We enter the crumbling portals of the ancient convent of the O’Mahonys
for a final visit. The reddened sun, with its promise of a kindly
morrow, hangs low in the western heavens and pushes the long shadow of
the gateway onward to the very steps of the building. We have no call
to set the harsh-toned jangling old bell in motion. The door is open and
the hall is swept for guests.
This hour of waning day marked a unique occurrence in the annals of the
House of the Hostage’s Tears. Its nuns were too aged and infirm to go to
the castle to offer welcome to the newly returned head of the family. So
The O’Mahony came to them instead. He came like the fine old chieftain
of a sept, bringing his train of followers with him. For the first time
within the recollection of man, a long table had been spread in the
reception-hall, and about it were gathered the baker’s dozen of people
we have come to know in Muirisc. Even Mrs. Sullivan, flushed scarlet
from her labor in the ill-appointed convent kitchen, and visibly
disheartened at its meagre results, had her seat at the board beside
Father Jago. But they were saved from the perils of a party of thirteen
because the one-armed Malachy, dour-faced and silent, but secretly
bursting with pride and joy, stood at his old post behind his master’s
chair.
There had not been much to eat, and the festival stood thus early at the
stage of the steaming kettle and the glasses so piping hot that fingers
shrank from contact, though the spirit beckoned. And there was not one
less than twelve of these scorching tumblers--for in remote Muirisc the
fame of Father Mathew remained a vague and colorless thing like that of
Mahomet or Sir Isaac Newton--and, moreover, was not The O’Mahony come
home?
“Yes, sir,” The O’Mahony said from his place at the right hand of Mother
Agnes, venturing an experimental thumb against his glass and sharply
withdrawing it, “wherever I went, in France or Spain or among the Turks,
I found there had been a soldier O’Mahony there before me. Why, a French
general told me that right at one time--quite a spell back, I should
judge--there were fourteen O’Mahonys holding commissions in the French
army. Yes, I remember, it was in the time of Louis XIX.”
“You’re wrong, O’Mahony,” interrupted Kate, with the smile of a spoiled,
favorite child, “’t was nineteen O’Mahonys in the reign of Louis XIV.”
“Same thing,” he replied, pleasantly. “It’s as broad as it is long.
There the O’Mahony’s were, anyway, and every man of ’em a fighter. It
set me to figuring that before they went away--when they were all cooped
up here together on this little neck of land--things must have been kept
pretty well up to boiling point all the year round.”
“An’ who was it ever had the power to coop ’em up here?” demanded
Cormac O’Daly, with enthusiasm. “Heaven be their bed! ’T was not in
thim O’Mahonys to endure it! Forth they wint in all directions, wid
bowld raids an’ incursions, b’ating the O’Heas an’ def’ating the Coffeys
wid slaughter, an’ as for the O’Driscolls--huh!--just tearing ’em
up bodily be the roots! Sir, _t_ was a proud day whin an O’Daly first
attached himself to the house of the O’Mahonys--such grand min as
they, were, so magnanimous, so pious, so intelligent, so ferocious an’
terrifying--sir, me old blood warms at thought of ’em!”
The caloric in Cormac’s veins impelled him at this juncture to rise to
this feet. He took a sip from his glass, then adjusted his spectacles,
and produced the back of an envelope from his pocket.
“O’Mahony,” he said, with a voice full of emotion, “I’ve a slight pome
here, just stated down hurriedly that I’ll take the liberty to rade to
the company assimbled. ’T is this way it runs:
‘Hark to thim joyous sounds that rise.
Making the face of Muirisc to be glad!
’T is the devil’s job to believe one’s eyes--’”
“Well, thin, don’t be trying!” brusquely interrupted Mrs. Fergus. As the
poet paused and strove to cow his spouse with a sufficiently indignant
glance, she leaned over the table and addressed him in a stage whisper,
almost audible to the deaf old nuns themselves.
“Sit down, me man!” she adjured him. “’T is laughing at ye they are!
Sure, doesn’t his honor know how different a chune ye raised while
he was away! ’T is your part to sing small, now, an’ keep the ditch
betwixt you an’ observation.”
Cormac sat down at once, and submissively put the paper back in his
pocket. It was a humble and wistful glance which he bent through his
spectacles at the chieftain, as that worthy resumed his remarks.
