" The Neighbours
Wan an' All "
By
ELIZABETH KILPATRICK
(Mrs. T. W. KILPATRICK).
c*D
•
THE QUOTA PRESS,
BELFAST.
First Puhlished 192 8.
CONTENTS.
Page
" The Little Girl from Dublin "
Printed in Ireland by Bell 6. Logan, Ltd., Belfast.
9
" The Doin's av Donnellys "
19
" How Rosie's Heart Mended "
33
" Quality an' Dacency "
47
" Terence an' The Widda "
59
" The Square Peg "
69
" The Wooin' av Rosie "
81
" The Little Girl from Dublin."
9
A
" The Little Girl from Dublin."
When she came down to stay wid the ould granny,
an' her uncles, she was that wispy an' washed-out, like
a happorth o' soap after a hard week's washin' ! A nice
wee face on her, an' dark hair wid them little kinky
curls that ye'd be likin' to put ye're fingers into.
She kep' very quiet, an' the ould granny took the
greatest care o' her whin she came first, bringin' her
milk, hot from the cow, an' eggs bet up wid a wee taste
o' whisky. But shure she wasn't here long till she was
shewin' the bit she ate ; an' here she was wid as fine a
pair o' round rosy cheeks as ye'd fin' this side o'
Ballydoo.
The boys wasn't long findin' it out, ye'll bet, so
ye might have seen odd fellas turnin' the corner here,
makin' for the boreen runnin' up to Powerses. There
was o' course, wan raison an' another giv'. One fellow
'ud be afther askin' for the lend of a hone, or maybe a
scythe, another 'd be just droppin' in because he'd
heerd they were wantin' a dog. All sorts an' kin's o'
invintions there was ; but shure didn't we all know it
was afther the wee girl from Dublin they were.
Now to give ye the rights o' this story, I'll have to
go back a bit an' tell ye about Bridie Treacy.
Ye might ha' noticed, comin' up from the station,
a tidy little shop stan'in' at the three cross roads. Ye
didn't? Well ye might have, for it's there for all to
see ; maybe ye didn't notice it, there bein' no big winda,
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11
but there's always a bag or two o' male be the door,
an' " Bernard Treacy," Bridie's ould father's name
over the door.
Bridie herself is a powerful fine woman. Comin'
up to thirty-five or so, she's wan o' them that's betterlookin' as woman than as girl. Fine flashin' black
eyes an' shiny black hair. Clever! Och, what that
girl can't do isn't worth doin'. Such a head on her for
figures ! I'm tellin' ye, Bridie Treacy's worth the
whole o' two other wimmen in cleverness.
But here she is wid as cantankerous an ould father
as ever was seen. Sittin' up doin' nothin' but growlin'
an' grumblin', an' her doin' everythin' she can for him
in every form an' fashion.
But shure, that was no excuse for Jerry Clarke
courtin' the girl for nigh on fifteen year, an' keepin' all
the other fellas off.
Jerry bein' a man o' eddication an' quite the
gintleman, has a great pull wid Bridie, she bein' that
smart herself, ye see. An' shure it's meself knows,
there's more than wan fellow that's got " No " for an
answer, when he axed her, on account av the wee
spalpeen, Jerry.
There was no raison aginst her marryin', for shure
wasn't her sister who's a widda up in Blackrock, only
too willin' to come an' look after the shop an' the ould
man forbye.
But no! Jerry Clarke is drivin' down, an' walkin'
down, evenin' after evenin', an' raisin' hopes in the
poor girl's heart, an' never a sign o' puttin' a ring on
her.
Ye might a' knocked me down wid a feather when
me own girl, Moira, tould me wan night, Jerry Clarke
was callin' constant at the Power's place, Derryard;
an' that all the talk was, that he was goin' to marry'
Annie Power, the wee girl from Dublin.
I couldn't take it into me moind. I'd never seen
him goin' up there, him comin' from the other side o'
< the country, hadn't to pass this corner.
I'd heerd that the wee girl hadn't taken to any o'
the fellas comin' about the place, though nice an' civil
to all. So when me brave Jerry comes drivin' up in
stoyle in his pony-yoke, the ould granny took to coaxin'
the wee girl to take him if he axed her—him havin' a
good house, an' a well-stocked farm, not to spake o'
invistmints that no wan knew the hoights of, but annyway made him a rich man for these parts.
Wee Annie hadn't anny great likin' for him, an'
small wonder. He was a wee undersized fella, wid a
body on him that looked a size too big for his skinny
wee legs. A quare lookin' face he had too, thin an'
narrow, an' anxious-lookin' ; wid wee bright blue eyes
a bit off the straight, indade wan o' them had a habit o'
turnin' roun' now an' again to see what the other eye
was lookin' at. His hair, what was left o' it, was fine
an' light like a child's, but shure, what he'd lost in
thatch he made up in moustachers! He had the gran'
accent intoirley, him havin' a father that was a stranger
to these parts, an' come from across the water, England
or London, or some place like that.
Now, I wasn't aisy in me moind about the case at
all! Here, thinks I, is goin' to be heartbreak for
that poor wan down at the cross roads ; an' although
it's none o' my business, I don't like seein' things goin'
wrong widout liftin' a han'. An' me always bein'
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13
asked advice about all the neighbours affairs, an' helpin'
them, wan an' all, in settlin' everywan right an' happy 1
So after thinkin' it over, says I to myself, says I,
I'll take a walk over an' see how the land lies.
Well, in I strolls, givin' naythur raison nor excuse,
an' here I finds Jerry sittin' in the parlour, houldin'
forth an' layin' down the law about everythin'.
When I came in they were partakin' of an illigant
tay in the parlour, wid two or three kin's o' baked
bread, an' a sweet cake. All the best china was out,
like it was a funeril or a weddin'. An' the two ould
uncles dressed up in their Sunda' best lookin' quare an'
oncomfortable.
The wee girl was sittin' there quiet an' lackadaisical, not takin' much notice o' anythin', an' not
lookin' what ye might call happy !
The ould granny was doin' the civil to Jerry,
agreeing to all he said, as if her loife depended on it !
I could somehow sinse it all. The wee girl had
maybe a love disappointment--the rich ould buck (he
was forty-five if he was a day, ould beside her twenty)
taken wid the colleen, houldin' out the advantages o'
his riches to dazzle the lot o' them, an' the ould wans
dazzled all right, an' doin' all to help on the gran'
match. The poor wee girl not carin' who she gets when
she can't have the wan her heart's set on.
That was it ! But how I was goin' to mend
matters, I couldn't see. I came away more than ever
onaisy in me moind. None o' the parties was goin' to
get happiness out av it ! I wint over the pros an' cons
o' it, an' shure, I was very near loosing all me sleep
over the bother av it.
Wan night when I wint down as usual to visit Miss
O'Neil—it bein' me custom to walk down there av an
evenin'—here I found her waitin' for me at the gate (a
thing she hadn't done for many a year) . She turns an'
walks in wid me. Before me foot's well across the
door, she says to me—
" I suppose ye heerd that Bridie Treacy is away
to Blackrock, an' the sister, Claire, is down takin' her
place wid the ould man."
" No," says I ; " I can't say I did."
" An' that's not all," says she ; " No indeed! I'm
wonderin' what's goin' to happen up in Derryard now."
" What could be happenin' but what everywan's
expectin', an' it's sorry I am for the poor wee girl,"
says I.
" Ye can keep ye're sorra for them as needs it,"
says she, " The're the fly wans keepin' it dark that
she's had a child. An' how do ye think Jerry Sharp
is goin' to take that."
That girl Moira is the smart girl intoirely ! Keepin'
it back an' lettin' out the news on me sudden-like. I
was just fair spacheless !
But not so Moira, she wasn't took that way. No
indeed !
" It's the price o' the ould omadhawn. Bein' took
wid a young face that might be his daughter," says she.
" An' it 'ud be loike him to drop her now, an' try to
take up wid Bridie again."
" Ye're roight intoirely," says I, havin' had toime
to get me spache again. " An' here's hopin' she'll
have nothin' to do with the dirty little rapscallion, if he
does. "
14
It turned out just as Moira said : Jeremiah Clarke
wasn't long hearin' the story, an' away he went, hotfoot, to Derryard. I hear he gave all sorts to the ould
woman, took all his presents away wid him, an' walked
off lavin' thim all lamentin'. All excep' wee Annie!
Shure she was the only wan that looked plazed to see
the last o' him about the place.
There was nothin' more happenin' for a wee while.
Then wan day, I was workin' in the front, tyin' up the
roses after whitewashin', when a car came drivin' up
from the station, an' sittin' on the side av it, a lovely
big fella, a soldier he was. I had a good look at him,
he was sittin' on the near side o' the car. He bid me
the toime o' the day as he passed, an' a nice civil
spoken boy he was.
After I had me work done, says I to meself says I,
I'll take a wee daunder up the road, just to stretch me
legs after the splashin' an' whitewashin'.
When I came to the boreen turnin' up to Power's,
there was the wheel marks turnin' off, shure enough.
I felt in me bones that all was comin' right for the wee
girl. I turns, an' says I to myself, I'll walk down to
Moira, maybe for wanst I'll have in me story first.
She was busy puttin' the ould wans to bed, being
a good gran'daughter intoirely, so I had to cool me
heels for half-an-hour or so before she came down.
When I tould her, says she—
" That's him, for shure. I heard it was a soldier."
Shure enough, there was a quiet weddin' a week or
two later. An' I wish ye could ha' seen that bride!
15
ralkin' on air she was, just touchin' the ground in
dd places.
An' him lookin' that proud an' fond av her. He
was a fine well-grown boy, an' real nice to look at, for
ill he was English. He had golden curls on his head
that 'ud make you think it was a pity to see them on a
inan's head. But there! daughters mostly takes after
'their father, they say, so maybe it'll be all to the good,
an' not wasted bye an' bye.
They went away, an' shure the country was the
poorer for them. It's always the way, the youngest
an' best av us goin' off an' lavin' us, an' the ould an'
ugl) wans left—manin' no offinse to annywan!
Talk had died down, an' the summer was gone
when Bridie Treacy came back to the shop, an' the
sister went off home to Blackrock.
Of course I went down to the cross roads to see
Bridie an' welcome her home. Lookin' well she was
too!
Says I to her, says I, " Ye'll be havin' Jerry Clarke
comin' down to make it up wid ye."
An' I looks at her wonderin' how she'd take it.
An' here, I was fair mazed to see her blushin' up all
over her face. An' says she to me—
" He was down here last night, an' I sent him
about his business."
" Well now Bridie " says I, " It's natural you'd
be feelin' that way. But don't be doin' annythin' ye'd
be sorry for. You an' him has been talkin' for a good
many years now."
" Too many," says she, " an' I can't tell how I
stood him so long. He has a fair way of talkin' an'
16
knows how to make himself interestin'. But to think
o' annythin' more I don't know how I done it."
" He's no beauty, I'll grant ye," says I, " but
Bridie, he's a snug man, wid his house, an' his fortune,
an' a servant to wait on him."
" I can get all that an' more," says she, " an' I
may as well tell ye now as later, I'm gettin' married
next month an' lavin' here."
An' she did ! It was the grand match she made
too. He was a cattle dealer in a big way av business.
An' shure he took a lovely house for her on the North
Circular Road, an' a sarvint, or maybe two, to wait on
her. Great stoyle, I can tell ye ! wid a motor car to go
drivin' in the Park wid, when he wasn't usin' it away
at the fairs.
