OF CALIF. LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES BEEZEY OF GALILEE. FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA BY ELIZABETH O'REILLY NEVILLE HSB ILLUSTRATED CHICAGO AND NEW YORK: RAND, MCNALLY & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1902, by Rand, McNally & Co. DeMcatton. TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN O'REILLY, C. E., AND IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF HIS SOJOURN AMONG THE HOSPITABLE PEOPLE OF THE INCOMPARABLE IRISH HIGHLANDS THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED BY HIS AFFECTIONATE DAUGHTER. 2131999 TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE FATHER TOM 7 ORDAINED FOR CONNEMARA, 18 BEEZEY OF GALILEE, 35 NED THE INNOCENT, ........ 87 EXCOMMUNICATED 115 ROSY O'TOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY, .... 161 MOLLY DOWD, 182 THE STOLEN DINNER, 200 MOLLY MULLANEY 226 ROSY MCDONNELL'S JEALOUSY, 250 VULCAN AND VENUS, 269 AUNT JULEY'S WARNING, 296 JAMIE PATTERSON'S HOOSE AND TEN ACRES 316 ST. JOHN'S EVE, ... 337 HANNIBAL FIPPS MCCONKEY, 356 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. BEEZEY OF GALILEE, Frontispiece CLIFTON, CONNEMARA, COUNTY GALWAY, . . . Page 48 KILLARY BAY, CONNEMARA " 96 THE COTTAGE OF ROGER O'TooLE, . . . . " 144 THE BAY ACROSS WHICH NED ROWED WITH THE STOLEN DINNER, . . " 192 MOLLY MULLANEY AT HER SPINNING WHEEL, . . " 240 GATHERING DILLISK AND SHELL FISH, CONNEMARA, . " 288 THE " BOREEN " TERMINATED IN A Low, SUBSTANTIAL FARM- HOUSE, " 336 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA FATHER TOM. A man he was to all his country dear, And passing rich on forty pounds a year. Goldsmith. History is always repeating itself. Goldsmith's words could just as well have been written of the Rev. Thomas McDermott, who ruled over the spiritual affairs of the people of a strip of the wild west coast of Galway and the adjacent islands some years ago, as of the celebrated vicar of Auburn. Connemara lies on the uttermost verge of the most western island of Europe, and is the last spot on which the sun rests before he is lost to the eyes of men. The great luminary lingers as if loth to part with this last and fairest love of his, and waits to paint with crim- son and gold the mountains and glens and bays and lakes before he sinks slowly into his ocean bed. And that bed! Who can describe it? Was ever couch so well prepared to receive a royal visitor ? Its covering is, first, crimson and gold, caught up with diamonds, and then crimson and purple and gold and diamonds again, sparkling and glinting and changing with every restless movement of the royal guest until sleep finally overtakes him, and the moon comes sailing along ready to keep guard over his slumbers. 8 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA The moon is an artist, too, but her brushes are dipped in silver, and she uses them with more sparing hand. Under her touch, the mountains and glens and lakes and bays take on an unearthly beauty. Connemara is the same, yet not the same ; under the sun's triumphant color- ing one glories in her physical loveliness, but the moon has shown us that she has a soul, and we can hear her heart-beats. Ah, she is telling her story now to even the most unimaginative the story of her youth and her triumphs, of her loves and her losses, and our hearts go out to her in a great tenderness. Connemara has shared in the history of her country to a great extent, and the moon is busy pointing out what the glories of the sun almost obscure, as too sad for the light the raths and cromlechs and hill-forts and cahirs and castles. By their ruins she is telling her story, and we needs must listen. We find ourselves counting the bones and measuring the dust of the warriors who lie at rest under the old monuments the men who lived and built and strove, so many years, against an overwhelming destiny and we feel a great pity. Are they at rest? Maybe, but the air seems full of them. One can hear their ships grounding on the shore, laden with the triumphs of the successful navigators the youths who, fifteen hundred years before the dawn of Christianity, sailed the known and unknown world, and dared the Norsemen in their northern seas, and later Brendan, the navigator and missionary, who brought Christianity to the Germans. Ah, those were Irishmen to be proud of ! Caisleen-no- circe and Aughanure castles, still in a good state of FATHER TOM 9 preservation, with their courtyards and huge towers and drawbridges, representing the once great families of O'Conor, O'Flaherty, Blake and Bourke, are peopled again with fierce and busy warriors. How tenderly the moon deals with them, and how fair are the faces that are peeping out at them from the turreted windows overhead and praying for their success ! "The Kingdom of Connemara," as it was formerly styled, was almost inaccessible and very little known "a refuge for outlaws where the King's writ could not run," a great writer once wrote, but she meant an Eng- lish king. The government has now made some fine roads, and the railroads run from Galway to the principal towns, but what road has ever been cut through these almost impassable mountains ? This was what we want to come at England's idea of a people who strive to hold their own outlaws of course and this brings us to the kernel of our story. "The Kingdom of Connemara" was the last strong- hold of proud outlaws who never gave in to the ruling of the "stranger." They fought against oppression foot to foot, and disputed possession inch by inch, and then accepted poverty and liberty rather than the "permission" to hold their estates under an English right and an Eng- lish title. These were reinforced by the contingent sent by the "God-fearing Cromwell," who drove defenseless women and children those who escaped his butchery into "hell or Connaught," because he had promised their rich estates to his followers. Connemara is admirably fitted for a stronghold. It 10 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA occupies the promontory between Killary and Galway bays on the west coast of Ireland and is bounded on the east by two great lakes, Corrib and Mask. Few pene- trated beyond these, and few tourists venture, even now, beyond the beaten paths, and the real Connemara, the "Land of the Gael," is little known and its people are left undisturbed in their traditions and customs and language. "The Irish Highlands," says Mrs. Hall, writing sixty years ago, "are peopled by a brave and hardy race, at- tached, as all mountaineers are, to their wild hills and glens, and retaining largely their original character, though civilization has made its way where the invader could never enter. Their habits and customs are com- paratively as little changed as their mountains, lakes and Old Ocean the natural barriers by which their kingdom is encompassed." Mrs. Hall forgets that these High- landers are the sons of princes and must necessarily re- tain something of the bravery as well as the courtesy of their forefathers. Life was hard for the ancestors of the fishermen and farmers who tried to wrest a living from the mountains and the sea, but few thought of seeking new fields, and those who did returned to die and leave their bones among their kin. Those ancestors are not dead in the real sense of the word, for they live in the hearts of their descendants. They are talked of and sung of and dreamt of at each fireside from Killary to Galway bays and from Lough Mask to Lough Corrib, and they ran no danger of being forgotten, even if the story-teller is silent, for the effigies in stone and marble lie around them in the old churchyard, and their monuments are the forts and cairns FATHER TOM 11 and towers that rest on every hillside, and tell the story of their resistance to tyranny, better even than song or story. Each Connemara man holds his head high, and he has reason for doing so. He may be a fisherman depending on the elements for his breakfast, or a farmer breaking his heart over a crop that would evoke a curse from the heart of a Roscommon cotter, but he comes from royal blood and he knows it and is deeply thankful. He is brave because his ancestors were brave, he is hospitable because they were hospitable, and he is courteous because they were courteous. His dinner may consist of some potatoes and a freshly caught salmon, or potatoes and milk, or potatoes and nothing at all, but he invites you to partake of it with the dignity of a prince. Father Tom, who was "sthrong in th' Latin," told his parishioners that Connemara signified "bays of th' sea," which, indeed, was evident enough, as the sea was plenti- ful, and introduced itself into their potato-fields in every conceivable shape the narrowest body of water being called a "gap." The mountains are nearly as numerous as the bays and, though clothed with beauty even to the water's edge, their barren sides give but little return for the husband- man's exertions. It takes twice, nay three times, as much labor to grow a potato or an ear of wheat in Connemara as in the rich and level lands adjoining, but the High- landers are content with little. When they are not fishing, however, they are farming, and when they are doing neither, they are gathering the kelp or burning it for manure, so that time never hangs heavy in Connemara. The women's fingers keep pace 12 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA with their tongues even when they are busy gossiping. Their stories may grow, in their passage from one to the other, but the long stockings which they carry in their hands are growing, too, and the needles fly in and out like streaks of lightning from overcharged clouds as they pass over Dha-Bhean-Dueg. Meanwhile, under the ground where the crops grow so scantily, the real wealth of the district is lying, in silver, copper, marble, and even gold. If there were only capital enough to mine for them, the people need not be so poor. But being poor does not keep the people from being happy, even in the hardest times. There is always a fresh batch of jokes to be retailed, or a wedding to be talked of, or a funeral in prospect. It may seem strange to associate the idea of death with happiness, but in these cases, the funeral is not theirs and there is always a chance of meeting friends and neighbors and enjoying one's self in a round of comfortable, complacent, irresponsible grief and gossip. There is an exception to this, and that is when a fishing-boat comes in bottom-up after a storm, telling its own story of loss to the widow and orphan. There are tears then, and lamentations the most poetic that were ever sung or said by poet or bard from Ossian and Homer down to the present day. Death by drowning is the one thing to be bitterly mourned, for are these friends not taken away in all their youth and strength, without a chance of saying a last good-by? Such fu- nerals are sad indeed, the sadness being trebly augmented by the presence of the pipers, with their lamentations that are enough to wake the dead from the neighboring graveyards. But when the storm ceases and the treach- FATHER TOM 13 erous sea becomes calm again, and the sun shines on the beautiful mountains, and the multitudinous wild flowers mingle their scents with the gorse and heather, the people forget their woe and are happy again, until the next boat comes in bottom-up and revives their grief. If few entered Connemara by the east, the shores of the Atlantic were always open, and Connemara girls are noted for their beauty. Fishermen from Donegal and Antrim, from Scotland and Spain and France were often wafted there, and, with the freemasonry of their craft, made themselves acquainted quickly. They came again and again, attracted by the hospitality and friendship, and incidentally the pretty girls. The time came when these visits ended in weddings and the visitors stayed indefinitely. Thus a mixed race sprang up, and French and Spanish names were heard with those indigenous to the soil, and those whose face? bore the coloring of France and Spain mended the nets and sailed the blue waters in search of fish, and grad- ually became more Irish than the Irish themselves. When Father Tom McDermott was sent to Connemara fresh from college, much regret was indulged in by his friends, who considered the time spent there as so much of his promising career thrown away. The young priest agreed with them at first, and though he admired his surroundings very much, counted the hours to his recall. It came in due course, but Father Tom, as he was soon called, was not ready. He asked for an extension of time. Two years more went by, but he was never quite ready to leave. His curly black hair was mixed with gray, and his rosy cheeks had taken on the shade that shows a 16 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA go without seeing their friends and neighbors from one week's end to the other, and then only at Mass on Sun- day, or for a few minutes outside the church door after the services were over, when was gleaned all the news of the week. A Sunday in Connemara was a pleasant day ; it meant not only a visit to the church, but a day of rest and a sight of one's sweetheart or neighbor in their best clothes and with their best company manners. It meant also a sight of the old neighbors, and long-dead- and-gone friends, or rather their resting-places in the moss-covered graveyards, where the old inhabitants were fast going to join them. In those days good roads were few, and only a disin- terested and unselfish man could keep pace, as Father Tom did, with the demands on his time that must neces- sarily arise from such a scattered district. He knew all the short cuts and the mountain paths, and his pony was never known to stumble. He also knew the caves better than did the gaugers who were often on the search for private distilleries and were as often lost; and he was as skillful in handling an oar, or guiding a corrach from point to point, as the humblest of his parishioners. We will not attempt to give the full history of Father Tom's useful life, nor apologize for naming our sketches after this good, if not great, man; they speak of his people, and when we speak of them, we speak of him, for he was closely identified with every soul in his parish. Father Tom was a man who "garnered not nor gath- ered into barns." His house was always open to the un- fortunate and the stranger, and not having any bank account when he died, his loss was felt as keenly by his relatives as by his friends. No one wanted to read his FATHER TOM 17 will, and he was carried to his grave near the sea by his parishioners, who watered the hallowed spot with their tears. Peace be to your ashes, Father Tom! You did good and not evil all the days of your life. A man may die and be mourned (while the clods are falling on his coffin), and when the mourners have gone home, there may be a faithful heart or two who will think of him with tears for awhile and keep his grave green for awhile ; then the weeds overrun it and the children run over it, and even the name of the man who once inhabited the body that is moldering into dust beneath their feet is forgotten. He may have been a Bishop and worn a ring, or a man who founded a family, or a merchant whose ships sailed the main it's all the same; his day of ob- livion has come. There is one man, however, who has lived in the hearts of two generations, whose grave can be seen far out at sea and is always saluted by the fishermen, with bare heads, as they round the curve, no matter what the weather may be. The gravestone reads thus : "Reverend Thomas McDermott. Requiescat in Pace." Land of the Gael, it is hard to describe thee! Land of the wonderful Twelve Pins (Beana), whose tops al- most touch the clouds, and whose variety of texture and shade can never be fully told, who can describe thee? Thy glories of sea and sky, mountain and bay, are eternal, and the spectator is mute with surprise and awe ! 18 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA ORDAINED FOR CONNEMARA, "Lay me down for awhile." "Certainly, there's plenty o' time. Sure it's early in th' day." "You're sure we won't be late?" The voice was very feeble and the question ended in a sigh. "Dead sure. Arrah, th' sun is but just peepin' over th' hills an' sorra a soul afoot but ourselves. Take yer time, acushla, take yer time." "An 5 th' same sun is shinin' right in her eyes. Come, we'll lay her in th' shade." "An' catch all th' could breeze." "Wrap her up warm an' not a bit o' harm a sough of wind'll do her." "It's a long time since I saw the Twelve Pins and the sun shining over them." "It is, alanna, but it won't be so long agin, plaze God." "In the spirit perhaps, never in the flesh. Oh, I wonder if God will allow me to see Connemara ?" " Whisth, whisth ! Don't be talkin' about death. Who knows what th' Lord will do th' day?" "The Lord has granted all I asked of Him. Blessed be His name. I ask no more. His will be done." "I see th' people startin' from th' glen beyant. We'll tak' another little jaunt, an' rest agin be th' big ash." ORDAINED FOR CONNEMARA 19 "Lay back, McQueeney, lay back; 'tis my turn now to carry her." "God bless you, my friends all, you are very kind." "Whisth now, whisth! Ye'll all have yer turn, if ye only have patience." "The road is long and crooked, like the path that leads to heaven." "Aisy, boys, aisy; swing th' litter, an' there's no fear of th' joults arrah, do ye think ye're carryin' a sack o' potatoes ? Hould yer ind this way, man, an' 'twill swing like a cradle. Aisy, aisy, aisy that's right." We had forgotten that Sunday was so near, when we left our specimen boxes on that delightful spur, on which we had botanized nearly the whole of the week. It was our best excuse for returning there, which we did in spite of the landlady's assurance that they would not be touched; and we soon stretched ourselves in lazy enjoy- ment of the day, and of the way it was observed by the hospitable people of the surrounding valley. On our left, like a gray mist, lay the sea and the Twelve Pins, a range of mountains, with their tops lost in the clouds ; to the right, the dim banks of Lough Corrib, and the early morning sun turning everything into gold. The scent of the heath and the gorse, the . fragrance of the many wild flowers, the lazy drone of the mountain- bee, the sharp and clear trill of the lark and the black- bird, that, contrary to the known reputation of the wnole region, seemed to be inhospitably inclined towards us, and desirous of ousting us from our position, as being too close to their nests, might easily have lulled us to sleep; but our eyes refused to close on the interesting and novel moving panorama before them. 20 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA The tide was out, and the innumerable little boats were either lying high and dry on the mainland or bobbing up and down on the placid water, within the limits allowed by the long rope. The crowds of scarlet-skirted shell- fish gatherers and the dillisk gleaners were nowhere to be seen, or if seen, were hardly recognizable in their blue Sunday cloaks and snow-white caps, setting out on their long journey to the little white chapel to the left. They came by twos and threes, the old walking slowly and carefully, the young jauntily and laughingly, but with a certain reserve in honor of the day. They came from all sides, literally pouring from behind hills and beneath them, from sheltered cabins and more pretentious farmhouses, walking, riding, driving. The modes of conveyance were all the way from a neat side-car, on which well-dressed people sat back to back, to a dilapi- dated cart tied with ropes, with a feather-bed covered with a patchwork quilt of many colors, as a substitute for springs, which moved slowly, carrying the old and infirm members of the family. There were a few pld- fashioned covered carriages of the native "gentry," who had remained true to the "old faith" and had returned early from the London season, or through want of money or from choice preferred to stay at home. These met with respectful greetings from the country people, who have exaggerated respect for "blood" and none at all for parvenus or, as they term them, "up- starts." New-comers, who bought out old family seats, have been mystified at the attitude of even the poorest in this strange district, where money meant so little, and family everything. They saw the pitying smile, if they failed to catch the remark: "That ould mushroon MOLLY MULLANEY AT HER SPINNING WHEEL. ORDAINED FOR CONNEMARA 21 has plenty av change. Why not? Sure he made it ahint th' counter." And this criticism was being passed at the supreme moment when the new-comers imagined they were impressing the country people with their style. The number of church-goers was steadily increasing, but nearly all were journeying in the direction of the little white chapel, in a glen and near the foot of a precipitous mountain. It was surmounted by a cross. This we took to be a Catholic Church, the Protestant or state church being about a quarter of a mile distant. There were but a few wending their way there in comparison with the crowd going to the chapel. One could almost guess who they were and their standing in society ; surely those now passing were the parson and his clerk, Mrs. Kilfoyle and her maid, and the Scotch steward of the absentee Lord Scattergold. Our attention was here called to a small band of men carrying a litter slowly. We thought at first that it was a funeral party, but the burden they were carrying had no resemblance to a coffin, and we waited with the curi- osity born of happy idleness for accident to throw the meaning of all this in our way. The party was soon reinforced by others and again by others, till the small band became a multitude, but a silent, respectful one. The cortege stopped occasionally, laid down the litter, and seemed to administer to the person who was being carried. Our curiosity was now at white heat, and it is hard to tell to what extent we would have gone to gratify it, had not a lucky chance sent two pretty young girls to finish their toilet within a few feet of us. They were in full Sunday regalia, with the exception of shoes and stock- 22 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA ings, which they carried under their arms, as was cus- tomary, to be donned when in view of the church. The place they chose for this pleasant duty was shaded by a creeping vine and hemmed in by a jutting rock, and would have answered as a boudoir for the queen of the fairies. After they had washed the dust of the road from their feet, in a little pool made by the recent shower in a crevice in the rock, they unrolled their long, white stockings and examined the precious shoes carefully, dusting them with great precaution. We made known our proximity by a prolonged "Hem hem," but the girls were so wrapped up in themselves and their foot-gear that they failed to hear us. Their laughter, which spoke of light hearts and youth, was borne back to them in faint echoes, and so they failed for the second time to hear our warning coughs. "Hurry up," said one, "or we'll miss Mass." "It's a good thing I didn't wear my shoes," said the other, completely absorbed in the contemplation of them. "Four miles of a stony road wouldn't lave a bit of them together." "Well, no one saw us, anyway; but hurry up, there's th' McGowns an' th' Delaneys. There's th' Henrys now. They're bringin' her, they're bringin' her ! Come on." The last words decided us. What were they bringing and who were they? We all coughed in chorus and rushed to the front. The girls screamed and were pre- paring to run when a sight of us changed their pro- gram. "Oh, they're the Americans," said the prettier of the girls, coolly drawing on her stockings and completely re- assured. ORDAINED FOR CONNEMARA 23 After wishing them a polite "good-morning," we in- quired who the occupant of the litter was. "Mrs. Henry, of course," was the reply. We were as wise as before, but we did not parade our ignorance. We simply supposed aloud that they were taking her to the church. "To the church!" repeated the girls, in consternation; "no, no, to the chapel. Her son, Father Patrick Henry, is going to say his first Mass." "Then she is sick?" we ventured. "Sick?" echoed the girls, in surprise at our ignorance; and then the prettier one continued: "Why, she's dyin' these five years and is likely to die on her way to the chapel. Her faith is just keepin' her alive. She's asked the Lord for the life till after her son's first Mass, an' then she's willin' to go." We thanked the girls for the information and returned to our mossy retreat. We were not content, however, for the spirit of the people had communicated itself to us, and we, too, wished to be witnesses of the climax of this wonderful story of faith, hope and love. Who had not heard of the student who had covered B with glory by the ease with which he had carried off all the prizes and honors worth speaking of at the university ? We had heard much of him, together with other gossip of the glen, when we had called at the mountain cabins for goat's-milk and oat-cake. This student had also been made the subject of a newspaper article in the Dublin Gazette, in which he was spoken of as a most wonderful young man and the coming orator, and it was insinuated that the Bishop had made him most advantageous offers, which he had respectfully, but firmly, declined. The 24 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA reason given for this was the desire he expressed of living and working among the obscure villagers in the wilds of Connemara. The desire to see this young man was growing on us, and we were soon mingling in the crowds that were now darkening the hills on all sides. The young priest was the son of a widow in strait- ened circumstances, who had sacrificed everything and labored day and night to give her son the education he desired. His father's family, who lived in the city, and whose attention was attracted later by his remarkable progress, condescended to call on his mother (the despised fishermaiden who had entered their family by accident) and offered to defray the remainder of the expenses at- tending his college course. She accepted gladly for the sake of her boy, but for her the help had come too late. To understand the matter thoroughly and realize the union that existed between mother and son, we must recall a conversation that took place there years before, when she was "given up for death" by the two authorities on the subject the doctor and the priest. "Return to your college, my son. I will not die till God's good time. I shall live till I see the sacred robes on my boy. I shall not die until I receive the Holy Eucharist from my son's anointed hands, and hear from his lips the blessed and releasing words, 'Go, the Mass is finished.' " He obeyed her, but the end often seemed very near. To those who ventured to speak in loving words of the immediate necessity of preparing for death, her answer was ever the same. "I shall live to hear my boy say Mass. The Lord has ORDAINED FOR CONNEMARA 25 willed it so. He will not take from me the desire of my heart." From death's very door she was brought back again and again, and under the kind, ministering hands of her neighbors, revived to hear that her gifted son had reached the last rung of the ladder that was to authorize him to preach the Gospel to the people. He was a good young man, as earnest men preparing for the ministry are before the world taints them. He had noble ideas of right, and lofty ideas of his future duties. He loved his mother as only a man can who has never known the care of any other relative, and he wished to please her in all things. It was therefore left for this mother, who was never to rise from her couch of pain, to determine the course his ministrations should take, and the people who most needed his services. It is hard for one to remain deaf when the whole world is singing one's praises. Perhaps his mother, with the prophetic eyes of love, made clearer by approaching dissolution, saw the coming temptations and the needs of the people (often forgotten) the people who dwell where the mountains greet the sea. The young man stood by his mother's bed, and for a moment he thought all was over. He cried out in grief, but she revived and motioned to be left alone with him. "My time is getting very short, my son," she said. "The Lord has been good to me to allow me to live so long. I am going, but I will be near you. You have been the light of my eyes, the joy of my heart. You have not one thing to reproach yourself with. You have never knowingly given me a moment's pain. May God bless you and your work forever and ever. Next month 26 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA you will take the vows of priesthood. I have looked forward to that day. In all my sorrow it has been my comfort that God has called you to the Church. I ask only one request of you. If you grant it, I shall die happy." "Anything, mother, anything; I promise you any- thing," said the young man, brokenly. "I want you, my son, to stay in Connemara. Stay with the people that your mother loved; stay with them and comfort them and teach them. They have many sorrows and have seen much injustice. Make the way light for them. Never be hard on the poor in dues they have dues enough, poor things. Carry neither purse nor scrip, nor the second coat. Do not be concerned for this world, nor for money. You will always have sufficient from day to day. Stay with the people of Connemara." With the plaudits of the judges of oratory still ringing in his ears, the smiling approval of his Bishop, the ad- miring attention of crowded houses, and the cheers of his class-mates who unanimously chose him as their valedictorian, he did not hesitate. He promised every- thing. His mother, with the clairvoyance of love, read his thoughts; she knew that men of rare gifts are kept in great cities, in cathedrals where the rich and educated could appreciate them, while often the people who really needed them were poorly served. "Never mind the rich, my son ; they are well cared for. The poor, the boys 'who go down to the sea in boats,' they need you. The men who sow and reap not, who are burdened with the cares of life, whose sons go forth to war and never return, whose daughters go to the ends ORDAINED FOR CONNEMARA 27 of the earth to work for strangers with no prospect of ever returning these are the souls who need you. Stay with them; stay in Connemara." Do you wonder that he promised that he went to his ordination with this resolve and this request on his lips? It was granted with some surprise that such a man a man that the world delighted to honor should choose to bury himself in the wilds by the sea. He had only one answer: "It is my mother's wish." The news of his ordination came fast, even in those days. His mother's wish was about to be gratified. He was to say his first Mass in the little chapel in B , and return later as an assistant to Father Tom McDer- mott. The news went to the four corners of the parish through the glen and the beach and the mountains, and all were making preparations to come. His mother was to be in the midst of the people, and hear the words of consecration uttered by his lips. Would she live so long? Surely, surely! They were going to carry her by easy stages, not by carriage or cart or side- car oh, no, any of these might "joult" her but by the hands of her old friends and neighbors. And so, wrapped up lovingly and tenderly, she was placed on a stretcher, and through the dewy freshness of a sweet June morn- ing, was carried by relays of men. "Not but that one man could have done th' whole thing," said honest Pat Lucas, "fer she was as light as a bird, but everyone wanted to help." It was a long time since Mrs. Henry had seen the mountains and the sea, except through the small windows of her cottage. The sight of them seemed to revive her, and she occasionally begged of her carriers to lay her 28 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA down in some spot hallowed by the memory, not of her own, but her son's childhood. Here was the mountain ash, into which he had climbed to hide, in play, from his mother, and these were the very branches between which he had pushed and cried "Boo!" after she had looked long and was beginning to fret. How happy she was to find him ! The thought of it now made her heart beat anew. Here was the little fort in which he had marshaled his imaginary soldiers, and here again was the point from which she had given him his first dip in the sea. She was looking on all these things for the last time. She knew her hour was quite near, but she thanked God that He had spared her for this day. When they reached the chapel, it was full to over- flowing. Her son, in a cassock and surplice, was stand- ing by the altar rail, awaiting them. They placed the sick woman on a couch in front and shielded her from the sun and the glances of the curious. For awhile she lay so still they thought she was dead ; but when one of her attendants stooped to moisten her lips, she shook her head. Everybody understood why. Was she not going to receive the Sacred Host from the hands of her son ? Her eyes were full of joy as he stood for a moment be- fore her in his robes. As they were lighting the candles and making everything ready for the service, he knelt down to speak his last words to her, and the people thought none the less of him because of the tears that silently chased one another down his cheeks. His mother laid her cold hand on the dark head before her, and said : "You have the blessing of God, my son, and now take your mother's. Remember your promise, and when, at ORDAINED FOR CONNEMARA 29 the consecration, you are face to face with Jesus Christ, ask Him to bless the brave boys of Connemara, and don't forget also to say a word for your poor mother." There was not a dry eye in the church, and bursts of hysterical weeping were checked by the stern commands of those in authority. The service commenced amid solemn silence. Nothing could be heard but the clear, low tones of the young priest. The air was heavy with the breath of flowers the mountain-blossoms that he re- membered so well. They were banked everywhere on the altar, on the steps, and at the foot of the sick woman's couch. The first impulse of the Irish is usually a kind one. As, led by an overpowering curiosity, we became by de- grees the center of a frieze-coated crowd as impregnable as the rock of Gibraltar, we found many pitying glances thrown in our direction. We were recognized as the Americans who were always gathering wild flowers and putting them in boxes. A stout female in a large blue cloak and snowy cap with huge borders soon came to our rescue and drew us from our perilous position, and we found seats well up in front. There were few seats in this rude mountain chapel, and these were reserved for the gentry and the infirm and old, the bulk of the worshipers standing or kneeling during the different parts of the service. Our position became a distinguished one, but any embarrass- ment due to this sudden elevating was lost in the over- whelming interest we felt in everything around us. The Irish are intensely emotional, and show to the best ad- vantage in dramatic situations such as the present one, which was indeed the climax to the deepest and most beautiful story that ever was told on stage or pulpit. 30 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA This woman, who had sacrificed everything to educate a worthy and extraordinarily gifted son for the priest- hood, had been living for years on the sole hope of seeing him officiate at the altar. Her life had been one long sac- rifice, and had hung often by a thread that apparently a breath might sever, yet she had been miraculously spared to see the desire of her heart fulfilled, and now the son of this devoted mother was about to sacrifice in turn the possibility of a brilliant career for the people his mother loved and of whom she was a part. The service proceeded amid the most intense silence and solemnity. The many slight noises that seem to be inseparable from a large gathering of many people, were altogether absent. So deep was the hush that the distant chirruping of birds, the faint lapping of waves against the shore, and the soft sighing of the wind among the trees seemed like an accompaniment to the low-toned prayers of the priest and in harmony with the spirit of the meeting. At the Gospel the young celebrant faced the people, his tall, slight form towering against a background of lights and mountain-blossoms that covered the plain little altar, as he had towered among the stately draperies of the Cathedral. Prior to his ordination he had been a marked man and a favorite with his Bishop, who saw in him the coming "Bossuet" He had also been a favorite with fashionable worshipers, when he assisted on special occasions, as deacon, before them; and they prophesied great things for the "handsome and gifted young man from the West Coast." All this and more I learned from the low murmurs of the people around me. He spoke, and I recognized the marks. He was an orator, "born, ORDAINED FOR CONNEMARA 31 not made," and the people knew it, too. His words were few and to the point and drew tears from many eyes. He would have commanded attention anywhere. Tall and straight as a poplar, with the head of a genius and the face of a saint, he was a man not easy to forget. He had removed his outer vestment and stood in simple cas- sock and surplice before the people who loved him and who had seen him as a rosy-cheeked boy, serving Mass at the same altar. He had of course changed much in the last few years. The severe course of study, the priva- tions incident to a slender purse, the fasts and vigils attending a life of holiness, had left their tracings on the wide, intellectual brow, giving the chaste countenance a look of high purpose and strong resolution, which is seldom apparent in the rich and pampered student. It was at the consecration that the climax of emotion was reached. The intense silence that reigned made it possible to hear the low but solemn words. The silence was broken by a faint cry from the dying woman. It ended in a long-drawn sigh. Everyone was startled, and all devotion was temporarily suspended in the grati- fication of an overpowering curiosity. All eyes were directed toward the couch at the foot of the altar, those in the rear straining their necks and standing on tiptoe. "She's gone, poor thing! She's gone at last!" was whispered on all sides, interspersed with "Too bad en- tirely that she didn't live till th' end of Mass," and "It will be hard on th' poor boy to finish, now that he knows what's behind him, but shure he must." In a few moments the young celebrant turned to give Communion. He had been so absorbed in his devotion as seemingly not to be aware of the undercurrent of dis- 3 32 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA tress around him. The people tightened their lips and shook their heads. He was to have given his mother Communion. Alas ! He would know the bitter truth now! The kind-hearted people wept for very sympathy with his disappointment. " Poor lad, poor lad ! God help him ! What will he do? Will he descend the steps and extend the Sacred Host to a corpse? Will no one tell him in mercy, will no one tell him?" But no one stirred. There were others to "receive," but his mother was to come first, and all kept their seats. He was descending the altar steps, the chalice in his hand. He came slowly, his eyes bent in prayer. Oh, God ! Would no one tell him in time ? No, not one. He was there. Oh, God! Now, now ! It was too much for the excitable people, who had re- strained themselves so long. The barriers were swept away and an involuntary wail of sorrow broke forth, but it was soon changed to a paean of surprise and joy. The sick woman was sitting up, supported by her attendants, her eyes shining with love and devotion, her hands clasped, and her lips moving in prayer. "Hurrah! Glory be to God, she's alive, she's alive!" was whispered from one to another in the relief of their hearts, and only for the intense respect the Irish have for anything sacred they would have cried aloud. The sudden hush that fell on the congregation when the young priest raised the sacred Particle before giving it to his mother, was like the sudden hush that fell on the angry waves when Jesus said "Peace," or the silence that often fell on their own coast and betokened a storm. The rest of the communicants received in the same orderly silence. ORDAINED FOR CONNEMARA 33 The Mass was nearing its end, and the peop 1 e were radiant with satisfaction. A miracle had been performed in their midst. Mrs. Henry had regained her health. There was actually a "blush" on her face at the Com- munion, and how "sthrong an' hearty" she looked just like th' ould days." "What a gran' thing it would be," whispered one rugged fisherman to his neighbor, "if she could keep house for her son ! We'd build her a nice little house ay, a fine cottage at th' beach." At the last Gospel the people arose again, and the sick woman was helped to a sitting position. "Ite; missa est" (Go; the Mass is finished), said the celebrant. The people in the rear passed out into the bright sun- shine, crying "A miracle! A miracle!" and made haste to spread the joyful tidings, while those in immediate at- tendance on the sick woman were laying down the relaxed form reverently, and folding the wasted hands on the quiet breast. For her the Mass was ended indeed and the world. She had gone forth as she said she would, at the bidding of her beloved son gone forth into the valley of the dark shadows, alone; no, not alone, for her Savior was with her, making "the dark places light," and the good she had done had gone before her. They may carry her home by the old familiar path by mountain or beach, but those who carry her will not be asked to lay her down that she may feast her eyes on the old loved scenes hallowed, not by her own youth, but by the memory of her son. Her tired eyes are resting on fairer scenes and her patience, her kindness, her charity 34 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA and the long list of homely virtues, practiced every day by plain people who dwell in the Highlands by the sea, are speaking for her. And if these are not sufficient to offset the sins inseparable from humanity, the great gift she carries in her hands the gift of her son made ready for His service by her self-abnegation and by her sacrifices will not that count, O Lord, will not that count ? BEEZEY OF GALILEE 35 BEEZEY OF GALILEE Every boat was tethered, and every yawl at anchor. The sea was as smooth as a mirror. The dillisk and limpet gatherers had forsaken the rocks and were stand- ing in groups around the door of the largest house on the island, famous, first, for its brave fishers and pretty fishermaids, and second, for being so close to the main- land that it was occasionally taken for a peninsula. It was a wedding, and everyone was anxious to catch a first glimpse of the bride. Inside the house warring elements were busy. The guests, mostly fishermen from different parts of the coast, were quiet and expectant. Something had gone wrong. There was a hitch somewhere, but not among them. They had not come to fight but to enjoy them- selves, and if, after a while, the liquor took effect, they would go home oh, yes, they would go home and fight somewhere else, out of the reach of Dareen's arm, and of Father Tom's voice. Dareen was Beezey's eldest brother, and Father Tom well, Father Tom was Father Tom. The groom was angry. He was talking loudly in the "parlor" and the door was closed, save to a favored few. He had been "sleeping it off," the men said, laughingly, meaning that a few glasses of native "whiska," taken prior to the ceremony, had overcome him because he was not used to it. FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Galilee," facetiously named by a witty schoolmaster, was the best place on earth to go to in order to hear the greatest variety of accents in a given time. Fishermen from Donegal to the coast of Scotland, and from Conne- niara to the coast of Clare and as far south as the Loop Head, not to speak of Frenchmen, half acclimated, carried traces of their origin on their tongues, and were apt to cause a stranger some confusion, till he became ac- customed to them. The groom was from far Donegal, and talked with the accent of the North, closely resembling that of the Scotch. He was tall, handsome and powerfully built, and young, but his features were working convulsively, and were dark with passion. "Oh, then, 'tis always the quite gossoon ye were, Malachy," said a native, cautiously. "What's the mat- ter wid ye at all, at all ?" "Th' matther wi' me is that I've been lied to that I am a laughin'-stock for all th' lads from Galilee to Gorumna an' Lettermullen, an' from Lettermullen to far Aran an' every island on th' coast." "Whisth, man, whisth, or yer wife'll hear ye." "Wife!" repeated the young man scornfully, "why, 'tis th' wrong woman, I tell ye. Tis th' wrong woman. That wasna th' woman I wanted at all. 'Tis a hard thing to thrate a mon as if he wor a dumb baste as if he had no choice. I'll hae naethin' to do wi' her. I'll hae naethin' to do wi' her." "Then why, for heaven's sake, did ye have anythin' to do wid her ? Why did ye take wid her ?" "Why did I tak' wi' her, is it? Why, I never took wi' her. I had naethin' to do wi' th' merrige. I never set eyes on th' woman before." BEEZEY OF GALILEE A" '. 37 "Then why didn't ye spake up to his reverence?" cried the other, impatiently. "Father Tom has raison; why didn't ye spake up to him ?" "Why didn't I spake up till his reverence, why didn't I ?" repeated the young man with equal impatience, "why, because I never saw his reverence. I couldn't see a hole in a laddher, let alone his reverence. An' all be raison av Dareen's whiska. I see it all now. He kept th' bottle undher me nose till I dhrank th' hulth av all th' woman's relations her granfather an' granmother, her aunts an' uncles an' cousins to th' fourth generation. I'm not much av a han' wi' th' whiska, as ye all ken, an' before I was half way through ma heed was reelin' lak' a top, an' I didna ken whether I was at a funeral or a weddin', much less ma own. That was airly th' morn, an' now 'tis past noon. I must hae slept " "Ye did that right on that form there. Yer bride kem out to have a peep at ye, an' well plazed she seemed to be, well plazed an' wid good raison, for there's no denyin' yer a fine lookin' gossoon, an' a great han' at th' fishin' th' best av them all." The young man shook his head despairingly and sat down with a groan. "There was a brother aich side av ye, I remember," his consoler continued, "an' they nudged ye to answer th' priest, but sure it's customary to dhrink healths at a weddin', an' it's too late now to find faut. Th' best thing ye can do is to say nothin', but take up wid yer woman, an' ye may find her th' best in th' worl' yet. That's thrue, man, that's thrue." "Na," said the young man, sullenly, "I'll na tak' up wi' her. I'll lave this island an' " 38 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Whisth, man, whisth. That's no talk fer ye. Dareen is a hard man " "I dinna care fer Dareen. Th' worl' is wide." "Not fer ye, me boy. Ye'll have to abide be th' merrige whatsomever. Take another dhrop to settle yer thoughts. Have sense, man, have sense. When ye are as ould as I am, one woman'll be th' same to ye as an- other. Wasn't she th' girl ye coorted ?" "Na, na, that she wasna. I toll't ye I never saw her before. I'll tak' ma boat an' " "What's this I hear?" said a voice at his elbow. "Yer goin', are ye goin' to desart yer wife that ye marrit this day? Yer goin' to desart me sisther " "Ay, an' that's what I'm goin' to do." The men glared savagely. They were soon joined by other members of the family, and the effect of the many toasts they had drunk was very visible in their deport- ment. The young man stood his ground unflinchingly and dared the crowd. "Ye hae deceived me, ye people of Galilee," he said. "I was a stranger amang ye, workin' wi' ye side by side, faithful an' honest. Ye hae deceived me." "Ye axed me fer me sisther, an' I gave her to ye." "This had betther be settled be good authority," said the first man, nervously. "There comes Pether Caine. He's th' arbither. Let him an' Father Tom come to terms between themselves." "There's ony ane settlement fer me," said the young man, firmly, "Father Tom must undo that merrige. It's a meestake, so it is, or he'll get na merrige dues." A loud laugh was his answer. That Father Tom should annul a marriage was a huge joke, indeed, and showed that the young fellow was a stranger in Galilee. BEEZEY OF GALILEE 39 "A stranger I cam' amang ye, I shared th' same dangers an' th' same joys. Ye hae used me ill. I hae become a laughin'-stock, a byword, an' a fool," and the young man stamped his foot. "Hi," said a big fisherman in a tar-lined hat and long boots, "what's th' throuble about? Ye got a woman, didn't ye, an' th' women of Connemara are th' best in th' worl'. Ye won't find Amby's akal from Lough Corrib to Clew Bay, an' that's sayin' a dale." "I'm sayin' naethin' agin th' girl," put in the young groom, quickly. "Ye'd betther not," interrupted a middle-aged son of the sea. "She may be all or more than ye say, but she's na for me; Amby is no th' girl I asked tae marry me. When I canna get ma own love, I'll tak' ma boat an' gae," said the bridegroom. Malachy Daniels was a lover of the water, and his boat was large and strong. "Would ye put th' slight on us?" asked the bride's brother, but with an eye to business. "What hae ye put on me?" answered the man, fiercely. "Here comes Father Tom and Peter Caine; talk it out wi' them an' settle things between yirsels," and the wed- ding guests, nothing loth, left the groom and his brother- in-law to the clergyman and the local arbiter. "What's this I hear, what's this I hear?" said Father Tom, briskly opening the discussion and seating himself noisily. "Th' groom won't speak to his bride, an' puts her to shame before th' whole Island." The young man addressed stood sulky and apart, his 40 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA eyes on the turf fire in the middle of the room. His vigorous and handsome frame was stretched to its ut- most and his hands were folded on his breast. He turned to the clergyman defiantly. "That's na ma wife; th' girl I wanted was- Beezey. Th' woman they say I marrit is a black stranger to me. I hae never seen Amby before." "Thrue fer you. Amby had been workin' fer Squire O'Donnell in Kilrush, but she's a good girl, a good girl." "I wanted Beezey," said the young man, impatiently. "Tut, tut, Beezey is only a child," said the priest. "She's nineteen, an' I'm na so verra old, mysel'; twenty-two last Candlemas." "How did the misunderstanding come?" asked the priest. "I married you, and you made no objection." The young man smiled bitterly. "I wasna able," he said. "I was stupid from th' poteen they med me swal- low." "How is this?" asked Father Tom of the Buckley boys, five in number, who stood near the young man with the lowering brows. "The eldest of the family marries first; that's the rule in Galilee," spoke up the eldest boy. "Thrue, thrue," said the arbiter, gravely, "th' eldest goes first." "Malachy axed us fer our sisther; we gave him Amby accordin' to our usage an' law on th' Island," said Dareen. "An' I knew naethin' of yer eldest sisther," said the unfortunate young man, strangling a cry, "I meant Bee- zey." "That was no matther to us," said the brother, eva- sively, "th' eldest goes first." BEEZEY OF GALILEE 41 "Th' eldest goes first," repeated Peter Caine. "If that young man, who is a stranger amongst you, knew not the law, then he has not been fairly used," said the clergyman, "and it's a bad business." "'Tis no bad business, your reverence," interrupted the oldest brother, who was pleased to see his eldest sister married, "an' th' less he says about it, th' betther. My sisther is no shushrawn" (wanderer) "to have her name dragged through everybody's mouth on her wed- din' day. He axed me fer my sisther. I gave him th' one fittest fer merrige, accordin' to our customs." "I knew not th' customs of Galilee. I cam' from far Donegal," pleaded the groom. A strain of music crept in through a rift in the door, together with the tapping and the shuffling of many feet, which reminded the council that the wedding fun was at its height, and the supper was waiting them. "If I had known it in time, I would not have per- formed the ceremony," said the priest, gravely, "till the matter had been reasoned out with the young couple. We might have found Amby a husband and let this young man marry Beezey, seeing he's so attached to her." "With all due respect to your reverence," said one of her brothers, hotly, "'tis her brothers who should do that fer her, her father an' mother bein' dead. My sisther is no shushrawn." "Well, well," said the priest, mildly, "there's no harm meant. It wouldn't be the first match I've made, and the best of matches, too. But something has to be done, to come to a peaceful understanding." "I'll gae awa'," said the young man, gloomily. "Ma boat an' share in th' nets I'll leave tae Amby. I canna stay here." 42 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Ye might stay in six feet of earth, if it were parceled out to ye," said Dareen, "before ye put a slight on my sisther." "Dareen!" cried Father Tom, "would you spake of murdher ?" "It's got to be settled," said Dareen. "Let him come outside an' th' best man wins." "It's a bad work on a wedding day," said Father Tom. "You must admit the young man has cause for complaint, for he did not know your customs, but what God has joined together " "He should have taken th' throuble to find out our customs, if he wanted to belong to th' Buckleys, an' she's marrit wid me mother's ring, that's three hundred years in th' family." "I'll gae," said the groom, "an' I dar ye to" prevent me." The arbiter, who had sat almost unmoved during the whole argument, now raised his hand. "Dareen speaks of old customs; there is yet an older custom that he seems to pass over, an' that is th' universal custom of bein' guided by th' chief selected by th' people of this Island. I am th' one chosen. With all due re- spect for th' Church, Father Tom, ye will remember that in this case my decision comes first." "Yes, yes," acquiesced the priest, quickly, "no one disputes your authority. I know you will decide wisely and well and for the peace and good order of Galilee." The man, on whom his best clothes, worn in honor of the day, sat awkwardly, looked a very Solomon as he stretched his long limbs and put his hands into his pockets. He resumed his oil-skin cap, perhaps as a BEEZEY OF GALILEE 43 mark of distinction, and went to the matter in hand with great precision. He sifted it to its foundation, and while standing stoutly for old customs, stood just as stoutly for justice. "Th' young fellow didn't know th' ould customs," said he, summing up the case, "an' whose fault that was, it would do us no good to know. He marrit th' girl wid her dead mother's ring, an' that's bindin', an' can't well be got out of, even if th' girl were willin', but th' boy must go " "An' desart my sisther?" shouted Dareen. "I didna know th' law," pleaded the groom. "I say th' groom goes," calmly proceeded the man, "but he will return again an' make th' acquaintance of his wife. When he's away from everybody an' has time to think, he will see that we are in this worl', not to get everything we want, but anything fate is willin' to give us. Th' most manly is he who makes th' best of every- thing an' does his duty widout repinin'. Let th' boy go. He'll come back." "I want to ask one question here," said the priest. "Did ye get a promise from Beezey?" "A promise from Beezey?" said one of the brothers, impatiently. "Your reverence forgets that Beezey is only a child." "I asked nane from her," said the groom, in a broken voice, "but we understand ane another. It isna always in words that a promise may be given. I toll't her I was spakin' to her brother about her, an' her eyes spake of th' gladness. We hadna much time for th' talkin' but ma heart went out to her th' first day. I'm from far Done- gal, yer reverence, an' know not th' customs of " 44 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA He hung his head dejectedly, his usually bright face pale and disturbed. There was intense silence for a moment, while the unhappy groom's thoughts seemed far away. "An' th' dhrink ye took " "Anyone that can't take a few mouthfuls of whiska to his own success on his weddin' day isn't worth th' name of man!" shouted Dareen. "It's an old custom, so it is, an' a good custom." "I never was used to th' whiska," returned the groom, apologetically, "but I was used to th' work an' th' feeshin'." "Ay, I defy one to stan' up before th' lad in a good day's work," interposed the arbiter. "My decision is, th' lad goes, an' when he's tired o' strangers he can return to his own. His wife will be here waitin' fer him " "If ye say so, I suppose it must be," said the brother. "But how do we know he'll come back? He must take his oath " "I'll tak' na oath," said the young man, "I'll mak' na promises." "Not necessary," said the chief. "He'll do what's best, rely on that. He'll come back. An' now th' next thing is to break th' news to th' bride. It often hap- pens that a man has to leave his wife at th' althar to serve his counthry, an' it was just a year to-day that Larry Mc- Kenna left afther th' merrige fer th' fishin'; th' herrin' was in an' there was no time to wait " "An' th' storm set in," interrupted the brother, "an' he was brought home to his bride a corp. It's unlucky, I say." The dishes were rattled vigorously, as if to give the council a hint of waiting appetites. BEEZEY OF GALILEE 45 "Well, well," said Father Tom, rising, "whatever ye intend doin' must be done quickly, before th' merrymakin' goes any further, to save throuble. Part in friendship with your brother-in-law, because God alone knows th' future." The bride's brother gave his hand sullenly to his new relative, the others, more friendly, wishing the wanderer good luck and a pleasant voyage. They watched him face the wind and the drizzling rain and disappear behind the "Rock-a-Gaul," a little promontory against which the merciless waves were then fiercely beating. The arbiter had done his work swiftly and well, and he heaved a satisfied sigh at the prospect of peace. It was another thing to face the woman. He had sent for Amby, but his courage fell. "Father Tom," he called out, as the priest was pre- paring to leave, "I I I'd rather ye'd face th' woman." "I don't know," was the reply, "you managed th' man all right " "Yes yes, a few words in raison, an oath or two, maybe a blow or two, goes a long way wid a man from one of themselves from one who has faced danger an' death wid him, an' who has nothin' to gain by desait; but a woman th' Lord pardon me I'd as soon an' sooner face th' devil. There's no raisonin' wid a woman. When she makes up her mind to a thing, ye can't make her change, not till it shoots her agin, an' then she'll raison as sthrong th' other way." Father Tom was as little anxious as the arbiter to face a bride deprived of a handsome young husband. "Ye'll take th' blame of sendin' him away," said the clergyman, with a smile. 46 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Ay, an' waur than all, it's likely th' girl's last chance. Amby's a good girl, a good girl, but she's well on in years, an' has but th' one eye " he whispered. Only one thing on earth could make him lower his voice in fear, and that was an angry woman. There was no need for further talk. The bride was before them in all her bridal bravery. Everything was of the best, for Amby had been like the bee, always gathering and preparing for the important event in her life. In fact she had been ready for ten years. At any time during that period, had her brothers called on her to marry, her answer would have been a prompt "ready." She had put the last stitch in a quilt of 4,000 patches, the working of which it was said had cost her her eye. The last feather was in her bed, the last hem in her towels and sheets, and the last polish on her little white caps. The best of it all was that these valued treasures had been purchased with her own earnings. Amby was always so happily employed that she had no time for the follies of youth, no time even for old- fashioned courting respectful courting, in the presence of her elders even if her brothers had allowed her so much innocent pastime. They gave her to understand that they would attend to everything in the selection of a life partner, and they did. At first they were very particular and dismissed many suitors gathered by the fame of Amby's industry ; but times had changed, and the young fisherman was the first bait worthy of their notice and they snapped him up. The priest was reaching for the door when Amby's voice stopped him. "Your reverence," she said, cour- tesy ing, "has something to say to me, an' Peter Caine, BEEZEY OF GALILEE 47 ye never came forrard to th' wrastlin' ; an' more be token th' supper is waitin' " Bridal honors were sitting well on Amby; she was a comely woman, notwithstanding the loss of her eye, and what between the gay dress and the congratulations and the blushes, she was almost handsome. "We have something to say to ye, Amby, which I hope ye'll take in good part, like th' sensible girl ye are " "Certainly, yer reverence, certainly; but first, ye must wet yer lips. Talkin' is dhry work. Bring in th' whiska, Maureen " "No, no," said Father Tom, hurriedly, "we must say what we have to say first. It's about your husband, he's " "Yes, shure I know it is." Both men heaved a sigh of relief, which changed as she proceeded. "He's gone a little in th' liquor, but ye can't expect a man to be sensible on his weddin' day. He's a fine young man, betther than I expected, an' it's thankful I am to me brothers fer what they've done fer me." "He's gone " "Ay, ay," said the bride, "but he'll come round before mornin'. Tis he has th' character fer sobriety. Shure we must fergive him " "No, no," said Caine. "My good woman, I'm sorry fer ye, but he's gone, gone away ; says he thought he he was to marry yer sisther, Beezey." The bride paled a little and then laughed. "Beezey?" she repeated. "Beezey's only a child, eyah ; what nonsense! she hasn't th' wrappin' of her finger of anything to start house wid." "But he's really gone " 4 48 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Well, let him go, an' he'll come back. There's many a one goes an' comes back when they're tired of wan- derin'. He marrit me anyway wid me mother's ring, an' he has to stan' by me, or he'll never fish a day in these wathers." "I'm glad, Amby, very glad, that ye take it so well. Cheer up an' say nothin' to th' rest of th' guests, an' he may be back afore th' morrow," said the arbiter, en- couragingly. "I won't say a word to anybody, bekase I know that he'll come back. A girl wid a forty-pound feather-bed, an' a 'rocky roads' quilt, besides two others, wid sheets an' ten pounds in th' bank is not to be sneezed at." Amby tossed her head complacently ; she evidently esti- mated herself at a fair valuation, and was not to be alarmed by anything they could say. So much the bet- ter. There were to be no broken hearts, no tears, no trouble. No doubt Amby, with her woman's intuition, was right. He would come back. Father Tom breathed freer, and the arbiter reached his hand for the glass offered him. It was his first drink, but he, like the priest, though urged to stay, made many excuses for leaving early. With the groom a wanderer, though the fact was known only to a few, the merriment sounded hollow and sad. A skirl from Larry McGan's pipes burst through the opening door that admitted Sheila Veg. "There's th' death keen runnin' through Larry's pipes th' night," murmured the old woman, looking through her thatch of gray hair. "Can't ye hear it, yer rever- ence ?" "Nonsense !" said Father Tom, angrily. BEEZEY OF GALILEE 49 "Ay, ye may say nonsense, but ye're none so deaf, wid life an' death continually callin' on ye. Th' last time I heard that keen was when Wapple Donovan was brought in a corp. He went to help haul a load of fish that th' gossoons couldn't manage while th' weddin' supper was goin' on, an' slipped undher Cormae Coolin's boat, an' th' fools landed him in, wrapped in a sail, to his bride, who knew nothin' about his absence. I heard th' keen in th' music, from th' minit th' piper touched th' chanter, an' I knew death was at th' weddin'." Father Tom was now on his sure-footed pony, and Peter Caine was keeping eager pace with him in his de- parture from the house of mirth. The priest's head was on his breast and the faithful old pony trotted carefully along as if she shared in the thoughts of her master. Their progress was slow, the moon was silvering the sea and the mountains and the nooks where the boats were sheltered. When the priest sought his boat a figure standing high in the shadow of a rock drew his attention. It was so still as to appear carved in the stone. He was turning away, when a thought struck him. "Beezey!" cried the priest, suddenly. "Beezey, child, is that you?" It was Beezey, but she did not respond very readily. "She was always a very silent girl," said the priest to himself. "Dark an' distant." But he was uneasy. It was a strange place for a young girl to linger on the day of her sister's wedding. "What are ye doin' here, Beezey, at this time of th' cvenin' ?" The figure on the rock started at the sound of his voice, and turned a face toward him that was strangely 50 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA unljke the young sister of the bride he had just left. It was Beezey, a Beezey changed from the simple, innocent fishermaid and careful little housekeeper, to a woman stern and cold. "Looking for my boat, Father." She turned away her eyes as she spoke as if afraid of scrutiny, and shading them with her hands, looked over the vast expanse of waters. The priest sat uneasily on his pony. He was little used to the ways of woman and was puzzled what to do. There was something strange about Beezey's actions, yet how could he be sure of anything in the matter? Like a flash came to his mind the recollection of his niece Eleanor, who also loved the sea and knew more about girls in one minute than he could learn all his life. "Come with me, Beezey. Eleanor will be glad to see ye," said Father Tom. "She has been wantin' to talk to ye for a long time past." This was a little romance on the part of the priest, but something had to be done. "Thank Miss Eleanor for me, Father Tom, but I can't go now. I must find my boat." The priest waited; his conscience was troubling him. Perhaps he should have made a stand against this whole- sale drinking at weddings. Perhaps he should have in- quired more closely into the conditions of things before he married the last couple. He looked at the girl. The sweet Irish twilight was softening the harsh lines of rock and mountain and casting a light shadow on the waves at his feet. Through it the girl appeared like the water-nymph who, according to the fairy tales of this region, leaves her ocean-bed and seeks for a time the lights of the upper world. BEEZEY OF GALILEE 51 A favorite story was that a water-sprite often lost her cap and had to remain on the rocks until it came floating over the water to her. Perhaps Beezey, poor child, had lost more than her cap. "Beezey," began the priest. He stopped probably there was no truth in the story, and he might be only putting foolish thoughts into the girl's head. Perhaps the young man was right, and it was his duty to find out how far the girl had been wronged. "Beezey," he repeated, "did ye ever give your promise to any young man?" The girl never turned her head, and her voice sounded harsh and far away. "It is the rule in Galilee," she said, "for a decent girl to leave such matters to her father and brothers. As a motherless girl I have always kept by myself and obeyed my brothers in everything. Who will dare say," she added, passionately, "that the girl who had no mother to advise her had to be checked for boldness or forward- ness among the men ? Can you say it, Father Tom ?" Father Tom was astounded. Was this Beezey Beezey the innocent Beezey the gentle, the little girl whose training was left to nature, with a few days of schooling, and a little very little religious instruction from himself ? Only the voice convinced him. "No, no," he repeated, hurriedly. "You were a good girl, Beezey, always a good girl, an' go home now, an' God bless ye, an' be still obedient to your brothers." The pony trotted away, carrying the clergyman over strips of gorse and heather, over acres of sweet-smelling arbutus and around by small potato-patches set in be- tween ledges of rock made fertile by the ever useful kelp 52 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA wrested from the grudging sea; past cabin and farm- house where the fires were burning brightly and the potatoes were cooking for supper, the oat-cakes were baking a delicious brown, and the doors were fast shut- ting out the threatening storm. It was coming and the pony knew it. She lowered her head and moaned like a child. "Get up, Peggy," said the priest. "Get up, Peggy, girl, or we never cross th' Bay to-night. Th' boat will be dashed to pieces on th' rocks, if Ned hasn't fastened it securely." There was no time for further talk. In a moment the storm-cloud burst, the rain fell in torrents, the sea rose mountain high and dashed like a thing of fury against the shore. The sea-birds flew screaming from point to point and the mountain saplings bent to the ground. From his vantage-point on the mountainside Father Tom could see the various members of his little flock prepar- ing to meet the storm. From peak to peak came glimpses of warm firesides as doors were opened to call in the missing cattle. Busy housewives, with covered heads, were calling to their absent children and pet lambs. Everything that was accustomed to shelter was seeking it at once. "An' Beezey," said the priest. "Poor girl, she'll be drowned!" As he spoke, the door of a cabin opened and the sight of a table smoking with a homely repast of potatoes and fish appealed strongly to the priest's sense of hunger. "Get up, Peggy," he said again, "or we get no supper to-night." At this moment the bridle was seized by a firm hand and a woman's voice said, "Ye can't go any further to- night, Father Tom. Come in an' rest yerself." BEEZEY OF GALILEE 53 His wet coat was taken from him by willing hands, the pony was rubbed down and fed, and the door again shut in the teeth of the blinding storm. "There's a little girl out on th' rock," said Father Tom, "an' I fear she'll be lost. Beezey Buckloy, ye know " "What takes her on th' rock, yer reverence? Wasn't her sisther marrit to-day ?" "Yes," replied the priest, hesitatingly, "but Beezey has lost her boat." " 'Tis a quare night to be lookin' fer a boat, yer rever- ence; but depend on it, Beezey is in no danger. Why, that girl can breast th' wather like a duck." Father Tom was still uneasy, and while being re- spectfully waited upon with the best of the homely sup- per, his thoughts were on the rock by the sea with the young girl who at the beginning of her life was experi- encing the most cruel sorrow. In the meantime a younger and more fearless man was making his way down the incline toward the rock where the young girl who was giving so much trouble to Father Tom was standing. The young man had no pony, but he sang as he walked and seemed to take no heed of the storm; he laughed as the rain fell on his face, and his song was ever the same and savored of church and in- cense. He stopped and looked sharply toward the sea. "There's somebody on the rock," he said. "It's a woman and the tide is coming in." He advanced and called in a loud voice, but his words were drowned in the storm. The light was getting dimmer but the out- lines of the woman's form were familiar. A flash of lightning threw the figure into strong relief. It was that 54 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA of a young girl, dressed in the usual red home-spun petticoat and blue bodice, standing up against the strong wind. The hair had become loosened from its fastenings and flowed almost to her feet, giving her the appear- ance of a water-sprite. "It's Beezey," said the young man. "What is she doing here? I fear she will be drowned. Beezey!" he cried, "Beezey!" But the wind carried the sound away. Though Amby was most desirous of keeping her hus- band's desertion a secret, the story had leaked out through the usual channels, the beggars and huxters, the flotsam and jetsam that always follow up a wedding or funeral at the coast, or indeed anywhere where hospitality is the order of the day. Malachy had not left the scene of the wedding five minutes before the story was scattered to the winds of heaven. Father Henry was an unwilling recipient of the startling news while he was engaged in attending a sick-call nearby. He thought of all this now as he watched the storm-tossed figure that looked in danger of being swept off the rock. Even while he looked, she knelt on one knee and clasping her hands around the other as if to brace herself against the warring elements, looked up into the threatening sky. Through the noise of the storm she heard his voice at last, for she turned in his direction. The young man beckoned to her and looked around in vain for a boat, for the tide had filled in between the rock and the shore, and had made it a very sea. "Can she swim to shore?" he thought, and then the heads of the jagged rocks protruding through the water, which the wind was rapidly churning into a white lather, forbade the thought. "She must be saved, but how?" BEEZEY OF GALILEE 55 In a moment he was removing his coat and was pre- paring to breast the stormy sea, when the girl, seeming to divine his thoughts, forestalled him by sinking gently into the water and disappearing. The man was horrified. Was this self-destruction ? Was it possible that a simple girl of the coast, young and usually happy, should be- come so disappointed with life as to wish to end it ere it had scarce begun? He must try to save her. Could he, with the holy anointing fresh on his brow ordained by his mother's wish for Connemara stand idly by and see one of its children perish, body and soul? Father Henry was a young enthusiast, conscientious and wholly in earnest. He was willing, nay, anxious, to sacrifice himself for the benefit of the people, though not even a man could swim over those rocks unless he were fully acquainted with every one of them. And even then the wind was so strong that he was liable to be carried like a straw and dashed against them. At this moment something black appeared at intervals in the water. It was the top of Beezey's head, and in a little while she could be seen swimming in and out, up and down, with the motions and the graceful glide of the native salmon; sometimes a retrograde movement would bring her back almost to where she started from, but that was natural enough. Beezey knew the rocks and was simply rounding them. He recognized this at last and waited in admiration of the girl's skill and daring. Beezey mending nets and building the big turf-fire in the center of the kitchen in Galilee, and Beezey the mer- maid rounding the rocks on Mohr Head were two dif- ferent persons, the priest thought. He had never before 56 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA realized how beautiful she was. Father Henry was an artist, and enjoyed the sight of a beautiful human being as he would a beautiful sunset or a rare landscape. Beezey was not courting death, she was fighting for her life now, and she was on the winning side. In a few moments she stood dripping and exhausted, but trium- phant, before him. "Beezey," said Father Henry, "my poor child, that was a foolhardy thing to do. You might have lost your life." Beezey shook her head, as if she didn't care. "Go home as quick as you can and dry your clothes; you will get your death of cold." Beezey smiled. It was a sad smile, but she said nothing. The wind was so high that the young priest had to shout in order to be heard. The girl was safe, but could he, knowing a little of her sad story, leave her like this ? "Beezey," he repeated, "go home like a good girl and dry yowr clothes." "I'm used to being wet, Father," she said. "It doesn't hurt me a bit, and I'll never go home." "And where will you go, child ?" asked the priest. "Anywhere," said Beezey. "I don't care much. I shall walk on till I get a boat to take me to Galway, and from there to China if they go that far." "Poor child!" said the priest. "What will your sisters and brothers think about this ? You must remember their feelings." *And why, and why, Father?" she replied. "They didn't remember mine ; they thought I was a stone, or a log, or the keel of an old boat. No, no, Father, I'll never go home." "I insist upon it, Beezey. You are too young to wan- der away among strangers." BEEZEY OF GALILEE 57 "Strangers!" she repeated, bitterly. "Strangers were better to me than my own." There was a lull in the storm, and the priest and the girl conversed easily, but it was only a calm before the greater storm that was preparing to burst upon the coast. "Your sister was married this morning," he said, "and she has known the young man but a single day. She is not to blame, for nearest male relatives had made the match, which is the custom of the coast. I think it is a poor rule that cannot be broken in certain cases, and this should have been one of them. Beezey, you have given -that young man your heart, if not your promise, and you shouldn't have allowed the marriage to proceed. Tell me all about it, Beezey." Beezey hung her head. Her cheeks were bright crim- son, but when she raised her eyes to the priest's face, they were bright with the defiance that an honest young girl throws at even a disinterested meddler in the affairs of her heart. "There's little to tell, Father," she said, at last. "A woman's heart can be given without a word from her lips. Malachy loved me, and I waited. I made no prom- ise because he asked for none. He was too honorable to speak to me before he had seen my brothers. He told me he asked them, and they gave their consent, but they said nothing to me and brought home my sister at the last minute " "An unpardonable piece of duplicity !" muttered the young priest, then added aloud, " Poor little girl ! How you must have suffered! But you must take it all for the best. Perhaps " "No, no!" cried the girl who, now the ice was broken, 58 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA poured forth her grief in an uncontrollable torrent that defied all barriers. Oh, it was a comfort to talk to Father Henry, who understood everything ! He was young and felt for the young. He had not forgotten, like Father Tom, that life holds something besides work and duty as contained in the simple word "obedience." She had been submissive and obedient all her life, and she would be obedient no longer. Her whole soul rebelled against such tyranny. She poured forth her rebellion in loud cries and angry ejaculations, and the priest never rebuked her. He realized that this tempestuous outburst was necessary; he also realized, unlike Father Tom, that in Beezey's soul were depths that her brothers and her pas- tor could never fathom that the course pursued by them with Amby was lost, totally lost, on Beezey. "Poor child! Poor child!" was all he said, as she, spent with much weeping, sank on the ground in the agony that is known only once in life. "And now," he added briskly, "that you have told me all, I won't ask you to go home ; on the contrary, I insist that you must not go there. You know, I suppose, that Malachy refuses to live with his with your sister? He went away." "I know, I know," said the girl, "and I stood on Point Mohr to see the last of him on earth." "Then you did not intend to go with him?" " No, no, Father ! I hope you don't think so badly of me. I only wanted to see him once more." "No, I don't think badly of you at all," said the priest. "On the contrary, I think you are a very good girl, and your wanting to see him was all very natural. However, to-night you will stay with Molly Mullaney, a good and wise old woman. I will take you to her, and to-morrow BEEZEY OF GALILEE , 59 you will go to Miss Eleanor and stay while things are unsettled. Trust in God, my child, and all will be well. Do you hear me?" "Yes, Father," said the girl, obediently, preparing to follow his lead. She was pale, and spent with her pas- sion of tears, joined to her long fast, but she was calm. The lull in the storm was as deceitful as sunshine in April. The winds were but resting for a great effort and would have deceived a stranger, but to a girl like Beezey, whose life had been spent between the clouds and the waves, the signs were unmistakable. "Look, look, Father!" she said, pointing to the sky. "The ' Gale-Mohr ' is coming. God help the lads at sea !" "Well, hurry up, and we will reach Molly's cabin be- fore it breaks." The girl stood firmly. "No, no, Father," she said, "let me stay. I could not bear to be indoors now, and I might be of some help." "Well, well," said the priest, "do as you like, but remember that when it's over, your place is in Molly Mullaney's cabin. I will go and prepare her, but it is best for you to keep as retired and quiet as possible." "I will, Father, I will," said the girl. "I will not show myself, unless it is necessary." She spoke this in Gaelic, the usual language of the people of the coast when ex- cited, or laboring under strong emotion. "But you are famished," said the priest, "and I'm sure you have eaten nothing all day." "I can't eat," said the girl. "Let me stay, oh, let me stay ! I feel that I am needed." "And you won't forget to go to Molly's?" asked the priest. 