RING O' RUSHES 
 
4 Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes. 7 
 
11 ' My God, Jim, you may never see me again! '" 
 Ring o' Rushes.] \Page 121. 
 
Ring o' Rushes 
 
 By Shan F. Bullock 
 
 Author of " By Thrasna River," etc. 
 
 London : 
 
 Ward, Lock & Co., Limited, 
 
 Warwick House, Salisbury Square, E.G. 
 
 New York and Melbourne. 
 
 1896. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
Bfasr 
 
TO 
 CLEMENT KING SHORTER 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PROLOGUE ....... ix 
 
 His MAGNIFICENCE i 
 
 THEY THAT MOURN . . . . . 27 
 
 THE RIVAL SWAINS . . . . . 39 
 
 THEY TWAIN ... 54 
 
 SHAN'S DIVERSION . . 78 
 
 TH' OULD BOY . . . . . . 91 
 
 HER SOGER BOY ...... 104 
 
 ROGUE BARTLEY . . . . . .123 
 
 THE SPLENDID SHILLING . . . . 147 
 
 THE EMIGRANT . . . . . .174 
 
 A BEGGAR'S BENEFIT . . . . .185 
 
RING O' RUSHES 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 TF you enter Lismahee town by way of the 
 ferry road, you pass the church, standing high 
 beyond the graveyard ^vall among its yews and 
 tombstones ; then have a glimpse of the massive 
 walls and shining windows of the poorhouse 
 (the very walls which once heard the ramblings 
 of Debbie Chance, and below which Solomon 
 Gray used to take his weekly turn at the pump 
 wheel) ; presently come to a filthy, ill-conditioned 
 alley, through which you pass, and at once strike 
 Lismahee in its very vitals. 
 
 This way and that, the long wide street 
 which) as in most Irish towns, is Lismahee 
 itself runs straight and level ; a post-car rattles 
 over the stones ; children sport on the sidewalks ; 
 
x RING O J RUSHES 
 
 shopkeepers sit smoking on their window-sills ; 
 here and there a cart stands in the gutter, 
 with a horse dozing between the shafts ; from 
 the gardens and yards comes the sound of voices, 
 the clatter of cans, the clutter of fowls ; the sun- 
 light dances on the high white walls, drowsiness 
 is in the air, the reek of peat smoke (how whole- 
 somely pungent it comes) hangs heavy : behind 
 the iron rails over there is the market yard, 
 higher up is the bank, lower dozvn the town 
 pump, facing it the police barracks, beyond that 
 the town hall (before which, one day, Phelim cried 
 to Heaven for pity as he stood by his battered 
 caubeen) ; thence your way lies over a ragged 
 sidewalk, past lime washed houses, dingy shops, 
 the pillared porch of an inglorious hotel, the 
 elegant mansions (withdrawn somewhat from 
 the vulgar eye of the street] of the town mag- 
 nates ; then, all at once, hedges, ditches, the open 
 country, and, in a little while, the pointed door- 
 way of the railway station. 
 
 Irish trains are delightfully easy-going ; they 
 
PROLOGUE xi 
 
 tarry long by platforms, and dally along the 
 track; so that, as you make the ten miles or so 
 which lies between Lismahee and Clogheen, you 
 have ample opportunity, right and left, to spy 
 out the beauties of the land. And a beautiful 
 country it is just there : broad, fresh, cheerful, 
 huddled with hills, dotted with cottages, cut into 
 the semblance of some huge patchwork coverlet 
 by the tall thick hedges ; here a chimp of stunted 
 trees with the grey rock shining out from the 
 underwood, there a stretch of heathered bog with 
 its mud house, and sparkling pools *, and piles of 
 black wet peat ; on this side a very prairie 
 (beyond which, say three miles away, lies the 
 village of Knock], on that a sudden view of 
 hazy mountains; presently, a grove of firs, a 
 house on the hilL a smiling valley, and, just 
 beyond, the spires and roofs of Clogheen. 
 
 Clogheen stands on a hill, and is a town 
 of streets. Commissioners watch its interests ; 
 round one of the finest diamonds in Ulster 
 stand the houses of the citizens ; in the adver- 
 
xii RING O 3 RUSHES 
 
 tisement columns of the county newspapers its 
 shops appear as Emporiums; its church^ chapel, 
 town hal^ hotels, are buildings worthy of its 
 greatness : but if you want to see Clogheen in 
 its glory, walk through its surging streets on 
 fair or market day. Then Ah me ! 
 