I hear there's twin boys there now, lovely fine
childer. More power to them !
An' Jerry Clarke ? No, he's not married yet.
He's took to religion very bad lately. Aye, an' he's
turned out the great preacher intoirely. A few o' the
lads went to wan o' the cottage meetin's thinkin' to
have a laugh at Jerry. But shure he nearly had them
convarted before they knew what he was at. Prayed
for them be name! They didn't know where they was.
An' the same boys wanted some convartin' I can tell
ye ! But they made off, glad to get away before he'd
be havin' them up beside him.
Not a bad wee cratur at all is Jerry. But there's
no denyin' he's quare, rael quare !
"The Doin' s av Donnellys.-
19
" The Doin's av Donnellys."
I didn't tell ye about the Donnellys yet, an' maybe
it's worth hearin', just to show there's good in all of us
though maybe it's covered up in some. There's no
great diggin' needed to bring it to the surface naythur.
There was a big family av them down at Donnellys.
But Shure, all av them went, wan be wan, from the ould
place till there was only three av them left, an' the
youngest girl, Jenny. She wasn't long there, aythur,
bein' in business in the town o' Ballydoo, sarvin' her
toime to the millnery in M`Guinness's shop.
After havin' sarved her toime she went off to wan
o' them big shops in Dublin, takin' up a gran' post.
Jenny Donnelly she was when she left Gorty Farm
—plain Jenny. Well not to say plain in herself, for she
was a fine figure av a girl ; but her mouth bein' over
big, an' her nose a hit off the straight, she was no
beauty, to be sure. But she wasn't a bad lookin' girl
at all, havin' a pair o' fine black eyes, an' nice black
hair, smooth an' shiny like a raven's wing. She kep'
her teeth nice an' white, which was an adornment to
the same mouth, mintioned afore.
Back she came from Dublin, callin' herself Jeanette,
for stoyle an' grandeur—though what koind o' grandeur
it could be callin' herself a kin o' mule, no wan could
see.
But how an' ever that moight be, she came back
that full o' stoyle there was no holdin' her. An' the
toimes they had in Gorty wid her ; wid carryin' on, an'
puttin' on airs, she bet all.
20
No cup o' tay for her after her dinner, loike all the
rest.
Oh no! Cawfee had to be bo't—an' brewed—an'
sarved up in wee cups, loike a doll's party.
Tea, she took a cup of, in her han', sittin' in the
parlour, wid a wee taste o' this, an' a wee bite o' that,
sarved up on separate plates.
They were heart-sick av her, an' her goin's on ; an'
wishin' she'd take herself off to Dublin again, before
she'd been a week there.
There was a fella, Tim Strahan, be name'd had a
great notion av her, before she left the town o' Ballydoo. A tidy fella he was too, wid money saved an' a
good job up at the Union. Him an' her had been
walkin' out now an' again, an' most people thought
somethin' would ha' come av it.
But would she look at him when she came home ?
Not at all !
He wasn't gran' enough for her. " No style
she said.
Too much stoyle, she was herself, an' no mistake !
She'd got on well, I'll say that for her, an' havin'
a head on her for business, she'd started up for herself
in some bye-way near Grafton Street, an' was coinin'
money, I'm tould.
Be that as it may, her brother, Joe Donnelly, an'
his wife was heart-sick av her. Not to spake av the
poor ould mother, a humble ould body, that could make
naythur head nor tail av her.
There was a matter o' a hun'red poun' or thereabouts Joe should ha' paid her under the father's will,
that was still owin', an' though their hearts was fairly
broke wid her, naythur him nor the missus could give
21
her her walkin' papers—kapin' in wid her on account
av the hun'red pound.
Joe Donnelly was wan o' them fellas, hard-workin'
an' steady, that had no luck at all.
Wan toime it was the pigs dyin' on him ; another
toime it was an accident, an' his horse killed. If there
was misfortune comin', it came his way. Poor fella he
was always contindin' against somethin' or other.
His wife hadn't anny too good health aythur ; an'
there was a family av four or five small childer to look
after.
His own health was good enough an' his mother's
forbye, an' she was the quare help in the house. Her
an' the daughter-in-law was the best av frien's, bein'
two gentle crathurs wid no kin' o' contintion in them.
Maybe if they'd been able to spake up for theirselves a bit more, Jenny would ha' been put in her place,
an' quit foolin'.
" It'll be only for a few weeks anyhow," says
Nannie. " We'll put up wid her an' say nothin',
granny."
" She was always a quare child, an' full av notions.
But she had a good heart, an' wouldn't hurt a fly," said
the ould woman. " Maybe we should take her quietly
an' spake to her about the work she does be makin' in
the house."
" I wouldn't loike to be the wan for to go an' do
it," says Nannie. " An no more would you, granny.
We'll let her be !"
An' so nothin' was done, an' Jennie was worse nor
ever.
Here she has the sarvint boy washin' down the
trap, an' drivin' her into the town, when he should ha'
22
been workin' at the hay in the upper meadow. An'
shure the next day it rains an' the hay isn't up, because
the boy was took away from it.
They was feelin' that day they could stan' no more
av it, an' here she tells them she's axed a few fren's
out that evenin', an' she wants them all dressed up for
it.
Av course she has her way. An' to tell the truth
av her, she provided all the atin' an' drinkin' widout
anny trouble to annywan. Bein' right an' clever wid
annythin' she took in han', she made a gran' party
intoirely av it. Maybe it was a troifie ginteel for some
av them, widout anny dancin' an' singin' an' coortin'—
just sittin' roun' yarnin', an' atin' an' drinkin'.
But all was plazed, an' talkin' wan after another
an' through other an' togither ; bein' interested in
talkin' over wan thing an' another. An' Jeannie takin'
a han' wid the best av them, an' kapin' them all at it.
So maybe it was a better kin' o' party than singin'
an' shoutin' an' gettin' drunk. I don't know—the other
koind is quare an' injoyable too.
When it come to ten o'clock, Joseph rises up an'
says he—
" I hope ye'll excuse me, wan an' all, if I bids ye
good night. An' I knows ye'll not moind me lavin' ye,
me bein' due at a fair away in Five-mile-town the
morrow's morn."
An' wid him goes Nannie, his wife.
Jennie fixes her eye on the ould mother, an' the
poor woman sits where she is, not havin' the face to
slip away as she wanted to. An' there she sits, wid
wan yawn chasin' another across her jaw, which she
can't concale in nowise.
23
It was twelve o'clock when the party broke up, an'
nearer to wan before the last av them's left the place,
an' it's all shut up for the night.
The poor ould granny bein' past her slape, an' the
children bein' restless on account o' bein' disturbed, it's
nigh on three o'clock when she gets to dozin' off. An'
just when she is droppin' off, she suddenly sits bolt
upright in the bed.
" A smell av ,burnini says she to herself, an'
risin' out o' bed, goes to the door an' pulls it open.
The poor woman's nearly stoifled be the smoke, an'
dazed be the cracklin' av the fire. She shuts the door
after her to kape the smoke out from the wains, an' slips
acrost the passage to Joe's room.
Callin' him an' gettin' the childer an' Nannie downstairs an' out o' the house took little toime I can tell ye,
wid the fire gettin' worse every minnit.
" Where's Jenny ?" says Joe ; an' here they sees
she isn't wid them, bein' in the back av the house, in
the room over the dairy.
In dashes Joe widout another word.
" God presarve him," says his mother, " he's
goin' to his death."
When roun' the corner comes Jeannie, carryin' the
half o' her belongings, an' blankets an' coverin' for the
children an' all.
An' then there was the scene. It was beyond all!
Nannie starts screamin' " Joe, Joe avic come out.
Jennie's here. Jennie's here. Oh, my God, he'll be
killed intoirely," says she.
But the only answer is the cracklin' an' the roarin'
av the fire.
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25
An' then she starts to run to the door, an' the
granny runs after her to try an' stop her goin' in, an'
Jenny after her. An' the wee childer, them as could
run, is after them all; an' they're all screamin'.
Jennie comes up wid Nannie an' catches a hoult av
her.
" Here, you an' me mother go back an' moin' the
childer," says she, " an' I'll get him."
Be this, one an' another av the neighbours is
dashin' up.
It havin' come on to rain Jeannie gets the mother
an' all av them into the barn, always havin' the roight
head on her for thinkin' av everythin'.
An' here Jerry Clarke seein' that no wan's moindin'
his interferin', comes over an' does the dacent.
Jimmy Geraghty is first an' foremost, comin' gallopin' up on the ould mare, which no wan thought had
a run in her, let alone a gallop. An' off he jumps, an'
after Jennie into the house, pulls her out o' the door,
an' dashes in himself. An' next comes Tommy Donnelly, the brother, an' in he goes too.
An' after that I couldn't say who, for all at wanst
the yard seems alive wid the neighbours from all roun'.
An' then out comes Jimmy Geraghty an' Tommy
carryin' Joe between them—wan houldin' his head an'
the other his legs.
Nannie runs up squealin', poor sowl ! An' the poor
mother moanin' to herself, as she rocks the wee infant.
Dazed-loike the poor crathur is. They has tould her to
kape the wee childer away, an' she takes her ordhers
like a biddable choild !
There's little Jerry Clarke, hoppin' about on his
spoidery wee legs, givin' orders here an' there that no
wan's moindin' in the laste. An' then they're makin'
a chain av men, handin' buckets av water from the well
to kape the fire from spreadin' to the barn, an' byres.
The house, it's done for, an' all that's in it. The
fire had got too good a hoult on it.
" Ye must all come over to my place," says he.
" I'll get the trap at wanst."
An' away he takes the whole family, all but Jenny
who's stayin' wid Joe—but gets poor Nannie to go be
tellin' her the mother an' t hildren is wore out an' like
to be sick. An' Joe is come-to an' none the worse only
for a rap on the head an' a hurt arm where the staircase
fell on him.
The doctor they'd sent for comin' up soon after
this, foinds he's a broken arm, which he sets, an' orders
him off to bed too.
Be this toime the fire is out, there bein' nothin' av
the house left but the cinders. So Joe gives in to go
wid Jerry Clarke, the same havin' come back wid the
pony yoke, for to fetch him an' Jenny.
But Joe wasn't to get off so aisy. The wettin' in the
rain, an' him injured an' all, bet him up ; an' the next
mornin' he was mortial bad, wid the doctor brought out
to him in a hurry.
Ravin' he was, an' talkin'. Out av his moind about
everything, poor fella! An' worst av all about the
hun'red poun' he owed Jenny.
An' Jeannie, to tell the truth of her, acted well,
tellin' Joe he wasn't to think about it. She never
intended to ask for it.
But they couldn't kape him quiet by no manes.
He'd be sittin' up in bed, an' wavin' the poor arm
26
about, that they were tryin' to kape quiet, an' cryin'—
" It's all gone, lock, stock, an' barrel. An' how
in God's name am I goin' to pay Jennie her hun'red
poun'!"
An' then he'd lie back mutterin' an' talkin' about
wan thing an' another--callin' the dogs to herd the
cattle, wan minnit, callin' to the childer to come down
off the wall, the next, an' then it'ud be—
" Nannie, Nannie! me poor wife, an' her not over
her last. She'll get her death in the rain."
" I'm all right, Joe avic, I'm here. Lie down an'
rest ye're poor arm."
An' down he'd rest as soon as his eyes 'lid loight
on her face.