60 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "I won't forget, Father." While she was speaking, the second storm-cloud burst. The lightning flashed and the thunder again broke the stillness of the night. During the flashes of lightning the sea looked like a bed of burning fire, or molten glass breaking into a thousand pieces against the rocky shore. In the multitude of little bays and inlets along the coast, as far as the eye could see, not a boat was in sight. "Thank God!" said Father Henry, "the boys are all in, and the boats are safely anchored !" All was darkness again, and the girl was breathing hard. "He is away," she said, "he's far away by this time. But the boys saw the storm coming four hours ago and came in." "Let us hope," said the priest, gently, "that he has sought shelter. No one who knows the coast would venture near it to-night." In a minute the darkness cleared away, and the lightning flashes succeeded one another so rapidly that the sea was lit up for the space of a moment with almost the brightness of day. Heavens ! There they were on the boiling waters, the unfortunate boats that had not sought shelter! They were but specks on the seething waters that appeared to engulf them every minute. "It's the 'Colleen Dhas ' from Kilrush! She got turned around and will dash against the rocks, and the little boat I don't know who would dare go out in such a storm. Look! They're throwing out their sig- nals of distress ! But who can go to them ?" cried Beezey. A shout was heard along the shore, and then an an- BEEZEY OF GALILEE 61 swering shout, and then from all around them in the darkness the shouting broke out generally, and they knew the people were there to give all the assistance in their power. "She's on th' rocks! She's on th' rocks! Th' 'Col- leen Dhas ' is on th' rocks, an' two of her crew are yet livin'," cried a voice behind them. There was plenty of excitement now, though the noise of the warring elements was so great that very little could be heard. Two men were busy manning a boat, but volunteers were few. "It's no use throwin' away more lives!" shrieked a woman's voice, "they can be saved only by a miracle! No one could live on those rocks !" "They'll live as long as th' boat holds together," was shouted in answer. "If we could throw them a line, some of us could cross from the gap." "Arrah, who'll venture on th' rocks to-night? They'd be smashed to smithereens !" "Lord have mercy on their poor souls!" said the woman in front. "It's none of our boys, anyway." "Give them a fightin' chance fer their lives!" shouted a lusty voice, "an' throw them a light!" "It would be betther to throw 'em a rope," shouted an- other. "It's hard to keep a light burnin' in this storm." This takes some time to tell, but it all occurred in a few seconds. Bonfires were lighted in sheltered nooks, but the rain fell in torrents and put them out again, and the boat with its handful of men who went to the rescue was driven back to the shore. "Go higher up !" shouted the people, "and let someone 62 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA carry out th' rope. Who will go who will go?" No one answered for a minute. "I will!" said a woman's voice, calm and strong, "I will!" It was Beezey. "I know the rocks," she con- tinued, before they had recovered from their surprise. "Shame! shame!" cried a dozen voices, "to let a girl go where a man dare not venture." "It's no shame," shouted Beezey, "there's no man knows the rocks as well as I do, and I can not let those men die before my eyes !" While she was speaking she was tying the rope around her waist and preparing for action. "This is nonsense," said Father Henry, "you're only adding another victim to the rest. You will never return alive." "And if I don't, Father," she said, and then she paused, and perhaps the winds carried her words away, for all the priest heard was, "It's no matter, anyway." She was gone like a log of drift-wood over the boiling sea, leaving the other end of the rope in the hands of the priest, who was stupefied with astonishment. "Beezey! Beezey!" shouted a man who had just ap- peared on the scene. "Beezey! Beezey!" shouted a woman, "come back, come back !" They were the brother and sister of the brave girl who had gone on her perilous errand of mercy, but their voices were drowned in the storm, and if Beezey had heard them, her days of obedience were over. "There's no time to be lost," said Father Henry. "We must not be put to shame by a girl. We will carry the end of this rope to the other side of the ' Gap ' and get as close to the wreck as we dare. Who will come?" BEEZEY OF GALILEE G3 Three men volunteered, and the Driest stepped into the boat with them. "Beezey! Beezey 1" cried Amby, from the shore, "come back, come back !" "Beezey!" shouted her brother Dareen, frantically, "come back, come back; for God's sake, come back!" But only the wind answered him, and the storm raged on. When the last effort had been made to save the strangers, a silence like that of death fell on the people. Nothing could be heard but the noise of the storm as it lashed the waves in fury against the shore. The women were huddled together in knots, their eyes on the sea, their lips moving in prayer. They were praying for their own now for the brave men and the noble young priest and the girl who had gone to her death. The men stood with bated breath and clenched hands and ears strained for the slightest sound. At last a woman, whose nerves had been strained to the breaking-point, broke the silence by a cry. "They're lost!" she cried, "they're lost! The sca- the cruel sea has them all, the strangers and those of our own blood! Of what use was this sacrifice of what use ?" She was answered by a shout from the men on shore. The lightning was playing over the waters, illuminating the crested waves as they reared in foaming hills and sank in black cavernous hollows, and through it all could be seen the forms of men struggling, and between them was a line a slender thread, connecting them with the tossing life-boat in the Bay. "Hurrah for Beezey!" roared a hundred voices. " She's got them, she's got them !" a 64 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Don't, don't!" said a voice in agony. "What were their lives compared to hers?" "Oh, Beezey! Beezey!" It was her brother Dareen. There were plenty of volunteers now, and warmth and cheer for the famished strangers, who in truth showed but faint signs of life. "Where is Beezey? Where is Beezey?" cried a fren- zied voice. "Where is my sisther?" Two men were bearing a cloak-covered burden, which they gently laid on the sand. "She's dead!" sobbed a woman, uncovering the body. "She's smashed to pieces," and she pointed to the blood dripping from the slender arm that hung limply by her side. "Beezey! Beezey!" screamed her brothers. "Dead! Dead fer th' sthrangers ! My sisther, oh, my sisther !" "Save your tears," said the clergyman, coldly. "It's not so easy to kill your sister. She's only cut her feet and broken her arm, and she is in the hands of the best nurse in Connemara, or indeed, of all Ireland. I will never believe that Beezey is dead till Molly Mullaney says so." Molly was not heeding the compliments. She was busy with cordials and bandages. The storm was subsiding, and the people no longer talked in shouting tones, so when an excited man came forward and made an announcement, it was heard by every man and woman on the beach, though he tried to guide his communication to certain ears. "Do ye know who Beezey has saved? Wonderful, wonderful !" "Two fish-huxters from Kilrush, of course; but where are th' rest of th' boys ?" BEEZEY OF GALILEE 65 "Oh, they dropped off before th' storm set fairly in. Th' man we saved was a passenger, but he was a sailor, too, an' thought he knew th' coast, having lived here some years ago. Th' other feller he picked up from th' small boat. But ye don't guess who he is. Wonderful, wonderful !" "Arrah, out wid it, man, who is it?" "An' to think they'd meet, an' be saved! Wonderful, wonderful !" " Stop yer ' wonderful ' an' tell us who it is, if it's worth tellin'." "Just Malachy Daniels, that was marrit this mornin' to her sisther." "Th' feller that was runnin' away? An' who's th' other ?" "A boy that was born right here on th' coast, an' left it by th' same token ten years ago to mak' his fortune. He was reported drownded off th' coast of Newfound- land, an' he's lookin' fer his mother an' inquirin' about his sweetheart." "What's his name? What's his name?" It was the old woman who had begrudged the sea its wonted toll and the sacrifice of life to save strangers. "What's his name?" repeated the woman. Her face looked livid in the early dawn, and her hands shook. "Andy McLaughlin," answered the man, who did not know her. The old woman fell at his feet. "Didn't ye know that was Kitty McLaughlin, whose son was reported drownded off Newfoundland ten years ago ?" "I didn't know" apologetically, as he stooped to chafe the cold hands. "I only knew that her name was 66 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Kitty, an' that she was desperately poor. But she's his mother, shure enough." "Th' life is in Beezey," interrupted a young girl who was running past the gossips. "Th' life is in her, but not for long, an' they're bringin' her to Molly Mullaney's till th' docther comes from Ballynahinch, an' Father Henry has taken charge of th' two men." "Th' girl won't listen to raison, yer reverence, an' it's a fine match, a fine match. He's a comfortable man en- tirely ownin' his own boat an' five acres of good land well tilled." Dareen was speaking and twirling his hat awkwardly between his fingers, his crafty eyes looking furtively at the priest. "-She's betther now," he continued, "an' 'tis time fer her to be at home." "And you called at Molly Mullaney's, and made this offer to your sister?" "An' a very good offer it is, yer reverence. Beezey has nothin' but herself. Bryan Duffy is rich " "And sixty-five," interrupted the priest. "Tis a great difference, Dareen." "Th' difference is nothin'," said Dareen. "What does a young girl know? A man must do th' best he can for his sisther, an' as Bryan Duffy's wife she'll have a com- fortable home " "You did the best you could for your sister Amby, and how did it turn out ?" "An* whose faut is that, yer reverence? Who's keepin' th' man away from his wife?" answered Dareen, hotly. BEEZEY OF GALILEE 67 "Malachy Daniels is not Amby's husband," said Father Henry, mildly, "and you ought to know it." "Malachy Daniels not me sisther's husband!" roared Dareen. "An' she marrit by Father Tom, wid her mother's ring that's been ia th' family nigh on three hundred year !" "Marriage is the agreement of two parties, and I'm very sure that Malachy had nothing to say in the matter. It's no marriage at all." "Ye'll find that it is!" shouted Dareen. "An' this is fine talk from a priest." "It's the truth, and you know it. You filled him with whisky for your own purpose, and palmed Amby on him, knowing well he wanted the younger girl." "I had to go by ould customs," said Dareen, evasively, "an' I was th' head of th' family. This is all nonsense, Father. Malachy is me sisther's husband an' if he puts a furder slight on her, I'll meet him like a man, an' settle th' difference, once fer all." "Malachy will never live with Amby, and murder will not help the matter. Beezey will never return to you. She intends going to America when she is quite strong. You have spoiled both your sisters' lives for no benefit whatever to anyone." Father Henry did not dig up the skeleton in Dareen's closet without the intention of interring it again. It was a daring thing to try to break a marriage solemnized by the Church, but our hero was a daring man. Dareen's face was ashen. His lips trembled. "Th' people will say that they Malachy an' Beezey, I mean have run away together," he said, in a hoarse, low tone. "People will talk," affirmed the priest, "but all your 68 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA brave challenges will only make matters worse. Let the sleeping dogs lie, Dareen." But Dareen was not the man to let sleeping dogs lie, and Father Henry knew it, and what was more, he did not wish him to let them lie. The fisherman was knead- ing his cap between his knotty hands, his face puckered up into wrinkles of perplexity and grief. He could not deny one word the young cleric was saying, and how was he to surmount the difficulty? Beezey had escaped his authority, and Amby well, she was at home, forsaken and rejected, and for a woman of her sterling good temper, in anything but a hilarious state of mind. Dareen was a man of strong passions, the strongest being pride and avarice. He was as daring as Father Henry himself, determined and wary as a mountain fox. The priest had pierced the first weak spot in Dareen's armor his pride and was now preparing for a tug at his heart-strings before he attacked his avarice. It was a supreme moment, and much depended upon it. To bring this astute son of the sea to his point of view, he felt, required the powers of a Machiavelli, but, nothing daunted, he began : "I must give you credit, Dareen, for the way you have conducted yourself toward your sisters previous to this, but, as everybody says, they were good girls." "They were that," assented Dareen. "Let me see; Beezey was a mere child when your parents died." "Just a toddler, yer reverence." "And Amby was a good-sized girl." "Ay, a good slip of a girl, mebbe fourteen." BEEZEY OF GALILEE 69 "And you worked and toiled for them like a father. You denied them nothing. You remained single for their sakes." Dareen nodded. "I have heard the men say Beezey would run to meet you as you returned from the fishing, and that you often finished your day's work with the child asleep on your shoulder." Dareen nodded again. Yes, he remembered it well, as well as if it were yesterday, and the tears welled into his hard eyes. "And with all the desire to do the best for your sisters, you have made them the talk of the Island." Dareen groaned. He was a poor man, but his family pride would not rank second to that of the greatest mon- arch on earth. What were kings and emperors in com- parison with the Buckleys, who were warriors and chiefs before they were driven to the sea to fish ? As fishermen they still retained their honor. The men of them might drink and fight occasionally, but who ever heard a slur cast on the women? They were always above reproach, and now now Dareen was humbled to the dust. "What 'ud ye advise me to do, Father ? Oh, tell me what to do !" Father Henry had him now where he wanted him. He smiled inwardly with satisfaction, outwardly he only frowned. He walked back and forth for a few moments in the circumscribed space unoccupied by his books, thinking deeply. Then, turning to his visitor, he said : "Can you carry the blame of this on your shoulders as you carried your little sister when she was a mere toddler?" "I can carry anything, yer reverence, that will help us out of this throuble, but I don't see how a merrige can be undone." 70 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "It must be undone !" cried the priest, "for it is against the law of God and nature for a man to marry his own sister." "To marry his own sisther!" repeated Dareen. "An 1 who marrit his own sisther?" "You did, unhappy man, you did, and what punish- ment do you not deserve ?" "Marry me own sisther? Arrah, how could I do that?" asked the man, blankly. "You can't deny it," continued the priest. "You, and you alone, answered the questions that should have been answered by the groom. When Father Tom asked ' Will you take this woman for your wedded wife ? ' it was you who answered ' I will.' Deny it if you can, man, deny it if you can." Father Henry was shaking his clenched hand in close proximity to Dareen's nose, and Dareen was very white and uncomfortable. "I I I was only promptin' Malachy," muttered Dareen, humbly. "He didn't hear what th' priest was savin'." "And you didn't want him to, you didn't want him to. You made him drink so often to his new relations that he did not know which woman he was standing before." "I but followed our custom in Galilee." "You followed the dictates of your own heart, which was for forcing the young fellow to marry Amby, when you know he asked for your younger sister, and see what trouble you've brought yourself into. The Bishop has to see to this matter, for it is far beyond our settlement now." "An' how many do ye think is marrit in Galilee, ay, BEEZEY OF GALILEE 71 an' all over, that knows what he is doin' an' what woman he is standin' ferninst bekase of th' few dhrops of whiska he has swallowed ?" "More shame to those who give them the whisky." "Arrah, an' would yer reverence expect a man to stan' up ferninst a strange woman ?" "Dareen," said the priest, "this case goes to the Bishop." "Murdher!" cried Dareen, "what can he do?" "What he'll do to you I am not quite sure, but he will insist that the ceremony be performed over again, with the sober bridegroom." "Then Amby will never get a man," rejoined Dareen, with conviction in his tones, "an' she'll be put to shame before th' people th' people of Galilee." "No, no," said the priest, "Amby will refuse him be- fore the people the people of Galilee, and all the islands between it and far Aran, if they were there." "An' why will she refuse him before th' people?" "Because she gave her promise to a better man ten years ago a man who has visited the ends of the earth for means to make her happy. Did you ever hear of Andy McLaughlin?" "I did," said Dareen eagerly, "but he was a poor lad when I knew him, wid hardly th' price of a shirt." "He has the price of many a shirt now. He has five hundred pounds in a belt around his waist, and five hun- dred more where that came from. He was always fond of Amby." "I know, I know! Shure, I kicked him into th' Bay fer his impudence, years ago. Oh, if I only knew, if I only knew! five hundred pounds, did ye say? Five 72 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA hundred pounds!" repeated Dareen, whose brain was reeling from the thought of so much wealth. "But shure, I kicked him into th' Bay for his impudence." "True," said Father Henry, smiling, "but he had no belt then, and if he had, it was empty." "An' all that money is fer Amby?" questioned Dareen, unheeding the sarcasm in the priest's words. "P'or her and her friends," resumed the priest, "and he has made his mother comfortable besides. Indeed, she is most anxious that he should get married, as it will keep him from wandering away again." "But Amby has but th' one eye now." "He knows that," said the priest, "but it makes no difference. He has come back to marry her. She is the only woman in the world for him. The two men who have had such an unhappy experience are staying to- gether and talking things over." "An' Amby's merrige hem, th' merrige can be done away wid?" "If you will take the blame, and the penance." "Indeed, an' I will, yer reverence, every bit of it. Five hundred pounds did yer reverence say five hundred pounds ?" "And the penance, Dareen?" "I'll do th' penance, too. I'll own up to me faut before th' people of Galilee an' all th' people. 'Twas I that did th' wrong, an' not me sisthers. I answered th' priest, instid of Malachy. Five hundred pounds, five hundred pounds !" "The penance is rather severe you must wear a white sheet about you, and stand in front of the altar for seven Sundays." BEEZEY OF GALILEE 73 "Well, thank God, th' white sheet isn't fer me sisthers; but it's mighty severe, all th' same. Couldn't it be a sail? Now, I don't mind bein' wrapped up in a sail. Many a dacent feller was wrapped up in a sail, an' widout any faut of his own, ayther, an' widout his consent. Five hundred " "Well, we'll see about the sail, Dareen. You ought to be very glad, however, to get off so cheap. Maybe the Bishop would oblige us to let the marriage stand, and exile you for life for marrying your sister." "God bless us!" interrupted Dareen. "The best thing you can do in fact the only thing, if you want this affair to come out all right is to say nothing. Go about your work as usual, and leave the rest to me. I will see the authorities and when all is settled you will come forward like a man, and take your penance. You will wear " "I'll wear anything in th' chapel for th' good of me soul, but outside let one of them say a word to me out- side, an' I'll " "And now," said the priest to himself, as he watched the strong figure of Dareen disappear in the mist, "and now I have to face Father Tom." Father Tom was very much disturbed. He was dining with his curate, and was engaged with the second leg of a wild duck. Father Tom liked a good dinner as well as other men of his age, in fact, it was the only meal he was ever sure of at home, and here was this young priest, who should be deferring to his judgment, actually argu- ing a point in theology with him. 74 "What God has joined together, let no man put asunder," said Father Tom. "What God has joined together, let no man put asunder," repeated Father Henry after his superior, slowly. "But did God put them together?" "I was there," said Father Tom, looking at his curate with a mild fierceness that would have subdued ninety- nine young clerics out of a hundred under similar circum- stances, "I was there in my humble capacity of priest of the Holy Catholic Church. I performed the ceremony." "If marriage is a sacrament, it is also a contract," went on Father Henry, not heeding the personal weight given the matter by the older priest, "and if either party refuse to take on the vows necessary to that state, then it is no longer a contract. Fraud or deceit will not make a marriage." "Those who are guilty of deceit will be punished ac- cording to our Holy Mother, the Church " "Step-mother," urged the young priest, slowly. "Step-mother," repeated Father Tom, wildly, "is that a respectful way to speak of our Holy Mother, the Church?" "I was not speaking of our Mother the Church," an- swered Father Henry, "I was speaking of the work of a step-mother." "Step-mother?" again repeated Father Tom, too stunned for further speech. "A real mother looks out for the happiness and wel- fare of her children. If they are in trouble she extricates them ; if they are in pain she pillows them on her breast. Neither fraud nor deceit can build barriers high enough to divide her from those who are dearer to her than her BEEZEY OF GALILEE 75 life. Therefore I say that this is not the work of our Mother the Church. Someone has taken her place for awhile. It is very convenient to throw all mistakes and misfortunes on the shoulders of Mother Church, but she never made the match between Malachy Daniels and Amby Buckley. It was whisky and lies," said Father Her^ry with decision, "and something must be done at once." Father Tom opened his mouth, but no words came. He stared at his curate singularly. "What can be done? Nothing. We cannot and must not establish a precedent in Connemara. After awhile the young people will begin to see things in a proper light. They will become reconciled. I have seen more of life than you," he said at length, but without decision. "Never," said Father Henry. "Things are just going from bad to worse. Four persons are made miserable, and two homes will be broken up." "Four?" repeated Father Tom. "Yes. Amby's former sweetheart, a man to whom she had given a promise ten years ago, has returned to marry her Andy McLaughlin you remember him." "Yes, yes, a luckless but a warm-hearted, fine-looking fellow. He is Kitty Mclaughlin's son, poor old woman," responded Father Tom. "She's not very poor now," said the young priest, sig- nificantly. "If her son was luckless in Connemara, he was lucky in Australia. He has made his mother com- fortable, and is anxious to do the same by his wife." "I heard something about his coming home the night of the big storm," said the pastor, looking interested, "but I heard nothing of all this." 76 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA The young priest smiled inwardly. This quietness and inactivity had been all advised by him till things were arranged to his satisfaction. Father Tom had forgotten his dinner and was thinking deeply. "If the ceremony, such as it was, had resulted in the making of a home, I would have nothing to say," re- sumed the young priest, "but the bride is rejected and alone, the man leaving her as soon as he found out his mistake. Her sister is away from home and intends also to become a wanderer. Andy, after a few weeks spent with his mother, will leave for foreign lands, and all are miserable intensely miserable. Then there is scandal, too. Who can bridle people's tongues? Who will not say that Beezey and her lover have eloped together, when in fact the young girl would rather die than do anything so dishonorable. Who can say," continued the young priest, warmly, "what will become of so young and beauti- ful a girl as Beezey, when, knowing nothing outside of her daily work, her lines are cast in a strange land ? Em- bittered by injustice and wrong, and deprived of the dearest tie in life by those who should have watched over her interests, with religion sanctioning the wrong who will promise that she will be true to the faith of her fathers, or indeed believe in the existence of a God ?" "Beezey has brains as well as beauty," said Father Tom, hastily, "and I'm sure can be depended upon to look out for herself anywhere. But it is a bad business, I'll allow. We can write to the Bishop, but I hate to have anything reported from the parish." "The Bishop is in Europe," returned Father Henry, dryly. "Well, well, we must wait till he comes home." BEEZEY OF GALILEE 77 "After leaving Rome," resumed Father Henry, as if reading from a book, "His Lordship will go to Spas for his health, then make a tour of the cathedrals in England and his own country, and by that time the grass will be growing over two more graves." "Bosh!" said Father Tom, "no one ever died of dis- appointed affection. It's a long time to wait, I'll allow." "They cannot wait," said Father Henry, "they must not wait." "Must not?" echoed Father Tom, sharply. "It seems to me, young man, that you are taking too much on your- self. The Bishop " "Would feel very angry if he heard, as he is liable to hear any day, that a man in his diocese has married his own sister." "A man married his own sister!" roared Father Tom, now fully exasperated. "Dareen has confessed that to me to-day, and is willing to confess it before the whole parish. Indeed, it is heavy on his conscience." "Pax vobiscum!" muttered Father Tom, rejecting at the last moment an English word that was more forcible than polite. "He says," continued Father Henry, "that he an- swered every question you put to the bridegroom dur- ing the ceremony. The young man was propped up for the occasion, and " "It's the whisky," muttered Father Tom, "oh, the men of Galilee !" "There was such a crowd and so much excitement, that you probably did not notice the substitution of bride- grooms " 78 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Thunder and lightning!" said Father Tom, in Gaelic. Then he pushed away from the table, leaned back, and shut his eyes. "Dareen did not mean to marry his sister," continued the priest, "he simply wanted the ceremony complete be- fore the bridegroom recovered from the effects of the whisky, never doubting that it would end according to his wishes. Now he is willing to swear " "I'm sick and weary of the whole matter," said Father Tom. "I wish I was a thousand miles from Galilee and the hills of Connemara. The Bishop " "Won't break his heart about what occurs on this in- significant island, or, indeed, in the whole Kingdom of Connemara, but there are some beautiful souls among the fishermen of Galilee that look to him for spiritual guidance." "And how can I take the responsibility of breaking a marriage even a Galilee marriage ? The Bishop " "You haven't had a vacation for two years, Father Tom," said the young priest, affectionately. "You have a sister in Kilrush, and one in Boyle. Now is your time to go. A few things will happen when you are gone, but the raw young priest you left in your stead will be respon- sible for them. My shoulders are broad enough for the burden, and the Bishop knows me pretty well." A look of relief overspread Father Tom's face, which had looked strangely careworn of late. He had fretted over this last trouble more than he would care to own, but had seen no way out of his difficulty till this daring young man had grappled with it. Another month of this life would send him to the old graveyard on the hill. 'Twere best to take the good that was open to him, and he did. BEEZEY OF GALILEE 79 "I'll give them a temperance lecture Sunday," said the young priest, as he shook hands with the departing pastor on the Kilrush boat, "and bring the other business on gradually. Everything will be all right." Father Tom smiled. "It's mighty convenient to have something on which to lay the blame for all our troubles, but I'm afraid I am to blame a little myself. I should have made sure of everything being all right," he said, with a sigh. "It will be no harm to give the whisky a crack by the way. They drink too much of it in Galilee," urged Father Henry. "And yet, if you had seen those poor fellows coming in after a night's fishing, half drowned and nearly frozen to death, you'd wonder how they'd get along without it." "I know, I know," said Father Henry. It was a goodly sized congregation that faced the young priest in the little white chapel by the sea on the following Sunday, with Dareen on the first seat near the altar. On the women's side were Amby and Beezey, with old Kitty McLaughlin in a brand new cloak and cap, sitting close beside them. On the opposite side was Malachy, and a little behind him was Andy McLaughlin. Both men were pale and thin from their long sickness, but neither looked unhappy. Father Henry's sermon was on temperance, and he handled his subject well. It was not a scathing, scorch- ing "taste-not, handle-not" discourse, because he knew his people and their work. He counseled temperance, not a 80 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA abstinence. "One virtue at a time, not all at once," thought the priest. The church was gay with the scarlet skirts and blue bodices of the girls and the snow-white caps and blue cloaks of the women, and the air was laden with the deep salt breath of the sea. Father Henry particularly de- nounced the habit of drinking at weddings. "It is nonsense to pretend you want protection from the wet and cold there," he said, "and an overindulgence in liquor brings on quarreling and disgrace. A man about to receive a sacrament must be perfectly sober and in his right mind." "Two glasses, yer reverence, to put a little courage in a man," suggested a voice in the rear. "No, no," replied the priest, who knew that this was meant not as a signal for rebellion, but a request for fair play from men who meant to obey the law "as far as raison an' no more." "No, no; if a man must drink at his own wedding, let him drink the two glasses after, not before the ceremony. I request it, I demand it, and you know me too well to think I would ask too much. There is a reason for this. On account of this drinking at weddings there has risen a great trouble in our midst. By an accident brought on by this same wholesale drink- ing oi whisky, a few weeks ago, I am obliged to perform a marriage ceremony over again. To make the sacra- ment of matrimony binding, it is necessary to get the consent of both contracting parties. At the wedding I speak of, the man had drunk so many healths that some- one had to answer the questions for him, and by this answering of questions (unknown, I'm sure, by the officiating clergyman, Father Tom), Dareen Buckley married his own sister." BEEZEY OF GALILEE 81 The holy place they were in did not restrain the con- gregation from giving way to a burst of mirth, which the clergyman promptly suppressed. It showed itself every now and then in a subdued giggle, or a smothered "ha, ha!" followed by a cough cropping up every now and then from all sides. "Arrah, look at him now, wid his eye in th' corner, th' rogue, watchin' to see who's doin' th' laughin', that he may lay th' weight of his arm on them when he gets them outside," whispered one woman, indicating Dareen, who was standing humbly before the altar. "Oh, wouldn't ye think such a wise man 'ud be too cute to get himself into such a scrape? Oh, I'll die wid th' laughin' !" "Marrit his own sisther, eyah; that came of bein' too anxious to get her settled." And for a brief space the whispering went on, while the offender stood, square- jawed and immovable, facing the scoffers. "I wouldn't be in his shoen fer a ten-poun' note." "Nor I fer a hundred. Oh, if it had been anyone but Dareen, I'd pity him, fer he's always thryin' to get th' best of everyone, till at last he thried his hand on th' Lord himself." "That's thrue. Do ye remember th' share in th' load of salmon he thried to chate me out of?" Dareen did not hear what the people said, but being a man of brains, he guessed along the line of the re- marks very closely. He was prepared for all and more, and he never flinched nor moved an eye-lash. "I have to remind you again, that this is the house of God," said Father Henry, gently, "also that as Dareen has confessed his fault, and is willing to do the penance 82 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA imposed on him by our holy Mother, the Church, you must be ready to treat him with consideration and charity. You remember the sad circumstances attend- ing the wedding, and how the young man left his -bride at the altar, refusing to remain even one hour in her company.' 5 There was such a nodding of heads and fluttering of blue cloaks as would have almost turned the mill at Thor-na-Gopal. Indeed, they had all heard of it, and had talked it over till the subject was "tathered to rags," feeling sorry for the bride that had been put to such open shame. 'Twas a pity, too, for the Buckley girls Father Henry seemed to divine their thoughts, for he added: "Dareen is doing penance, not for any fault of his sisters, but for his own; about them there can be but one opinion, and that opinion is that better girls never lived in this country, or any other country." Another spasm of nodding and fluttering in affirma- tion of the priest's words. A gleam of satisfaction stole over Dareen's stern face at this open praise of his sisters, and remained there during the rest of the service. "Malachy did right in leaving Amby Buckley at the altar," continued the priest, "for she was not his wife according to the laws of the Church, and now Dareen will make a public confession and apology for the scandal he has given and the trouble he has made." "I did it," said Dareen, with a shake of his shaggy head. "I'll own to th' truth."" "'Tis th' first time ye ever did that in yer life," mut- tered a voice in the rear. "I answered th' questions that th' priest axed Malachy, he bein' too far gone in liquor to undherstand anythin' BEEZEY OF GALILEE 83 that was said to him," continued Dareen, "an* be th' same token 'twas I who made him dhrink against his will, fer raisons of me own." "I was right ferninst th' young couple an' can vouch fer th' truth o' that, fer Malachy never opened his mouth, an' th' answers all came from D&reen, who was holdin' th' boy up," affirmed a hoarse voice behind. It belonged to Dareen 's rival in the fishery. Dareen paused like a child who had forgotten his les- son, and then added, "I humbly beg th' pardon of God an' his reverence, an' th' whole congregation present this day, an' am willin' to do th' penance imposed on me by th' Church." "Did ye ever hear th' like. He's an out-an'-out rascal. I wondher what penance Father Henry will put on him ?" came in whispers from the gossips who were gloating over Dareen's misery. "You will stand at the church door for seven Sundays with a broken oar in your hand, and a sail around you in punishment for the sacrilege you have committed." A shudder ran through the congregation. "Just like death," came the irrepressible whisper, "but shure he deserves it." "And now," continued the priest in a more cheerful tone, "the young people will please step forward and go through the ceremony without any outside help. Amby Buckley, Malachy Daniels." The couple came at his call, and stood before the altar. Amby was modest and composed, while her partner was plainly nervous. There was a craning of necks and jostlings and whisperings, but at the first word of the priest a silence like death fell on the people. 84 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "And now, before we start, I want everyone to hear the words of the contracting parties, so that there will be no mistake, for the full consent of both parties is neces- sary to a marriage. I am told, also, to extend an invita- tion to the wedding-supper to the whole congregation, and as I intend to spend a few hours there myself, we must unite in making it an orderly as well as enjoyable affair." "Very dacent of Dareen," and "'Twill be a great wed- din' entirely," were whispered again, and popular opin- ion, fickle as an April shower, was veering toward the disgraced fisheuman. The marriage ceremony proceeded amid intense silence. Malachy's reply was low but distinct, and now came Amby's turn. "Ambrosia, will you have this man for your wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health ?" "No!" came from the woman, in loud tones, "I will not !" There was a great sensation. The people who were looking to their wedding-supper were bitterly disap- pointed. "For I gave my promise," she continued, "to another man ten years ago." "Another crotch in th' merrige," was whispered. "Arrah, what 'ud ye expect of th' Buckleys?" The priest's voice again arrested the wondering people. "Is the man present that this woman gave her promise to?" "He is," was answered in a rich, brave voice, "ready an' willin' to fill th' promise given to her ten years ago." Greater sensation and unconcealed satisfaction were evident on the part of the people. BEEZEY OF GALILEE 85 "Come forward," said the priest, "for there is no time like the present." A tall, bronzed man marched bravely up the aisle. His arm was still in a sling, but the people recognized Andy McLaughlin, who was saved by Beezey the night of the storm. There was no hitch in the proceedings now. Only for the sacred edifice the people would have cheered. "And now," said the priest, when the ceremony was over that made Amby Buckley and Andy McLaughlin man and wife, "there is another couple I would like to join in the holy bonds of matrimony. Beezey Buckley and Malachy Daniels, come forward." Here was a sensation, indeed! The brave girl, the "Colleen Dhas," whom everybody loved! Nothing could restrain the people now. They wept and laughed with the ready sympathy of the true Gael, and when the cere- mony that united the young couple was concluded, they carried the bride home in their arms. She was married in her fisher-maid's dress, looking as trim as a Port-a- Down cutter in her neat blue bodice and red skirt, and as beautiful as a mountain rose. Never before was such a wedding. There was no stint of anything but whisky, and there wasn't much stint of even that, if one understood the geography of Dareen's boat-house and caught the wink at the proper time. But all the whisky between Coleraine and Ballyna- hinch could not make an ounce of disturbance at Beezey's wedding, for the first man that would open his mouth to emit a disorderly word would have been thrown into the sea before he had time to emit another. It was a double wedding, and though the real heroine of the evening was Beezey, yet Amby and her lucky hus- band came in for due share of congratulations and re- 86 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA spect. There was a double, nay, a treble supply of music, too, for every piper that could be reached in a given time was conveyed to Galilee as quick as boat or pony could bring them, so that while one was resting the other could supply music for the busy feet. The wedding lasted three days, and the memory of it will live long in the lives of those who had the pleasure of participating in it. Dareen would not forego one inch of his penance, and refused to have it commuted, though that privilege was offered to him more than once. For seven Sundays he stood at the church door, with his broken oar and rem- nant of a sail, and no one was daring enough to turn his penance into a jest, maybe for fear of the oar who knows ? Very soon after the wedding, Malachy and his young wife were sent, at the recommendation of Father Henry, on the Fishery Commission to France to learn improved methods of fishing with the new steam propellers, which he had been instrumental in getting for his people. They were gone two years and became great favorites with the French. Malachy and "la belle Irlandaise," as they called his wife, succeeded in doing much for the poor fishermen of Galilee, and indeed, for all the fisheries along the coast. They returned much improved by travel and inter- course with the most polished nation in Europe, but the change had not extended to their hearts. Beezey was then, as always, the pet of the people, the girl with the clear head and the big heart, the friend of justice and order, and a power with Father Tom for the suppression of "whiska" at weddings, yet she was to the last always their own "Colleen Dhas," their Beezey, sweet Beezey of Galilee. NED THE INNOCENT 87 NED THE INNOCENT. "We'll miss the coach, boys," said Woods. "This twi- light is mighty deceiving to Americans. We could finish this job to-morrow." "To-morrow brings its own work," I replied, I'm afraid a little pompously, now that I look back at it for was I not the leader of the party? "To-morrow we take in the 'auld fort,' as the natives style it." "There's the stage now, crawling round the bend like an overgrown bluebottle," yelled Kane. "Let it crawl," said Foster, calmly. "We know a short cut." "Then cut for your lives," shouted McCormick. "Kane and I will follow with the instruments. I want my supper." A short cut on the level is one thing, a short cut over a mountain side is another. Like the twilight, the moun- tain was very deceiving. From the top it appeared smooth and inviting, but the foot was a surer test than the eye, as we soon proved to our misfortune. Into a tangle of vines we plunged, and soon went head-foremost into a bed of nettles and rough stones. We were not much injured, but when we recovered our hats and our equilibrium the old coach was passing, ap- parently, just beneath us on the road. We yelled, shouted, fairly shrieked in our desire to be heard ; but the driver, 88 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA tooting away on his horn, passed us by without a sign. He had evidently been disappointed at not finding us at the accustomed place, and was intent on doing his duty on the horn. I threw myself on the ground, fairly exhausted. The other two were yet far behind. We could hear them making their way through the brambles, guiding them- selves by the sounds of our voices, for it was now pretty dark. "That infernal coach was quite close to us," said Foster. "They must have done that on purpose." "And lose a fare? No fear; money is not so plentiful in Ireland." "That lunatic with the horn was quite close to us," continued Foster, still lamenting. "Surely he must have heard our yells." "Miscalculation, my boy, miscalculation!" said Kane, showing up behind and puffing like a porpoise. "You were miles away from the fellows. So this is your short cut, indeed? If we had remained on the beaten road, we would have some chance of being seen and of being waited for! That is, if the other passengers didn't object." "And if we hadn't done any overtime, but gathered our kit together like gentlemen who had a proper respect for their stomachs, we would now be on our way to our boarding-house with the prospect of as fine a supper " The word "supper" brought forth a storm of yells, cat- calls, and groans. The members of the "Archaeological Society of America" were young, good-natured and lively, at least the party sent on the Irish expedition could be so described and outside of the leader, who felt the respon- NED THE INNOCENT 89 sibility of his position and was anxious to turn over an adequate amount of material for a month's research, there was not one who did not hail each adventure out of the beaten track with equanimity, if not positive joy. "And why didn't you two fellows chase the stage?" said I, to whom the prospect of bed and supper would have been very welcome. "You may say chase," said McCormick, "when you left us your heavy theodolite to carry. I wish I had left it where it was, and executed a fandango in sight of the passengers. They would surely have waited, for they say the Irish are fond of dancing." "Is there anything in the lunch-bags?" said Woods, faintly. "I'm starving. This atmosphere gives one a tremendous appetite." "Not a crumb," said Foster. "I've been through them hours ago." "Just think of the supper pretty Peggy is dishing up for us now at the 'Kilbrickan Arms.' Mealy potatoes (steaming hot), boiled salmon, eggs and bacon, rice pudding, hot scones, and tea," said Kane. "Don't mention it, or I'll blow your head off." "Can't you imagine her going to the window just to get a glimpse of the ' American boys ' getting off the coach?" A clod of earth flung in his direction silenced the tormentor for a moment. "Couldn't we walk to Kil- brickan?" said Kane, after a pause. A perfect storm of yells was his answer. "Seven Irish miles in the dark equivalent to fourteen English with the privilege of tumbling into a ditch, or falling into the hands of the police, to be jailed for an indefinite period as suspicious characters endangering the 90 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA loyalty of Her Majesty's subjects. No, the only thing we can do is to make the best of our misfortune, hunt up some cottager and get him to give us a supper of any kind and a night's lodging." "There are no cottages around here. There are two rich residences somewhere near, but they are shut up and the people have gone away. If Ned were only around, he would guide us somewhere." "If Ned were only around, this would never have hap- pened. His three hats would have stood between that coach and the setting sun and detained it there till we were on hand. If Ned were only around we would be eating supper now under the eye of pretty Peggy." And Kane sighed, for he was quite an admirer of the lively waitress at the "Kilbrickan Arms." "Where is Ned, anyway? I never saw him all day." "Boys," said I, "there may be a searching party sent after us. In the meantime let us make ourselves as com- fortable as possible. If we had our blankets we could sleep here. How sweet this arbutus smells ! w "Bosh!" said Woods, irreverently, "a searching party after four able-bodied men! No, I propose to explore and hunt up something to eat. Ha ! What's that ?" A heavy body was crushing the bushes behind us. We all sprang to our feet. It was now as dark as pitch and no straining of the eyeballs could give us the faintest idea of our neighbor. We stood, a solid square, back to back, with only our hands for our weapons, for for rea- sons best known to our superiors we were cautioned to carry no firearms in going among the people in prosecu- tion of our studies. It was a critical moment, and a decidedly uncomfortable one. NED THE INNOCENT 91 "Hit it with the theodolite/' said Kane, securing the instrument and standing it in front of him. Just then a shuffling movement, in accompaniment to a peculiarly tuneless whistle, was heard on the path above us. "It's Ned!" said Woods, joyfully. "Td know that whistle anywhere without the corroboration of his three hats. Ned, oh, Ned!" The moon had just appeared from behind a cloud, and cast her welcome beams on a figure, the most uncouth possible. A tall, ungainly young man, dressed in nonde- script garments that were either too large or too small for him, was rapidly making his way to us, with an ease and agility that showed his acquaintance with the moun- tains of his country was not of recent date. His clothing must have been contributed by well-wishers of different builds, for his trousers were nearer the middle of his calf than his instep, and his coat, large enough for two persons of his size, hit him on the heels at every step. To crown all, he wore over this costume three hats, one resting on the other, and when we add that these were distinctly American, we leave the reader to infer that he was a favorite with our party. Ned was our self-constituted guide, and almost inseparable companion during our sojourn in the "Emerald Isle." He carried our mail, ran errands, "lifted" the chains, and kept us out of harm generally. He knew where the best spring wells were, the oldest ruins and the most lonesome "forts." He was what his countrymen called a "natural" or an "innocent." Too harmless to be locked up, too witless to be considered responsible, he was free to go the length and breadth of the land. 92 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Ned removed his three hats and cooled his brow. We found, after Woods had taken him in hand, that every available place for supper and a bed was at least three or four miles away. "That means eight," groaned Kane. "What about that big house we saw this morning?" "De Castle?" inquired Ned, who spoke with the accent and manner of a child; "dey folks are all gone to Lon- don." "What about the little house we saw on the mountain side?" "Dat's Molly Dowd, de cup-tosser. She'd shoot ye." Groans from everybody. "Where are you going to stay to-night, Ned?" I asked. "I'm goin' to stay by me gran'mudder." "Oh, you're lucky you have a grandmother. Where is her house?" "In de graveyard beyant." "She must live near that old cemetery," I said to the others. "Look here," said Woods, "take us to your grand- mother, Ned, and ask her to give us some supper. Any- thing will do anything to fill this aching void. We'll pay her. Will you take us?" "Yes," said Ned, cheerfully; "come on." "Will your grandmother mind, Ned?" "No," said Ned; "she won't mind." "Will she give us some supper?" "No ; she's asleep. I'll get some of Stack's 'tatoes." "Potatoes are good. Anything with them?" "I'll milk O'Brien's cow." "Ned's grandmother is evidently sick. Never mind, NED THE INNOCENT 93 she won't put us out. We'll give her no trouble. We'll sleep anywhere. Potatoes and milk sound good. Is it far, Ned?" "No, just a little ways beyant." The moon, which was hidden behind a cloud, now peeped coyly forth and bathed everything in the softest silver. We had forgotten the heavy body that had frightened us a few minutes previous. It proved to be a cow. We shouldered our instruments, and, with the pros- pect of shelter and something to eat, felt our courage rise. The little way "beyant" proved to be longer than we imagined, over the other side of the mountain, with a rough and uncertain road. If we had been in a mood to enjoy the scenery, there was enough of it to gladden the most romantic. We were too tired to do more than glance at a strip of liquid light that lay beneath us as we de- scended the mountain. It was the Atlantic Ocean. It bordered a lonely road, then was shut off by a turn which revealed to us an ancient castle, partly in ruins. Everything was very still and desolate. A stone wall many feet thick seemed to rise out of space. There were some yew and cypress trees bending over it, gnarled and twisted by the hand of time. A few crosses, dilapidated and out of shape, lop-sided and tottering, loomed up where the wall had crumbled away. A more desolate and lonely spot would be hard to imagine. To add to this ghostliness, the moon suddenly disappeared, and so did Ned, for when she condescended to beam upon us again, he was not to be seen. We looked at one another in astonishment. This was the last straw. "Where has Ned gone?" said Woods, in a loud tone, which reminded me of my youthful efforts to pass a cemetery in all the bravery of a whistler. 94 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Here I am," said a voice behind us. We could not explain why we jumped, and we felt like jumping again when we discovered Ned straddled on a projecting monu- ment, holding on to an angel with a trumpet. "Everyting is ready," he said. "Come troo de hole in de wall." " So this is where his grandmother lives ?" I said. " She must have a cabin inside these grounds." "Where is your grandmother's place, Ned?" I con- tinued, addressing our guide. "Dere," answered Ned, pointing to a grassy mound at his feet. In a few minutes we crawled through and found our- selves in an ancient city of the dead. "Then your grandmother is " "Asleep," said Ned, in a low tone. "Don't wake her." We looked at each other in the uncertain light. "And where do you sleep?" "Right here," he replied, cheerfully, disappearing into a large tomb that also bore the marks of age. It was high almost high enough for a man to stand upright. Ned's entrance was on the side farthest from the wall. A loose slab served as a door. The old tomb was formed of heavy slabs of granite, with the roof of a larger slab, and from a casual view was in much the same condition as the surrounding monu- ments, which were nearly ready to fall. Further investi- gation showed us we were mistaken, for it was sound enough, being embedded deep in the ground and bearing the appearance of a vault. "Come in now," said Ned, with an inviting smile. "I have a cangle" (candle), "an' it's all ready." NED THE INNOCENT 95 As he spoke he pushed his head out of this extraordi- nary domicile and grinned a welcome. He still wore the three hats, which must have inconvenienced him very much, but did not distract from the oddity of the scene. "This is a pretty how-do-you-do," said McCormick, "miles away from the living, I mean in an old grave- yard at twelve o'clock at night with as crazy a loon as it has ever been my fate to meet." He jerked his sen- tences off with a melancholy born only of hunger and fatigue. "Things could be worse," I rejoined. "I am too tired to move a step farther. If an old burying-ground is good enough for Ned it's good enough for me. Here goes !" In a moment the whole party was inside the tomb and enjoying a shelter which the rising wind was rendering very desirable. We soon were quite busy filling in the chinks with bits of moss and hay while Ned proceeded to do the hospitable. The slab which served as a door was ajar. It seemed to be on a pivot, and could swing around after a good deal of creaking to its place ; but we pre- ferred to let it remain as it was, while we were taking in the strange solemnity of our surroundings. The moon, as if in reparation for the long game of hide-and-seek with which she had beguiled our journey, now started to do things up in fine shape, and painted everything about us in soft, beautiful colors. The ceme- tery was on a hill and contained some interesting me- morials of Irish chiefs and warriors of long ago. I could not see the dates of the inscriptions from my hiding- place, but it was not necessary. A student of antiquity could not be deceived. I judged that few interments of recent date had been made there. The grave of Ned's 7 96 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA grandmother, which was about the most recent, was cov- ered with moss and brambles. The paths were over- grown with every trailing plant describable and showed clearly that the old families who had interred their dead there had either died out or emigrated. "Whose tomb is this, Ned?" I asked. "Old 'Cormick. He was a great fighter, so he was." ''Look here, Ned," interrupted Woods, "you promised us some supper. Where is it?" "Right here," said Ned, going outside and producing a bag of potatoes. "Oh, but those are raw." "I'll boil dem now," said Ned, with alacrity; "shut de door an' keep out de win'." "Where will you boil them?" "Outside, of coorse ; shut de door." "And stay in the dark?" said Foster. "Not much. I feel too much like a rat as it is." "Light de cangle, light de cangle," said Ned, and suit- ing the action to the word, he produced from a corner a tallow candle, which he lit, and then procured a skull, into whose fleshless eye-socket he stuck it. From the drippings scattered around it was evident this was not in use for the first time. "So that's the great fighter's skull, I suppose," said Woods. "Well, ' give me liberty or give me death !' " "Now, I call this a jolly outing, if we only had some supper," said Kane, with a laugh. Ned was now on the road, standing over a fire made from scraps of wood pieces of coffins for all we knew which he had collected. He had unearthed a pot from a crevice and, filling it with water from an adjacent spring, NED THE INNOCENT 97 crammed it full of potatoes. He was now watching them boil. "Are they almost done, Ned?" said Kane. "Pretty near," answered, Ned. "Dey're boilin' mad." "Do you really intend to eat those potatoes?" said Fos- ter, in disgust. "Why not? If you were as hungry as we are, you'd eat them too." " But out of a cemetery ?" "Those didn't grow here. He got them outside." "Yes, but the water. It flows in here." "He got the water from the very fountain of the spring before it enters here. Oh! you're very particular." "I'm goin' for some milk," said Ned. "Some of ye watch de 'tatoes." Nobody inquired where he was going to get the milk, but the fragrance of the potatoes was so potent I never knew that potatoes had a fragrance before that we were all willing to attend to them. We drew in long breaths. Foster, the fastidious, jabbed his penknife into a large mealy one on the top. "They are nearly done," he said, proceeding to peel it. Kane produced an old newspaper and was following suit, when Ned ran to us breathless and excited. "De polis !" he whispered; "de polis!" The ring of hoofs was heard in the distance. "The Royal Irish Constabulary," I muttered. "What of it?" said Woods, coolly. "Let us place our- selves under their protection, and get out of this hole." "That shows all you know of the Royal Irish Constabu- lary," I replied. "It shows all you know of it." 98 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA 4 "We are liable to be arrested on suspicion and jailed for months. By the time our consul has interested him- self and proved us right, our best friends wouldn't know us. It's my fault," I added quickly, for time was precious. "I should have gone and made things square with some well-known Irish magistrate. I'll do it to-morrow, but I'll not fall into the hands of these worthies if I can help it." "What are we liable to be suspected of?" said Kane. "Of treason to her most gracious Majesty." He whistled softly. "Some bluecoat is looking for promotion," he said. "Sawbones" my pet name "i^s right, boys," he added. "Keep under cover. We are not foolish enough to put ourselves under the protection of men who could drive us into town like a flock of sheep in our present state of fatigue, while they cantered behind on their blooded horses. Just fancy pretty Peggy looking out of the win- dow at Kilbrickan and putting us down for a lot of villains simply because the police think so !" "Maybe they're going to an eviction, or a still-hunt," said McCormick. "Maybe they are," I replied, "but let's run no risks. Get under cover, quick, till they pass. Ned, don't tell them we are here." "No," said Ned. We crawled back into the tomb and had barely settled ourselves when the police,, seven in number, pulled up. "Halloa! What's this fire for?" said one, who ap- peared to be the leader. "I'm boilin' me supper," said Ned, solemnly. "That's too thin, my man. This is a signal fire. Where are the American chaps ?" NED THE INNOCENT 99 "What 'Merican chaps?" "Come, come! You know what I mean the chaps who have been scampering over the mountains the last ten days. I had my suspicion, especially when they didn't turn up at the hotel for supper. Where are they ?" "Who d'ye mane?" "The American chaps." "Which 'dem?" "Now, look here, Ned," roared the leader, who seemed to have imbibed a little of the mountain dew on his way up, "you ain't as innocent as you look." "Now stop shoutin'," said Ned; "you'll wake up me gran'mudder." This brought a sally of laughter from the other men. "I bet you a shillin'," said the first man, "that those Americans are in the graveyard. They came for the pur- pose of raising an insurrection. Two of you fellows go and search. Flannigan and Doolan, you go." "Go yourself," said one of the men addressed. "I'll have nothing to do with the dead." "You're afraid?" "Maybe you're afraid ! as for me, I attend to the living,' 1 "I'll report you." "Report away. You're not sergeant yet." "Well," said the first man, angry at being balked, "I bet that fool knows more than he lets on ! Here, you, Ned, come along. Maybe you'll tell a different story at Kilbrickan. Jump up behind me." "I'm comin'," said Ned. "Will Peggy see us?" "Will Peggy see us?" repeated the leader. "Why?" "Bekase she said ye wor lookin' for a sthripe, a**' she'd like to give ye one wid de broom." 100 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA This allusion to the man's ambition for promotion and to pretty Peggy, who failed to respond to his admiration, set the men to laughing again. "You'll come on anyway," said the man, savagely. "A few days in the lockup will settle your d d impudence." "Arrah ! do you want to make us the laughing-stock of the town," said another policeman, "arresting a poor innocent ?" "Innocent, indeed," said the other. "Jump up, you Ned." Ned was not idle. He poured the potatoes from the pot into the bag which first held them, and sprang with the agility of a monkey behind the leader. The boiling water ran down the horse's back in streams, and set him wildly capering. The rider held on by tooth and nail, while Ned stuck to him like a leech, behind. "What have you there, you devil?" roared the sur- prised officer, while his subordinates held their sides. "Only me supper," said Ned. "Arrah, d'ye think I was goin' to leave it behind ?" "Get down, you vagabond, get down!" "I can't," roared Ned; "de horse won't let me." The party disappeared down the road in a tearing hurry, the horse that carried Ned and his bag of potatoes being much in advance of the others. It was now our turn to laugh, and we did heartily, in spite of our mis- fortune. "I was afraid I'd burst," said Kane, who had stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth and was rolling on the ground. "Confound the ' double diligence ' of the Irish police!" said McCormick. "We've lost our supper through them." NED THE INNOCENT 101 "But wasn't Ned game?" asked Foster, admiringly. "I think, with the policemen, he isn't half as foolish as he looks. But are we going to stay in this place all night?" "Not I," said Woods. "It was all right while Ned was here." "I don't propose to starve in a country so famous for its hospitality. Let's chase around and find a cabin some- where," said Kane. "And carry our kit with us?" "No, no! Leave it here with Sawbones. He's used to skeletons." "Yes, I'll stay," said I. "As Kane says, I'm used to skeletons. Don't be long. Ned will return, probably, and I'd like to leave here together. In the meantime I'm not afraid of a few bodies merely because the breath has left them." "And such a long time since that sad occurrence," said McCormick, consolingly. "Bones, lad, nothing but bones. Don't be lonesome ; good-by." As the leader of the little party, and in recognition of my earlier medical training, I was supposed to be pos- sessed of the requisite discretion to keep it out of trouble, and I had succeeded so far. Though we lived in all familiarity, and I studiously ignored, in small matters, the slightest semblance of authority, yet when I deemed a certain course advisable, "the boys" never argued the matter. I knew I could depend upon them now. I watched them disappear among the graves over the hill, and then I felt sleepy. I sat inside the tomb with the door open, and watched the moonbeam effect on the old monuments. I was painfully conscious all the time 102 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA of the old warrior's skull that had served us for a candle- stick, though I had put it away in the farthest corner. I felt silly, and ashamed of my silliness, and thought I would venture forth among the old monuments and pass the time away, taking notes of dates and styles. One in particular had struck me earlier in the evening as worthy of attention. It was a pretentious affair, built into the side of the hill, and bore a coat of arms, an effigy of a female and some curiously carved utensils or weapons. It was probably the entrance to a vault, for the doors were of iron and heavily clinched and barred. The figure in strong relief was that of a reclining woman. Old as the monument appeared to be, with the once bold lines worn smooth by time, my eyes seemed riveted to it by some curious fascination, and my imagination, never too strong, began to weave a story about the origi- nal of the image, long ago dust. Again and again I turned my eyes away to decipher odd words, mostly in Gaelic, on the other stones, but I invariably found myself interested in the reclining woman with the nose, and the toes of the tiny feet, blunted by the wear and tear of time and the elements. Under the beams of the witching moon and steady scrutiny, the old monument softened into life, and I could trace each feature of the woman, or girl, as if she were still in the flesh. She had been young two hundred years ago, perhaps, not less and beautiful. Her gar- ments were fashioned in the style distinguishing that period, her hair plentiful and worn a la pompadour, her neck encircled by a ribbon, and a little slipper peeped out from the heavy silken skirt with its numberless folds and gathers. NED THE INNOCENT 103 Evidently she had been a belle and much mourned, probably the fair daughter of an Irish chieftain, who had been driven by Cromwell to "hell or Connaught." I glanced at the letters beneath, where the salt, carried by the sea-breeze, had not eaten in too far, and picked out the words, "Lady Molly O' " and there was a faint i, and an indistinct y. Yes, this old vault contained the ashes of one of the oldest families. Ah, there was "18 years," besides the date, "1592." It was quite a find, and I determined to hunt it up. Was the old family quite extinct, fcr had they sunk to the level of peasants, and "feeshed" in the bay or washed dishes in the New York kitchens for rich parvenus? A strange feeling of pity stole over me. The girl was no longer a monument, she was real. The background faded away, and the stone couch with its lovely occu- pant was again a dream of beauty, suddenly chilled in death. I could imagine the sobbing of her parents, the louder lamentations of the henchmen, and the wild cry of the keeners, borne by the breeze. I shook myself. There was certainly somebody sob- bing, and the dipping of oars as an accompaniment. Yes, she must have been carried from the mainland, for interment, to this ancient cemetery, which was, as I reflected, a peninsula only at low tide, being at high tide an island. Was I dreaming? An empty stomach was a good foundation for hallucinations. There was no use doubt- ing the real, and that sobbing was real. The rowing stopped, and the boat seemed to be but a few feet from the wall. "Ochone, that we must lose ye! Ye'll lave us now, never to return! God help us, thinkin' o' ye when th' waves rise an' th' storms rage !" 104 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA I heard a consoling whisper, and somebody sprang over the wall. Was it the police returning from their search? I shrank into my hiding-place, while I watched through a crevice to see whom this new intruder might be. I heard the rustling of his footsteps among the brambles and dried grasses, and then they sounded quite close. Was it some one in search of me ? Was it a friend with tidings of supper and a bed, or a policeman? Was it wiser to remain silent, or to throw myself on his mercy? I hesitated. The steps had passed on. Any- thing was better than this misery. If the police failed us, it would only be for a few hours, I reflected, and they would surely feed us first. I rose to follow the footsteps, but cast a last glance at the interesting monument. I rubbed my eyes with palsied hands. Was it possible that yes, it was. The young woman had risen from the stone couch on which she had reclined so many years, and endured so tranquilly the summer's heat and winter's blasts, and was standing at the door of the vault encircled by the arm of a young man. The events of the day had left me as unnerved as a woman. I would have cried aloud had not my vocal chords been paralyzed by astonishment. Yes, this was no mistake. There was the maiden so much mourned, the same pompadour, the same dress, with the slipper peeping out, and even the circlet of ribbon at the fair, round throat. How lovely she looked, and how sad! I noticed for the first time that a cloak had fallen at her feet. I looked at the companion critically; he was just an ordinary good-looking fellow in seafaring dress, a man of the present period, sad also, but sensible and business-like. NED THE INNOCENT 105 "Don't cry, Molly," he said, patting her head; "I'll be all right. I was a little premature; the people have been so down-trodden that they don't appreciate our efforts. By and by, my girl, by and by, we'll show our tyrants what we are made of. If I can only get away in a fishing smack, with our old nurse, Katie, and then on board the American steamer, which is outside, I shall be all right. I'll write when I land, too, you know where, and in the usual name." Was he a lover ? He was too cold, I thought. She was the demonstrative one, patting his cheek and crying over him. I hated to be a spectator of the meeting, and I hardly knew whether to show myself and give them what we Americans call a scare, or lie low and await my chance. But while I was thinking, the young man made a hurried departure, after kissing the girl hastily, and telling her he would write. The whole thing happened in a trice, leaving me with senses scattered and be- wildered. Who was she, and whence had she come? She an- swered me unconsciously by opening the low door of the vault and disappearing. I glanced at her counterpart on the old monument. It was as before. Then this young woman must be a relative, a descendant of this dead and gone beauty; but why did she personate her and for what purpose? I looked at the monument again and saw that it was on a hill, that the vault was dug into the hill, and that this hill ran the whole length of the graveyard. Then it dawned on me what was afterward proven that there was a subterranean passage under the hill, leading to the ancient family seat. After that, the whole pro- ceeding was natural enough. 