 Along the fair -green runs the highroad to 
 Bunn; but, if you can spare an hour, resist the 
 blandishments of the station car-drivers, linger 
 awhile on the platform admiring the bookstall, 
 the brawny corduroyed porters, the pigs and 
 cattle in the vans, picturing to yourself, maybe, 
 Mary the emigrant standing there weeping by 
 her old yellow trunk ; and presently take a seat 
 with me in the afternoon train for Glann. 
 
 Ah, now we are on familiar ground ; now 
 recollections come crowding. How often past 
 those hills and hedges has one come glorying and 
 gone sorrowing ; how many that one knew, sons 
 and daughters of Ring <?' Rushes, have sobbed 
 good-bye, good-bye, to every field out there, as, 
 homesick and heartbroken, they passed them for 
 
PROLOGUE xiii 
 
 the last time. See, there is Caroo House, to 
 which Herself came one day in tears ; there, 
 among the trees, is Bartley French's old home ; 
 the land is fair, you see, well watered, full of 
 trees and hills, ringed with mountains : there is 
 Ballyhob junction ; there at last the flashing 
 roofs of Bunn. 
 
 Bunn ! the town of towns, the El Dorado of 
 one s youth, how can child of yours (disillusioned 
 now and how little the happier) look upon your 
 battered streets and ragged houses without tears ? 
 What happenings one has seen from these market- 
 house steps ; what memories every stone of you 
 holds ; how the old familiar faces come pressing 
 through the blue haze of your peat smoke. 
 There the emigrants go skirling down the brae 
 towards the station; up to God s acre our friends 
 go silently ; down from God's house the flower- 
 crowned pairs come joyfully ; there is Shan 
 Grogan dusting his hat on the sidewalk ; from 
 the post-office Tim Kerin comes shuffling over 
 the stones, and wagging his old head in search 
 
xiv RING O 3 RUSHES 
 
 of Nan his wife. Ah, John, my son, before you 
 go swaggering up Barrack Hill, take good heed 
 of that joke of yours. Hush, here comes His 
 Magnificence stalking up from the station. On 
 he comes, picking his way through the mud, 
 Hashing his rings, looking right and left with 
 disdainful eye: let us join the cro^vd of his 
 admirers and humbly follow in his footsteps. 
 
 Downhill we go, past the police barracks and 
 the butter market ; soon, cross the bridge, and in 
 two minutes are out in the brown dust of the 
 county road. Broad and level the road runs 
 between its high thick hedges, past lush meadows, 
 and scant pasture-land, and rush-clad hills ; here 
 and there a house peeps between the alders ; right 
 before you my lord the mountain arches his long 
 back against the blue; the sun rides high, the 
 clouds hang silvern over a drowsy land. 
 
 His Magnificence crosses Multy Bridge and 
 enters Bilboa, the land of whins, rushes, poplars; 
 now he quickens his pace as he crosses Thrasna 
 River and enters Gorteen, the land of orchards, 
 
PROLOGUE xv 
 
 gardens, pleasant cottages, of drum and fife, of 
 wisdom and all the virtues. Up on the right, 
 Rhamus Castle stands frowning in its solitude ; 
 over there is Emo, stretching its hedges along 
 the Citrleck road from Stone-gate down to the 
 little bridge on which, one winter s night, George 
 Lunny rested his stilts ; beyond that rush-fringed 
 lake, a thatched house lies snug in the hollow of 
 the hills, the home of one Rachel Hoey ; now 
 comes a stretch of bog, brown with heather and 
 peat, across which, many a time, Jane Fallon 
 tramped on her way to church ; here is the 
 boreen down which His Magnificence is even 
 now treading disgustedly through the mud. Up 
 the hill we go, past the school-house ; turn sharp 
 to the right, past the forge ; and away, through 
 the orchards and firs, down the broad sandy road 
 which ends in a mile or t^vo at the ferry for 
 Lismahee, on the shore of bright Lotigh Erne. 
 