But the next minnit it'ud be—
" Where's Jeannie ? Is she not wid ye ? I'll go
an' fetch the poor girl out. She'll be burned alive."
An' out av bed he'd get, if they didn't hould him
down by main force.
The poor ould mother tried coolin' him down, but
the only answer she got was—
" Me mother's wore out. Homeless an' helpless,
on the side av the road widout a roof to cover her."
An' wore out the poor ould body was. They got
her persuaded to go away wid Tommy, an' take thechilder wid her, which was relavin' the house a bit, not
havin' so many av them in it.
An' Jerry Clarke, the dacent wee man he proved
hisself, for all his quareness, an' not bein' much to look
at, makin' them all welcome in every manner an' ,
fashion, an' doin' his level best for wan an' all ; which
was just as well, for Joseph couldn't ha' been moved,
not widout riskin' his loife.
27
" Which wasn't to be thought av for a minnit,"
says Jerry.
An' the ould sarvint, a crooked ould body, that no
wan liked but Jerry himself, she havin' nursed him from
a baby, an' bein' his mother's sarvint for over forty
years. She acted well too, lookin' after them all well,
wid cookin', an' plenty av hot water as often as they
loiked.
Every wan knowin' she was given to grumblin' an'
growlin', was pityin' them, thinkin' av the toime they'd
have wid her. But I hear there wasn't a growl or
grumble heard from her all the toime they were there.
Which goes to show that a bit of misfortune brings out
the best that's in us, if there's anny there at all. An'
there's not many, thank God, hasn't a bit o' good in
them somewhere—if ye can only get at it.
It was nigh on a fortnight afore Joe was quit o' the
ravin' an' faver. " Pewmonia o' the lungs," the
doctor said, " aggeravated be the rap on the skull, and
the fracture o' the arrm."
He was all but gone two or three times, but shure
them wimmen, his wife an' his sister, they each did
the work 6' two,—tendin' him, an' nursin' him, be
night, an' be day.
An' Jeannie! there wasn't a frill nor a fancy the
whole time. Shure wasn't she the comfort an' mainstay o' Nannie. An' didn't she keep up hope, even
when the docthur himself had giv it up. An' there she
was bathin' him when he was too hot, an' warmin' him
up wid bricks and hot jars, when he was too cowld. An'
coaxin' him, an' commandin' him, till he'd take whatever was good for him. An' makin' the wife go off an'
slape, be threatenin' she wouldn't be let nurse him
28
29
otherwise. An' sittin' up all night, an' snatchin' a few
hours in the afternoon for herself, when she knew he'd
be quiet an' raisonable.
Lord ! she was the wondher intoirely, an' there
wasn't a man that came about the place that wouldn't
ha' put down his two hands for her to walk over if she'd
ha' so willed it.
But thanks be to God, they got Joe well. An' then
come the matter o' where was he goin' to live while
buildin' his house again, if builded it was goin' to be.
But here Jennie steps in again an' says she—
" Ye got a good enough offer for the place a while
ago from Mr. Clancy the cattle dealer. It was just
sintimint an' custom o' livin' there that made ye refuse.
Shure it took the fire to move ye out of a place that
never suited ye."
They'd all got to takin' orders from her, an' no
wondher ! So they sat quiet an' listened to her.
" Your land is only fit for pasture. What ye ought
to do is to get rid of it, an' take Doolan's place near the
town. It's small an' well kept, an' no money need be
spent on it afther ye've took it."
" Ye'll make more wid a garden an' dairyin' near
a town, wid a small place ye can work yourself, than
contindin' wid a big place ye have to be layin' out
money for labour on."
" There's the childer's schoolin' too to think of.
An' Doolan's house is a snug wan, wid wather in pipes,
an' a win'mill pump."
An' before they knew where they was—they was all
settled in Doolan's, who, be the way, was only too glad
to get a quick sale, bein' off to America, havin' come
into money and a business there.
An' Jenny ! She went back to her shop, doin'
betther than ever. Comin' down reg'lar to visit at ,
" Coonagh," giving Joe her advice, an' always to the
good. An' him gettin' on an' prosperin' just as much
as he didn't in past times. It was just the movin' out
o' a rut he wanted, an' shure he got it with a vengeance
in the fire.
Jenny ? Oh no she's not married yet, but I hear
she an' Jimmy Geraghty's talkin'. It was her doin',
gettin' him took on as traveller for MacShannaghan's,
him bein' a personable boy, wid a gift o' the gab.
Though doin' nothin' from the time he left the Army,
he was a steady hard-workin' boy when he was workin'
before the war, but could get nothin' to do, owin' to
this disemployment.
He's doin' well now, an' I'd not be surprised to
hear that Jenny an' him had joined forces. It's tendin'
that way I'm thinkin', from all I can see.
She'll make a fine wife for him. An' Jimmy he's
the boy that'll be able to take her in han', an' manage
her all right.
"How Rosie's Heart Mended."
o•Z
" How Rosie's Heart Mended."
There was somethin' about that child ye couldn't
help likin' from the time she was in her cradle !
Most o' them is nothin' but a care an' a nuisance
for the first few years. But there was nothin' of that
about Rosie O'Connor from the very first. When other
wains o' her age 'ud ha' been yawhin' an' howlin',
there she was lyin' as good as gold, stretchin' out her
wee hare's and amusin' herself lookin' them over. An'
if ye happened to look in at the purty wee mite, there
was always a smile to greet ye. Many's the toime I've
seen the wee, toothless gums grinnin' up at meself.
Shure isn't it me own cousin, Nannie Murphy,
that nursed them, wan a' all up at " The Prospect."
An' didn't I often meet her walkin' them out in their
prams.
When Rosie O'Connor was a slip av a girl there
wasn't a sowl about the country side that hadn't a good
word for her. She was the koindest-hearted crature ye
could think of ! Good through an' through, widout a
mote or blemish on her.
!There was never a beggar but went away blessin'
her an' all belongin' to her. An' never a sick dog about
the place but she'd be fixin' it up an' makin' it happy.
There was them that shook their heads wid their
eyes rowled up to heaven. declarin' " They'll never
rear her! She's too good for this world."
Now, that's a moral I've no patience wid at all!
There's now an' again born into this world a real,
true, Christian sowl, just to let the rest o' us ponder,
34
35
an' wonder, an' love thim. Maybe ye know wan o'
thim yerself ! An' isn't the world a better place just
because they're in it !
They're not the fightin' koind, an' the contintious
wans'll take the pickin's from under their eyes, an'
they'll take the lavin's widout a word. Och, shure
there's never a harsh word from thim ! They're always
koind an' quiet wid a gentility that makes a saft place
in yer heart for thim.
But shure there's no need for thim to be dyin'
young, if they gets any chance at all. Isn't there always
some dacent man or woman by, to help them in their
battles. That kind somehow gets a dacent man
wantin' to help thim.
An' if ever there was wan o' that sort—Rosie
O'Connor was wan.
She was a bonny girl too. A wee bit thin an'
square-boned, small, an' slight, she was. But, the pink
an' white o' her skin, an' the gold o' her hair was the
swatest thing ye ever seen. Her eyes wasn't large, but
they were deep-set, an' well put in, wid nice black eyelashes. An' when she looked up at ye, her charackter
was there for all to see—pure and swate, widout wan
crooked art.
As she grew up there was a good many boys after
her, but there was none o' thim she favoured more than
another, excep' young M`Guinness.
A fool of a fella when he was a gosson ; but he set
to workin' at his books about fourteen or fifteen, an'
here he started an' tuk all before him in prizes, an'
exams., an' certificates, an' the loike.
His mother, Mary M`Guinness, was a quare, clever
woman, havin' a fine head on her for figures. She kep'
the business o' the wee shop all in her own han's, an'
little Micky M`Guinness, the husband, was quite contint
to lave it so, bein' a lazy little divil at all times.
Like all the rest, they made a fortune in the war.
Sellin' an' buyin' was two different things then, an'
thim as had anythin' to sell, had only theirselves to
blame if they didn't make han'-over-fist on it.
Young Michael grew up a fine, handsome, six-foot
man. His mother's carroty hair, an' his father's big
blue eyes, made the quare pictur of a fella av him, for
the girls to be throwin' eyes at.
But shure, he never took any notice o' thim, bein'
for ever wid his nose into his books, larnin' an' layin'
up larnin', all the time.
The first thing Mary M`Guinness took an' done
whin she got the cash, was to send the boy ofr to a
college up in Dublin, to make a doctor av him.
Now the M`Guinness's wasn't in it wid the loikes
o' the O'Connors. Michael O'Connor was a proud man, an' wouldn't
ha' thought av a daughter o' his lookin' at the loikes
av a wee draper's son.
But Rosie bein' who she was, no wan thought av
denying her anythin'.
Moreover, the boy was took up be all the best in
Dublin, an' was likely to git a rise in the world anyhow.
The two o' them made a nice couple, an' everywan
roun' about looked on it as fixed, that him an' her 'ud
settle down in Ballydoo, wheniver he'd got his doctorship.
It was about this time Rosie was took wid the
36
notion av goin' off to lam nursin' in wan av the big
Dublin hospitals.
An' shure wasn't she always the great han' at
nursin', goin' to any sick neighbour roun' about, an'
takin' a han' wid the best av them at it.
There was a big family o' them up at " The
Prospect," but Rosie always had the saftest place in
her da's heart ; an' if he didn't like partin. ' wid her, he
never said no to lettin' her go, knowin' that her heart
was set on it.
There was great accounts o' young Michael takin'
all before him in examinations an' prizes. An' all
Dublin after him for parties an' the like. An' him
refusin' the best in the land if it was interfarin' wid
his book larnin'.
There was nothin' much heard about the wee girl.
She wasn't much took wid all the nursin' she got doin',
it bein' mostly scrubbin' an' cleanin'. All the worst o'
the work bein' for the new wans to try them out, an'
see what they're made ay.
Young Michael came down wanst or twice for a
wee holiday. Quite the gintleman he was, in his towncut clothes an' his college tie—the colours that only the
rael gentry wears. But above all, his manners! He
might ha' been anybody ! The neighbours wan an' all
went up to spake to him when they met him, an' shure
they were all commintin' on it.
He was like a rael gintleman, an' I very nearly
said "Sir" to him meself, forgettin' it was wee Micky
M`Guinness's son I was talkin' to, for the minnit.
It was a whole year before wee Rosie O'Connor
came home.
37
I didn't see her meself whin she come, bein' away
in the County Meath at a fair. Me mother was after
tellin' me she was all failed an' no colour in her cheeks
at all at all.
" An' no wondher," says she. " Shure they've
had her up every night for three months on end," says
she. " An' what sort o' treatment d'ye call that for
anny girl."
For me mother had a saft place in her heart for
Rosie; an' who hadn't, roun' about these parts!
But shure when I saw her, she was bloomin' like
her name-flower, an' there was a swateness about her
that fairly caught ye.
I stopped her, an' says I—
" How are ye doin' in the hospital, Miss
O'Connor ? "
" Fine, Mr. Murphy,," says she. " I'm likin' it
better every day, though the work is hard."
" Ye're lookin' well on it annyway," says I,
" though I heerd tell ye were kep' up every night for
three months."
" Night duty," says she. " Och, that was a rest."
" Quare rest," says I, " three months av it."
Wid that she smiles up at me, an' shure I forgets
what I'm goin' to say, an' I thinks—the man is blest
that's goin' to have that smile for his own! An' I
says to her—" An' how is Michael gettin' on ?"