10G FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Natural or supernatural, I thought, this is no place for me. I'll follow the coast and find a village. Those people who were crying must live somewhere. On arriving at that conclusion, I immediately jumped over the wall, and ran into the arms of Woods and Kane. "Where off?" said the former, "where off? We're going back among the dead to remain till morning. Dead and gone coasters and buccaneers are better than British policemen." "Not for me," I rejoined. "I've had enough of the dead. Come along the coast. I have reason to know that we are within a stone's throw of a hamlet where some shelter can be obtained." "And a supper," shouted Kane. "Oh, mamma! but I'm hungry." The little arm of the sea that separated the fishing village from the mainland had almost disappeared, the tide being in the ebb, and we traversed a pebbly, sandy path that led us to a row of low stone cabins, before which fishing nets were spread to dry. It was a long walk, but the sea-breezes were sweet and invigorating and when we arrived at the first, we paused. "I'm afraid to knock," said Woods. "Everything has gone against us this night, and I'm now as superstitious as any Galilee fisherman ; but I'll knock," said I; "they can't do more than refuse to admit us. If one refuses to open, I'll go to every door." "Here," said Kane, "pick out the biggest house; the man living there is always the king of the village. He has the more room to spare, and bosses all the rest. If he thinks we're not to be accommodated, the rest will follow suit, but why should he think we are not to be NED THE INNOCENT 107 accommodated? The Irish are hospitable, and unless they take us for coast-guards or spies, or English (they hate the English), they will treat us well." "Well, if they only give us time, we'll prove ourselves Americans," said Woods, singling out the largest house and reaching his hand out to knock. At his touch the door, to our astonishment, fell in and Woods with it, and we heard confused sounds of falling, shouting and talking. Not knowing what to make of this, or whether to run away or stand our ground, we were looking at one another in our amaze- ment, when a number of men rushed out and encircled us. "Are these all there is of ye?" said a fierce-looking fellow. "All here," said I. "On the coast, I mean." "Come in quickly," said the man, almost in the same breath; "we've been looking for ye all night." "Thank Heaven!" said Kane, much relieved. "Then you'll give us some shelter and a bed ?" The man looked at him curiously, but pushed us roughly before him. The moon was shining brightly on the row of fishing nets and the curious looking cottages, from each of which a spectator in dishabille was peeping curiously. "They have them; tarn them," said one huge, be- whiskered fisherman, finishing his toilet. "The miserable Dublin Jackeens," said a third. "Let's give it dem and be tammed to 'em," added an- other, heartily, "but fust dhrive a hole in her bottom, to be shure they get enough of d' say." All this was Greek to us, but we were ushered into a large, -warm room with the peat fire burning in the centre. 108 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Woods was nursing a lump on his head, and gazing bewildered at a group of fishermen with unfriendly faces among whom he had fallen, for the door was merely "set up" without either hinges or post, and kept in place by a creel or two. "I say," began Woods, "will you fellows explain what we have done to deserve " "Not a word," said the big man, who appeared to be the leader, and he headed us off to another room. "Not another word, or we'll knock the daylights out of ye. Take off yer shoes." Expostulations were useless. "Ye'll get 'em again, when th' coast is clear," said the leader, significantly, "but not till then. We don't want yer shoes," and he laughed derisively. There was nothing to do but obey, and face each other in our stocking feet. "I say," said the irrepressible Woods, "we want our supper and some kind of shelter. This will do. But we're hungry and tired." There was a whispered consultation. "We don't want ye to be hungry," said the leader again. "Beezey is now boilin' some potatoes an' pre- parin' th' fish." This was good news, and already we hailed with joy the clatter of dishes. "But what are you going to do with us when supper is over?" said Woods again. As for the rest of us, we were too bewildered and exhausted to care to speak. Of what use was speech? It would not alter matters, and we were glad to be allowed to sit on the low-backed benches and inhale the warmth and let fate do its worst. NED THE INNOCENT 109 "Oh, we won't hurt ye, me brave man-hunters," re- torted the man. "Dublin Castle might be lonesome widout ye, make yer minds aisy. When th' boy's away in deep wathers ye're free to go yer way." I pricked up my ears. "When the boy's away," gave me the clue. The brave boy must have been the young man who was wishing his sweetheart or sister farewell in the old churchyard. These poor fishermen were evidently mis- taking us for detectives or secret-service men. "Dublin Castle?" echoed Woods. "Will you kindly tell us what Dublin Castle has to do with us ?" On the top of the table, scoured as white as. sea weed and sand could make it, our potatoes were steaming from bursting sides, and before each guest lay a brave herring and a noggin of milk. We didn't need the second invita- tion, but seated ourselves, nor waited on the order of doing so. Pretty girls, whose bare feet glistened like snow, waited meekly on us, superintended by an elderly woman whose eyes were red with weeping. She looked out several times over the ocean, and seemed to want to pierce the starlit waters. "There isn't a sail in sight," she muttered. "He's safe, the darlin's safe!" "Ay," answered the man in the same tone, "the fowlers are caught instead of the starlin' !" "Where did ye say th' rest of yer friends were?" said the leader to me, suspiciously. "Oh, maybe, maybe." At this moment Ned's voice was heard calling for admittance. Foster and McCormick were trailing behind, and were delighted to see us. 110 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Ned," said our host, joyfully, "where did ye come from, an' how did ye get acquainted with those fellows ?" "Doze ain't fellers," said Ned; "doze are 'Merican chaps, so dey are." "Americans!" said our host, dropping his jaw; "I thought they were coast-guards." "No," said Ned, with his mouth full of potatoes; "de cos' guards is down by station hallowin' like de debbel, an' de polis is wid dem. Dey tried to chase Masther Hugh on de say, but he got off in de big ship, so he did." "Oh, he's off," said the elderly woman, joyfully, "he's off ! Glory be to God !" A clang of horses put a stern cry of halt, and the room was full of police. "The tide is out," muttered the man, and then aloud, "What do ye want, boys?" "I want just- what I see," said the sergeant, "the Americans. We've been chasin' them all night. I say, Ned, why didn't you tell us they were at McGowanV and how did them fellows cross without a boat ?" "Doze ain't fellers," said Ned. "Dey is 'Mericans, so dey is." "And what do you want us for?" I asked. "We have done no wrong and are here on neutral business, which we can prove." "Well, you'll have a chance to prove it," said the sergeant. "You come with us now." "And leave our supper," said Woods, "just as we had commenced to eat? Is this justice?" "An' these gentlemen are really Americans," inter- polated our host, surprised. "My, my! see that, an' I thought they were coast-guards." NED THE INNOCENT 111 "We are really Americans, and have come here for no harm." This from me, as head of the party. "You'll prove that," said the sergeant, coldly. "An' all ye have agin these young men is that they are Americans ?" said the king cf the fishers, folding his arms. "That's it," said the sergeant; "and Americans have given us trouble of late." "Have they, then?" and the fishermen looked amazed. "They may be Fenians in disguise." "Yes, they may be Fenians in disguise," repeated the fisherman of Galilee. "So no more delay," added the policeman, "but fall in, boys." "You mean to arrest us?" I said. "If you call it that way." "And where will you bring us first, before a magis- trate?" "He is away from home. No; you'll stay in quarters till he returns." "So we will be practically in jail?" "You can call it what you like." "I refuse to go. I can easily go before a magistrate of my own accord and prove myself free from these charges." "You'll come now." "Tarn the foot !" It was the fisherman who spoke, and his voice thundered over the heads of those who were standing near, and along the beach, and through the heavy gray atmosphere far out to sea, where the fishermen were casting their nets. "Tarn the foot!" he repeated. "You will defy the law?" said the policeman, aghast. 8 112 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "I defy the police," said the fisherman. "I am king of this Island, an' protect visitors from tarn rascals, an' that's what ye are." "We will do anything to save trouble," I said, nervously, "but this is an unnecessary insult." "Ye will not go, not one tarn foot; an' I dare these bluecoats to take ye, so I do. Come on, an' we'll dip them in th' say." "We'll see about this treatment," vociferated the police. "We can force them to come." "Try it, ye tarn thieves," roared the fisher chieftain. "Try it an' see what ye'll make of it." The sergeant counted his men, and prudence overcame valor. He knew Galilee. The men conferred in Gaelic as we finished our repast, and ere Her Majesty's Royal Irish Constabulary had got to the main road, arrangements were made to carry us and our instruments to a point far from the jurisdiction of the disappointed peelers. Not one fisher offered his yawl alone, but a dozen did so. The choice was decided by our host. "You'll be taking the short cut," said Beezey, reas- suringly, as she returned our foot-wear in princely order, for the wind had veered around and we were by this time high in favor, "and you'll pass by Gorumna and around by the Lettermullen Islands and up Cashla Bay. The old piper is going along and a little keg of the best. You'll see old Coluim Wallace, the Gaelic songster, the best in all Ireland. Tell him you are Americans; that's enough. He knows how to give you the welcome and the Beanacht leat" "Don't forget to see th' magistrate an' get yer papers, NED THE INNOCENT 113 an' then come back an' see us before ye go back to America." "I have a cousin in America somewhere," said another. "Tell him ye saw me, an' 'tis lathers how plazed he'll be." Maura, the maid, was anxious to send a message to America ; but her English was very broken, and although she knew the name of her friend, she had forgotten the name of the state in which he resided, but that made no difference to us. We promised everything and they were very much pleased, and we made no perfidious boasts. I, for one, meant on our return to make due inquiries in my immediate circle for those much-mourned exiles. The first chance I got to speak to the old woman, I whispered: "I was in the old graveyard last night." With the alertness of fear she turned. "And you saw you saw " "I saw a young man bidding farewell to " "You will never let go the word that will hurt him?" she added, breathlessly. "He did nothing, poor lad, only what you would do in the same case." "No, no," I assured her, for his faults or virtues inter- ested me very little. "But the young lady " "Hush, hush!" said the old woman, trembling. "You are the first one outside of myself, and perhaps Ned, to know the old passage. How many of you were there?" "Not a soul, besides myself," I said impatiently, not at all interested in the private passage. "And you will never divulge " "I am an American, and we are not informers." "No, no," she answered, apologetically; "but promise me you'll never tell to man or mortal " 114 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Tell what? About the young lady " "There is nothing," she whispered, fiercely. "I nursed both of them, the boy and the girl, and it's a hard come- down for her, the daughter of the old race, to be stealing out at night, like a thief." "Any girl would do that to see her " "Oh, you don't know the darling, alone in the old place with her thoughts and her fears, and the only one of the name hidden in a strange land, for no crime but love of liberty, if that be a crime." "Then this young man is " "The best boy on earth, the kindest, the truest heart, the most generous " I was piqued at this recital of his virtues. "And what is he?" "The son of a gentleman, the descendant of a line of kings that go back as far as Noah." "Oh, no doubt; but what was he to her?" I succeeded in getting out what I wanted at last, but it was an effort. The old woman looked at me astonished. "Her brother," she answered. "Yerra! did you think she'd go out to meet anybody else ?" "Come on, boys," I shouted. "All aboard, all aboard for the short cut, and the islands between," and then turning to the old woman, I whispered, "I know where her the young lady's brother is going" (adding to myself, "I'll find out,") "and tell her I will look out and be a friend to him. Good-by; we will return with our letters of safety." "Good-by," and the old woman pressed my hand to show me she understood. "Good-by, and God bless you! Come back again soon !" EXCOMMUNICATED 115 EXCOMMUNICATED. "Ye will be clifted. Ha, ha, ha !" The "ha, ha, ha," and a gurgle or two that seemed to come from the throat of a laughing child, leaped from peak to peak and was repeated in ghostly whispers from every side of me. I looked for the author of the strange warning, but was unable to pierce the mist, which hung over the mountains and was slowly enveloping them like a huge gray mantle. "Ye go up dere, but ye can't come down. Ha, ha, ha!" The "ha, ha, ha's" were repeated from peak to peak as before, in the same ghostly whispers, the gurgling fol- lowing like a sob. It was all true. I had :been climbing this rocky mountain for hours and knew not how to re- turn. Every step took me into a new and undesirable country. There was a suspicion of showers in the air, and my mackintosh was folded around some rare speci- mens in Molly Mullaney's cabin on Bena Cullagh. I had been climbing Bena-y-Vricaan, expecting to come upon a view of Glen Inagh, with its lake of wooded islands, and realized at last that in my eagerness to reach the desired spot I had taken the wrong ma'am (mountain pass). I was made aware of my mistake, even before I heard the warning cry, by the change in the at- mosphere as well as by the texture of the ground wvier my feet. 11G FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA I was following an ascent a mere goat-path on the face of the rock. Nothing was visible but the great white rocks, barren as the desert of Sahara. All was still save the murmurs of the distant sea, beating against the cliffs, and occasionally the sharp scream of a curlew or the shriek of a startled sea-gull. There was a chill in the misty air, which pierced my thin clothing and set me shivering. What a contrast this was to the fair mountain-side, which yesterday I had traversed, where the blended per- fumes of many flowers intoxicated the senses and the notes of my feathered friends, the song-birds, charmed me into repose and contentment. That was a paradise, indeed, compared with this desolate, barren waste. This was being "clifted," I suppose. I had never heard the word before, though I had climbed Ben Bawn and Ben Coor, and every Ben in the range which sepa- rates Connemara from Joyces Country. I tried to obey the warning of my mysterious friend or taunting enemy, and started to retrace my steps, but only succeeded in plunging myself farther into a region as wild and terrific as a Norwegian fiord, so great a paradox is Connemara. I was lost, lost, lost ! The words rose like a despairing cry from my heart and returned to me unrecognizable. Every peak repeated them in yet more despairing tones, until they died away on the bosom of the Atlantic. I was fast losing hope. I now knew what "clifted" meant and much regretted going without a guide. It was dark, not because the sun had set, but because the mountains that surrounded the pass had shut it out. I was lost, and probably within a few feet (as the EXCOMMUNICATED 117 crow flies) of a friendly peasant, who would give the veriest wretch on earth a seat at his hearth. But where was the hearth? I called again. The same ghostly echoes replied ; the same wave of despair died in the sea. Night was really coming on. To ascend or descend was impossible and the blessings of sleep forbidden, for the first moment of unconsciousness would mean a fall into the rocky gorge below and instant death. It was hard to die within reach of a friendly, hospitable people. I called again. My voice was so weak that it could scarcely be heard twenty feet away, but before the echoes had time to play with my misery, they were busy with a reply. "How did ye get up dere? Ugh !" I thought it an hallucination a dream; but surely someone was moving below a man, grotesque, ragged, wild, sublime, and almost superhuman in his daring, for he trod the jagged and nearly perpendicular rocks with a reckless abandon. As the figure neared me, I saw that it was a man of unusual height and that he used his outstretched arms to steady himself. His unusual height was caused by a head-gear composed of at least three hats, placed one over the other. Not feeling a bit reassured, I waited with as much composure as I could assume till he came on a level. He stopped and scanned me sleepily. He might be any age from twenty to forty, and his hair, long and black, hung over his shoulders. His face, though vacant looking, was not evil. This strange apparition grunted : "Don't ye like it here?" My teeth chattered with the cold as I answered, "No." 118 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Without another word he picked me up, placed me on his shoulders, and commenced the descent. He seemed to choose the most precipitous places and to have not the slightest fear. Too stunned to do anything but hold on for dear life, I made the best of my fate and shut my eyes. What manner of man this was I dared not think. I only waited for the end. We were midway in our descent when a smooth ledge, jutting out from the rocky mountain path, attracted his eye. He stopped and, taking a top from his pocket, coolly wound a string around it and set it spinning there. The gyrations of the toy seemed to fill him with delight, and he evidently for- got all about me. I looked down the terrible cliff that still lay between me and the Glen, and my heart sick- ened. Was I in a madman's hands ? "Ye don't like it?" questioned the man on hearing me groan. I assented. He pocketed the top and recom- menced the descent. By circuitous paths and steep, sheltering boulders on which a goat would hardly obtain footing, he steered his way till I found myself on the ma'am, looking into a cheerless mountain cabin. "Let de gen'man warm hisself, Sheila," said my guide, throwing himself on the floor and preparing to spin his top. "I will pay you for your trouble," I added. "I am nearly famished." The old woman addressed raised her head and regarded me with anything but a friendly eye. "I don't want your money, Sassanagh" (Englishman), she said, fiercely. "Another lies dead within another victim of your country's injustice and oppression. Be- gone! Begone, I say!" EXCOMMUNICATED 119 From an inner room came the sound of weeping and even through the gloom I could see the rigid lines of a corpse, swathed in linen and ready for burial. Surprised at this exception to the rule of Irish hospitality, I turned to go when, dizzy with long fasting, I tottered and fell. I woke to the flapping of sails and the sound of many voices. "Gie th' gen'man some whiska; he's cauld. Put wather in it. Ye'll choke him." I recognized the voice. It was that of my rescuer. The wind was rising and it was difficult to hear the reply. It came at last: "Put some wather in it? Let him dhrink it sthraight, an' he's a man. We'll have wather enough by an' by if this wind keeps on." We were evidently in a fishing-smack away out at sea. I sat up and drank the liquor that a rough-looking fisher- man was trying to pass between my lips. A little water would not harm the "whiska," which was very fiery; but it warmed me and I was able to take in the situation. It was growing dark, but I could see the outlines of an- other boat keeping as close to us as the weather permitted. It was a fishing company banded together for mutual help, and the men of both boats were busy preparing their nets and lowering and raising their sails according to the set of the wind. "Where did ye find him, Ned?" The wind carried the words to my ears and tore with them out to sea. "On Bena-y-Vricaan. He didn't like it. He was schreechin' like de debbel, so he was." The wind had not slackened, but I could hear the laugh that followed. 120 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "I wondher why he didn't like it? Eyah, it's quare taste those forriners have ! An' where are ye brinin' him now?" "To Father Tom's." "To Father Tom's? An' d'ye think we have nothin' else to do but tackle a' 'round be th' Bay an' lose two hours to accommodate ye, an' th' herrin's waitin' ?" "I'm goin' to brin' him to see Miss Eleanor. She'll gie him some supper, so she will." "Well, he should have hired Pat Dunleavy's boat if he's expected, an' not disappoint th' lada." " Miss Eleanor don't know he's comin' ; she don't know him, so she don't; but I'm brinin' him kase I likes him, so I does." "Oh, that's it ! Well, then, if it's no disappointment to th' lada, I haven't th' laste scruple in life in makin' him wait an hour or two longer fer his males. I don't think we need put ourselves so much about for a Sassanagh." "I must apologize for the trouble I am giving you," I interrupted from the bottom of the boat. "I shall only be too glad to be allowed to see a haul of fish. This is my first chance to see any fishing here. I have been here long enough to know that a Sassanagh means an English- man. I am an American." "An American? Why didn't ye tell us that before, Ned ? Have another dhrink, sir." I declined the drink with thanks, and begged them to continue their course. To my surprise, my guide was sobbing and stamping like a spoiled child. "I want to go to Miss Eleanor's," he cried. "Ye'll have to brin' us dere, so ye will." " No, no !" I cried, too stunned to say more. EXCOMMUNICATED 121 "It's two hours lost," said the leader, gravely; "an' th' storm may overtake us before we can come home." "How do ye know that we'll have a chance to come home ?" asked a bronzed and bearded old fisherman, who had not yet spoken. "I don't like th' look o' th' mist that hangs over Gorumna," and he pointed to an island in the distance. " I don't like it when she wears it like a shroud. It manes a big storm an' a sudden one. It might come on us when we are too far away from shelter." "It was no nicht to venture oot. When th' shroud is on Gorumna. I nuvver heard tell o' it turnin' oot ony ways but unlucky," said another. "I don't believe in any kind o' luck," said a young man, determinedly. "We're afther th' herrin', an' if we go to th' Bay we'll lose th' time " "An' if we go ahead we may lose our lives." "I don't like to hear th' innocent cryin'." "That's all superstition, I say. Don't change th' coorse." " Yes, yes ! Th' innocent doesn't cry fer nothin' !" There was an ominous calm in the air, and the dispute was settled by a vote. Much to my sorrow and mortifica- tion, the decision was in favor of Ned's proposition, and then all hands cheerfully tacked and the little fleet sailed for the Bay. Ned, who was the cause of this change of program, sat and watched the distant horizon. "It's comin' !" he shouted. "Th' gale's comin' ! Hurry up ! Oh, hurry up !" Within sight of the priest's residence the storm-cloud burst. With the full knowledge of the treachery hidden under the usual calm of the cruel sea, the men had furled every sail and left nothing for the wind to wreak 122 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA vengeance on. Every man worked for dear life, and I obeyed orders with the rest. It was no use. The wind lifted the frail crafts like a couple of playthings and tossed them before her, where they seemed to leap from wave to wave on their way to destruction. The inhabitants of the ocean-bound village were out, but they could do nothing to help us. The lightnings seemed to descend from the tops of the mountains and throw themselves against us with premeditated malice. The men lost all control of the crafts and gave up in despair. Few fishermen can swim, and even if the land were within easy reach, the heavy sea-boots and other clothing considered necessary on a fishing trip render the possi- bility of reaching safety very improbable. The wind seemed to laugh at our efforts to save our- selves, and with shrieks of delight to undo all our feeble attempts to reach land. Then, with the capriciousness of a practiced coquette, after reducing us to despair, she veered around, picked up the frail crafts, and drove them before her almost to the very shore and then capsized them. "Every man for himself an' God for us all!" roared an old fisherman, as he plunged into the seething waves. With a rush of water in my ears and a faint regret that I had not learned to swim, I was coolly counting the last seconds that divided time from eternity when a hand grasped my collar and a familiar voice sang : "Oh, come to th' Regatta, Th' ravishin' Regatta ! Oh, come to th' Regatta At Outerard! EXCOMMUNICATED 123 "Th' boys an' girls are there ; Faith, it's betther than a fair To see th' crowds so quare At Outerard! "There's style an' beauty great, An' everythin' complate, An' lashin's there to ate At Outerard! "Th' first boat comes dancin' in, Wi' cheers, an' fun, an' din, Fer it carried Paddy Quin At Outerard!" It was Ned, my rescuer from the mountain, and his voice rang above the whirl of the storm as he carried me over his head and deposited me on the beach among a crowd of others. "Not a soul went undher. This young man is alive, too. Wondherftil, wondherful !" "An' ony fer Ned we'd be far from any help. I toult ye to heed th' innocent," said the old gray-beard who was accused of superstition. "If we hadn't obliged him by turnin' in to Father Tom's, we'd be all at th' bottom of th' say by this time. Wonderful, wonderful !" The people of the village, who had all turned out to help the unfortunate fishermen, now went home, leaving them to the hospitality of the priest, whose ample kitchen was even now crowded with half-drowned men. A stout, middle-aged man, whose thumb was inserted between the pages of a book which I afterward learned was a breviary, turned a sharp look in my direction. Ned had deposited me on a settle back of the fire, and for a few moments I was too exhausted to move. "This is not one of the boys," he said, "but he is in very much need of assistance. Get him some dry clothes." 124 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "There isn't a dhry stitch in th' house, yer reverence," answered the housekeeper. "Ned'll have to wear one of my skirts. The gentleman looks bad, too, an' quite wore out." I was saved an explanation by the entrance of my guide of the mountain and rescuer from a watery death. His appearance was the signal for uproarious laughter in which even the priest joined; for he was wearing with great dignity the housekeeper's contribution to the out- fitting, and though she was a tall woman, the skirt reached but a short way below the knee, while between the band and the hem of the accompanying jacket were three inches of uncovered territory. "Tut, tut, Ned!" said the clergyman, with difficulty. "Go out to Tim Dwyer's and tell him to give you a suit for a few hours while yours is drying." "Ah, someone might stale mine while I'm away," said Ned, taking a bite from a wedge of oat-cake. "But ye ought to borrow a suit fer dis gen'man. I found him on Bena-y-Vricaan, an' I brought him to Miss Eleanor, cause he wants his supper." I was enjoying the warmth and appetizing odors of the expansive kitchen, as befitted one who had not broken his fast since daybreak. A huge vessel of potatoes was hanging on the crane over a turf fire, while two bare- footed maids were turning out dishes of fresh herring, broiled to a nicety, which they were laying on a long deal table as white as sand and seaweed could make it. Over my head hung flitches of bacon and hams and ropes of sweet herbs and onions. Everything betokened cleanli- ness and plenty, from the rafters to the neatly sanded floor, and last, but not least, hospitality, that great virtue practiced in Connemara as in no place on earth. EXCOMMUNICATED 125 Father Tom took the care and housing of these un- fortunate fishermen as naturally as if they had been members of his own family, and even I, a stranger, felt quite at home. He was now bending over me anxiously, feeling my pulse, and whispering in Gaelic to a young lady who appeared on the scene, carrying a tray and a foaming glass. "It's only egg-nog," he said, as I opened my eyes inquiringly, "and made expressly for you by my niece, to whom Ned has given a list of your misfortunes to-day. Drink it down and I'll see you to your room. A good rest will restore you and we can dry your clothes." "No, no," I replied. "I am well now. I was only tired out; but I am giving you lots of trouble. That egg-nog has worked wonders." A beautiful face, with pitying eyes, looked into mine as I returned the empty glass, and shamed me into ex- ertion. I sprang to my feet. "Uncle," said the owner of the pitying eyes, "maybe Father Henry left some clothes here." How musical the voice was, and how it matched the face ! "Tut, tut! What a memory I have! Of course he did! Come on, young man, and get a change before supper. And now," he exclaimed, turning to the rest, "eat hearty, boys, and make yourselves as comfortable as possible." With a clerical suit of clothes that suited me to a nicety, I was soon seated before a tea equipage in the parlor, doing justice to a bountiful meal. It was a pleasant room, with a small fire burning in a low grate, and a large window that swept the Bay. The storm had abated, and the wind was sobbing softly over the damage done. 126 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA The parsonage was very plain, but homelike and com- fortable. There was no carpet on the parlor. The floor was well scrubbed and a few tiny rugs were placed at intervals over its expansive surface, while for ornaments there were sea-shells and mosses as well as a few natural flowers. I noticed, however, that the walls were well lined with books, in which the classics were well repre- sented and which told me plainly that Father Tom, in spite of his bronzed exterior, was a student. "Only a naggin of whisky apiece for the boys in the kitchen, to keep out the effects of the cold, and a plentiful supper," he said to his niece, as she poured out our tea. "See that the lads are not stinted." "Ay," answered the stout housekeeper from the shadow of the door. "They're atin' awa' noo, an' th' whiska wasna half enou' to go roon, but th' potaties an' herrin' are goin' fly in'." "Jennie, you don't begrudge them, surely, and the poor fellows only now snatched from the jaws of death?" "Ay, ay, their ain jaws are noo makin' oop fer it. Ilka man is likely to do awa' wi' half a stane of potaties, an' th' bin is maist empty, yer reverence." "What matter, Jennie? Sure it never was quite empty. God always fills it again." "I see no need of sich waste," persisted Jennie, cau- tiously. "There's th' warst o' livin' so close to th' say. Ye're likely to hae all th' wrecks." "And we'll take care of them, please God. This is no time to economize," continued the priest, severely. "He who rules the storms, drove those poor lads to our door. Let us use them well. He will repay us a hundredfold." "That will comfort her," said the priest, laughing, as EXCOMMUNICATED 127 the woman disappeared. "Jennie is an economical housekeeper and an inhospitable soul, but what could be expected of a native of the far North? She does not understand Connemara." "Uncle," said the young girl with the musical voice, as she returned from assisting the housekeeper with the supper in the kitchen, "there is a piper below, and the boys would like to hear a tune and maybe step it out a little. We could close these doors and hardly hear them." "Very well," said the priest, after a pause. "It might take the damp of their sea dip out of their bones ; that is, if it doesn't disturb this gentleman." I protested that, feeling much refreshed, I would be pleased to see the dance, and Miss Eleanor brought me to the scene of the festivities. The piper was turning his pipes with much preliminary wheezing and groaning when we entered that cheerful apartment. After three cheers for Miss Eleanor, who appeared to be a favorite, and another for the stranger, the piper started to his work. To my surprise, the prelude was sadness itself. Instantly the expression of the faces pres- ent changed from contentment to deep sorrow,, and heads were bent and rocked back and forth as if under the weight of some heavy calamity. As the piper continued his wild, lugubrious strains, the sadness deepened and finally tears rolled down the bronzed faces of the men, as well as the fair, round cheeks of the girls. "I thought they were going to dance," I whispered in the ear of my conductress. "They are," she replied; "but you must recollect that the Celt, who is necessarily a poet, is influenced by his o 128 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA surroundings. Like the sea, he is either sobbing or laughing. He has his moods, and grief for those gone before is one of his luxuries. Listen ! It's a lamentation for those poor fellows drowned at Killary Bay." The audience was singing now, and the song was like a cry, a low, heart-broken cry. The old piper led them on from verse to refrain like a leader who knew his own. The song was in Gaelic, and the only recognizable words were: "Killary Bay! Oh, Killary Bay!" "It is the cry of a young girl driven insane by the drowning of her lover at Killary Bay, and he was only one of many lost in that big storm," whispered Miss Eleanor, and as they sang she translated : "From Killary Bay he sailed away, My lover brave and true ; And o'er the dancing, rippling waves, His corrach fairly flew. "He promised to return to me, Whatever should betide ; Come back, come back, my bonnie lad, And claim your promised bride. "'Come back,' the sad waves answered her; The fair girl cried in vain, For on the sands of Killary Bay He ne'er was seen again." Like the rapid change from storm to sunshine in Con- nemara, the piper's theme now changed from death and sadness to life and gaiety. He began to play a planxty, and in an instant the sobbing ceased, and heads that were stooped under a load of grief became erect and alert. "Take yer places fer a four-handed reel !" shouted the piper. "Put yer best foot forward, pick out yer sweetheart if yer lucky enough to have one an' welt away !" EXCOMMUNICATED 129 The scene that followed baffles description. Every one was on the floor with the exception of the house- keeper. As the promiscuous garments worn by the fisher- men were simply donned while their own were drying, a good fit was an exception, not the rule, and it was almost impossible for a spectator to keep a serious counte- nance. In a few cases the garments were too large and were turned up at the wrists and the ankles; but as a rule the fishermen were tall and the borrowed clothes belonged to men of smaller stature, consequently a laugh- able discrepancy was the rule. However, this was not a fashionable assembly, but through the absence of fa- talities a merry one, and every innovation was excused. The dancing was more spirited than precise for a while, each man using his own judgment about the length of his steps and the height of his springs. Ned, who still wore the housekeeper's skirt and was impartially offering himself as a partner to every one in turn and sometimes all together, was doing much damage to the reel, yet no one had the heart to exclude him from the merrymaking. What the greater number missed in skill, they made up in merriment merriment without a particle of coarse- ness. Suddenly Ned collided with his partner and fell, carry- ing half a dozen in his wake and damaging the house- keeper's skirt irreparably. This exploit only evoked fresh peals of laughter; but it wound up Ned's career as a dancer for that night at least, and he was led away by Miss Eleanor whose slightest word seemed law to him and given a seat in the rear. "Poor Ned!" said the young lady; "he means well, but he is apt to be troublesome, sometimes." 130 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Ned Ned 'the innocent' I hear them call him." "Yes, because he is in wit but a child." "He does some very daring things," I said, "and must be possessed of great strength. He literally carried me over the face of a precipitous rock and bore me to safety twice to-day." "He whom God guides is well guided," answered the young lady, gravely. "Of such as Ned is the Kingdom of Heaven. You were fortunate in meeting him and he appears to like you, which is a good sign, at least we all think so." I inferred from this that I had found some favor in Miys Eleanor's eyes, and I threw my preserver a grateful glance. The dancing had now arrived at that point when the survival of the fittest was beginning to prevail. The least skilled dancers, blown and exhausted, were fanning themselves with their hats, and the skilled contingent, cool and composed, were holding the floor and executing all kinds of fancy steps. Jigs, reels, heel-an'-toe, quick- steps, and flings were patted out softly and gracefully on the hard floor, 'mid the breathless approval of all present. The barefooted maids, who were so busy at supper time, were now footing it among the select few, their partners being two of the rescued fishermen, who were still good-looking and young. "Back with th' elbows, make ready with th' jingle, an' gie us th' 'Bells o' Galway,' " broke from the piper, who was regarding with ecstasy the steps of the four past- masters in the art of dancing. The peal of bells was given on the hard floor with EXCOMMUNICATED 131 rhythmic precision, the soft pat from the girls' bare feet making a musical alternate and alto plainly under- stood by those who ever heard the chimes. At this point the fishermen struck in the chorus, with pauses for the peal, something like this : "Ye Galway bells! (Patter of jingling feet) Ye Galway bells! (Patter of jingling feet) Far o'er the waters stealing. The fisher hears, (Patter of jingling feet) And his heart cheers, (Patter of jingling feet) Your tones his sorrow healing. "Ye Galway bells! (Patter of jingling feet) Ye Galway bells! (Patter of jingling feet) Peal on, peal on forever. Your music sweet (Patter of jingling feet) Our ears shall greet, (Patter of jingling feet) Oh, may we miss ye never !" "Time to retire," said Father Tom, on the threshold. " Turn in, boys, and God bless you all ! You must manage the best you can till morning, and thank Him who saved you from a watery grave. Come, sir," turning to me, "I will see you to your room. It may not be as luxurious as you have been accustomed to; but such as it is, you are welcome, heartily welcome." "Wait till I get me shoes on. Arrah, d'ye want to brin' me before his reverence in me bare feet ?" "What does it matther, anyway? 'Tis th' ony chance I have of seein' him. I'll have to be away in th' airly dawn. Shure ye'll have time to put on th' shoes before th' weddin'." The barefooted maids and their cavaliers, into whose hearts they had danced, were blocking up the way, and the priest turned a puzzled gaze on them. "Would yer reverence plaze to marry Kitty an' me, as 132 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA quick as ye can er that is, as soon as th' banns are published?" asked the first, bashfully. "An' me, yer reverence, Maureen an' me. We've made up our minds to get marrit, too," interrupted the second cavalier, with the same bashfulness. "Tut, tut!" said Father Tom, with energy. "How long have you known this young man, Kitty?" "Ony to-night, yer reverence; but I knew all his friends an' they're all dacent people, an' he has seen me so many times," said the girl, biting the corner of her apron. "Ay, that I have, an' I've been wantin' to speak to her a long time." "And you, Maureen," continued the priest, "how long have you known this young man?" " I know him a little at a distance, yer reverence ; but shure he never put th' question to me before th' night." "Well, well!" said the priest. "If you are determined to get married, I'll publish the banns next Sunday, but be sure your friends are satisfied." "I'm not satisfied, fer one," said the housekeeper, who had caught a hint of the business going on as she was busy preparing "shake-downs" for the unexpected guests. "'Tis little satisfaction to me to train a girl into my way an' then lose her, jest when his lordship is comin' on his veesitation, an' it's vera little notice I'm gettin'." "Tut, tut, Jennie! There's a host of other colleens waiting for the privilege of being trained by you, and you might as well try to stem the tide as to keep the boys and girls from getting married when once they've made up their minds,' 1 said Father Tom, who was not averse to a fee from two such open-hearted looking young fel- lows. EXCOMMUNICATED 133 "This is very sudden, Kitty," said Miss Eleanor, aside, to the young girl, who was still biting bashfully at her apron. "Are you sure, quite sure, that you love this young man well enough to marry him ?" "Yes, Miss Eleanor, I'm quite sure. Mebbe it's sud- den; but I nor ye can't understand how it is, an' some day," she whispered, "ye who are now so heart-free will think so, too. Someone will come an' yer heart will go out to him, an' when he asks ye, ye will go all over th' worl' wi' him." "Good-night, Kitty," said the young lady, moving thoughtfully away. "Good-night; you can't make me believe that." I heard all this from the nook where I was enjoying a good-night pipe with the priest. My dreams were few, and I awoke to a sense of strangeness in my surroundings. There was a pleasant saltness in the air coming in through the open window that caused me to think, in my half-awake state, that I was lying in the cabin of an ocean steamer and expecting momentarily to hear the creaking and groaning of ma- chinery or the flapping of sails. Shaking off my drowsi- ness, I sprang from my couch and advanced to the open window, where an animated scene met my gaze. Phoebus, in his fiery chariot, now high above the mountain tops, was chasing the morning mists over the vast expanse of the Atlantic. Some fishermen were trimming their sails and preparing their nets for their day's work; others were steering their frail crafts to the fishing-grounds. In the offing, not far from the pier, was a small skiff, manned by my ungainly rescuer of the three hats, and a neat figure which I at once recognized as belonging to Miss Eleanor. 134 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Miss Eleanor and Ned!" I ejaculated. "And why abroad so early ?" The young lady was rowing and Ned was guarding something, apparently a hamper, at the other side. I met her at the breakfast-table a few moments later, and when I began to compliment her on her morning trip, she glanced furtively in the direction of her uncle and passed me the cakes. Another plunge of my un- lucky tongue, and I was presented with the trout. By this time the idea occurred to me that her morning sail was unknown to her uncle and that she did not deem it necessary to enlighten him on the subject. I dipped hastily into the subject of mountain lakes, and her lady- ship looked immensely relieved. "We have the greatest trout streams in the world," said Father Tom. "Eleanor and Ned will take you there after breakfast, if you are fond of angling." I said nothing suited me better, but I thought I had given sufficient trouble as an uninvited guest. " Tut, tut, man ! Are you waiting for an invitation ? Then here it is. Stay as long as you wish, and make yourself as comfortable as you can. No man is a stranger in Connemara who penetrates into our wilds with an honest heart and a clear conscience." While thanking him, I took occasion to present him with my credentials, which he merely glanced at and immediately returned. "A man's face is a sufficient credential as far as I am concerned, but written ones come in handy sometimes. Come, Eleanor, show this gentleman some sport. Ned, get out the rods. I have to attend to some matters among my parishioners this morning," he continued with a sigh, EXCOMMUNICATED 135 "and consequently must deny myself the pleasure of ac- companying you." As we passed down the long street that constituted the little village to the wharf, the inhabitants gave us many a kindly greeting. The houses were low, with the exception of three, the priest's, the parson's, and the doctor's, and of a peculiar circular shape, built entirely of gray stone. The fish wharf was at the end of the village, but few fish were handled there, as most of them were merely accounted for to their immediate owners, sold at auction, and hurried off to the next market-town to be distributed to huxters whose carts were in readi- ness. "If you have never seen the 'Gap,' I will ask you to accompany us there. No, no, not where you were yes- terday. That gorge was terrific and uncanny ; the 'Gap' is terrific but beautiful, most beautiful. It is just an inlet of the sea reaching far up into the country and hemmed in at each side by precipitous cliffs and wondrously wooded hills, and beyond these again by the shadow of the famous Twelve Pins, sometimes called the Irish Alps. This 'Gap' or Pass runs from bay to bay as it extends to a renowned lake on the other side. Here and there, where the 'Gap' widens, and at the foot of these mountains lie smaller lakes, fairly alive with the loveliest trout. When we seek a day's sport, we tether our boat in the 'Gap' and carry our little 'corrach,' which is as light as the proverbial feather, across to the nearest lake and fish away. Ah, Ned hasn't forgotten the 'corrach,' " she added, as he entered with what appeared to be a huge basket covered with painted canvas. "This is one of the earliest styles of boats and is very 136 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA useful in many parts of the rocky coast, as it cannot be dashed to pieces on the rocks, and a rent is easily repaired. It is little used now, the heavy wooden sail-boat taking its place, but I think there is nothing like it for trout fishing." While we were speaking we were sailing out of the little bay into the open sea with the "corrach," which was attached to the larger boat by a long rope and following the swell of the water behind us, reminding one of a young colt bound for the county fair in the wake of his mother. Ned and the young lady were rowing, because, she claimed, when I offered my services, that she knew the coast better than I possibly could. It was a beautiful morning, and the slopes of the prom- ontory we were rounding were clothed to the water's edge with flowering shrubs that almost intoxicated the senses with their perfume. An hour's sail, and we had cleared the promontory and an unimportant inlet or two, and were entering the "Gap." Much as I had been used to sublimity and beauty in Connemara, I was stunned into muteness for very wonder. We were passing through what appeared to me to be a cleft in the mountains, the rocky sides of which rose precipitously and often in columns, like the walls of an immense cathedral. The silence and solemnity of the place added to the impression. The silence that fell on even those who were accustomed to see this wondrous piece of natural architecture was sufficient tribute to its beauty. In silence I reached for the oars, and my fair neighbor removed her heavy rowing gloves and cooled her shapely EXCOMMUNICATED 137 hands in the clear water. As we progressed, the shape of the mountains varied, the sides of them being often covered with trees, through which waterfalls could be seen glistening like silver as they tumbled into the waters below. The mingled perfume of the gorse and the heather so characteristic of Connemara the beauty of the various shades of color arising from the wild flowers, the waterfalls, the rocks and the ever-changing sea, the song of the birds overhead, with the hoarse croak of the sea-gull subdued by distance, were like the unreal inci- dents in a dream, and I feared to awaken. The sound of carriage wheels on the road high above us carried me back to the realities of life. "This 'Gap' is a short cut by land or sea," I remarked. "Yes, we have several mountain passes in Connemara. The Kylemore, about four miles the other way, is second to none in beauty. Each pass is legend-haunted, and so also are our lakes and rivers. This 'Gap' leads to the Salruc Pass (literally, Saint Rock), and memorializes a spirited contest between the devil and a saint whose repu- tation for sanctity had greatly annoyed him. The story says that the saint, who had hidden himself away from the temptations of a sinful world in one of the huge caves for which the mountains are noted, was attacked by Satan on a frosty night while asleep. Satan suc- ceeded in throwing a chain over him, but was unable to remain to secure him on account of the cross which the saint carried. He accordingly retired to the other side of the mountain, still holding on to the chain. The struggle for mastery lasted all night, for though the saint was caught napping, he did not propose to give up without a hard fight. In the morning the devil was 138 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA forced to go, leaving the saint the master of the field, but very much exhausted. The friction of the chain, however, had cleft the mountain in twain, and the saint had the satisfaction of seeing a short cut for the people from the lakes to the coast." The mountains, which were ever varying in shape and color, now became precipitous again, till their shadows almost darkened the pass. "A very pretty story, Miss Eleanor, of a place which is very beautiful in spite of its precipices, and just what would be selected by a saint " "Or an outlaw," interrupted the young lady, quietly. "An outlaw?" "Yes;' we were all outlaws once, or our ancestors were, which means the same. These mountains were full of tenants then, who found it impossible to endure the cruel laws. They were not looked upon as outlaws here, how- ever, so long as they confined their depredations to the wild deer, or the wild duck or salmon. The English soldiery were afraid to cross the 'bays of the sea' and run the risk of getting lost in the bridle-roads of the 'Kingdom of Connemara.' Now, alas! the bridle-roads have developed into military roads, but the caves still remain and only a favored few are acquainted with their entrances or their exits." "But you are too gentle to consort with outlaws, Miss Eleanor." I spoke inanely, just for the pleasure of hearing her voice and watching the play of expression on her bright face. "And yet I am related to and descended from the O'Neills, the O'Sullivans, and the O'Flahertys, from EXCOMMUNICATED 139 whose ferocious assaults the English prayed the Lord to deliver them. See, the ruins of Lady Bivinda O'Fla- herty De Burgo's castle, in which she confined herself with her orphaned child and a number of armed fol- lowers, appealing to 'her most gracious sovereign, Eliza- beth of England,' to sanction her proceedings until her daughter should reach her majority. This cowardly act drew down on her the scorn of her husband's family, who dubbed the fortress, 'Castleen-na-Circe' literally, the 'Castle of the Hen.' This petition is signed with her maiden name, O'Flaherty, as being more powerful than the De Burgo's, and is still extant. Her daughter mar- ried Sir Thomas Blake of Menlo Castle, and their descendants are still here. The last of the O'Flahertys is a very quiet gentleman and a large landed proprietor. He has refused a title from the present sovereign of England, and divides his time between London and his estate." The mantle of silence fell over us again as we slowly rowed past a combination of sea glories that baffles de- scription. Looking back through the "Gap" we had traversed where it opened into the Atlantic, we could see the glorious island of Inistura, which seemed to lie close to the entrance of the "Gap," thus giving it the appear- ance of a lake. Far away lay the most distant islands, and a few faint specks on the horizon indicated the sails of boats going out to the fishing grounds. "We can get through this opening," said the young lady, indicating what appeared to me to be a fissure in the rocks, "and get to a mountain stream for the trout I spoke of. We will tie the boat here and carry our 'cor- rach.' It is not far." 140 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA For the first time in our short acquaintance, Ned seemed deaf to the demands of his fair mistress. He was busy munching away at what seemed to be the large end of a loaf, which he held to his mouth with both hands. "Poor Ned is hungry," added the girl, smiling. "This saunter on the open sea gives one a glorious appetite, I must remember. The housekeeper has packed us a lunch which will agree beautifully with the trout that Ned will cook for us by and by. Ned is a grand open-air cook, and we must hurry up." Ned finished his lunch in an incredibly short time and was now busy making a selection from a small heap of stones in the bottom of the boat. "Never mind the stone," said Miss Eleanor. "I want to see th' faces in th' wather," said Ned. "Yes, yes, by and by, when we return. We must bring this gentleman to the lake to fish." "No, no!" cried the simpleton; "I want to show th' gen'man th' people in th' wather." " Indeed ! Then your rivers and lakes are peopled, too?" I inquired. For answer Miss Eleanor quoted : "Ye spectres pale, who lie below and dwell in sheltered places, O, stay your coral caves among, nor show your shadowy faces ! For woe betide the luckless wight who sees the vision splendid, For him the hearth-light burns in vain, for him this life is ended." "Well, I don't wish to die just yet. I must ask Ned to reserve his power." "The apparition here is quite harmless. No evil ef- fects follow," she said. "I jest tro a white stone in th' wather," said Ned, "an' dat's all." EXCOMMUNICATED 141 "Well, the gentleman doesn't wish you to throw the stone," said the girl, with, I thought, unnecessary stern- ness. "Ned seems to be exempt from the penalty. He evokes the spectres at pleasure," I rejoined. " True, but Ned is a privileged character. Nothing can hurt him," she assented ; but her smile was not as bright as usual. Splash, splash! Miss Eleanor's face became very pale. "I couldn't help it, Miss Eleanor; th' stones jest slipped out o' me hand, so dey did." I looked over the side of the boat. The eddies evoked by the stones were moving in ever-widening circles. There was a fascination in watching them. I drew back in involuntary terror, for in the center of the circle was a face yes, a succession of faces, or maybe the same face multiplied many times. It was the reflection of a woman's face, or the reflection of a number of women's faces, but so like, so very like. "Dere she is!" called Ned, excitedly, and pointing to the water; "dere she is, an' she's becknin' to me! She wants me! She wants me!" "As Ned is exempt from the consequences of his rash act, I must be the one wanted," I said, with a smile, but I'm afraid it was somewhat forced. Miss Eleanor was sitting up stiffly, her eyes on the cliff, the expression of her face one of tender pity. Having ears, she heard not; having eyes, she saw not. "She wants me!" said Ned. "See, Miss Eleanor, she wants me !" A nervous thrill coursed down my spinal column. What mystery was this ? 142 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "She wants me ! She wants me !" repeated Ned, fran- tically. "Well, you must go, Ned, but be careful," answered the young lady, without taking her eyes from the cliff. She had evidently forgotten all about me. "I'll row de boat to de point," said Ned, taking up the oars eagerly. The girl seemed to remember me with a start. "I didn't intend this," she said. "We will have to delay a little, but it can't be helped now." "And the faces in the water?" "Oh, just one face! It is the face of an outlaw a gentle outlaw, God pity her, but still an outlaw." "And she lives " "In the cave in the cliff above that's as near as we can get to her. We Ned and I come with a few deli- cacies and books." "And the stone he threw into the water?" "It's our signal. It brings her to the opening of the cave under that ledge on the cliff, where her shadow can be plainly thrown on the water. The formation of the cave is so peculiar that she sees everything for miles around without herself being visible, and her reflection on the water would be perfectly unaccountable to any one not in the secret of the cave. We never use a signal when ac- companied by any one, and she never answers it unless in urgent need." "Then the mysterious people in your other lakes here can probably be accounted for just as naturally?" The lady shook her head. "Whole cities and an im- mense concourse of people are often seen in Lough Corrib and Lough Inagh, and so far they have never been ac- EXCOMMUNICATED 143 counted for, neither has the person seeing them lived long." Her face grew troubled as she stopped abruptly. A rope was hanging over the cliff and Ned, with packages and books suspended from his waist and shoulders, was preparing to ascend. "The existence of this cave has been previously known only to three persons," said Miss Eleanor. "And I hope you will consider that the fourth, who has learned the secret by accident, is honorable enough to con- ceal his knowledge." Her face grew clear again. "Thank you, but I might have known that." Ned was climbing the cliff like a goat, using the rope as a hand-rail. I looked on till I was dizzy, then shaded my eyes and scanned the river anxiously. Nothing was visible in its clear depths but the shadows of the rocks and the gently moving branches of the trees. "It is only common justice to the poor woman above to tell you, a stranger, that her case is not so bad at least in some people's eyes as you perhaps think," said the young girl, disconnectedly, and still watching the ascent of her henchman. "Your friendship for her shows me that." "If you only knew her story!" "I know she is your friend, that is enough." "Yes, I am her namesake. She is my relative, too- distant, third or fourth cousin, but of the same blood. She is ostracized by society and the Church in fact, ex- communicated by the Church." "Excommunicated by the Church?" "Yes; that is the hardest of all, in Connemara." 10 144 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Who excommunicated her?" "The Bishop. She was so prominent, you know, that it was quite a scandal ; and my uncle, Father Tom, was obliged to comply with the edict of his superior, but it was hard." "You have not yet told me her story. Perhaps I might suggest something." "No, no; nothing that you could do, nothing that any- body could do, would change matters. She will never give him up." "Pardon me, give up whom? Her husband?" "Yes; she thought he was her husband she was mar- ried by the Bishop till another woman found her way into her presence and claimed him." Here the sight of Ned, revolving in mid-air like a tee- totum, with the rope as a centerpiece and the suspended packages flying around him, made her forget her story. "He won't fall," I said, reading her thoughts. "He carried me down Bena-y-Vricaan yesterday, and that is almost as steep." "Oh, he's just amusing himself a little, not thinking it would irritate me. He is very loyal to his friends. On those he dislikes he often plays some queer tricks, so queer and so telling that many people believe they orig- inate in a fund of common sense, cleverly concealed on ordinary occasions." "He evidently has no fear," I said, venturing to look again at the giddy spectacle, when I was instantly re- minded of a Chinese juggler doing the wheel act. "If the rope only holds out !" "If it doesn't, he will be killed, poor fellow, and I will have lost my last chance to communicate with my unfor- tunate friend." EXCOMMUNICATED 145 "Then there is no other entrance to to her abode?" " Yes. About eight miles eight Irish miles are equiva- lent to at least twelve English on the road that runs along the ma'am between Clifden and Delphi, stands a lonely cottage. It is more pretentious than the or- dinary mountain cabin and is built onto the mountain. That mountain is really the back of this precipice, though it sinks and falls a little by the way. Under it all runs a wide passage, terminating in this cave. It was used in the past by illicit distillers, who found the cave a grand place to rid themselves of their merchandise." I imagined Ned in the position of a keg of poteen on its way to the boats. He had just finished his gyrations and was continuing his ascent. Miss Eleanor breathed freer. "This delay is most annoying," she muttered. "Our long stay under this cliff might draw attention. Will you watch for anyone in sight ? Ah !" There they were, moving softly along on the narrow path, the mountain ponies carrying their burdens patiently but surely toward us. The burdens consisted of a tourist painter in sombrero and linen coat, a guide laden with his easel and paraphernalia, and two women who, judging by the dress, were a "lady" and her maid. The artist and the lady were conversing in loud tones, and every word of their conversation was echoed back from the rocks and borne to us on the clear air. "They're here somewhere," said the woman in the rich dress. "I'm sure of that, for every other place but Con- nemara has been searched ; and I'll make an affidavit that I'll find them, if I have to stay here in this wild place for a year." "It's a beautiful place, sister Mary, and I for one will 146 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA never find fault. I will make sketches of these delightful rocks." "And you must write the word 'rocks' under them, lest they be mistaken for groups of cows," interrupted the lady. "Bah! you will never make an artist, and all the money I spent on you." "You're in a bad humor, sister Mary," returned the artist, amiably. "But when the money comes " "Who says money?" returned the lady. "It's a year since I received a draft. He has the money, and if he hasn't, his friends have. There's a big legacy coming from her old aunt, Lady Betty O'Hagan, who, when they decided the case in my favor, made a will leaving every- thing to the insane asylum. She changed her mind last week, turned everything over again to her beloved niece and then died. Very good. What's hers is his, and what's his is mine. It will take a goodly slice of her aunt's legacy to insure my silence this time, and the war- rant hanging over him for bigamy." "And what will be your choice of a dwelling-place, after you have settled the money question, sister mine?" "Connemara, of course," said the lady, with a mock- ing laugh; "just for a sight of his pale face and a whiff of the invigoratin' 'say breeze,' as the natives express it. No, no ; with the money handy, Dublin or London is good enough for me. I never cared a straw for the fellow outside of the money." "Hush !" said the man, with a glance in the direction of their attendants. "Nonsense; those people know nothing but Gaelic, out- side of a few necessary phrases, and they are as thick in the skulls as the rest of the Connemara simpletons." EXCOMMUNICATED 147 Miss Eleanor was engineering her little bark into the shelter of a group of low, overhanging bushes that almost concealed a little inlet. She was trembling in her eager- ness to get out of sight. "Get out your rod," she whispered, "and fish diligently. This is the woman I told you of, the woman that beautiful and cultured Eleanor O'Gorman has been sacrificed to." "Then her husband really married that woman?" " So the law decided. It was a boyish indiscretion, com- mitted while a student in Trinity. He went through what he considered a mock ceremony with this coarse woman during a college lark. He never mentioned the matter on his return home. He met Eleanor, who was queening it in Dublin, fell in love with her who wouldn't ?" "Who wouldn't?" I repeated, unconsciously, looking at the fair face beside me. "He followed her to Connemara and married her. Oh, it was a beautiful wedding!" resumed the girl, ignoring my interruption ; " for her father belonged to a branch of the family who succeeded in retaining some of their old possessions in spite of the English laws, and no money was spared. I was her pet and her youngest bridesmaid, and strewed flowers in her path. That's thirteen years ago. They spent three years of happiness. He met this woman face to face in Dublin, and then the crash came. She knew him at once, though he had married her under a different name, but that makes no difference in the law. He gave her money to silence her, not really believing that she had any claim on him. He wanted to keep the wretched secret from his wife. Finding her insatiable in her greed for money, he dared her to do her worst. She did. She followed them to their summer seat in Conne- 148 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA mara and denounced them before the virtuous people of the coast. She followed them everywhere, to the church, to the beach, to the dinner-table and to the dinner-tables of their neighbors. No one really believed she was his wife, but it made lots of talk. Finally she dragged him through the courts, and with the aid of an eloquent lawyer, got placed before the world as a martyr and her claim ad- mitted. When the law decided, then the Church acted. If the Dublin woman was the wife of Richard Ward, then Eleanor O'Gorman was not. It was hard to part a couple who were so devoted to one another. She refused to take that decision as final, and spent her dowry in another suit. The first decision was confirmed, and when her husband, broken in health, returned to her, she did not send him away. The excommunication broke her heart, but she bore it and clung to him. Not only was society closed to her, but, what she felt far more, the doors of the churches. She could not hear Mass, nor hold any communion with anyone. The people who loved her for her father's sake, shunned her as if she had been a leper. No one came into their presence but the woman his wife. To rid themselves of her presence, they gave her all they could spare." "Did your uncle forbid her the church?" "No; she spared him that sorrow. She knelt in her doorway with her face toward the chapel as the Mass was read, but she never dared to enter." "Why did they not go where their story was not known ?" "It is hard for those who have been born among the hills to forget them ; besides, their money was nearly all gone. When the woman's allowance was paid, according EXCOMMUNICATED 149 to law, there was hardly enough left to keep body and soul together. Suddenly they disappeared, and only three knew their hiding-place. But three persons knew that behind that ledge of rock, on each Sunday of the year, a woman, the last of the old stock, joined in their prayers." "But did you not call at the cottage on the roadside, and see your friends?" "No communication is allowed in such cases, and she loved me too well to place me under a ban." "Suppose they these people go around the road eight miles away, who's to hinder them from discovering your friend and her sick husband?" "They will find an old woman, who speaks only' Gaelic and is as deaf, apparently, as a post. They will find no evidence of refinement or even comfort, for the little that Eleanor allows herself is surrounding the man she loves so dearly in the cave, and the entrance to the cave from the cottage is so artfully concealed that without help it would be impossible to find. This old woman is Eleanor's old nurse and faithful servant, who would gladly lay down her life for her nursling. She is supposed to be supported by a wealthy son in America, and so far has evaded suspicion." The tourists were almost abreast of us on the other side of the river. "The rope!" said Eleanor. "The rope! It is hang- ing over the cliff! Ned has been used to draw it up after him. There must be something amiss. Eleanor would never have neglected " Ah! Ned was descending much more rapidly than he ascended, but not half rapid enough for the young 150 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA girl in the boat. Her breath came in short gasps. What if they should look across? What if the poor simpleton should try his hand at another wheel? What if he should heavens! They were right opposite! Ned had got low enough to be hidden by the branches of the trees that overhung the river, but the rope still dangled. What if they should see it? Suddenly the party glanced across and saw us. We were a disagree- able surprise to the lady, evidently, for she frowned, at the memory of her incautious words, perhaps. They stopped. "If they address us, remember we are supposed to know only Gaelic." Eleanor spoke through her teeth and without raising her eyes. "We are just stupid Connemara clowns, you know. If we answer them in English, they will linger and draw their own conclusions." "But I don't know Gaelic," I said, in the same un- dertone. "Oh, yes, you do! A few words in any language but their own will be looked upon as Gaelic by that woman and her brother." I went through my memory rapidly for a couplet from Homer, or a chanson of Rousseau. My memory immediately became a blank. Was I going to disgrace myself before Eleanor, who I could see was quite eru- dite? "We are looking for a gentleman named Ward," shouted the man. "These stupid servants know noth- ing about him, but we were told he lives around here." The words came distinctly through the clear air. "Boni sapientesque ex civitate pelluntur," I respond- ed, wildly recalling a Latin lesson of my school-days. EXCOMMUNICATED 151 "Didn't I tell you they knew nothing but Gaelic?" said the lady, scornfully. "He looks intelligent and dresses like a Yankee," said her brother, amiably; adding, "but washy looking and a poor specimen of a mountaineer." "Try him again easy words, slow and easy. Maybe we could instil some knowledge into him," said the lady. "Can you tell us anything about a gen- tleman named Ward?" He enunciated the words slowly, to suit my comprehension. "Praeterita mutare non possumus," I replied, sav- agely, still drawing on the memory of my school-days. It hurt me to think that a man should pass such re- marks, though I didn't mind their being overheard by my fair neighbor. Oh, no; not at all! My fair neigh- bor, however, never raised her eyes. She was fishing diligently, and apparently dead to everything else. "What a stupid pair!" said the lady. "Neither knows a word of English." "The girl is lovely, though," returned the man, "and the man looks remarkably like the Yankees we met in Dublin. It is most astonishing." "He has been long enough in America to return with a suit of clothes and the dyspepsia," said his sister, acid- ly; "and as for the girl being pretty, well, her nose is much too long and her color is too high." It could not be denied that Eleanor's color was high at present. "Nonsense!" answered the man. "She is a perfect Juno. Look at that magnificent hair and that curve in her throat. How I would like to sketch her! I think I will stay around and take lessons in Gaelic just for the pleasure of making love to her." 152 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Here the lady held a conversation with the guide. He could tell her the name of the next hotel and how dis- tant it was, the name of every mountain and rock in the neighborhood, like a boy reciting a lesson ; but he broke down and became unintelligible and at last completely lost in a labyrinth of Gaelic and English words, thrown together promiscuously and going off like a bunch of fire-crackers on a rainy day, when asked about a gentle- man and lady named Ward. Oh, yes; he knew every gentleman, wealthy and an- cient, in the neighborhood- the O'Donnels, the O'Gor- mans, the Martyns, but no Ward, he acknowledged at last. The O'Gormans were all dead and the estate hopelessly involved, was the gist of his remarks, but no one by the name of Ward. "It's no use talking to these stupid people," said the lady. "The proprietor of the hotel may be able to tell us something. Come on!" Just then Ned came into view. He had swum quietly across the "Gap." She stopped in her speech to exam- ine him, as he shook himself and adjusted his head-gear, and wrung out the tail of his coat. "Here's another of them," she said, "a perfect figure of fun. He's the oddest-looking creature I ever met in my life." "Yes, ma'am," said Ned. "Oh, he knows English! Well, I wonder if he can give us any news." "Yes, ma'am," said Ned. "Oh, you can?" The lady turned to him quite un- abashed. "Then maybe you could direct us to the resi- dence of a a gentleman named Ward and his wife. EXCOMMUNICATED 153 They are living somewhere in retirement, probably in this very neighborhood." "Yes, ma'am." "Will you guide us to them?" "Yes, ma'am." "If you do, I'll give you a shilling, my man." "A whole shillin' not sixpence a whole shillin'?" Ned was all excitement. "A whole shilling, yes, indeed!" She exhibited a bright, new coin. "Will you take us there at once?" "Yes, ma'am." Ned trotted off ahead of the party, after giving a preliminary twist in the vicinity of his waist, which proceeding brought his ankles and three inches above them into view. This was a prelude to a long day's walk. Miss Eleanor was thunderstruck. She watched the retreating figure of her henchman with eyes in which horror and intense surprise were strangely min- gled. "I never saw Ned do that before," she cried, in tears. "It was the shilling, the bright, new shilling. There is always a terrible temptation to him about a bright, new shilling, though it never made him treacherous before. Oh!" "How much does he know?" "I don't know. He has lucid moments occasionally, I think." "Can he bring them to the cottage?" "I cannot say. Oh, what is to be done? The rope is still hanging over the cliff. Something is wrong. It is the first time it was allowed to stay a moment after use. Something has gone wrong." "What is this?" I showed her a paper Ned had 154 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA dropped at our feet before he crossed the river. " It may enlighten us," I said. "It's a note a note from my poor friend. Oh, my fears were correct. Something has happened !" " 'She is dying. Richard died last night. I waited at the mouth of the cave, praying for the Lord to send some one. He has heard my prayer. For God's sake, send some priest ' " "The rest is unintelligible. The scrawl has evidently been written by Mary, the old nurse, faithful to the end. It was her face that was reflected on the water, but I was so angry with Ned that I did not stop to think. Oh, if we could only get some priest, surely he would not be so cruel as to refuse her!" "No one would refuse," I said, to comfort her, for she spoke aloud; "but can a priest reach her? Eight miles is a long way, and no one but Ned can climb that cliff." She wrung her hands. "Can I be of service?" I spoke more from a desire to calm her, than a surety that my services would be of any use. "No, no; we would have to go back and get a con- veyance and a guide, for I would not be sure of the way. Oh, if I could only reach her some way ! Surely God, who is mindful of even the sparrow's fall, will not let her die alone, and without the consolations of the re- ligion she loves so well ! If she has disobeyed the law, she has suffered." "Do not distress yourself, my dear young lady," I ventured. "God is just. It would have been a heart- less thing of her to desert a sick man. Who will dare to say she has done wrong?" EXCOMMUNICATED 155 "Oh, you don't understand, you don't understand, be- cause your training has been different." "Well, if my training has been defective in the past, I can remedy it. I never tried to climb a perpendicular wall with the aid of a rope, but it is not too late to learn." "No, no! You would be killed! No one has ever attempted that feat but Ned. And even if you succeeded in getting to the dying woman, what could you do ? You are a stranger to her." "Even a stranger is better than no one at all." "Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine: secundum verbum tuum in pace," came wafted to us on the beau- tiful summer breeze. It was a man's voice, clear and deep, yet sad, reminding one of the sounds of muffled drum-beats at a soldier's funeral. "Quia viderunt oculi mei : salutare tuum." The singer was nearer now, and the voice carried a note of triumph. To the listeners the wild cliffs became the arched walls of a cathedral, and the scent of the gorse and heather was mingled with that of incense. "It's Father Henry!" said the girl, joyfully. "Oh, if he were only here! Is he far away? Is he coming toward us? He will do something. He will think of something that we cannot. Call him ! Shout !" There was little need. He was coming rapidly toward us on Father Tom's mountain pony, and softly singing, with his head thrown back. We rowed across to him as fast as two pairs of oars would let us. He saw us, dis- mounted, and, tethering his pony to a sapling, took his seat in the boat. He unfolded his stole without speak- ing and placed it around his neck. "Where is the dying man?" he asked. 