The O’Mahony did not pretend to have missed the adjuration of Mrs.
Fergus.
“That started off well enough, O’Daly,” he said; “but you’re getting too
old to have to hustle around and turn out poetry to order, as you used
to. I’ve decided to allow you to retire--to sort of knock off your shoes
and let you run in the pasture. You can move into one of the smaller
houses and just take things easy.”
“But, sir--me secretarial juties--” put in O’Daly, with quavering voice.
“There’ll be no manner of trouble about that,” said the O’Mahony,
reassuringly. “My friend, here, Joseph Higgins, of Boston, he will look
out for that. I don’t know that you’re aware of it, but I took a good
deal of interest in him many years ago--before I went away--and I
foresaw a future for him. It hasn’t turned out jest as I expected, but
I’m satisfied, all the same. Before I left, I arranged that he should
pursue his studies during my absence.” A grimly quizzical smile played
around the white corners of his mustache as he added: “I understand that
he jest stuck to them studies night and day--never left ’em once for
so much as to go out and take a walk for the whole twelve years.”
“Surely, sir,” interposed Father Jago, “that’s most remarkable! I never
heard tell of such studiosity in Maynooth itself!”
The O’Mahony looked gravely across the table at Jerry, whose broad,
shining face was lobster-red with the exertion of keeping itself
straight.
“I believe there’s hardly another case on record,” he said. “Well, as
I was remarking, it’s only natural, now, that I should make him my
secretary and bookkeeper. I’ve had a long talk with him about it--and
about other things, too--and I guess there ain’t much doubt about our
getting along together all right.”
“And is it your honor’s intintion--Will--will he take over my functions
as bard as well?” Cormac ventured to inquire. He added in deprecating
tones: “Sure, they’ve always been considered hereditary.”
“No; I think we’ll let the bard business slide for the time being,”
answered The O’Mahony. “You see, I’ve been going along now a good many
years without any poet, so I’ve got used to it. There was one fellow out
at Plevna--an English newspaper man--who did compose some verses about
me--he seemed to think they were quite funny--but I shot off one of
his knee-pans, and that sort of put a damper on poetry, so far as I was
concerned. However, we’ll see how your boy turns out. Maybe, if he takes
a shine to that sort of thing--”
“Then you’re to stay with us?” inquired Mother Agnes. “So grand ye are
wid your decorations an’ your foreign titles--sure, they tell me
you’re Chevalier an’ O’Mahony Bey both at wance--’t will be dull as
ditch-water for you here.”
“No, I reckon not,” replied The O’Mahony. “I’ve had enough of it. It’s
nigh on to forty years since I first tagged along in the wake of a drum
with a musket on my shoulder. I don’t know why I didn’t come back years
ago. I was too shiftless to make up my mind, I suppose. No, I’m going to
stay here--going to die here--right among these good Muirisc folks, who
are thumping each other to pieces outside on the green. Talk about its
being dull here--why, Mother Agnes, ’t would have done your heart
good to see old Barney Driscoll laying about him with that overgrown,
double-barreled trumpet of his. I haven’t seen anything better since we
butted our heads up against Schipka Pass.”
“’T will be grand tidings for the people--that same,” interposed Kate,
with happiness in glance and tone.
The O’Mahony looked tenderly at her.
“That reminds me,” he said, and then turned to the nuns, lifting his
voice in token that he especially addressed them. “There was some talk,
I understand, about little Katie here--”
“Little, is it!” laughed the girl. “Sure, to pl’ase you I’d begin
growing again, but that there’d be no house in Muirisc to hold me.”
“Some talk about big Kate here, then,” pursued the O’Mahony, “going into
the convent. Well, of course, that’s all over with now.” He hesitated
for a moment, and decided to withhold all that cruel information about
episcopal interference. “And I’ve been thinking it over,” he resumed,
“and have come to the conclusion that we’d better not try to bolster up
the convent with new girls from outside. It’s always been kept strictly
inside the family. Now that that can’t be done, it’s better to let it
end with dignity. And that it can’t help doing, because as long as it’s
remembered, men will say that its last nuns were its best nuns.”
He closed with a little bow to the Ladies of the Hostage’s Tears. Mother
Agnes acknowledged the salutation and the compliment with a silent
inclination of her vailed head. If her heart took grief, she did not say
so.