Her eyes lights up, an' the roses deepens on her
cheeks.
The beauty av her !
God be praised, thinks I, that ould Ireland breeds
such colleens to be a light an' a delight to the sufferin'
world.
39
" Michael's doin' gran'," says she; " he's taken
another exam. ! First in all Ireland."
" Isn't he the great boy intoirely," says I, thinkin'
—wouldn't any fella, worth his salt, work his fingers
to the bone for a girl like that.
It was the same all the way along in Michael
M`Guinness's career. The boy never looked back in
his schoolin' from the time he started gettin' on.
Mary M`Guinness was the quare, proud woman
whin she came back from Dublin, after seem' Michael
walk up an' take his degrees. An' him bein' shook be
the hand be all the big-wigs, an' professors, an' the
loike.
It came out then that there was to be no settlin'
down in Ballydoo for Michael. No indeed! He was
to be set up in Dublin among all the big pots—took up
be them, an' worked on, till he'd be at the top o' the
tree.
What effect, says I to meself, is this goin' to have
on the wee girl. An' how is she goin' to bike livin' in
Dublin—away from everywan that loves her, excep'
Michael, o'course.
But I needn't ha' bothered about that, for the next
thing we heard was—Michael was marryin' a young
widda, wid a gran' house an' carriages, an' a trimindous fortune! All set up in the hoighth of society, an'
no trouble.
The consternation that reigned in an' aroun'
Ballydoo over the news was somethin' powerful.
An' no wan dared stop Michael O'Connor, even to
bid him the toime o' the day. He went about wid a look
on his face as if he was sarchin'for somewan to murder.
An' we all said it was well young Michael had the sinse
not to come about the place.
There was a great weddin' up in Dublin. Mary
M`Guinness was great stoyle in a shiny, silk, vi'let
dress she bo't up there. An' wee Michael, lookin'
loike nothin' in this world, in a shiny silk hat, an'
trousers not matchin' his black coat—not to spake o' a
white waistcoat, just loike ye'd see in them ould pictures. An' moind I'm tould he had wee white gaithers
on his feet, but I couldn't believe that in no wise or
ways at all at all.
There was talk roun' about the place, as ye might
expect. But he it said to the credit av all, there wasn't
wan that didn't take the part av Rosie, an' say a koind
word for her. There was never a " sarve her roight,"
nor a " I tould ye so." It was all " maybe he'll get
what he desarves," an' " he'll never get the loikes o'
Rosie, grandeur or no grandeur."
I'm tellin' ye this to show ye how the wee girl had
the hearts av all the country side!
It was a month or more before she came home, an'
God help us, we were all afeart we saw death in her
face. Her eyes were gone in, in her head, her cheeks
were pale, even the gold in her hair seemed to have
gone out av it.
Michael O'Connor went about a stricken man, an'
no wan dared say a word av consolation to him.
But shure, Rosie's friends was all sendin' some
wee tokens o' their feelins—the first strawberries from
wan ; a guinea hen's egg, that's said to be extra
strengthenin', from another; an' a wee Persian kitten
from ould Miss Lalor, that was never known to give
40
41
annywan anythin', an' got great prices for the kittens,
even ten shillin's or more.
But shure, it was all no good. The wee girl was
lyin', smilin' an' swate to everywan, an' just fadin'
away, day be day.
Me cousin Nannie (who was always there lookin'
after wan or another, Mrs. O'Connor bein' a wake, saft
crathur, wid no go in her) was put to the pin av her
collar, thinkin' out wan thing an' another to tempt the
poor wee thing to ate a bit at all. An' wid all that the
appetite was failed, an' they were just kapin' her alive
wid sups av stuff.
The neighbours wan an' all was prayin' for her, but
most av thim thinkin' there was no hopes.
It came to wan night when they were all sittin' up
wid her, fearin' she'd never see the light av day.
An' the poor wake mother sittin' be the bed
howldin' her child's han'—when all av a sudden the
poor crathur gives a long moan, an' down she falls in a
dead faint on the floor.
Rosie opens her eyes an' sees them tryin' to lift up
the mother—no aisy job, for all she was a thin, slip av
a woman, she was a good hoighth ; an' Nannie bein'
fairly stout, wasn't much good at liftin'.
" Lave her head down. It's better to kape the
head low," says Rosie; spakin' from her bed, no wan
thinkin' it quare for the dyin' girl to be takin' them all
in han' an' tellin' them what to do.
Nannie bein' a sensible woman hands Rosie a cup
av egg an' brandy, they'd been givin' her sups av,
which she swallows down widout a word. An' out av
bed she steps, an' over she goes to the mother widout
a stagger, an' opens up her body*. Nannie manewhile
kapin' close to her to see she comes to no harm.
" Ye'd better send for the doctor, father," says
Rosie, turnin' to poor Michael, who was houldin' his
breath, dumb-founded, an' not knowin' what to say or
do.
She takes the pillow off her own bed, an' puts it
under her mother's head, an' wraps her up in the
feather quilt. An' Nannie takes the chance then av
puttin' a warm gown roun' the girl herself.
The doctor wasn't long comin', bein' downstairs
havin' a bite av supper. Him bein' a great frien' av
Michael's, an' powerful fond o' wee Rosie, had left his
assistant doctor to answer the bell to annywan wantin'
them that night ; so there he was on the spot an' no
delay.
He sized it all up, widout anny why or wherefore.
So all the notice was giv to the mother. An' her, he
ordhered off to bed, an' then whin Rosie would ha'
gone wid her—
" No," says he, " it's better not to make a fuss av
her, Rosie, or she'll be thinkin' she's worse than she
is."
An' gettin' the girl back into her own bed, he sends
Nannie to her. An' steppin' into the mother's room
along wid Michael, he says to her—
" There's not much the matter wid ye, Mrs.
O'Connor, savin' that ye're wore out, an' no wonder.
But ye've got to put it on for all ye're worth, if ye're
goin' to save ye're daughter's loife. A bit av nursin'
an' anxiety about you is goin' to take her moind off that
fella that hadn't the sense to know a good thing when
he seen it."
* Bodice.
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43
Now, Dr. Flannigan is a man wid a power av
common sense. He may not be a great doctor so far as
letters after his name goes. But shure, isn't common
horse-sense better than a whole lot av book-cleverness
widout it.
But poor Mrs. O'Connor when she come to take a
rest (which she never could be got to do before, bein'
over-anxious at all times about the childer, not to spake
av poor Rosie bein' so rael bad) ; the poor sowl when
she does give in, finds she's wantin' the rest badly, so
she took kindly to bein' waited on, an' had no objection
to kapin' to her bed.
Rosie come on somethin' wonderful. Av course
they had to take the greatest care of her, feedin' her
wid eggs an' wine, an' all the best av everythin'.
" For," says the doctor to her, " if ye don't take
all that's given ye, ye're not goin' to get lave to nurse
ye're mother. It isn't two av ye," says he, " I want
on me han's at the same toime."
She got well, an' so did the mother, God be
praised!
An' shure isn't she only twenty-four, an' the
loikes o' her isn't goin' to be left alone be the boys.
I'm hopin' to see her married an' settled some day, but
not yet awhile.
Ye're not married ve're self sir? Ye could be doin'
worse. I'm not sayin', moind ye, the wee girl 'ud look
at ye.
Michael M`Guinness ? Och, he's doin' well. I'm
tould he's at the top av the tree, wid the wife an' him
movin' in the hoights av Society. But he's never
brought her to Ballydoo, nor anywhere next or nigh the
wee shop that gave him his start.
No, there's no childer—that is to say, alive. There
An'
was two, an' they died, wan after the other.
I hear there's no more need be expected, for all his
cleverness. Well, ye can't have everything in this
world !
He put love aside an' married for money an' position. Well, he's got them, but there's nothin' to love
in his house an' not likely to be so.
Sorra. mend him ! That's all I can say for him.
"Qualtty an' Dacency."
4
tc Quality an' Dacency.11
The quality, some o' them, is havin' hard enough
loimes, wid taxes on land an' on houses, and wid rates
on wan thing an' another, till ye'd be wonderin' what
they'd be taxin' next. An' death duties—shure, it's
as much as a man's life is worth to be thinkin' o' dyin'
at all—wid the law grabbin' half of what a man has
toiled, an' moiled, to lay by for his family.
Look at Lord Cary. Aye, look at him, the dacent
man he is, an' the way he's trated. Nobody ever saw
anythin' but dacency from wan av that family, that's
been in these parts from the year o' wan.
Always a Cary of Carysfort livin' here. Aye, livin'
here, doin' the roight thing be the tinants, an' the
neighbours wan an' all.
D'ye know, I've heerd tell, in the days o' the
famine, long before this man's father was born or
thought of, the Lord Cary as then was, did the roight
thing by the poor wans in his vicinity, that would ha'
starved only for him. But there was no starvin' for
them wans. No! There was good Indian male,
fattenin' an' fillin', bo't an' sarved out to them all
roun'.
No stuffin' theirselves while the poor at their gate
is dyin' like flies. No, sharin' an' sharin' till the poor
man beggared himself, an' his place mortgaged till he
couldn't raise another penny on it.
An' his sons havin' to lave the home place an' go
off to foreign parts lookin' for fortunes, an' comin'
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49
home wid little more than they started out wid—or not
comin' home at all.
All excep' ould Mr. Anthony, that stayed at home
an' married wan o' the M`Worthys, the whiskey
people, which set the family on their feet wanst more.
An' the ould place never widout a Cary livin' in it,
wid money circuiatln' in the town, an' neighbourhood
for the good av all.
An' moind I'm tellin' ye—it is for the good av all
to have a family like the Carys livin' in the country.
For doesn't the countryside fashion itself on the manners an' loife o' the quality, no matter what they may
say to the contrary. An' in wan carcle an' another
from the highest to the lowest, ye'll see the fruits av'
their behavin's, be it good or bad.
The doctor's wife an' the 'torney's wife, '11 be
copyin' the ladies av the Castle ; an' the butcher's
daughter an' the baker's daughter '11 be copyin' the
doctor's an' the 'torney's wife.
An' the sarvints—
won't they be copyin' their mistresses an' their mistresses' daughters, whatever they may be.
It's a sorry day for the countryside when there's
no quality livin' near by. For how are the people to
know the differ, if there's no wan to lam them.
Here we are wid all the quality lavin' us. For
why ?
Closin' up their places or lettin' them to rich new
wans, that has nayther manners, nor morals.
I'll tell ye why !
Taxes too high. An' half their money giv up to
the government in death duties.
There's Lord Cary—sixty-five years av age,
startin' off to foreign parts where livin' is chaper. An'
er ladyship an' the young ladies, all homeless wanderers in a foreign land.
An' here's Mr. Lewis, the big fat Jew man from
Dublin, an' his wife, an' his son an' daughter, livin' up
there in the lap av luxury.
Moind I'm not sayin' he doesn't desarve all he's
got, for I hear he worked hard enough for it. An' I'm
tould he never did any harm to annywan, but giv' a
helpin' han' to some, when he had a shop in a wee back
street in Dublin. A dacent man as Jews goes, an'
more so I'm tould. But shure he can't help it if he isn't
loike them we're used to up at the Castle. An' his wife
can't help it, her fingers is fat like sausages, instead av
bein' slim an' white, loike her ladyship's.
But be it so or not, toimes is changed an' not for
the better. There isn't wan about the place, but 'ud
be glad to see the Carys back, wid plenty o' money to
live on, an' entertain, loike the ould days.
