallace's that night, and next morning took the
"dandther" with Withero up the Dublin road, past "The Mount of
Temptation" to the old stone-pile that was no longer a pile, but a hole
in the side of the road. It was a sentimental journey that gave Willie a
chance to say some things I knew he wanted to say.
"D'ye mind the pirta sack throusers Anna made ye onct?"
"Yes, what of them?"
"Did ye iver think ye cud git used t' aanything if ye wor forced t'
haave nothin' else fur a while?"
"What's the point, Willie?"
"Sit down here awhile an' I'll tell ye."
We sat down on the bank of the roadside. He took out his pipe, steel and
flint, filled his pipe and talked as he filled.
"Me an' Jamie wor pirta sack people, purty damned rough, too, but yer Ma
was a piece ov fine linen frum th' day she walked down this road wi' yer
Dah till this minit whin she's waitin' fur ye in the corner. Ivery
Sunday I've gone in jist t' hai a crack wi' 'er an' d' ye know, bhoy, I
got out o' that crack somethin' good fur th' week. She was i' hell on
sayin' words purcisely, but me an' Jamie wor too thick, an' begorra she
got used t' pirta sack words herself, but she was i' fine linen jist th'
same.
"Wan day she says t' me, 'Willie,' says she, 'ye see people through
dirty specs.' 'How's that?' says I. 'I don't know,' says she, 'fur I
don't wear yer specs, but I think it's jist a poor habit ov yer mind.
Aych poor craither is made up ov some good an' much that isn't s' good,
an' ye see only what isn't s' good!'
"Thin she towld m' somethin' which she niver towld aanyone else, 'cept
yer Dah, ov coorse. 'Willie,' says she, 'fur twenty years I've seen th'
Son ov Maan ivery day ov m' life!'
"'How's that?' says I.
"'I've more'n seen 'm. I've made tay fur 'im, an' broth on Sunday. I've
mended 'is oul duds, washed 'is dhirty clothes, shuk 'is han', stroked
'is hair an' said kind words to 'im!'
"'God Almighty!' says I, 'yer goin' mad, Anna!' She tuk her oul Bible
an' read t' me these words; I mind thim well:
"'Whin ye do it t' wan o' these craithers ye do it t' me!'
"Well, me bhoy, I thunk an' I thunk over thim words an' wud ye believe
it--I begun t' clane m' specs. Wan day th' 'Dummy' came along t' m'
stone-pile. Ye mind 'er, don't ye?" (The Dummy was a harlot, who lived
in the woods up the Dublin road in summer, and Heaven only knows where
in winter.)
"Th' Dummy," Willie continued, "came over t' th' pile an' acted purty
gay, but says I, 'Dummy, if there's anythin' I kin give ye I'll give it,
but there's nothin' ye kin give me!'
"'Ye break stones fur a livin',' says she.
"'Aye,' says I.
"'What wud ye do if ye wor a lone wuman an' cudn't get nothin' at all t'
do?'
"'I dunno,' says I.
"'I don't want to argufy or palaver wi' a dacent maan,' says she, 'but
I'm terrible hungry.'
"'Luk here,' says I, 'I've got a dozen pirtas I'm goin' t' roast fur m'
dinner. I'll roast thim down there be that gate, an' I'll lave ye six
an' a dhrink ov butthermilk. Whin ye see m' lave th' gate ye'll know yer
dinner's ready.'
"'God save ye,' says she, 'may yer meal barrel niver run empty an' may
yer bread foriver be roughcasted wi' butther!'
"I begun t' swither whin she left. Says I, 'Withero, is yer specs clane?
Kin ye see th' Son ov Maan in th' Dummy?' 'Begorra, I dunno,' says I t'
m'self. I scratched m' head an' swithered till I thought m' brains wud
turn t' stone.
"Says I t' m'self at last, 'Aye, 'deed there must be th' spark there
what Anna talks about!' Jist then I heard yer mother's voice as plain as
I hear m' own now at this minute--an' what d'ye think Anna says?"
"I don't know, Willie."
"'So ye haave th' Son ov Maan t' dinner th' day?' 'Aye,' says I.
"'An' givin' 'im yer lavins!'
"It was like a piece ov stone cuttin' the ball ov m' eye. It cut deep!
"I ran down th' road an' says I t' th' Dummy, 'I'll tie a rag on a stick
an' whin ye see m' wavin' it come an' take yer dinner an' I'll take
what's left!'
"I didn't wait fur no answer, but went and did what I shud.
"That summer whin she was hungry she hung an oul rag on th' thorn hedge
down be the wee plantain where she camped, and I answered be a rag on a
stick that she cud share mine and take hers first. One day I towld 'er
yer mother's story about th' Son ov Maan. It was th' only time I ever
talked wi' 'er. That winther she died in th' poorhouse and before she
died she sint me this." He pulled out of an inside pocket a piece of
paper yellow with age and so scuffed with handling that the scrawl was
scarcely legible:
_M Withero_
Stone breaker
Dublin Road
Antrim
"I seen Him in the ward last night and I'm content to go now. God save
you kindly.