 And now, at last, we have made the circuit 
 our Ring o Rushes of that little corner of the 
 earth in which, here and there, the stories that 
 
xvi RING O J RUSHES 
 
 make this book are set. Often, no doubt, have 
 you gone farther and fared better ; your feet are 
 heavy with Irish clay, your eyes weary of Irish 
 rushes , hedges, hills ; you have met only heavy- 
 footed peasants by the way, heard only the brogue, 
 and the skirl of the curlews ; you say, not with- 
 out reason, that some great lord of the soil easily 
 might hold our poor Ring o Rushes in the 
 hollow of his hand : still, strange to say, many 
 worthy souls live happily among those barren 
 hills, and love them steadfastly ; some, exiles in 
 this bustling outer world, have left their hearts 
 there ; and one there is, a poor smoke-dried 
 citizen now, who, as he stands sometimes blink- 
 ing across his garden fence at a sky of fog and 
 a landscape of bricks, has been known to cry ottt 
 within himself that not all London is worth 
 that hill and valley over which Rhamus Castle 
 keeps watch and ward. 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE 
 
 WHEN His Magnificence stepped from the train 
 upon the dingy little platform of Bunn Station, 
 the porter, the station-master, the car-driver from the 
 Diamond Hotel, the loiterers, the passengers, all did him 
 reverence. His like or equal had not met their gaze for 
 many a day. He had the bearing and appearance of 
 a prince. His luggage was powerful. The battered train 
 that had carried him, the paltry station that received him, 
 the yokels who eyed him, by very contrast, seemed to 
 shrink back ashamed. It was America herself set off 
 against old Ireland. 
 
 * Who is he at all ? ' whispered one of the flurried, 
 heated porter. 
 
 ' Ach, g'luck an' don't bother me ! ' replied the porter. 
 ' How the divil can I tell ? ' 
 
 The car-driver, having an eye to business, stole to the 
 B 
 
2 RING'O' RUSHES 
 
 pile of baggage and spelled out the name on a label : 
 ' THOMAS BURKE, ESQ.' He read, whistled, stole back, 
 and spread the news. 
 
 * It's Tommy Burke,' said one to another ; 6 Tommy 
 Burke home from the States begob ! ' 
 
 The news, to the admirers of His Magnificence, 
 brought a sense of relief if not of disappointment. He 
 was no potentate, then, after all. Sure they knew the 
 man ; he was only one of themselves ; sure they minded 
 the day he went ; didn't he come from Gorteen over 
 there ? Wasn't his odd mother and his brother James 
 living there in the ould place still ? Ay ! But who'd 
 have thought it ; for his kind never did much good in 
 the world. Powerful, powerful ! Sure it's a grand 
 country. Ay ! 
 
 ' It's an ojus pile, y'ur honour,' said the porter, touching 
 his cap. ' Ye'll want a car ? ' 
 
 The car-driver stepped forward. 
 
 ' There's one outside, sur, from the hotel, sur,' said he. 
 4 Mebbe ye'd be wantin' to put up ? ' 
 
 His Magnificence eyed the two loftily. 
 
 ' Yaas,' drawled he, and looked at the luggage ; ' yaas 
 reckon it'll want movin'.' He waved his hand. * Send 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE 3 
 
 it on ; send it on you'll see the address. Naw, naw, 
 Jehu; naw, haw, I want none o' your tarnation hearses. 
 Reckon I'll foot it.' 
 
 The crowd divided. His Magnificence condescended 
 to walk. The crowd closed in behind him, followed 
 him through the station, past the hotel car, and up the 
 slope towards Bunn town. 
 
 Already the word had spread. Bunn was out, waiting, 
 watching, shouting the news. 
 
 4 Here he is ! Be the Holy ! Look at the watch- 
 chain on him ! An the rings ! Och, an* the clothes 
 av him ! An' that's Tommy Burke ? Aw now, now ! 
 Sure it's wonderful sure it's an ojus country for money 
 ay ! ay ! ' 
 
 Tommy, as he leisurely marched up the street pre- 
 tending a profound interest in the houses and shops, took 
 his reception calmly. He had reckoned upon making an 
 impression. It was his due. He heard his name 
 whispered as he passed, heard the criticisms on his 
 raiment and appearance, saw the faces right and left at the 
 doors before him, and heard the swelling chorus of com- 
 ment behind as Bunn left the doors, spread across the 
 street, and gave play to its tongue and excitement. It 
 B 2 
 
4 RING J RUSHES 
 
 was his due. Every one knew him; all had heard of 
 his success in Chicago. It was natural. But he ? He 
 knew no one. He had forgotten every one. Phew ! 
 the stink that darned turf smoke. Such a God- 
 forsaken hole of a town ! rags, dirt, laziness. Think 
 of Chicago and think of Bunn ! Why, he himself could 
 buy out the whole place neck and crop. What pave- 
 ments ! What littered streets pigs, fowls, dogs, dirty 
 brats, women, men ! What stores merciful heavens ! 
 