Maybe be the toime he'd saved enough to come
home, his lordship 'ud be dead--which God forbid.
An' young Mr. Anthony, God spare him ! the only
wan o' the boys left out av three av them. Shure
wasn't two o' them lost in the war.
Wan av them blown to bits, an' never heard of—
only his boot. But shure, wasn't that enough to tell
them the bad news!
The other boy died after gettin' better from an
operation. But shure, I heerd it was well, for what
wasn't left of him on the battle field was all cut up in
the operation. Poor boy !
An' here was the poor father an' mother left
lamentin', wid only wan slip av a boy left, that was
Fr'
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51
still at his schoolin', an' not strong be anny manner o'
manes.
her ridin' by on her little black mare, wid a waist on
her ye don't often see these days.
Poor Mr. Anthony an' her was sweethearts, boy
an' girl. An' shure she was true to him through thick
and thin when she could ha' married all sorts of high
up ginerals an' colonels, an' the loike, when she went
away workin' for the war.
But no, she was his altogither. An' after her
mother died an' there was no raison kapin' on the
home, an' little besides debts the Colonel had left to
kape them, her ladyship says—
" Why, mavourneen, an' wouldn't ye be afther
comin' wid us to foreign parts, where ye'll forget all
ye're trouble an' sorrow "—which she did ; an' they
all started off lavin' Mr. Anthony, which they had to
do, as he wouldn't be in annyways persuaded to go.
" No, lave me in London," says he. " I'll folly
ye, maybe to Parrus. But I'm afraid it'll be after ye're
left for them other places ye're makin' for."
He's tryin' to sell his pictures in London, to make
some money for the family.
Takin' the loss of his home to heart he was !
The poor boy wasn't makin' much av it; an'
hangin' roun' shops like a dog at a fair, was no kin' o'
business for the loikes av him, the son o' a lord an' all
that. He had no chanst to sell his pictures, not knowin'
how to go about it.
He's feelin' all his luck is out, an' there's no use
callin' anny more. An' he takes a walk in wan o' them
big parks, I hear London's full o' them.
Strollin' along, seein' nothin', but maybe lookin'
failure in the face, in his moind's eye—his eye loights
on a face he knows.
Av course there was the young ladies, two av
them, just like pictures, a comfort an' a delight to their
parents, both.
A delicate boy Mr. Anthony was. When the other
lads 'ud be out gallopin' about on their ponies, an' their
little ladyships too, here the wee fellow 'ud be wrapped
up in shawls an' furs, sittin' in his wee pony-yoke,
along wid the nurse.
Clever he was, beyond all nature. Sittin' down
wid his pencil an' drawin' whatever his fancy tould him
—dogs an' cats, an' men an' women—an' rael well too.
Me cousin Timothy's girl, as was second nurse
there afore she married, says as how it was kin' o' onnatural to see the teeny wee han' wid the long pencil,
drawin', maybe a cat that ye'd be expectin' to turn
roun' an' scratch ye, it 'ud be so rael lookin'.
" Shure," says 1, " he'll be makin' the fortunes o'
the family wan o' these days."
But no, fortunes isn't made so aisy. Maybe there's
luck in it more than genius.
The boy was in love too. But shure it was hopeless—naythur av them was better off than t'other, not
havin' a penny piece between the two av them.
A lovely young lady she was too, Miss D'Arcy,
daughter av ould Colonel D'Arcy, that them Germans
took an' killed. God rest his sowl ! The dacent gentleman he was intoirely.
An' Miss Doreen, as pretty as a picture she was,
wid hair as black as night, an' eyes as blue as the
skies above us. A sight for sore eyes she was, to see
52
53
" Phil Cassidy," says he, his face loightenin' up
like sunshine on a cloudy day.
He steps forward wid his han' outstretched, an'
the two men grasps han's like long parted brothers.
" When did ye come over ?" says he.
" Och shure, I'm just come over," says Phil, " an'
I'm returnin' to New York next week."
An' here, it stroikes Mr. Tony, Phil's lookin' quare
an' prosperous, an' he says—
" Ye're doin' well over there."
" I am that," says Phil. " It's the grand country
intoirely."
Mr. Anthony says nothin' for a minnit. Be this
toime they'd fallen into step an' were walkin' side be
side along the pa-ad.
" Come along an' have a bite to ate," says Mr.
Anthony.
An' the two av them walks along, an' no wan that
sees them knows to say—
" There's the son av a lord, an' the boy that used
to look after his pony an' trap for him."
Talkin' about home an' discussin' the neighbours
wan an' all they was. Phil askin' questions an' Mr.
Tony answerin' them, and comparin' notes, an' callin'
to moind divarshun an' scrapes av their young days
togither. For Mr. Tony for all his bad health had always been a manly wee fella, an' up to divilment wid
the best av thim.
They gets to Mr. Anthony's lodgin', an' in the:.
goes, an' here Phil an' him sets to, an' cooks chops an'
fried potatoes on a wee stove—Phil in his gran'
American clothes, an' his shiny leather boots.
An'
they sits down wid a couple av bottles av Guinness's
porter, an' some bread an' cheese.
An' Phil says (I had it from himself) , it was the
best bit he ate in his loife, bar none.
There they sat an' yarned, an' then says Phil—
" Mr. Anthony, would ye be after lettin' me look
at your pictures ?"
" I will surely," says he, an' he shows him wan
after another. An' Phil, shure he has the eye for what's
goin' to sell, an' what's not. An' he sees the cleverness
av them all, an' the waste av it. For shure, aren't they
what nobody wants at all, because there are so many av
them. An' widout thinkin' it's Mr. Anthony he's
talkin' to at all, he says—
" Haven't ye anny more ? Somethin' out o' the
way. Sketches av faymale figures that ye'd see about
to-day. That's what we're wantin', not fancy pictures
av long ago."
Mr. Anthony, widout a word, takes up a big black
book, an' out av it he takes wan after another. All
sorts that 'ad caught his fancy—just like he did the wee
cat at home when a gosoon.
There was girls chattin' at a corner, wan houldin'
on her hat, an' another wid her skirts blowin' about her
shins. Ye'd swear ye could hear them laughin'. That
loifelike, ye could nearly see them breathe.
Phil goes through them wid his eyes shinin'—
mutterin' to himself.
" That's the goods ! That's the stuff. Here's
what we're wantin'."
There's wan av a girl stoopin' to tie a shoe lace,
shewin' a nice bit o' ankle an' calf. He sets that aside
and he looks at Mr. Anthony.
54
" Are ye sellin' this ?" says he.
" I am," says the other.
" I'll give ye so much," says he.
" Done," says Mr. Anthony.
Well to make a long story short--they fixed it up
between them before Phil Cassidy left for New York.
Mr. Anthony was took on be some big firm, makin'
pictures as fast as he could for them.
The stoopin' girl was put on every hoardin' about
the place, sayin'—
" Me stockin's are all right annyhow. They're
Smithson 's Smooth-Weave. "
An' all over the place ye'll see Mr. Anthony's girls
tellin' you about somethin' ye'd be better huyin'. An'
if ye're lookin' at anny o' them advertisements, an' ye
see wan that's just ready to step down an' walk to ye,
or maybe wan that ye feel like talkin' to yourself—well
that's Mr. Anthony's for shure.
An' the money that's in it bates all. He's paid
off the mortgage, an' fixed up everything fair an'
square ; an' his lordship, an' their ladyships, they're all
comin' home for Easter.
There's goin' to be the gran' weddin' there as soon
as they're all settled. But it's sorry I am Mister
Anthony and the young mistress won't be settlin' down
here. I hear he has the gran' place intoirely av his own
near Dublin, not to spake av another in America that
bates all.
Phil Cassidy does be sayin' they have houses over
there nigh a hun'red story high, an' that ye can choose
55
ye're climate, just as ye want it. If the summer
weather below is too hot for ye, shure ye only have to
go higher up, an' have it as if it was made for ye.
Shure there's nothin' they can't do in America
excep' grow shamrock. I'm tould it's too dry altogether
for that. They do be findin' it hard to hould Saint
Patrick's Day in anny koind av dacent fashion there.
There's worse places than ould Ireland, taking it
all round. An' there's worse people than the neybours
wan an' all. If I only had the toime, I could tell ye
more'n 'ud fill a book av the dacency I've met wid.
I'm not feelin' I want to be lavin', but Ill not say
I wouldn't loike to be after seein' some av the soights
Phil Cassidy does be tellin' us ay.
"Terence an' The Widda."
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" Terence an' the Widda."
She had six to his four—all fine up-standing, young
craturs, healthy, and hungry, and bonny.
She was a likely-looking lady too, if only he had
the sense to see it. But all he knew was that he liked
the look of her. An' who could help it ? She was all
that the heart of man could desire; a brave armful of
a woman, an' her head covered wid little red curls,
some av' them comin' down on the back o' her neck.
That neck ! Shure I'm a settled man meself with a girl
o' me own, and many's the time I'd have liked to lay
me lips on the smooth whiteness o' that neck. And
Terence, anny man could see he was o' the same way
o' thinking. And small wonder !
Barney Malone just doated on her to the day av his
death, God rest him ! Poor fellah, he was took sharp
an' sudden or it'ud a been the last thing he'd a thought
a doin', to go an leave her.
The Widda Malone had all the drawin' powers o'
the lady in the song, only more so, an' there wasn't a
bachelor over forty in Ballygeraghty that hadn't thrown
an eye at her. An' shure to Glory if it hadn't been the
stand-off powers o' a rampageous young family o' six
childer, the lady wouldn't ha' got lave to stay a widda
for nigh on a year or more.
But what's the use o' talkin'—six av a ready-made
family is enough to make anny man stop an' think
awhile, even when the lady's overflowin' with charms
av money an' person. For the Widda Malone was a
warm woman. The farm was her own that she'd
60
brought to her husband along wid a tidy little fortune
in cash. And Barney Malone had his own little bit too,
wid the public house, and a good few acres o' land.
Of course it was the quare lift for him when he married
'Stasia Power. Shure wasn't everyone after her; but
she never had an eye for anny but poor Barney, Goa
Rest Him ! An' here he's gone an' left her at the
mercy av' all the boys and widda-men o' the county,
not to spake av outsiders who hasn't a look in.
There was more than wan fella willin' to take her
an' swallow fatherin' the ready-made family, but
Stasia Malone wasn't havin' anny 'til Terence
MaCarthy came courtin' her, not that she wasn't nice
an' friendly with one and all ; but we soon saw none o'
them was in it with the bould Terence.
An' Terence MaCarthy, shure ye've seen him ! As
fine a man as ye'd meet on a day's walk, for all he was
forty-five last Michelsome. There isn't a line on his
face, an' his cheeks are as rosy as if he was a boy just
treading on his twenties.
An' Terry, I can tell ye, is a man o' substance.
He's no fortune-hunter, not that he wouldn't take that
into account too. For " MaCarthy o' Windy Arbour "
is all but a title in these parts ; there had been
MaCarthys here from before the flood, or nearly so.
And the pride o' them. Well ye could see that be the
way they held up their necks to the world. Not that
they kep' up anny great style or grandeur. Shure they
might ha' been just as plain an' or'nary as we are
ourselves.
Well, here's luck to them, an' may all come right
to them, for they're as fine a pair as ever you clapped
61
eyes on. Just to see him bendin' his curly black head
down near the shinin' red gould o' hers 'ud do ye're
heart good. The look o' love in his eyes 'ud melt the
heart av stone, and the voice av him 'ud coax the birds
off the bushes. It fairly made the heart tremmle !