“And your new secretary--” put in Cormac, diffidently yet with
persistence, “has he that acquaintance an’ familiarity wid mining
technicalities and conthracts that would fit him to dale wid ’em
satisfactorily?”
A trace of asperity, under which O’Daly definitely wilted, came into The
O’Mahony’s tone.
“There is such a thing as being too smart about mining contracts,” he
said with meaning. Then, with a new light in his eyes he went on: “The
luckiest thing that ever happened on this footstool, I take it, has
occurred right here. The young man who sits opposite me is a born
O’Mahony, the only son of the man who, if I hadn’t turned up, would have
had rightful possession of all these estates. You have seen him about
here for some weeks. I understand that you all like him. Indeed, it’s
been described to me that Mrs. Fergus here has quite an affection for
him--motherly, I presume.”
Mrs. Fergus raised her hand to her hair, and preened her head.
“An’ not so old, nayther, O’Mahony,” she said, defiantly. “Wasn’t I
married first whin I was a mere shlip of a girl?”
Sister Ellen looked at Mother Agnes, and lifted up both her hands. The
O’Mahony proceeded, undisturbed:
“As I’ve said, you all like him. I like him too, for his own sake,
and--and his father’s sake--and--But that can wait for a minute. It’s a
part of the general good luck which has brought him here that he turns
out to be a trained mining engineer--just the sort of a man, of all
others, that Muirisc needs. He tells me that we’ve only scratched the
surface of things roundabout here yet. He promises to get more wealth
for us and for Muirisc out of an acre than we’ve been getting out of a
townland. Malachy, go out and look for old Murphy, and if he can walk,
bring him in here.”
The O’Mahony composedly busied himself in filling his glass afresh,
the while Malachy was absent on his quest. The others, turning their
attention to the boyish-faced, blushing young man whom the speaker had
eulogized so highly, noted that he sat next, and perhaps unnecessarily
close, to Kate, and that she, also betrayed a suspicious warmth of
countenance. Vague comprehension of what was coming began to stir in
their minds as Malachy reappeared. Behind him came Murphy, who leaned
against the wall by the door, hat in hand, and clung with a piercing,
hawk-like gaze to the lightest movement on the master’s face.
The O’Mahony rose to his feet, glass in hand.
“Murphy,” he said, “I gave her to you to look after--to take care
of--the Lady of Muirisc.”
“You did, sir!” shouted the withered and grimy old water-rat,
straightening himself against the wall.
“You’ve done it well, sir,” declared The O’Mahony. “I’m obliged to you.
And I wanted you in particular to hear what I’m going to say. Malachy,
get a glass for yourself and give one to Murphy.”
The one-armed servitor leaned gravely forward and whispered in The
O’Mahony’s ear.
“I don’t care a button,” the other protested. “You can see him home.
This is as much his funeral as it is anybody else’s on earth. That’s it.
Are you all filled? Now, then, ladies and gentlemen, I am getting along
in years. I am a childless man. You’ve all been telling me how much I’ve
changed these last twelve years. There’s one thing I haven’t changed a
bit in. I used to think that the cutest, cunningest, all-fired loveliest
little girl on earth was Katie here. Well, I think just the same now.
If I was her father, mother, sister, hired girl and dog under the wagon,
all in one, I couldn’t be fonder of her than I am. She was the apple
of my eye then; she is now. I’d always calculated that she should be
my heir. Well, now, there turns up this young man, who is as much an
O’Mahony of the real stock as Kate is. There’s a providence in these
things. They love each other. They will marry. They will live in the
castle, where they’ve promised to give me board and lodging, and when I
am gone, they will come after me. I’m going to have you all get up and
drink the health of my young--nephew--Bernard, and of his bride, our
Kate, here, and--and of the line of O’Mahonys to come.”
When the clatter of exclamations and clinking glasses had died down, it
was Kate who made response--Kate, with her blushing, smiling face held
proudly up and a glow of joyous affection in her eyes. .
“If that same line of O’Mahonys to come stretched from here to the top
of Mount Gabriel,” she said, in a clear voice, “there’d not be amongst
thim all the ayqual to _our_ O’Mahony.”
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Return of The O'Mahony, by Harold Frederic