156 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "There is no dying man, Father," replied Eleanor; "but " "There was a call on the slate for a priest's services at the 'Gap.' There was no name given, and as the houses are very few and very scattered, I thought a vesper hymn would give notice of my approach." Eleanor and I exchanged glances of astonishment. "You don't know who sent in the call?" "No; the housekeeper saw no one. I came as quickly as possible. I hope I am not too late." When Eleanor told her story, he showed no astonish- ment. He had heard the history of the unfortunate Eleanor O'Gorman, but the mystery of the "Gap" was a sealed book to him. "You will have to proceed to the high road and take a side-car, Father," and the girl sobbed. "Too late, too late!" said the young priest. "There must be another way." "Only the way that Ned went over the cliff." The rope was still dangling. The young man looked up. "What Ned can do, surely I can do." "It is impossible!" said the girl, in horror-stricken tones. "You would be dashed to pieces. The rope has seen hard usage. It may not hold your weight." "And yet I am not so heavy as Ned not nearly so heavy. I will try it. God, who permitted me to come, will not desert that poor woman in her dying hour." "The cave is one hundred and fifty feet above the water. Oh, Father, you dare not run the risk !" cried the girl. There was no reply, for the priest was ascending. I EXCOMMUNICATED 157 looked down in the shadows of the river, sick with the expectation of hearing a falling body. The girl knelt and covered her face with her hands. I, who dared not look up, dared to watch the reflection of the rope with its human burden in the water. It was still, with the weight of a heavy strain, and hung taut and close to the rocks. The black speck was nearing, slowly nearing, the top. He was almost there. The rope seemed to part ; no, it was but a motion of the water, but it made me dizzy. "He's there!" said the girl; "he's there, thank God!" I ventured to look up. The empty rope was dangling free again. In a little while it was drawn up, and we were left to our own thoughts. "I am sorry to detain you," said Miss Eleanor; "but I cannot leave here until I hear something." "I am well satisfied to remain," was my answer. The sun was sinking behind the mountains, when the rope was flung out again to the breeze. No human form de- pended from it this time only a little white missive. Miss Eleanor caught it eagerly. "Your friend has just breathed her last," it ran, "after receiving all the rites of the Church. She was conscious to the end, and died full of penitence and hope. I shall remain here till you send Father Tom and someone to take charge of the remains. Tell them to come by the cottage on the Leenane Road, for the mystery of the 'Gap' is a mystery no longer." "This must be the means of access to the cave," said a voice at my elbow. "But the ascent would be an extremely difficult feat." Two men, well dressed and prosperous looking, were examining the rope. A guide stood in the background. 158 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Miss Eleanor, who was weeping softly, dried her eyes and regarded them sternly. " She's gone where your per- secution cannot reach her," she said. "It was a brave thing, this hounding of a fellow creature." "My dear young lady, you must have been misin- formed. I have come- " "Yes, yes, an hour or two too late, thank God, in whose keeping they are." "My dear young lady " "You bribed the poor innocent to betray his friends "It was impossible to do it." The guide was speaking in very good English. He was the man who had acted as guide for the lad) and the artist, and who had been so ignorant of the Eng- lish language. "It was impossible to do it. He led our friends up to Bena-y-Vricaan, where they are still groping for a path. As for me, I discovered the cave by the existence of this rope, hanging so loosely, as we passed this morning, though I looked so stupid." "Allow me to introduce you to the best detective in the United Kingdom. As he has now completed his work, it is no matter," said the first man. "The young lady has no occasion to be angry with either of us," said the detective, politely. "We only came to bring our friend good news. By Lady O'Hagan's will, made on her death-bed, Eleanor O'Gorman, who married Richard Ward, and whose marriage was de- clared null and void by the highest tribunal, has been declared her heir to her whole estate." "Had it come earlier, it might have subdued a little EXCOMMUNICATED 159 the troubles of their hard lot," said the girl. "As it is " "As it is," repeated the lawyer, "it reverts every- thing reverts to Eleanor O'Gorman, a distant namesake and cousin, who, the will says, showed much kindness to the unfortunate woman aforesaid." "The young lady is here present," said the detective. Miss Eleanor looked bewildered. "Daughter of Francis O'Gorman and Mary Mc- Dermott, both deceased, and niece of Rev. Thomas McDermott, parish priest of B , Kingdom of Conne- mara, County Galway, Ireland." "The same," said the detective. "It took me three weeks to collect the proofs, but they're all clear." "It's a poor time for congratulations, Miss Eleanor O'Gorman, but believe me, mine are sincere," and the lawyer bowed. "It is all so strange," remarked the young lady, a few hours later. "Was it Providence that caused Ned, con- trary to my intention, to drop the stone in the water so early, and be the means of getting our unfortunate rela- tive reconciled to the Church?" "Ned is a strange fellow, and, as you say, has lucid moments," I remarked. "Then I must correct myself," said Miss Eleanor. "I should have said inspired moments." "What about those poor tourists he inveigled to Bena- y-Vricaan ?" "They were rescued by the police, at half-past ten at night. The police knew as little about the place as the tourists, and had to hire Ned to lead them and carry them down, one by one, on his back. He charged them a pound 11 160 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA of tobacco and a new shilling for his services. He lost them again on Bena McCulloch, police and all, where they were groping from crag to crag and from cave to cave until nearly two this morning. He charged them another pound of tobacco and another shilling for leading them out on the main road. The police were nearly wild with rage at the trick played on them, but they could do nothing. Here comes Ned now." "As I am not a member of your church, and much of your faith is a dead letter to me, I wish to ask a question." "As many as you wish." "Would Father Tom be justified in giving the rites of the Church to your unfortunate cousin under similar cir- cumstances ? Was she not still under the ban of excom- munication ?" The girl hesitated. "I think so," she said. "Anyway, Father Henry, not Father Tom, was sent; and Father Henry is a law unto himself." "Well, then, in my humble opinion, Father Henry is a hero." "And in mine, too," said Miss Eleanor. It was with a sigh of regret that I departed from the hospitable home of Father Tom, and for many a day the fair face of my lady of the cliffs, the beautiful Eleanor, clung to my memory, and in my day dreams I live over again the few hours that I spent in her companionship. ROSY OTOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY 161 ROSY OTOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY. "The luxuries of one generation are the necessities of another." "Ay, ay, Rosy, sae it's coom tae this! Weel, we daurna spake next. Ye micht as weel gie oop yir life noo, as be dune wi' a' coom fort, an' theere's coomfort ee' th' tay pot," said Molly, indignantly. Rosy shook her head. The shining metal was gleam- ing and sparkling in the sunlight, as it passed back and forth between her fair hands. Seaweed and hot water, and sometimes sand, were the only scouring ingredients known in Connemara; but Rosy scorned to put sand on her teapot. "It's thrue fer Father Tom, tay is an exthravagant dhrink. It's fair robbery, so it is, wid tay at sixteen shil- lin's a pound. If we can afford it at Christmas and Ais- ther, we ought to be contint," she said, after a minute. Molly's answer was a scornful laugh. The borders of her cap, stiff and white, rattled with indignation. If the clergymen were going to turn the tide of popular opinion against her favorite beverage, what was to be- come of her? "Christmas an' Aisther," she echoed. "It's clean reediklus frae a pulpit tae be pokin' at what a puir woman puts intae her stummak." "Shure, Father Tom knows best," answered Rosy; but she sighed as she poised her pretty souvenir so as 162 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA to catch the straggling sunbeams. She gave it another dust or two with a dry cloth and was reaching out to place it on the highest shelf of the dresser, when a ques- tion from her visitor stayed her hand. "Hoo mony cups o' tay dis Fayther Tom alloo him- sel' ? Ay, it's ane law f er him, an' anither fer th' people. A' knaw a thing or twa, lassie." Rosy stood aghast, one arm stretched to its utmost, and the glittering teapot high above her head, while, with changing color, she listened to this high heresy. "A cup o' tay noo an' then is nae mair than richt, an' a' hope his reverence dis nae waur." Rosy lowered her hand and gave another fleck to the spout of the teapot. What Molly said was true, but somehow it didn't sound very respectful to Father Tom ; yet she hardly knew where the fault lay. On second thought she reflected that Molly had spent her youth in the "black North," and couldn't know much. Molly's thoughts ran in the same line, but with a different back- ground. " Hoots ! What kin th' lassie ken ? She's niv- vir been oot o' Connemara." She said nothing, however, but wagged her head, rat- tled her cap-borders, and winked both her eyes in a manner peculiar to herself. "They say that tay hurts the narves," ventured Rosy, timidly. Molly laughed so heartily that her fat sides shook and her face looked as if it were going to burst. "It's th' want of it that hurts my narves, lassie. Gie me a cup an' I'll tull ye yir luck." Rosy shook her head ; but it was a feeble shake. Molly saw her advantage and followed it up. ROSY OTOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY 163 "Ane cup mair won't break yir hairt. Coom, lassie, ane cup mair an' yir fortune." Rosy glanced nervously out of the one little diamond- paned window. "Dinna be 'feared," urged Molly. "Yir man winna be hame fer five oors yit. He's gane tae th' feeshin'." A dhrawin' of tay won't break anybody," Rosy mut- tered to herself ; and, going into the bedroom, she brought sixpence from a hidden hoard, hesitated, looked at it, as she had looked at the teapot, from various points of view, rubbed it against her scarlet petticoat, placed it between her teeth and bit it, and finally, scratching the edge with her nail, said, "It's a good sixpence." "O' coorse yon's a guid saxpence. What are ye speirin' aboot?" queried Molly. "D'ye want tae wait tull th' coos coom hame?" "Half an ounce of the best," was Rosy's answer as she dropped the money into her friend's hand quickly, as if afraid of changing her mind. "I'll be back in a minute; put on th' keetle, an' mix a cake," said Molly, not giving her a chance. She soon returned from the cross-roads grocery and the preparations for the coming festivity began in dead earnest. Molly was a connoisseur and maintained that the water had boiled too long. Fresh water was obtained and set to boil again, while the cake was turning a deli- cious brown. Everything was progressing beautifully. The cake was done to a turn; the tea was put to steep at precisely the right moment; Molly's eyes were glis- tening and her mouth watering for the coming feast, when To make a story clear it is always better to start at 164 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA the beginning and give some cause for the circumstances related. The reason that the young housekeeper just mentioned was giving up her occasional cup of tea and putting her teapot away for great festivals was all on account of a sermon preached on the previous Sunday. Rosy loved her tea, and as her husband was not the poorest man in Connemara, had allowed herself a tare treat outside of the great occasions; but she felt that Father Tom was right, and that such wicked indulgences must cease. Father Tom McDermott's parish was poor and scat- tered. It was bounded on one side by the sea and on the other three sides by the sea and the mountains. The sea made inroads in every direction, converting numer- ous little islands, crowded with shell-fish gatherers in the morning, into one vast sea at night. Unlike the rest of the Emerald Isle, B and the other small hamlets in charge of Father Tom were barren, and in this it resembled the whole district of Connemara. What it lost in utility it made up in beauty. The sun never shone on wilder and more beautiful scenery, but the poor people found it very hard to live on beauty alone. If, as the clergyman often remarked, Connemara could only have had the stamp of fashion set upon it as a resort, all would have been well; but the Queen chose to patronize a German watering-place, and you could hardly blame her, as Father Tom remarked, considering that she was a German to the backbone (and for seven generations) and would naturally feel at home among her own people ; still, as he added, it was her duty to do something for the benefit of the people she was put over as a ruler. ROSY O'TOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY 165 As Connemara was not a fashionable watering-place, Father Tom had no trouble from the inroads of worldli- ness and vanity in dress that such state of things often entails ; and that consoled him not a little. As it was, his parishioners kept body and soul together only by continual contests with the elements. If the land was begrudging, the sea was generous. A little farming and a good deal of fishing occupied the people along the coast. With the sea running up into their potato fields, every farmer kept a boat, and as every- thing was taxed, paid a tax for the privilege of fishing, only to discover for the thousandth time that the cost of transporting the fish to a good market overcame the profit. Father Tom never troubled himself with the affairs of state, except when the general injustice of things inter- fered with the prospects of the people in his parish. The indifference of a government that was felt only in taxes, made him at such times bitter ; but he was usually easy- going and good-natured. At the time of which I write, the tax for the state church weighed heavily on the people of Connemara, as there were so few professing the state religion. The people were paying a double church tax, one for the church they attended, and the other for the one they didn't; and the taxes were often collected under protest, as when the bailiff drove away the widow's last cow or a boat from the door of a poor fisherman. Outside of these little interruptions, the people were happy enough. If their means were small, their re- quirements were small, too, and it took little to make them happy. The virtue most practiced in Connemara 166 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA was hospitality. You might travel all day and never see a hotel and never miss a meal, though it might run from potatoes and milk, or potatoes and salmon, to a menu of five courses, the resident gentry being as friendly as the poor. There is something very graceful in the way the Con- nemara peasant makes a stranger welcome to his house, and it savors strongly of the "grand seigneur." How de- lightedly he sits you down to his often scanty meal, and then refuses scornfully any return for it. A Connemara man is the truest Celt, "the truest friend, the fiercest foe;" impossible to drive, easy to lead. The contributions to Father Tom were voluntary; yet it took a certain amount of labor to collect them, and many a journey the priest and his pony made over moun- tain and beach to remind delinquent parishioners that their dues were unpaid. In order to be able to meet the back rents and the double church dues, the closest econ- omy was enforced. Tea was a luxury and used only by well-to-do people, except on state occasions. It was also very expensive, and wages were very low. To be accused of tea-drinking (with proof of crime) was equivalent to being accused of whisky-drinking at the present time. At its door were laid all poverty and many other woes. It was pronounced "tay" by the country people, and is still called so by the same class in England and Scotland. The extravagance of "tay dhrinkin' " was creeping into Father Tom's parish, with its accompanying evils, and he was wroth. Perhaps the church dues were light in consequence; anyway, he denounced it, and in his parish he was king. ROSY O'TOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY 167 It was the fashion just then to drag social sins and reigning absurdities into the pulpit, to inveigh against extremes in dress, speech or manners. Father Tom's chapels, three in number, placed at equidistant points in his scattered parish, did not boast of one pulpit be- tween them, and a stranger, glancing over the devout but humble worshipers gathered in them, would hesitate before accusing them of participating in any of the fashionable fads of the day; yet the attention with which he was listened to, and the shock his words created in the minds of his hearers far exceeded that produced by the diatribes uttered by more distinguished ecclesi- astics in Galway and Dublin. It was necessary for Father Tom to pause several times in the course of his sermon, to allow the murmurs of surprise and approval to die away. The noise made by clacking the tongue against the roof of the mouth, when made by several persons at once, might be, in fact it was, meant to be complimentary to the preacher, but was not conducive to a proper hearing of the sub- ject. Husbands looked askance at their wives, and wives looked down and were concerned in the fastening of their cloaks, while the old women whose husbands had been long since laid away in the ancient graveyard by the sea, and were the hardest hit of all, pretended to be deaf, and continued their prayers aloud. "Tay dhrinkers," said Father Tom, falling into a rich brogue as he became excited, "are the ruin of their families; God forgive them. They are sapping the foundations of their homes, and will eventually have nowhere to lay their heads. A girl who dhrinks tay is not fit to be the wife of an industhrious man. Have noth- 168 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA ing to do with her, boys. It would take the earnings of three men to keep her in the dhrink, which I wish to the Lord had been left to the Chinese. "When some of our men go out to their work in the morning," continued the priest, "the women get together, and the taypot that has been put away for Christmas is brought out, and then God help the characters of their neighbors. Scandal, my dear friends, goes hand-in-hand with tay-dhrinking, and it's my opinion that the devil, horns and all, is inside the taypot." To deeply forbid a pleasure is to advertise it. The pleasure to be obtained from a steaming cup of tea never appealed so strongly to the women of the congregation as when it was attacked from the altar. Women are queer beings. Nine-tenths of those who were becomingly shocked and swayed by Father Tom's eloquence into a complete repudiation of the devastating habit, had, five minutes after their cloaks and hoods were doffed, cast longing and lingering glances toward the top shelf of the dresser, where stood the tempting teapots. The women who did not put their drawing powers to the test were those who had not the price. Unfortunately for the others, on the very Monday after his famous ser- mon, the good priest mounted his pony and proceeded to visit among his parishioners. Rosy O'Toole was the wife of a comfortable farmer that is, as farmers go in Connemara and a model mem- ber of the flock. Her house was as clean as sand, water, and seaweed (used as soap) could make it. Her butter firkins were sweet from the same cause, and as she was neat in person and comely to look upon, she was never ROSY OTOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY 169 forgotten when the clergyman came to make his usual rounds. She was pious, too, seldom missing Mass, and altogether a most satisfactory person and the last one to be suspected of breaking the law. Hers was one of the few houses which Father Tom honored by taking his dinner there when delayed beyond his usual time a meal he always ordered two hours in advance, and which, to restrain the family honored from going to any extra expense, he insisted should consist of hot, mealy potatoes, freshly boiled salmon, and milk. Mrs. Rose O'Toole had drunk in the sermon of the previous Sunday as she had drunk her tea, quietly and wisely. She was a woman of few words, and conse- quently her thoughts had time to rusticate. She de- termined to give up the habit. It certainly must be very bad when Father Tom said so. Its cost she could verify for herself. On returning from church, she, too, looked long at the teapot on her shelf. It was certainly dull. A little scour- ing wouldn't do it any harm. We have seen how the work of polishing progressed. The cake was done to a turn, buttered and laid on the hob, to keep company with the steaming teapot, when she glanced through the window to see a well-known form jogging along on a no less well-known pony. Good Heavens ! It was Father Tom and coming right to the house ! With a shriek to Molly, she seized the cakes, telling her to look out for the teapot. Alas ! Molly was busy look- ing out for herself. That Father Tom had a rod in pickle for her was no secret. He strongly objected to certain ma- nipulations of hers with "the cup that cheers," whereby 170 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA the heads of various members of his congregation were filled with nonsensical ideas, to say the least of it, and they were made disobedient to their parents in matrimonial matters. Molly did not want to meet Father Tom "or ony of his soort" just then ; but how was she to get out ? The situa- tion was appalling ; but she was an old strategist, and hard to beat at a game of chance. Her eyes were wildly rolling, and her cap-borders rattling like castanets, as she hur- riedly cast about for a loop-hole of escape ; but unless she could squeeze her capacious person through the keyhole, or fly over Father Tom's head, she saw none, and the priest was at the door. The thought made her desperate. Just then her eye fell on the bed, through the open door of the "off room," with its neat "testhers." It was low, to be sure, and Molly was large, and the sequence was doubtful; but oblivion was worth trying for. She made a sudden rush and a lurch and a couple of wriggles that shook the old heirloom to its foundation, and disappeared from sight. Rosy O'Toole dashed the dish of cakes into an empty firkin, and turned to find her friend gone and the steaming teapot still in evidence. With a feeling of desperation, she seized it, and was preparing to run, when she heard the click of the latch. It was too late. Not knowing what else to do, she placed it on the floor, and sat down, letting the drapery of her cloak, which she providentially threw around her in the first excitement, fall around it. Never was visitor more unexpected, and with a wild hope that he would not stay long, she gave him a falter- ing welcome. She dared not rise, lest she should reveal ROSY OTOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY 171 the hidden luxury, and the fear that the clergyman would notice the disrespect brought confusion to her eyes. "God bless all here," said the visitor, uncovering. "Amen, and God save your reverence," answered Rose, without rising. Father Tom, however, was too preoccupied to notice the omission. He seated himself in the biggest chair and wiped his brow. His pony was standing at the door with quivering flanks and dilated nostrils, unheeded. He was not used to this treatment, any more than his master ; and having nothing extra to occupy his mind, he turned his eyes, big with astonishment, on the usually hospitable house, whose mistress always saw that he was rubbed down, and a good dinner provided for him. He missed the pat of her warm hand, as she caressingly welcomed him in the only language he knew. The second omission would not have passed unnoticed by Father Tom if he had not been more than usually troubled. In the deep silence that followed, Molly's heavy breathing could be distinctly heard. Rose felt she must speak, or go mad. "Is any one of the neighbors sick, Father?" she asked. "No," said Father Tom, with a start. "No, it's just the Buckleys and the Wests in Galilee. They're at it again. I must put a stop to it, and at once. Oh, those Buckleys !" The priest fell into another reverie, and the tea was not idle. Galilee was a fishing village situated on an island about a mile from the coast, at the farthest part, while at the nearest point it was so close to the shore as to be an island only at high tide. A little farming and a little fishing occupied the bulk of Father Tom's parishioners, but Galilee made no attempt at farming. The rocks and sands there gave no shelter for 172 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA the seeds, which even far inland were likely to be blown into the elements in their unchanged condition; but the people of Galilee were content with the sea. The sea was their farm, for the products of which they could not always find a market. They carried their fish to Kilrush in unwieldy boats, and sold it for enough to keep body and soul together; but that did not prevent them from returning with a few extra vices, and a keg or two of whisky, and this whisky was responsible for the altercations that saddened Father Tom. The farming population of the scattered parish looked askance at the fishermen, and seldom married among them. A fishermaid was supposed to know nothing outside of the mending of nets, and to be ignorant of the a b c of butter- making. The girls were often very pretty, although an exception to this rule was sometimes furnished. The fishermen reciprocated the feelings of the farmers, and considered them as wanting in spirit. Galilee (nicknamed by a witty schoolmaster) would have enjoyed a fair share of prosperity under more favor- able conditions; but with deficient transportation facili- ties, the inhabitants dared the perils of the deep for very little, and alternately feasted and starved, or left in de- spair to seek for better luck in America. While these thoughts were coursing through Father Tom's mind, the teapot was getting in its work. The heavy folds of the cloak prevented all chance of the steam's escaping, and it penetrated every pore of the housewife's body. Poor Rose was very uncomfortable, to say the least. Was this a taste of the purgatory so often spoken of but little understood? Would his reverence, usually so welcome, never go ? ROSY O'TOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY 173 It was respectful to wait for this visitor to speak, but the young woman felt that the silence was maddening. His reverence was thinking deeply thinking and Molly's breathing was almost audible. Maybe the woman had smothered, or was slowly smothering. "Didn't your reverence marry one of the Buckley girls to Malachy Daniels last week?" asked Rose. "I did," said the priest; "but it has caused lots of trouble. He refuses to live with her, saying the brothers cheated him, by imposing on him the wrong sister." "Afther your reverence married them?" said the suffer- ing woman, whose thoughts were elsewhere. "Yes," said the priest, smiling at the remembrance of his fee, which was half a boat of salmon, and which he had to sell to a huxter for five shillings, "I married them; but how was I to know that the fellow didn't want the woman when he stood up beside her and said 'Yes' to everything ?" Mrs. O'Toole's house dress was very simple a short red petticoat, and a blue jacket with skirt attached, open in front and looped back to give freedom to the arms in work- ing. It was low in the neck and short in the sleeves, for the same purpose. Her snowy arms and neck, in which even her neighbors saw something to admire, as well as her spinal column, were receiving a treatment unexpected and severe. No "beauty doctor," unless he wanted to remove the skin, ever subjected an unfortunate patient to such a punishment. The hot steam, rushing from the mouth of the teapot, went rushing wherever it could, causing the poor victim of the tea-drinking habit excruciating anguish of mind and body. She winced under the double laceration, and her 174 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA countenance was an open page that her pastor might have read if the good man had not been so engaged with other matters. She was quite aware that Father Tom regarded her as one of the model women of his congregation, and she felt herself a very Pharisee. She was a hypocrite, she thought, dyed in the wool, "fair without and foul within," self-indulgent and vain. She had been ignoring his ad- vice, nay, commands, and robbing her husband at the same time, and now she hadn't the moral courage to ac- knowledge her fault and take a scolding. To sit mute would draw attention to her distress, so she ventured a reply. "It's a wonder he didn't tell your reverence his trouble there and then," she murmured, forgetting that she wasn't acting that way herself. "He says," returned the priest, "that he was forced to drink repeatedly by the Buckley boys, and though not much of a drinking man, he hated to refuse what might be an old custom, and that this was done to stupefy him and render him unable to tell the difference between the two sisters at the time of the ceremony." "But what difference did it make which sister was mar- ried?" "It is the custom in Connemara, as you know," answered the clergyman, "to marry the eldest daughter first. The parents being dead, the boys, who, in spite of their faults, have taken good care of the family, are doing the right thing by their sisters. The young man signified his desire to become their brother-in-law, and they sent to Clifden for Amby, who was in service with Squire O'Donnell." ROSY O'TOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY 175 "While Beezey was the girl he saw every day and was in love with ?" ''Yes; he saw her every day, because he was partner with the boys in the boat and the girl helped to mend the nets ; but there was no talking nor love-making allowed by her brothers, who are very strict, so they thought it made no matter " " Beezey is only nineteen and the young man only twen- ty-two, while Amby is at least ten years to the good, your reverence." "What is the difference in a few years, one way or the other?" said the priest, evasively. "Amby is a good girl ; she would make a good wife " " She has but the one eye, your reverence, and " "What difference does the want of an eye make in ths marriage state?" said the priest, impatiently. "The man will soon get used to that, and as to her being ten years older, it will make her all the wiser. I'll back Amby against any girl in any three counties for cleanliness. She's Mrs. O'Toole's state of body may be imagined. The perspiration was pouring from her in heavy drops, and her face was the color of a poppy in the wheatfield. It would have been a satisfaction to her to cry out ; and as for the woman who was flattening her stout person to the requirements of an eighteen-inch bed-post, her condition may be better imagined than described. The priest sat meditating. Would he never go ? "What God hath joined together let not man put asun- der," he quoted aloud. "The marriage cannot be broken for any nonsense on the part of the young man." "Supposin' Beezey loves the young man, your rever- 12 176 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA ence," murmured Rosy O'Toole, more for the sake of saying something than in quest of information. "Suppose !" said Father Tom, scornfully. "What non- sense! Beezey is too sensible a girl to forget herself; besides, she's only a little girl. Love, indeed !" and Father Tom, who had long outlived his romance, if he ever had any, shook his head in derision. The pain and general misery of the poor woman's posi- tion were becoming unbearable, and she began to cry. "What is the matter, my child?" inquired the clergy- man, looking sharply at her for the first time. "Why, you're all in a fever." "I'm thinkin' of me mother," said Rose, not knowing what else to say. "Yes, yes, of course; it's the anniversary of her death. Ah, she was a good woman, but it's no use making your- self unhappy about her." His remarks only redoubled the young woman's grief, because she reproached herself for forgetting all about her mother, and for indulging in luxuries instead of praying for her. Father Tom was distressed. He had baptized Rose, married her eighteen years later to a very good man, closed the eyes of her parents in death two years afterward, and consequently felt a fatherly interest in his parishioner, who had never given him any trouble. "Hush, hush; don't cry, child," he said, soothingly. "Your mother is all right, I'm sure." "Maybe she's in purgatory, Father?" "It's hard to tell, my child ; it's hard to tell. The Holy Word says, 'Nothing defiled can enter Heaven ;' and how many little faults are the best of us guilty of. Pray for ROSY O'TOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY 177 her. It's a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead, that they may be loosed from their sins !" "Oh, oh, oh!" cried Mrs. O'Toole, as the hot steam, obeying the laws of gravitation, and finding no escape, was coursing in heavy drops down her neck and arms and through the meshes of her heavy woolen stockings. "Hush, hush, Rose; your mother is better off than you are." "She might very easy be that," thought the poor woman ; but she cried all the harder. "You must be ill, my child," said the priest, now really alarmed. "I'll go out to the field and call your husband. It's on my way to Molly Dowd's. I am determined to see that woman. Every time I call she is not to be seen, and I'm going out of my way to pass her place. She's made more mischief in my parish than a regiment of soldiers telling the girls' fortunes, and filling their heads full of nonsense. When I catch her," continued he, twirling his stick, "I'll make it so hot for her that she will forget to toss the cup or cut the cards for a long time again." With a sigh of relief, Mrs. O'Toole saw her pastor pre- pare to leave. Just then the door opened and her husband came in. At sight of the clergyman he bowed low ; but the priest grasped his hand in a friendly manner, with many kind greetings. "You're not goin' yet, Father," the young man said, in a hearty way. "Why, Rosy, did you think his rever- ence was 'Campbell the faster' that you haven't axed him to partake of a bite or a sup an' he five miles from home ? Come, put on the pot. There's as fine a salmon as ever leaped there beyant in the net, an' wid a dish o' mealy potatoes, will stand by him till he reaches a betther table." 178 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Fare good enough for a king; but Rosy, poor child, is sick and faverish. I was just going out to find you when you came in. I'm on a special errand to-day, and will call on my way back. I am anxious to intherview Molly Dowd, that famous woman that can dhrink tay like a mandarin, an' can tell our future wid the lavin's. I've been thryin' to see her these two years," said the priest, lapsing into the brogue in his excitement, and caressing fondly a neat shillalah. Roger O'Toole laughed heartily, and then, remembering that Rose was sick, he bent over her and inquired tenderly what was the matter. Rosy sobbed afresh, at which the two men looked much concerned, and puzzled. "It's thrue for your reverence, she's in a regular faver. There's a hate arising from her that would boil a kish av eggs. I wish Molly Mullaney was near. She'd set her all right in a few minutes." "I'll pass there, an' tell her to come at once," said the clergyman; "that's if I don't meet Dr. O'Brien in my thravels. I can't afford to lose my best parishioner." At these kind words from a source so valued, Rose redoubled her sobs. "Oh, she'll be all right in a little while, your reverence," said her husband, who probably was more acquainted with her moods than even the priest. " If you meet Molly Mul- laney, tell her to come, however, or the doctor, to make sure ; but see that you don't break the poor fortune-teller's bones, wid that rattlin' stick o' yours," and Roger dis- closed a fine set of teeth in a grin. "Not but what I think she deserves a few good raps ; but bein' a woman, it would be as well to go lightly wid her. I have a present for you a nate cane to carry on the sthreet. Mr. Joyce, that ROSY O'TOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY 179 gentleman who was stayin' around for his health, left it wid me for you whin he wint away. I put it undher the bed. It's a dandy little thing and as supple as a sally rod. It will do good work; but I'm thinkin' 'twill break no bones." He turned to get it, but his wife grasped his hand. " Stay wid me," she whispered. "Yes, yes; just let me get the cane." "No, no; don't go near it." "Don't go near what?" "Don't go away from me. Hold me hand." "What are ye afeard of?" "Of nothing. Never mind the stick. Hold me hand. Don't lave me." "Av course not. But let me get the stick for his rev- erence first." "No, no." Rosy clung to her husband with a grip like death. There was a rustling sound under the bed. "It's the sow again," said Roger, disgustedly, "bad luck to her impudence. Will nothing suit her but the best room in the house, and the testhers of the best bed ?" "Tut, tut!" muttered Father Tom, who looked upon Rose as a model housekeeper. "Surely Rose knows bet- ther than to let the sow in the house." "It isn't her faut," replied her husband, eagerly. "Rose is one of the natest cratures in the worl'; but the baste is that concaited, that whin I give her the run av the road now an' thin, nothin' will do her, when there's no one around, but to turn into the house." "A few good cracks of a stick will go a good way towards tachin her manners," said Father Tom, who was 180 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA a strong believer in physical force when nothing else would make its mark, and who had worked hard to en- courage neatness among certain members of his congrega- tion. With alien landlords and even the native gentry always on the move for London and other fashionable places to spend their money in, and always ready to raise the rents on every improvement in order to get the money to spend, it was no small task. That he had succeeded in causing small land-holders to build additional outhouses to accommodate wandering animals and keep them from intruding on the apartments occupied by the family, was saying a great deal, taking everything into consideration. "Run a stout cudgel under the bed, an' slash her well, an' she won't be so ready to come in again," continued the clergyman, who was now astride of his hobby. Roger turned to do so, when his wife caught his coat tail. "Don't touch her!" she cried. "Don't touch her!" What more might have happened is impossible to say ; f@r at this moment a something darted from under the bed, and with flying drapery and disheveled hair, dashed out between them and through the open door, leaving an astonished and gaping crowd in her wake. "Molly Dowd!" cried Father Tom, gazing after her, and then recollecting himself, he made a similar dash in her direction ; but Molly was already far ahead, her huge cap-borders fluttering in the breeze, her stout form mov- ing with unusual speed. The next surprise for Roger O'Toole was to see his presumably sick wife spring up, and throwing the cloak from about her, lift a teapot from the floor and throw it into the yard. The secret was now out, and Roger went from one spasm of laughter into another. He was a ROSY O'TOOLE'S HOUR OF PURGATORY 181 goo'i-natured fellow, however, and when he saw his wife so distressed, tried hard to control himself. It took Rose some time to get around after her experi- ence, and a considerable amount of cold cream to soothe her injured skin; but her reputation did not suffer, her husband being too manly a fellow to say anything out- side, or give Father Tom the least hint of the matter. The good priest thought for many years that Rose was shielding Molly from his anger, and nothing else. She lived to see the day, however, that it was considered no crime to drink tea, and she entertained Father Tom with the story, but that was a great many years afterward. 182 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA MOLLY DOWD. That "poets are born, not made," was easily proved by Molly Dowd. Molly was of the earth earthy, and a materialist of the first water. Her surroundings, after appealing to every one of the five senses in turn, and all together, left the poetic soul satisfied with nothing short of heaven, but Molly was no poet. Her cabin was perched on the top of one of the most beautiful mountains in Connemara. The lark woke her in the morning, and the nightingale sang her to sleep at night; and while they were entertaining her, she could have seen the sun rise and set in a burst of glory over the mountain, rock, valley and river, and finally lose itself in the sea. Before it disappeared, however, it gladdened the sight with the various shades of gorse and heather, and set in a blaze the bloom of trailing arbutus and climbing witch-roses that covered the hills for acres all around. The fragrance from the many wild flowers, mingled with that from gorse and heather, arose together like a thanksgiving to the Deity for so much beauty, and then like an afterthought came the sweet salt breath from the sea, and the dim outlines of small boats and slowly moving sails that were going to or returning from the day's fishing. She could have seen Kilkeiran, ay, and even Round- MOLLY DOWD 183 stone Bay, alive with fishing and pleasure boats, and at every inlet along that picturesque coast the shell-fish and dillisk gatherers, in their gaily-colored costumes, moving from rock to rock, as the waves permitted them, looking like red and blue dots in the shining water. We were talking of Molly Dowd, and forgot that heavenly vistas never appealed to her. Molly's idea of heaven and everlasting bliss was a well-filled tea-pot, kept hot but not boiling on the hob, and flanked by a steaming platter of freshly buttered white-flour cakes. She was an epicure as well as a materialist, and to thor- oughly enjoy her tea, it had to be of the very best crop. In the days of which I write, there was very little bad tea, the palming off of blackberry leaves tinctured with lead being unknown. Men and women often live and die without their greatest talent being recognized, or turned to any account. Molly could have done duty as a taster to the Emperor of China, or to the East India Company. Her sense of smell was just as perfect, and though it never awoke to the perfume of the arbutus or heather, it was keenly alive to that of bohea, no matter how far away. She had been known to trace a drawing of tea to a farm- house at a distance of a mile away, and arrive just in time to join in a cup. These wanderings in quest of her favorite beverage occurred only in the beginning of her career. When busi- ness was good, and she had the price tea was a shilling an ounce, and a shilling meant a good deal in Connemara she preferred to take her tea at home. One of our greatest philosophers said that the cravings of hunger were responsible for the advancement of science. With- 184 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA out the necessity of keeping our stomachs even moder- ately filled, we would neither brew nor bake, dig nor delve. We can safely assert that only for Molly's thirst, Kilkeiran, and indeed other villages along the coast of Connemara, would never have had a chance to know the extent of Molly's gifts. Few rise to eminence in a jump. "The wise woman of Croaghnakeela," as Molly came to be named by the peo- ple, or "The witch of the devil," as Father Tom called her, did not gain her notoriety in a day. She started on a small scale, little known and little respected, and wound up by becoming well known and less respected, but she was quenching her thirst, and that was something. Molly Dowd had a strong penchant for "tay," as it was then pronounced, which she never tried to conquer, and that was how all her troubles began. It was easier to gratify that penchant by foretelling the future of the young people, far and near, from the grounds in the bottom of the tea-cup, after she had had the pleasure of drinking the tea, than to knit stockings at threepence a pair, to cover the feet of spalpeens from Malin Head to Cape Clear, who didn't care a thraneen for all the tea that ever was brewed. Molly knew better than to advertise her business, for the Church was against fortune-telling, and the Church was a powerful factor in Connemara. That she car- ried on a good business in private, was no secret. Young girls, sensible, middle-aged women, ay, even men, climbed the mountain path to her cabin, in the dusk of the evening, and exchanged their hard-earned money for some very misty information, communicated between many nods, winks and nudges, and mysterious twirlings of the cup from one hand to the other. MOLLY DOWD 185 For a shilling she told a fine fortune, for sixpence a fair one, and for a penny (and bring your own tea, and no inferior kind either) she told as good as could be expected. That Molly could give points on the past of her neighbors ought to have surprised nobody ; that she could foretell things ought not to have seemed very strange. She was a shrewd woman, and from her home, that sat on the side of the mountain like an eagle's eyrie, daily observation had given almost prophetic insight into the future of the people in the valley below. Their live- lihood depended upon the condition of the elements. With the picturesque but barren stretch of country at her feet, where a little of farming and a good deal of fishing constituted the work of the people, she could tell almost to the minute when changes expected and un- expected would occur. She knew when a school of herring was on its way by the peculiar shades and movement of the water. She knew better than the fishermen at what minute a storm was due, and better than the farmers when the worm was on its way to the heart of the potatoes. To the distillers, (who were not willing to pay tribute to the Crown on every gallon of the stuff extracted from their own corn), she could give valuable information of the next visit from the gauger, and many believed that she treated the gaugers with equal fairness. She could tell the girls when the soldiers would occupy the neighboring barracks, and though none of them ap- proved very highly of the Queen or her government under which they lived, still it would be contrary to feminine nature to withstand the charms of a military uniform, whether it be worn by a friend or enemy. 186 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "What can th' poor sojers do?" Molly would ask. "Arrah, d'ye expect 'em to feesh for sammon an' sell 'em for a penny apiece, or plant potatoes on th' edge of a rock, when they have th' prospect of a grand passage across th' says to counthries where th' bread grows on th' threes, ready to be gathered, an' gold can be had for th'diggin'?" Molly was a thorn in the side of Father Tom, but she seemed to thrive on the displeasure of the powers that be, either lay or clerical. She grew fatter and rounder every day, and drank her "tay" at every opportunity. Father Tom laid every trouble in the parish, especially with the young people, at her door, but he could prove nothing. When a girl refused a good match, or, not daring to refuse what her father and mother had been at such pains to pave the way for, accepted him as a matter of course and then disappeared with a smart-look- ing soldier or any other sweetheart on the eve of the wedding, the priest blamed Molly. That a girl of twenty, or maybe eighteen, should prefer a young man of no prospects at all to a solid, middle-aged farmer with a well-stocked farm, or a weather-beaten fisherman who owned his own boat, was a mystery to him. Molly and her cup-tossing were the cause of it all, he was certain. But how was he to convict her? He had no real proof of her guilt. None would commit herself, and hereby hangs my tale. It is said that even the devil is not as bad as he is painted. The people of Connemara gave Molly credit for some good qualities, if Father Tom didn't. Her enemies declared that she was in league with the "ould boy," while her friends, and she had a few, admitted that MOLLY DOWD 187 there was a "good turn in her," and that "all th' throuble wid her was a sthrong wakeness fer tay," while the priest clinched the argument by saying that a "sthrong likin' fer tay" was equivalent to being in league w.ith the devil, for with tea at sixteen shillings a pound, it was only by being in league with the prince of darkness that she could obtain it. Marriages are said to be made in heaven, but Molly was blamed for a few made in the Valley, though the knot was tied in distant parishes, thus depriving their own pastor of his lawful fee, which was another score laid up against Molly. Things had been going from bad to worse. Mothers who had been foiled in their ambition for their daughters by the undercurrent of romance brought into active life through the fostering care of the stout cup-tosser, made loud complaint to Father Tom. The reverend gentleman thought things over for some time, and came to the conclusion that he would take a hand in the fortune-telling business and start with "the wise woman of Croaghnakeela" Molly herself. It is no easy matter for a priest to disguise himself, especially in his own parish, no matter how sparsely settled. Sharp is a very tame word to express the eyes that note the smallest detail of his personal appearance. As years roll by, and gray hairs begin to show among the raven or chestnut locks, they are counted and sadly commented on, as tributes to the inexorable hand of time, which spares no one, not even the young man who came among them with the odor of the " Holy Anointin' " still fresh on his brow. I am speaking now of favorite pas- tors, men who in bad times and good times have shown themselves truly the friends of the people, not those whose 188 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA whole duty in life seemed to be the accumulation of money. Father Tom, in spite of his occasional attacks on social customs, often considered outside his jurisdiction, was a favorite. He was generally regarded with the awe which children often regard a severe parent, but who cannot deny that he is acting for their best interests and that love is the foundation of his severity. Molly was the only one with whom Father Tom could venture on any disguise. She never was seen at the little chapel in the Valley where Mass was said every alternate Sunday, and when he made his periodical calls, she, for reasons of her own, made herself very scarce. The muffled and booted and bearded individual who mounted the stout little pony on that balmy summer's evening, was as unlike the B pastor as possible. The moon was just emerging from behind a cloud as the pony, panting and foaming, stood under the spur of the mountain on which Molly's cabin nestled. The adjacent hills, low and rounded, and clustered to- gether like young girls peeping over their shoulders at him, were glistening in the moonlight. A thrush was singing her very heart out in a bush nearby, and the scent from the trailing arbutus at his feet would have in- toxicated the soul of a poet, but Father Tom was as little of a poet as Molly herself, and noticed these not at all. His thoughts were on his errand, and, tethering his pony to a strong sapling, he reconnoitered cautiously. The fortune-teller was at home, for a light, a very faint one, was shining through the small diamond-shaped panes of glass covered by the rose-bushes that almost hid the cabin from view. It was a pretty little home and neatly kept. MOLLY DOWD 189 He tried the door. It was bolted. This was against all the unwritten laws of Connemara, for among the vir- tues the first was : "Leave your door always on the latch, lest the belated and the traveler suffer. Rake your fire, but do not put it out, that the stranger may warm himself. Leave some fresh water and some food within reach, that the stranger may not famish." Molly was afraid of nothing, the visitor reflected, then why did she lock the door ? Yes, Molly was afraid, and with very good reason afraid of Father Tom. At this the priest laughed so loud that he was afraid of being overheard. On second thoughts he concluded that evening was Molly's busiest time, that her customers de- sired privacy, and that she was probably telling fortunes now, and keeping the front door shut on one set while she was giving the others a chance to disappear through the back. Oh! if he could only catch them! At this thought he ran round the cabin, but everything was as still as death. He saw nothing but the moonlit path and the running stream. His next step was to advance cautiously and peep through the window. The sight he saw was cheerful enough. A clean kitchen with a small turf fire blazing on the hearth and throwing into strong relief a settle bed, a dresser with a number of shining dishes, and a table, covered with a white cloth. Molly was standing at the table, thoughtfully drinking tea. She replenished her cup from a smart-looking teapot that stood on the hob, her voluminous cap-borders seeming to quiver in the firelight as she did so. Father Tom growled, and passed his fingers tenderly along the edge of a neat shillalah which he carried under his arm. 190 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Returning to the door, he gave a timid knock. No answer. He waited and knocked again. This time he heard a movement, and Molly's voice demanding his business, but the door was not opened. The dialogue that followed would have amused as well as puzzled a stranger, for while Father Tom spoke with the rich, musical Connaught brogue, Molly, who came from Donegal, carried on her tongue the sharp, crisp tones of the North, which seemed to pierce the night air and fall on it like pebbles on a rocky coast. "Is this th' village of Kilkeiran?" asked Father Tom, in a disguised voice. "It is," answered Molly, without opening the door. "Arrah, do ye call this Connemara hospitality, me good woman, boltin' th' door on a sthranger?" "I'm a lone woman," replied Molly, "an' dinna care to lave me door to th' public. Go down a mile furder an' ye'll find th' hoose of Pete Grady, a sthrong mon." "I'm not lookin' for a sthrong man, me good woman, I'm lookin' for Molly Dowd." "An' for wha air ye speerin' at this 'oor of th' nicht, ma guid mon?" "A little business, me dear woman, a little business." "An* what may be th' beezness, ma guid mon?" "Hem! Hem! I heard that she was quite a hand to toss th' cups." "Wha tell't ye, wha tell't ye?" "Those who know," answered the priest. "Ye'll oblige me if ye direct me to her house." "Them that dance must pay th' piper," interposed Molly. MOLLY DOWD 191 "I'm willin' to pay. Are th' charges high?" "That depends, ma guid mon, that depends. It's a shillin' to some, an' saxpence to others." "Well, I'm willin' to pay. I didn't come on me errand wid an empty pocket, knowin' full well that I wouldn't be welcome." "Beezness is beezness," quoth Molly. "I'm Molly Dowd, an' if yer th' mon I tak' ye for, there's dacency ahint ye. Bide till I get th' kay." "A kay?" echoed the priest. "Whoever heard of a kay in Connemara ? Tis afeard ye are, so it is." "I am that. I may as well own it, I'm afeard of on'y one mon in th' whole worl'." "An' who is th' man, me good woman? Arrah, it's a shame for a brave woman like yerself to be afeard." "Whisth, whisth !" said Molly, as she opened the door. "It's little ye know what yer talkin' aboot, ma guid mon. 'Tis Father Tom I'm afeard of. Father Tom McDer- mott. Did ye ever hear tell of him? Ye must be frae th' Bay ahint ; but shure he's known at th' Bay. He's a hard mon to dale wi', a hard mon to be agin ye." "An' what is he agin ye for?" "Juist for tossin' th' cups, sorra a hait else. A couple of th' girls ran away wi' the sojers frae th' barracks ahint an' of coorse I'm blamed for that, though they were marrit all right an' sent their lines home. Two more of them gaed awa last spring, but they never got their merrige lines an' they bided in Lon'on an' of coorse I'm blamed for that. I tell ye, ma guid mon, that th' colleens will go wi' th' sojers, Molly Dowd or no Molly Dowd." "To business, me good woman, to business! I'm in 13 192 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA a hurry. I'm anxious to return home. Do ye tell for- tunes be th' cards ?" "I do," said Molly. "I cut th' cards for ma frien's sometimes, but I can do betther wi' th' tay. Before I lay ma han's on ayther cards or taycup I want ye to tak' yer oath that ye won't mention a word of this to Father Tom." "On a Bible or prayer-book?" interrogated the visi- tor. "There isna such a thing in ma hoose. I lost ma prayer-book long ago. Ah, shure 'tis little time I hae for prayer-books or Bibles. Na, na, I want ye to promise me on yer word that ye'll kape saycret everything that passes here, especially frae Father Tom." "I promise that Father Tom will never know anything more from me than he knows already." "Well, as that's settled," said Molly, "we'll thry th' tay. Do ye wish it tould frae fresh tay ?" "Why fresh tay?" inquired the priest; "what's th' difference ?" "Saxpence extray," said the fortune-teller, willing to bleed such a soft gull to the uttermost. "Well, let it be fresh tay," said the priest; "but be quick about it. I can't stay long." "I've seen that mon somewhere before," said Molly to herself, as she carefully emptied the contents of the little teapot on the hob into a bowl and replenished it from a smart-looking caddy. "He's a daler" (trader) "of some sort, an' looks mair like a cattle man frae Ros- common than a fellow lookin' for a boat-load of salmon, or a load of stockin's. Whatever he is, I like his talk. He's not afeard of payin' for what he wants. He's MOLLY DOWD 193 not a gintleman" (a man of leisure) "for he has th' cut of beezness." Molly helped herself to the tea, offering her customer a cup, which he refused. Nothing delighted Molly so much as to drink tea at someone's expense. She was completely happy as she sat there with a twinkle in her round eyes, set like a pair of gooseberries in her expan- sive countenance, and watched her customer for a clue on which to start her tale. A rushlight and an odd flash from the blazing sod did not throw much that was valuable in her way. He was big, burly, and prosperous- looking, as a farmer or a drover might be. He was cer- tainly a stranger, and yet there was something familiar about him. She sipped her tea slowly to gain time, and at last felt sure that she was on the right track. "There are some fine farms 'ateen here an' Galway City," she ventured, to draw him out. "Thrue for ye, ma'am, an' very different soil to what ye have in Connemara," he replied. "He's a farmer frae ahint Lough Corrib an' is lookin' for something a wife, maybe. He's not a young mon, though," thought Molly, and then turning the empty cup from hand to hand she proceeded to count the leaves at the bottom. "Ye hae a large fam'ly, sir." This was a wide guess, and Molly trembled while she awaited his reply. "I have, ma'am," replied the priest, thinking of his large and scattered parish. "He's a widower," thought Molly, and then aloud, "Ye hae na wife." "Thrue again, ma'am," assented the priest. 194 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA This was another wide guess, and Molly was more than delighted at the result. She fairly beamed. What with the fragrant beverage she was imbibing, the warmth from the smoldering fire, and the satisfactory way in which she was elucidating every point, she was all aglow. Here was a chance to make some money in the match- making line. It would be worth a guinea at least to hunt up a fine, strong wife for him, who would take care of his children and do the work of two servants besides, just for her board and clothes. She must sound him as to his means. "Ye hae a guid hoose," she said again, as if she saw it at the bottom of the cup. "I have, ma'am," replied the visitor, "an' something to eat, but not much money." "That's how all these old codgers talk," thought Molly, "when they're just loaded down wi' th' cash;" and then, paving the way for her proposition, she continued, still reading from the cup, "Ye hae throuble wi' yer fam'ly." "Ye've sthruck it again, ma'am, I have throuble wid one member of me family in particular, an' that one de- serves a thrashin' three times a day," (alluding to her- self). "By gaen them a step-mither ye'd be spared a' throuble in that line," said the fortune-teller. "I prefer to do me own thrashin'," said the priest, with a glance at his shillalah; "there's more satisfaction in it, an' no complainin' afther." "Well, but a fine lookin', sthrong young woman would help to keep them in ordher an' save ye money." "But where will I get her?" asked the priest. "Who'd be willin' to come an' work for my thankless crowd ?" MOLLY DOWD 195 "Plenty," said Molly, eagerly, "plenty. Wha is there for half th' girls in Croaghnakeela an' indeed in all th' other parts of this wild disthrick who hae na fortunes, but to knit sthockin's nearly a yard long for thruppence a pair ?" "I bet a shillin' ye didn't knit many sthockin's in yer time," said the priest. "Ye bet right," replied Molly. "I'd rather toss th' cups, ma guid mon. Father Tom is mad wi' me for tellin' fortunes. How would he like to be knittin' sthock- in's himself ? Arrah, I think I see him ! Tis very few dinner parties he could gie to his frien's, eyah, eyah!" "She's an' out an' out reprobate," muttered the dis- guised clergyman to himself. "She's worse than I thought she was." And then, aloud, "But then ye'll want something for yer throuble." " Beezness is beezness, an' yer too much of a gintleman to refuse me ma fee. A guinea I'm shure wouldna be too high for ma throuble." "An' then there's th' marriage money, or are th' Con- nemara girls particular about th' ceremony " "Look here, ma mon," said the fortune-teller, after a pause, "what are ye speerin' aboot? Is that all ye ken aboot th' Connemara lasses? Where did ye come frae? Don't ye attempt to clash that way wi' any of them, or ye will get th' broad end of a churn-dash aboot yer ears. They must hae their merrige lines. A girl might run awa' wi' a sojer as far as th' next parish, but if she's fooled she never comes hame. Dishonor manes deeth to a Connemara girl, an' a great dale mair than deeth. It means that she can never be seen in th' place of her birth, nor behold th' faces of her fayther an' mither. Thry again, ma mon !" 196 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Yer fee an' marriage money will be too much," re- joined the visitor, slowly. "They say th' clergy along th' coast charge a tidy sum for marryin' a couple." "But I ken a way to circumvent that," interrupted Molly, who delighted in long words. "Father Torn is na frien' of mine, an' I'm na frien' of his, an' I hae na intentions of puttin' anything in his way. There's a manes of gettin' things done raisonaftle an' all right, at th' same time wi'oot lettin' Father Tom know anything aboot it. I ken a priest a suspended one, suspended all on account of a wee dhrop of dhrink, poor mon who will tie th' knot for a thrifle, an' tie it as well as th' Bishop of Tuam. Once a priest, ye ken, a priest forever, ac- cordin' to th' ordher of Melchisel. When it's done, it's done, an' th' girl gaes awa', wha's beezness is it? She willna be in Father Tom's parish, anyway." The visitor growled out a few words that Molly did not catch. "Ye seem to know th' Scripture very well, me good woman," he said aloud. "An' now hurry up an' earn yer guinea. At what time must I come again?" Molly named that day week, and stood ready to receive her shilling and sixpence, but the man did not show any signs of paying the money or of going. He reached his hand for the cup and proceeded to twirl it between his hands as he had seen Molly do. "I'm a fortune-teller, too, me dear woman. I can tell be th' cards or th' cup, an' now I'll tell yours." "Ye will, will ye, indeed?" gasped Molly, becoming alarmed for her fee. "Now, Misther Impudence, gie me ma money, an' gae." "Molly, ye'll cry," continued the priest; "Molly, ye'll cry." MOLLY DOWD 197 "Will I," said Molly, "an* wha for, ye dirty spalpeen? Gie me ma money an' gae quick, or I'll soon mak' ye." "Molly, ye'll cry," said the priest, taking no notice at all of her words; "I see tears, tears, tears everywhere. Molly, ye'll cry." It would be impossible to describe the astonishment, rage, and at last uncontrollable fury that took possession of Molly. She was like a volcano on the eve of an eruption. With blazing eyes, flaming countenance, and a hand on either hip, her huge cap-borders trembling and her ample body heaving, she stared at the intruder on her profession as he manipulated the cup and reiterated his prophecy. At last her rage found vent in a shriek. " Molly, ye'll cry, Molly, ye'll cry," continued the priest, calmly. "Will I?" cried Molly, "will I cry? Faith, mebbe ye'd greet te" (cry, too), "me fine bonchra" (widower). " I hae somethin' here that'll crack mair than your sheep's head." She ran to the corner and produced a cudgel that would be no mean weapon at Donnybrook. Molly's worst enemy could never call her a coward. She was always ready to stand on the defensive, and few tried to play a trick on her. "Didna I ken ye were na a gintleman th' first minit I cast eyes on ye, chatin' an honest woman oot of her hard airnin's, ye miserable sneak! Pay me ma money, ye beggerly pig dhriver," she shrieked, "or be th' tare of war " She never finished her sentence, for Father Tom had risen, removed his muffler, coat, and whiskers, and stood revealed. 198 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Molly dropped her jaw and a second later her cudgel and started to run, but as Father Tom stood between her and the door, she doubled back and darted under the bed. Molly was short and stout and the bed was low and af- forded her poor protection. Father Tom used his shilla- lah with great gusto, acting on the Donnybrook motto : "Whenever you see a head, hit it." Wherever he saw a limb he whaled away. Molly wriggled and roared. The heaviest part of her anatomy got stuck between the dash-board and the wall, and when she pulled out she received another shower on her head and shoulders. On returning to her old posi- tion the rain of blows continued. Father Tom's arm grew tired at last, and he turned his attention to the stock-in-trade. He broke the "tay-pot" and the "tay- caddy," and left Molly more concerned for their loss than for her sore back. The whipping went on like this: "Ye're losin' yer soul by th' tay, ye reprobat. (Whack! whack!) Ye're sellin' yer soul for tay, ye ould vagabon'. (Whack!) Ye're desthroyin' th' young people of th' parish. (Whack! whack!) Ye made more throuble last year than a whole regiment of soldiers. (Whack! whack!) Ye've put up th' girls to run away wid th' soldiers an' break their mothers' hearts, ye ould bundle of fraud an' rascality!" (Whack! whack! whack!) I never heard whether Molly really reformed or not. Her back was sore for a long time, and you know the couplet : "When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be: When the devil was well, the devil a monk was he!" She tossed the cups for the Misses O'Gorman from MOLLY DOWD 199 the castle, and others of the Irish gentry who conde- scended to spend an occasional summer in their own country, for the footman was seen for hours outside, holding their prayer-books, and it is said that they re- stored her tea equipage and kept her tea-caddy always replenished, which goes to show that morality for the rich is gauged with a different stick from that used for the poor. The story of Molly's whipping went far and near, and caused much laughter. When asked by her neighbors why she did not use her cudgel in self-defense, Molly's answer is characteristic and worthy of record : "Hoots, did ye expect me to sthrike th' priest, an' mebbe get ma arm paralyzed for life, an' lave me use- less? Shure I couldna toss a cup at all then. Na, na; I know ma beezness betther nor that." Father Tom and Molly Dowd are in dust long ago, and springing up in shamrocks in the variable little Island that shines like a jewel on the bosom of the At- lantic. God has judged both. Whether He approved of Father Tom's muscular attempt at reformation is not known. Whether Molly's uncontrollable predilection for "tay" was condoned in consideration of some charitable acts of hers, which afterward came to be known, will become clear at the last great day. Maybe the recording angel was so busy recording the last that he neglected the first. Perhaps he is so fully employed watching the women who sell themselves for houses, carriages and diamonds, that he has forgotten all about Molly Dowd. Who knows? 