The Ned M'Keown Stories Part 18

"'I didn't care she was within, for I brought a sup of my own stuff in my pocket,' said Art.

"'Here, Hurrish' (he was called Horatio after one of the Square's sons), 'fly down to the Square's, and see what's keeping your mother; the divil's no match for her at staying out with herself wanst she's from under the roof.'

"'Let d.i.c.k go,' says the little fellow, 'he's betther able to go nor I am; he has got a coat on him.'

"'Go yourself, when I bid you,' says the father.

"'Let him go,' says Hurrish, 'you have no right to bid me to go, when he has a coat upon him: you promised to ax one for me from Masther Francis, and you didn't do it; so the divil a toe I'll budge to-day,' says he, getting betune the father and the door.

"'Well, wait,' says Larry, 'faix, only the strange man's to the fore, and I don't like to raise a hubbub, I'd pay you for making me such an answer. d.i.c.k, agra, will you run down, like a good bouchal, to the big house, and tell your mother to come home, that there's a strange man here wants her?'

"'Twas Hurrish you bid,' says d.i.c.k--'and make him: that's the way he always thrates you--does nothing that you bid him.'

"'But you know, d.i.c.k,' says the father, 'that he hasn't a st.i.tch to his back, and the crathur doesn't like to go out in the cowld, and he so naked.'

"'Well, you bid him go,' says d.i.c.k, 'an let him; the sorrayard I'll go--the shinburnt spalpeen, that's always the way with him; whatever he's bid to do, he throws it on me, bekase, indeed, he has no coat; but he'll folly Masther Thomas or Masther Francis through sleet and snow up the mountains when they're fowling or tracing; he doesn't care about a coat then.'

"'Hurrish, you must go down for your mother when I bid you,' says the weak man, turning again to the other boy.

"I'll not,' says the little fellow; 'send d.i.c.k.'

"Larry said no more, but, laying down the child he had in his hands, upon the flure, makes at him; the lad, however, had the door of him, and was off beyant his reach like a shot. He then turned into the house, and meeting d.i.c.k, felled him with a blow of his fist at the dresser.

'Tundher-an-ages, Larry,' says Art, 'what has come over you at all at all? to knock down the gorsoon with such a blow! couldn't you take a rod or a switch to him?--_Dher manhim_, (* By my soul!) man, but I bleeve you've killed him outright,' says he, lifting the boy, and striving to bring him to life. Just at this minit Sally came in.

"'Arrah, sweet bad-luck to you, you lazy vagabond you,' says Larry, 'what kept you away till this hour?'

"'The devil send you news, you nager you,' says Sally, 'what kept me--could I make the people churn sooner than they wished or were ready?'

"'Ho, by my song, I'll flake you as soon as the dacent young man leaves the house,' says Larry to her, aside.

"'You'll flake me, is it?' says Sally, speaking out loud--'in troth, that's no new thing for you to do, any how.'

"'Spake asy, you had betther.'

"'No, in troth, won't I spake asy; I've spoken asy too long, Larry, but the devil a taste of me will bear what I've suffered from you any longer, you mane-spirited blackguard you; for he is nothing else that would rise his hand to a woman, especially to one in my condition, and she put her gown tail to her eyes. When she came in, Art turned his back to her, for fraid she'd see the state the gorsoon was in--but now she noticed it--

"'Oh, murdher, murdher,' says she, clapping her hands, and running over to him, 'what has happened my child? oh! murdher, murdher, this is your work, murdherer!' says she to Larry. 'Oh, you villain, are you bent on murdhering all of us--are you bent on destroying us out o' the face! Oh, wurrah sthrew! wurrah sthrew! what'll become of us! d.i.c.k, agra,' says she, crying, 'd.i.c.k, acushla machree, don't you hear, me spaiking to you!--don't you hear your poor broken-hearted mother spaking to you? Oh!

wurrah! wurrah! amn't I the heart-brokenest crathur that's alive this day, to see the likes of such doings! but I knew it would come to this! My sowl to glory, but my child's murdhered by that man standing there!--by his own father--his own father! Which of us will you murther next, you villain!'