THE DUMMY."
Withero having unburdened, we dandered down the road, through Masserene
and home.
I proposed to Anna a little trip to Lough Neagh in a jaunting car.
"No, dear, it's no use; I want to mind it jist as Jamie and I saw it
years an' years ago. I see it here in th' corner jist as plain as I saw
it then; forby Antrim wud never get over th' shock of seein' me in a
jauntin' car."
"Then I'll tell you of a shorter journey. You have never seen the
Steeple. It's the most perfect of all the Round Towers in Ireland and
just one mile from this corner. Now don't deny me the joy of taking you
there. I'll guide you over the strand and away back of the poorhouse,
out at the station, and then it's just a hundred yards or so!"
It took the combined efforts of Jamie, Withero, Mary and me to persuade
her, but she was finally persuaded, and dressed in a borrowed black
knitted cap and her wee Sunday shawl, she set out with us.
"This is like a weddin'," Jamie said, as he tied the ribbons under her
chin.
"Oh, it's worse, dear. It's a circus an' wake in wan, fur I'm about dead
an' he's turned clown for a while." In five minutes everybody in Pogue's
entry heard the news. They stood at the door waiting to have a look.
Matty McGrath came in to see if there was "aanythin'" she could do.
"Aye," Anna said, smiling, "ye can go over an' tell oul Ann Agnew where
I'm goin' so she won't worry herself t' death findin' out!"
"She won't see ye," Jamie said.
"She'd see a fly if it lit within a hundred yards of her!"
We went down the Kill entry and over the rivulet we called "the strand."
There were stepping stones in the water and the passage was easy. As we
crossed she said:
"Right here was th' first place ye ever came t' see th' sun dance on th'
water on Easter Sunday mornin'."
We turned to the right and walked by the old burying ground of the
Unitarian meeting-house and past Mr. Smith's garden. Next to Smith's
garden was the garden of a cooper--I think his name was Farren. "Right
here," I said, "is where I commited my first crime!"
"What was it?" she asked.
"Stealing apples!"
"Aye, what a townful of criminals we had then!"
We reached the back of the poorhouse. James Gardner was the master of
it, and "goin' t' Jamie Gardner" was understood as the last march of
many of the inhabitants of Antrim, beginning with "Totther Jack Welch,"
who was a sort of pauper _primus inter pares_ of the town.
As we passed the little graveyard, we stood and looked over the fence at
the little boards, all of one size and one pattern, that marked each
grave.
"God in Heaven!" she exclaimed, "isn't it fearful not to git rid of
poverty even in death!" I saw a shudder pass over her face and I turned
mine away.
Ten minutes later we emerged from the fields at the railway station.
"You've never seen Mr. McKillop, the station master, have you?" I asked.
"No."
"Let us wait here for a minute, we may see him."
"Oh, no, let's hurry on t' th' Steeple!" So on we hurried.
It took a good deal of courage to enter when we got there, for the
far-famed Round Tower of Antrim is _private property_. Around it is a
stone wall enclosing the grounds of an estate. The Tower stands near the
house of the owner, and it takes temerity in the poor to enter. They
seldom do enter, as a matter of fact, for they are not particularly
interested in archeology.
We timidly entered and walked up to the Tower.
"So that's th' Steeple!"
"Isn't it fine?"
"Aye, it's wondtherful, but wudn't it be nice t' take our boots off an'
jist walk aroun' on this soft nice grass on our bare feet?"
The lawn was closely clipped and as level as a billiard table. The trees
were dressed in their best summer clothing. Away in the distance we
caught glimpses of an abundance of flowers. The air was full of the
perfume of honeysuckle and sweet clover. Anna drank in the scenery with
almost childish delight.
"D'ye think heaven will be as nice?" she asked.
"Maybe."
"If it is, we will take our boots off an' sit down, won't we?" And she
laughed like a girl.
"If there are boots in the next world," I said, "there will be cobblers,
and you wouldn't want our old man to be a cobbler to all eternity?"
"You're right," she said, "nor afther spending seventy-five years here
without bein' able to take my boots off an' walk on a nice lawn like
this wud I care to spend eternity without that joy!"
"Do we miss what we've never had?"
"Aye, 'deed we do. I miss most what I've never had!"
"What, for instance?"
"Oh, I'll tell ye th' night when we're alone!"
We walked around the Tower and ventured once beneath the branches of a
big tree.
"If we lived here, d'ye know what I'd like t' do?"
"No."
"Jist take our boots off an' play hide and go seek--wudn't it be fun?"