200 FATHPZR TOM OF CONNEMARA THE STOLEN DINNER. Morning was fast breaking over Beana McCullah, and the mists that had enveloped its bold outlines were dis- appearing in the sea. Molly Mullaney's cabin, sitting so snugly on its side and commanding the fairest view from Terr Head to Mizzen Head and that means the fairest on God's footstool was giving forth hollow echoes to a visitor's repeated knocks. These echoes were repeated in ghostly whispers from every adjacent peak in the neighborhood before being carried out to sea. This proceeding was unusual, for Molly's visitors, being always in a tremendous hurry, generally lifted the latch and brought the good woman forth without further ceremony, often obliging her to finish her toilet on the way; or, failing to find her at home, made haste to seek her in other quarters. The present visitor was evidently not one of the usual kind, for he never essayed to prosecute his search further, but paced restlessly back and forth. Molly was the soul of punctuality and neatness, and when business was dull the lark was her only competitor for early honors. His first song was usually an accompaniment to the cheery tinkle of her kettle, as she replenished it from the nearest spring, and the pause between the first and second stave was in expectation of her delighted nods of approval. The feathered songster's disappointment was very THE STOLEN DINNER 201 apparent as he regarded his change of audience in round- eyed wonder. Who was this man in faded but well- brushed livery, who carried himself so erect and knocked so impatiently and irreverently in the hour consecrated to meditation and song? Finally, like all artists who resent an inattentive audience, he resumed his flight in disgust, leaving a train of melody in his wake that should have filled his hearer with delight. The visitor noted neither the song nor the view, nor the sweet scent of gorse and heather that, like the song of the lark, was arising all around him. Notwithstand- ing the early hour, he looked more like a soldier going to parade than a domestic in one of the most ancient houses in the country. The long wait seemed to make him nervous, for he stopped suddenly and struck his fore- head. "Suppose th' old woman has gone far/' he muttered. "Oh, Lord! Supposin' she is dead! I wish I knew where she is this minit." The wishing fairy of Beana McCullah must have been listening, or the stranger must have been fortunate in timing his wish, for the words had no sooner sped from his lips than a white cap seemed to rise from the moun- tain path at his right, and the form of Molly Mullaney, so familiar in every household where the angel of life or death was hovering, came slowly into view. "Thank God!" muttered the visitor. "Here she is, but how slowly she walks !" Molly brightened up as she saw her visitor. "Th' top o' th' moQiin' to ye, Terry!" she called out; "but it's a rare sight to see yer face so airly." She paused, and the fine old face clouded over. "Is there 202 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA anything wrong wi' th' masther?" she continued. "Eh, man, spake up ! It isn't bad news, is it ?" "That depends on how ye look at it," answered the man, as he waved a letter. "What is th' letther? Is it th' masther's letther?" cried the woman. "It is, of course; whose else would it be? I haven't a friend on earth outside of him." "An' ye opened th' letther?" "An* why not ? How else 'ud I know who was writin' to him a dirty bailiff or a gentleman? An' how 'ud I be ready for an encounter wid aither o' them, a blow for th' blood-suckers as they turned th' cross-roads, or a soft word for th' gentleman who meant well, but would be an inconvenient visitor about th' masther bein' away for a week, an' me expectin' him every day. In th' manetime himself would be upstairs writin' away for dear life. Oh, Molly, dear, ye little know anything about th' rale throubles o' life !" This was a mere idle phrase, for these two faithful old servants of a fast-decaying house shared its troubles when they were heavy and its secrets when they were many, and made no sign. They hoped and prayed, but were unable to arrest the doom that was surely hanging over it ; still, like the ivy that clings to ancient walls, their very constancy, their very faithfulness, kept the stones together and saved them from becoming ruins. Molly had been the "masther's" nurse, while Terry had been his personal attendant, when the old mansion held many servants, and now he formed the whole retinue rolled into one. He was in turn valet, Cutler, cook and coach- man, and often kept the wolf from coming too close to the once hospitable door. THE STOLEN DINNER 203 Molly, forgetting her fatigue, was crying softly be- hind her apron. " Where wor ye last night?" continued the man. "I was up here for hours." "At Pat Dunleavy's, then. It was as fine a boy as ever breathed," and she smiled through her tears. "Tell that to Pat," returned the man, impatiently; "I have no intherest in th' new son. Here ye are workin' for th' neighbors, an' th' masther in need of ye up at th' house, an' not a minit's time to spare." "Come inside an' tell me all about it. I can give ye a cup of th' best," and she gleefully produced a package of tea. " Is that all they gave ye for yer night's work ?" asked the man, scornfully. "An' what more could I ask? Shure, if they had more, I'd be heartily welcome. I never refuse a woman in disthress. How could I, when I think o' th' Mother o' Christ in th' stable at Bethlehem? How, indeed, an' mebbe th' good Lord'll reward me some day." "It's a long time to wait for yer pay," said the man., scornfully. "But that's not what I kem here to-day about." Molly was busy straightening up her little establish- ment, in anticipation of the boiling water. Ah! The singing of the kettle had ceased, and it was now execut- ing an unmistakable dance. "Th 5 wather is bilin'/' announced Molly, cheerfully; "dhraw over, Terry, an' thry a cup of tay. It takes but five minits to dhraw. Come on, man, come on. I'm shure ye haven't broken yer fast yet." " I don't feel like breakin' me fast before me masther," replied the man, bitterly. "It 'ud choke me, that it 'ud." 204 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Shure ye can get his when ye go home. It's airly yet." "It is for those who have a breakfast to eat," answered the man, surlily. "An* th' masther?" queried Molly, shocked. "Hasn't aten a dacent male for three days. There's nothin' in th' house but th' remains of a chist of male an' a few potatoes. It's th' thruth I'm tellin' ye, God knows! Whisth, whisth, woman, don't cry! Don't let th' sthrangers know that th' last of th' great O'Garas has descended to such poverty. Tisn't his faut, no, no, poor fellow! Th' estate was mortgaged long before he was born, an' he's done his best to keep it together, but it's intherest on top of intherest, an' now th' Jews are afther him. I could lop off th' little debts by batin' th' bailiffs at their own game I've brought more constables into th' mountains an' left them there till they were most dead than I could shake a stick at but I can't handle th' Jews wid their writs an' processes. Th' masther, who is as honest as th' sun, has been writin' a book all this time, an' little knew th' throuble I was put to lave him in pace. Th' publishers are praisin' th' book all right, but th' money part is very slow." "An' is it a book he's writin', just like any common schoolmasther in an attic?" said Molly, indignantly. "What is he doin' wid that han'some face of his? Why doesn't he marry some rich lady? It 'ud be no throuble at all, at all. Oh, to see th' likes of him writin' a book ! Eyah ! It's a come down to an O'Gara." "That's what I'm comin* to, Molly. Will ye listen to me, woman? Ye an' I can do a dale for him if we manage things right." THE STOLEN DINNER 205 "Me?" cried Molly, dropping her apron, into which she had been shedding tears over the degradation of the "greatest ould family in th' counthry." "How could an otild woman do anythin' worth while for a gentleman like Mr. O'Gara?" "Ye can, an' what's more, ye must. Now dhrink yer tay an' ate somethin'. We've a hard day's work before us, Molly; for th' success of th' whole thing depends on ye an' me." "Shure, I'll do all I can. Tell me what ye expect of me," promised Molly; but the hand that held the cup trembled, and she seemed but a poor assistant in an arduous task. "I expect a dinner, a big dinner, a dinner for four gentlefolks, wid enough left fer three or four servants," said the man, firmly. The cup that Molly was holding to her lips fell to the floor. "It must be of th' best quality, cooked an' ready to lay on th' table, for there'll be no time fer anythin' but clanin' th' ould silver an' layin' a table," he continued. "Where, where'll I get it?" said Molly, bewildered. "I don't know where ye'll get it, but get it ye must, that's all. Isn't there a weddin' or a christenin', or any- thin' goin' on?" "Not a one," said the old woman, at last. "Not one. Pat Dunleavy's son was born only lasht night." "Th' dinner must be a private nathur," continued the man, not noticing the interruption. " No one must know anythin' about it." "Then ye want me to stale it?" asked Molly, startled. " 'Stale' is a mane word, an' not used by th' gentry," 206 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA said the man, solemnly. "When ye have thraveled th' woiT as I have wid a masther, ye'll know betther than to use it. When th' Parliament of England casts a coveteous eye on another counthry, an' finds by countin' that they're ahead of them in th' line of sojers, they just take it, an' then th' people throw up their hats an' sing 'God save th' Queen,' an' it isn't called stalin', at all. Now, Molly, thry to imagine yerself a member of th' upper class to-day, an' if ye see a dinner lyin' 'roun' cooked at all, jest take it an' I'll do th' singin'." "It 'ud be stalin' just th' same," reasoned Molly, "an' what 'ud Father Tom say ?" "What he doesn't know won't bother him," answered the man, sententiously ; "besides, he'll be there to ate it, an' what can he do about it?" "Ye've put a hard task upon me, if I'm to stale." "Listen to me. If ye don't get that dinner, an' help me to sarve it, th' masther must bid good-by to th' ould place his clothes are now packed an' let th' Jews have it. Possession is nine-tenths of th' law. If he can hold out for another few months, somethin' will turn up. Fancy th' masther goin' to America an' breakin' his heart among people who don't know what an O'Gara ought to be." The tears were coursing down Molly's withered cheeks. "Th' tenants have all left th' ould place, there's no rent to get. Th' very horses an' carriages are mort- gaged, an' there isn't a duck or a chicken or a bushel of flour on th' premises. I have a few bottles of wine, an' a decanther of brandy to th' fore th' masther bein' no dhrinker so all ye have to get are th' aitables. Sthop cryin' an' listen to me," continued the man, with ex- THE STOLEN DINNER 207 asperation. "I come to ye bekase I knew ye love th' masther like yer own son, an' bekase they say a woman can see th' way thrue a sthone wall, but not thrue a river of tears. Tears are all right in their place. Ye can use them to-night. Listen again. Lady Pat is comin'." "Christ bless us!" cried Molly, dropping her apron and staring at him with open eyes, "an' what is she up to now?" "Some divilthry, of course. What else 'ud bring her? I often wish she was a man for five minits, an' I'd forget myself an' wipe th' hillside wid her in spite of her wealth an' title. "Tis a man's name she has, an' a man's nature, joined to a woman's spite an' cunnin'. Whose faut is it that she was not born a man instead of a woman? Her father was always in a rage about it, and comforted himself by thrainin' her in all kinds of sports. She can break a horse or a bank, or a man's heart widout a bit of a scruple." "She's a han'some lady," interrupted Molly. "'Tis a pity th' Lord didn't give her a heart to match her looks." "She's a han'som devil," said the man, savagely, "an' she only comes here to laugh at th' masther's poverty. She brought a lady last time, an' insisted that he should marry her. Th' woman was polite enough, but she was as ould an' as homely as a nightmare, an' enough to frighten th' herrin' away from th' Thrawler in Kilkieran Bay." "Mebbe Lady Pat wanted th' masther herself," said Molly, eagerly. "Nonsense ! She hasn't a heart as big as a sloe. Tia meself often thinks that it is a gizzard she was served out wid at birth. She's comin' now on her way over from 14 208 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Europe, where she spent th' winther. Mebbe she is bringin' along another 'tobacco sign' for him to propose to. Money is money, Molly, an' if th' new woman isn't too bad lookin', I'll thry an' mek him take her, for what does she want but a title, an' what does he want but th' ould home to study in, an' he can soon clear th' debts wid th' money. Lady Pat's letther only came this mornin'. If he only saw it, he'd put a hundred miles between them before night, so I won't deliver th' letther till afther she's gone, for I'm bound he'll see her when she comes, an' have it out wid cruel Lady Pat." " But th' dinner ?" queried Molly, anxiously. "Must be got somewhere. I wouldn't satisfy her to see a bare table, an' business can't be talked on an empty stomach. Lady Pat can stay th' auctioneer's hammer from dhroppin' on th' home of th' O'Garas for she has money enough till th' masther can mak' somethin' on his book. Tis no credit to her to see a relative, how- ever distant " "Fourth or fifth cousin. 'Tis very far, however," in- terrupted Molly. "Fourth or fifth, tis no matther," muttered the man, impatiently. "'Tis no credit." "But if th' worst comes to th' worst, there's America to fly to." Molly's tears flowed afresh. "Keep these tears for to-night. If Lady Pat has a heart at all which I very much doubt th' sight of an ould servant cryin' for her nurslin' will soften it but ye must get that dinner." "Where?" asked Molly again. "Think." "There's goin' to be a great time at Father Tom's to- THE STOLEN DINNER 209 night," said Molly, after a silence. "He has been away, an' th' curate has invited a couple av other clergymen from neighborin' parishes an' a friend or two, an' a betther cook than his housekeeper I'd like to see. She'll have a fine dinner, but sure I wouldn't like to stale from Father Tom." "An' why not?" shouted the man, delightedly. "We can kidnap him at th' coach door, thrust me for tellin' him a fine story about th' masther seem' him at once life or death an' when he helps to ait his own dinner where's th' stalin' ?" "An' th' other priests?" cried Molly, her scruples now all gone. "We'll bring them along, too. They'll all be down at th' coach to meet him. Did ye ever hear tell o' a man called Shakespeare, Molly? He was an aether chap, an' wrote a book wid many a thrue word in it. One av his sayin's I can prove by myself. 'All th' worl's a stage,' says he, 'an' every man plays many parts.' I've never acted on th' stage, Molly, but I've done lots av actin' off it. I've changed from suit to suit, an' from part to part, to give a chance sthranger th' impression that there was a footman, a butler, a coachman, a chef, as well as a valet, in th' house. It would dhrive an or- dinary man dizzy, but it served th' purpose all right. They thought a man wid so many servants could not be so hard up. Th' masther, I'm bound to say, knew nothin' av this. He's too simple, an' too bound up in his books to care for any style. Only for th' actin', th' mortgages would be foreclosed long ago." "But th' ould Earl can't live forever, an' th' masther'll come into his own," said Molly. 210 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "He'll come into th' title an' a few bare acres. He has no money to hold it up wid. Lady Pat has it all. Her father has been savin' an' investin' for her for years, an' all that breaks his heart is that she won't marry." "Tis time for her if she ever does," said Molly, de- cidedly. "She must be as ould as th' masther." "She was born on th' very same day, an' that's twenty-eight years ago, but she'll give no man th' reins over her. 'Tis Queen Bess she ought to be called instead of Lady Pat. Oh, she's a devil." "She may not be as bad as ye think," said Molly, standing up for her sex. " Many a woman carries a sore heart undher a proud head. Mebbe 'tis crossed in love she was." "Crossed in love!" laughed the man. "She'd cross a man wid a cut av her ridin' whip that 'ud mention th' word to her. She doesn't know what th' word love manes, nor affection nor anything outside av her own father, an' they say she's rale tindther to him. I've seen her bring th' tears almost to th' masther's eyes by her sneers and gibes, an' dear knows it wasn't bekase he med love to her, for he left her to herself as much as pos- sible." "Mebbe that was th' raison," said Molly, quietly. "Tut, tut, woman. Don't I know they hate th' sight av one another? She's comin' to-night, however, an' he won't ask a favor of her, but it's our duty to do th' best we can for th' poor innocent lad that's bound up in his books." Molly sniffed. It was a poor ending of a valiant race. "But how can we come at th' dinner?" asked Molly; "for I'm shure Father Tom's housekeeper is preparin' THE STOLEN DINNER 211 a fine one. She's as sharp as a needle, that same crat- chure, an' it'll be next to impossible to stale it." "Don't say stale, Molly," said Terry, reproachfully; "borrow 'ud be a betther word, though that wouldn't suit us aither, bekase that would be givin' th' masther away. 'Take' is th' best word yet, for, as I toult ye, it agrees wid every act av Parliament. An' then we're givin' Father Tom a chance to earn a fee." "Earn a fee," echoed Molly. In fact she was never much more than an echo to Terry's wild statements. "Yes, a fee. There might be a merrige. There's no good in dallyin' wid a chance, supposin' Lady Pat brings some 'angashore' along. I'm just as sharp as Father Tom's housekeeper. By th' time she an' her two bare- footed assistants have th' table laid, I'll raise an alarm about a dhrownin' woman, an' I defy her to keep her curiosity widin' bounds, an' when they're out investi- gatin' I'll go in an' swape th' whole dinner into me ham- per, an' carry it to th' other side of th' Bay an' pass it to Ned, who will be there wid th' ould carriage, in which he will dhrive wid it like lightnin' to th' hall, while th' best carriage, in charge av Mike Scanlon, will be waitin' for Lady Pat an' th' clargy, while I go on to th' manor to mek ready for th' company." The conspirators parted, Terry to the decoration of a table that had to depend on a prestige of past dinners, some fine old linen, ancient silver, and a couple of cob- webbed bottles of wine. Terry's confidence in himself was not misplaced, and everything went on as gaily and smoothly as the pro- verbial marriage bell, till the cue for Ned's appearance on the scene; but then, as Terry said afterward, "an 212 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA acthor should have brains, an' when a man had to de- pend on th' likes of Ned, he must stand prepared fer any- thin' that might happen." While the "corpse" of an old heather broom, dressed in a suit borrowed from the famed old nurse, was brought tenderly to land near the house of the parish priest, the greatest excitement prevailed among the weeping women on the beach, prominent among them being Father Tom's crafty housekeeper and her assistant. "Tis Molly Mullaney herself," said a sobbing woman, wringing her hands. "I'd know that cloak in a thou- sand." "An' how did th' poor ould crayther happen so unfor- tunate?" asked another of the mourners of the passing breeze. "God help th' sick an' th' poor, fer they'll miss her sorely," added a third. Even the grim housekeeper was moved, but she lost no breath in idle lamentations. "There may be some life in her yet," she cried. "Bring her to th' house an' thry what a warm rubdown will do." "I'd hate to look on her dead face," said another, "fer I was talkin' to her only yesterday." And she turned away. A handkerchief had been bound around the head of the broom before it was covered with Molly's dainty and many-bordered cap. This and the difficulty of vision in- cident to tear-dimmed eyes, had prevented the decep- tion being discovered sooner. When it was discovered, indignation was very strong. What the motive could be for the perpetration of the heartless joke was a puzzle to everybody. The heather broom was stripped for THE STOLEN DINNER 213 clothes were valued in Connemara and the long cloak of finest mountain-wool, probably a family heirloom, was carefully hung out to dry, and the people dispersed, much mystified. The housekeeper and her maids returned in a leisurely fashion, the recent incident furnishing a choice morsel of gossip for the ensuing week. There was a busy evening in prospect for the thrifty manager of Father Tom's menage, but she had taken time by the forelock, and had reason for self-congratulation. Though she expected no less than four clergymen (including the reverend pastor) and two magistrates, in an hour's time, to par- take of one of her famous dinners, she was neither rest- less nor flurried. Like a famous general on the eve of battle, she could afford to give her orders calmly, for victory was in sight. Her dinner was ready, her table laid. Already in her ears were jingling the praises of the visiting clergymen, and the gentlemen who dealt out justice to the mountaineers and the fishermen, as they tasted her wild ducks stuffed and baked to a turn, in a pot-oven in the ample fireplace, and the goose, the secret of whose dressing was known only to herself, and the salmon, savoring of the mountain sloe, from the leaves in which it was wrapped while boiling, not to speak of her melting custard, and her flaky berry-pie. This time the consciousness of having surpassed even herself in her application of the delicate art of cookery was most pleasant. Nothing more was necessary to com- plete the preparations than to turn the potatoes that were baking and turning a delicious brown in the embers on the kitchen hearth, and to make ready plenty of boiling 214 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA water for the brewing of punch, the materials having been contributed by a parishioner, about whose where- abouts it was not always prudent to be too inquisitive. The two maids entered the kitchen first, laughing and joking, but returned to their mistress, and with eyes almost starting from their sockets, conveyed, in almost incoherent words, a most startling state of affairs. It was now her turn to run, and the sight that met her eyes deprived her for the moment of the power of speech. The dinner, of which she had been so proud, where was it? Of the ducks, of the goose, and the other various delicacies from her deft fingers there remained not one trace! The very potatoes had been gathered from the ashes, and the little keg of mountain dew (of mysterious origin) had disappeared with the rest. The dinner was gone, but where? She looked at the tall, old-fashioned clock that ticked the hours away, and found that the hour set for dinner was close at hand. Something must be done and quickly. The thieves could not be far away. She ran into the little sanded dining- room. The cloth had been hastily removed, also a small caddy of tea, a large bowl of sugar, and a loaf of the best white bread. Like a flash came the thought of the mock drowning, and the consequent withdrawal of all forces from the scene of action. She saw it all now. The perpetrator of the joke was the thief. He could not have gone too far for recovery, and the dinner must be forthcoming before the appointed hour. She was a woman of action. She called on her hand- maids to help her. She ran to the back of the house, to the boreen, to the foot of the hill, but no one was in sight. THE STOLEN DINNER 215 "Run, run for your lives!" she shouted to the be- wildered girls ; "th' thief must be caught. You take one road an' I'll take th' other. Call on every man you meet to help you. Tell them someone has stolen Father Tom's dinner." The maids, stolid and calm, moved not. Of what use was their moving in the matter? The dinner was gone, and the less said about it the better. The "good people" had need of it a wedding or a christening among them- selves, maybe, and what could any poor mortal do ? This was the sum and substance of their ultimatum. "An' if th' good people need that dinner more than Father Tom," added the speaker, decidedly, " 'tis best to say nothin' about it, but let them have it wid a heart an' a half, for grumblin' 'ud do no good, but bring their anger an' throuble on th' house for a year an' a day." It was no use appealing to their respect for Father Tom. The fairies were ahead of him there, and they stood their ground. The housekeeper, who came from the far North and knew not the mystery of the Connemara mountains, scolded and wept by turns, but all to no purpose. Sud- denly the grief-stricken woman caught sight of a sail- boat crossing the Bay. There was nothing surprising in the sight of a sail-boat on any of the many gaps or bays of this deeply indented coast, but this particular boat was made conspicuous by a many-storied hat, that could have belonged to only one man on earth. "It's Ned!" shouted the housekeeper, excitedly. "It's Ned!" cried the girls in chorus. "That's th' fairy that stole th' dinner," added the matron, with a northern sneer. 216 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA The girls' answer was a succession of shrieks, the culmination of paroxysms of laughter which they were almost killing themselves in unsuccessful efforts to sup- press. Ned was a privileged character, and had done many wild and queer things, but this was the wildest and queerest of all. "We must catch him before he goes away with that dinner. Girls, girls, for God's sake, do something!" screamed the housekeeper. "Stop laughin' or I'll be th' death of ye. Sibby, pull out that boat. We maun gie chase. Hurry, hurry!" she added, running down to the shore and tugging nervously at the fastenings of a boat. "He's got too big th' start of us," said one girl, de- cidedly, "unless one of us takes th' gap in th' corrach, an' meets him at th' cross, an' houlds him there till th' rest come up in th' boat." "I'd like to see th' one that could hould Ned," said Sibby; "but I'm th' strongest, an' I'll thry it. Ye two come on in th' boat so as to carry back th' dinner." While she was talking Sibby cut loose the "corrach," (a small skiff made of horse-hide), and shot off in the direction of the "gap," leaving the housekeeper and the other maid to follow in the wake of the outrageous hat that was fast fading away on the horizon. But Ned, however much in the lead, was handicapped by the weight of a huge hamper, and did his own rowing, while the two in pursuit were fresh, and worked the oars with the desperation of despair. Terry's plans were well laid, and had been, so far, ex- cellently carried out. We might, with some little irreverence, change an old phrase and say, "Terry pro- posed, but Ned disposed;" for a comedy of errors, with THE STOLEN DINNER 217 Ned as the hero and prime mover, commenced at this point, and threatened the demolition of the whole struc- ture which Terry had been at such pains to raise. The old carriage in which Ned was supposed to carry home the dinner had been left unguarded while he went to help Terry to "remove" it. Leaving the scene of the theft by another route so as to avoid suspicion, they met in the shadow of a cluster of trees at the landing-place, pulled the hamper ashore, and proceeded to carry it to the carriage. It was at this point that Terry who was not recognized saw that he was pursued, and made all speed to the carriage, but the carriage was gone ! Here was a fix ! The other carriage, with the best horses, was waiting a quarter of a mile away, for the accommo- dation of Lady Pat and the clerics. What was to be done ? Time was going and the housekeeper and her maids were nearing the shore. Could he land the steaming hamper in proximity to the lady's silken skirts, and make Father Tom the custodian of his own dinner ? At this moment Father Tom and the clerics, who met him at the coach, hove in sight. The housekeeper's boat had been reinforced by others, the occupants of which were all shouting vociferously and rowing rapidly for the shore. In ten minutes the whole party would land and acquaint the clergyman with his loss. Terry and his henchman were between two fires. Behind them was the sea, with its angry crowd ready to pounce on them ; before them was the priest who had been robbed of his dinner. There was no time to be lost. Terry, who was a regu- lar Napoleon, conceived and executed quickly. The united ammunition of the boat's crews were cries, shouts, shrieks and an occasional stone. 218 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA As a defense he adopted the same weapons as best adapted for drowning any information that might be conveyed from the boat to the priest. Whispering hastily to Ned, he bade him shout at the top of his voice, and cry lustily, "They'll kill me, they'll kill me," and "The masther's dinner will get cold." Fearing lest his protege would, if allowed to answer questions, give more information than would suit their purpose, he confined him strictly to these two sentences. "No matther what question th' priest asks ye, just shout out th' same words, an' when we get to th' hall I'll give ye cake an' tay," promised Terry, hurriedly. "Cake an' tay" was the greatest treat on earth to Ned, and he immediately proceeded to do his best. The next turn in the road brought Father Tom face to face with Ned, who was partly carrying, partly drag- ging along a heavy, covered hamper, followed by the squire's "man," laden with a neat keg. "They're killin' me, they're killin' me!" shouted Ned, "an* th' masther's dinner'll get could." "What's this ? What's this ?" asked Father Tom, while the other clergymen stood in amazed attention. "They're killin' me, they're killin' me !" sliouted Ned, "an' th' masther's dinner'll get could." "Who's killing you?" asked Father Tom, much puz- zled. Ned repeated his formula. There was an answering shout from the boats, which were now nearing land, but their words were drowned in Ned's hoarse cries. "It's th' masther's dinner he's carryin' home, an' he's afraid it will take could be raison of th' delay, fer th' boys are tazin' him," explained Terry. THE STOLEN DINNER 219 "The vagabonds !" shouted Father Tom, who abhorred a cold dinner; "how dare they take advantage of a poor natural, and so faithful as he is to his master's interests ?" Another string of shouts from the boats, again drowned in Ned's hoarse cries, and a stone rolled close to the hamper. If there was anything more than another Father Tom detested, it was cruelty. His charity extended itself even to the brute creation, and anyone who maltreated the smallest animal was marked in his eyes. Ned, from his deficiency of intellect, was doubly entitled to his fath- erly sympathy. He was very angry. He shook his stick at the people in the boats, and yelled his denunciation of their mean, cowardly tactics. "I know ye all," he shouted. "I know ye all," which was an exaggeration, as he failed to recognize anyone in the boats, "an' wait till I get my hands on ye, ye rascals, to hound down a poor boy who is only doin' his duty, an' all just because he hasn't as much sense as th' rest of ye !" Another yell from the boats, and a woman's shrill voice, attempting to convey some information. "They're killin' me, they're killin' me!" shouted Ned, "an' th' masther's dinner '11 get could." The word "dinner" sounded from both sides, but Father Tom only associated the word with Ned's lamenta- tion, and he shook his fist at the party on the water. "Ye ought to be proud of yourselves," he shouted, "an' th' women, too. Let th' poor boy alone, will ye? Be off, I say, an' don't let me lay hands on ye!" The boats seemed to pull away in sullen surprise as Father Tom was seen to help Ned lift the hamper into the carriage, and place the little keg beside it. 220 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "It isn't th' proper place fer it, but we can't wait. Th' carrige meant fer th' dinner has not arrived. This carrige was sent fer yer reverence. Th' squire wants to see ye this evenin'," and Terry affected to look for a letter in all his pockets. "Well, well!" said the priest, hurriedly, "I'll go up after dinner. I have been away, an' these gentlemen are goin' to dine with me." "Th' masther has invited yer friends, too," said Terry. "He wants ye to dine wid him an' bring th' other gen- tlemen." "But they're expectin' me at home," said Father Tom, evasively, "an' it will be a great disappointment." Here Terry whispered something in the priest's ear which sounded like "marrige." If there was any word in the English language that appealed to the imagination of the pastor of Connemara more than any other, it was the one just mentioned. It was associated with the word "fee" and the widest margin for speculation was conveyed by it. Often as he had been deceived in the appearance of persons who had enlisted his services in the matrimonial line, he was always ready to speculate again on the slightest provocation. A marriage fee from an O'Gara was something un- usual, as the marriage was generally performed in the capital, where the bride's friends wished it, and it was per- fectly safe to guess that it would not consist of a boat- load of salmon, which he often had to give away, or a load of turf that required seasoning, or a brace of wild ducks, and five shillings in a begrimed envelope, or a lot of wild promises that seldom materialized. It is only fair to the memory of Father Tom to say THE STOLEN DINNER 221 that he always cheerfully performed the marriage service, however small the fee, which he would willingly return to the contracting parties, if he thought they needed it, but the spirit of the gambler, or the speculator, which is so strong in many men, impelled him to rise to a feverish state of expectancy at the prospect of a marriage and a fee from an O'Gara. "Who is the lady?" he whispered to Terry, in a stage "aside." Terry shook his head mysteriously. He did not know, himself, but it wouldn't do to say so. Lady Pat would bring some title-struck lady along, and every consideration but that of money must be set aside. The gentlemen had gathered into the roomy old car- riage, laughingly rejecting Terry's apologies for the in- trusion of "th' masther's dinner." "We don't often cook in th' house, now," explained Terry, "on account of th' masther's writin'; it makes so much throuble yes indeed." The word "dinner" reminded Ned of his late adven- ture, and forgetting the lesson he had learned from Terry, he gave vent to a wild succession of shrieks. "I'm afraid of her!" he cried. "She's afther me! She's afther me !" "He's afeared of th' cook," said Terry, "if th' dinner's cold." "Nonsense!" assured the priest. "She won't lay a finger on ye. I'll see to that." "I'll take it back to her, so I will, an' I'll never do th' like agin." "Indeed an' ye won't," said the priest, raising the corner of the cloth appreciatively. "Th' dinner is a fine one, an' keepin' th' heat all right." 222 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Ten minits in th' oven will settle it," said Terry, who longed for a chance to kick his assistant. "Let me take it back," wailed Ned, "an' I'll never do th' like agin." "No, no," laughed Father Tom; "th' dinner is in good hands. We'll take care of it, my son." "Don't ye see that Father Tom doesn't want th' dinner brought back ?" said Terry, in the shadow of the hedge ; "so run to th' hall for dear life an' tell Molly to give ye cake an' tay." With many speculations as to the probable fate of Lady Pat, Terry jumped up beside the driver, intending to return in search of her. Great then was his surprise when, reaching his destination, to find her in laughing conversation with the master. She had taken possession of the old heirloom that he had sent for the stolen dinner, and, finding no driver, had stowed her maid in the in- terior, and jumping on the box had driven gaily to the hall. "Did she bring anyone wid her?" asked Terry of his fellow-conspirator. "No, only her maid," answered Molly, whose eyes were suspiciously red. "Ye've bin talkin' wid her an' cryin'?" Molly nodded. "Well, what's th' use of that now? She's brought no one wid her, an' there'll be no marrige. See her laughin' away. She's makin' fun of th' ould carriage she drove down in, just to break th' poor gentleman's heart. Oh, she's a devil!" The dinner was giving out savory odors, and the click of glass and silver from the dining-room were welcome sounds. THE STOLEN DINNER 223 "Mr. O'Gara," said Father Tom, impressively, "will this ceremony take place before or afther the dinner? I always prefer the dinner afther the marriage. It comes more natural as a kind of a reward for work done well done. I can borrow a stole from Father Henry." Molly, who had entered to arrange a chair and pick up the lady's cloak, stood in still amaze. She was an old, privileged servant, the master's old nurse, and nobody noticed her. The master, tall, straight, and fair, with the head of a poet and the face of an anchorite, was unconsciously making a picture against the dark paneling, and in strong contrast to Lady Pat, who stood close to him in all the dark witchery of her beauty. The master's pallor became more marked if possible, while the lady turned the color of the wildest rose on Beana McCullah. She looked all around and from one to the other inquiringly, while the gentleman kept his eyes fixed on the clergyman. "You sent for me to perform a marriage ceremony," continued the priest, who was no respecter of persons and who consequently regarded the lady before him fresh from the most exclusive circle of London in the same light as the fishermaid who was that moment poising a basket of fish on her head at the beach. Both were women, and both commanded respect, when they de- served it. "You sent for me to perform a marriage cere- mony. Lady Patrice is here, also three priests, including your humble servant, and a magistrate. There is no time like the present. Shall I proceed with the cere- mony ?" The master stood quiet for a moment. Was this a 15 224 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA joke, or a wild freak of his imagination? He had in- vited no company. He had asked no one to marry him, but with the inherent quickness of an Irishman, he realized that the moment was a decisive one for him. To deny all knowledge of the matter would throw a slur on the lady, and acknowledge himself a fool. To admit it well, it was the lady's privilege to repudiate him, not his to repudiate her. He glanced in the direction of Lady Pat and smiled. "If it be the lady's pleasure, I am ready," he said. He waited like one in a dream for the reply, feeling sure that fate had made him a laughing-stock, but de- termined to bear his fate like the gentleman he was, realizing that the present course was the only way out of the difficulty. This mountainy priest, fresh from the heart of nature, must have some foundation for his proposition. He was certainly acting in good faith. Nevertheless, this was a dream from which he would soon awaken. The answer came. Lady Pat was speaking, and her voice was clear, though low. "I am quite ready," she said. Father Tom put on his stole, after kissing it rever- ently, and the other clergymen stood on either side of him, and the magistrate came to the front and made out a paper and Molly and Terry were sent for and stood in a state of stupefaction while the priest made the "masther" and the haughty Lady Pat man and wife, just as he would have joined in matrimony the simplest lad and maid in the glen. Poor old Molly broke down and cried, she knew not why, and laughed, she knew not why, then kissed the THE STOLEN DINNER 225 bride and her foster son, the "masther." Terry was too stunned to do anything but walk around in a circle in the dining-room, and serve everybody to the wrong dishes and to the wine till it ran out, when he fell back on unlimited punch made from the contents of the mys- terious little keg. Father Tom pronounced it the best dinner he ever ate, and for the first time was not disappointed with his fee. The master went away in the morning, but his wife,. Lady Patrice O'Gara, went with him, and they did not return for six months, when the old mansion underwent a thorough repairing, and everyone said the whole affair was just like Lady Pat, who was always taking the world by surprise, even to the winning of the heart of Terry, her husband's faithful servant. "An' to think," said Molly, "that th' masther an' Lady Pat loved one another all th' time, an' no one knew it; an' that Lady Pat refused several good offers on his ac- count, an' th' masther couldn't see it, though it was undher his very nose, an' all on account of them silly books." 226 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA MOLLY MULLANEY. "Th' throuble wid me is that I can't read or write," said Molly Mullaney, meditatively, "an' it's no one's faut. Me father an' mother wor most anxious fer me to larn, but they differed in their ways of havin' me taught, an' so, bethune them, I larnt nothin'. "Me father was a Presbytarian an me mother was a Cath'lic, an' both meant well. He was full of his iday of his relagion, an' she was full of her iday of her re- lagion, an' one was pullin' one way an' th' other was pull- in' th' other way, an' I was left that is to say," added Molly, correcting herself, "I was nayther right nor left. Th' boys wor to go me father's way an' th' girls wor to go me mother's, but we all got mixed afther awhile an' tuk conthrary sides. "Me father was a very comfortable" (wealthy) "man an' sent th' boys to a good school; but me mother was afeared to give us th' same chance be raison of th' tacher bein' so bigoted agin th' Cath'lics. Be way of divarsion an' at th' close of every week's school, he allowed th' chil- der to give three cheers fer King Billy an' three groans fer th' Pope, though how that helped relagion along I never could quite make out. "Me father was a very good man, an' tendher to me mother except when he tuk a notion about relagion, an' then I'm bound to say he was th' soul of conthrariness. MOLLY MULLANEY 227 He'd sit up all night afther a meetin' at th' Orange Lodge an' yell till mornin', 'To h 1 wid th' Pope !' an' then wind up be goin' back on all th' promises about th' girls an' brinin' a tacher to th' house to undo everything done be th' other side. We wor kep' up most all night, too, listenin' to him, an' larnin' page afther page of th' Pres- bytarian catechiz th' short catechiz an' th' long catechiz to say nothin' of chapters from th' Bible about th' 'scarlet woman' an' endless dissartations on th' Bible which bate th' worl' fer long words an' hard manin's, till we grew sick of all relagions. "It stands to raison," continued Molly, smoking vigor- ously, "that I can't be very sound in me docthrine, bekase I got so mixed up. I repated th' Presbytarian catechiz fer th' priest, wid a good morsel of dissartations thrown in fer I had a good mem'ry an' th' Cath'lic catechiz, wid a slice from Butler, sayin' that 'outside th' Holy Ro- man Cath'lic Church there was no redemption,' to th' Presbytarian parson, an' didn't know th' differ till I'd see th' gentleman gettin' purple in th' face an' th' childer laughin'. I go to Father Tom's church bekase that was th' bargin, but I like all th' people, an' don't see why any particular side should go to hell just bekase th' catechiz says so. "I'm ould now an' all these things happened many years ago, but th' mem'ry of me father's relagious tan- thrums, an' th' turmoil an' disthress he used to cause while they lasted, will never lave me heart. Me mother was a sootherin' crature, quiet an' wise. She was th' best manager in th' county, an' she let him think he was get- tin' his own way ; but when his relagious spell was over an' he had dhropped to sleep, she would creep round to 228 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA aich little bed an' kiss us tendherly, an' though it was too dark to see, we could feel th' tears on her could cheeks, as she whispered th' same ould prayers an' pressed her little crucifix to our lips. That kiss undid th' work of th' whole session, an' we wor just where we wor before, fer we adored th' very ground where me mother's little feet trod. She wound every one round her finger, an' me father into th' bargin, except about relagion, an' there he was as stubborn as a rock." I smiled appreciatively, for I concluded that Molly who was a born diplomat must have inherited this trait honestly. I changed my mind about the diplomacy trait and veered back to it the same night. So fine was the shading between nature and art in Molly's makeup that I could hardly tell when she was acting from real good nature and an honest belief in her subject, or a desire to please and consequent ignoring of disagreeable facts. Either was good, and likely to be appreciated by a wan- derer in search of health. Molly was a woman of many parts and of undoubted brains, which had not been educated at the expense of her heart. Her recitals and shrewd analysis of things in general made her deeply interesting, and I congratu- lated myself that she was eighty ihstead of eighteen, or I would have been in danger of leaving my heart in Con- nemara. "When I was a girl," continued Molly, seeing that I was becoming interested again, "th' Cath'lics had no show, unless ye wanted to go to Achill Island," indicating an island in the Bay, "an' become a jumper" (proselyte) ; "so me mother sent me to a hedge-school to larn to read an' write. If a girl could read an' write in those days, MOLLY MULLANEY 229 that was enough, piano playin' an' flower paintin' not bein' considhered at all, except be th' people way up. Th' Cath'lic gentry sent their sons to France or Spain (there was always a ship hangin' round th' coast), but their daughters didn't fare much betther than th' farmers in point of larnin'. "A hedge-school was a cabin protected be a mountain an' a hedge, an' kep' warm be sods of peat carried be th' childer every mornin' undher their arms. Th' hedge- schools turned out some good scholars, too. I never larned anything, but that was just me luck. I was al- ways last, an' there was only one book to aich class, an' that was passed round from hand to hand, when we stood up to read; an' before it rached me it was always time to ate th' dinners, which we carried along with th' sod of turf fer th' masther's fire, an' when we started agin in th' afthernoon, it was th' same thing. Before me turn came round agin it was time to go home, fer on ac- count of th' three miles of a lonely mountain road before me I had to lave airly. I often thought," added Molly, reflectively, "that th' masther might have started some- times at th' foot of th' class, so as to give me a chance, but I suppose he never thought of such a thing. He was that light wid larnin' himself, that he couldn't be expected to bother his head wid a little colleen like me. Oh, he was a wondherful scholar entirely ! "He was great on th' Latin an' Greek, an' figures an' such, an' th' big boys who stayed wid him an' tuk to th' larnin', got lashin's of it an' whipt all before them when they went to forrin parts, where they wor docthers an* lawyers an' priests. Oh, but he was an elegant tacher !" "But you must have learned something?" I questioned, with amazement. "You must have learned to " 230 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "I did," answered Molly. "I larnt to make ten dif- ferent kinds of cats' cradles, wid th' aid of me knuckles an' a sthring. I larnt how many laves there was on a daisy, an' how many seeds in th' heart of a wild straw- berry, as well as how many times I could skip to th' beat of a rope widout stoppin', an' how long I could hould me breath undher wather " "But your mother, what did she " "I could swim like a duck an' climb like a goat," pro- ceeded Molly, calmly. "I knew where th' blackest sloes an' th' reddest bottle-berries grew. I knew where to tickle a boy or girl in front of me wid a bunch of nettles that would raise a blisther half an inch high, just before their turn came to read, an' keep a face as grave as Judge Lynch at th' same time, an' I knew how to run away from th' rache of th' masther's cane when a complaint went in." "Did your mother never find out?" " She did, in time ; but what could she do to a cripple ?" "Oh, the master was a cripple?" "An* d'ye think anyone but a cripple would sit all day an' tache childer, wid fish in th' say widin a rod of him, waitin' to be caught, an' th' kelp on th' beech waitin' to be gathered? But he was a great tacher entirely. He had th' longest rache I ever knew, wid a cane at th' end of it. He couldn't come to us, fer half th' time his crutches wor hid fer a week together, but th' cane did, an' it tuk us often be surprise. Then agin me mother darn't complain, bekase me father didn't want me to go there." "It's sad to think there is so much difference among Christians," I said. "Separated in life by a shade of dif- ference in belief, separated also in the grave " MOLLY MULLANEY 231 "No, indeed," interrupted Molly. "They're lyin' side be side in th' ould graveyard beyant." "I did not know that the Catholics allowed non-Cath- olics in the graveyard." "But me father died a Cath'lic." "Is it possible? What changed his views?" "He didn't change his at all. He just simply became a Cath'lic to be wid me mother. Ye see she died first, an' th' poor man, fer all he led her such a life, was killed wid th' loneliness. He moped round an' wasn't himself at all. He'd walk to her grave an' sit beside it fer hours, an' there wor no rousin' him, till one day he sickened fer death. He called me over to him. 'Bring me th' priest,' says he. 'Th' priest !' says I, not believin' me own ears. 'Yes,' says he sharply, 'didn't I say th' priest?' 'Ye did, father, dear,' says I. 'Go fer him now, an' don't let th' grass grow undher yer feet/ says he. I didn't. I brought th' clergyman along wid me, full of curiosity; fer, like meself, he could hardly trust his ears. 'I want to be a Cath'lic,' says me father. 'Very well,' said Father Jen- nings, much plazed at brin'in' such an out-an'-out heretic to th' Church, 'I must first put ye undher insthructions, an' then baptize ye.' 'Baptize me first, an' put me undher insthructions afther,' says me father. 'That's agin all law an' ordher,' says Father Jennings. 'Ye must know somethin' about th' docthrines of th' Church before ye'r received into it.' ' I don't care a thraneen fer ye or yer docthrines,' says me father, hotly. 'I only want to be baptized in th' Cath'lic relagion.' 'Not be me,' said th' priest, in a towerin' rage an' jumpin' on his pony like a flash of lightnin'; "not be me, ye unmannerly heretic!" He was black wid th' temper at th' insult offered to him- 232 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA self, fergettin' that he was actin' fer th' meek an' lowly Jesus, who was all to all men. I tould him so, but it was no good. "Th' news soon scatthered that me father was dyin' an' wanted th' priest. His brothers, who wor quite well off, came wid their own clergyman. 'Is he a priest?' asked me father, when they brought him into th' room. 'A priest ?' said me uncle. 'Is it crazy ye are ?' 'I want to be a Cath'lic,' says me father. 'D'ye want to go to hell ?' roared me uncles, all together. 'Sure, ye know th' Cath'lics all go to hell.' 'I'm satisfied,' says me father, 'if me Mary is there before me. Heaven or hell, it's all th' same to me, as long as Mary is there.' They couldn't do nothin' wid me poor father, who lay there wid th' tears rainin' down his face. Th' sacret was out. He wanted to be a Cath'lic to be wid me poor mother, but th' priest wouldn't hear to it. 'I couldn't baptize a man widout instructions,' he said. 'He must know th' Seven Sacraments, an' th' ten commandments, an' th' commandments of th' Church, an' th' seven deadly sins, an' th' sins agin th' Holy Ghost, an' th' Apostles' Creed, an' th' 'Acts of Faith, Hope an' Charity ' " 'Ye baptized a baby yesterday,' says I, 'who didn't know anything of these things.' 'That's a horse of an- other color,' he answered in a minute. 'Th' godfather spoke fer th' child.' 'Well, I'll spake fer me father,' says I in a minute, fer I was determined he would get his wish. 'Ye spoke of charity just now, an' ye've often tould us that charity covers a load of sins.' 'Thrue fer ye/ said his reverence, not knowin' exactly what I was afther. 'Who gave more away in charity in th' last five years than me father ?' I asked. 'Did he ever make any distinc- MOLLY MULLANEY 233 tion bethune Cath'lics an' Protestants when they wor in disthress, an' th' blight was on th' potatoes an' th' empty boat had drifted in afther a storm, bottom upward to th' widow an' th' orphans?' 'He never did,' said th' priest, softenin'. 'God bless him fer it !' 'Well, come an' baptize him now,' I said, grabbin' th' pony be th' bridle. I was a sthrong, hearty young girl, wid a bit of me father in me, an' I held on like death. 'Come on now, an' what he is short in th' catechiz, he'll make up fer in somethin' else.' "We warn't a minute too soon. Me father was lookin' eagerly towards th' door as we entered, an' his poor, thin face lit up. " 'D'ye believe what th' Holy Cath'lic Church believes an' taches ?' asked Father Jennings, hurriedly, fer he saw th' end was near. 'I believe in whatever Mary believed in/ said me father, firmly, kissin' th' little ivory crucifix which me mother had worn round her neck so many years, an' which she had so often pressed to our baby lips. I missed it fer some time, little dreamin' that me" father would value so highly what he had so often torn from her breast in his tanthrums, an' thramped undher foot, accusin' her of idolatry. 'I believe in what me wife believed in,' he repated, an' looked appealingly *at th' priest. It wasn't th' proper answer, an' th' priest hesi- tated. 'As his godmother I promise to to see that he is insthructed an' brought up in th' fear an' love of God,' I added quickly bethune me sobs, fer th' sight of me mother's crucifix had upset me. 'I baptize ye, John, in th' name of th' Father, an' th' Son, an' of th' Holy Ghost,' said th' priest, solemnly, as he poured th' wather on th' brow on which th' sweat of death was fast gatherin'. 2H4 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "There was a look of gratitude from th' dyin' eyes, which immediately became fixed, starin' at a point over our heads. Such a happy look came over his face, his lips parted in a smile, an' he cried aloud, 'Mary, Mary, mavourneen !' an' then sthretchin' out his hands, he called again joyfully, 'Mary, Mary!' an' died, but th' happy look never left his face. "I believed then, as I believe now, that me mother came fer him, fergettin' an' fergivin' everything, as she always did, an' God knows she had plenty to fergive, an' I knew it best next to God. "He had th' biggest funeral that ever left th' little white chapel in th' Glen. Everyone went except me uncles, who were furious. Th' fishermen came in their boats, fer he's buried across from th' mainland, an' all showed respect fer a man whose heart belied his tongue. There's many now livin' who remember th' funeral." Molly's slim, brown fingers were closed around the pipe in the hand that hung listlessly by her side, while with the other she shaded her eyes and scanned the horizon. The bowl of the pipe was sending forth a tiny column of smoke from the back, and on the stem her thumb was acting as a stop valve. This was a sure sign that Molly was meditating. She never kept the pipe in her mouth except when actually under fire, and used it as a pointer or gavel, or wand, or sometimes a scepter, in illustrating her stories, so that it was impossible to caricature her. This tall, straight old native of the Irish Highlands was the embodiment of grace and natural refinement, and what made it more refreshing was, she was all unconscious of it. She recovered herself with a start. Her apology for MOLLY MULLANEY 235 her momentary absorption was a compliment to the to- bacco. "That's fine tobacco, yer honor, an' very soothin' to th' narves." "I'm glad you like it, but you were not thinking of the tobacco just now." "Thrue fer ye," returned Molly, furtively wiping away a tear. "I was thinkin' of those gone long ago." "It might be impertinent of me to ask your opinion of that death-bed baptism. Don't you think that your father's faith would have carried him through?" "Not havin' th' larnin' an' bein' so mixed, as I tould ye, bethune two relagions in me youth, I can't say much," said Molly, cautiously; "but it made me father happy at th' last, an' that was a good thing, an' it gave us a chance to bury him wid me mother, an' that was another good thing. Ye see, me father's faut was in his head, not his heart. His heart was as sound as a nut, an' I knew it, bein' th' only girl that lived an' was fond of him." "And your brothers, what of them?" I persisted, with the curiosity of one who is interested in spite of himself. "Three of them are lyin' wid th' ould folks, be their own request, though they lived careless enough an' didn't take much thought about relagion till th' last but never bitther like me father." Here a long, wild "Hurru" and a whistle were borne on the air and interrupted Molly's narrative, while it was echoed back from peak to peak in a succession of musical notes, altogether novel and startling. "It's Ned," said Molly, calmly. "He's warnin' th' boys." "How far off is he?" 236 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "About five miles be th' road." "It seems but a few feet away." "It isn't over a mile as th' birds fly, from Ben Bawn to Ben Coor." "But Ned isn't a bird, and I'm thinking he doesn't go around by the road." "Me little boy knows th' short cut over th' hills, yer honor," replied Molly, after a pause in which she had wrapped her pipe in a soft wisp of heather and hidden it in her bosom, displacing thereby an unfinished stocking bristling with needles, which she immediately commenced to knit. Connemara women are expert knitters, and I felt that while Molly's hands were busy on the work before her, her eyes were examining me at great length. I looked up and met the clear, keen gaze unflinchingly. In another minute she was looking away in the direction of the Bay, where a few fishermen were bringing in their nets, but there was a satisfied look on her face, very flat- tering to me. "I know what you are thinking of, Molly Mrs. Mul- laney " I began. "Call me Molly," said the old woman, with a kind smile. "Call me Molly, yer honor. I'm used to it, an* I don't think ye'll ever know what me thoughts were." "You were thinking," I said, "that perhaps I was a detective or someone interested in collecting information of this wonderful locality that by and by would be used in hurting your friends." "God ferbid!" said the old woman, quickly and fer- vently, "God ferbid ! Oh, that would be a mane thought afther all ye have done fer me puttin' ye on a level wid police an' informers, an' ye a gentleman an' an America MOLLY MULLANEY 237 man to boot. No, no ; far be from me ! I was just think- in' that mebbe th' boys wouldn't like me to mention that me little boy knows th' short cut. It might get them into throuble." "And wild horses won't draw the story from me, Molly," I said. "If there be a short cut over the moun^ tains, I don't want to know anything about it. I'm satis' fied with the long cut. I only want to know where the wild flowers and the weeds grow." For a moment the old mountaineer stopped her knit- ting and looked me over with some doubt and a little sur- prise. It was some time since she had taken me into her warm Irish heart a sickly stranger who was wander- ing her native mountains in search" of health and with the inherited good-breeding of the Celt, she refrained from asking any questions relative to my previous life, yet she was often puzzled as to the use I made of the wild flowers. I had warmed myself by her little peat fire on chilly days and dried myself before it on stormy ones, while I felt the warm blood creeping around my heart as I sipped the goat's milk she warmed for me. In fact, I sought the shelter of her neat cabin and experienced the wealth of hospitality, long before the thought of remuneration had ever crossed her mind. She evidently thought me a little touched, or "daft," and it only doubled her sympa- thy, for had not God afflicted her son so? An incident had occurred the previous week in which it was my good fortune to put her under what she con- sidered "a great obligation," and her gratitude knew no bounds. My excuse for being of benefit to her was founded on these very wild flowers she thought so worth- less. 238 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Molly was just eighty-two years old, while her "little boy" was just fifty, counting by the parish registry, and five, counting by wit and understanding. She was one of Father Tom's three graces before mentioned, and one, he was willing to admit, of the useful kind. She lived near the summit of Ben Cullagh, a mountain prolific in flowering shrubs and wild goats, or, as Molly gratefully termed them, "th' widow woman's wee cows;" and no one thought anything of the zigzag path to her cabin until a woman was "in disthress, th' crature," and in justice to Molly we must say that she never refused a call, though her payment often consisted of a "God reward ye." Molly had a heart large enough to hold the people of Letterfrack and of every hamlet, not only of Conne- mara, but the whole three kingdoms ; she had, however, a special corner, "railed in," as the Yankees say, for the boys and girls she had helped into the world. Judging from the number of stalwart men and comely women that she gleefully pointed out from morning till night, her "children" would make a comfortable standing army, half of them at least being of an age when retirement with, a pension is usually allowed. "There they go!" she would exclaim, waving her pipe or her knitting, as the case might be, in the direction of the distant sea. "There they go. Them's all me boys. See them manage that yawl ! That red-headed gossoon is Dick Fosther, an' that black-haired lad fixin' th' sail is from th' Killaries. He's a darin' vagabone" this with admiring affection "an' af eared of nothin'. He showed his spirit when he wor in th' worl' five minutes. Ye could hear him roarin' as far as Killary Bay fer somethin' to eat, an' he's kep' up th' demand ever since. No school of MOLLY MULLANEY 239 herrin' ever gets away from him, not if he knows it. Con will return by an' by wid a boatful, if there's any fish in th' say, an' hang on be his eyebrows, bekase there won't be room fer him to sit or stand in th' boat. He's a good- natured crature, too, willin' to give half his load away to th' first unlucky fisherman he meets. An' sure he might as well, seein' there's no chance of gettin' a market fer it. Mebbe ye think he's goin' to upset th' yawl wid his thricks ; not a bit of it, an' if he did, he'd walk th' say, it's me opinion, he'd walk th' say an' carry th' rest on his back, he's that smart." While straining my eyes to watch the subjects of Molly's raptures, I wondered if my old friend was draw- ing on an active imagination when she spoke of distin- guishing them from one another ; for I, who was scarce half her age, could see only the dim outlines of a boat and a few active, brightly-colored nets, almost touching the horizon. I found, however, that Molly's sight, like many others in the "Kingdom of Connemara," was phe- nomenal. She could thread a needle with the finest thread spun, and hem the finest handkerchiefs without the aid of glasses. "It's th' salt wather," she would reiterate. "It's th' salt wather. Salt is blessed if ye use it right. Bathe yer eyes in th' salt wather every mornin'. Open yer eyes an' let it go in. Don't be afeared of it, an' ye're all right." Molly's son was what the delicacy of the country peo- ple called a "natural," or "innocent," and the service al- luded to was the plucking of him from the hands of some over-officious guardians of the law, who were gathering up helpless and indigent persons with no visible means of support, and shutting them up in the poorhouse. Molly 16 240 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA was old and times were hard. Her business, though not remunerative, was recognized as necessary, and her knit- ting-needles were seldom idle ; but her son was considered superfluous, and would be better off, according to those busybodies, in the asylum for the insane. "Ned the innocent" was known to all as a harmless wanderer, and no one begrudged him "a bit or sup;" in fact, he was a useful fellow, and had often performed service that a sane man would have had to be paid for. He was almost as good as a telegraph service in running errands, as I had good reason to know, and many times had saved life and property by his timely warnings. He was a great favorite with everybody, and when away from his mother's cabin, often for days together, she was never uneasy, knowing that he was safe, not only through the good nature but also the superstition of the people, who looked upon anyone afflicted that way as under the direct protection of the Almighty. This last was proved to the people's satisfaction by the instinctive dislike he showed to persons of a bad mind, or persons of a good exterior who came sometimes to the valley for the purpose of evil. "Ned doesn't like him," was passed from mouth to mouth as a warning against strangers. That Ned had taken a fancy to me was an honor I did not appreciate at the time, though I often had reason afterward to be grateful for it. To take the last "child" from the poor old woman, who was, without him, quite alone in the world, was the refinement of cruelty, and her heartrend- ing cries and lamentations were borne to my ears on the sweet morning air just as I had discovered a specimen of the double-leafed hydrangea, for which I had searched long and earnestly. MOLLY MULLANEY 241 Hardly knowing whence the cries came and unable to forget them, I left my knife sticking in the earth and proceeded to investigate. The mountain passes were so much alike that it was a long time afterward before I could "locate" my knife, but I was amply repaid for my trouble. When I saw the friendly old woman, who had often sheltered me from the sudden changes of this variable climate, in such distress, I was stupefied with amazement. Her son was hiding behind her skirts and loweringly re- garding three pompous men in uniform who had cornered them. "There's th' gentleman," said Molly, pointing to me ex- ultingly. "There's th' gentleman who can testify to th' usefulness of me boy. Ask him, ask him !" Ned came over and took my hand confidingly. I looked from one to the other. "He wants to take me boy away from me," sobbed Molly, "an' put him in th' poorhouse." The pompous officials regarded me with ineffable scorn, as I begged to know the meaning of the scene, my shabby, weather-worn tweeds not inspiring them with any appre- ciable amount of respect, and I was not without fear that they might think it their duty to put me under lock and key as well as Ned. "This boy," said one of the officials, indicating with a sneer the mature, half-witted creature who fondled my hand, "having no visible means of support but an aged mother, who can hardly maintain herself, is to be con- veyed to the poorhouse, and my authority is this," he added, presenting a paper. "It ill becomes ye," said Molly, nearly beside herself, "to put th' grandson of Jack Letfort in th' poorhouse. 242 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA It was me father who kep' th' shelter of th' roof over yer mother's head long before ye wor born, "an' ye well know it, fer yer mother has often tould ye. Ay, many a one he sheltered in th' ould days, but none so ungrateful as ye." "This paper," I said, returning it to him, "refers only to those who have no visible means of support. This man is self-supporting, and I can prove it." "You can, can you?" replied the official, in whose cheeks the mother's charges had brought an angry flush. "I'd like to see you prove it." The fellow lied, for nothing would have pleased him better than to have carried the poor imbecile away, if only for the pleasure of showing his authority and re- venging himself. "He has been my guide and assistant in my botanical wanderings over the mountains in search of specimens. Without him I could have made little headway," I an- swered. "Indeed!" rejoined the first official, scornfully, "and pray what wages do you give him ?" "A shilling a day," I replied, promptly. "I was not allowed to put him under pay till yesterday, when my instructions came. Ned is worth far more to me than that, and I will see that he gets it. For the present, this must suffice," and I counted some glittering new silver into the huge brown fist of the "little boy" who towered a head over me. The delight of Ned on the receipt of the coins was prodigious. He first laughed loud and long, then tossed them into the air, one by one, and caught them on his chin, on his forehead, and the too of his head. Finally, MOLLY MULLANEY 243 he inverted himself and walked around the cabin on his hands, kicking his heels in close proximity to the roof. A more grotesque figure never presented itself before a serious audience. He wore a suit of clothes that must have formerly belonged to a curate on small pay, who had worn them until too shabby for clerical use before giving them to Ned, who was evidently at least four inches taller than his benefactor. A vast, uncovered ter- ritory of arms and legs was the consequence of the dis- crepancy, and in respect to the poor mother, who was watching him with a troubled face, I made an effort to keep from laughing, but it was necessarily heroic. "He's wild wid delight at th' sight of so much money," said his mother, apologetically, for" she was afraid her "little boy" was making a bad impression. "He's gen- erally as quiet as a lamb, gentlemen." "He'll have to get used to it," I ventured to say, "as he will draw his wages every Saturday night." "And pray, who may you be?" asked the man who had spoken before, "and what proof have we that your words are to be taken?" "I am an American, and a student of botany. I have nothing to do with any political, agrarian, or any other troubles in this country. I simply came to botanize, and for fear of any interruption, my friend, Mr. ' (mentioning a well-known magistrate) "has given me this letter." The sight of the letter altered the state of affairs ma- terially, and the officious officials bowed themselves out. "May God bless ye!" said Molly, falling on her knees. "May God bless ye, an' give ye long an' happy days! What would I have done, only f er ye ? They'd have taken 244 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA me boy away, where I would never see him agin. Here, Ned, give th' gentleman back his money." "No, no!" I cried. "It's his honestly his and very little return for his services." Molly was astounded. "Did ye really mane it that me boy was worth that? Oh, take jt back, yer honor. Ye can't mane that!" I laughed and shook my head. "It's honestly Ned's," I replied, "and he will earn that every week." "Me boy will earn that much every week!" repeated Molly, slowly, upon whom the sight of so much money had a stupefying effect. "I can hardly believe it." "It's true, nevertheless. He will soon strike for more when he knows the value of his services, I'm thinking, so I must take advantage of the present time." "Ye are sayin' these things from a kind heart," said the mother, with tears in her eyes. " Not at all. Ned, give your mother the money. She is going to buy a cow." Ned willingly gave up the money, with the exception of one shilling, which he kept to buy himself a top, and then, worn out with the thought of his wealth and with his recent exertions, dropped asleep with his head in his mother's lap. " Tis all right till yer honor goes," said Molly. "What will become of him then, fer he has no one in th' worl' but his mother, barrin' a cousin in America somewhere." "It will be all right either way," I replied ; for the men- tion of her American relative had given me an idea, which I intended to elaborate later. "Haven't you some faith in God?" "I used to have," said the old woman. "I used to MOLLY MULLANEY 245 have, but th' disappointments an' throuble of th' worl' have changed me. If th' boy only had his senses he'd get along all right, fer he's sthrong an' willinV It was the first time this interesting woman had men- tioned her son's infirmity. I had marveled at her calm, kindly ways and unruffled countenance, her intelligence, her wonderful memory, and her appreciation of every- thing beautiful in nature and art, and often stopped to think just what kind of a niche she would occupy in the gallery of brilliant women if she had only been educated in this world's lore. How did this woman come to have such a son, and no other to eke out her last years with ? It was a common thing to meet centenarians in this dis- trict, and Molly looked as if she might easily reach the hundred mark. Who, or what manner of. man was her husband? Was Ned born foolish? Curiosity was de- vouring me, but I would no more dare to take the liberty of asking her to lay bare the history of her past, than I would ask the lady who lived in the castle on the cliff. Something in her manner forbade it. She read my thoughts. Running her fingers through the dark masses of hair that covered the head of her sleep- ing son, she said: "He always wafe an' always will be no more than a child, an' I blame meself fer it." There was a pause, in which she seemed to be battling with herself for mastery. "Never mind," I requested, "the matter must be pain- ful to you." "I made a bargin wid God," she continued, without heeding, and I think without hearing, "that Fd never complain agin if He'd leave me this one boy of seven." "Seven!" I echoed. "Seven!" 246 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Ned was me seventh son, an' his father was also th' seventh son, th' quietest man in th' worl', an' a great favorite. He was killed while tillin' his own garden be a stray shot from a party of sogers who wor takin' a widow's cow fer th' tithes. I was beside meself wid grief an' despair, an' heeded nothin'. Me neighbors attended to me little childer, fer I had no feelin'. Then Ned was born. "I was a young woman then, an' I felt that th' whole worl' was comin' to an end, bekase me husban' was killed ; but it's so long ago that th' mem'ry of it is like a dream to what happened afther. He was taken from me sudden, but I know where he is buried an' could see his grave; but I don't know where me six noble boys are lyinV Molly paused. Her thoughts were evidently far away. She gazed into the little turf-fire, and the pictures she saw were not encouraging ; for the expression of sadness deepened on the fine old face, and she seemed to forget that she was not alone. "Then your boys didn't stay in " "They stayed as long as they could, poor fellows! I lost a good farm while they wor small, thryin' to raise them an' give them some schoolin'." "Where are they now?" "Jack is lyin' in th' Crimea, killed fightin' fer England ; James an' Willie are buried somewhere in India ; Tom an' Terry are undher an African sky somewhere ; an' Larry, th' beauty of them all, was killed in some little island that th' English wor thryin' to steal from th' poor natives. They're all dead died fightin' fer England fightin' fer th' country that killed their father." "Why did they enlist?" MOLLY MULLANEY 247 "What else wor there fer them to do? There's no minin', no factoryin', no transportation fer th' fish that can be caught at our very doors. What could th' boys do but take th' shillin' always held out to fine, tall young men, an' me boys wor none of them undher six feet. Ned tuk it two or three times, th' recruitin' sergeant not know- in' him, but he wor always let off when they got as far as Galway. They thried to punish him fer foolin' them an' defraudin' Her Majesty, bekase he always spent th' shillin' fer tops or lollypops before they found him out ; but when they tuk him to court he only med th' magis- thrates laugh, an' nothin' wor ever done to him. "I wor very unhappy an' angry wid God fer sendin' me such a son ; but now I thank Him, bekase I know it's all fer th' best. If he had his senses, th' Queen would want him to fight her battles fer her. Thank God fer me crazy son ! They have to lave him to me, bekase, not knowin' how to carry a gun, he's as likely to shoot th' man behind him as th' man in front." "The officials are anxious to take care of him." "Ay, in th' poorhouse. Those are th' only factories they are willin' to build in Ireland. They want sogers, not a happy, comfortable people. I am ould, an' not able to express meself ; but when I die, I'll be able to tell th' Lord a thing or two. Mebbe they think we don't know when we are unjustly thrated ; but we do, we do, an' th' gover'ment that tuk me sons away from me an' buried them like dogs in forrin parts, will stand their thrial be- fore a bar where no difference is made bethune th' widdy in Connemara an' th' widdy in London." There was a sound of hurrying footsteps outside; the door was burst open, and a ragged, wild figure fell in. 248 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Molly jumped to her feet, and Ned woke up with a cry of distress; just such a cry a child would give at seeing someone who had terrified him previously. "Don't let him take me away!" he said, getting behind his mother. It was difficult to recognize in the tattered wretch be- fore us the dapper individual who had insisted on taking Ned to the poorhouse only a few moments ago. "Hide me! Hide me!" he cried. "The Langleys are after me!" "Ye sent th' revenue afther them last week," said Molly. "Well, well," said the man, trembling, "it was my my business." "Afther dhrinkin' at their fireside an' pretendin' to be their friends." "Save me! Save me!" cried the man. "They're after me!" "Ye don't desarve it; but I will, if ye'll promise to let me little boy alone." "I will! I will!" repeated the wretch, cowering be- hind the door. "Me advice to ye," said Molly, coolly, "is never to play thricks on th' mountaineers. They're willin' to thrate everyone dacent, but they want to be thrated dacent in return. There's gaps in these hills, an' bogs near th' say that require fillin', an' a few hundred informers wouldn't be missed an' would come in very handy. I'm not partial to whiska meself, an' thank God, poor Ned wouldn't taste it fer all th' money in London; but I think that a poor man should make th' best of what he has to sell, whether it be corn or fish, an' a man that comes round to make more throuble than we like should look out." MOLLY MULLANEY 249 "Save me ! Save me ! They're close behind me !" cried the man, impatiently. "All in good time," said Molly, throwing a skirt over him and a cloak around him, drawing the hood well over his face. "Here, Ned," she continued, "take this man to Peggy Moffit's. There's a woman in disthress there. Spake no word to anybody, an' hurry back, be- kase I'm goin' to have cakes an' tay wid th' money th' gentleman paid ye. Dhrop th' clothes in a ditch when ye're out of danger, an' that would be before ye get to Ben Baun. Run then fer yer life, an' don't show yer- self here in a hurry. No harm will come to ye while ye are wid Ned, bekase they'll think it's me," were the instructions Molly gave to the dismantled official, in an aside. Ned was at first reluctant, but finally obedient, and the ill-assorted pair departed. "It's all right," said Molly, looking through the little window. "Th' crowd has turned back to look fer him in th' other pass." "Will Ned succeed in bringing him safely away?" I asked, to whom the scene was a veritable drama. "He will," answered the gifted old woman, "an' what's more, he'll never come back. I've done two good turns to-day," she added, cheerfully. "I've kep' th' boys from doin' somethin' they would be sorry fer aftherwards, an' I've med a friend of th' smart fellow who thinks he knows Connemara." 