THE LYNCHS
The only thing that made the Lynch's cottage any different from the two
hundred others at the mills, was that it stood at the end of a dreary
row and therefore had a window on the side of its living room which
overlooked the hills and the river.
This window was Moira Lynch's delight. Her poor, big Danny could sit in
it all day long. And from it she herself could watch the setting sun
flame over the crest of the hills and the narrow river shake off its
workaday dress and go racing into the shadows of the woods. Poor Moira,
years of heartbreaking work and worry had not changed her very much from
the girl who had liked to lie in the deep sweet grass of her dear
Ireland and let her fancy follow the winging birds into a land of
dreams.
The other window of the tiny living room looked out directly upon the
muddy road, across to the freight tracks.
It was to this window that Moira Lynch ran now, peering as far up the
road as she could see.
"Beryl's late today," she said, with an anxious note.
"Well, what if she is? Things don't run by the clock," Danny Lynch
answered testily. "You're always fussing. If it isn't the girl it's over
Dale."
Mrs. Moira ignored the edge of crossness in her Danny's voice. She went
to him, smoothed the spotless cushion at his back and put a fresh
magazine on his table.
"It's a silly, worryin' hen I am," she laughed. (But, oh, her laugh was
a tragic thing, for while her lips curved in a smile her eyes shadowed
at their mockery).
"But things seem a bit different, today," she added, apologetically.
And just as Danny Lynch's retort of derision died away Beryl burst upon
them.
Her mother needed only to give her one look to know that something _was_
different.
"And what is it, my darlin'? It's that hungry I was getting to set my
eyes on you. Two hours late you are, Beryl."
Beryl welcomed this reproach as it gave her an opportunity to impart her
good news in an impressive way.
"I couldn't get away a minute sooner. I've a new position." She was
going to say "job" but it did not seem fitting.
"What? Without so much as a word to your father and mother? And did the
likes of that old housekeeper fire you?"
Beryl had no intention of telling of her ignominious fray with Mrs.
Budge.
"I'm engaged to be a companion to Gordon Forsyth!" she answered,
grandly.
At this Moira Lynch dropped a spoon with a loud clatter.
"A companion to--that new boy who's come to the Manor?"
Beryl, recognizing that her story needed detailed explanation, slipped
off her outer wraps, threw them into a chair, kissed her father lightly
on his cheek, perched herself on the old sofa and proceeded to tell the
story of Gordon Forsyth's coming to Gray Manor while her mother listened
with breathless interest.
"And it's a girl she is--a little lame girl!"
"The queerest kid you ever saw. Not a bit snippy or rich acting. She
doesn't get at all excited over her new clothes and bossing those old
fogeys around and ordering her motor any minute she wants it. She thinks
the little place she lived in in New York is lots nicer than Gray Manor.
When you look at her you think she's a baby and then when she talks,
why--she seems older than I am! But she's funny like you, Mom; she's
always pretending things are different from what they are and giving
them names. She calls old Budge the wicked woman who wanted to eat the
two children," Beryl giggled. "And she calls the Mills a Giant."
Moira Lynch's face beamed with joyous understanding. Here was a
fellow-soul, "funny" like herself, Beryl described her; Beryl, for whom
black was always and invariably black, and a spade a spade.
"Why, she even wanted to come down here with me," Beryl finished.
There were so many questions trembling on Moira's tongue that, for the
moment, supper was neglected. Not long, however; the striking of the
clock reminded her that in a very few minutes Dale would be home,
hungry. Her mission in life, next to tending her big Danny, was feeding
her two children. For tonight she had made Beryl's favorite dessert, a
bread pudding, the eggs for which she had carefully hoarded during
several days' denial. Beryl, keeping up a running fire of talk, spread
the cloth on the centre table and brought the dishes from the cupboard.
"By'n by, you'll be too fine for the rest of us," broke in big Danny
upon their chatter, the usual discordant tone in his voice.