There's many's the ould man an' woman lookin' on,
that took pleasure in callin' to mind their own romanticle days long gone by.
The story isn't long so I'll make it as short as I
can. We'd all seen the Widda's brown eyes bright'ning for Terence, and the purty pink colour in her
cheek, bloomin' like a rose in summer when he
whispered in her ear.
We were all havin' a wee bet on how long it 'ud
be 'til he'd take her home to Windy Arbour, aye, an'
how the six an' the four'd get on, an' what they'd
think about it.
An' then like a thunder-clap, it was all U.P. How
it came about or what it was all about no one seemed
to know. But shure I heard it all from Moira O'Neil,
that I've been courting this fifteen years or more, and
can't get a yes out of. To tell ye the truth, the girl
has an ould grandad an' granny to look after. An'
Glory be to God! It's fine an' proud the county's of
them—Centenariannes they calls them.
That's all very well, but—there's more than that
in it. The last thing some people 'ull do is what they're
expected to. I'll not say Moira isn't a fine girl yet, but
ye can't expect a woman to keep on improving with
age.
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63
How an' ever that may be, the Widda an' Moira
is great friends intoirely. They don't see each other
too often (moind I'm not sayin' that's the reason o'
the friendship, but maybe so), both o' them annyway
being busy women, couldn't be, runnin' in an' out of
t'others house.
" Well, goodbye, Stasia, an' I'll call up the instant
I get a minnit."
She goes to the door with her an' out into the wee
front garden. They must have stood talkin' at the
gate, for I could now an' again hear the hiss o' a
whisper. But I sat where I was, knowin' that if Moira
happened to see me shadow movin' to the door or
window—sorra word I'd ever hear from her.
After ten minutes or more she comes in lookin' as
innocent as a new-born lamb, an' says I to her, says I—
The Widda took the trouble to come down to
Moira one evenin' about seven o'clock. It bein' dark
an' no one the wiser, an' knowin' Moira always gave
the ould couple a good night-cap in the winter, to carculate the blood in their ould veins, an' make them
warm-like.
Moira was the good girl intoirely to them ould
centenariannes.
Shure she looked after them like
babbies an' tucked them into their little beds, knowin'
the punch 'ud make them sleep, an' give her time to
herself for an hour or two, it being my custom to walk
down to the cottage every ev'ning about the same time.
Well, there I foun' the Widda Malone sittin' one
evening—not lookin' herself at all at all, an' all
flustered she was when I walked in.
" I'm just goin' " says she, standin' up. " An'
how d'ye do Mr. Murphy ? But I needn't be askin'
for ye're lookin' fine," says she, all in a breath, an' not
looking at me for more'n a brace of shakes.
" I am fine, ma'am," says I, " an' ye're lookin'
lovely ye'reself, an' he's the lucky man that has the
light o' your eyes," says I, when here I sees Moira
shaking her head at me, an' making faces fit to stop a
clock, let alone me that could always take a hint. So
then Moira says quick like-
" Ye'll be after takin' your death o' cowld out
there avid not a thing on ye over your dress. Draw
your chair up an' thaw the chill out o' your bones,"
says I.
She took the chair an' did as I bid her, an' never
a word says she, an' meself the same.
" I'm thinkin'," says she, after a wee while, " it's
all over between Stasia an' Terry MaCarthy."
" I'd be long sorry to hear that," says I, " they're
a well-matched pair."
" That's as may be," says she, " but there's for
an' against."
" There always is," says I.
" You'd have thought he might have considered
that before goin' so far," says Moira.
" Aye," says I, just encouraging her.
" An' now when he's made her the talk o' the
countryside, coolin' off an' lavin' her not knowing
where she is. It's just like a man, never knowin' his
own mind."
I took no notice o' this last, though there was
something I might have said. But shure I hadn't got
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65
the rights o' the case o' Terence an' the Widda. An'
there's nothin' pleases a woman like havin' the last
word. So I just went on smokin', an' lookin' in the
fire an' sayin' nothin'.
" What d'ye think, Danny ?" says she to me.
" Faith I don't know what to think," says I, " not
knowing the rights av it nor anything. Was it a row
they had or what ?"
" There was never no row nor nothing," says she.
" Stasia tould me the whole thing from beginning to
end, and there's never been anything in the nature of a
row from start to finish."
" Well now," says I, " that's quare. An' when
did she notice this coolness comin' on ?"
" Comin' on," says she, " there was no comin' on
about it. It was sudden. But that's nayther here nor
there. It's the way he's carried on wid her an' then
drops her for no rhyme or raison, that's troubling her."
" Well then," says I to her, " the best thing you
can do is to tell me what passed at the last meeting and
maybe I can tell whose fault it is."
With that she turned on me an' says she—
" Didn't I tell you there was no fault on Stasia's
part, an' the only fault there can he is him blowin' hot
an' cowld, and treatin' the poor girl like that."
" Well, annyway tell me what happened," says I.
" They'd got as far as fixing the weddin' for the
last Monday in April. An' then they got on to talking
about the childer, an' says he—' I was always fond o'
childer, bein' one of ten meself. An' your wee wans'll
be as welcome,' says he, as flowers in May. Shure
there's room for all,' says he, in Windy Arbour.' She,
' jokin'-like says to him, it'll take a brave house to
hould your childer an' my childer, an' our childer."
" Wid that he shut up like a clam, an' she says he
kep' lookin' at her an' studyin' her as if he'd never
seen her in his life before.
" Now, will ye tell me what there was in that to
cool him ?"
I looked at Moira, an' says I—
" D'ye mean to say ye can't see what staggered
the boy ?"
" No," says she, " I can't say I do."
" Well," says I, " it's a brave heart that's willlin'
to father six of a ready-made family, not to spake of
four of his own. Two families is something to take
on ; but it's out of all reckoning to think of three all at
once.
" Now, Stasia Malone is a quare fine woman. Let
her give him time. He's only got to think it over and
he'll come to it in time. He's only shying off till he gets
used to the idea."
An' d'ye know, I was right. Terence MaCarthy
came up to the scratch, and the grandest weddin' that
was ever seen in Ballygeraghty come off yesterday.
There was lashin's an' lavins' of everythin' down at her
place last night. It was the grand party intoirely. And
Terence doin' the honours as proud as a dog wid two
tails.
They're movin' in to-day. If you'd been here half
an hour ago, you'd ha' seen Terence drivin' the mistress
and the new family up home to Windy Arbour.
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" Glory Be! They're the lovely pair. Between
me an' you, it 'ud be a tarrible pity if there was no wee
ones. They'd be born beauties to be sure!
Here's long life an' happiness to them both. An'
childer or no childer, may they never want for anny •
thing. More power to them ! says I.
"The Square Peg."
69
" The Square Peg."
" What's wan man's meat is another man's
poison." There never was a truer word.
I'll give ye wan to add to that. " Don't try to
turn people out to wan pattern." There'll be maybe
five out o' a family o' six to wan measure, an' the
sixth'll be all out o' the compass.
That was the way wid the Maguires. As fine a
family o' five well-set-up gosoons, an' two purty colleens, as ye could wish to see.
Four out o' the five boys was steady hard-workin'
fellas, helpin' their father on the farm. An' the other,
Micky, a heart-scald to his poor ould father. No good
at all on the farm. Goin' about wid a book in his
pocket, an' slippin' away to read in some hole or
corner when he should be workin'. An' as for readin',
nothin' came amiss to the same boy.
He was the great boy too, for company, welcome
anywhere he wished to go. Shure, couldn't he sing,—
an' dance—and yarn wid the best o' them. An' if there
was anny divarshun goin' annywhere, well—that's
where ye'd find Micky.
There was rows, frequent an' fierce, up at " The
Coppey," an' ye might always bet y're boots it was
Micky was gettin' it. The father had no patience wid
him, an' no wonder. Wid four boys that was an
example to all, it was hard on the poor man havin' this
wan that he could never depind on to be annything but
a failure.
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71
But Micky was quite happy wid his readin' an' his
fun. An' then he took to writin' books, composin'
them all out o' his own moind ! But shure he got no
encouragement in anny form or fashion from his father,
he had no use for book-writin', an' him an' Micky was
worse frien's than ever over it.
Och no, they didn't get on at all at all. An' I
heerd tell the father was for sendin' him about his
business more than wanst ; but shure, when he threatened the boy wid it the mother up an' says :—
" If ye put him out, I'll rise up an' go wid him."
He was the darlin' av her heart, an' no wan dare
say him yea or nay, for her. An' well they all knew it.
He was a likeable boy, an' had a way wid him.
He could always get roun' the mother, an' the eldest
girl, Norah. But not so his father. Och no ! Nor the
rest o' the family aythur, they hadn't anny use for his
blandishments.
An' Micky ? Och, Micky had gone off after a row
wid the ould man. Niver said a word to annywan but
just slipped away quietly. He wasn't heerd of for a
good wee while. A postcard to his mother after he
went tould her he was over in Scotland, an' then, not a
word after.
The ould man was failin', all could see. He had
been doin' a little less, an' a little less, till here he was
doin' nothin' at all ; an' the eldest girl Norah, lookin'
after him like a little child.
There was a nice boy waitin' for Norah whenever
she was ready to marry. She an' the other wan,
Maggie, got tokened the same clay. There was a great
weddin' for Maggie just before the ould man was took
bad. For rael bad he was took. An' a doctor brought
down from Dublin, an' all the countryside struck dumb.
An' wasn't it enough to make annywan stop an' think,
to hear there was no hope for the poor man, for all his
manes.
" If it wasn't left too late, shure he could 'a been
all right wid an operation," says the big man from
Dublin.
Not that I hould wid operations, though there's
wonderful cures to their credit, to be shure. But it's
not natural! An' I'd rather stan' anything meself than
be carved up wid a knife. But shure, one never knows
what they'll do 'til it comes to the bit—the fear
death is a powerful mover.
Anny way there was no operation for poor ould
Paddy Maguire. An' the county was all goin' on tiptoe
past the place, not likin' to be askin' how he was,
knowin' he couldn't get better.
Now when it came to settlin' the boys there was no
bother. Paddy Maguire was a warm man. Farmin'
the way he did it was a payin' business, wid his family
workin', an' no wages goin' out. An' Paddy had been
buyin' a bit here an' there, pickin' up bargains. So
wan boy was set up wid the wee flour mill (an' well he
did wid it too). Another o' them got " Woodlands,"
an' set up horse-dealin'. The eldest boy, Pat, was
workin' the home-place along wid the youngest, that
was only a slip av a lad.
An' the two girls was doin' well too, the wan wid
the fowl, an' the other wid the dairy.
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73
An' where was Micky all this time, no wan knew.
There had been naythur sight nor sound o' the boy for
nigh on twelve months.
Be this time the poor ould man was took to his bed,
an' we all heerd tell av how he was sufferin'.
What a wake thing is human flesh, the strongest
of it ! Rich an' poor alike has got to give in when
sickness comes, and down we goes for all our pride.
Whatever a man's done, an' whatever he's been, when
he can't do for himself, he's only a poor crathur to be
pitied, depindent on the kindness o' them aroun' him,
be he prince or peasant, master or sarvint.
whiter an' whiter she got, an' thinner, an' wanner as
the hours rolled on.
The boys an' girls 'ud be showin' her some little
tinderness—a squeeze o' the han', an' arm aroun' her
shoulders, or maybe a cup o' somethin' they'd make her
take.