"'For heaven's sake, Sally,' says Art, 'don't exaggerate him more nor he is--the boy is only stunned--see, he's coming to: d.i.c.k, ma bouchal, rouse yourself, that's a man: hut! he's well enough--that's it, alannah; here, take a slug out of this bottle, and it'll set all right--or stop, have you a gla.s.s within, Sally?' 'Och, inusha, not a gla.s.s is under the roof wid me,' says Sally; 'the last we had was broke the night Barney was christened, and we hadn't one since--but I'll get you an egg-sh.e.l.l.'* 'It'll do as well as the best,' says Art. And to make a long story short, they sat down, and drank the bottle of whiskey among them. Larry and Sally made it up, and were as great friends as ever; and d.i.c.k was made drunk for the bating he got from his father.

* The ready wit of the Irish is astonishing. It often happens that they have whiskey when neither gla.s.ses nor cups are at hand; in which case they are never at a loss. I have seen them use not only egg-sh.e.l.ls, but pistol barrels, tobacco boxes, and scooped potatoes, in extreme cases.

"What Art wanted was to buy some oats that Larry had to sell, to run in a private Still, up in the mountains, of coorse, where every Still is kept. Sure enough, Larry sould him the oats, and was to bring them up to the still-house the next night after dark. According to appointment, Art came a short time after night-fall, with two or three young boys along with him. The corn was sacked and put on the horses; but before that was done, they had a dhrop, for Art's pocket and the bottle were ould acquaintances. They all then sat down in Larry's, or, at laste, as many as there were seats for, and fell to it. Larry, however, seemed to be in better humor this night, and more affectionate with Sally and the childher: he'd often look at them, and appear to feel as if something was over him* but no one observed that till afterwards. Sally herself seemed kinder to him, and even went over and sat beside him on the stool, and putting her arm about his neck, kissed him in a joking way, wishing to make up, too, for what Art saw the night before--poor thing--but still as if it wasn't all a joke, for at times she looked sorrowful. Larry, too, got his arm about her, and looked, often and often on her and the childher, in a way that he wasn't used to do, until the tears fairly came into his eyes.

* This is precisely tantamount to what the Scotch call "fey." It means that he felt as if some fatal doom were over him.

"'Sally, avourneen,' says he, looking at her, 'I saw you when you had another look from what you have this night; when it wasn't asy to fellow you _in_ the parish or _out_ of it;' and when he said this he could hardly spake.

"'Whist, Larry, acushla,' says she, 'don't be spaking that way--sure we may do very well yet, plase G.o.d: I know, Larry, there was a great dale of it--maybe, indeed, it was all my fault; for I wasn't to you, in the way of care and kindness, what I ought to be.'

"'Well, well, aroon, says Larry, 'say no more; you might have been all that, only it was my fault: but where's d.i.c.k, that I struck so terribly last night? d.i.c.k, come over to me, agra--come over, d.i.c.k, and sit down here beside me. Arrah, here, Art, ma bouchal, will you fill this egg-sh.e.l.l for him?--Poor gorsoon! G.o.d knows, d.i.c.k, you get far from fair play, acushla--far from the ating and drinking that other people's childher get, that hasn't as good a skin to put it in as you, alannah!

Kiss me, d.i.c.k, acushla--and G.o.d knows your face is pale, and that's not with good feeding, anyhow: d.i.c.k, agra, I'm sorry for what I done to you last night; forgive your father, d.i.c.k, for I think that my heart's breaking, acushla, and that you won't have me long with you.'

"Poor d.i.c.k, who was naturally a warmhearted, affectionate gorsoon, kissed his father, and cried bitterly. Sally herself, seeing Larry so sorry for what he done, sobbed as if she would drop on the spot: but the rest began, and betwixt scoulding and cheering them up, all was as well as ever. Still Larry seemed as if there was something entirely very strange the matter with him, for as he was going out, he kissed all the childher, one after another; and even went over to the young baby that was asleep in the little cradle of boords that he himself had made for it, and kissed it two or three times, asily, for fraid of wakening it.

He then met Sally at the door, and catching her hand when none of the rest saw him, squeezed it, and gave her a kiss, saying, 'Sally, darling!' says he.

