The fair-weather promise of the crimson sunset was not kept. The
morning broke bloodshot and threatening, with dark, jagged storm-clouds
scudding angrily across the sky, and a truculent unrest moving the
waters of the bay to lash out at the rocks, and snarl in rising murmurs
among themselves.
Every soul in Muirisc came soon enough to share this disquietude with
the elements. Such evil tidings as these, that The O’Mahony was quitting
the country, seemed veritably to take to themselves wings. The village,
despite the fact that the fishing season had not yet arrived, and that
there was nothing else to do, could not lie abed on such a morning, much
less sleep. Even the tiniest children, routed out from their nests
of straw close beside the chimney by the unwonted bustle, saw that
something was the matter.
Mrs. Fergus O’Mahony heard the intelligence at a somewhat later hour,
even as she dallied with that second cup of coffee, which, in her
own phrase, put a tail to the breakfast. It was brought to her by a
messenger from the convent, who came to say that the Ladies of the
Hostage’s Tears desired her immediate presence upon an urgent matter.
Mrs. Fergus easily enough put two and two together, as she donned her
bonnet and _broché_ shawl. It was The O’Mahony’s departure that was to
be discussed, and the nuns were right in calling _that_ important. She
looked critically over the irregular walls of the castle, as she passed
it on her way to the convent. Here she had been born; here she had lived
in peace and plenty, after her brother’s death, until the heir from
America came to turn her out. Who knew? Perhaps she was to go back
again, after all. Mrs. Fergus agreed that the news was highly important.
The first glance which she threw about her, after she had been ushered
in the reception-hall, revealed to her that not even she had guessed the
full importance of what was toward.
The three nuns sat on their accustomed bench at one side of the fire,
and behind them, in his familiar chimney-corner, palsied old Father
Harrington lolled and half-dozed over the biscuit he was nibbling to
stay his stomach after mass. At the table, before a formidable array of
papers, was seated Cormac O’Daly, and at his side sat the person whose
polite name seemed to be Diarmid MacEgan, but whom Muirisc knew and
delighted in as Jerry. Mrs. Fergus made a mental note of surprise at
seeing him seated in such company, and then carried her gaze on to cover
the principal personage in the room. It was The O’Mahony, looking very
grave and preoccupied, and who stood leaning against the chimney-mantel
like a proprietor, who welcomed her with a nod and motioned her to a
seat.
It was he, too, who broke the silence which solemnly enveloped the
conference.
“Cousin Maggie,” he said, in explanation, to her, “we’ve got together
this little family party so early in the mornin’ for the reason that
time is precious. I’m goin’ away--for my health--in an hour or two, an’
there are things to be arranged before I go. I may be away for years;
maybe I sha’n’t ever come back.”
“Sure the suddenness of it’s fit to take one’s breath away!” Mrs. Fergus
exclaimed, and put her plump white hand to her bosom. “I’ve nerves that
bad, O’Mahony,” she added.
“Yes, it is a sudden sort of spurt,” he assented.
“And it’s your health, you say! Sure, I used to look on you as the
mortial picture of a grand, strong man.”
“You can’t always tell by looks,” said The O’Mahony, gravely. “But--the
point’s this. I’m leaving O’Daly and Jerry here, as sort o’ joint bosses
of the circus, during my absence. Daly is to be ringmaster, so to speak,
while Jerry’ll be in the box-office, and kind o’ keep an eye to the
whole show, generally.”
“I lamint, sir, that I’m not able to congratulate you on the felicity of
your mettyphor,” said Cor-mac O’Daly, whose swart, thin-visaged little
face wore an expression more glum than ever.