250 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA ROSY MCDONNELL'S JEALOUSY. It has never been known to what extent jealousy will carry a man or woman, but it carried Rosy McDonnell very far so far that she was the laughing-stock of every- body from Outerard to Clifden, and from Killary Harbor to Galway Bay. Rosy was insanely, wildly jealous, and being a proud, reserved woman, let the canker eat her heart out before she made a sign ; and even then that sign was conveyed to "the little gray man from the mist," so called because he lived on the top of the mountain from which the mist never quite cleared away, and practiced his calling, like Molly Dowd, the cup-tosser, in silence and mystery, far away from the restraining hand of Father Tom. If Rosy had only confided in her husband well, in that case there would have been no story to tell. The wildest stretch of imagination would never have associated the personnel of Malachy McDonnell with the slightest shadow of romance that is, a sane imagina- tion, but jealous people are rarely sane. His short, squat figure and round, good-natured face, adorned with whis- kers the color of the setting sun, stretching from ear to ear and meeting under his chin in the placid manner of a goat from the peak of Slievemore, ought to have satisfied her of his innocence in that line, but it didn't. Malachy's attraction did not lie in his face or form. He had two ROSY MCDONNELL'S JEALOUSY 251 gifts, not always recognized at first sight, but which go a long way toward making a man's success in life ; namely, sound brains and a good tongue. "He could talk the very birds off the bushes, an' make them folly him through fire an' wather," muttered Rosy. That he had coaxed Rosy, who was "divinely tall and most divinely fair" and the belle of the region, from hosts of admirers who possessed undoubted good looks in varying degrees, was proof enough in itself of the truth of her assertion. It is often easy to capture a human heart ; but the proof of power is in the keeping of it. That Malachy had retained his wife's affections through youth on to middle life was another proof of that power. That he never used his gifts in illegitimate ways was sufficiently proven in the cross-examination conducted by the greatest mar- tinet for morality in the district, Father Tom ; con- sequently, all the blame was laid where it belonged, on measureless jealousy. To the ordinary experience, love without a little jeal- ousy is worth very little. If Rosy had only known how many honeyed words Malachy dispensed to the fair sex in the line of business from morning till night, she would have been very unhappy; but as his business was all done away from home, she was spared that sorrow. Having nothing to be jealous of, and seeing nothing that he showered his attentions on more tangible than his donkey, she immediately became jealous of the donkey. I'm afraid that strangers will think that Rosy was very silly ; but it can be safely asserted that she was not a bit sillier than others and more cultured of her sex. Letty, the donkey, was her husband's associate in business and 252 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA received many of his confidences between daylight and dark on his way home from the neighboring towns, as well as many necessary kindnesses; and the jealousy shown was not more strange or unreasonable than that often exhibited toward a partner, a secretary, or a type- writer-girl who hasn't a bit more attraction than Mal- achy's donkey. Rosy never got into this predicament all alone. In fact, the ridiculous idea was first introduced into her mind by a traveling beggar, whose ungrateful return for a hearty meal was a thorn that rankled as he well knew it would in the heart of the unhappy woman for many days. The conversation ran thus : "Many thanks fer yer kindness, ma'am, an' may th' Lord increase yer store. But sure there's no need of me prayer, as long as ye have th' good-will of th' good people, an' one of them wid yer good man all th' time. No, in- deed !" "What do you mane?" asked Rosy. "I don't know that we have anythin' to do wid the good people, more than our neighbors." "Oh, not ye, ma'am, not ye," and the rascal snickered before he added: "But sure it's not well fer a woman to know too much, especially a wife. Good-by, ma'am." "Stay," said Rosy, now fully aroused. "Stay a minute. I I have a few things that may be of use to you. What about the good people ?" "They say that yer man found a crock of gold, but he didn't," said the beggar, with pretended reluctance. "But I knew when I saw th' donkey that it wasn't what ye took it to be, but a but well, ma'am, th' laste said th' soonest mended. Good-by, an' may " "Now just tell me what you think the donkey is," persisted Rosy, "or you needn't come here any more." ROSY MCDONNELL'S JEALOUSY 253 "Well, then, if ye will have it, she's a fairy changeling a fairy who has fallen in love wid yer man an' has taken th' form of a donkey so as to be near him. Between Ballynakill an' Killary there's a lake sheltered by two mountains, known to but few. When yer husband goes that way, he stops an' rests. Between dawn an' dark there's one hour in which th' donkey can return to her fairy form; that is, if she gets in on time, but meself doesn't know " Rosy affected to laugh at the superstition, but the laugh was hollow; and for her further delectation, the beggar informed her that the beautiful fairy was probably "a thousand years old, barrin' a day," and that only one man in a hundred could work a "charm" on the usurper and show her husband what this unearthly sweetheart really was in all her decrepitude of age and fury, and that only man was "the little gray man from the mist." The mischief was done, and the beggar decamped with a well-filled bag and a meaning smile. What the beggar said was very true, so far as money was concerned. They had been very poor, and now they were rich, rich for that part of the world. They had more than a hundred pounds in the bank, besides a good house and barn and some gay new furniture coming to please the girls. All this wealth had been accumulated in a few years, and during that time the donkey had been in their possession. Malachy said he had bought her from someone for a certain sum and was always praising her for bah Rosy had been reared among the mysterious mountains of the coast, where the supernatural aroused no surprise at all; where wild, unearthly laughter and strains of 254 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA music emerged from the hollow of the everlasting hills and were borne out to sea, assuring the fishermen that the revels of the mountain spirits were in progress ; and where all kinds of strange occurrences were expected. She had been poor, and now Rosy felt that she would gladly be poor again if she could only get rid of that miserable donkey. Of what use was wealth if her Malachy preferred the society of the wretched fairy "a thousand years old, barrin' a day," to the woman who married him in all her youth and beauty ? If Rosy had only stopped to think, she might have accounted for everything in a perfectly natural way. Malachy had been lucky, it was true; but his luck had been helped out by hard work, in which she and her daughters shared. Had he been born in America, he would have been many times a millionaire, for the brains that turned possibilities into probabilities were his in a marked degree. A man becomes wealthy in proportion to the number of men he gets to work for him, while he directs their work into the money line. Even on that backward coast and without one male in the family out- side of himself, Malachy gathered in the fruits of the work of four persons (not counting the donkey), and his diplomacy was such that all worked without realizing it. Everybody along the coast, with the exception of the shopkeepers and the clergymen Presbyterian and Catholic and the superannuated doctor, was in the same line of business. Each man had a boat or a share in a boat, and a patch of potatoes and oats on the side of a mountain, a pig, a goat, a cow or two, or maybe no cow at all. When the season was good and they were lucky in their ROSY MCDONNELL'S JEALOUSY 255 catch of fish, the huxters seemed to know it by instinct. They came around the boats with their carts, crowding, jostling, and bargaining so as to manage to get their herrings into town before the sun was high, but the prices they paid were wretched. When the season was poor, or the French with their steam-plows and their smiles had raked the Bay ahead of their "thrawlers," the compensation remained about the same; for oversupply brought under prices, and what could not be used in the home market must be either given away or buried for manure, while towns at a dis- tance were pining for the fruits of the ocean, so meager were transportation facilities. Father Tom and the Presbyterian clergyman had long been trying to remedy this evil. They had written here and there, but all to no purpose. In the meantime, Mai- achy, who realized that complaints were useless, wasted no time in them, but turned his back on the huxters, and leaving his wife and three daughters for he had no sons in charge of the boats and fishing-tackle, loaded his donkey and cleared the dew from the grass in his efforts to reach the town first. Malachy's girls could cast a net and haul it to land with the dexterity of young men, and for this Malachy's neighbors criticised him. They would have criticised him just a severely had he allowed them to remain at home, so he cared not one jot, but kept on getting rich. His wife and daughters not only attended to the fishing but worked his tiny farm as well, while he was in town dis- posing of the shell-fish and dillisk in season. He was a rare disciplinarian, but a kind one, and he never forgot a ribbon or an apron for the girls, nor a precious, though 17 256 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA tiny, package of tea for his wife. His lips dropped honeyed words at all times, so that his return from town was always looked forward to with pleasure. Outside of these presents, Malachy was of a very saving turn, and commenced to spread. He bought first one boat and then another, then an acre of bog-land, and then an acre of mountain. Every investment was judicious. The same two-room cottage, with its neat sanded floor, satisfied him ; but prosperity is proud, and the girls were lengthen- ing out and demanded better accommodations, and they got them. Everybody said Malachy had found a pot of gold, and the beach was scoured for piratical stores that were re- ported to have been hidden there long ago. Malachy neither affirmed nor denied the charge. He merely smiled and went on with his work. The change was gradual but sure, one old-fashioned thing after another being disposed of to make room for the new ; but there was one thing Malachy would not part with, and that was the donkey. He liked to sit in the kitchen and feed her over the half door with a piece of oat-cake at supper time. She was a great pet, and the sound of her master's voice would bring her from a long distance ; sometimes it drew her into the kitchen, and the patter of her hard hoofs on the floor drew on her the fury of the girls. They had been away to the neighboring towns, to Lettermore and Gorumna, and had seen nice houses and parlors, but never a donkey as a visitor. Why should they be bothered with her.? "Sell her, father," they cried. "Pete Wallace will give you five shillings for her. She's getting worse and worse every day." But Malachy was firm. ROSY MCDONNELL'S JEALOUSY 257 "No, no," he replied. "She has worked hard, and she deserves a rest. She has helped to buy you a parlor. Let the poor thing peep into the kitchen. She's old and doesn't understand the new state of affairs." Malachy sighed. He, too, liked the old style of things; but his girls yes, his girls had their likings, and he owed it to them to give them pleasure. They, too, had worked hard. All this was gall and wormwood to Rosy. She had watched with growing suspicion every act of kindness and thoughtfulness done by Malachy for the companion of his rambles over the sunlit hills. A handful of fresh, sweet grass, an apple, a square of oat-cake, a drink of water, or a pat of his hand on her coat which was en- tirely too silky for a donkey were but fresh tokens of an illicit love for a wretched fairy changeling "a thou- sand years old, barrin' a day." If she had paused for a moment to think, she would have remembered that kindness was all in Malachy's line; that it was as natural for him to pat a dumb "baste" as for another man of a morose disposition to kick it ; that he had been uniformly kind to everybody and everything that ever crossed his path, and that his present conduct was the same as in the past and therefore should excite no remark ; but she never paused to think. Instead, she took to watching Malachy and the donkey. If Malachy was absent, she looked into the barn for the donkey, and if she found her grazing quietly near by, she did not hesitate to drive her to her shelter with a few well-directed blows. All this did not tend to make better friends of the don- key, who got into the habit of watching her mistress in a dubious, unfriendly way, that boded ill for the latter if 258 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA she ever got between the donkey's heels and the wall. With her imagination filled with the beggar-man's story (he had come again and again), Rosy saw, in that look of determination, confirmation of her wildest suspicions. That eye, with its pupil set so slyly in the corner and full of intelligent inquiry, could surely never belong to a donkey. It had all the triumphant sneer of a successful rival. Rosy had brooded so long over these things that at last she could conjure up anything that her fancy dic- tated. Her husband, simple man that he was, thought the change due to ill health, and was the soul of kindness. He advised her to go away for awhile and visit her friends, as the change might benefit her. In this Rosy saw but another proof that her presence was not desired, and she flamed forth in angry remonstrance. "You'd be glad to see me go, I'm sure!" she cried. "Yes, yes, of course. I'll take you down as far as the coach." "Oh, you're anxious to see my back turned, but you can't fool me forever. Oh, I know you and your tricks. No, no ; I'll stay here at home and watch the pair of you." Malachy looked puzzled. Was this his gentle, docile Rosy? He again attributed this outbreak to some physi- cal ailment, and determined to consult a doctor. In the meantime, he doubled his kindness. To Rosy his kind- ness was another insult, and she sulked. But a woman can't sulk forever, and she made up her mind to do some- thing. In the meanwhile, the parlor that Malachy had added to his cottage to please his girls was now ready. A mir- ror, almost the size of a minute mountain lake, had ar- ROSY MCDONNELL'S JEALOUSY 259 rived, and after being duly admired by the neighbors, was securely fastened to the wall. A carpet of gorgeous pat- tern and glaring colors covered the floor, and a superan- nuated piano, which Malachy had picked up at an auction sale at Kilrush, spread its length along the opposite wall. The girls were in ecstasies. They were tall, comely, and innocent, but awkward looking, and the family mir- ror, in which they had been accustomed to regulate their Sunday toilets, was capable of being concealed in the palms of their huge hands. They accordingly approved of this means of rapid survey within their reach. They spent the entire day laughing and giggling before it, and keeping the donkey within the precincts of her own do- main. In this the mother gladly helped them. It was in attempting to protect his pet from an unusually heavy shower of blows that Malachy came upon another puz- zling scene with his wife. "Don't hit the poor thing so hard, Rosy; you'll never tache her that way aisy, aisy, you'll break her back." "No fear of that," answered his wife, significantly. "It isn't aisy to kill her kind." "Kindness is the best and safest method to be used wid both man and baste," continued Malachy. "If you're cruel, you'll make her spiteful, and she'll take her chances and kick you. Look out!" "Sorry a doubt but you'll take her part agin your law- ful wife," retorted Rosy. "It's a wonder you don't put her in the parlor and send us to the barn. It's a wonder." "She'll soon be busy bringing home the winter's turf," said Malachy, soothingly. "And after I have her away a few days in the mountains, she'll forget all about your new parlor." 260 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "After you spend a few days wid her at the wishing well !" cried his wife, who was now furious. "Certainly, certainly," acquiesced her husband, looking at his wife in a puzzled way which Rosy took for guilt. The upshot was that Rosy had an interview with "the little gray man from the mist," and he agreed to come on a certain day, in the absence of Malachy and the girls, and work certain charms on the unfortunate donkey. "The little gray man from the mist" was not very mod- est in his demands; but Malachy, who was usually very close, had left her an unusually large sum of money to pay the doctor whom he wished her to consult, and she turned it over to "the little gray man" when he arrived, and then she ushered him into the barn. "Hould her while I go through th' first incantation," said the little man. "And after that?" inquired Rosy, who was making a grab for the donkey's ears. "An' afther that," answered the little man, "she has to sniff three sniffs of burnin' yarbs which I will light undher her nose." "And after that?" "An' afther that, I'll whisper a few words in her ear, an' ye'll see a beautiful crathure, wid golden hair an' heavenly eyes an' " "Ugh!" said Rosy, disgustedly, "and what do I want her for? And what'll I do wid her?" "Whisth, whisth, woman! Don't be interruptin' me. She won't remain long in that shape, fer " "How long?" asked Rosy, breathlessly, knowing or im- agining her husband's weakness for female loveliness. "Not fer long, but ye must hould on to her fer fear of ROSY MCDONNELL'S JEALOUSY 261 her goin' through th' kayhole, be raison of her shuper- natural powers, an' tryin' to fly to th' arms of her lover." "Oh, I'll hold her, never fear; that is, if she doesn't prove too strong." "That depends on how ye hould her," said the little man, significantly. "Ye must keep yer arms round her while I read th' first incantation, an' never loosen as much as a finger till I read th' second incantation." "And then?" queried Rosy. "An' then if ye don't folly me insthructions " "I will, I will!" gasped Rosy. "But tell me here, what's going to happen then I mean after that " "Ye'll see her turn into an ould woman of a hundred years, thin, bony, an' awful lookin', her hands like bird claws, an' dhressed in rags " "And how'll I keep her till Malachy conies?" asked Rosy, with a mixture of exultation and horror in her voice. "Couldn't I tie her up to the piany? But sure she knows every word we're saying. Just look how she's rolling her eyes." "She hears us," said the little man, "but she doesn't undherstand one word, be raison of a yarb I have, which carries a charm." Whether she understood or not, the donkey was not enraptured with her present company, and she demon- strated the fact by swerving aside and making for the door. It had been fastened, but insecurely, and she passed through and into the house. She was followed immediately by the two conspirators, who locked the kitchen door securely. Letty preferred the parlor, however, and she dashed in and took her stand before the mirror. She stopped for a moment as if to ex- 262 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA amine her reflection, and Rosy improved the occasion by catching her by the ears. "Just take her where she is," she shouted. "I'll hold her while you burn the yarbs." "Ye'll have to jump on her back an' hould on to her," urged the little man, when the donkey had wedged her- self between the corner of the piano and the mirror. "As well here as anywhere," gasped Rosy, who was be- coming desperate at the obstacles in her way. "As soon as we get her in the real shape, we can tie her to the legs of the piany and send for Father Tom. Light the yarbs in that dish and there'll be no damage done," she con- tinued. The little donkey spread her feet and stood in seeming wonder at the program that was being carried out in her presence. With ears erect and nostrils dilated to their utmost capacity, she watched with sly, sideway glances the culmination of the plot against her liberty. Not a quiver escaped her while the little man lighted a wisp and communicated it to the ingredient in the dish. "We're getting through all right," whispered Rosy, exultantly, from the back of the bewildered little pest. But she spoke too soon. Letty's entire attention ap- peared to be engrossed by her reflection in the mirror. Her whole brain was working itself up to some conclu- sion. Who was this creature staring at her, at such im- pertinently close quarters one of her own species with the same distinguishing marks? It was like a corporal of the guard meeting another corporal of the guard in the house of his prettiest sweetheart. Letty, in her wild- est moments, had never dreamt of this formidable rival for the favors of the household. ROSY MCDONNELL'S JEALOUSY 263 As for the woman on her back and the little old man bending over the smoking dish, she completely ignored them; she could scatter them at any time, but this crea- ture bah ! it was Letty's turn to be jealous. There was room in the house for only one donkey, she concluded. In the meantime, the vapor from the burning dish was slowly rising between her and her rival, whose charms, so like her own, she was slowly but bitterly enumerating : the same well-fed, plump body ; the same long, silky hair ; the long, slender ears. She could stand it no longer. Through the thickening mist that rose slowly from the pan, she caught a look of rage and defiance from the stranger. It was enough. "See how th' charm is workin'?" whispered the little old man. "She can't move hand nor foot. Ha, ha! We'll soon have ye all right, me lady !" Rosy, on whom the "yarbs" seemed to be having more effect than they did on the donkey, made a motion to wipe the scalding tears that the smoke was drawing from her eyes, but the old man bade her keep quiet. "Keep yer hands on her a minute longer," he said, "or ye'll break th' charm. Look at her now ye'll soon see a sight." This was very true. In a few minutes the old man saw more of a sight than he had ever seen from Bena McCullagh, but of a widely different kind. Meanwhile, in the silence resembling that of death, the actors in this strange drama watched the mystic column rise from the dish, while a pungent, aromatic odor filled the room. Rosy was livid with emotion. She was about to see the wicked exposed and punished, to see the wretch who had robbed her of her husband's love brought to her 264 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA own shape and sent back to her people. She congratu- lated herself on her courage in unmasking this demon; ah! Letty's few minutes of contemplation were over. She, too, was making up her mind in regard to the new-comer, and her resolution was just as firm as that reached by the woman on her back. She, too, would punish the strange donkey who had the temerity to intrude on her lawful domain and try to deprive her of her comfortable stable and her sweet morsels of grass, not to speak of the apples and an occasional square of oat-cake. She would destroy her and knock her not only out of the house, but off the face of the green earth. One wild "heehaw" escaped from her tortured breast, and she prepared for action. A donkey's weapons are her heels, and before Rosy had time to express her surprise, Letty had changed their positions and thrown them in the direction of her illusory rival. There was a tremendous clash, and the mirror was split from end to end. Another kick, and the floor was strewn with fragments. Then she wheeled around in an orbit, and returned to her work of demolition, leaving in her wake an overturned dish of burning herbs and a demolished "yarb doctor." Rosy, thinking this was a necessary part of the charm, held on to the donkey with might and main. The interest of the whole proceedings was now centered in the donkey, and what she intended to do next. She did not leave her audience long in suspense. Seeing that her rival had disappeared, she gave vent to a succession of triumphant but decidedly unmusical "heehaws," and com- menced a triumphant gallop around the room with a ve- ROSY MCDONNELL'S JEALOUSY 265 locity hardly to be credited by even her indulgent master. Everything disappeared before her flying heels tables, chairs, ornaments, and even the fairy doctor. From the overturned dish a small fire had started, which was slowly extending over the carpet of many colors, and still she sped. "Holy Mother!" gasped Rosy, who, breathless and as- tonished, was still clinging to the donkey's back. "Holy Mother, when will this all end?" When indeed? The fire was embracing the leg of the chair and the table- cloth. Rosy thought this was all witchcraft, and she was more determined than ever to see the charm out. She had read and heard of such illusions brought on for the purpose of tiring out the mortal prosecutors and causing them to de- sist. No, she would not credit the evidence of her eyes. When the wicked fairy who now occupied the shape of the wretched donkey was dislodged, all these things would be restored to their normal conditions and she would be rewarded with the return of her husband's affections. There was in her mind no broken mirror, no damaged furniture, and no fire, though the woolen carpet was smol- dering and bursting into flames beneath the flying feet of the frenzied donkey. It happened, fortunately, to be Father Tom's visiting day, and he looked in from his position on the back of his pony through the open window (the door being secured) on the scene, the parallel of which he had never even dreamt of. "Tut, tut, tut!" gasped the priest. "What's this all about? Are you playing circus, Rosy?" Rosy tried to speak, but she was in a whirlwind and 266 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA could not stop. Round and round the donkey flew, her tail and ears erect, her heels knocking the furniture in all directions. "Whoa!" said Father Tom. "Whoa! What on earth is up with the beast?" "Keep away from her heels, your reverence, for God's sake!" Rosy managed to gasp. "She won't lave a bit of you together; she's a devil and that's what she is." "That depends," answered the priest, coolly. "A don- key is like a human being. He's a devil when he's driven to it. What have you been doing with the poor thing? Why, the room's afire!" Father Tom was now joined by Malachy and his two girls, whose arrival had been drowned in the din. They gazed on the scene, paralyzed with surprise, in which tears from the girls were mingled. "Letty Letty," said Malachy, softly. "What's the matter, old girl?" At the sound of her master's voice, the donkey's pace slackened and then stopped. Rosy was not much to look at when Father Tom ven- tured in, and then it took them some time to put the fire out; in the course of which they discovered "the little gray man from the mist" under the piano, engaged in spitting out his few remaining teeth and nursing some cuts left by Letty's nimble heels. Over the explanation that followed, we will draw a veil. Malachy was seen to shrug his shoulders many times, while Father Tom covered his face with his hand- kerchief under pretense of requiring it, and shook as if in an inward spasm. It really was funny to an outsider, though not particu- larly so to Malachy and his three daughters. Though ROSY MCDONNELL'S JEALOUSY 267 Rosy's belief in witchcraft and the powers of "the little gray man from the mist" was considerably shaken, she was glad that she was reinforced in her war against the donkey by the girls, who were bewailing the loss of their fine furniture. "Sell her, father, sell her," pleaded the girls. "We can never have any comfort with such a pet you have spoiled her." "I vowed I would never sell her, and I won't break my word," said Malachy. "Well, lend her," said Father Tom. "I need a donkey to bring home some turf for the winter. When you want her back, just let me know." "Yes," said the girls in a chorus; "yes, when we want her back, we will let you know, but we won't want her back." "Be good to the poor thing, your reverence, be good to her, but sure I know you will. She's worked hard in her day, and needs a rest; she hasn't the strength now " "No," said Father Tom, "she didn't look very strong when I looked in just now and she was firing everything out of her way. Oh, I won't work her hard ; but if there's anything fairy about her, you may be sure I'll find it out." Letty remained with Father Tom and, though not over- worked, was kept reasonably busy. Patient and untiring, she plodded quietly along, forgetful of the past and care- less of the future. When chance brought her within sight of her old master one day, she stood for a moment contemplating the exuberant and florid whiskers that en- circled his shrewd face, and then, memory asserting itself, she gave vent to a joyful bray and dashed toward him. 268 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Alas for poor Letty ! Impeded by the creels that were strapped across her smooth back, she made a misstep and fell among the rocks at his feet, never to rise again. The question now puzzling Rosy's mind for women are never satisfied was : Did the donkey spring to him from affection or from an expectation of some delicacy from his hands? Could Letty be capable of affection? If so, she was no donkey, and was therefore liable to turn up at any moment in another form. Oh ! the way of the jealous woman is hard ! In the meantime Malachy, short, squat, and bewhis- kered like an Angora goat, is watched continually and jealously by his wife, a woman not only " divinely tall and most divinely fair," but with eyes that would make the homeliest countenance attractive. Such was Rosy's belief in Malachy's power to ensnare the heart of even a fairy, and such was the outcome of that phase of Rosy McDonnell's jealousy. VULCAN AND VENUS 2t>9 VULCAN AND VENUS. "I tell ye," said one of the women, excitedly, "she's dead, for certain. I heard it from them who knows." " Vanus dead ? No, that's impossible !" "Ay, call it what ye like; but it's thrue, I tell ye." "An' th' child's alive?" "Th' child's alive." "There'll be a great wake, I'm thinkin'." "There'll be no wake at all." "No wake!" said the women in a chorus, when they had recovered from the shock. "No wake !" The skirts of the limpet-gatherers, which they had gathered into knots above their brawny knees, dropped into the sea at this strange announcement, and floated around them on the blue waters like scarlet banners. "I don't believe one word of it," gasped one vigorous female, wringing out her dripping petticoats, and wading slowly to land. "I don't believe a word of it." "Nobody's axin' ye to," said the informant; "but it's thrue all th' same." "I'd like very much to know," said a woman who had remained behind to detach the last limpet from his native rock, and speaking in a tone of strict inquiry, "I'd like to know what slight Vulcan intends puttin' on his wife before her neighbors. It's aisy known she has no friends here it's aisy known that her kith an' kin are undher 270 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA th' sod, or scatthered over th' face of th' airth it's aisy to know " "He's a misard," said another, "a mane, low, beggarly misard !" "He's not. God, He knows that Vulcan's worst enemy can't say that he's a misard. No, no; th' man has his raisons." "An' what raisons?" inquired the previous speaker, as she adjusted her basket on her head. "What raisons can he have but maneness answer me that?" The woman appealed to paused in the act of raising her basket, and significantly looked at the others, who were fast disappearing over the beach in groups of twos and threes, like bright spots in the dull gray atmosphere, and all talking earnestly. Then she leaned over and whispered something in her companion's ear. The communication staggered the woman, for she dropped her basket in the sand at her feet, and looked at her friend with white lips. "Christ bless us!" she said at length. "But that is a hard thing to say of a Connemara woman, an' no rela- tive livin' to see her righted ! Christ bless us !" Unlike their companions, the women walked along in silence, each thinking earnestly. As they left the scene of their morning labors behind them, their eyes instinc- tively and together sought a handsome residence on a prominence facing the sea, with every mark of wealth in its surroundings. A gentleman in smoking- jacket could be seen scanning the horizon, through a field-glass, from the parapet. "It's himsel'!" said the first woman, breathlessly. "It's himsel'!" VULCAN AND VENUS 271 "This is th' third saison he's been here, isn't it?" "It is," answered her friend, dryly; "an' what's more, he kept th' saison th' whole year through, fer he never went Back to London at all this winther, though his sis- ther did." "He said he could find finer scenery for his picthures in Connemara than anywhere else," explained her friend. "He was a long time findin' it out." "An' he had to paint picthures of fisherwomen an' rocks, an' he had to have pattherns to work from, an' he axed Vanus to be a patthern." " Tis sthrange that he never axed ye nor me." This more dryly. "He axed ould Fannie Bradshaw an' Peggy Finton, an' th' same women are as ould as ye an' I put together, an' he dhrew them like life just comin' out of th' wather " "An' he dhrew Vanus comin' out of th' wather, too, wid a wisp of a green dhress on her, so I heerd." "Yes, but his sisther was there all th' time, an' she was th' one that axed Vulcan to let her brother take his wife's likeness." "How could she be there when she was in London, or Dublin, or wheresomever th' likes of them go? But it isn't thrue about Vanus anyway. She was a dacent father an' mother's child." "He never was married," continued her f fiend, after a pause. "No, but he's ould enough nearly thirty; but he's goin' to be married to a very rich lady in London next fall." "That's th' first I've heerd of that." is 272 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Arrah, who'd we hear it from? His groom told it in Vulcan's forge two days ago, when he was gettin' his horses shod. Vanus was there lookin' on, an' she fell down like a stone you'd dhrop into th' wather, an' never spoke afther." "Hm!" said the other woman, significantly. "D'ye think it was that med her dhrop ? Maybe th' sickness was comin' on anyway." "There's two things I don't believe in," continued the first : " One is marryin' a girl to a man ould enough to be her father, an' th' other is " "Bein' a patthern for anyone's picthures?" interpo- lated the other. "No, goin' among those rich people, who think th' poor have no souls." "But Captain Rowland is one of th' ould stock, an' knows th' people like a book." "He had an English mother." "What of that? He thought too much of his father's people to " "I hope he didn't think too much of poor Vanus. What med Vulcan marry so young a girl? He's ould enough to be her father." "Th' ould folks. They wanted to see her settled be- fore they died, an' Vulcan was industrious an' comforta- ble. They had but two childer a boy an' a girl." "Where's th' boy?" "Sorra, one of me knows. He was handsome, too. He went down th' country somewhere when th' ould people died." "Hush! there's th' smithy now. Th' forge is cold, an' th' windys in th' house are wide open." VULCAN AND VENUS 273 "I'd go a mile out of me way rather than pass it since I heerd th' story. Let us go around be Bena McCul- lah " "An' carry our baskets two miles furder? God for- give ye ! We needn't go inside unless ye like. Oh ! but it's th' lonesome thing this death an' disgrace hangin' over it. See, th' crowd's all outside." "I don't like th' looks of things. Let us hurry by." "An' cast a slight on th' poor woman? No; dhrop in an' say a prayer fer her soul as if everythin' was all right, an' be done wid it." While they were hesitating, the air suddenly darkened, giving notice that one of the downpours, so common in the mountainous country, was about to come. Everyone ran for shelter. Early as the hour was, the rumor of death had brought its crowd of curiosity seekers. Some were pure vultures beggars who could or would not work, and who came for their share of good things, usually distributed at and during the period of mourning. Some were gossips who, having heard an inkling of the trouble, were anxious for confirmation; there were also egglers and huxters of all ages who, like reporters on the staff of a great city paper, were anxious for the first "straight" news to carry to the next village; and, last but not least, were the kind neighbors who came to be of assistance in the hour of need. Added to the darkness, a stillness as of death fell over everything. Not a leaf moved. Even the birds were si- lent, and the goats and sheep seemed to forget their customary bleat. The clouds hung so low over the mountains as to appear to be within reach, and the waves dashed in on the beach in a threatening manner. 274 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA The blacksmith's home was a long, low building, with the smithy attached. It was more pretentious than the usual mountain cabin, and possessed two windows and a little garden in front, in which were trained a couple of climbing rose-bushes, while at the back could be seen a well-kept patch of potatoes. It was a comfortable home, and many had envied the mistress of it and heartily wished themselves in her place, but not to-day no, not to-day ! The people were crowding everywhere out of the storm, except into the house. The smithy, with its gray, lifeless forge, was packed, and everyone was talking in mysterious whispers. The two limpet-gatherers en- sconced themselves behind a rock, at the other side of which a pair of beggar-women were discussing the affairs of the county, the present case being on top, as most sensational. "She left a fine home an' a good husband, not a bet- ther in th' whole Barony." "They say she had even a boarded floor on her par- lor." "I wouldn't wondher. He'd thry to take a star out o' th' sky fer her, if she axed fer it, so he would." "An' is there to be no wake, d'ye think?" "I don't think, fer th' honor of th' family, that he'd refuse to give her a wake." "Sure she has no family. This is her first child an' " "They have been married seven years." "Seven years is a mighty long time." "What's the matther here this mornin'?" inquired an- other woman behind them, and the fisherwomen recog- VULCAN AND VENUS 275 nized another beggar, nicknamed "the lady" on account of the dignity with which she carried on her business. "Ah, then, where wor ye that ye didn't hear th' news?" asked her friend. "I was away dose t'ree monts be raison av a cure I have fer warts. Misther Donovan's sisther-in-law's cou- sin's nephew had one on th' end o' his nose, which was mighty inconvanyant, as well as unbecoming an' very much in th' way of his gettin' a wife, his intentions bein' to look afther a girl of fortun'. It tuk me all me time "Wot's wrang in Wulcan's place?" asked "English Polly," pushing her head in between the friends, on which rested a basket of shell-fish, still dripping. "Vanus is dead, her child is livin' an' Vulcan is goin' crazy an' lookin' fer someone to murdther. There it is fer ye now in a nutshell, as th' preachers say. Go on now an' sell yer periwinkles afore th' sun dhries them up, me good woman." "Misther Donovan," said the genteel solicitor, resum- ing her narrative from her post behind the rock, "thrated me wid great distinction. I was up in th' parlor wid him an' his wife, tellin' me expariencies an' singin' songs. Th' sarvants wor tould to give me th' best of atin' an' dhrinkin' " "Wulcan thought lots of 'is wife. 'E did everything for 'er has 'e knew 'ow," interrupted English Polly. "An' why not?" said the first beggar-woman, glibly. "Wasn't he ould enough to be her father? An' wasn't she th' prettiest girl in th' county ?" "He doesn't seem to think much about her now," put in the second woman, "when he refuses to give her a 276 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA wake, an' half the Barony anxious to go to it," and she sighed. "He's a misard, wid whiska at sixpence a quart, an' th' bulk of th' people havin' th' pledge. A little of spirits 'ud go a long way. I was willin' to sit up an' do me duty, if there was only a little widin raich, bekase be raison of th' throuble wid me heart " " 'Er was a rale purty 'un, hand 'e was has 'omly has a lobster. Hi hoften wondered 'ow 'er bided wi' 'im, that Hi did," muttered English Polly. "An' did ye expect her to go aff wid another man? Ye're dhramin', woman. This is Connemara," and the beggar-woman favored the rest with a wink. "Says Misther Donovan to th' sarvants, 'Don't meddle wid th' lady,' manin' meself. 'Let her come an' go,' " said Mr. Donovan's guest, full of pleasant recollections. " 'Er was has purty has a periwinkle, hand 'e was has 'omly has a lobster," reiterated English Polly, regret- fully. "Ay, 'Beauty an' th' Beast,' 'Vulcan an' Venus,' I'm used to th' names. I didn't care what anyone called me, as long as she was happy " The women shrank back, for before them was the big blacksmith. His eyes were bloodshot and fierce, his countenance dark and forbidding, and his heavy black hair matted and disordered. His arms, with the sleeves still rolled up, were folded across his huge chest, and his leather apron hung awry, exposing a pair of legs, bowed as if from the weight of his monstrous body. The veins in his forehead and neck were full to bursting, and the sinews in his arms stood out like whipcords. "Hi didn't mane hany 'arm," apologized English Polly. "For sure Hi didn't." VULCAN AND VENUS 277 " Twas McTigue, th' schoolmasther, stuck that name on ye first," said the limpet-gatherer, coming to the res- cue of her craft, "an' people forgot at last that ye wor christened like anybody else." "Ay, Pether an' Nancy wor names good enough for th' best," asserted the limpet woman, soothingly. "Now, what do ye all want here?" inquired the man, fiercely. "Did ye come to glory in my shame?" The women huddled together and trembled. This man before them was surely not the Vulcan of their knowl- edge, the Vulcan who had been good-natured and kindly- spoken, simple and trustful, a Vulcan whose hand the neighbors' children had taken confidingly, and on whose broad breast they had often slept. This man, so terrible and defiant in the hush of the coming storm, must belong to another species ; and then someone remembered that a visitor who came to admire the scenery, but who also found time to sit in the smithy and admire the black- smith, had once said with emphasis : "Vulcan is a very good man to let alone." "What did ye all come here fer, I say?" The glib tongues were all silent. A cry, a wild cry of agony was carried along on the heavy air, and a couple of women, muffled up in long cloaks and hoods, came in sight. Louder and louder rose the cry, which heralded the approach of the death-watch. "The keeners, the keeners !" said the crowd, breath- lessly. "Stop that!" said the blacksmith, authoritatively. "Stop that! There will be no wake here." The cry of a child came like an answer a remon- strance to his fierce words and the cry was shrill and 278 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA feeble, like that of one who was testing his lungs in a new world and was not quite sure of his reception. "It's th' child," said the women, in a chorus of infi- nite pity and long-drawn breaths, as if choked by tears, and two of them ran toward the house. "Back, back, I say!" cried Vulcan. "Go back to yer homes, all of ye ; th' child dies with his mother." There was silence for a moment as the women stood irresolute, when one, more daring than the rest, returned and shook her hand in his face. "It's pure murdther, so it is, an' I fer one won't stand to see it done. Whatever faut ye have wid th' mother, ye mustn't punish th' poor innocent child fer it." The people were waiting breathlessly for the answer, when a tall, handsome young man, with an eager, in- quiring look in his eyes, pushed through the crowd and asked : "Can any of ye tell me where Peter Fair, the black- smith, lives?" As the people hesitated, he added, looking around the crowd with a friendly smile, "I was only a gossoon" (boy) "when I left here, so I suppose none of ye know me. Me sisther Nancy marrit Peter Fair, the blacksmith, and when me father an' mother died, I went to me uncle in Kilrush. I'm now on me way to America, an' I couldn't go till I saw me sisther, as she was all that was left to me." The women turned away and wept, and the youth saw the blacksmith, whom he immediately recognized. "You are Peter," he said, holding out his hand. The blacksmith folded his arms tighter over his breast, and looked him darkly in the face. , VULCAN AND VENUS 279 "I am Pether Fair, th' blacksmith, who marrit yer sis- ther," he said. "She is inside. Go an' see her." There was no mistaking the malignancy of his brother- in-law's aspect, nor the significant looks of the people. And this was Connemara, with its warm-hearted inhab- itants ! This was the place and these were the old neigh- bors he was always dreaming of ! The young man's eyes grew dark with doubt and fear of he knew not what. There was a suspicion of tears in his voice, as he said with an effort: "Very well. I will go inside an' see me sisther." At these words the storm, so long delayed, bunst forth in all its fury, and the people, now that the ice was broken, followed the brother's lead out of the rain and into the house of the dead. Two women were caring for the child, and it was some time before the people coming in from the light of day could distinguish objects in the portion of it that filtered through a small diamond-paned window. The rain fell in torrents, and the thunder burst over the mountains in a deafening roar. This was succeeded by lightning that flashed from peak to peak and filled the little room with a blinding light. It played over the bed, where lay the body of a woman. The face was uncovered, and the long yellow hair fell over and touched the floor. A cry of horror burst from the crowds that filled every availa- ble place. The young man threw himself down in an agony of tears and kissed the dead face again and again. The women wept with him, for they had often heard her speak of this brother and of her desire to see him, but they kept aloof and silent. 280 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA The young man rose and, checking his sobs, looked from one face to the other in search of information. The blacksmith stood at the window, looking up at the sky, seeming to watch the warring of the elements with satisfaction as compatible with his thoughts ; but his face was set like cement, and his lips were shut, as if held in a vise. He shed no tear, he expressed no regret. Was this man his sister's husband, the man into whose care his dying mother had confided the idol of her heart ? Was this the way he had fulfilled his trust? Was this indifference to her loss the sign of a devoted husband? The young man was puzzled. "What has me poor sisther done?" he cried. "What has she done?" He was answered by a clap of thunder that seemed to shake the stout cottage to its very foundation. Again the forked lightning darted into every crack and cranny of the long, low room, and illumined the beautiful face that lay prone in death. Under the momentary gleam, the features seemed to take on a semblance to life that was startling. Women screamed and fainted. Not in the memory of anyone present had such a storm -and the mountaineers were used to storms occurred in that section of the country. The young man looked at the people. There was a mystery connected with his sister's death. What was it? "What has me sisther done?" he asked again, pite- ously. "What has me sisther done?" "Nothing that can be proved; nothing." The speaker was a new-comer, and was scattering rain- drops as he walked. He was big, burly, and determined- looking, with a florid but kindly face. "Father Tom!" VULCAN AND VENUS 281 said the female portion of those present, in various tones of relief. "Peter Fair, you can prove nothing against your wife. Be merciful and let the dead rest," said the clergyman. "God bless ye for these words, whoever ye are," cried the young man, convulsively. " I have proof enough fer myself. I ask no one to be- lieve me. I want no witness to my trouble. Those peo- ple are intrudin'. I want nobody." "Didn't your wife ask for me in her dying hours?" demanded the priest. "She never spoke afther she heard th' captain was goin' to be marrit, but dhropped like a stone that ye throw into Lough Inagh." "That news may have nothing to do with it," answered the priest, quickly. "Yer reverence," said a woman who had come in qui- etly from the kitchen, "th' child won't live, I'm thinkin'. It would be as well to baptize it now." "Baptism!" echoed the smith, scornfully. "What good would baptism do th' likes o' him?" "Peter Fair, I command you to cast no suspicion on the dead. And what is your idea of trying to deprive the innocent child of the sacrament of baptism ?" "In whose name will ye baptize it? Answer me that, answer me that." "In the name of God, man in the name of God, who never denies any of His children," answered the priest, after a pause. "Well, then, I lave him to God, fer I'll have none of him. I claim none of him. D'ye hear? I claim none of him." 282 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "What d'ye mean, man? What suspicion are ye castin' on yer wife ?" And the young stranger shook his fists in the blacksmith's face. "Vulcan, Vulcan, are ye mad? Don't hurt th' boy! Sure ye wouldn't sthrike him !" came from all around. The blacksmith, conscious of his superior strength, looked down on the slight stripling before him, as a lion might look at a spaniel. "I've no intention of hurtin' him," he said; "only let him keep out of my way." "Who are you?" asked the clergyman, as he led the young man away. "I am Nancy's brother, an' came to see her, only to find her dead an' her man " "You are little Con," said the priest, softly. "I did not know you at first ; but you are like her, very like her." "Oh, me sisther, me sisther!" sobbed the young man. "Yes, she was yer sisther, boy; but she was my wife, fer seven long years my wife. D'ye know what that means to th' like o' me ? I was no younglin' with a rovin' eye. Fate sent an innocent young girl in my way, an' I med her my wife. I worked from dawn to dark to make her happy ; fer myself I had no wish but her pleasure. I would gladly eat th' crumbs that she left an' be con- tented. I knew she was fair to th' eye ; but she was inno- cent when I received her from her mother's arms, an' I thought, in time, I would be first in her thoughts. She was yer sisther, boy; but she was my wife. She was th' light of my eyes an' th' joy of my heart. I worked, an' my work was all fer her. "From steady practice an' because my soul was in my work, I became th' best workman in th' county. From VULCAN AND VENUS 283 far an' near th' people came to me, an' as they watched me fashion th' glowin' iron into th' desired shapes, they called me Vulcan, an' like a fool I laughed fer joy. I was glad that I was skillful, because it meant luxuries fer her. I laughed as I worked, because each blow that sthruck was a step nearer to some new dress or other pretty thing she looked forward to. I sang as th' sparks flew, fer they reminded me of her, always so gay, an' so anxious to fly upward. An' if each spark was a dhrop of my heart's blood, she was welcome to it. "She was fair to look upon, an' sthrangers turned as she passed just to feast their eyes, an' I was proud of it. When they asked me, 'Who is that handsome lass?' or 'Who is that handsome woman?' I answered gleefully, 'She is my wife,' an' I laughed an' she laughed in th' joy of our hearts, fer she was innocent then. She came an' went as she chose, fer she was young an' th' house was dull ; but I, Vulcan, as they called me, remained to ham- mer away an' to listen fer her footsteps, as a lover would fer his mistress, a child fer th' one that gave him birth an' who carried in her breast th' sustenance that kept him in life. She carried my life in her hands ; she is gone, so is my life. When her innocence departed from her, th' life departed from me." "Judge not, and you will not be judged. How do you know that your wife's innocence had departed? Cease this talk," interrupted the priest. "God bless ye again fer those words," said the woman's brother, falling on his knees and throwing his arm over the corpse, while he passionately kissed the cold lips. At this the keeners, so long silent, set up the death- cry, as if in triumph at this partial vindication of the 284 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA character of the dead. As it rose, low at first, like the sighing of the wind among the trees of the forest, and then swelling into the wild yet sweet cadence of mourn- ful sounds for which Connemara is famous, everyone was moved save the one to whom she was dearest in life. With his arms still folded across his broad breast, he listened in bitter silence. Before the poetic lamentations had reached the second verse, he raised his hand authori- tatively and demanded silence. "Stop this noise, an' leave me alone. D'ye hear? I wish to be alone. An' remember, Father Tom, that yer authority extends only where it is allowed. I am not of yer fold." "True for you, Peter; but you never denied Nancy the privilege of her church," said the priest, putting away his stole, after baptizing the child. "You never denied her "I never denied her anything, an' look at me now," answered the man, bitterly. "You remember that I warned you two or three times not to allow your wife so much liberty," said the priest. "Without saying one word against the dead, I objected, as I always object, to a young and lovely woman going alone among people who were so much beyond her in station " What more he might have said was cut short by an- other clap of thunder, which was all the more startling that the storm was supposed to have spent its fury and to have left the mountains in peace. Again the lightning played around the death-couch, and again the beautiful face of the dead woman shone with the animation of life. Again the people shuddered and cowered from they knew not what. VULCAN AND VENUS 285 In the midst of the excitement, the sound of horses' hoofs could be heard, and two riders, a lady and her groom, dashed into the shelter of the smithy. In a mo- ment the lady made her way into the dwelling-house and, with her riding habit gathered in her hands, stood in the midst of the mourners. "Lady Basset!" was whispered from lip to lip as the great lady made her way in, and those who were awed in the presence of death were more awed in the presence of the living. The priest bowed as he stood aside for her ; but the blacksmith, with his arms still folded, looked at her darkly and never moved. She started as though to go to the couch, but the priest whispered something in her ear. She hesitated, and looked from one face to the other, and then, as one accustomed to have her way, continued her course and stood looking down at the dead. "Good heavens !" she cried. "Surely this is not Venus, the beautiful girl who posed for my brother's famous picture ?" " Her name was Nancy, if th' poor are allowed to have a name," said the blacksmith, bitterly; "an' she was my wife, but of course that was no matter." "Excuse me," said the great lady, looking hard at the dark face before her. "I forgot. But she made such a beautiful 'Venus' that I always connect the name with her; and, oh, I am so sorry! What did she die of?" "She was murdered, madam, cruelly murdered." The lady was terribly shocked. "Murdered!" she echoed. "How shocking, and we never heard of it! Who is the murderer? Let him not escape." "He will not," said the blacksmith, significantly. "He will not. I myself will punish him lest th' law lag, as is often th' case when th' poor are injured." 286 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Oh, dear!" ejaculated the lady. This strong speech was not often heard in her circle; but the man was ex- cited, and of course forgot the respect due to her pres- ence. It was decidedly interesting and bizarre, and smacked strongly of the dramatic. Her brother might work this scene into another picture. "And you know the murderer?" She was becoming interested in the annals of the poor. "Yes, I know him. He is not only a murderer, but a thief. He stole her reputation as well as her life, an' robbed me of everything worth livin' for. I shall never rest till I am fully revenged." "He must be a very bad man," she said; "but why not leave his punishment to the proper authorities?" "There is no law fer th' poor, as I told ye. No; I will be his executioner." He waved his huge arm, and the lady shuddered. The clergyman was distressed, and anxious to save the aristocrat from what he knew was coming. The blacksmith read his thoughts. "Ye remember, lady," he said, "th' first time ye saw my wife. Ye came into my smithy to see yer chestnut mare shod, an' thinkin' Nancy my daughter, ye asked my per- mission to bring her to th' castle to stand as a patthern for somethin' yer brother was drawin'. Others were also asked, an' went. As I could not bear to be churlish I consented, though my heart went agin' it. Ye were there, an' I was satisfied." The lady looked puzzled. She grew haughty. "My brother," she said, "dabbled in art against my wishes, and came to Connemara to paint the sea and the moun- tains. That he changed from inanimate to animate things was only another such freak as leaving the barracks for VULCAN AND VENUS 287 the studio." Why was the subject mentioned? What connection had her brother with the subject in hand? "Ye w 4 ere there, an' med much of my wife. She was delighted with th' beautiful house an' th' pictures. She told me everything, an' when I saw how fond she was of fine things, I worked harder to give her something bet- ter than she had. She grew dissatisfied, an' moody an' quiet. She no longer told me th' doin's of th' day. She didn't even tell me that ye had returned to London an' left yer brother, th' captain, among th' mountains by th' sea. "My wife grew pale an' thin, an' quiet, she that never was a minute quiet before. She no longer went to th' castle, an' when I came on her she was cryin'. I thought mebbe she was ill ; but th' sickness of th' mind is harder to bear than th' sickness of th' body. She avoided me, an' I had my own bitther thoughts. She was in th' forge one day, sittin' down-hearted an' unhappy, when yer brother's servant mentioned carelessly that his mas- ther was goin' to be marrit in th' spring. She fell forward an' never spoke more." The lady's look was of the haughtiest. What had this to do with the point in question? What was the man insinuating? She had listened too long. These poor people were odd. She gathered up her riding habit to go. The cry of a child was borne plaintively to her ear. She stopped. "You never told me," she said, softly. This proud woman was a childless widow, and the first cry of her only boy, now lying in the family vault, was always echoing in her ears. Poor Venus ! Her child lived, and she was deaf to his cries. The tears came into her fine eyes as she turned in sympathy to the bereaved man. 19 288 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "This is very hard," she muttered. "You never told me you were a father." The answer was characteristic of the man. "I'm not," he said. "That boy's father is th' thief an' murderer I told ye of th' man that robbed me of everything worth livin' for yer brother." There was a gasp from the women. The priest went to the lady as if to shield her from the brutal blow, but she put him aside and faced her brother's accuser. "How dare you!" she said, and even as she said the words, she weakened. Her face was deadly pale, and her thoughts were busy with accusing recollections. The blacksmith laughed scornfully. "Ye are rich an' handsome, like yer brother," he said, "an' belong to a different class. I am only poor Vulcan. Th' world will believe yer story see, even th' Church sides with an' protects ye ; but I will not ask fer pity nor justice. I will take it. I did not ask ye to turn my wife's head by makin' her th' patthern fer a picture, an' ye did not care what mischief came of it." "My brother is engaged to be married," she said, "to a worthy young lady. Why should he demean himself by such perfidy?" As she spoke she was thinking of that famous picture, which had brought her spendthrift brother, at the lowest ebb of his fortune, to the notice of the richest not pret- tiest heiress of the day, and winced at the enormous in : gratitude as well as perfidy implied in the accusation. "It's not true!" she cried. "It's not true! You were jealous of your beautiful wife, that was all." She looked for acquiescence to her words in the faces around; but all were looking away, and they were her VULCAN AND VENUS 289 tenants, most of them, to whom she might look for re- spectful assent to her words. And it dawned on her that this was Connemara, where the poorest woman's reputa- tion was held as a priceless crown, and where no woman, however rich, could gain respect whose record was marred by a flaw. "Lady Basset," said the priest, "you had better go home, even in the storm. This man is insane with grief, and will think better of his words to-morrow." "Never!" said the man. "Never! I am no jealous, unreasonable fool, as these people all know. What I say I have proof of, an' my revenge will be fer my wife as well as fer myself. I received her pure an' innocent from her mother's arms an' she scarce seventeen seven years ago yesterday. I owe it to them to avenge her, an' I will!" "You talk like a heathen," said the priest. " 'Ven- geance is mine,' saith the Lord! If the captain has wronged you, leave him to God." "What do you intend to do?" demanded the lady, wildly. "You are held responsible before the law for every word you say, and you will be duly punished." "Th' law!" said the man, scornfully. "I shall satisfy myself before th' law knows anything about me, an' then I care not what becomes of me. There are mountain caves in plenty wherein to hide, but I shall not hide. Let th' law take its course." Lady Basset felt that she was no longer the great lady to this terrible man whom she had given the shoeing of her horses. She must beg for her brother's life, on her knees, if necessary. This ignorant peasant, whom she formerly despised, was now standing on his rights as 290 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA a man and a fellow-creature, and she must descend to his level. "You would not do this thing; you would not kill my brother on a suspicion without a trial ? Oh, Vulcan, for heaven's sake, hear me !" " I hear ye, my lady ; but it's no suspicion, an' as sure as I lay hands on him, I will lay him as low as she lies to-day." Another clap of thunder followed his words. The blacksmith stood in the door, and looked up the road. "TV captain is out, an' may pass th' road soon," whis- pered her servant, who came in from the smithy. "Go and intercept him. Bring him by the McCullah Pass while I reason with this madman," directed her ladyship, in the same low tone, and the man ran out into the storm. "This is a mere suspicion on your part," interposed the clergyman. "You are wronging your wife as well as this lady's brother. Do you think she would approve of your actions to-day ? I remember her, and we all remem- ber her, as a quiet, well-behaved woman. Give her the benefit of the doubt which must exist in every reasoning person's mind as to the charge you lay at her door. Look at her face as it lies before you! Is it the face of a wanton? Oh, if she could only speak to you, she would tell a different story!" At this appeal, a low wail broke from the women present, and the great lady's face was wet with tears. The blacksmith was moved. His great chest heaved, but he shed no tear as he gazed at the face so dear to him. The lady began to have hope. Would this grim- visaged blacksmith change his mind ? What if his accusa- VULCAN AND VENUS 291 tions were true ? Impossible ! Then she thought of her brother's handsome face and courtly manners, in compari- son with the rough, massive figure and uncouth speech of the worker in iron, and shuddered. What if the beautiful village girl so mismated should have made the same com- parison ? Good heavens ! It was not to be thought of. She, who stooped to none, must stoop to anything subterfuge, explanation, entreaty to save the life of her only brother. Fortunately the clergyman was with her the priest who was the guardian of the dead woman's morals, and must vouch for them to this man who was of a different creed. The plea he made was successful she would follow it. "Ay, look at that beautiful face, as innocent as a sleep- ing child !" she said, going over to the couch. "She was too fair for earth. How can anyone associate such a countenance with crime? Shame, shame be the portion of those who would ! I can vouch for my brother, who is, and always has been, wedded to his art. He looked on your wife as one would look on a beautiful scene, or a, glorious sunset, and thanked the Great Giver of all." Vulcan was evidently softening a little, and the people were sobbing their approval of her words. It was a good thing to know that her neighbors believed in the innocence of the dead, and it made her appeal easier. "We all know, but we often forget, that women in a delicate state of health act strangely. Those they love are often treated cavalierly, and in contradiction to their inmost thoughts. This poor young woman had no idea that you would use the little inconsistencies, arising at such a critical time, to her disadvantage." The mountaineers were used to plainer speech, but they understood every word. 292 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Vulcan's breast heaved and his lips parted as if for speech, but they closed again. He spoke at last, and his voice was low, deep, and penetrating, and reminded one of thunder among the hills. "If I have injured ye in thought, word, or deed," he said, looking down at the face lying so still and quiet, "I humbly ask pardon of ye, my darlin', an' I ask it of God. Mebbe it's thrue what th' lady says, mebbe it's thrue ; but I loved ye an' I've lost ye, an' that's enough. They talk an' talk, but my heart is a stone. Ye're gone, an' I won't be long after ye. I have nothin' now to live fer. Ye won't 'need a new dress, my darlin', an' stand at th' door to see th' sparks fly as I work fer it. Ye need only th' dress of th' grave, my jewel, an' th' forge will be as cold as yer bed, fer I will never stand near it again. Oh, we were happy by th' same forge before th' great lady came an' praised yer beauty, an' th' man with th' smilin' face an' th' white hands talked softly to ye, an' put ye in a picture ! There was a change in ye after that. I blame him, not ye, my darlin'. Ye were simple an' ignorant of grand ways, an' he was used to deceit." "Leave him to God, Vulcan; leave him to God," in- terrupted the priest, hurriedly, "and if he has injured you " "Aye, ye spoke right; I will leave him to God, th' God of my fathers, th' God that none can deceive. He knows all things. He knows how I suffer. If I have injured my. darlin' by my unjust suspicions, I deserve death. Let it come. If he th' sweet-spoken gentleman " He strode to the window and looked up at the angry sky ; the clouds were so low that they seemed to be almost within reach ; and the blacksmith opened the casement and leaned out, VULCAN AND VENUS 293 raising his huge right arm high over his head, "if he has injured her, let Him, th' great God, who is no respecter of persons, choose between us between Vulcan, th' black- smith, an' Captain Rowland, next heir to an earldom. Let Him choose between us an' punish th' guilty one by sending down His thunderbolts on th' head of th' guilty man !" Everyone shuddered and, as if in answer to his prayer, a clap of thunder, the most terrible that had been yet heard, burst over the cabin, shook it like a match-box, and resounded from peak to peak in a hundred reverbera- tions. The women shrieked, and all covered their eyes from sight of the daring man, whom they felt was struck by death. The blacksmith stood in the same attitude as the storm abated, and the people breathed freer, but were preparing to leave at once. "It's no place fer any havin' th' grace of God in their hearts ! no supper, no wake, no keenin', no nothin', an' a crazy man blasphemin' God ! It's enough to mek anyone shiver. Isn't th' woman dead? an' can't he take things comfortable, an' give a dacent wake that would be remem- bered fer a long time, an' have a Mass said that would help her soul to glory ? Come away ! Such onraisonable people, indeed, I never saw," whispered a beggar-woman to another of her craft ; but the neighbors, who had come in daily contact with the unfortunate man, and who still retained a warm feeling for him, were slow to move. They were home-bodies, and missed the liberal education acquired by constant traveling from hamlet to hamlet that had contributed to broaden the views of the mendicants. They were stunned, and waited the next act unconsciously, like people at a play. 294 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA It came. There was a lull in the storm, and in the death-like silence that followed, the galloping of a horsd smote on the shocked ears like a desecration. It was my lady's groom, sent to warn her brother to take another road. He stopped in front of the smithy, and seemed frightened out of his wits. "Is my lady here?" he called hurriedly to some persons who were crowding at the door, and then, without waiting for an answer, he added, "Fer God's sake, keep her inside fer a few minutes, till we pass. We somebody, I mean, can break th' news to her at th' castle later. Keep her back, I say !" It was too late. Lady Basset had seen him, and the crowd made way for her respectfully, in full time to see the mournful cortege four men carrying another on a hastily-improvised litter, covered with their ragged coats. It was too late also to think of the right thing to do. Maybe the terrible expression on the groom's face drew her attention, or her own misgivings supplied the rest; but she knew, and dropped into a merciful unconscious- ness at the side of the rude bier. "Th' captain was sthruck by that last great clap, just as I kem up wid him sthruck dead ! He never spoke afther. Gd help my lady! He's her only brother, an' God help th' girl that's expectin' to marry him," said the man. "He never spoke afther," repeated a listener; "but did he speak before?" "Not a word yes, he only asked me what th' crowd was doin' around th' blacksmith's place," said one of the ragged carriers. "Well?" VULCAN AND VENUS 295 "Well, I just tould th' gentleman that Venus, th' black- smith's wife, was dead, an' then th' clap of thunder kem, an' th' lightnin' an' he fell. I saw it sthrike him. God rest his soul; but he was th' generous man an' good to everybody. God rest him, I say ! Amen !" 