"'What ails you, Larry, asth.o.r.e?' says Sally.

"'I don't know,' says he; 'nothing, I bleeve--but Sally, acushla, I have thrated you badly all along. I forgot, avourneen, how I loved you _once_ and now it breaks my heart that I have used you so ill.'

"'Larry she answered, 'don't be talking that way, bekase you make me sorrowful and unasy--don't, acushla: G.o.d above me knows I forgive you it all. Don't stay long,' says she 'and I'll borry a lock of meal from Biddy, till we get home our own meldhre, and I'll have a dish of stirabout ready to make for you when you come home. Sure, Larry, who'd forgive you, if I, your own wife, wouldn't? But it's I that wants it from you, Larry; and in the presence of G.o.d and ourselves, I now beg your pardon, and ax your forgiveness for all the sin I done to you.' She dropped on her knees, and cried bitterly; but he raised her up, himself a choking at the time, and as the poor crathur got to her feet, she laid herself on his breast, and sobbed out, for she couldn't help it. They then went away, though Larry, to tell the thruth, wouldn't have gone with them at all, only that the sacks were borried from his brother, and he had to bring them home, in regard of Tom wanting them the very next day.

"The night was as dark as pitch--so dark, faiks, that they had to get long pieces of bog fir, which they lit, and held in their hand, like the lights that Ned there says the lamplighters have in Dublin to light the lamps with.

"At last, with a good dale of trouble, they got to the still-house; and, as they had all taken a drop before, you may be sure they were better inclined, to take another now. They, accordingly, sat down about the fine rousing fire that was under the still, and had a right good jorum of strong whiskey that never seen a drop of water. They all were in very good spirits, not thinking of to-morrow, and caring at the time very little about the world as it went.

"When the night was far advanced, they thought of moving home; however, by that time they weren't able to stand: but it's one curse of being drunk, that a man doesn't know what he's about for the time, except some few, like that poaching ould fellow, Billy M'Kinny, that's cuinninger when he's drunk than when he's sober; otherwise they would not have ventured out in the clouds of the night, when it was so dark and severe, and they in such a state.

"At last they staggered away together, for their road lay for a good distance in the same direction. The others got on, and reached home as well as they could; but, although Sally borried the dish of male from her sister-in-law, to have a warm pot of stirabout for Larry, and sat up till the night was more than half gone, waiting for him, yet no Larry made his appearance. The childher, too, all sat up, hoping he'd come home before they'd fall asleep and miss the supper: at last the crathurs, after running about, began to get sleepy, and one head would fall this way and another that way; so Sally thought it hard to let them go without getting their share, and accordingly she put down the pot on a bright fire, and made a good lot of stirabout for them, covering up Larry's share in a red earthen dish before the fire.

"This roused them a little; and they sat about the hearth with their mother, keeping her company with their little chat, till their father would come back.

"The night, for some time before this, got very stormy entirely. The wind ris, and the rain fell as if it came out of methers.* The house was very cowld, and the door was bad; for the wind came in very strong under the foot of it, where the ducks and hens, and the pig when it was little, used to squeeze themselves in when the family was absent, or afther they went to bed. The wind now came whistling under it; and the ould hat and rags, that stopped up the windies, were blown out half a dozen times with such force, that the ashes were carried away almost from the hearth. Sally got very low-spirited on hearing the storm whistling so sorrowfully through the house, for she was afeard that Larry might be out on the dark moors under it; and how any living soul could bear it, she didn't know. The talk of the childhre, too, made her worse; for they were debating among themselves, the crathurs, about what he had better do under the tempest; whether he ought to take the sheltry side of a hillock, or get into a long heather bush or under the ledge of a rock or tree, if he could meet such a thing.

* An old Irish drinking vessel, of a square form, with a handle or ear on each side, out of which all the family drank successively, or in rotation. The expression above is proverbial.