An' then—a creak on the stair, another av the door
—an' in walks Micky as if he'd never been away.
A glance all 'roun' he gave, an' over he goes an'
kneels down be the bedside. He takes his father's poor
His
wasted han' an' he puts it up agin his cheek.
mother stan'in' over him, lookin' down wid a glad light
in her poor tired eyes.
The father's eyelids gave a trimmle, an' then
slowly opens ; his eyes goes up to his wife's, an' then
follows hers to the curly, black, head bent over his
han' on the bed.
She bends down to catch his words, an' the poor
wake lips murmur—
" Micky ! Bc good—to—Micky."
The eyes close again. There's a long sigh. An'
then Maggie begins to sob. Micky stans' up an' takes
his mother in his arms.
Well he knows, well they all know she's a poor
widowed woman that minnit. Her man is gone, an'
the last word he says to her is—
" Be good to Micky."
Och well, I'll get on wid me story, if story it be.
It came to wan night when they were all sittin'
waitin' on the ould man. He was that wake he couldn't
move a han' to help himself. An' his voice—there had
been no sound in it for a long while. The poor wife had
to put her ear down nigh his lips to catch the whisper
av it. The poor ould body wracked with pain, so that
death 'ud be a happy release. But no, the poor ould
soul coudn't die yet !
It came to nigh on 11 o'clock. All the sons an'
their wives, an' Maggie an' her husband, was in the
house.
The son-in-law, an' the daughters-in-law was
downstairs. The family was all gathered roun' the
dyin' man. All excep' Micky !
Every now an' again the poor ould man 'ud open
his eyes, an' he'd look at them one an' all aroun'. An'
last o' all his eyes 'ud come to rest on his wife's. An'
she poor sowl, a young an' hearty woman, little more
than half his age, 'ud shake her head. Shure didn't
she know what his poor moind was runnin' on. An'
" Be good to Micky." That to the mother that
he'd been always blamin' for bein' too good to him.
After awhile when they got time to think of it—
the boys got talkin' to their wives about it, an' Maggie
74
75
got talkin' to her husband about it, an' there was some
onaisyness as to what 'ud come o' the whole situation.
Norah, she knew what was in her father's moind.
Hadn't she been tryin' to raison him into doin' the
dacent thing be Micky—knowin' he'd cut him intoirely
out o' his will.
goes over to where his mother is sittin', wringin' her
han's an' moanin' to herself.
" He never made anny of it, an' he'll never get
anny of it," says he.
" I don't care about that father," says she;
" share an' share alike," says I. " Some can earn, an'
some can't, an' them that can't needs it all the more."
But that wasn't the ould man's idea, an' it wasn't
the other wan's idea naythur.
When it came to the readin' o' the ould man's will
the only mintion o' Micky's name was the cuttin' o' him
out o' it. The poor mother takes to sobbin', an' cryin',
an' Norah pattin' an' comfortin' her.
Micky manewhile sittin' wid his head in his han's,
all doubled up, so that no wan could see what he's
thinkin' av it.
The brothers are sittin' upright, lookin' naythur to
right nor to left. An' Maggie wid her handkercher
rouled up in a tight ball, givin' a sob now an' again.
Misther O'Hare, the attorney, a dacent wee man,
as lawyers goes, is radeing on the " whereases an' the
wherefors," an' a lot o' sich like terms that's put in be
them, so as ye'll have to get wan o' them to make it
out for ye again. But the will is plain enough in its
manein'. Each o' them gettin' a fair share, an' poor
Micky left out in the cold wid nothin' at all.
So when it's all read an' Misther O'Hare has got to
foldin' up the legal documents, Micky stan's up an'
" Mother," says he, " ye mustn't fret."
" Me poor boy," says she, " of coorse we'll upset
the will. Ye're poor father regretted it himself. Ye
all saw that!"
An' the others all looks thunderstruck, all excep'
Norah.
" Of coorse we will," says she, an' gives a look o'
scorn roun' at the other wans.
" No, mother," says he. " We'll lave it just as
me father put it."
Ye could ha' heerd a pin drop as he spoke.
" I've enough o' me own an' to spare. An'
mother," says he, " I'm thinkin' ye'll not be wantin'
to stay on at the farm. Shure it never suited ye livin'
in these parts."
In the silence o' the room wan o' the daughters-inlaw scrapes back on her chair, which no wan notices,
an' thankful the poor woman is for that same, lookin'
all scarred-like at the noise she made.
" I thought maybe," says Micky, " ye'd come an'
settle wid me an' me wife in Dublin, ye're own native
place."
" Ye're wife," says Maggie, findin' her tongue at
last.
An' wid that they all come to, an' begins askin'
questions, the poor mother sayin' nothin', only fondlin'
an' pattin' Micky's han'.
" No," says Micky, " I'm not married, that is to
say, not yet. I'm goin' to be, soon.
" Money ? Well I haven't so much of it yet. Only
a matter av twenty-thousand or so."
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76
There was gasps from here an' there, wid mouths
open, an' no words comin'.
" I got me book published all right. It didn't
bring so much, but the film-rights an' the play-rights
of it, that's what brought in the money."
" But where was you all this time?" says Maggie.
" America for the last six months," says he. " I
should be there now, lookin' after me play, but there
was something called me home, I couldn't get ye all
out o' me moind. Dreamin' and wakin', between me
rest, an' me work, home was drawin' me all the toime.
I knew there was nothing for it but to come home at
wanst. So home I come. Thanks be to God I got
here in toime to hear me father call me be name."
The poor boy bruk down an' cried like a little child.
An' his mother comfortin' him like that same.
Here was the wonder, an' constarnation, an' talk
among them all. The boy they'd been so down on,
had come out the best in the end. An' the book they
had all jeered at, took up, an' makin' lashin's o' money.
An' what come over them most was, that here he
was, the wan to make everythin' aisy for them all.
Pat gettin' the place wid not wan penny on it,
neither to his mother nor to wee Dan. Micky was
goin' to relase him av it, an' pay it himself.
The mother able to lave the house to Pat's wife.
Shure, it's often a sore position for the widowed
mother when the daughter-in-law comes home.
An' Norah, that had always stood up for him,
shure nothin' was too good for her ! An' wasn't she
the happiest there to know Micky had done well.
So the " Square Peg " gettin' a square deal,
squared all roun' him.
An' Micky is the great man intoirely to thim all
now ! It's—" Me brother Micky, the author, Connell
O'Neil ' he calls himself,"—before ye're talkin' to
them a minnit.
But Mick is as happy as a lark. Writin' a book
now an' again, or maybe a play. An' all the book shops
comin' beggin' him on their knees, to give thim the
favour o' printin' it for him.
An' the money that boy made beats all. Wid it all
he's just the same Micky. No pride, nor side, just as
plain an' or'nary as we are ourselves—savin' ye're
Honour's presince !
" The Wooin' av Nosie."
" The Wooin' av Rosie."
I had it in me moind all the time that the roight
husband for Rosie was me own foster-brother Maurice
M`Dermott. When she had a notion of another fella
somehow I couldn't cotton to the idea at all, until I got
thinking, that maybe there was more in the boy than I
knew or the wee girl wouldn't be thinkin' so well av
him. But me first thoughts was roight ! So when the
fool av a fella left her lamentin', me moind swished
back to Mister Maurice, an' I said an odd prayer now
an' again that they moight be brought together.
When I saw them steppin' out av the same carriage
at the station ye moight have knocked me down with a
feather.
" God grant it !" says I to meself, kapin' out av
soight while he walked wid her to the pony yoke, all
eyes for her an' seein' the rest av humanity as the
backin' av the picture.
" An' now," says I to meself, " Danny Murphy,
be makin' no mistakes av puttin' in yer oar where
maybe it'll be doin' harm," for there's many a jest has
put off a weddin', though sometimes a word in saison
will just do the trick.
She had the two wee childer with her, she mostly
has—for a better sister or daughter there never was.
" It's them that's done it," says I, " makin' up to
him in the train; but he must 'ave follied her into the
Second class, for First the M`Dermotts always went."
Be this he was stan'in' with his hat in his han'
gazin' after the trap, so I just stood behin' him waitin',
82
an' admirin' the hoight av his six-foot two, though
sorry I was to take note of him bein' a bit over thin.
" Well, Danny, it's pleased I'll be to see her
myself."
He turned sudden-loike, joustin' into me. "Danny
Boy," says he, claspin' me han' an' me other arm at
the same toime.
" Glory be, Mister Maurice, here ye are droppin'
yer graun' Englishified accent an' all, an' you not two
minutes in the place. That'll be the queer treat to me
mother, that's afraid ye'd have lost all yer Irish ways
intoirely be this."
We were careering along on the outside car be this
an' I saw he was takin' in all the sights, an' sounds, an'
smells, av the place. Shure don't I know how I do be
meself when I'm away not an iota av the toime. So I
dries up lavin' him to hisself. But it wasn't for long!
" Go on Danny," says he, " tell me all the news
about everyone. Shure I like just to be hearin' the
sound of an Irish voice again."
So I did as I was bid, givin' him the news of the
neighbours wan and all, but mostly of them wans he
knew.
Mc mother was down the boreen waitin' on us.
He was off the car an' had her in his arms in a brace
of shakes.
" Sonny avic," says she. " What have they been
doin' on ye at all at all. Ye're all failed, so ye are."
" I'll be all right now, Munty," says he, using the
name himself pit on her when a wee babby.
Av coorse the door-step was never cowld when the
ould frien's heerd he was home, one an' all comin,' to
bid him welcome ; but me mother had him high an' dry
above in his bed-room.
He was took with a fit av shiverin' on the night
he come, an' fair put the loife across me mother an'
meself. An' when he could talk he tells us it's nothin'
" Mister Maurice, avic, but it's glad I am to see
ye at last," says I. " Ye're welcome to Ballydoo, sorr ;
but how are ye at 411?" for now I was seein' he was rael
thin and washy.
" I'm better already, Danny," says he.
" And why shouldn't ye be
It's meself seen ye
steppin' out av the carriage wid Miss Rosie." An'
here mintionin' her name I remembers me caution to
meself, knowin' it was too late.
But seein' Mister
Maurice lookin' pleased loike I knew there was no harm
done. " Ye were always a fast worker," says I, " and
so far as I can see furren parts has lost ye none av yer
come-hither."
He just smiled, an' says he—" Er—um—Who are
they, Danny ?"
" Who are they ?" says I. " Why it's Michael
O'Connor's Rosie, an' the two wee ones, Desmond and
Maureen, av course."
" And how is your mother Danny ? She always
says in her letters that she's well, but she never did
complain."
" Ye're roight, sorr, there's never a growl or a
grunfle out av her for all she's fair crippled with the
rheumatics. An' this last while since she knew ye we
were comin', she's been doin' a power of cleanin' an'
readyin'—ye'd think it was twenty-five she was instead
of sixty-five."
84
at all but what he's been havin' spells av now an' again
for a long while back.
" Well," says me mother, " ye may call it nothin'
if ye loike, but I say it's somethin' ye'll have to get rid
av as quick as ye can. To bed ye'll go, an' out av it
ye'll not get till I says so."
I think he was glad to lave himself in her han's.
He was all be't up intoirely poor feller, an' wanted a bit
o' rest an' motherin'. I used to go up meself of an
evenin' to cheer him up tellin' him all he wanted about
wan an' another, slippin' a word in now an' again about
Rosie O'Connor.