296 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA AUNT JULEY'S WARNING. "Girls, I'm going to leave ye." "Oh, no, dear aunt, not so soon." "I mean I'm going to die." "To die? Surely, you don't mean that?" "I do mean that. I have good reason to know that my time has come." "Surely, aunt, you are not superstitious?" "I never was superstitious," said Aunt Juley, hotly; "but when a woman gets three warnings, it is not too soon to get ready. Knowing what I know, I thought I would prefer to die among my own, and so I came " "Indeed, you're always welcome, aunt," ejaculated Kitty. "To die!" resumed the aunt. " No, no ; not to die, aunt, but to live. You are not so very old, aunt, and as healthy as a " "No matter how healthy " "And your hair is as black as the proverbial raven's wing. You don't look in the least like death." Aunt Juley snatched a surreptitious glance at an oppo- site mirror and could not deny that the image reflected therein was just as her nieces said. Even a dying woman is open to flattery, and she smiled and looked pleased, but the smile was soon replaced by a frown. "It's no use joking with death," she said, solemnly. AUNT JULEY'S WARNING 297 " Death is coming and I am resigned. My coffin is ready. I have brought it with me." " Brought your coffin with you ?" "Yes, I have taken the liberty, as I intend to die among my friends. It can be put into my room, and will bother nobody." " But is it not time enough to order your coffin when it is needed?" Mary was speaking now. She was an ac- knowledged belle, and did not propose to spoil her win- ter's fun by allowing this old-fashioned auntie to run the house. It was all very nice to spend a month or so in the summer at her comfortable farm in the picturesque region of Connemara, but to have to entertain her in re- turn and her ghastly ideas of warnings and coffins was not to be thought of. Kitty was different. She loved the memory of her dead father, and his kind-hearted but odd sister was re- vered for his sake. The girls were orphans, deprived of their parents at a very early age, and were living with their mother's brother, an old bachelor, who had educated them and who seemed to be devoted to his nieces for their mother's sake ; but he was not in any way related to Aunt Juley. He was a barrister of high standing and very much in demand, consequently his time was spent away from home. He had often wished that the young ladies' aunt would come and chaperon the motherless girls, but Aunt Juley could not be persuaded to reside in Dublin, though she had spent many seasons there as a girl. "I had the coffin made by Tim Farley," said Aunt Juley, gazing meditatively into the fire. "He is the best carpenter in all Ireland, and has every reason to be at- tached to the family. It is made of the oldest oak on the 298 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA estate, thoroughly seasoned and waterproof, and as strong as iron. My name is engraved on it in " "For Heaven's sake, auntie, don't say any more about it," pleaded Mary. "My will is made," continued the lady, "and I hope I have done justice to all. I have left my two old faithful servants one hundred pounds apiece and a cottage rent- free for life, a hundred each to the orphan and insane asylums, one hundred to Father Tom for the poor, and the rest to you, my dear girls." "There was no need of remembering us, my dear aunt," said Kitty. "We have enough." The door was opened noiselessly and Pat, the old ser- vant, stood in the room. His face was as pale as death and he gasped three or four times before speaking. "There is a coffin down at the door," he said, address- ing himself to Mary. "The man says it belongs here, and refuses to go away widout seein' the ladies." "It's my coffin," said Aunt Juley, calmly. "Tell the man to bring it in and put it in my room. I shall soon have need of it." "Ladies," said Pat, with the familiarity of an old re- tainer, "what's this I hear? Is it to bring a coffin in the house widout a corpse to put into it ? Glory be to God ! It's a fair temptin' of Providence !" "It's my aunt's baggage and it must be brought in," said Kitty, determinedly. "The shape and form of the hem trunk makes no difference. It is a shame for people to be so superstitious." "It's a coffin, as plain as day," said the man, under his breath, "and sure to bring throuble on the house." The gruesome-looking baggage was brought in and de- AUNT JULEY'S WARNING 299 posited in the best chamber, a couple of female servants cowering and peeping from the bottom of the stairs, and a quartet of inquisitive neighbors peering from behind lace curtains. "Only for the regard I have for the family," said Pat to Miss Mary, "I'd lave before mornin'." Miss Mary was used to hearing that remark; but for the first time she failed to smile at the time-worn saying, knowing that wild horses could not draw him away. There was trouble certainly brewing, but not of the kind prophesied by old Pat. With this gloomy article in the house, the merry-making program laid down for the winter was likely to end disastrously. For instance, a couple of lively young officers were to dine with them this very evening. Suppose the old lady should feel called upon to give the party the history of her warnings, and spoil the whole evening? Something must be done to prevent such a catastrophe. Kitty was wise and tactful. She was also kind and thoughtful, and realized that her aunt was much in need of sympathy. The lonely life she was living in the country was telling on her in more ways than one. Being the only unmarried member of her family, she was given the old homestead and a tidy yearly income from her mother. Juley had grown hypochondriacal of late, and her solitary life had helped the disease along. "Isn't it possible to cheer her up and drive those ideas out of her head ?" thought Kitty. Aunt Juley was a kind creature, but a little old- fashioned. Kitty was going to prove that an old aunt from the country was as much to be respected as a fashionable one from the city, and she began at once. 300 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA She insisted on dressing her abundant hair in the newest style, and dressing her up in her best dress with addi- tions, and finishing bows and kindly suggestions from herself. "Even if you are going to die so soon, aunt, you may as well go well dressed to heaven. It will be showing respect to those gone before. Let me put this rose on your breast. See how becoming it is !" Aunt Juley looked in the glass, at first reluctantly, and afterward with pleasure. Then she recollected and sighed lugubriously, "God forgive ye, Kitty. Ye're makin' me forget me sowl." Aunt Juley always fell into a rich brogue when she became excited, and the sight of her improved image in the glass reminded her of her youth in that very charm- ing city, and how she had looked in the eyes of somebody, young and charming like herself, who had gone long before her. "It isn't fair to us girls to have you look so well, Aunt Juley. There will be no eyes for your nieces to- night." "I'd rather go to my room and say my prayers," said Aunt Juley, with a lingering look in the glass. "It's just foolish of me to waste the few days remaining to me in a round of pleasure." "Nonsense, aunt, you will be long enough in the next world. Let our last recollections of you be pleasant ones. You look charming to-night. Your complexion is as fresh as that of a young girl." Aunt Juley shook her head. "At forty-five," she said, "one is supposed to be beyond flattery. However, I will stay if it pleases you girls ; though I'm sure I'm only in the way in a crowd of young people, redcoats and such." AUNT JULEY'S WARNING 301 "Not at all, aunt; the gentlemen who are coming are as delightfully good-natured as any you ever met in Con- nemara. By the way, aunt, were you not fond of a 'red- coat' once, yourself?" Aunt Juley's reply was a burst of tears. The girls were shocked and distressed, and fell to wondering what they had said to cause such trouble. It was a "redcoat," of course, and then they delved into their minds for the details of the little romance of so many years ago, but which must have meant a great deal to Aunt Juley. The details they were in possession of were very vague in- deed; and they waited patiently and quietly for a cessation of the tempest. There was no cessation. Aunt Juley cried as if her heart would break. The font of tears, so long dried up, was gushing forth at a great rate and refused to be stopped ; besides, she made no apology, but sobbed away at every attempt at consolation, in such a heart-broken manner that the girls were fain to join in for very sym- pathy. They locked the door of the little breakfast-room in which they were sitting, but not before Pat, in his morn- ing rounds, had seen and heard more than was intended for his ears. The old man was discretion itself, and would bear to be tortured before anything that he con- sidered derogatory to his master's family would pass his lips, even to his fellow-servants. "What's comin' over the house at all, at all?" he soliloquized. "Yesterday they brought a coffin here widout a corpse to put in it, and to-day they are holdin' a wake. T never heard the likes of it. It's enough to bring throuble on the house, eyah, eyah !" 302 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "I ought to be ashamed of myself," said the aunt at length; "but I couldn't help it. I feel better for relieving my mind. There has been a load on my heart, pressing it down for years." "And we were the means of removing it? Oh, aunt, if you only would tell us something something that happened long ago it might help you to feel better, but if you don't wish to, never mind." "But I do wish it, girls. I haven't long to live, and my story might do somebody good. I saw him the other night." "You saw him, aunt? Why, I thought he was dead." " So he is, poor fellow ; dead on the field of battle." "And you saw him?" "Beckoning to me. I saw him as plain as I see you now." "And that's why you bought the coffin, aunt?" "That's why I bought the coffin. He appeared to me three times, beckoning, always beckoning." "But it was only a dream, aunt, and might mean nothing." "I tell you, girls, when a man and woman love one another as we loved, and are parted by the selfishness of the woman " "You were never selfish, auntie. Your life has proved that." "I was selfish to him selfish and proud. I had more money than he had and my family objected. He joined the army wore the red coat, which I regarded as the in- signia of dishonor and after remaining some time in a barrack near Dublin, sailed away for India. I came up to Dublin ostensibly on a visit to relatives, but in reality to AUNT JULEY'S WARNING 303 see him. I met him by stealth, but hadn't the courage to bid him stay, or follow him, and all because he was poor. What can the poor fellows do in Ireland but join the army? The Queen wanted soldiers, and every other chance to make a living was kept out of the way. "You can't know, girls, how I suffered! My friends rejoiced at what they considered the termination of my infatuation, but it had only just begun. If I loved him before he left, I loved him afterward ten times more. I refused every other offer. His death on the field of battle was reported, and I hid myself on my Connemara estate and " "And dreamed foolish dreams," interpolated Mary. "I'm sorry for you and your lover, Aunt Juley, but I don't think you are going to die." " 'On the eleventh of December I will come for you,' the vision said, and he never told a lie. Girls, I'm not sorry to go to see him, no matter where it is. I am tired and lonely and remorseful. If I could live my life over again, things would be very different with your aunt." "You'd marry your poor soldier?" "Ay, that I would, and be content with bread and water." "The eleventh is very near," said her niece, shudder- ing, "and we have a party for that night." "If I am in the way, I can go," said her aunt. "I must die somewhere." "No, no, aunt, you must not go," interrupted Kitty. "Whether you live or die, you must stay here, but I sincerely hope you will live." "He'll come for me on the eleventh," said the aunt, shaking her head. 20 304 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Well, until the eleventh, we must endeavor to enjoy ourselves," said Kitty. "The Forty-seventh Regiment is to embark for India the next day, and a few of the of- ficers will dine here. We intend that they shall carry with them warm recollections of their last night in Ire- land. After supper we will have an old-fashioned dance and wind up with the national reel and jig." "Who will dance them?" said Mary. "They are out of style now, and the only dances we learned in school were the waltz and polka." "Waltz and polka, indeed!" interrupted Aunt Juley, excitedly. "Pretty dances for young girls whirling around in the arms of young men who are perfect strangers to them !" The reminiscent sigh that accom- panied this outburst was almost a groan. "Just my idea!" said Kitty, with equal excitement. "Our intentions are all right, if we only knew how to follow them. Will you show us? You were considered one of the best dancers in the county twenty years ago." "And cannot have quite forgotten the art," added Mary, insinuatingly. "I move that we adjourn to the drawing-room and that Mary play us a reel in her own masterly style, while auntie and I 'welt the flure.' It won't take me long to learn," said Kitty. "It takes four to dance a reel," replied the aunt, "or three at a pinch." "We can press one of the chairs into service," said Kitty. "A chair is a poor substitute for a man," said Aunt Juley. "It's the best we can do at present," rejoined Kitty. AUNT JULEY'S WARNING 305 Mary struck up a merry dance without more ado. At the sound of the familiar measure, Aunt Juley's toes began to twitch; as it progressed, the whole foot par- ticipated, and before the tune had gone into the refrain she was on the floor, spinning and twirling and beating time with every muscle in her body. The trio were so engaged in the matter before them that they failed to hear the approaching footsteps of callers. Pat, reinforced by two officers, was standing in the doorway, an amazed spectator of the thrilling spec- tacle. "Turn to the left, now turn to the right. Pick up your skirts, and let us see your feet," cried Aunt Juley. "Now put some life into yourself." Kitty was obeying to the best of her power. With dainty skirt raised, exposing to view a pair of the prettiest little feet in the world, she was following her aunt's movements implicitly, when she heard: "Captain Fol- linsbee and Captain Ward," announced in Pat's richest brogue. Kitty dropped her skirt, the music ceased, and dead silence prevailed for a second. "We were practicing for the eleventh," said Kitty, with a blush, as she shook hands with her guests. "My aunt is giving us a lesson in the old-fashioned dances." With the composure that comes from good-breeding, she made no further apology, but proceeded to introduce her relative to the young men. "Miss Jennings of Carricknamacken, Connemara." "Where you spent last August?" asked Captain Fol- linsbee, acknowledging the introduction. "There's some game there, and you're heartily wel- come to come, too," said Aunt Juley, with one of her deepest curtsies ; and then, remembering her near demise, added : "If I'm not there, Kitty will do the honors." 306 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "You will be there, aunt," said Kitty. "It's too bad to stop your rehearsal," said Captain Ward. "We were short of partners, and dancing to chairs isn't very progressive," answered Kitty, while her aunt was watching a chance to escape to her room. "How would we do?" said Captain Ward, who, being an Irishman, soon recovered his composure. "Follinsbee is an expert at that kind of thing." "Sorry to have to contradict you," said the tall English- man, bashfully. "I don't know anything about dancing." "That's not necessary," interrupted Ward. "The young ladies are only practicing." "Certainly," said Kitty, anxious to put them at their ease. "We have only to watch auntie and do as she does." In a moment the two gentlemen were on the floor, and Mary was again at the piano. "Shut the door," begged the latter, "and tell Pat that we are not at home to callers, or this will go all over Dublin." "Indeed," came from Aunt Juley, scornfully, "the reel was danced by the gentry of Ireland when half the present residents of Dublin were only serving behind the counter." The dance proceeded with much merriment, and much explanation, for their swords would persist in tripping up the young men and they would forget when to turn. Aunt Juley had evidently forgotten the near approach of death, and was laughing heartily at the mistakes of the Englishman, when the door was opened and the master of the house, accompanied by a stranger, stood in their AUNT JULEY'S WARNING 307 midst. The stranger was a man of middle age and commanding presence, who regarded the scene with an amused smile. "Oh, uncle," cried Kitty, "auntie has been giving us a dancing lesson. We are to have the real old dances at our party on the eleventh." "So I perceive," said her uncle, indulgently; "and I have brought you a visitor, one who has not seen Ireland for twenty years. Give him a warm welcome and the best bed in the house." "Just like uncle," whispered Mary, "to fill the house with company just when we are going to be so busy." "Just like uncle," said Kitty, "so kind and thoughtful to the stranger; but where 's Aunt Juley?" But Aunt Juley had escaped in the confusion. It was a trying time for Kitty, who had superintended the management since the death of her mother, to have two such responsibilities on her hands on the eve of their party. With a wisdom beyond her years, she determined to devote herself to her aunt, and not to allow Her out of her presence till after the fated day had passed and her cure was complete. "Stay with us, aunt with me, I mean till after the party. We are going to have a houseful of company. I have given the gentleman who came to-night your room. I hope you won't be offended." "Not at all, my dear girl," said Aunt Juley, who had never looked at the stranger and felt no curiosity about his name; "I don't want to be in your way at all. In fact, I'd rather sleep with you than anybody. God has given you wisdom, and when my time comes, you won't be afraid." 308 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA For the next few days the world saw very little of Aunt Juley. The part she took in the impromptu dance weighed heavy on her conscience, and she determined to be very circumspect in her deportment for the future. She spent the following days in devotional exercises, and except a few visits to the neighboring church, she never left her room, her meals being sent up-stairs. Kitty was too busy with caterers and decorators to do more than see that her aunt was comfortable, and her uncle was taken up with his guest, who still remained at the house, and with whom he was always looking over papers. The morning of the eleventh dawned at last, and Aunt Juley was up betimes. She dressed very early, and awoke Kitty by her restless movements about the room. "Oh! Kitty darling," she whispered, "I heard his voice last night. He is in the house !" "Oh, aunt," said Kitty, melting into tears, "I'm afraid you will lose your mind. You are giving way to your imagination, and I am afraid of the end !" "I am perfectly sane, my dear girl, don't be afraid. I have not heard his voice for twenty years, yet the sound of it has never left my heart. I could recognize it any- where. Listen, there it is ! You may not hear it, because the great Lord has meant it for my ear; but I can hear it as plain as I hear you .when you speak," said Aunt Juley, triumphantly. The first gray mists of the morning were beginning to break away from the beautiful Wicklow mountains as Kitty rose, trembling, and looked out of the window. Everything was still as death in the hour that immediately precedes day, and Kitty may be pardoned for feeling a AUNT JULEY'S WARNING 309 creepy sensation that left her for a moment powerless to act. She imagined she had heard someone moving stealthily in the hall, and the hum of subdued talking. Her first thought was of burglars, and she leaned far out of the window for the sight of a bluecoat. Alas! there was none. Even the usual belated straggler re- turning from a prolonged carousal was wanting. To crown all, Aunt Juley had disappeared. Her aunt was there when Kitty went to the window, and must have opened the door very quietly, if she went that way. Kitty called her but received no reply. Her first thought was to cry for help; her next was to avoid comment as much as possible. She began to see now that she was dealing with a woman, who, if not actually mad, was on the very verge of insanity. She was sorry now that she had not told everything to her uncle, who would have known how to act in the matter ; but she wanted to spare her aunt, whose delusion she expected to overcome by the aid of pleasant sur- roundings. Then, too, her uncle was so busy that she was loth to bother him with unnecessary affairs. Then it flashed across her mind that her aunt's strange baggage had been stowed away somewhere and utterly forgotten. It was put heavens! in the chamber occupied by the gentleman from India the man who had been absent from Ireland twenty years. Kitty ventured to open the door of her room and to peep over the banisters. There was a sound of voices in the hall below, and two forms passed through the ray of light coming from the open door of the library. It was her uncle and the stranger. Her uncle was talking earnestly, and presently old Pat appeared as if in answer 310 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA to a hasty summons. Again there was the sound of loud conversation and slamming of doors. Her uncle was a man usually of very few words, but when he had occasion to show displeasure, his manner of expression was unmistakably forcible. He was angry now, and Kitty could distinguish Pat's voice raised in explanation, as well as the stranger's in seeming ex- postulation. And this was the morning of their party, that they had looked forward to with so much pleasure ! What was it all about? Some instinct told her that the whole disturbance was connected with her aunt's visit. What had her uncle found out? Suppose it was the coffin! Oh, horror! Her suspicions were soon justified. Her uncle caught sight of her as she leaned over the banisters, and called to her to come down, if possible ; then hearing frightened whispers on the floor above, she discovered the female servants, in various stages of undress, huddled together on top of the stairs, in anticipation of something awful. She motioned them back to their rooms, but they seemed to be afraid to move. The cook, who was masquerading in a petticoat worn like a cloak, with the band around her neck, was shaking as with the ague. Her teeth were clattering in her head, as she whispered hoarsely : "Miss Kitty, dear, tell me, is your Aunt Juley dead? But what's the use of axin', fer sure I know it be me dhrame. She's dead. Whenever I dhrame of cardin' flax, it's ayther a weddin' or a funeral, and sure the funeral is here, for the coffin " "Why should it be a coffin, Molly? There are plenty of queer shaped trunks. Go back to bed, all of you." Hastily throwing a dressing-gown over her robe de AUNT JULEY'S WARNING 311 nuit, she joined her uncle in the library. Pat, with the skill of a diplomat, was evading the questions propounded to him by his master, fearful lest he should get his "darlin' Miss Kitty" into trouble, brought on by that "ould har- ridan from Connemara." The gentleman from India was standing by the mantel as if he had not retired at all. His face was very pale, and wore a pained and puzzled look. "Do you know anything of the contents of the dressing- room of the first floor bedroom, Kitty?" her uncle cried. "This fool here," pointing to Pat, "can not or will not give me any information on the matter." "Yes, uncle, that's something that Aunt Juley brought here a few weeks ago. I put it there, and forgot all about it, though I believe I covered it up." "And I offered a friend the hospitality of my house, while here on business, and put him in companionship with that gruesome-looking article. He will return to India with a very poor impression of the change of man- ners in his native country." The gentleman from India was looking at her fixedly, his gray hair standing nearly straight from his head. "What is your aunt's name?" he said. "Miss Jennings of Carricknamacken, Connemara," she replied. "I knew a Miss Juley Jennings of Carricknamacken, Connemara, years ago," he said, "but connected you with your uncle's name. I forgot that he told me that you were his sister's children, and I therefore knew nothing of the relationship." "Aunt Juley is my father's sister," began Kitty; but the man from India took no heed of interruption and 312 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA still went on as in a dream. Pat retired without com- mitting himself. "Your aunt and I were friends as far as a boy of slender means and a girl of comparative wealth could be. I joined the army and, like many men of desperate fortunes, dared death in many forms because I had noth- ing much to live for. I was promoted, step by step, until I reached the rank of major. As I never entered the British army for the love of fighting England's bat- tles, I retired, to pursue wealth rather than fame. "I was successful, and returning to Ireland on business connected with my new position, not forgetful of former friends, I inquired concerning Miss Jennings, and heard she was dead. I intended to visit her grave, and then return to my adopted country, India, as this country had no longer any charm for me. Where is her grave ? "On opening the door of my dressing-room, I came upon a coffin with her name carved on it. I thought it was a delusion, but was it? What does it mean? I in- tended leaving the house without saying anything about it, but your uncle found me here and insisted on know- ing why. " I do not mind telling you now, since I am old enough to have done with pride, that your aunt was very dear to me. Will you not tell me something of her last mo- ments? Did she ever speak of me? If that is her coffin in the dressing-room, why was she disinterred and the coffin brought here?" How many more questions he would have asked will never be known, for Kitty interrupted him and led the way to the room again. "I ought to apologize for giving such trouble," he AUNT JULEY'S WARNING 313 said. " The the article in question was not meant for my eyes, I am sure, for I used the room three or four days before I noticed it. The cover must have fallen off " He stopped and swallowed hard. Kitty's thoughts were running riot. She saw it all. The heavy tablecloth with which she had draped the unwelcome coffin had slipped off, or maybe the housemaid had thrown it off to frighten a fellow-servant. She remembered hearing a stifled scream from above that very afternoon and catch- ing sight of two pairs of heels making rapid headway down the back stairs immediately afterward. She had been so busy that she had forgotten to connect the coffin with the incident then. Now "I saw the name," the gentleman continued, huskily, "and it brought a host of recollections. There is a vein of superstition in everybody, I think, for I felt that that coffin was sent as a warning to me. It is real, for I touched it. It is empty, for I raised the cover. How did it get there ? Where is the form for whom it was made ? Where have they laid her ?" "It was made for my aunt, Miss Juley Jennings " "Of Carricknamacken ?" "Yes, of Carricknamacken, Connemara." "Then she died unmarried," resumed the stranger, with a kind of sad triumph. "As an excuse for my un- warranted behavior, I must acknowledge that in my youth I loved your aunt very much. I love her memory yet. I was poor and I went away. It was a consolation, though a selfish one, to think that perhaps she cherished a remembrance of the poor soldier-boy who shouldered his knapsack in search of fortune. My one desire in returning was to see her again, but it was not permitted. 314 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA How lovely she was ! How lovely she was ! How grace- ful and kind and considerate ! In all my travels I have seen none like her. You resemble her very much ; I might have guessed that there was some relationship." Kitty was listening, spellbound. Twice she essayed to speak, but seemed unable to stop the thread of this interesting story. Her uncle was looking at her in a puzzled way. Why didn't she speak and tell the romantic stranger the unromantic story of her aunt's coffin-building at the hands of Tim Farley, "the best carpenter in all Ireland," and her present troublesome visit, which had cast a gloom over the whole house ? "I heard of her death the other day from an old Conne- mara friend. He said she died away from her old home, and she must be buried in Dublin where I used to see her. My only pleasure now is to see her grave. This country has no -other charm for me. I am old enough to be candid. I will afterward return to the country of my exile. Will someone tell me where she is buried ?" Kitty was awake now. The spell was broken, but the words she intended to utter were frozen on her lips by an unexpected apparition. It was her Aunt Juley. She stood for a moment in their midst like a visitor from another world. She was robed in white as for a party, and her hair was becomingly coiffured. Her face was pale but composed, and her eyes shone with the brilliancy of expectation. Yes, the expectation of the bridegroom death. She wore her burial robe. Kitty saw and shud- dered the burial robe that even the humblest in Conne- mara lay by and regard with pride the burial robe that in her aunt's case was made of the finest material and was so extremely becoming. And now a most extraor- AUNT JULEY'S WARNING 315 dinary thing happened. Aunt Juley stood but a moment in their midst. In another instant she was in the arms of the stranger. The end can be better imagined when we quote the words of Pat, the diplomatic man-servant, and the cook who "dhramed a dhrame." "Who'd think," said he, "that the old lady came here to be married, and that that same old coffin-lookin' chest was in reality a weddin' thrunk! It bates all! It was a regular old maid's schame. Oh, I'm onto 'em !" "I knew," said Molly, the cook, "that there was goin' to be ayther a weddin' or a funeral, but I thought it was one of th' young ladies. Sure, afther that, while there's life there's hope." The eleventh brought a bigger affair than was even anticipated. Aunt Juley and the major were married in the afternoon very quietly, as uncle was determined not to allow them to be parted one day longer, and Aunt Juley danced the reel in great style at her own wedding. The coffin was removed to the lumber-room, and after- ward to Connemara, where it is cherished as a memento of a very joyous occasion. For Connemara is Conne- mara, where death is looked forward to as a necessary sequence of life, with the pleasure of lying down to rest among the eternal hills and the gorse and the heather; and a good coffin, strong and well made, is worth pre- serving. 316 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA JAMIE PATTERSON'S HOOSE AND TEN ACRES. "I'd like a dhrink o' tay, Jamie." "Sorraadoot o' it." "Wid a little crame an' sugar in it." "Indeed?" "An' an egg from th' black hen. I heard her cacklin' this mornin'." "I shouldn't wondher." The loom was again in motion, and in its noisy whir the remainder of the sick woman's complaints was drowned. Jamie Patterson was an industrious man and the best weaver in the county. He was in reality from the "black North," but had struck Connemara eight or nine years before and had readily found work and a very pretty wife. Sickness had robbed Mary of her good looks. She was "always ailin'," her husband said. Lately she had taken to her bed and disturbed Jamie's plans very much, which plans tended to much saving and acquiring of property. "Jamie !" "Ay?" "Lave off yer work a while an' talk to me. Ye won't have me long." "Blessed be th' will o' God," answered Jamie, with more sarcasm than piety. JAMIE PATTERSON'S HOOSE AND TEN ACRES 317 "Ye're no sorry that I'm goin', Jamie," sadly. "What fer should I be sorra? Ye'll be betther off, woman." "I won't last over th' morrow." "Ye're sayin' that these five years." "Yes, but this is th' truth." "That's what ye always say." "But I'm dyin' this time, sure." "Then die, an' be done wi' it. I'm sick o' it a'." The woman caught her breath sobbingly. There was dead silence for a moment. Jamie was adjusting his threads, his tight lips showing against the firelight, like another thread drawn taut. He had no patience with the sick woman interrupting his work at a time so important. The last guinea was just on its way into the crock on the shelf for the purchase of the ten acres he coveted, with the comfortable cottage thrown in. Then, and not till then, would Jamie rest. "Jamie !" "Well?" "I'dliketoseeth'childer." "Ye can't see them to-nicht. They're doon at ma sisther's." "I dread lavin' them to th' could worl'." "Th' bairns 'ull be all richt." "Who'll care fer them when I'm gone?" "Who's carin' fer them noo?" A pause followed, in which the busy, flying shuttles kept up a conversation of their own. To the sick woman's ears, the conversation was plain enough: "One guinea more, one guinea more, a house and ten acres, a house and ten acres." In her half-dozing state, she could see 318 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA the coveted possession, but occupied by another woman. She could stand it no longer. "Jamie !" "Ay?" impatiently. "Ye'll be marryin' again?" "Likely." "'Twill be th' widow Mullen?" "Likely." "Will she bring them up in th' ould faith? Ye prom- ised me that when I marrit ye, Jamie." "Well, that was when " "When ye loved me, Jamie. Ye did love me once, Jamie ; den't deny it to a dyin' woman." "Likely." "An' now ye love th' widow Mullen. Ye can't deny it. I've noticed th' change ever since she came here." "Likely." "Well, I'm a poor, sickly crature, an' she's fine lookin' an' sthrong." "Ay, she's a braw woman." "Ye've been talkin' to her, Jamie?" "Ay, I've been talkin' to her." "Ye might have th' dacency to wait till I was dead." There was a catching in the sick woman's breath, and a restless movement of the nearly transparent hands. "An' let someone else get ahead o' me? Siccan a smart woman is not found every day." "Ye might have waited " "Ye were as guid as deed three months agone. Why, th' women had th' wather on to wash ye." "Well," said the woman again, after a pause, "'tis no use findin' faut; ye're from th' black North, where it's JAMIE PATTERSON'S HOOSE AND TEN ACRES 319 impossible to find a heart. I can't blame ye. All I ask is that ye'll bring me a priest. It's me last request." "A papish priest?" "Ay, if so ye call him." "I'll no do it. Ye're axin' too much, woman." "But ye promised." "I was a fool. Na papish priest darkens ma door. D'ye hear, woman ?" "Ay, but ye promised, Jamie, an' it's me last request. I'm dyin', Jamie." "Well," relenting, "just as soon as I get this cloth off th' loom to-morrow early though I can't see what guid a papish priest can do ye, nor th' parson, either, fer that matther. As a man lives, so sail he die, th' guid Book says, an'," cautiously, "I reckon th' woman is entitled to th' same chances." The sick woman was fain to content herself with the niggardly promise. She sank exhausted on the pillow. Jamie was a hard taskmaster, even to himself. The "piece" on the loom was a long one. The fire was twice replenished andHhe dawn was breaking over the moun- tain tops and rocky paths that skirted his cabin when Jamie, stiff, weary but triumphant, folded up with care- ful precision the "finest piece o' cloth that ever left th' loom." "Not a single flaw in it," he muttered, proudly. "I'll defy anyone to find one," and then the thought of his wife crossed his mind. She had lain very quiet for a long time, fortunately for the cloth. "An' noo, Mary, lassie," he said, aloud, "I'll get ye th' tay. Th' last guinea is ready. Th' hoose is mine. Ay, th' hoose an' ten acres." He bustled about noisily to get 21 320 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA the kinks out of his knees. He jingled the cups and saucers in the little cupboard, and unearthed a grain of tea in a small paper. "Wake up, lassie," he said, chuckling. "Ye've been patient fer a long time noo. Ye sail hae yer tay." No answer. "Tay is a mere indulgence o' th' mind, a mere cravin' fer an expensive dhrink when butthermilk or even cold wather would answer as well. What is tay, anyhow? Boiled wather wi' a few laves of a Chany plant steeped in it, an' God knows it was a quare fashion to start dhrinkin' anythin' that a dirty haythen invented." The aroma of the tea was perfuming the cabin. Jamie was comparatively hilarious. The thought of work well done of his self-denial for an object so worthy as a home made him forget for a moment his troubles the sick wife who had got into a stubborn habit of living, and the probable loss of a braw new one in consequence and he whistled. It wasn't much of a whistle. Jamie never could carry a tune, but halting and crooked as it was, it should have waked up his delinquent partner to a sense of gratitude. Jamie seldom indulged even in whistling "Wake up, lassie," he repeated ; "here's yer tay." No answer. "Mary," he added, with new gentleness, and shaking the shoulder near him, "yer tay is ready, lassie." The wind whistled through the door mournfully. Sur- prised at her indifference, he extended his hand over the face, which was turned to the wall. It was icy cold. All the tea in the Celestial Empire, were it steeped in one caldron in her presence, had no power to move her now. "She's awa'," said Jamie, startled out of his usual calmness. " She's awa'." JAMIE PATTERSON'S HOOSE AND TEN ACRES 321 "Away? Who's away?" said a voice at his elbow. Jamie jumped, actually jumped, and the precious tea fell from his hands and sank into the earthen floor. It was only a neighbor who had entered, sans ceremonie, and had helped herself to a live coal. The coal was carried in tongs on a level with Jamie's nose, where it burned fitfully, while the inquisitive intruder, forgetful of her errand, glanced sharply around. "What's th' matther wid Mary?" continued the neigh- bor. "Is she worse? Spake up, man. Give her a warm dhrink. Mebbe " "Hoot," said the weaver, impatiently. "Can't ye see fer yersel' that Mary's awa' that she's deed ?" "Dead!" screamed the woman, dropping the live coal on the neatly-folded pile of cloth at the foot of the bed. "Dead! Mary dead, widout a word to anyone, widout a friend near her, widout th' rites of her church, wid- out a prayer to help her along th' dark road, an' her own mother's cousin, but three times removed, widin a stone's throw of her, an' that's meself ! Tis little she tould us, th' crature, though we knew she was sufferin', in dhread we'd be down on ye. 'Tis well fer ye her mother's gone before, 'tis well fer ye. Asthore machree," she added, apostrophizing the corpse. " 'Tis a lonesome death ye had; but yer penance is over, an' ye're in glory wid yer mother, who would give her heart's blood to help anyone in throuble. Oh, well I remember yer first mornin' on earth. 'Twas a blessed Christmas mornin', too, an' ye came like one of th' snowflakes, so white an' so calm, an' th' royal welcome we gave ye, th' one child God sent yer handsome mother." "Ma cloth is ruined! Ma cloth is ruined!" shrieked 322 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA the weaver, dragging the smoking pile to the light. There was a suffocating smell of burning wool rilling the cozy cabin, and the weaver's tears overflowed as he examined the wreck of his hopes. "Oh, ma noble cloth !" he cried, bitterly, "ma noble cloth !" Burning wool is bad for the eyes, but it had no effect on those of the neighbor who had come for the "coal of turf." Indignation had dried the source of her tears, and she swung the empty tongs as if it had been a battle-ax, quite forgetting that her husband and two sons were awaiting their breakfast of potatoes and salmon before going out to the fishing. Early as the hour was, the mingled lamentations of Jamie Patterson and his neighbor drew a crowd of curi- ous persons to the scene. Neighboring cabins were opened, and half-clad women came running to the street. "Jamie has spoiled his work someway," said a woman, who had come first on the scene, to the rest. "Och, 'tis meself thought th' wife was dead," said an- other, disappointedly. "She is," interpolated the woman with the empty tongs, as she was preparing to start for another live coal and impart the earliest news. "An' Mary's dead?" questioned another, holding her by the cloak. "Dead fer hours," added the other, hastily, "an' I must tell th' Moores. They are second cousins " "An' Jamie's cry in' " "An' Jamie's cryin' fer his cloth," added the woman of the tongs, indignantly. "Arrah, d'ye expect th' like o' him to have a tear fer a Christian ?" JAMIE PATTERSON'S HOOSE AND TEN ACRES 323 "That's th' way to serve a dacent woman," said another. "A waver has no heart. Gi' me a fisherman any minute." "An' me," said another. "Th' miserable sprissawn! He hasn't th' heart of a fly." Women with their baskets were wending their way to the beach to gather in the shell-fish before the tide came in. The news lost nothing in the telling. The dead woman was well known and liked. The shell-fish gatherers were properly sympathetic. "Died widout th' benefit of th' clargy," said one woman, "an' Father Tom just across th' Bay." "An' what 'ud ye expect of an Orangeman ?" added an- other, significantly. "Tis ducked in th' say he ought to be." "An' I'd like to be th' one to do it," and a big fish-wife set her arms akimbo and looked ready for action. "I'd do it wid one hand ahint me." "He's a miserable little misard," said another, "an' was mane an' cruel to th' poor girl." "An' d'ye think he'll be let pass to punish another wo- man, mebbe?" "Let th' other woman alone to take care o' herself." "Ye don't mane to say he's been courtin' already? An' who's th' woman ?" "Never mind. Ye'll soon know. She'll knock th' price o' Mary out o' him !" "Well, fer fear she wouldn't, here goes!" said the big woman, dropping her basket. There is no knowing to what extent the women of the sea would have carried their wrath, if something more interesting had not at this time arrested their attention. This something was a young lady of graceful mien and 324 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA quick step, who, accompanied by "Ned the innocent/' was making her way toward them. "It's Miss Eleanor, an' where is she goin' so airly?" said Nancy. Miss Eleanor was Father Tom's niece. She answered their unspoken question in her own characteris- tic way. "Can any of you tell me how Mary Patterson is this morning?" she asked, sweetly. "I'm making an early call, but it is one I intended to make last week. I have been dreaming of the poor woman all night, and cannot help feeling she must be worse." "Mary died last night," said one of the women, regard- ing the contents of the basket that Ned was carrying. There was a package of tea, some jelly, and other dainties. Miss Eleanor's face was very pale. "I feel ashamed that I put off my good impulse so long," she said. "The poor woman is beyond our help now. Poor Mary !" "Well, he isn't," said the fisherwoman, taking heart. "Jamie was makin' money an' lettin' her want." The young lady listened attentively to their plan for punishing the weaver. "If ever there was anything in a dream," she said, "then mine came to me to some purpose. Mary, who was always so good and just, knew how in- dignant you would be and wished me to prevent you from hurting her husband. If you must duck anyone in the sea, then duck me. I deserve it for neglecting my duty." The women were set in their purpose, and hard to per- suade from it. "He shed tears fer th' cloth, but none fer his wife, an' he neglected her. I'm not much of a Chrick- shen meself," said big Nancy, "but if ye let me duck him thray times in th' wather, I'll say me prayers every day fer JAMIE PATTERSON'S HOOSE AND TEN ACRES 325 a year. I'm not much of a Chrickshen meself, as I said afore; but if a man or a woman wants their clergyman when they lie a-dyin', let them have 'em !" "Jamie Patterson is a very industrious man," said Miss Eleanor. "Industhrious indeed, an' who fer?" said a chorus of women, indignantly. "Gettin' property fer hisself. He's a mane, low misard, a " "But he was poor Mary's husband, and she loved him." "An' he was cruel to her " "He had a sick wife for many years. It was a great trial." "But he denied her th' rites of her church." "He was brought up in a different faith from her own. You must not forget that. He thought he was doing right, no doubt." Nancy's face was very red. She did not like to mention certain things before Miss Eleanor ; but she had to do so, in order to win her point, and the point was to give Jamie a well-deserved ducking. Nancy did not belong to the old faith, but she liked fair play, and fair play meant to duck Jamie three times, at least, in the sea. " If ye must know th' truth," she said, " I'll tell ye. He's been around courtin' another woman, an' waitin' fer Mary to die." "If he has done wrong to his wife," said Miss Eleanor, after a pause, "he will be sufficiently punished by his own conscience. Mary loved him, and that is enough for us. She never complained of him, and would forgive him at any moment. If you wish to please Mary, let her husband alone. As I am here, I will help prepare the body for burial. When your work is done, come and help me, and say no more about revenge. Leave that to the Lord." 326 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA Jamie was still bemoaning his cloth as the young lady entered, and he never knew what a narrow escape he had from a cold and protracted bath in the dancing sea. If Miss Eleanor had subjugated the fisherwomen to her wishes, she couldn't count on the woman with the tongs. She had been the rounds, and by nursing her resentment it had grown to gigantic proportions. She wielded her tongs unconsciously in the direction of Jamie, and it re- quired all Miss Eleanor's diplomacy to prevent them from falling on the object of her wrath. There was to be a gathering of the clans at the wake. All the old families, remnants of dead and gone warriors who had been driven to Connemara by Cromwell, would be there, and there was no knowing what would happen. Father Tom must be notified, and that quickly. The ducking that she had prevented would be nothing to this new trouble. She sent the faithful Ned on his errand, and in the meantime she called the indignant lady of the tongs in to the bedside of the woman whose beauty had been so miraculously re- stored by death. There had been a great change in the ap- pearance of the cabin since early morning. Eleanor and her staff of assistants had swept and garnished every- thing before them. The loom was set aside, and the dead woman's poor little heirlooms linen sheets, a tablecloth, a crucifix, a couple of candlesticks, and a blessed water- stoup were placed where all could see them. Jamie regarded this as papish mummery, but his respect for Miss Eleanor kept him from any other sign of disap- proval than a couple of contemptuous sniffs. He was sit- ting on a low stool in the outer room amid the ruins of his cloth, and the grief in his face might be attributed to either of his recent losses. Most of the women attributed it to JAMIE PATTERSON'S HOOSE AND TEN ACRES 327 the last, and it took more than a glance from Miss Eleanor to keep big Nancy's hands from throwing him and his web of cloth into the sea. On the walls surrounding the bed were hung the sheets that had done duty on similar occasions for her mother and numberless ancestors. These had pinned in them sprigs of holy palm and bunches of mountain arbutus. Beneath this unwonted finery, on the low, old-fashioned bed, lay the body of the weaver's wife. Never since the day of her wedding had the poor woman's toilet received such atten- tion. " She never looked so nice since she marrit th' weaver," whispered Nancy. "He couldn't bear to see her dressed up ; he always said it was a waste of time." "Ay, she looks like herself sure, though she weighs no more than a bird," said another, putting a rosary in the wasted hands and folding them on the pulseless breast. "An' she might have marrit th' man at th' mill that owns two boats an' a share in Larry Dempsey's smack, besides a home fit fer a " "Well, she's at home now, anyway," and another smoothed the rippling dark hair on each side of the broad brow. "She's smilin' again, th' crature, meetin' her mother, perhaps, who was so long waitin' her." It was to this low bed of finery and sorrow that Miss Eleanor brought the infuriated woman with the tongs. She pointed to the lovely, child-like face, with the long lashes curling on the pallid cheek, and a smile, as of joy, on the lips. "Poor Mary is resting," she whispered. "Would you disturb her?" 328 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA At the burst of tears that followed, she took the weapon from the woman's hand. "Let there be peace. That was Mary's wish," she continued ; and there was peace. It is hard for some people to forego a revenge, and the weeping woman was one of these. She kept the peace, but she flung a parting shaft at the weaver as she went out. "Ye're cryin' about yer cloth," she said, "ye ould vaga- bond ; ye're cryin' about yer cloth, but ye haven't a tear to spare fer th' poor girl who placed her life in yer hands seven weary years ago. Ye've lost Mary, but ye've gained a house an' ten acres, an' much good it will do ye. Ye've killed yer wife, Jamie Patterson, as thruely as if ye had put a knife in her heart ; but it will come home to ye, me man ; it will come home to ye, mark my words." Jamie Patterson's "braw noo wife" was regarding her- self very earnestly in a mirror to the accompaniment of a whirring loom. Jamie had moved into his "noo hoose wi' th' ten acres." His wife was good-locking and strong, lively and gay. All these qualities Jamie had ad- mired in the past, but just now he sighed. Such is the perversity of man. The mirror was small and the face that looked into its depths was very large, and it was only by a constant and rotary motion that the lady could be kept fully informed of the condition of her countenance. She was looking at an installment of her fair cheek, when her husband stopped his work and looked at the back of her head in a troubled way. "Ye'll have to buy me a new glass, Jamie, when ye go to Clifden wid yer next web of cloth. I can't see meself JAMIE PATTERSON'S HOOSE AND TEN ACRES 329 in this at all, at all. It's enough to drive a dacent woman crazy," said the lady. Jamie's answer was another question. "What fer are ye speerin' ferever in th' glass?" he queried. "Th' guid Book says, 'All flesh is grass' " "Thrue fer th' 'guid Book,' " said his wife, mockingly. "Sure, grass is good while it lasts. 'Tis time enough to be doleful when th' grass is hay," and she smirked pleas- antly at that portion of her blooming visage that was reflected in the mirror. "Ye seem to be dressin' oop to-nicht," he said. "An' why not? Sure, there's no law agin a woman makin' th' most of herself." "Th' guid Book says " "Arrah, lave me alone till I finish curlin' me hair." " Ye're no goin' out th' nicht, woman ?" "I am that. D'ye ferget Annie Featherstone's wed- din'?" "I didna intend to remember Annie Featherstone's wed- din'. A guid wife's place is by her ane fireside, an' " "An' ye can stay an' mind th' fire. 'Tis th' best place fer ye." "Ye canna lave this hoose to-nicht, mak' oop yer mind on that, woman. Fer I durstna lave this loom noo." The new wife laughed. " No one is axin' ye. Ye look well at th' loom. Stay at it, me man. As fer me, there's a crowd of dacent people comin' home th' same way, an' I'll no be short of company." The weaver came forward and looked sternly at his wife. He believed in the power of the human eye, with a slight leaning in favor of his own. One glance had been enough to reduce his first wife to the most abject obedi- 330 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA ence. It had no effect on the present partner of his joys and sorrows. She only laughed long and heartily, and turned to finish her toilet. The weaver was in despair. There was something about the man that a devoted wife would have noticed at once. He was unusually haggard and pale and carried an air of terror, for he cast many glances around. "Stay wi' me to-nicht, Kitty," he said. "I I don't feel well." "What fer? Eyah, d'ye think I'd lose th' fun o' th' weddin' fer any o' yer ould pisthrogues? Have sense, man." "Ye'll be sorra fer goin' " "Sorry a fear o' me. I'm not that kind." "An' ye'll lave me here to work alone?" "An' why not? Isn't it fer that I marrit ye th' most industhrious man an' th' best weaver in th' county ?" The weaver's lip trembled. "D'ye hear anythin'?" he muttered, looking at her in a frightened way. The new wife heard the words, but she did not catch the look. "It's Danny Dunn an' his fiddle," she answered, hastily, as a faint strain was borne on the breeze. "He's wid th' groom's party, an' I'm no half ready. Whist, will ye, till I get me shoes an' stockin's on." "I don't mind it much when I hae company," the little weaver muttered, half to himself. "Mind what?" asked his wife, who was busy covering her extremities with snow-white stockings and low shoes, which were evidently kept for great occasions, though many said that she was vain of her feet, and often went barefoot for the purpose of exhibiting their whiteness and slim proportions. JAMIE PATTERSON'S HOOSE AND TEN ACRES 331 "D'ye ever hear it? I wonder if anyone else hears it," the man said, in a low voice. "What are ye sayin'?" impatiently asked his wife. "Hear what?" "Th' loom. Did ye ever hear it sayin' anythin' when ye worked on it ?" "'Tis very little I ever worked over a loom, but it never said anythin' to me. Ye're crazy, man." "Did ye never hear it keep in rhyme to yer thoughts?" His wife laughed. "Yes, to a tune in me head, Th' Pretty Girls of Coolroe,' or Th' Rocky Road to Dub- lin.' " "No, no, different sad an' solemn words. I don't mind it if I hae company. I could work all nicht, an' tak' no notice." "Ye're crazy, man. I'm scared to stay wid ye. Here's th' crowd at th' turn o' th' road, now. I must be goin'." "An 5 ye won't stay?" "No, indeed. Good-by. Go on to yer work, an' never mind what th' loom says." A burst of music and hearty laughter came in the door as it opened for the exit of the braw woman, and van- ished with her down the road, till it became a faint, sweet echo from the neighboring hills. The weaver turned, more from force of habit than anything else, and seated himself at the loom. In a few moments he sprang up hastily, and sat again in the broad chimney. His hair seemed to take an upward turn, for he placed a trembling hand as if to hold it in place. He regarded the loom with a troubled look. The web that was lying in it was getting along very slowly, and the purchaser was waiting. His imagination was playing havoc with 332 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA him. What was going to become of him, he asked him- self again and again. The fire was smoldering, and dark shadows began to flit across the whitewashed walls. He thought he would cover up the fire altogether, fasten the door and go to bed. The thought pleased him. He would make his wife hammer at it for an hour or two before he rose to admit her. But then the thought of his unfinished work lay heavy on his heart, and prevented his revenge. How strange the loom looked in the dim light, and how many different forms it assumed! Now it was a fishing-smack off Ard Bay, with the men casting their nets. In a moment it changed to a wreck beating on the rocks, and dead faces surrounding it in the angry waters. Again it changed into a coffin with four bearers carrying it slowly but surely toward him. He tried to run away, but his eyes were fastened to the grim illusion. There, the top was off the top of the coffin and lying within was the form of his first wife, with crossed hands and smiling lips, and the lashes resting on her pale cheeks, just as he had seen her before the grave had covered her up forever. "Mary!" he cried, involuntarily. "Mary!" For an- swer the door was pushed in and a form fell into the mid- dle of the room. Jamie shrieked. "Hoots, mon, ye're crazy ! What fer are ye schreechin' lak a banshee in a graveyard? It's a fine wulcom to gie a frien' an' me thrav'lin' five mile to be here th' nicht." Jamie's welcome, though not effusive, was sincere. "I was peepin' at ye through th' windy fer th' last half oor, an' ca'in' at th' tap o' me voice, but ye no heeded me. Ye look mighty dour fer a noo marrit mon." JAMIE PATTERSON'S HOOSE AND TEN ACRES 333 Jamie asserted his belief that he was "na weel." "Ye're warkin' too hard, mon, an' ye're fair narvous; tak' a pull at this." His friend was a weaver and a playmate from the " black North," and sympathized with him in his difficulty about the "web o' cloth." "Only fer desturbin' yer guid wife, I'd feenish th' job fer ye th' nicht," said his friend. He whistled when Jamie told his story, and looked knowing. "Ye sud ha' pulled oop an' gone back to Londonderry when th' ferst woman died," he said. "Lave this place wi' its rocks an' hills an' wather, an' coom hame. Yer noo wife is one of th' right sort an' ye'll mak' a livin' fine. T is always best fer a mon to marry into his ane religion," he added. "Mary was guid enoo, if she was no a papist." Jamie was not in a mood to talk on the subject of women, and his friend offered to finish the "web." Jamie sat and watched him with wide-open eyes. "Does th' loom say naethin' to ye?" he asked. "Does th' loom say naethin'?" repeated his friend. "What a feckless question! It says, 'whirr, whirr, birr, birr/ lak all looms." "It talks to me," said Jamie. "It talks to me all th' time." "Ye're crazy, mon, an' 'tis all in th' 'magination." "No, no; it's no 'magination. It talks, talks all th' time. Listen !" "Tak' anither pull o' th' bottle, mon; ye're goin' fair daft. What on airth is th' matther wi' ye ?" Jamie was never a bottle man, and what he imbibed 334 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA made him only more melancholy. His friend, however, became more hilarious with each succeeding dose. He was a happy-go-lucky weaver, untrammeled by domestic ties, and at home everywhere. After trying his hand at a psalm, "The Boyne Water," and "Croppy, Lie Down," he went back to the work with great spirit. Again the loom felt the hand of a master, again the dancing bobbin passed back and forth on its errand of usefulness. The piece of cloth was steadily growing, and making rapid strides toward completion. Jamie was watching his friend with bloodless lips and staring eyes. Suddenly he raised his hands. "D'ye hear it, mon? D'ye hear it? Ye can't deny it, mon, ye can't deny it. It's ever an' ay th' same, 'Gie me a dhrink, Jamie, gie me a dhrink.' Oh, stop th' loom, mon, or I sail go mad ; an' it's Mary's voice, ever an' always Mary's voice. Oh, stop th' loom, mon, or I " It was a stark, staring madman that was standing over the loom when the weaver looked up from his task. But with true North coolness, helped out by the bottle, he answered : "Wull, an' she's thirsty, gie her a dhrink," and he poured the contents of the bottle on the cloth, and then ran for the water-pail and dashed it above and about it, while Jamie stared with wide-open eyes at the damage done to "one o' th' finest webs in th' worl'." It was now Jamie's turn to take a hand. He turned to the corner and grasped an ax. The visitor, now com- pletely sobered and thinking the ax was intended for him, made a bee-line for a gaily curtained bed that formed the chief ornament in the new home, and dived beneath its capacious valance. JAMIE PATTERSON'S HOOSE AND TEN ACRES 335 The ax, however, was intended for the loom, and Jamie slashed away at his bread-winner till all that was left of it was a mass of ruins. At every fall of the ax, the unfortunate man under the bed gave vent to a yell, that was almost sufficient to wake the dead in the adjoining graveyard. At this moment the door opened and his wife, won- dering at the unwonted sounds, and all tired and dishev- eled from her night's dissipation, and accompanied by a few favored friends, came in. We will draw a veil on the rest. On the road from Roundstone to the Bay, which is a complete zigzag, a beggar-man was wearily climbing. The day was nearly spent, yet his bag was almost empty, and the few potatoes it contained perhaps three or four were rattling against his heels as he walked. As he sank down for a moment to rest on the mossy side of a rock, a group of women passed to market. They were in pretty good humor and the echoes of their laughter were carried back to the Glen. One woman stopped and gave the beggar a sharp look. Jamie knew her as the woman of the tongs, who was always coming for a live "coal o' turf," and he knew what was coming and braced himself. "Oh, I know ye, Jamie Patterson; I know ye," she cried. "What brought ye back from Derry to th' King- dom of Connemara? Yer new wife has marrit again, an' claims th' 'hoose an' ten acres' be raison of yer bein' out of yer mind. Ye may thravel from Lough Corrib to Ard Bay, an' ye'll carry 'round an empty bag, while aa 336 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA every other poor man's is full. Th' people remember how ye served poor Mary, who thought so much of ye. Yer new wife didn't marry ye. She marrit th' 'hoose an' ten acres,' wid th' loom thrown in. She marrit an- other loom wid a man thrown in, an' ye're as ye deserve to be, a beggar an' a wanderer." She waved her hands as she formerly waved her tongs, but the beggar-man neither spoke nor stirred. "Come away," said her companion, tugging at her cloak; "'tis poor work throwin' wather on a dhrownded rat. He has enough to bear widout any remindher of past days. I think he's carrin' th' bag fer penance. What brings him back from Derry unless, fer he's as fine a waver as ever started a loom. Tis penance he's doin', I tell ye ; an' more betoken, ye'll find him at Mary's grave every evenin', sittin' sad an' lonesom', an' a little cup in his hand fer catchin' th' rain so Mary can have a dhrink." This put a new aspect on the matter; for there is no country so appreciative of acts of personal reparation, however peculiar, and which are denominated by the people in general as "doin' penance." ST. JOHN'S EVE 337 ST. JOHN'S EVE. "What'll ye have?" " Th' Pretty Girls of Coolroe.' " " Th' Hare in th' Corn.' " "One tune at a time, boys ; one tune at a time. Which'll I play first? Well, here goes 'Th' Hare in th' Corn.' " As the strains of the well-known air were released from the chanter, the piper paced up and down between the rows of laughing boys and girls, scattering the wild music into every crevice of the Glen, and over the moun- tain passes as far as Bena Cullagh. It rippled over the bosom of the lake and was echoed back from the surround- ing hills. The moon hung like a lamp over the beautiful scene till shamed into insignificance by the glare of the bonfires that now burst out on all sides. The girls had been preparing for St. John's Eve, and every bit of finery in the Glen was airing in the gentle summer breeze. So many new scarlet petticoats and blue bodices and yellow handkerchiefs surrounding white throats, or of pretty, laughing faces had indeed been sel- dom seen together. "Take yer partners fer th' dance, boys, an' be quick about it. Don't let th' music grow cold." They didn't. Up and down and in and out they went, laughing and dancing and circling and twisting, till it came to the serious business of the night, and that was 338 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA to settle the rival claims of the two adjoining villages as to who was entitled to the palm for dancing. Only two more couples were left, and they were both from F . ""Pis hard to stand it," whispered one of the girls, looking regretfully at a cake, poised prominently on a churn-dash. "'Tis hard to see them take th' prize away two years runnin', an' good dancers of our own within a stone's throw." "He's a good dancer, though that fellow that's pow- dherin' away at th' slip- jig. Look at him now ! You'd think he was greased all over, an' a joint in every inch of him an' his partner, too !" " Straighten th' chest, back wid th' elbows, an' cover th' buckle !" shouted the piper, in deligkt at the gyrations of the supple fellow before him. "That isn't fair to decide now, so airly in th' evenin'," whispered another. "Mebbe more of th' girls would be here by an' by." "If we only had Mary Brady here !" "If we had arrah, d'ye think that ould misard of hers 'ud let her come? Sorra a fut. But there's her cousin now. What a pair they'd make! They couldn't touch them in six baronies, if they were together !" "From Ballmalcama to Kilkieran Bays ye couldn't find their beat. Stay an' let's have a talk wid him. Philip ! Philip, I say!" Philip was a bright, handsome-looking fellow, and was quite moody over the way things were going. Could he get his cousin Mary ? Maybe. It was worth while trying. He'd go and talk to the old man. fit this moment the dancer who was the center of at- ST. JOHN'S EVE 339 traction gave an athletic spring and came down with a resounding clap of his heels together, executed another stampede around and around, and then, bringing the right foot behind the left, took off his caubeen and bowed him- self off. There was a great deal of clapping and cheering from the village of F ; but Glendallagh, though just, was of course not expected to be enthusiastic. " Friends an' neighbors, boys an' girls, I have a word to say," and Philip drew himself up to his full height, as the crowds that had been congratulating the triumphant dancer now turned a battery of bright eyes in his direc- tion. "No fightin', Philip, no fightin'; seein' th' boy has won th' prize fair an' square, let him take it," interposed an elderly man, nervously. "There'll be no fightin'," said Philip, quietly ; "an' as fer th' prize, I'm no school-boy to go cry in' fer a cake, an' I think I can venture to say th' same of th' young man beyant who has danced so well." (Sounds of applause from the rival villagers.) "I'm spakin' now fer fair play an' th' honor of th' thing. This is th' second year we've lost th' prize I may say, championship. Our best dancers aren't here, nor they waren't here last time. One of them is here now, on a visit from America. Sure, ye all know Andy Delaney." (Cheers.) "He's willin' to dance if I get his partner. I'm goin' fer her. It's airly in th' evenin' yet; all I ask is another fair trial, if I succeed in gettin' th' lady; an' if not, let matthers stand as they are. But there'll be no fightin', anyway. When we want to fight, we'll fight fer something betther than a sweet cake, an' against a common enemy, not with one another." A noisy and unanimous assent was immediately given. 340 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "We may be a little while away, so don't waste time in waitin'. Let th' fun go on !" shouted Philip, as he turned to go. And the fun went on. Everyone is not born to excel, and many were content with enjoying themselves by taking a turn at an eight-handed reel, a moneen, or a jig in their own way on the sweet, cool grass beneath the moon's witching beams. Philip turned to view the scene he was leaving, and it was worth it. This favorite spot for dancing was on the borders of one of the prettiest lakes in the whole of this wonderful country of lakes. The lake was com- pletely circled by ridges of wooded mountains, that were reflected in the clear water and that isolated it from the surrounding country as completely as if it were situated in Africa. You might be in its vicinity all day and know nothing of it, till an unexpected turning in the "ma'am" (mountain pass) would fling it before you in all its beauty. A few stragglers were climbing over the moun- tains on their way to the festival, their scarlet petticoats and blue mantles making them look like fairies in the moonlight. Philip was joined by three or four young men, one of them being the returned American. Andy Delaney would have been very much surprised if anyone had told him he was a poet ; but the eyes that drank in the beautiful scene, and gloried in it, were not unlike those that belong to the gifted ones who observe the flush in the heart of the rose and count the shades in the mountain torrent as it ripples in the moonlight. Andy spoke but little, and his words gave no reason for his return to his native country, where his parents ST. JOHN'S EVE 341 lay sleeping in the shadows of the eternal hills, and where few of his kith and kin remained to bid him welcome. It was three years since he had danced on the grassy slopes by the enchanted lake, and when he went to Amer- ica he said as little as usual; but that he had a motive, and a good one, for his departure, everyone was certain. He attached himself to Philip as one who had a right, and seemed anxious to speak to him, confidentially, several times, but he was as often interrupted. "Ye had good luck in America," said Philip, as they descended the "boreen," the little private road that seemed to be the only outlet from the lake set like a jewel in the bosom of the hills ; "but ye don't forget the 'ould dart.' " "No, no," said Andy, who seemed to be waking from a dream ; "the sight of the spot never leaves my eyes." "Are ye goin' back?" asked Philip. "It depends," answered Andy; "it depends on someone else." "Oh, there's a woman in th' case, is there?" said his friend, laughing. "Ye never told us anythin' about it." "No, nor her," answered Andy, gravely. "I didn't want to speak till I had a foundation for my presumption, or the shadow of a home to offer her." "Faith, ye're more patient than I am. Spake first, an' get th' home afther, say I," interrupted Philip, who was a rollicking kind of an Irishman. "But who is th' lady? Is it any harm to ask ye?" "Can't you guess?" said his friend, in surprise. There was no time for more, for the long, narrow "boreen," fragrant with the scent of hawthorne, termi- nated in a low, substantial farmhouse, surrounded by evi- dences of prosperity not often seen in that part of the 342 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA country. Though so close to the scene of the festivity, it bore an air of loneliness and isolation that gave one a very poor idea of the owner's estimate of the virtue of hos- pitality, so honored in the rest of the neighborhood. There was not the slightest indication of a bonfire, and only a dim light in the front windows gave any evidence of life. "Old McGowan's place," said the returned American. "How natural it looks ! He's as rich as ever, I suppose?" "No, but twict as rich, an' twict as mane, if that could be," was the reply. "Well, what are we waiting here for? Surely you don't expect him to go to the dance ?" said Andy. "No, but someone belonging to him, God help her! We'll give her a couple of hours' fun an' bring her back safe an' sound, an' he'll never know th' difference. Look at th' ould misard now," said Philip, unscrupulously peep- ing through the window where the light shone. "Be all that's holy, he's preparing a thrate fer himself !" This report brought all hands to the spot, and, jostling and laughing, the bevy of sports took their stand at the narrow window and passed uncomplimentary remarks about the eccentric owner. "He's afther pluckin' a goose fer himself, an' throwin* it into th' pot." "An' th' wife'll never get a taste of it, ye may be sure. She isn't here at all." "Sure, don't ye know she has to go to bed wid th' chickens, afther a supper of potatoes an' milk?" "An' th' workmen have to sleep at home lest they should wear out th' sheets." A burst of music from the lake reminded the loiterers that time was passing. ST. JOHN'S EVE 343 "I pity th' poor girl when she hears that, an' nothin' bethune her an' it but th' walls of an ould loft !" "Much she gained by marryin' an ould misard! What good'll his money do her? I'll bet he's rackin' his brains fer manes to will everything away from her when he dies." "He'll outlive her. Sure, he's only seventy-five, an' as sthrong as a horse." "Well, hurry up! If ye're goin' to ax th' ould man's lave, it's time ye wor doin' it." "Ax his lave? Eyah! What kind of a fool d'ye take me fer? No, I'll ax her lave an' talk to her at th' same time, an' he'll never hear ony what's meant fer him, fer he's as deaf as a beetle." "No, ye talk to him an' I'll talk to her," said his brother ; "an' if he sees me lips movin', ye let on I'm singin' a song." "He's puttin' fresh turf undher th' pot, an' turnin' th' potatoes in th' ashes. See him creepin' round in his stockin' feet, layin' th' table fer himself. It's ony fair to him to ax his lave. If he won't give it, we know what to do. Yes, ax his lave," said another. "I wondher if he'll ax us to supper?" queried one of the fellows who had not yet spoken. A burst of laughter followed this venture. "He might, though," said Pat. "He's always very civil to th' Fosthers." "Bekase there's so many of us seven in all wid a reputation, to say th' laste, fer a bit of fun, an' livin' quite neighborly to him. Ony fer a promise I gave me father last night, I'd think nothin' of takin' him out an' duckin' him in th' pond," added his brother. 344 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Well, if he invites us to sup an' lets Mary go to th' dance, we'll fergive him all his other sins. What d'ye say, boys?" "Certain, certain, we'll fergive him th' rest," said Philip, as the door openly slowly, releasing mingled odors of goose and roasted potatoes. A high nightcap, with a tassel on the end, was thrust out cautiously, and then a face, creased with lines of cunning and avarice, followed. It was withdrawn in a minute, and the door almost shut on the hand of the ringleader. The boys were too quick for the old man, who, seeing his disadvantage, was all civility. "God save all here!" said Philip, gravely, entering and taking a seat. "Amen!" answered the old man, with a sigh. "I was just goin' to bed," and he pulled the ashes over the pota- toes to conceal them. "No chance fer a supper, boys," said Pat, shaking his head, "an' I'm near dead wid th' hunger." "What have ye in th' pot-oven that smells so appetizin', Misther McGowan?" asked Philip, with much politeness. "Eh? Oh, ah !" returned the old man, in various tones of affected surprise as the question was repeated to him three different times. "It's just a feedin' fer th' pigs I'm boilin' agin th' morn, so as a to be ready." "Oh, that's it," said Philip ; and then, as he watched the old man hovering over the pot, furtively covering it close so as to preclude all possibility of the odor escaping, he said to the boys, "Small chance of a supper to-night." " It's lovely weather fer St. John's Eve ; it's a wondher ye an' th' misthress are not out footin' it among th' boys an' girls," yelled Pat at the old gentleman, who, in stock- ST. JOHN'S EVE 345 ing feet, blue flannel vest, and corduroy knee-breeches, was yawning and giving all possible hints compatible with safety that the visitors' sudden withdrawal would not be deplored. This remark was repeated some three or four times before the old man realized that they ex- pected him to attend the outdoor festivities. In his horror at the suggestion, he threw up his long arms till they hit the flitches of bacon on the ceiling. " Ye're fond of yer joke, so ye are, Pat ; ye're fond of yer joke. Oh, I'm too ould to dance, an' th' misthress hem is too wise. She has to take care of th' child hem so she has." "Mary may be wise, but she is young. Let th' poor girl enjoy herself fer a couple of hours. She's my cousin, ye know, an' ye know that I think enough of her to look afther her intherests. Her brothers are here, too, so nothin' can be said " "But what 'ud become of th' child?" asked the old man, in great alarm. "Bring it along. There's plenty of girls to take care of it while she's dancin'." "Dancin', dancin' !" repeated the old man, aghast. "Th' lake may be all right fer young girls an' boys, but it's no place fer a marrit woman. No, no; I couldn't hear of such a thing hem hem no: Mary an' th' child are sleepin' above. Don't wake them." This conversation coursed along with the usual repeti- tions, yells and misunderstandings, and took some time, but the remainder of the boys were not idle. Like the music which the fashionables at a morning concert wel- come as a sufficient cover for polite conversation, this fusil- lade between Pat and the old man was a ruse to admit of a dialogue between the gallery and the floor of the theater. 