He was mother's factotum, big Tim Hargaton. I do not know how she could
have managed the farm without his clear head and sound judgment to
guide her. He had the name of being the closest hand at a bargain and
the best judge of a 'baste' in Innishowen; and I think he deserved it;
for mother very rarely lost upon her speculations in cattle, and our
animals were famed for their beauty. Tim was not wholly an Innishowen
man. By his mother's side he claimed descent from the Scottish settlers
of the opposite coast, and much of his cautiousness and shrewdness
could be traced to this infusion of kindly Scottish blood. We children
had rather an awe of Tim. He ruled the outer world of our homestead
with a rod of iron. Woe betide the delinquent who ventured into the
garden before the 'house' had been supplied with fruit for preserving!
Woe be to us if with profane hands we assaulted his beloved grapes or
ravaged his trim flower-beds! I daresay it was very good for us that
some one was set in authority over the garden and farm-yard, for we
were allowed quite enough freedom indoors, fatherless tomboys that we
were. But years passed by; one by one we grew to womanhood. I, the
eldest, left home first--to return first; more alone for having been
so happy, too happy for a little while. When I returned, a widow, the
younger birds had flown from the nest. Mother had no one left but me,
and she was growing old; so I cast in my own and my boy's lot with
her, and soon became thoroughly acquainted with Tim Hargaton. To him I
was 'the young mistress' or 'Miss Ellen;' and I own I felt often at a
disadvantage with him. His quiet knowledge of subjects I was utterly
ignorant of, his cool rejection of my farming theories, his almost
certain success in all his ventures, overawed me; and after a struggle
or two I gave in.
I think Tim must have been about forty at this time; but he looked many
years younger, being fair and tall and well made, and--a bachelor. He
had a merry twinkle in his gray eyes which almost contradicted the
firm-set mouth with its long upper lip and square massive chin; from
his half-Scotch mother he derived a close calculating disposition, hard
to convince, slow to receive new impressions, strong to retain them
when once received. From his father roving Pat Hargaton from Donegal,
he drew an Irishman's ready wit and nimble tongue, and under all an
Irishman's fickle heart, but not his warm affections, which go so far
towards amending the latter fault.
Another unusual thing amongst men of his class, he was well to do, and
having successfully speculated in cattle on his own account, he had
money in the bank and a snug cottage. Yet year after year, Shrove-tide
after Shrove-tide--the marrying season all over Roman Catholic
Ireland--found Tim rejoicing in single-blessedness; nor could he have
had a comfortable home, for his old mother was a confirmed invalid;
and as Tim was reported to be 'a trifle near,' he only afforded her
the services of a little girl scarcely in her teens. More than once
mother spoke to him about matrimony, and as often Tim met her with
the unanswerable argument: 'Is it as easy to peck for two as for one,
ma'am?' So she ceased bothering him about it.
Now it befell that one bright frosty November day I had despatched Tim
to the county town on very important business; and the better to assure
myself of the favourable issue of it, I walked to meet him on his
return. As the time of his return was overdue, I began to feel rather
uneasy, and quickened my steps along the winding sea-side road; but
a turn in it soon revealed the reason of Tim's delay. He was walking
beside a very pretty country lass; and another, not so young or nearly
so pretty, lagged a little behind.
'O ho, Master Tim!' I thought; 'are we to hear news of you this
Shrove-tide?'
As I came forward, the girls fell back, Tim hastening on to meet me.
He looked shy and sheepish enough as he advanced; and the pretty lass,
whom I at once recognised as Mary Dogherty, the acknowledged belle of
the barony, hung her shapely head in blushing confusion as she passed
me by.
Tim was all business and stolidity once the girls were out of sight.
He had lodged money for me in the county bank; settled my own and
mother's accounts with butcher, baker, and grocer; transacted all our
various businesses with care and correctness; and having given up his
accounts into my hands, he hurried on, whilst I continued my walk.
Twilight was falling when I returned home; but although more than an
hour had elapsed since Tim had preceded me on the road, he was just
entering the gate as I turned from the sea-road for the same purpose. I
made mother smile that evening when I told her of my encounter.
'But,' she said, 'poor little Mary has no fortune. Tim will look for
one with any girl _he_ marries.'
A few days afterwards Tim took me into his confidence. We were making
our winter arrangements in the green-house, putting away summer plants
whose flowering days were done, and filling up gaps in our shelves
with bright chrysanthemums and other winter-blooming plants. An hour
sufficed to weary mother at this work, so Tim and I were left alone
amongst the flowers. For some time he worked away in silence, but I
could easily see he was longing to speak, and so I determined to give
him an opportunity; but he forestalled me.
''Twas a fine day the day I was in Derry, Mrs Grace,' he said, as he
passed me carrying a huge coronella from one end of the greenhouse to
the other.
'It was indeed, Tim. Had you many people on board the steamer?' I
replied.
'No, ma'am; not to say very many. Them officer-gentlemen from the Fort.'
'Had you any of the people from about here?' I asked.
'Hugh Dogherty and his sister, and Susie Connor, ma'am.'
'Ah, you walked home with the girls. What became of Hugh?'
'Troth, ma'am, he just got overtaken with a drop of drink, and I
thought 'twas but friendly to see the girls home.'
'I am sorry to hear Hugh was so bad as that, Tim.'
'Well, sorra much was on him, Miss Ellen, but he was loath to quit Mrs
Galagher's when we got off the boat, so we just left him there.--Hem!
Miss Ellen, I'v a thought to change my life.'
'I am very glad to hear it, Tim.'