"Well, I guess it won't be your fault if I am," Beryl flared.
"Everything that I've gotten I've gotten for myself and I don't know of
anyone ever trying to help me."
Like a flash the little mother was between the two, a soothing hand on
the father's shoulder.
"Now don't you two be a-spoiling this night," she laughed a bit
hysterically. "Of course our girl's going to be too fine for anyone, but
it's always a-loving she'll be to her Dad and her Mommy." She declared
it with an ardent triumph. This mother who had once dreamed things for
herself dreamed them now for her boy and girl. From Beryl's infancy she
had taught her to want "fine things." And Beryl wanted them with all
her heart and, with youth's selfishness, wanted them for herself, alone.
After her father's taunt, Beryl, with sullen resentment, locked her lips
on her other pleasant experiences. Nor would she tell now how Robin had
written to her guardian to send down a real violin for her to practice
upon, or what fun it was to study with Mr. Percival Tubbs, whose ears
were distractingly like Brussels sprouts. And that she learned much,
much faster than Robin did! Poor Robin was always wondering the why of
everything.
Her mother suddenly exclaimed: "It's Father Murphy's beads you shall
wear this night, my girl. Didn't the good soul, God rest him, give them
with his blessing? Watch the potatoes while I get them."
Moira's beads had always played a significant part in her life. They
marked what she called her "blessings." Without doubt the rare bright
spots in her life shone like blessings for the dark of their background.
Years ago, when her Danny had had his accident and her world had seemed
to turn upside down until it rested, full-weight, upon her poor
shoulders, her "blessing" had been Miss Lewis at the settlement. Miss
Lewis had given her work so that she could earn money to feed her
family; Miss Lewis had sent the chair to Danny; Miss Lewis had found
cheaper lodgings and had helped her make them homelike. Another blessing
had been Jacques Henri, the old Belgian who lived above them and whose
violin had attracted Beryl as the magnet draws the iron. A lonely soul,
he had found sweet company in the child and had gladly helped the eager
fingers. Later he had come down to supper with them and Beryl had played
a "piece" for her Pop, wearing the beads in honor of the occasion. When
Beryl had graduated from the graded school she had stood as class
prophet before an assemblage of fond relatives, among them Dale and
herself--wearing the green beads. Moira had wished Father Murphy were
there to see her girl.
She clasped them around the girl's neck now with fingers that trembled
and eyes bright with the tears which were always close to them. During
the little ceremony Dale burst in like a gust of strong, sweet air.
"Hullo, everybody! M'm'm, something smells good! What's for tonight,
Mom? Salt pork and thick gravy? Fried potatoes? Good! Hullo, Sis. How
goes it, Pop?" His greeting embraced everything and everyone in a rush,
from the savory supper to the invalid father whose face had brightened
at his coming.
"What're you getting all dolled up for, Sis?"
Beryl and her mother tried to tell the story at the same time. Dale did
not seem at all impressed and Beryl was disappointed. He said he had
heard in the mills that the newcomer at the Manor was a girl, and lame,
too. He didn't know what difference it made to any of them, anyway. He
scowled a little as he said it.
Dale had his father's strong body and his mother's face of a dreamer;
his eyes were brooding like Beryl's but his mouth was wide and tender
and might have seemed weak but for the strength in the square cut jaw.
Since that time, ten years back, when he had resolutely put behind him
his precious ambitions and had taken the first job he could find, he had
been the recognized head of the family. As such he turned to Beryl now.
"I suppose you'll let this rich little girl wipe her feet on you and
you'll love it," he said with such scorn that Beryl turned hot and cold
in speechless anger.
"Now, sonny, now, sonny. Let's wait until we know the poor little
thing," begged his mother.
