Rossmoyne Part 39

"Francis Bacon never meant it in that sense," says Kit, indignantly. "I really _wonder_ at you Monica." And, having so scolded her idol, she relapses into silence for a considerable time.

"Oh! what lovely dog-roses!" says Monica, presently, pointing to a hanging spray of pink blossoms, satisfying as a happy dream. "I _must_ get them."

She springs up a mossy bank as she speaks, regardless of the blackberry branches that cross her path, barring her way, and catching viciously at her skirts, as though to hinder her progress.

"Oh, take care!" cries Kit, forgetting all about Lord Bacon in her terror lest her pretty sister shall not show to the best advantage in her lover's eyes. "Your gown will be torn. Wait, wait, until I set you free from these dreadful thorns."

"'Alas! how full of briers is this working-day-world,'" quotes Monica, gayly. "There, now I am all right, and I have got my pretty roses into the bargain. Are they not sweet?--_sweet?_" holding them right under Kit's nose.

"They are, indeed. And, by the by, here we are," pointing to a low farmhouse in the distance.

Reaching it, and finding the door as usual open, they enter what might be the hall in another house, but is here the kitchen. There is no leading up to it. From the moment you cross the threshold the kitchen lies before you.

It is a large room, if it may so be called, with a huge fireplace in which a dozen fires might be stowed away and forgotten. Just now there is a flame somewhere in its blackmost depths that cannot possibly annoy these June visitors, as one has to search for it to find it.

An old woman, infirm and toothless, yet with all the remains of great beauty, sits cowering over this hidden turf fire, mumbling to herself, it may be, of golden days now past and gone, when she had been the fairest colleen at ma.s.s or pattern, and had counted her lovers by the score. Yea, those were good old times, when the sky was ever blue and all the earth was young.

Two young women, sitting near her, but farther from the chimney-nook, are gossiping idly, but persistently, in the soft, mellifluous brogue that distinguishes the county Cork.

As the Beresford girls enter, these two latter women rise simultaneously and courtesy with deep respect. The youngest of them, who is so like the handsome old woman in the corner of the fireplace as to be unmistakably of kin to her, comes quickly forward to greet her visitors with the kindly grace and the absence of consciousness that distinguish the Irish peasantry when doing the honors of their own homes. This lack of _mauvaise honte_ arises perhaps from the fact that they are so honestly glad to welcome a guest beneath their roof that they forget to be shy or backward.

She makes a slight effort to pull down her tucked-up sleeves, and then desists, for which any one with a mind artistic should be devoutly grateful, as her arms, brown as they are from exposure to the sun, are at least shaped to perfection. She is dressed in a maroon-colored skirt and body, the skirt so turned up in fishwife fashion (as _we_ wore it some seasons ago) that a dark-blue petticoat beneath, of some coa.r.s.e description, can be distinctly seen.

Her throat is a little bare, arms, as I have said, quite so, far up above the elbows. She is stout and comely, with a beautiful laughing mouth, and eyes of deepest gray, merry as her lips. Outside, lying about, half naked in the warm sunshine, are three or four boys with the same eyes and mouth, undeniably her children.

"Wisha! 'tis meself's glad to see ye," she says, with a beaming smile.

"Good luck to yer faces. 'Tis a long time now, Miss Beresford, since ye came, or Miss Kit there."

"I promised your mother a pudding, and I have brought it," says Kit.

"Look at that, now! 'Tis a trouble we are to ye entirely. Mother, wake up a bit, an' thank Miss Kit for what she's brought ye."

"Ye're too kind, asth.o.r.e, too kind," mumbles the old woman in the corner, turning eyes that are still full of light upon the child, "to think of an ould 'ooman now in the grave as it might be. Ay, faix! An'

the bells a-ringin' too. I can hear 'em sometimes, when the wind's down----"

"Nonsense, mother! the yard (churchyard) will be lonely for ye yet awhile," says Mrs. Daly, junior, cheerfully. "See, now! taste this: 'twill do ye good. An' you'll sit down, Miss Monica, I hope. Take care, honey, till I dust the chair for ye." This is dexterously done with the corner of her ap.r.o.n. "An' ye'll take a dhrop o' tay too, may be; oh, ye will now, if only to plase me, afther yer long walk, an' all to honor the ould woman."

"Ah, there is Mrs. Moloney!" says Kit, addressing the second younger woman, who is a thin little peasant with a somewhat discontented expression. "The sun blinded my eyes so that I could not see you at first. Have you heard from your boy at sea?"

"Yes, miss. Praises be above! He's doin' well, he says; but it's belike I'll never see a sight of his handsome face again."

"Oh, nonsense, now, Mrs. Moloney, me dear! What are ye talkin' like that for?" says young Mrs. Daly, who seems to be the parish consoler. "Sure it's back he'll be wid ye before the new year."

"Oh, yes, I _hope_ so," says Monica, softly.

"'Tis hard to hope, miss, wid the rowling wind o' nights, an' the waves dashin' up on the beach."