"In the mane time, terrible blasts would come over and through the house, making the ribs crack so that you would think the roof would be taken away at wanst. The fire was now getting low, and Sally had no more turf in the house; so that the childher crouched closer and closer about it, their poor hungry-looking pale faces made paler with fear that the house might come down upon them, or be stripped, and their father from home--and with worse fear that something might happen him under such a tempest of wind and rain as it blew. Indeed it was a pitiful sight to see the ragged crathurs drawing in in a ring nearer and nearer the dying fire; and their poor, naked, half-starved mother, sitting with her youngest infant lying between her knees and her breast; for the bed was too cowld to put it into it, without being kept warm by the heat of them that it used to sleep with."

"Musha, G.o.d help her and them," says Ned, "I wish they were here beside me on this comfortable hob, this minute; I'd fight Nancy to get a fog-meal for them, any way--a body can't but pity them afther all!"

"You'd fight Nancy!" said Nancy herself--"maybe Nancy would be as willing to do something for the crathurs as you would--I like every body that's able to pay for what they get! but we ought to have some bowels in us for all that. You'd fight Nancy, indeed!"

"Well," continued the narrator, "there' they sat, with cowld and fear in their pale faces, shiverin' over the remains of the fire, for it was now nearly out, and thinking, as the deadly blast would drive through the creaking ould door and the half-stuffed windies, of what their father would do under such a terrible night. Poor Sally, sad and sorrowful, was thinking of all their ould quarrels, and taking the blame all to herself for not bein' more attentive to her business, and more kind to Larry; and when she thought of the way she thrated him, and the ill-tongue she used to give him, the tears began to roll from her eyes, and she rocked herself from side to side, sobbing as if her heart would brake. When the childher saw her wiping her eyes with the corner of the little handkerchief that she had about her neck, they began to cry along with her. At last she thought, as it was now so late, that it would be folly to sit up any longer; she hoped, too, that he might have thought of going into some neighbor's house on his way, to take shelter, and with these thoughts, she raked the greeshough (* warm ashes and embers) over the fire, and after, putting the childher in their little straw nest, and spreading their own rags over them, she and the young one went to bed, although she couldn't sleep at all at all, for thinking of Larry.

"There she lay, trembling under the light cover of the bed-clothes, for they missed Larry's coat, listening to the dreadful night that was in it, so lonely, that the very noise of the cow, in the other corner, chewing her cud, in the silence of a short calm, was a great relief to her. It was a long time before she could get a wink of sleep, for there was some uncommon weight upon her that she couldn't account for by any chance; but after she had been lying for about half an hour, she heard something that almost fairly knocked her up. It was the voice of a woman, crying and wailing in the greatest distress, as if all belonging to her were under-boord.

"When Sally heard it first, she thought it was nothing but the whistling of the wind; but it soon came again, more sorrowful than before, and as the storm arose, it rose upon the blast along with it, so strange and mournful that she never before heard the like of it. 'The Lord be about us!' said she to herself, 'what can that be at all?--or who is it? for its not Nelly,' maning her sister-in-law. Again she listened, and there was, sobbing and sighing in the greatest grief, and she thought she heard it louder than ever, only that this time it seemed to name whomsoever it was lamenting. Sally now got up and put her ear to the door, to see if she could hear what it said. At this time the wind got calmer, and the voice also got lower; but although it was still sorrowful, she never heard any living Christian's voice so sweet, and what was very odd, it fell in fits, exactly as the storm sunk, and rose as it blew louder.

"When she put her ear to the c.h.i.n.k of the door, she heard the words repeated, no doubt of it, only couldn't be quite sure, as they wern't very plain; but as far as she could make any sense out of them, she thought that it said--'Oh, Larry M'Farland!--Larry M'Farland!--Larry M'Farland!'

"Sally's hair stood on end when she heard this; but on listening again, she thought it was her own name instead of Larry's that it repeated, and that it said, 'Sally M'Farland!--Sally M'Farland!--Sally M'Farland!'

Still she wasn't sure, for the words wern't plain, and all she could think was, that they resembled her own name or Larry's more than any other words she knew. At last, as the wind fell again, it melted away, weeping most sorrowfully, but so sweetly, that the likes of it was never heard. Sally then went to bed, and the poor woman was so harrished with one thing or another, that at last she fell asleep."

"'Twas the Banshee," said Shane Fadh.

"Indeed it was nothing else than that same," replied M'Roarkin.