I laughed loudly.
"Whisht!" she said. "They'll catch us if you make a noise!"
"You seem bent on getting your boots off!" I said laughingly. Her reply
struck me dumb.
"Honey," she said, so softly and looking into my eyes, "do ye realize
that I have never stood on a patch of lawn in my life before?"
Hand in hand we walked toward the gate, taking an occasional, wistful
glance back at the glory of the few, and thinking, both of us, of the
millions of tired feet that never felt the softness of a smooth green
sward.
At eight o'clock that night the door was shut _and barred_.
Jamie tacked several copies of the _Weekly Budget_ over the window and
we were alone.
We talked of old times. We brought back the dead and smiled or sighed
over them. Old tales, of the winter nights of long ago, were retold with
a new interest.
The town clock struck nine.
We sat in silence as we used to sit, while another sexton tolled off the
days of the month after the ringing of the curfew.
"Many's th' time ye've helter-skeltered home at th' sound of that bell!"
she said.
"Yes, because the sound of the bell was always accompanied by a vision
of a wet welt hanging over the edge of the tub!"
Jamie laughed and became reminiscent.
"D'ye mind what ye said wan time whin I bate ye wi' th' stirrup?"
"No, but I used to think a good deal more than I said."
"Aye, but wan time I laid ye across m' knee an' give ye a good
shtrappin', then stud ye up an' says I, 'It hurts me worse than it hurts
ye, ye divil!'
"'Aye,' says you, 'but it dizn't hurt ye in th' same place!'
"I don't remember, but from time immemorial boys have thought and said
the same thing."
"D'ye mind when _I_ bate ye?" Anna asked with a smile.
"Yes, I remember you solemnly promised Jamie you would punish me and
when he went down to Barney's you took a long straw and lashed me
fearfully with it!"
The town clock struck ten.
Mary, who had sat silent all evening, kissed us all good night and went
to bed.
I was at the point of departure for the New World. Jamie wanted to know
what I was going to do. I outlined an ambition, but its outworking was a
problem. It was beyond his ken. He could not take in the scope of it.
Anna could, for she had it from the day she first felt the movement of
life in me. It was unpretentious--nothing the world would call great.
"Och, maan, but that wud be th' proud day fur Anna if ye cud do it."
When the town clock struck eleven, Anna trembled.
"Yer cowld, Anna," he said. "I'll put on a few more turf."
"There's plenty on, dear; I'm not cold in my body."
"Acushla, m' oul hide's like a buffalo's or I'd see that ye want 'im t'
yerself. I'm off t' bed!"
We sat in silence gazing into the peat fire. Memory led me back down the
road to yesterday. She was out in the future and wandering in an unknown
continent with only hope to guide her. Yet we must get together, and
that quickly.
"Minutes are like fine gold now," she said, "an' my tongue seems glued,
but I jist must spake."
"We have plenty of time, mother."
"Plenty!" she exclaimed. "Every clang of th' town clock is a knife
cuttin' th' cords--wan afther another--that bind me t' ye."
"I want to know about your hope, your outlook, your religion," I said.
"Th' biggest hope I've ever had was t' bear a chile that would love
everybody as yer father loved me!"
"A sort of John-three-sixteen in miniature."
"Aye."
"The aim is high enough to begin with!"
"Not too high!"
"And your religion?"
"All in all, it's bein' kind an' lovin' kindness. _That_ takes in God
an' maan an' Pogue's entry an' th' world."
The town clock struck twelve. Each clang "a knife cutting a cord" and
each heavier and sharper than the last. Each one vibrating, tingling,
jarring along every nerve, sinew and muscle. A feeling of numbness crept
over me.
"That's the end of life for me," she said slowly. There was a pause,
longer and more intense than all the others.
"Maybe ye'll get rich an' forget."
"Yes, I shall be rich. I shall be a millionaire--a millionaire of love,
but no one shall ever take your place, dear!"
My overcoat served as a pillow. An old quilt made a pallet on the hard
floor. I found myself being pressed gently down from the low creepie to
the floor. I pretended to sleep. Her hot tears fell on my face. Her dear
toil-worn fingers were run gently through my hair. She was on her knees
by my side. The tender mysticism of her youth came back and expressed
itself in prayer. It was interspersed with tears and "Ave Maria!"
When the first streak of dawn penetrated the old window we had our last
cup of tea together and later, when I held her in a long, lingering
embrace, there were no tears--we had shed them all in the silence of
the last vigil. When I was ready to go, she stood with her arm on the
old yellow mantel-shelf. She was rigid and pale as death, but around her
eyes and her mouth there played a smile. There was a look ineffable of
maternal love.
"We shall meet again, mother," I said.
"Aye, dearie, I know rightly we'll meet, but ochanee, it'll be out there
beyond th' meadows an' th' clouds."