“At any rate, you git at my meaning. I have signed two powers of
attorney, drawn up by O’Daly here as a lawyer, which gives them power to
run things for me, while I’m away. Everything is set out in the papers,
straight and square. I’m leaving my will, too, with O’Daly, an’ that I
wanted specially to speak to you about. I’ve got just one heir in this
whole world, an’ that’s your little gal, Katie. P’r’aps it’ll be as well
not to say anything to her about it, but I want you all to know. An’ I
want you an’ her to move back into my house, an live there jest as you
did afore I come. I’ve spoken to Mrs. Sullivan about it--she’s as good
as a farrow cow in a family--an’ she’ll stay right along with you, an’
look after things. An’ Jerry here, he’ll see that your wheels are
kept greased--financially, I mean--an’--I guess that’s about all. Only
lookout for that little gal o’ yours as well as you know how--that’s
all. An’ I wish--I wish you’d send her over to me, to my house, in half
an hour or so--jest to say good-bye.”
The O’Mahony’s voice had trembled under the suspicion of a quaver at the
end. He turned now, abruptly, took up his hat from the table, and left
the room, closely followed by Jerry. O’Daly rose as if to accompany
them, hesitated for a moment, and then seated himself again.
The mother superior had heretofore preserved an absolute silence. She
bent her glance now upon Mrs. Fergus, and spoke slowly:
“Ah, thin, Margaret O’Mahony,” she said, “d’ye mind in your day of good
fortune that, since the hour you were born, ye’ve been the child of our
prayers and the object of our ceaseless intercessions?”
Mrs. Fergus put out her rounded lower lip a little and, rising from her
chair, walked slowly over to the little cracked mirror on the wall, to
run a correcting finger over the escalloped line of her crimps.
“Ay,” she said at last, “I mind many things bechune me and you--not all
of thim prayers either.”
While Mrs. Sullivan and Jerry were hard at work packing the scant
wardrobe and meager personal belongings of the master for his journey,
and the greater part of the population of Muirisc stood clustered on
the little quay, watching the _Hen Hawk_, bemoaning their own impending
bereavement, and canvassing the incredible good luck of Malachy, who was
to be the companion in this voyage to unknown parts--while the wind
rose outside, and the waters tumbled, and the sky grew overcast with
the sullen menace of a winter storm--The O’Mahony walked slowly, hand in
hand with little Kate, through the deserted churchyard.
The girl had been weeping, and the tears still blurred her eyes and
stained her red cheeks with woe-begone smudges. She clung to her
companion’s hand, and pressed her head ever and again against his arm,
but words she had none. The man walked with his eyes bent on the ground
and his lips tightly closed together. So the two strolled in silence
till they had passed out from the place of tombs, and, following a
path which wound its way in ascent through clumps of budding furze
and miniature defiles among the rocks, had gained the summit of the
cliff-wall, under whose shelter the hamlet of Muirisc had for ages
nestled. Here they halted, looking down upon the gray ruins of castle,
church and convent, upon thatched cottage roofs, the throng on the quay,
the breakers’ line of foam against the rocks, and the darkened expanse
of white-capped waters beyond.
“Don’t take on so, sis, any more; that’s a good gal,” said The O’Mahony,
at last, drawing the child’s head to his side, and gently stroking her
black hair. “It ain’t no good, an’ it breaks me all up. One thing I’m
glad of: It’s going to be rough outside. It seems to me I couldn’t ‘a’
stood it to up an’ sail off in smooth, sunshiny weather. The higher she
rolls the better I’ll like it. It’s the same as havin’ somethin’ to bite
on, when you’ve got the toothache.”
Kate, for answer, rubbed her head against his sleeve, but said nothing.
After a long pause, he went on: “’Tain’t as if I was goin’ to be gone
forever an’ a day. Why, I may be poppin’ in any minit, jest when you
least expect it. That’s why I want you to study your lessons right
along, every day, so ’t when I turn up you’ll be able to show off A
number one. Maybe you’re bankin’ on my not bein’ able to tell whether
your book learnin’ is ‘all wool an’ a yard wide’ or not. I didn’t get
much of a show at school, I know. ’Twas ‘root hog or die’ with me when
I was a boy. But I’m jest a terror at askin’ questions. Why, I’ve busted
up whole schools afore now, puttin’ conundrums to ’m that even the
school-ma’ams couldn’t answer. So you look out for me when I come.”