"Ye're an ould croaker," says Mrs. Daly, giving her a good-humored shake, "An' now sit down, Miss Monica an' Miss Kit, do, till I get ye the sup o' tay. Mrs. Moloney, me dear, jist give the fire a poke, an'

make the kittle sing us a song. 'Tis the music we want most now."

It would have been considered not only a rudeness, but an act _hauteur_, to refuse this simple hospitality: so the girls seat themselves, and, indeed, to tell the truth, are rather glad than otherwise of this chance of securing their afternoon tea.

"An' how are the old ladies up above?" says Mrs. Daly, meaning the Misses Blake.

"Quite well, thank you," says Monica. "It was only yesterday Aunt Priscilla was saying she should come down and see old Mrs. Daly."

"She's as welcome as the flowers in May whenever she comes," says the daughter-in-law. "D'ye hear that, mother? Miss Priscilla's comin' to see ye, some day soon. Ay, 'tis a good friend she always was to the poor, summer an' winter; an' isn't it wondherful now, Miss Monica, how she's kept her figure all through? Why," raising her hands with an expressive gesture of astonishment, "'twas Friday week I saw her, an' I said to meself, says I, she's the figure o' a young girl, I says. Ye'll take a taste o' this home-made cake, alanna."

She is made happy forever by Kit's unmistakable enjoyment of this last-named luxury.

"Ay, she's an iligant figure even now," says Mrs. Moloney, in her depressing voice. "But time an' throuble is cruel hard on some of us. I had a figure meself when I was young," with a heartrending sigh.

"Ye were always slight, me dear, an' ye're slight now too," says Mrs.

Daly, tenderly. "I niver see the like o'ye for keepin' off the flesh.

Why, I remember ye well as a slip o' a girl, before yer blessed babby was born, an' ye were a screed, me dear,--a screed."

"Yes, I was always ginteel," says Mrs. Moloney, openly consoled. Still she sighs, and sips her tea with a mournful air. Mrs. Daly is drinking hers with much appreciation out of her saucer, it being considered discourteous to offer anything to a guest without partaking of the same one's self.

At this moment a little cooing sound coming from the other corner of the fireplace makes itself heard. Instantly the old woman stooping over the turf embers rouses herself, and, turning, puts out her withered hand lovingly towards what looks like a box covered with colored stuff of some sort. Young Mrs. Daly rises too, precipitately and, hurrying across the kitchen, bends over the box.

"Ay, she's awake sure enough!" says the old woman, who has quite brightened into life. "See how she looks at ye, Molly! The colleen of the world, she was! asth.o.r.e machree-sthig."

Many another fond name is muttered, such as "pulse o' my heart," and such like, before Mrs. Daly junior emerges from the supposed box, but _not_ empty-handed.

"Oh! it is the baby!" cry Monica and Kit, in a breath. "Oh! what a darling baby! and what red, red cheeks, just like a June rose!"

It is the only daughter of the house, so the mother is of course inordinately proud of it. She places it, with quite a little flourish of triumph, in Monica's arms, to Kit's terrible but unspoken disappointment.

"She grows prettier every day. She is really the sweetest baby I ever saw in my life!" says Monica, enthusiastically, to whom babies are an endless joy.

The mother is pleased beyond doubt at these compliments, yet a shade of anxiety crosses her brow. To praise a child _too_ much in the superst.i.tion of these simple folks, is to "overlook" it; and when a child is "overlooked" it dies. The smiles fades from Mrs. Daly's bonny face, and her mouth grows anxious.

"You should say, 'G.o.d bless her,' miss, when ye give her the good word,"

says Mrs. Moloney, timidly, who is also bending over the beloved bundle, and notes the distress in her neighbor's eyes.

"G.o.d bless her!" says Monica with pretty solemnity, after which the mother's face clears, and sunshine is again restored to it.

"I think she knows ye," she says to Monica. "See how she blinks at ye!

Arrah! look, now, how she clutches at yer hand! Will ye come to yer mother now, darlin',--will ye? Sure 'tis starvin' ye must be, by this."

"Oh! don't take her yet," says Monica, entreatingly.

A little figure with naked legs and feet, creeping into the doorway at this moment, draws near the baby as if fascinated. It is Paudheen, the eldest son of the house, and baby's _nurse_,--save the mark!

"Come nearer, Paddy," says Monica, smiling at him with sweet encouragement; but Paddy stops short and regards her doubtfully.

"Come, then, and kiss your little sister," continues Monica, gently; but Paddy is still obdurate, and declines to hearken to the charmer, charm she never so wisely. There is, indeed, a sad lack both of sweetness and light about Paddy.

"An' what d'ye mane be standin' there, an' niver a word out o' ye in answer to the lady, ye ill-mannered caubogue?" cries his mother, deeply incensed. The laughter is all gone from her face, and her eyes are aflame. "What brought ye in at all, ye ugly spalpeen, if ye came without a civil tongue in yer head?"