But for Beryl, except for the fun of wearing the beads, all joy for the
moment had fled. She had particularly wanted to impress Dale with her
good fortune. She had often, of course, heard Dale speak scathingly and
bitterly of the "classes" and the "privileged few" and the unfairness of
things in general, but she had paid little attention to it and could
not, anyway, connect it with unassuming Robin. When he met Robin, he'd
understand--and while Dale ate ravenously and talked to his father
between mouthfuls, she planned how she would bring Robin to supper the
very next time she came home, despite her vow that she would never let
Robin see how humble and small her home was.
After supper Beryl helped her mother clear away and Dale brought out his
"plaything" which was what he laughingly called the contrivance of
strings and spools and little wooden wheels he had made and which he and
his father "played with" each evening. Beryl had often wondered why Dale
seemed to care so much about it; why he spent hours and hours drawing
and figuring on bits of paper. Of course it amused the father, who,
during the day, cut the spools into tiny wheels, with a sharp
jack-knife; but it must be stupid for Dale to spend all of his evenings
over the silly thing. Beryl often lounged on the back of his chair and
listened to discover whether there was any part of the game she might
like.
Tonight Dale's interest seemed forced.
"If I could just find out what's needed _here_--" he growled, touching
the delicate contrivance. "That's the way! While I'm racking my poor old
nut, some other fellow's going to make the whole thing out!"
Danny Lynch's big hand trembled where it lay on the table. "If I had had
the learning--" he began. "I could help, mebbe."
Dale hastened to comfort him. "You don't get that stuff from books,
exactly, Pop. It comes here," touching his head. "If I only had the
money to have the thing made in metal. Oh, well, what's the use of
talking. The thing's got my goat, though. I'm thinking about it all the
time. Say, Mom, can I bring Adam Kraus over to supper some night? He
said he'd like to meet Pop and he's a good sort."
This Adam Kraus had only recently come to the Mills. He had at first
impressed the neighborhood somewhat unfavorably, for he encouraged a
suggestion of mystery, lived at the Inn, kept aloof from everyone, and
seemed to have no family. Moira's own quick thought of him when Dale had
pointed him out on the road in front of the Mill store was that "he
looked too white for a working man." But he seemed to have singled Dale
out for his advances; Dale thought he was a good sort and had met him
more than half-way; Dale who had had to work too hard by day and study
at night to make any close friendships. Whether she liked him or not, he
should have the best she could offer.
"_I'm_ going to bring Robin--I mean, Miss Forsyth, down here the next
time _I_ come," broke in Beryl.
"And of course you can. And Dale shall bring his friend, too."
"And you can wear your fine beads, Sis," finished Dale, teasingly.
"And it's a nice pot roast and cabbage salad we'll have, too. And a bit
of the fruit cake with real butter sauce." Wasn't she going to get her
check soon from the store to which she sent her lace?
So Beryl forgot her vexation and Dale his problem with his wooden toy in
pleasant anticipation of the "dinner party," as Mrs. Moira grandly
called it, out of respect to the pot roast and the fruit cake which Miss
Lewis had sent them and which was hidden away in a huge crock in the
shed.
"Mom, can't I take the beads back with me? They're so pretty and I
haven't a thing that's nice," begged Beryl as the moment for her to
return to the Manor came.
"The Princess and the Beggar-maid!" laughed Dale.
"My fine lady must have her jewels!" added big Danny.
Beryl flushed under their teasing but held her tongue, for didn't she
always have that picture blazed in her heart of the moment when with her
violin she would hold enthralled her unappreciative family and thousands
of others? _Then_ they would not laugh at her!
"I'll be ever so careful of them and only wear them once in a while,"
she promised.
Though Mrs. Moira would, of course, have given her children anything
they wanted that was hers, she hesitated now, not from reluctance to
part with her one "pretty" but because suddenly out of the silent past
came the old father's words: "They are only beads. But they'll remind
you of this day." She had been seventeen then--a slip of a girl. Beryl
was almost sixteen now.
"The shame to me! Sure, it's only beads they are!" she laughed, with a
little catch in her voice. "Of course you shall take them."