'Yes, miss' (Tim always forgot my matronly title in confidential
talk)--'yes, miss. 'Tis lonely work growing old with nobody to take
care of you.'
'That is a selfish way of looking at things, Tim,' I replied.
'Begorra, miss, what else would a man marry for but to have himself
took care of?'
'I suppose liking the girl he married would be a kind of reason too,' I
responded.
'O ay. I'd still like to have the one I'd fancy, if she was handy.'
'And who are you thinking of?' I asked, as Tim bent over a box of
geranium cuttings. 'I hope she is nice and good, and will be kind to
your poor mother, and a good manager?'
'Faith, I wouldn't take one that wasn't that, Miss Ellen,' he replied,
without raising his head. 'But it's hard to tell how these young
ones'll turn out.'
'She is young then?'
'Young enough, and settled enough,' he responded. 'There's _two_ I'm
thinkin' of.'
'Two!' I exclaimed. 'Why, that is not right of you, Tim. You are surely
old enough to know the kind of wife would suit you best; and it is
unfair to the girls. They are relatives, if I guess right. Those two
young women you were walking with on Saturday?'
'Just so,' replied Tim, utterly unabashed: 'Mary Dogherty an' Susie
Connor. Mary's the _purtiest_,' he added in a half soliloquy.
'I have always heard she was as good as she looked,' I said. 'She has
been such a dutiful daughter and good sister to those wild boys, she
cannot fail to make a good wife.'
'Maybe,' quoth Tim. 'But the Dogherties is down in the world these
times.'
'I know they are not very rich; but they are comfortable.'
'They aren't begging, miss, axing your pardon; but musha! it's little
softness there's about the house.'
'Well, suppose she has known what it is to want, she will know better
how to take care of plenty, when she gets it.'
'Troth, I don't know. Maybe when she'd get her two hands full she'd be
throwin' away, for them that's reared in poverty seldom knows how to
guide plenty when it comes.'
'Well, I have always heard Mary extolled for being the prettiest and
the best girl in Innishowen; and I am sure you may think yourself a
happy man if you can get her for your wife,' I said rather sharply.
'Sorra word a lie in that, Miss Ellen,' replied Tim, as he placed the
last young geranium in its pot. 'She's a good girl, and as purty a one
as you'd see in a summer's day; but I'm thinkin' I'll step up an' see
them all before I _spake_ to her.'
'Why, Tim, have things gone so far as that?'
'Well, I may say I have her courted up to the axin, miss.'
'And the other, Tim?' I asked, intensely amused.
'Troth, I don't know, but I have her on hands too.'
'Now, is that fair to either?' I asked rather indignantly.
'Begorra, I don't know. A man has to look before him sharp.'
'And who is the other? Mary's cousin?'
'Yes, miss--long Tom Connor's daughter, from Shruve. She's up with Mary
since Holly-eve. Hudie's lookin' after her.'
'She's no beauty, Tim.'
'No, miss; but she's settled. They do say she's a trifle coarse in the
temper; but she has the finest two-year-old heifer ever I set my eyes
on. A pure beauty, Miss Ellen.'
'And what good would the cow be to you, Tim, if you had a sour
cross-grained wife at home?'
'Maybe she wouldn't be sour or cross when she'd have a good house over
her head an' plenty. She's gettin old, Miss Ellen, and she sees the
young ones comin' on, an' her left. There'd be a quare change in her if
she had her own way.'
'You seem to think more of the cow than the girl, Tim!' I retorted.
'Troth, it's the purtiest av the two. But miss, I'm sayin', what would
you advise me?'
'Marry the girl you like best, Tim; never mind the cow. A young
sweet-tempered girl like Mary, who has been so good to her sickly
father and mother, so gentle and loving to those wild brothers, cannot
fail to make a good wife. You will never be sorry, if you marry the
girl you like best.'
'True for you, ma'am--true for you. She is a good girl, an' I'm
nigh-hand sure I like her beyant any woman in the world; but Miss
Ellen, I'd wish she had the cow!'
Next day I left home, nor did I return until the daffodils were
glittering in the springing meadows around our home, and the rooks
cawing over their fledglings in the woods behind our garden. Tim was
married. I had heard that from mother early in the year; but upon which
fair maid his choice had fallen, I was still uncertain. It was late at
night when I returned from my travels, and mother had far too much to
talk of to tell me the termination of Tim's courtship.
In the morning, I took my way into the garden, the farm-yard, the
fields lying close by; but Tim was not to be seen; nor did I encounter
him until late in the afternoon, when I discovered him busily trenching
up some early cabbages in the back-garden. He seemed rather shy of me;
but I put out my hand and greeted him kindly.
'You're welcome home, Mrs Grace, ma'am,' he said, striking his spade
into the fresh-turned earth, and shaking the hand I gave him with more
than ordinary warmth. 'We were thinking very long to have got you back.'
'Thank you, Tim. So I have to wish you joy.'
Tim looked sheepish, but speedily recovered himself. 'Yes, ma'am, if
joy it be.'
'Oh, there can be no doubt on that score, Tim. I hope Mary is well?'
'Mary? Is it Mary Dogherty? Why, she's spoke of with Lanty Maguire that
owns the ferry.'
'Why, I thought you were going to marry Mary, Tim?'
'Well, no, Miss Ellen, I did not. I b'lieve her an' Lanty was cried
Sunday was eight days.'
'And what made you change your mind, Tim?'
'Well, I just took Susie; for you see, Miss Ellen, I judged a cow would
make the differ betwixt any two women in the world.'
So after all, the cow carried the day!