346 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA The huge kitchen of the old farmhouse was long and wide and old-fashioned. McGowan lived as his father and grandfather lived, while they were scraping together with patience and economy the nest-egg that, under the careful nursing of the ultra-penurious grandson, was des- tined to grow to a goodly size. Across the middle of the kitchen ran a loft, reached by a ladder. The ladder was gone, and the occupants of the loft, if any, were prisoners for the night at least. It was open like a gallery, and the products of the farm were much in evidence in front, while the back was usually reserved for sleeping apart- ments for the help. "Who's sleepin' there?" asked one of the boys. "No one but th' wife. He locks her up, or takes th' laddher away, which is th' same thing, while he cooks fer himself bachelor fashion a supper fit fer a Bishop, an' never offers her a taste of it. A lot she gained by marryin' a man ould enough to be her grandfather." "Arrah, what had she to do wid it, th' innocent crather? Didn't her father an' mother make th' match, glad to get th' eldest of twelve off their hands to such a rich man, no matther how ould he was ? Sure, everyone knows that she had to be dragged to speak to him at all, an' ony th' thought of bein' able to help her parents - " "Help, indeed! Why, they wouldn't get any benefit from him in a hundred years ! Poor Mary ! Her sacri- fice was all fer nothin'. I heard it said that if she had th' manes, she'd have run away to America, instead of mar- "Mary who?" interrupted the visitor to the Glen, and Andy's face was very pale and set. "Mary Brady, of course. She's marrit to him nigh ST. JOHN'S EVE 347 onto three years, an' has a son near a year old. Did ye know her ? Sure ye must. She was th' prettiest girl in th' Glen an' th' best dancer." If Andy knew he made no sign. He wasn't one of the talking kind, anyway, and the happy-go-lucky young fellows around him were too busy with their own affairs to notice the agony of the quivering face or the darkening of the keen blue eyes. This information was given in the ordinary tone of voice, the well-known deafness of the "ould misard" rendering such a course perfectly safe. "I'll call her," said Philip, "an' make a bargain wid her. She's sleepin' probably at th' back of th' loft, an' we can haul her out through th' windy, if she's willin', an' why wouldn't she be, th' darlin'? Faith, when she hears th' throuble we're in about th' championship, she'll be more than willin'. Th' ould shananah'll never miss her, an' we can bring her back to th' same ould loft bad cess to him fer kapin' her there before th' dew is brushed off th' clover, none th' worse but rather th' betther fer a chance to dance th' grief off her heart." And now commenced a drama that would have done honor to the boards of the "Frangais" or "Drury Lane" and brought into play the histrionic talent that lies latent in every Irish heart. It delighted the young fellows, who were related more or less to the fair prisoner in the loft, and who saw a chance of getting even with her jailer. "We'll hide th' laddher when we go, where it will take him a day to find it," said one. "Don't look up when ye're talkin', an' he'll think ye're singin' a song," said another. The goose was now emitting an odor (juite unmis- takable, though the old man had cunningly pushed the 348 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA blazing sods away from the pot-oven in which it was roasting. "All the world's a stage, and men and women merely actors." The old farm kitchen was a stage, and every actor was a star in his line. The old man was covering up his anxiety for their departure with a sickly smile. Ho had a holy terror of the "Foster boys," his wife's cousins, and dreaded the retaliation that speedily followed any discourtesy on his part. "Fine weather fer potatoes," shouted Pat to his host, and added to his brother, in a lower tone, "Now talk to Mary, an' be quick about it !" "Mary, darlin'," said Philip, with his eyes on the dying embers, "I know ye're not deaf." A skirl of the pipes was borne by the breeze through the low casement and quick- ened the pulses of all present, with the exception of the old man. "I hear it all," answered a sweet voice from the loft. "They're comin' up finely," said the old man. "'Tis a lonesome bonfire night fer ye sittin' up there, but we came to change all that," said Philip. "Ye'll have a fine crop from th' far meadow," added Pat. "It is lonesome, but I must get used to it." There was a sob in the voice. "I'm used to fine crops from that meadow," said the old man, proudly, "an', though I say it that shouldn't, there's no finer crop to be found in th' whole kingdom, Connemara or no Connemara." "Ye're cryin', girl, ye're cryin', an' ye can't deny it. What'll I do wid th' ould man? I don't blame him fer wantin' ye; sure, anybody couldn't blame him fer that, but I blame him fer makin' ye miserable." ST. JOHN'S EVE 349 "I'm all right never mind me." "Just say th' word, an' we'll dip him in th' lake." "That's a fine Jersey ye have, Misther McGowan. It takes a load of grass to winther yer cattle," roared Pat. "One word is as good as twenty, Mary. To that dance ye'll go, wid his consent or widout it. It will do ye good to taste th' fresh air, an' see th' boys an' girls. We'll hoist ye through th' windy, an' hoist ye back agin, as we did two years ago." This from Phil. ."Ay, it takes hay to winther th' stock, but they pay it back, oh, yes, they pay it back ! It pays to take care of th' cattle." "But not to take care of yer wife, ye ould dotard," muttered Phil. "My mother was angry with me when I went before. She'll be angry again. Don't ask me, Philip," said the voice from the loft. "Oh, what's th' good of havin' so much money if ye can't use it? Ye could build a bigger house, fer in- stance " and Pat buttonholed the old man. "What was good enough fer me father is good enough fer me," shouted the old man, testily, "an* me money, young man, is layin' by fer me son. D'ye hear, young man? It's layin' by fer me son. It's layin' in th' hands of th' Bishop of this diocese. I'll give me son to th' Church. He'll be Bishop in time, an' " The old man stopped to cough, but his back was to the loft. "Yer mother, indeed. What harm can befall ye with brothers an' cousins around? This miserable ould man they made ye marry " "Oh, I hate him ! I hate him !" "Me son will be Bishop; there's money layin' by fer 350 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA him," cried the old man, exultingly, "an' ye'll live to see it, an' mebbe I'll live to see it " "I've come fer ye to dance one dance. Th' boys an' girls are waitin', an' Fairholt is carryin' away our prize if ye don't come " "Don't ask me, Phil " "I will ask ye. Ye won't refuse. Ye mustn't. They're all waitin'." "There's money in th' bank, too, fer me son. In th' Bishop's hands an' th' bank. D'ye hear? In th' Bishop's hands an' th' bank, an' me boy will say Mass in this very town." "Come, Mary. Time is flyin'." "Don't ask me, Phil. I want to go, but it isn't right. What would I do with my baby ?" "Bring him along. Sure, there's piles of girls only too glad of th' chance of mindin' him fer ye while ye're A ootin' it; besides, there's an ould friend of yers waitin' fer a chance to foot it wid ye an ould friend ye haven't seen fer three years come all th' way from America to see ye "There's no boy in this county will have a betther chance than me boy. Th' McGowans were all hard an' honest, an' he'll be an honest an' a larned man." "There's no raison fer him to be hard, fer his money is made to hand fer him." "Look over an' see who it is. Look, now, th' ould man's back is turned to ye. Look over," urged Philip to the occupant of the loft. "Yes, I'll live to see me boy say Mass in this very chapel," yelled the old man. "Look over, Mary, look over. Surely ye wouldn't re- fuse him " ST. JOHN'S EVE 351 "Long to wait, will I ? No, sir. I'm only seventy-five. Me boy is a year old now ; he'll be ordained at twenty-one, an' a Bishop at twenty-five. That will leave me a hun- dhred, an' me father lived to be a hundhred an' ten, an' he'd lived longer if he'd taken care of his health." "Look over an' see who it is, an' I'm sure ye won't refuse " "I'll live to see me boy say Mass right here." "Look over, Mary, look over." It was a very pale but pretty face that peeped over the farm products that crowded up the front of the loft, and pressed close against the satin cheek was another face, that of a child, the subject of the old man's raptures. It was asleep, and the little hands were clasped in a peculiar manner. Mary McGowan, nee Brady, might be light of heel, and formerly light of heart, but her sense of the proprieties was of the heaviest. Her hands were trem- bling, and when she saw the young man who was visiting from America, the snow that covered the mountain-tops on the coldest winter's day was not more white than her cheeks. "Philip, cousins, and neighbors all, I thank you," she said. "You mean well, but I cannot accept your kind offer, and I'm sure the girls and boys will excuse and for- give me when they hear the reason that I cannot go. You heard him, you hear him talking about this child "Yes, there's money in th' Bishop's hands fer me gos- soon. I'll make a priest of him. He's cut out fer it. Sure, he has his little hands in th' form of prayer from mornin' till night," repeated the old man, beside himself with enthusiasm. "Come, boys, an' see him in his cradle, prayin' to himself, th' darlin' " 23 352 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "You hear him," said Mary. "Good-night, boys, and God bless you. I will never disgrace my boy in years to come by forgetting for a moment that I am his mother and neglecting my duty to him and God, who is plainly calling him " "I'll live to hear him say Mass, plaze th' Lord, an' aftherwards become Bishop," repeated the old man, all unconscious of the presence of his wife. "And I hope, when he is offering the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, that I can kneel there with a clean conscience, and feel that I am worthy to be his mother that I have nothing to reproach myself with. Good-night, boys, good- night," and Mary slid back behind the stacks of onions. "She's like a ghost th' ghost of herself," said one of the boys, while the others were dumb with disappoint- ment. The old man's nightcap had fallen off in the ecstasy of his desires for the son who had come to him so late in life. His grizzled gray hair fell around his withered neck, and his huge form, usually bent in labor or medita- tion, now towered among the rafters. It was but his selfishness in a new form. His son was he not a part of himself, and was not all this saving and working for this son as a part of himself that would live when his worn-out frame would lie under the gorse and the heather ? But, oh, the pity of it, that this innocent young girl should be his wife, whose life was a daily sacrifice, and whose relinquishing of the one pleasure in life that her soul coveted, for the sake of that son, was not deemed worthy of consideration by the husband thrust upon her ! But the angels were recording the beautiful act, and even the "boys," whose wits in such matters were usually of ST. JOHN'S EVE 353 the dimmest, saw clearer than even the young mother wished them to, and while angry with her, respected her none the less. "Th' sight of Andy has disturbed her," muttered Philip to his brother. "Let her alone. I remember now they had a likin' fer one another, though they didn't make much show of it." "He isn't worth a herrin' if he doesn't run away wid her," answered Pat, in the same whisper. "They say he's made lots of money out in th' mines. He went fer it, an' he was lucky enough to get it." "He knows betther than to ax her, fer he knows she wouldn't go wid him, an' if she wanted to go, I wouldn't let her," added Phil, in the tone of one who was tenacious of the honor of his house. The old man's head was still among the clouds, and he seemed to have forgotten the very existence of his visitors, and what was more remarkable yet, his luxurious supper, the fragrance of which it was now impossible to conceal. The embers, partly extinguished by the old man, had revived and were slowly and with the proper amount of heat, baking the coveted goose to a delicious brown. They couldn't see it, but as connoisseurs in all kinds of illicit and bachelor festivities, each and all were entitled to judge of the work of a pot-oven in similar circumstances. At a wink from Pat, another cousin, turning the tem- porary abstraction of the old miser to immediate account, deftly uncovered the potatoes and dropped them, screech- ing hot, into his huge pockets. Pat, in the meanwhile, had not been idle. He had been playing idly playing, to all appearances with the thongs of the old gentleman's huge farming shoes, or brogues, that lay at the side of the 354 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA settle where he had thrown them while getting supper. A burst of music from the scene of festivity recalled the young men to their senses, and they arose to go. The old man, too, aroused himself, and watched their prepa- rations for departure with hypocritical sorrow and inward delight, which was augmented by the smell of the cook- ing. "He won't have all th' satisfaction th' girl an' th' goose," said Pat, as he was passing out. "Here goes fer th' goose," and lifting the cover of the pot, he quickly and carefully removed the big bird, substituting the brogues, which he had tied together by the thongs, and carefully fitted the cover on again. It took him but a second to hide the goose under the tails of his capacious cote-a- more, keeping his face to the old man the whole time. "Good-night, an' good appetite to ye," he yelled as he passed him, and his host nodded his thanks. "Good-night, boys, good-night." The door was locked and bolted after them, but it did not prevent the fellow with the goose from taking his stand at the window and making his usual report. "Th' ould misard is muttherin' to himself, an' he's as mad as a hatther at bein' kep' so long from his supper. See, he's layin' th' table agin. Now he's gettin' th' flesh- hook to lift out th' goose. Ha ! He can't make it work. He thinks th' goose must be tough. He makes another thry. Ha, ha ! Th' fork has caught in th' thongs of th' brogues. He has them ! He recognizes them ! Come away, boys ! It isn't right to inthrude on another person's throuble ; besides, I'm hungry fer me supper." Another burst of music from the lake decided the ques- tion, and when the door was released from its fastenings ST. JOHN'S EVE 355 and a nightcapped head ornamented the doorway a second time, there was nothing in sight but some flying heels, at which the infuriated owner of the nightcap shook his fists in impotent fury. 356 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA HANNIBAL FIPPS M'CONKEY, Hannibal Fipps McConkey was just five feet nothing that is, by physical measurement; mentally his head reached the clouds, and measuring-tapes were totally inadequate. His mind was always among the heroes of romance. He knew the name of every warrior from the time of his illustrious namesake down to the present day, and could recount all their valiant deeds. He ex- celled in chronicles of battles, sieges, and hair-breadth escapes, of hand-to-hand encounters, famous tournaments, and marvelous victories. In antithesis to his height was his voice. Its depth, resonance, and immense volume won for him the title of "Little Thunder." His size, or rather his want of it, had been a source of much annoyance to his mother, when he was old enough to be compared to other boys. The time came afterward, however, when she was thankful for the very deficiency with which she had at first found fault, because it was a bar to the military life he coveted, and he was thus reserved as a support to her old age ; and to his credit be it recorded, that while he was often irri- table and overbearing with outsiders, he was kindness itself to her. Hannibal was by instinct a soldier. He was born with a military caul, according to the midwife, but alas ! nature, which had been so generous with the spirit, had denied HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 357 him the inches. He ran away many times and laid siege to the heart of every recruiting sergeant stationed peri- odically between Inishboffin and Leenane, and between Leenane and Clogmore, but invariably returned without the uniform with which he hoped to melt the heart of every maiden between eighteen and eighty in the villages along the coast. At the first sound of his voice, the sergeants, one and all, evidenced the keenest interest. They delighted in big men, and looked around eagerly for the possessor, but when they discovered that the tremendous tones belonged to a man so much under the regulation size, their smiles of amusement so exasperated him that he longed to start his military career there and then by breaking their heads. His mother was puzzled what to do t with her diminu- tive son, to whom every avenue of labor seemed shut. By the midwife's asseverations, she had been induced to name him after a famous military hero, and now by the united decision of her friends and relatives, she was fain to believe that he was decreed to be a tailor, and to a tailor he was immediately apprenticed. Hannibal Fipps McConkey was a very manly little fellow, and though the first day he sat cross-legged on a board was a very bitter one to him, still he realized that his old mother now that his big brothers had gone off for themselves could not live on valor alone, but he never really gave up his military aspirations. It was hard for a born leader of men, and a natural strategist, to have to sit all day and stitch by hand, and think how he could execute a right flank or a left flank movement, or form his men into a hollow square, or 358 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA charge a hill with flying colors, when he was merely charging up a seam for a six-foot mountaineer, who cared not so much for war as for fishing. It was harder still to measure one of his stupid customers, and to find that he had, in plenty and to spare, the inches that he himself lacked. When the workday was over, how quickly Hannibal Fipps McConkey jumped from the board and resumed his military life! While his mother was cooking the simple supper, he would go through his drill first his paces, next his sword exercise. Then he proceeded to form his squares and put his soldiers through their maneuvers, his soldiers being blocks of turf, with stout saplings for officers. His mother who believed in him devoutly, for had not the midwife told her? he con- stituted his reviewing staff, or his general on field days subject to his authority and he was always sure of her approval. When he grew tired of active military work, he turned to his studies, but they were always on the same sub- ject. His library consisted of "The Life of Napoleon, The Hero of Seven Wars," and two other volumes, from which the title pages had been worn away by constant use. They were all about warriors, and it was edifying to see him on a cold winter's night reading their gory ad- ventures to his mother, while she knitted, or smoked her evening pipe, and to see her deep appreciation of them all. "Wondherful, wondherful!" Hannibal would exclaim, looking up from his book with shining eyes. "Wondherful, wondherful !" his mother would repeat, knitting away. HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 359 "Fightin' his way through th' Pass wid seventeen men, agin a whole army !" "Fightin' his way through a whole army," repeated his admiring mother. "For seventeen hours they fought, steadily gainin'," added Hannibal. "For seventeen hours they fought," came from his mother, counting her stitches. "And then slept on their arms, ready at a moment's notice to resume hostilities." " Poor cratures ! how uncomfortable, an' mebbe wid- out a bit or a sup," and his mother would look up com- passionately. "Mother, what are ye sayin'?" the young man would ask, sternly. "D'ye think that men feel hunger an' thirst when they're fightin' for glory ?" "A' course not, a' course not," acknowledged his mother, soothingly. When reading the Bible or prayer-book, which he did at least every Sunday, he always selected the warlike passages, and recited them like a proclamation of war and a challenge to the enemy. He delighted particularly in the chronicles of David, from his extermination of Goliath to his last battle with his son Absalom. In spite of this military spirit, Hannibal kept himself well in abey- ance and interfered with nobody, unless driven to it by the sneers and gibes of his neighbors, who laughed his aspirations to scorn and delighted in raising him to the point of frenzy. In spite of his responsibilities, the desire to engage in combat often got the better of his prudence, and he would swing himself off his board and challenge the whole of 360 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA his tormentors at once. Not a soul would take up the gauntlet "bekase it 'ud be takin' a mane advantage of th' little crature," a remark that always had the effect of driving the tailor almost to desperation. He consoled himself, however, by carrying his needle like a lance, charging at the coat under construction as if it covered the body of an enemy, and ending by execut- ing a war-dance on the board. Philosophers say we grow like our desires, and from dwelling on the actions of great commanders, Hannibal became fierce, stern and dictatorial in his dealings with everyone but his mother. Perhaps his lofty thoughts had an effect on his hair. It began to rise slowly and finally stood erect, thus adding three inches to his height. A witty acquaintance once facetiously advised him to stretch himself on a board for two hours each day a sure way to lengthen the joints relating many instances of the wonders it had worked for others who were also low of stature. Hannibal procured an old door and began the treat- ment, just in time to receive a volley of eggs and decay- ing vegetables, which the wits had been collecting for a week, and which were thrown with unusual force down the wide chimney. He accordingly discontinued this course to commence another, ending just as disastrously, and so Hannibal's youth and early manhood passed in futile attempts to conquer the obstacles that stood in the way of a military life, while necessity was making him an excellent tailor. It was this reputation for doing the best work that caused him to receive a summons from the officers of a regiment stationed in an adjoining town, who, finding there was better society in the neighbor- HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 361 hood than they expected, and receiving invitations to a ball from the native gentry, resolved to make some alterations in their garments. Hannibal was delighted. These military men had heard of his genius and wished to honor him. Hastily dressing himself in his best, he threw out his shoulders and de- parted, the hero of an admiring neighborhood. The wit who brought the message carefully eliminated the busi- ness end of it, thus letting the little tailor draw his own conclusions, but surreptitiously dropped a pair of scis- sors, a skein of thread, and a "housewife," or needle-case, into his pocket. When Hannibal reached the barracks, the sentinel, who was expecting a tailor, saw the scissors sticking out and passed him with a merry wink, and the orderly, who con- sidered him as the ninth part of a man, looked him over superciliously and brought him to his colonel s quarters, for so his orders ran. The colonel was busy chatting with some of his brother officers and suffered his visitor to remain unnoticed for a minute. Turning to him after he had concluded his remarks and seeing the scissors in evidence, he said, "Ah, you're just the man I wished to see." The colonel was thinking of his ill-fitting coat, while Hannibal's conclusion was that the colonel wished to con- sult him on military affairs. "He has heard of me," thought Hannibal, "but he has deuced bad manners." The military men resumed their conversation, com- pletely ignoring our hero, who was raging. Though the colonel forgot to introduce him, those military men should have recognized a kindred spirit. They recognized noth- ing, but talked away. It was too much. 362 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Which of ye sent for me?" cried the tailor. At the sound of the tremendous tones, all looked around quickly and in great surprise. They had not noticed him before. "Which of ye sent for me?" he demanded again. The question, uttered with such loud imperiousness, came from the little tailor. Used to the servility of the usual tradesman, the officers of Her Majesty's th Regiment were puzzled how to take this new departure. The need of the alterations alone kept them from throw- ing the irreverent intruder out of the window. "I sent for you, my man," answered the colonel, "be- cause I heard a good word of you." Hannibal drew him- self up. "I want you to look over my clothes. The last suit has a stupid fit." "And I," "And I," "And I," "And I," "And I," came from all sides of the room. "I'm glad you came ready for work," resumed the colo- nel, indicating the scissors that were sticking out of the visitor's pocket, "for I am in a deuce of a hurry." The secret was all out now. The tailor looked ruefully at the evidence of his trade that was pushing itself into polite society. His pride met with a terrible fall. Yes, there were the scissors, sure enough, and business was business. Under the current of Hannibal's romance lay a thick stratum of common sense. With a sigh he recog- nized the necessity of action. He was to start with the colonel's suit, and he was to do his work then and there, for the ball was coming off in two days, and his home was at a considerable distance. A room was immediately set aside for his use, and for two whole days he was to be an inmate of a military station and the companion of HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 363 military men. The ambition of his life was achieved, but in what way? Hannibal was in a savage mood. He never replied to the salutations of the orderly, who provided him with a "goose" and a board which were in stock for the use of the military tailor. The colonel was a man of wide ex- perience and mature age. While looking at the tailor as an oddity, he recognized his usefulness and did nothing to raise a storm that was ready to burst and only required a touch. The colonel was very pleased with the alterations, and now came the "callow fledglings," as Hannibal inwardly styled them, who knew more about dancing than they knew about warfare. He was obliged to stand on a chair to fit the coats, and that angered him a great deal ; then they often obliged him to wait while they finished a story, as if he were an automaton, or, as Hannibal expressed it, a "tobacco-sign," and that angered him more. He cursed aloud the clumsiness of the army tailor for turning out "such fits," and the young officers stopped their narratives for a moment to regard him with curi- osity. To raise his voice in their presence was presump- tion indeed. In a minute the narrator resumed his account of an engagement which had taken place in India in which some of their friends were badly worsted. "It was a d d unfortunate and unforeseen circum- stance," added the young officer. "Unfortunate, but not unforeseen, except by a fool," chimed in the tailor, who was busy basting a seam. Had a thunderbolt fallen in their midst, more surprise could not have been felt or expressed in the haughty 364 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA glances turned to bear on him. One officer looked at him through his monocle with the expression of an entomolo- gist who has discovered a new insect. "And you, sir hem you would have acted differently under the circumstances?" said the man with the mono- cle and a sneer, "Mr. What's-your-name ?" "Me name is Hannibal Fipps McConkey, at your ser- vice," said the tailor, coolly, "an' me tactics in th' same encounther would be different. Oh, yes, very different !" "Then you are a military strategist, Mr. McConkey?" said another, with an amused smile at the rest. "An' ye may say that," returned the tailor, without los- ing a stitch. "Indeed! And under whom have you studied?" "Undher Hannibal Fipps McConkey, an' a betther in- sthructer I'd like to see," replied the tailor. "Meaning yourself?" "Meanin' meself," said the tailor, applying the "goose" with a flourish to a new shoulder seam. "Then under the same circumstances you would have ?" "I would have sent round a body of throops to take up a sthrong position in th' rear. I'd make them me ironin' board, an' th' ones remainin' wid me 'ud be me goose. I'd keep quiet an' let th' enemy come on. Then I'd dhrop th' goose on th' board, an' God help them that lay between. There wouldn't be much left of them when we got through," and the little man made a dash at the seam with the "goose" and flattened it out completely. The thunder of the tailor's voice and the clatter of the iron attracted the attention of the colonel, who looked in and said : HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 365 "Bravo! But," he continued, laughing, "suppose the enemy saw through your maneuvers?" "A thrue soldier never gives them time," answered the tailor, quickly. "When he's fightin' in th' enemy's coun- thry, he's at a disadvantage, an' there's where th' strategy comes in. He'd cut off a portion of th' enemy, an' at- tack him wid his full force before they could be rein- forced. That'll sthrike terror into th' hearts of those who live to tell it, an' wanst ye succeed in inthroducin' a state of narvousness among th' men yers or yer enemy's wanst let them see that they're defendin' themselves, not attackin', th' hearts are broken in th' poor fellows, an' they'll go undher; yes, yes, they'll go undher, an' that's what th' officers did who led that engagement. They broke th' hearts in th' poor men not th' enemy's men, but their own, more's th' pity by their delay an' shilly- shallyin', an' lost all. Oh, I wouldn't give a thraneen for a field of such officers, no, indeed !" The officers did not laugh this time, for the men the tailor so dared to criticise were some of their own friends. They regarded the exponent of military tactics with an inscrutable air. To defend their absent friends from the barbed tongue of the little tailor was admitting that the tailor was on an equality with them. The colonel, meanwhile, treated the whole affair as a joke. "What methods have you studied, Mr. McConkey?" he inquired, politely. "I have studied th' ancient an' modhern methods an' found them to differ very little, except in their progress- ive weapons of warfare, an' th' recent ability to get th' formation of th' enemy's movements. Of course, th' enemy has th' same chance, so that should be allowed for. 366 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA A commander should be be nature a strategist, an' if he isn't, he should stay at home an' let a betther man take his place." "I wonder, with your military taste, that you choose so peaceful a calling," said a subaltern, with a sneer. "I didn't choose. Me mother did that for me afther I had thried everything else. Ye see," continued the tailor, "th' generality of th' worl' judges a man from th' outside," and he looked askance at the young giant who still retained his monocle. " Bekase a man's legs are long, it doesn't follow that his brains or his courage correspond wid them, no more than th' man who sticks a lump of glass in his eye sees betther than th' man who uses th' eye that God gave him widout any furniture thrown in. It's a great pity entirely that a man's courage can't be gauged when they are measuring him for a uniform, an* we wouldn't have so many officers hidin' behind threes at th' first fire of th' enemy, faith we wouldn't." The subaltern reddened before he turned contemptu- ously away, but not too quickly to catch the furtive glances thrown in his direction by his brother officers, who were divided in their inclination to laugh at the lit- tle tailor's perspicacity, or throw him out of the window. His arrow had flown home and they blamed themselves for entering into conversation with him at all. Unfortunately for himself, the young fellow in whom the stray arrow rankled undertook to hide his wound by turning the man of the needle into ridicule ; but his gauge, too, had fallen short, for the tailor was as impervious to fear as his own rocky mountains, and he was as swift at repartee as they were in echoing the song of the black- bird, or the clash of an overcharged cloud. HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 367 "I think, Mr. Tailor " he began. "Me name is Hannibal Fipps McConkey, an' I'm a tailor only be thrade, not be nature," replied the little man, quickly. "Oh, we are to understand that you are by nature a military man, a strategist, a leader, a commander " "Correct for wanst in yer life !" roared the tailor, "sup- posin' ye never were right before." It was now the subaltern's turn to resume his place for the last trying-on of the altered coat. The tailor mounted the chair to put himself on a level with his customer, and the contrast was amusing enough to draw a smile from the well-bred colonel, who hastened to say : "If I had my way, McConkey, the regulations would be changed for your case at least." "It wouldn't be a bad idea for the tailor to call at the war office and insist on being measured by his imagina- tion," sneered the sub. "An' let ye call at a tailor's an' be measured be yer reality!" shouted Hannibal. "Ye'd make a fine model to hang military coats on," and he gave him a jab with the scissors as he cut away at the neck. "I'm afraid McConkey would make a troublesome member of the rank and file," joined in another young sub, who seemed bent on his own destruction. "Thunder an' turf!" roared the tailor, now beside him- self; "who said I would go into th' rank an' file? I wasn't born for th' rank an' file. I was born for a lader." "An excellent leader !" added the fellow with the mono- cle. "The idea is worthy of consideration. He could be carried around in the skirmisher's pocket, and be quite invisible to the enemy." 24 368 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "That same would be betther than lookin' for a three to hide behind, while tli' rank an' file was doin' yer work," roared the tailor. The laughter that had been long and loud at the ex- pense of the tailor, died away in a silence that could be felt. "Satisfaction!" roared the tailor, "satisfaction at wanst; swords or pistols; bayonets or fists; time, now; place, here!" So saying, he being on a level with his tormentor pulled his nose, slapped his face, and, jump- ing from the chair to the table, threw down his hat and danced on it in the ecstasy of his fury. The subaltern was livid a public insult from such a source an insult from a tradesman, a tailor, and a chal- lenge that could not be taken up! The colonel, now grave and stern, rang for the orderly. "Take this man out," he said. "Take him out and keep him out. Send for another tailor at once." "Satisfaction!" roared the tailor; "satisfaction! Yer choice of weapons ; th' time, now ; th' place, here !" As the tailor refused to leave and the second command from the colonel was imperative, the undignified spectacle of Hannibal Fipps McConkey being carried out by the band of his inexpressibles, wriggling, swearing, and chal- lenging, was accordingly witnessed by a yard full of sol- diers' wives, who were busy washing the clothes of the regiment, besides a score or so of hangers-on who were lounging outside. No further punishment was meted out to the audacious tailor, for obvious reasons. It would give undesired publicity to a ridiculous occurrence and a laughter-loving people another chance to joke the military. Meanwhile Hannibal had jumped into fame at one bound. HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 369 "Arrah, did ye hear th' news about Hannibal? He's f ought. th' whole regiment at C , devil a He in it licked them all from th' colonel down, an' then danced a jig on th' barrack gate. I heard it from them that saw th' whole thing," said one. "Did ye ever hear th' like? He broke th' colonel's sword across his knee, an' challenged any one of them to fight," said another. These stories were never contradicted by Hannibal, and he was accordingly dubbed "the general," and after awhile refused to answer to any other title. "General Hannibal Fipps McConkey," painted in gilt letters, swung over his shop in Ballynahinch, and his men for the tailoring business had prospered were never idle. Never- theless, as time wore on, the tailor fretted more and more over his empty title. To be really a general was the de- sire of Hannibal's heart but how? About this time a letter bearing the Galway postmark brought the news of a small legacy from a bachelor uncle, lately deceased. He left Hannibal a store and a hundred pounds in ready cash, all because of the good account he had heard of his kindness to his mother. Hannibal had never been from home before, but he proposed to see the sights and claim his property at the same time. Never did Gareth or Lancelot ride forth with nobler intentions, or a more sincere desire to right the wrongs of the oppressed than did our hero, the tailor of Ballynahinch. His mother refused to leave her mountain fastnesses for even a day, and her good-by and advice were given at the door, so as to make them more memo- rable, while Hannibal listened from the back of the largest horse he could find. He was booted and spurred and 370 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA equipped as far as the law would allow, and presented a most imposing appearance. It was his first trip from home to be gone more than a day, and his mother had many forebodings of evil. She wept, but her knitting was clutched tightly in her hands for what Connemara woman is long without her "stock- in"'? "Good-by, mother," said the little fellow, struggling with a lump in his throat. "Stay a moment, me son," said his mother, unfolding the stocking and counting the stitches. "I have four pieces of advice to give ye, an' th' stockin' is a great guide to me mem'ry, for I've placed all th' points on me needles. Yes, yes, th' first needle was yer soul. Don't forget yer mornin' an' evenin' prayers, an' yer 'De profundis' every time ye pass a graveyard. Give a little to every poor woman an' man that's thrampin' th' road, for God's sake an' for luck." "Yes, mother, yes!" "An' th' second yes I put it on th' second needle; th' second is yer body. Take care of yer health. Eat only when ye're hungry, an' dhrink only when ye're dhry, no matther how pressin' th' sthranger may be. When ye're sick, or out of humor wid yerself, take three dhrinks of cold spring wather fastin', an' chew a handful of dillisk" (seaweed). "It's th' best medicine in th' worl'. Don't experiment wid yer stomach, but keep as far as ye can to th' food ye were used wid," and she passed him a neat package of dillisk. "Yes, mother, I promise." "Ay, th' third needle was about th' whiska. Keep away from th' publics " HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 371 "Of course, mother. When did I ever care for whiska ?" "No, but th' comp'ny. It's th' comp'ny, boy, th' comp'ny. Th' comp'ny will bring a boy to anything." (Hannibal was then over thirty.) "Have never a fear about th' publics an' th' whiska. Tis little they'll bother me, mother." "Thank God for that, me son; an' now th' last needle reminds me of th' women. Beware of th' women, me son. Those bould city girls in Galway an' Claddaghill thry to make love t'ye whenever they lay eyes on ye." Hannibal reined in his spirited charger and looked side- ways at his weeping mother, who had dashed down the stocking in the ecstasy of her grief, then he tilted his hat on one side, flicked at his neatly shod foot with his whip and glanced admiringly at his velvet small-clothes and ribbed hose. The women so far had not been very anxious to attract his attention, but now now who knows what those city girls might attempt? "When they see that foot an' ankle, they'll folly ye for twenty miles of th' road," cried his mother. "But I'll put spurs to me horse an' never heed them," retorted Hannibal, much flattered. "From yer knees down ye cost me eleven an' sixpence," sobbed his mother, "an' it would have been betther for me own sake if ye wore a pair of brogues" (clumsy shoes), "wid never a buckle, an' stockin's of uncarded wool. Ye'll be brinin' home one of those city girls for a wife, an' she won't know how to knit a stockin' or mend a net, or knead a cake." "Never ye heed, mother," said Hannibal, "for I'll never marry a woman till I get th' one ye like." 372 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Promise me that," cried his mother, drying her eyes, "an' I'll never shed another tear. There's many a fine girl in Connemara that's breakin' her heart for ye, an' when ye come back wid th' money, ye can have yer choice, that is, when ye come to th' use of raison, an' I'll be content wid a seat in th' corner an' a sight of ye now an' then, only never heed th' city girls." Hannibal doubted very much whether any girl was breaking her heart for him, but it was pleasant to im- agine so. "Ye are th' only woman I ever loved, mother, or ever will," exclaimed the little tailor, gallantly. His mother shook her head. "Ye don't know what ye're talkin' about," she rejoined. "Ye don't know th' cuteness of those girls, especially when they see th' money. Don't believe a word they say." "No, mother, no." "If they say ye're as handsome as Apollo, don't be- lieve them." "No, no," said the little tailor, whose horse was rest- less. "An' if they say ye're as big as Ma'am Turc" (one of the highest mountains in the Twelve Pins), "don't believe them, me son." "No, indeed, mother, no, indeed," said Hannibal, wincing. "Good-by, mother, good-by!" He was away, and his mother watched him till a bend in the road hid him from sight, then returned to her little house and sobbed her lonely old heart out on the pillow where his head had last rested, kissed the four books that constituted his library, and his military accoutre- ments one by one, before she dropped to sleep. HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 373 If the truth must be told, Hannibal forgot half his promises to his mother long before he reached his destina- tion. Not at all deterred by his mother's parting words, he winked at the first pretty girl he met, and only for the swiftness of his horse would have met with summary punishment from her sweetheart, who regarded him as a "play-acthor" on his way to tumble at the fair. He passed three old graveyards without ever thinking of their inmates, and tossed off a small glass of poteen at every "shabeen" he met, "just for th' sake of th' comp'ny." He reached his destination in due time, and was much pleased with the old city, and immediately set forth on business. He soon found his lawyer and satisfactorily proved his claim to his uncle's property. "The property is in good condition," said the lawyer, "and is worth double the rent it is bringing in now. The lease has run out, and if the present occupant does not care to pay according to the valuation, there are three or four others to choose from, who will be glad of the chance. I will go down with you and introduce you." The building was a good one, and occupied by a grocer a woman who was successfully running the business since the death of her husband. She was in tears at the prospect of increased rent, and pleaded hard for a re- newal on the old terms. Her shop was a model of neat- ness, and the tea and coffee canisters shone like gold in the eyes of the unsophisticated Connemara man. She took them to a back parlor, also a model of neatness, and treated them to a glass of wine, but her tears still flowed. "This is a good business stand, Mrs. O'Brien," said the lawyer. 374 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "It was," sobbed the widow ; "but so many other shops have started that th' rent'll take all th' profits." "Well, of course," said the lawyer, hastily; "but you are well known, and your trade will follow you. We have three offers one from a neighbor of yours to give us double what you have been paying." "A neighbor of mine? I know who ye mane that double-dalin' hypocrite of a Scotchman, who is eternally quotin' th' Bible for every undherminin' thrick he does a fine neighbor, indeed ! I wouldn't give a thraneen for a field of such neighbors ;" and Mrs. O'Brien's tears dried up with the force of her indignation. "I'll have to take me boy home from college an' me girl from th' convent, to pay th' increased rent, an' th' boy wantin' but two years of th' ordination." "You see she does not think of leaving," whispered the lawyer, as the woman left the room for a minute; "and she must be doing well to be able to send her children to such institutions." "I've pinched meself, gentlemen, indeed I have, to give th' children th' chance," said the widow, entering and answering unconsciously the lawyer's low-whispered words. "An' in no other way could I do it, but praise th' Lord, if it's His will, sure I must be satisfied. Home they must come now, an' help earn a livin'," she continued. The lawyer smiled dryly. Mrs. O'Brien was a good business woman, and he took her plea of poverty with a pinch of salt. "Well, my good woman," he said, "business is busi- ness, you know. As I have told you, there are four bids for the occupancy of this shop, and of course we must give it to the best. My client here " HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 375 But he had reckoned without his client so far. Han- nibal, meantime, had not uttered a word. He had been sitting quietly and taking everything in, depending on his lawyer, as an ignorant mountaineer from Connemara should. They did not know Hannibal Fipps McConkey yet, and his tremendous voice made them jump. "Who owns this property?" The little tailor was standing at his full height, his perpendicular hair adding the usual three inches to his stature, and his expression stern and commanding. The woman, who had ignored him in her talk with the lawyer, now regarded him curiously. "Why, you, of course," answered the lawyer. "You are Hannibal Fipps McConkey, properly identified and so forth." "Well, I have a word to say here." "All you want, Mr. McConkey," answered the lawyer, surprised. "But as I thought you did not know much about property town or city property, I mean " "I'm old enough to learn, anyway," returned the tailor; "an' I have discovered while I'm here that this lady is pay in' sufficient rent now." "But, Mr. McConkey, as your legal adviser and agent " "I don't need any adviser," said the tailor, quickly; "an' if ye wish to remain me agent, ye will commence be doin' exactly as I tell ye. Discipline is th' heart's blood of th' army, an' even in private life must be maintained if we are to have any success. As a military man, I must have discipline." "I thought you were a " "Be nature I am a military man, be circumstances a 376 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA tailor ; but nature rules in spite of art, an' as th' owner of this property I wish to assert meself as fully satisfied with what this clacent woman is payin'. That settles it." "But," said the man of law, who, not being a success as a pleader, eked out a respectable living by collecting rent for country clients, and depended on his percentage of money collected, "this is madness. We have already four offers for this business house, and the fourth, a solid, responsible man, is willing to give bonds, and wants a ten years' lease at fifty pounds a year." The solid, respectable man was not above coming into the shop of the woman he was seeking to dispossess, and stood unobserved but observing in the rear. "I'm satisfied," said McConkey, "to sign this good lady's lease on th' old terms an' at once." "'Tis a fair temptin' o' Providence," said the new- comer, after Mrs. O'Brien had left the room for her old lease, "tae be sae lavish wi' th' siller that th' guid Fayther above hae entrusted to our keepin'." "God bless ye, Mr. McConkey," gasped the widow, as her new landlord affixed his signature to the five years' lease at the old rent. "God bless ye, an' He will. I'd be hard set to make any higher rent, as I couldn't spread out an' get new thrade like a man. Th' old, steady customers is all I can manage." The lawyer gave a dry cough. McDougal, the neigh- bor, who obligingly signed as witness, shut his mouth grimly but said nothing. If Mrs. O'Brien had been a young woman with attractive features, the lawyer and the disappointed Scotchman would have understood, partly, but they failed utterly to comprehend the chivalry that could sacrifice monetary prospects to help out a plain- looking old woman and a perfect stranger. HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 377 "He's no fit tae be at large," muttered the neighbor, as he mixed the glass of punch handed him by the grateful widow. "He's a d d little eccentric fool," muttered the lawyer in the same business, but he said nothing. Half a loaf was better than no bread, and the percentage, though cut low, was something. "Don't say a word, Mrs. O'Brien," said the little tailor, manfully. "If we can't do a good turn for a fellow creature, what's th' use of money? We can take nothin' wid us, an' all we require at last is six feet of earth." "Five feet, mon, five feet. Th' guid Book says, 'Which of ye by thinkin' can add to his stature one cubit ?' " interrupted the Scotchman, gravely. "Five feet or six!" cried the widow; "whichsoever it is, 'twill cover th' body of a man, Mr. McDougal, d'ye hear? 'Twill cover th' body of a man, an' not a dhried- up anatomy that maintains all his agreements out of th' Holy Book, an' makin' a mockery of sacred things. Get out of me house, afther insultin' this gentleman, th' best landlord a poor woman ever had. Get out of me house, an' never darken me door again !" With a regretful backward glance at his unfinished punch, the Scotchman was preparing to obey, but Mc- Conkey headed him- off, and springing over all obstacles, reached him with a blow on the jaw. "Come outside, come outside!" he yelled in an ecstasy of fury. "Let us have this bout outside. I won't dirty th' dacent woman's floor wid ye. Outside, an' fair play !" The Scotchman, not having time to remember a text, was pondering what to do, when Mrs. O'Brien prudently 378 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA opened the back door against which he stood, pushed him down the steps, and, closing it, she begged the fiery tailor to remember it was market-day and the police on the watch for signs of disorder. "Ye'd be locked up, me dear man, an' there ye'd have to stay, mebbe fer a month," she added. But the tailor had plenty of vitality that needed vent, and being now fully aroused, he saw no need for caution. Besides, his pockets were full of the ready- money part of his legacy, and public houses were plenty. From nearly every one fiddlers or pipers were discoursing sweet music, and the country people, who were arriving with their produce, were beating time unconsciously and twirling their sticks. Hannibal Fipps McConkey took an effusive farewell of his new tenant and his lawyer, and, mounting his horse, rode slowly down the street, slapping his pockets every now and then to hear the money jingle. He dismounted at the door of the gayest looking public house and called for a dram. "Not forgettin' these gentlemen here," he added, indicating a number of loungers, who, having nothing to sell and no money to buy with, were busy taking in the sights and, incidentally, all chances to drink at some other person's expense. The "gentlemen," nothing loth, crowded about the bar, but the proprietor was a wary old soul. "Two an' six," he muttered, after counting heads, but without touching a bottle. "Two an' six," repeated McConkey ; "certainly, whiska, hot or could, to suit th' boys." "Ayther hot or could, but nothin' widout th' two an' six," said the landlord, firmly. "Dhrinks first," said the tailor; "if ye're not afeard. If ye are, we'll go to another place." HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 379 "G'wan," answered the landlord, scornfully, "an' good luck attend ye." "Whiska for twelve!" shouted Hannibal at the next house, "an' be quick about it, me man." "Let me see th' color of yer money first," said the land- lord, looking down at the little customer with a big voice and not liking the style of his company. "No whiska, no money !" shouted the tailor. "Well, then, get out," said the landlord, who felt sure he saw in his strange customer a market-day beat and rowdy. "Get out of here, I say. None of yer thricks here on dacent people !" For answer Hannibal Fipps McConkey drew out a handful of gold his poor uncle's savings and passed it before his eyes. So much money almost took away the landlord's breath, and he gasped out to his assistant to bring on the whisky. "Not for me," said the tailor, "not for me ; but ye were so anxious about th' color of me money that I thought I'd show it to ye, but that's all th' good ye'll get of it. Come on, boys." The landlord was desperate. So much coin of the realm was seldom seen together in Galway, and he wanted his share of it. "Ye ordhered th' dhrinks an' ye must pay fer them," he said. "An' ye ordhered me out widout them. Don't forget that, me man." The loungers laughed, and followed the gallant tailor to yet another drinking place. Some one of the idlers must have posted the next landlord on the true condition of affairs, for our hero was well received, and not asked for any money in advance. He was jubilant. 380 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA News of the money he was spending made the second publican very angry. He cursed himself for his folly, and as he was of a very envious and vindictive disposition, he soon thought of a plan that would spoil his lucky neighbor's trade and the little Connemara man's fun. He affected to think that the little man was a counterfeiter for how could any poor "Angashore" from the wilds of Connemara get so much money honestly? Trusting to the policeman's lack of knowledge, he drew him aside confidentially. "There's money in town to-day that never saw th' mint, I think," he said, with a wink. "Where is he?" ejaculated the policeman, meaning the counterfeiter, as a vision of promotion flitted through his brain. "Where is he?" "Dhrinkin' away at McKeowan's, wid a crowd of idlers." The schemer forgot to add a description of the little tailor, so the policeman clutched his billy and looked out for a very different individual. In the meantime, one of the loungers got near enough to hear the whispered conversation between the disappointed barman and the guardian of the law, and he slid back quietly, drew the tailor through the rear door, and warned him. "We can get away through th' back sthreets beyant to th' widow Doyle's shabeen, an' they'll never look fer ye there. She sells th' best dhrop in all Ireland." McConkey was not impressed. He did not love whisky for whisky's sake, and he was in good fighting trim from the unusual amount he had imbibed. He would not beat a retreat without leaving his mark on the enemy. "How will ye do it?" asked his new acquaintance, im- HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 381 patiently. "Arrah, have sense, man. How can ye tackle him alone, in th' public sthreets of Galway?" "Ye know nothin' of th' tactics of war," interrupted the tailor. "What is he doin' now?" "Lookin' out of his door at th' policeman, who is just enterin' McKeowan's to arrest ye, an' th' crowd is fol- lowin'." "Len' me yer blackthorn," said Hannibal, "an' I'll at- tack him in th' rear." Suiting the action to the word, he dived down the back street and, turning again up a side alley, came right behind the publican, who, with a satisfied smile on his round face, was peeping out slyly to enjoy the fun of the arrest. Hannibal Fipps McConkey thought of his name- sake in like circumstances when he surprised the Romans, and, raising his stick, with all his force let it drop on the smooth, bald pate. With a yell, the surprised publican turned to find his enemy in front of him, and his head smarting. Now was the little warrior's time to disappear, but he didn't. He danced around the big man and belabored him before he had time to think, and then springing on his back, he pulled his ears and his nose. By this time a crowd had gathered, but it was nearly all composed of women and girls, out for a day's fun, and they cheered the little man for his courage in attacking "Ready Money Jack," who was anything but a favorite. Another crowd was around the policeman, who had gathered in the wrong man and was searching him for spurious coin. With his pockets turned inside out, the poor fellow was regarding his custodian with a counte- nance of the greatest consternation. 382 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA "Which pocket do ye keep yer valuables in?" said the officer. "Valuables?" echoed the man. "Well, yer counterfeit money. Oh, I've been a long time lookin' fer ye, me bouchal." "I haven't had a cent of counterfeit or any other kind of money fer more than a year. Who told ye that story ?" "Ain't ye th' man that has been spendin' money like wather this mornin' from public to public ?" "Yerra, no! That's a little fellow from away back in th' mountains in Connemara, an' devil a hait wrong with his money. I wish I had a barrel of it ! There he is now, pommeling 'Old Ready Money' for all he is worth !" This was the second time for Hannibal to disappear, and he did. His victim was yelling lustily, and the police- man dropped his bogus "counterfeit" and bore down on him. When they reached the spot, there was no sign of the valiant tailor. He had disappeared as completely as if the ground had opened up and swallowed him. A search was immediately instituted, but no trace of him could be found. To tell the truth, Hannibal was not responsible for this sudden removal. He was picked up bodily, a hand pressed tightly over his mouth, and quickly borne away. When he was dropped down, dancing and raging, he found himself in Mrs. O'Brien's back parlor, and the good woman hanging up a large cloak. "What th' devil " began McConkey. "Hush, me dear boy; th' police are outside, an' if they hear ye, ye'll be deprived of yer liberty fer months. Ye don't know th' police. Think of yer poor mother waitin' HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 383 fer ye. Go on to her an' this thing will blow over. I'll explain things to th' police." "But, ma'am, me reputation is at stake." "Hush, hush, they're around th' door! Be said be me I took th' liberty of pickin' ye up an' puttin' ye undher me cloak, fer I was watchin' th' skirmish from th' window an' knew how it would end. Yer honorable threatment of me I'll never ferget, an' I couldn't think more of ye if ye were me own son, no, indeed !" Mr. McConkey was compelled to agree with her that discretion was the better part of valor, when he saw the crowds going backward and forward laughing at the efforts of the police to find him. His tenant proved her- self an excellent diplomat as well as a business woman, for she stood suave and dignified behind her counter, weighing tea and sugar and listening to everyone's ac- count of his disappearance. When all was quiet he was escorted by a friend of the widow to the main road, where he found his horse sad- dled and bridled, and faced for Connemara. "This is betther than bein' escorted to th' jail. I'll explain everything when ye're gone, but if ye stay now, th' police would have to arrest ye on th' charge of 'Old Ready Money.' " Hannibal had got enough of old Galway for awhile. He took his sick head and depleted pockets as matters of course, and only felt sorry that he had forgotten a present for his mother. When he arrived home, sad news awaited him. She was sick; it was the first time she had been left alone, and she had worried herself into a fever over his prolonged stay. Hannibal had never realized how much he thought of 25 384 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA his mother till the cruel grave had hidden her from his sight forever, and, warrior and all as he was, he broke down utterly and wept as if his heart would break. He blamed himself for going away ; he cursed the legacy, and hated to enter the little house under the hill, where the wind blew mournfully down the wide chimney and swept over the cold hearth, once so warm. He might have looked around for a wife, but Han- nibal's ideas were, like his military aspirations, very high and unapproachable; and his ideal was to be worshiped only at a distance. With his improved fortunes and his new freedom from responsibility, Hannibal's thoughts flew again to a mili- tary life. I wish I could say that his aim was grand and noble that his love of warfare was but as a means to a noble end, and that end the emancipation of his native country from the cruel chains that bound her. As a faith- ful chronicler and not a romancer, I must state things as they really were, and not as they should be. We must take our friends as we find them, and make the best of their failings. Truth compels me to say that Hannibal Fipps McConkey loved fighting for fighting's sake and would cheerfully have joined any side that would allow him a word in its leadership, but whichever side accepted his services would be sure of his allegiance, for our little warrior was neither a coward nor a traitor. He applied to the Yeomanry of his county and other counties, but he was too small, and the yokels composing it, like the "Tommies" composing the regulars, laughed at him for his pains, and said biting things about tailors in general and one in particular. "Bring eight more an' thry again," said one big disciple HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 385 of "King Billy." "Sure it takes nine o' ye to make one man." Hannibal, not long afterward, proved the lie upon his head. But "that's another story." This gibe from men he honestly considered his inferiors rankled in the mind of the aspirant for military honors, and he felt like throwing up the tailoring business alto- gether ; but his style and workmanship were more popular than ever, and he hated to throw out of employment the men who were working for him. But now, without flourish of trumpet or warning of any kind, the tide turned, and McConkey at last had a chance to become famous, and "knew his opportunity." Some desperate men had joined together to right the wrongs of centuries. They were but a handful, but great in hope and determined in purpose. Ireland, of all countries, is alone capable of leading a forlorn hope. Failure against heavy odds is no disgrace, and credit is always given to the minority when the minority is in the right. The movement had not penetrated to Connemara, where the majority lived in blissful ignorance of the doings of the outside world. Few of them ever went ten miles from home, and were more interested in a big catch of fish than all the risings in the world. Beyond the mountains and the sea, nothing was of much interest to them. Not so with McConkey. He had been to Galway and later to Westport and Castlebar, and the military doings there had set his blood on fire. If the Yeomanry of his county had rejected him, why not try the New Move- ment? Maybe if he made himself a becoming uniform, conspicuous for the national colors, it would predominate over his deficiency. The thought overpowered him. It 386 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA raised him three inches already. He walked on air all day and at night retired early to think. Out of the workings of his brain evolved a scheme, magnificent and unique, and the design of a uniform that would throw those of England, Germany, and France far into the shade. It would be the uniform of a general, for he would raise and manage an army himself. Then he wrote a letter to the headquarters of the New Movement and let them know his intentions. He knew that he had to observe the greatest secrecy lest the police get hold of it. Galway was the nearest city imbued with the latest idea for liberty, but Galway was a forbidden place to him till the racket he had made there had blown over. However, he could send a man incidentally to buy cloth and really to deliver his letter and an imaginary army for his wronged country. The army was in his brain; but he was sure, after they saw the uniform, everyone would join. Larry McGovern was an honest and capable man, and would willingly die before he would divulge any secret intrusted to him by his employer or anyone else, and the complications that arose were not the result of anything but pure misfortune. Hannibal Fipps McConkey had not signed his name, but had given unmistakable directions, so he thought, where he was to be found. The mysterious letter ended thus: "Where the third fissure in the wall of mountains faces Bertraghboy Bay, you will find us, ready and willing to sacrifice our lives for the cause. God save Ireland! GENERAL H. F. M." Larry put the letter deep in his pocket with some samples of cloth, intending to do everything in first-class HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 387 style. He did, but not in the style intended. He dropped the letter in the first tailor's shop he came to, and didn't miss it till he went to look for the mysterious No. 9. Fearing to make inquiries for the letter, and hoping to hear news of it indirectly, he visited every place of enter- tainment in the town, only to find, when the day was over, that he had befuddled his brain for nothing. Fear- ful of the consequences, should he return to the fiery tailor with his story, he arranged another so skillfully as to deceive his employer. "What's th' answer to me letter?" whispered Mc- Conkey, on meeting him. "Whisth, whisth, don't let th' walls hear ye. He said, 'All right; keep on dhrillinV " "That'll suit him, any- way," thought the messenger, "an' keep him out of our way." "What what kind of a man was he? Was he in military dhress?" asked the grateful McConkey. "Well, I couldn't tell what kind of a man he was, be raison of th' mask he wore; but his dhress was grand entirely, all gold buttons an' epaulettes an' green " "Green cloth an' gold thrimmings! Was it light or dark green?" "I dunno," said Larry, getting uneasy; "but it was gallus bright anyhow an' his sword shone " "He carried a sword? Perhaps he was th' general." "Faith, maybe so. He was grand widout a doubt." "Did he say anything in regard to ?" "Whisth, whisth, he called ye 'General' 'General Mc- Conkey' don't ask me any more." General Hannibal Fipps McConkey! How grand it sounded ! So the new party had recognized his military 388 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA talents at last. His gratitude knew no bounds. He marched up and down his little shop in ecstasy. Meanwhile, the police of Galway, the county-seat of that famous county, had been puzzled over a mysterious letter that had been picked up on the street. It was at first thought to be a hoax, but on account of the trouble- some times, two coast guards were told to watch at that point and report. The report startled the police. Sounds of an immense concourse of men drilling could be heard from the moun- tain, but none was visible. Reports of men mysteriously banded at various points confirmed the report. This concourse of rebels on the isolated west coast, where suspicion never fell and where men could be landed in instalments as fishermen, was only another proof of the determination of those dangerous rebels to make trouble. The cave of the mountain in question had long been our hero's drilling place. It was large, roomy and resonant, but its recesses were known to only a few. Mc- Conkey's voice was of immense volume, and this, echoed through from these cavernous depths, carried the im- pression to strangers of an immense concourse of people. Hannibal came and went to his mountain fortress un- noticed. A stranger might travel all day and not be able to find the exit or entrance; he might take a ma'am (mountain pass) that would appear to be leading him all right and find himself ten miles away in two hours' time, and in a totally different part of the country. Hannibal had concocted three cannons from wrecks and remnants that he had picked up at various times, and placed them in port-holes on the fortress side of the mountain. The particular cave chosen by him for his HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 389 headquarters was reached by a circuitous path between two mountains, the hollow of one of which it filled. Three sides of this mountain were smiling and innocent looking ; the other was precipitous, rocky, and forbidding. This side faced the sea and an acre of impassable and slippery-looking boulders, against which the waters of the bold Atlantic dashed in an angry and sullen manner. The fishing boats often split on these treacherous boulders in the dark, but most of the fishermen knew enough to keep away from Beina Duhr (Black Ben). The coast guards were told to give an eye to the land- ing of strangers at this point, and their reports were that nothing suspicious had been seen around. Fishing smacks (French) had ventured near, taken the best of the salmon fishing and sailed away. The mention of the "French" to the authorities was like waving a red rag before a bull. The French ! Did any of them land ? Why, yes, occasionally a Frenchman stopped to dance on a festival day or marry one of the girls, but there was no landing of men. The reports of the detectives were different. They had noticed a great noise as of men talking and marching somewhere. The worst was ad- mitted. The rebels must have landed as fishermen, till the hills were crowded with them, and there remained secure till augmented in sufficient numbers to declare themselves boldly. The result of this discovery was an order to proceed with the same secrecy, take them by surprise, and nip the rebellion in the bud. A large body of the militia was sent down, and the arrival of this warlike contingent more than surprised the peaceable inhabitants of the coast. The soldiers saw 390 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA in every fisherman a rebel of the worst kind, and would have been delighted at an order to massacre and pillage as in '98, but they concentrated all their forces to break up the camp among the hills, and take prisoner or kill all who would not surrender. To proceed on an open plain was one thing ; to stumble through unfrequented mountain passes where the men were often obliged to walk single file, where they could be picked off, one by one, without the chances of return- ing a shot, was another. The pass which the rebels were defending was a narrow defile, which could only be entered by two abreast. With a galling, incessant fire from the cave above, the un- disciplined Yeomanry broke ranks and fled. They soon returned, however, at the entreaties, threats, and sneers of their officers, to find that their provisions had become saturated under one of the sudden Connemara showers, and that they were expected to wear the rebels out, till starvation would force them to surrender. Pickets were stationed to prevent the landing of provisions to the enemy, but the militia were only soldiers in name, and did not understand the exigencies of warfare. They complained of the wet ; they did not appreciate the beauty of the heather when used as a couch, under a damp cover- lid. They sickened, and cursed the rebels, and wanted to go home. Their captain, who was a linen draper of Galway and had a reputation to sustain, offered to lead a forlorn hope in an attempt to scale the natural fortress. His proposi- tion was received with joy. It was certainly better to make short work of the matter than to sit in cold and misery under the ocean spray and the Connemara showers, and shiver to death. HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 391 The captain, the same man who had laughed at Han- nibal as the ninth part of a man, showed his courage by attempting to rush up the face of the rock, expecting a large following. He fell with a bullet in his leg, and his command fled in disorder. It was a disgusted and dismantled company that wan- dered into the city of Galway, carrying their wounded captain. Their reports of the number and malignancy of the rebels were terrifying, and they were immediately replaced by a regiment of the line. With colors flying and bands playing, the regulars marched through the pleasant glens and winding roads that traversed the famous mountain passes of Conne- mara, and in due time arrived at the scene of action. The officer in charge, a tall man who carried a monocle, was very disgusted and very pale and distraught. Every- thing was very still. Suppose this thing was a hoax, or an alarm born of a diseased brain ? Hark ! It was true, then, "and cheeks grew pale that never paled before ;" the cursed rebels were at it. They were preparing for action. Orders were given and the noise of many feet smote the air; but where were the rebels? Where they could pour cold lead into the British redcoats unmolested. But it was too late to turn back. Slowly the soldiers sur- rounded, as well as they could, the natural fortress. "Surrender!" cried the commander. For reply a vol- ley was poured into the ranks of the besiegers, and for three days and three nights they wasted the ammunition of the Queen on the rocky face of the mountain. Pro- visions were sent for and the siege was laid. At the end of the tenth day, a white flag was visible from a loophole. A messenger was sent to confer with 392 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA a man in a brilliant uniform, whose face was pale but determined. Starvation had done its work. "I wish to surrender with all th' honors of war," he said. " Full surrender men and arms ?" returned the envoy, relieved. "Yes; but," bargained the rebel chief, "I deliver me sword only to th' general, an' demand fair an' honorable treatment." This was accorded. The news went around that the dangerous rebels had surrendered, and then the men of the th saw something that nearly paralyzed them. It was again the story of a mountain in travail and the bringing forth of a mouse. From an orifice in the granite-clad hill, a little man emerged. He wore a magnificent uniform, that glittered in the sunlight, and in his hand he carried a sword. He passed it to the commander, who advanced to meet him. "And now for your followers," he said. "They will stack their arms here, as they pass out." Not another soul appeared. "Where are your men?" asked the officer, haughtily, of his illustrious prisoner. "Here," said the new-comer, slapping his breast. "Here they are!" "Let them pass out," repeated the officer, fearing treachery. "They have passed out. I am th' army." "You alone?" "Yes, I alone! I am th' army, an' if I had anything more to eat I have eaten me belt ye wouldn't find me so easy. 'Deed, no." HANNIBAL FIPPS McCONKEY 393 "And you were utterly alone!" said the astonished officer. "Impossible! We heard hem sounds of an immense concourse of men." "Ye heard me. Not another soul was wid me. No, indeed." "I have seen you before," said the puzzled officer, "somewhere. What is your name?" "Hannibal Fipps McConkey, at yer service," replied the "rebel" commander ; "an' ye saw me before. Oh, yes, ye saw me before !" The officer started so violently that his monocle flew against the rock and smashed to pieces. Then in fierce, angry tones, he called a march. Great was the indignation of the soldiers. To be kept under the Connemara showers for nine days for a handful of a tailor was exasperating and humiliating. Great was the excitement along the line of march when the truth was known, and greater yet, the fun. The prisoner was cheered at every point, the cheers seem- ing to come from the invisible beings of the air, for not a soul was visible. No one seemed really happy but the tailor, and he was in the height of his glory. He was a prisoner, indeed, but a grand one. It was the supreme moment of his life. Oh, if his mother had only lived to see him ! No thought of a coming punishment dampened lais joy. True, he might be put to death; but it would be the death of a hero a hero who had required a whole regiment of soldiers to capture him. After so many despatches about the "dangerous rebels," something had to be done before the story went to headquarters a story that would cover all in con- 394 FATHER TOM OF CONNEMARA nection with it with shame and ignominy. A consultation was held, and the tailor was quietly dropped at the base of one of his mountains. Despatches were sent on to London, telling a very different story, and the truth was kept under cover for the honor of Her Majesty's th Regiment. Hannibal never was molested, never was brought to trial for his insurrection, and he carried the title of General undisputed to the day of his death. A 000 052 640