The gentle effort at cheerfulness bore fruit not after its kind. Kate’s
little breast began to heave, and she buried her face against his coat.
The O’Mahony looked wistfully down upon the village and the bay, patting
the child’s shoulder in silent token of sympathy. Then an idea occurred
to him. With his finger under her chin, he lifted Kate’s face till her
glance met his.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, with animation, “have you got so you can write
pritty good?”
The girl nodded her head, and looked away.
“Why, then, look here,” he exclaimed, heartily, “what’s the matter with
your writin’ me real letters, say every few weeks, tellin’ me all that’s
goin’ on, an’ keepin’ me posted right up to date? Why, that’s jest
splendid! It’ll be almost the same as if I wasn’t away at all. Eh, won’t
it, skeezucks, eh?” He playfully put his arm around her shoulder, and
they began the descent of the path. The suggestion had visibly helped to
lighten her little heart, though she had said not a word.
“Oh, yes,” he went on, “an’ another thing I wanted to say: It ain’t
a thing that you must ever ask about--or ought to know anything about
it--but we went out yisterday an’ made fools of ourselves, an’ if I
hadn’t had the luck of a brindled heifer, we’d all been in jail to-day.
Of course, I don’t know for certain, but I shouldn’t wonder if my luck
had something to do with a--what d’ye call it?--yes, _cathach_--that we
toted along with us. Well, I’m goin’ to turn that box over for you to
keep, when we git down to the house. I wouldn’t open if it I was you--it
ain’t a pritty sight for a little gal--just a few dead men’s bones--but
the box itself is all right, an’ it can’t do you no harm, to say the
least. An’, moreover--why, here it is in my pocket--here’s a ring we
found on his thumb--cur’ous enough--that you must keep for me, too. That
makes it like what we read about in the story-books, eh? A ring that the
beauteous damsel, with the hay-colored hair, sends to Alonzo when she
gets in trouble, eh, sis?”
The child took the ring--a quaintly shaped thin band of gold, with a
carved precious stone of golden-brownish hue--and put it in her pocket.
Still she said nothing.
At ten in the forenoon, in the presence of all Muirisc, The O’Mahony at
last gently pushed his way through the throng of keening old women and
excited younger friends, and stepped over the gunwale upon the deck, and
Jerry and O’Daly restrained those who would have followed him. He had
forced his face into a half-smile, to which he clung resolutely almost
to the end. He had offered many parting injunctions: to work hard
and drink little; to send the children to school; to keep an absolute
silence to all outsiders, whether from Skull, Goleen, Crookhaven, or
elsewhere, concerning him and his departure--and many other things. He
had shaken hands a hundred times across the narrow bar of water between
the boat and pier; and now the men in the dingey out in front had the
hawser taut, and the _Hen Hawk_ was moving under its strain, when a
shrill cry raised itself above the general clamor of lamentation and
farewells.
At that moment of the vessel’s stirring, little Kate O’Mahony broke from
the group in which her mother and the nuns stood dignifiedly apart, and
ran wildly to the pier’s edge, where Jerry caught and for the moment
held her, struggling, over the widening chasm between the boat and the
quay. Her power to speak had come at last.
“Take me with you, O’Mahony!” she cried, fighting like a wild thing to
free herself. “Oh, take me with you! You promised! You promised! _Take_
me with you!”
It was then that The O’Mahony’s face lost, in a flash, its perfunctory
smile. He half stretched out his hand--then swung himself on his heel
and marched to the prow of the vessel. He did not look back again upon
Muirisc.
*****
An hour later a police-car, bearing five armed men, halted at the point
on the mountain-road from Durrus where Muirisc comes first in view. The
constables, gazing out upon the broad expanse of Dunmanus Bay, saw on
the distant water-line a yawl-rigged coasting vessel, white against the
stormy sky. Some chance whim suggested to their minds an interest in
this craft.
But when they descended into Muirisc they could not find a soul who had
the remotest notion of what a yawl-rig meant, much less of the identity
of the lugger which, even as they spoke, had passed out of sight.