I tips me mother the wink about him travellin'
down avid her, an' how he stood hat in han' gazin' after
her.
" An'," says I, " he never moinds the conversation
turnin' to that quarter naythur."
" Now Danny," says she, " kape yer tongue insoide yer teeth about Michael M`Guinness. It'll do her
no good to let on she's been jilted. "
" I don't know," says I, " he'll hear it annyway."
" He'll not," says she, " annyway until he's so
deep in love that it won't matter. " An' then without
another word she says sharp and sudden—" Ye've tould
him already, ye great gabby-Paddy. Ye've spoiled all."
" Um," says I, " spoiled all, is it ? Well, he tould
me to-day that he's goin' up there, sick or well, on the
invitation they give him to supper on Friday."
An' go up he did, not only that Friday, but just as
often as he could make raison for in dacency. An' me
cousin Nannie tould me that the boy up an' tould
Michael O'Connor at wanst what his intintions were,
widout puttin' a tooth on it. Nannie had it from Mrs.
85
O'Connor herself, for she and Michael were quare an'
An' she said that
proud, as well they might be.
Michael was so afeard that Rosie wouldn't take Mister
Maurice that he was all for making the match hisself
widout askin' her at all till it was all fixed. An' shure
they nearly fell out about it !"
Michael O'Connor being a fair, square man, with
no crookedness in his whole make up, goes for to tell
him about Michael M`Guinness, which Mister Maurice
would in nowise hear, havin' heard the roights of it from
me beforehand.
" Maybe," says Michael, " I should be tellin' you
about Michael M`Guinness."
" You needn't say a word," says Mister Maurice.
All I say is Praises be to God she's still free, for I
never thought of marriage till I seed her, an' I've
thought of nothin' else since."
" Maurice, me boy," says Michael, " I'm more
glad than I can say. But I'm thinkin' I can take no
risks of the child's happiness again. I'll choose for her
now, an' I choose you! She's a biddable wee girl an'
she'll do what I tell her."
Mister Maurice turned as white as a sheet. "Good
God, Mister O'Connor," says he, " Will ye spoil all ?
Ye musn't say a word to her at all."
" I can't risk it, Maurice," says he. " Lave it to
me. I'll spake to her mother about it an' we'll have ye
man an' wife within the month. Ye can start yer
coortin' when ye like, but the marriage '11 be fixed this
day, an' no mistake about it."
" I'll have none of it," says Mr. Maurice. " I'll
not have her at all if I can't win her."
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" Ye'd back out, would ye," says Michael, his face
getting red an' his beard bristlin'.
" Ye know right well, Michael O'Connor, it's no
such thing ; but I'll have no wife under coercion. Surely
to God I'm man enough to be able to do me own
courtin'."
An' then steppin' over to Michael, who be this time
was in a towering passion, bein' one o' thim that opposition always roused to bein' obstinate as a mule.
Maurice steps over an' houlds out his han'.
" Give me me chance first--I'll win her, please
God," says he, " an' then, I'll be the happiest man
alive."
Michael grasped his hand. " Maybe ye're right.
It's only the wee girl's happiness I'm thinkin' of. God
knows I'm not anxious to lose her even to you
Maurice."
" You'll say nothing about me ?" says Mr.
Maurice.
" I'll say nothin' to Rosie, but to me wife I must,"
says he.
And that was how Nannie heerd it all, for she's
like a second mother to them childer, an' her and Mrs.
O'Connor has no secrets.
But do ye think the wee girl would take him at all ?
—Not by any manner o' manes. Loikes him well
enough, but never lets him make anny advance o'
courtship of any sort or koind to her. Michael all the
toime wantin' to take matters into his own hands,
makes Mister Maurice ask her roight out. An' then
she tells him she's goin' to stay wid her father an'
87
mother an' never marry at all. An' all they could hint
an' advise wouldn't move her. An' Michael bein'
under promise to Mister Maurice couldn't command
her.
The chaps all bein' home holidayin' from school be
this—Katey the seventeen year ould girl home for good,
an' the boys, young Michael an' Laurence, like two
long legged colts, shure the house is full and Rosie so
taken up wid them there's no seein' her at all. But
Mister Maurice changes his attack an' begins to go
about wid the boys fishin' all over the place, an' Katey
as big a tomboy as anny, away wid them whenever she
gets the chance.
An' all the time Michael O'Connor is holdin' his
tongue, though havin' his own notion of what should
a' been done.
Poor Mister Maurice is beginnin' to lose heart.
He's 'atin' nothin', an' me mother is rackin' her brains
to temp' him, an' tryin' to think of all the things he
bikes in the old days. But it's all no use, he has no
appetite at all at all. He's out walkin' the lanes till all
hours, an' up at all hours av the mornin' after, till it's
a sure thing he's gettin' no slape at all.
An' me mother an' me not able to say a word av
sorrow for him, nor give him a bit av advice one way or
another—for the quality is awful queer. Just when
ye'd like to be sayin' somethin' to them ye can't spake
to them at all at all, an' widout sayin' a word they can
make ye onderstan' they're takin' no interference
whatsoever.
So me an' me mother was bothered nearly to fits
over it all.
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89
I knew he hadn't give up, he was still goin' about
wid the chaps an' he wasn't noticin' anny other party
anywhere about, an' there was plenty of fine lookin'
girls wid a bright eye for him when they come across
him, but he never saw them, they might have been
ould women for him.
steppin' on to a stone, an' av course falls in. He lets
a yelp out av him, an' here they sees him carried away
down the river that's in flood after the rains the week
before.
Michael O'Connor throws off his coat, but before
he can do anything Mister Maurice is in off the other
bank, an' has the child out while ye'd be winkin'. The
wee fella's been down twice an' is like dead when they
get him out, an' here Mister Maurice, wid his teeth
chatterin', an' the chill workin' in on his bones, begins
wavin' the wee boy's arms up an' down an' squeezin'
the water out of his chest, an' never gives over till he
has the wee fella cryin' an' roarin' for his Ma. Its then
he walks home to be met be me mother the way I tould
One day he comes in wet to the skin from his
fishin'. Me mother meets him comin' in on the door
wid a basin in her hand after feedin' the chickens. She
looks that angry I thought she was goin' to hit him
wid it.
" Is it yer death of cowld ye're tryin' to get, ye
bould boy ?" says she, as if he was a gosoon again.
" Where have ye been at all ?"
" In the river, Munty," says he.
" Go right up," says she. " Take off them wet
things, an' get into yer bed, an' I'll come to ye."
I remember her sayin' the same when she took a
birch rod to him an' me for the same offinse. But now
it's hot punch she's bringin' up to him. An' God knows
he wants it, for the shivers he's got now is shakin' the
whole room, let alone the bed, which is shudderin' and
shakin' as if it was alive.
It's no wonder he's took bad. It seems he wasn't
fishin' wid the chaps at all, but only lent them his
salmon rod for the Dark Pool which they couldn't fish
wid the others. Their Da takin' them that day, wee
Desmond was let come wid them out of the way—the
women bein' busy, and Rosie an' Katey away divartin'
themselves at the shops in Dublin.
Michael and the chaps is so taken up wid tryin'
to land a big trout they takes no notice for a minute of
wee Desmond, who thinks he'll get a bit nearer be
ye.
So a few days later Rosie comes home post haste,
havin' heerd how bad Mister Maurice is took, an' the
doctor attendin' him, an' how it happened, an' all. An'
when the doctor says there's two nurses required, down
she comes an' takes up her station, bespeakin' a frien'
of her own, Miss O'Toole be name, to come an' help
her. A nice girl she was too, though me mother never
cottoned to her, thinkin' her high an' moighty—I knew
all about that, havin' heard me mother tryin' to interfere wid the nursin', an' the young lady takin' her very
nice, though firm.
It was then Rosie heerd what she'd never listen to
before—poor Mister Maurice mutterin' an' thinkin' out
loud all that his heart was full of, wid the most beautiful
language that a girl could in nowise not listen to.
So me wee jewel of a Rosie takes up the nursin' av
him be night herself, because it was then that the poor
fellow'd be ramblin' an' pourin' his soul out ; and me
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91
an' me mother sharin' the night between us to sit up an'
be of use, if so be we were wanted—for poor Mister
Maurice was awful bad—inflammation of the lungs the
doctor said it was, an' says he—
rouse him wid a word, an' no matter what the dose was,
likin' it or not, he'd swalla it down swate if she giv it
to him.
" He'll be worse before he's better, the disease
havin' to run its coorse up to the crisis, an' God only
knows what'll happen then."
An' when Mister Maurice found it was Rosie was
nursin' him he wants to be up an' savin' her trouble—
the quare thing bein' that he forgits altogither that she's
ever said " No " to him. He calls her " Little Love,"
and " Sweetheart," and sich-like. I heerd all, sittin'
outside on the lobby—there was a lot more, but that
neither consarns me nor you, it's enough to tell ye that
the little girl didn't in anny sense put him roight.
And every day the poor fellow got worse until the
night when we knew some change 'd come, for worse
now he couldn't get. The doctor's there, an' Michael
O'Connor, and the Missis, an' Nannie Murphy, an' all
of us, sittin' up waitin' on what'd happen.
Nannie's givin' Rosie a han' wid the nursin' and
liftin' now, so me mother an' me is down in the kitchen.
Doctor Flannigan hasn't give up hope, for when I was
afeared an' axed him, he says—
" Av course he'll come through it. Man alive he's
too much to live for to be givin' up the fight."
" Do ye think she'll take him," says me mother.
" I do so," says the doctor. " Just you wait an'
yell see I'm roight."
An' it was he that tould me all about it afterwards.
It was somethin' wonderful the power av that wee girl
over him—no matter what she axed him to do, it was
done. She could quiet him with a touch, she could
When the doctor goes up after havin' his bite of
supper he finds Mister Maurice awake an' conscious.
He's sittin' up wid all the pillows in the house behin'
him. His face, all red an' purple wid the breathin' so
bad, has a grey look come all over it, an' his poor voice
is that wake ye can barely hear it. He has Rosie's
han' in his, an' his eyes are on her face.
" Good-bye—Rosie," he gasps. " It's better—
so."
Rosie drops down on her knees by his side an'
kisses an' fondles his han' : " No, No, Maurice," she
says. " Ye mustn't leave me. Ye must get well for
my sake."
His eyes has closed and the breathin' gets slower.
" Oh, God, spare him to me," says Rosie.
" Maurice, Maurice, I love you. Don't leave me,"
she says.
His eyes opens slowly, and his lips draws back
into a smile.
" Rosie, Sweetheart," he just barely whispers—
but she hears it all roight.
There's silence for a minute—ye could a' heard a
pin drop ! All their eyes are fixed on him, an' then
Doctor Flanagan says—
" He'll do! It's slape, blessed slape! He'll be all
roight now."
92
An' now I'll tell ye a secret I kep' till the last. I
got it from Mister Maurice himself a good wee while
ago. He's buyin' back the ould family place that was
lived in by M`Dermotts since the days of the Flood.
Shure the ould master sold it after the mistress's death,
money bein' scarce, and navther him nor Mister
Maurice ever thinkin' o' wantin' to see it again.
An' that's where him an' her '11 settle down, after
he takes her a wee trip to settle up all he's left behin'
him in furren parts. It'll plaze the neighbours wan an'
all to know the ould family '11 be livin' among them
wance more, an' better still that the Mistress of it '11 be
the darlin' of their hearts—Sweet Rosie O'Connor.