 Really His Magnificence might well have been less 
 critical : not very many years had gone since the days 
 when he himself, in rags and tatters, had hawked turf 
 from door to door through that very street. 
 
 So His Magnificence, all glorious without, all scornful 
 disgust within, marched on, past the market-house, down 
 Bridge Street, over the big stone bridge from which, had 
 he cared to look, he would have seen the river tumbling 
 gloriously among the boulders and rushing carelessly past 
 a world of quiet beauty on its banks went on along the 
 road that leads to Gorteen ; leaving Bunn excited behind 
 him, and raising its voice in wonder that such a personage 
 could allow himself to walk humbly through the dust. 
 
 4 Ach/ said Bunn, 4 sure he might ha* had a poster. 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE 5 
 
 Ah, but mebbe he doesn't want to be too grand goin' to 
 the ould mother ay, ay ! Well, God speed him ! But 
 it's a power o' good some o' them fine rings an' chains 'd 
 do the same mother ah, now ! ' 
 
 His Magnificence was walking, first, because he wished 
 to impress the natives along the way ; and next, because 
 he wanted to take stock, leisurely, of the half-forgotten 
 country of his birth. 
 
 How did it compare with the land of wealth and free- 
 dom ? H'm ! paltry, neglected, God-forsaken, thought 
 His Magnificence. No enterprise, no capital, no any- 
 thing just the same as when he had left it, just the 
 same. Little fields smothered all round with big hedges ; 
 rushes, whins, spade labour ; marshes, bogs, naked wretched 
 houses ; struggling starved peasantry these are what he 
 saw, these only. He had no eyes for the wild beauty 
 of the hills crowding away towards his Majesty the 
 mountain ; for the peaceful wind of the stream flowing 
 between the reeds and bulrushes, along meadows and 
 fields, past the great pointed alders and the grazing cattle ; 
 the dappled blue sky above, and the rich-tinted earth 
 below how could Tommy have eyes for all this ? He 
 was a citizen, a hunter of the dollar; trade, pavements, 
 
6 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 smoke, dust, these were his kind : all that was nothing, 
 mere poetical drivel, not worth the jingle of a cent. 
 
 Yet the country through which he was marching was 
 the country of his birth ; it had reared him well and given 
 him a good start in health and brains. He might have 
 condescended to look kindly on it, His Magnificence 
 might, and to feel a little thrill of emotion as he came 
 gradually on scenes and places which recalled his boyhood. 
 He had done well away from the old country it was 
 none the worse for that ; he had friends still lingering in 
 its fields and homes ; his old mother and his one brother 
 were over there in Gorteen ; it was not so bad that he 
 did not care to come back to it, just for a holiday, to 
 see his mother, to let people admire him and his, to 
 
 A little white house, perched on the brow of a hill, 
 away over Thrasna River in the land of Gorteen, caught 
 his eye. He stopped dead ; gazed at the house awhile ; 
 then, with his head down, walked on. Bessie Darling, 
 he was thinking Bessie Darling, is she there now, over 
 there in that white cottage beyond Thrasna river ? 
 
 He looked up again. How often he had gone up that 
 hill ; how often had he sat inside those white walls by the 
 cheery hearthstone ! Bessie, Bessie he wondered how 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE 7 
 
 time and the world had used her. He was fond of her 
 once, he remembered. It was on this very road, he 
 remembered, going home one day from Bunn fair a little 
 elated and reckless, because of Bunn whisky, perhaps 
 that he had asked her to marry him. Had he asked her 
 or only hinted ? He forgot. Anyway he had promised 
 at the parting to come back from America to fetch her. 
 Well, he had come. Tommy Burke was ever a man of 
 his word he had come back faithful to his promise. . . . 
 To fetch her ? Ah ! that was another matter. Circum- 
 stances had altered things. . . . Curious how she had 
 dropped out of his mind ! Once he had written, long 
 ago ; once she had written, long ago ; then came work 
 work and success. Once or twice, years ago, he had 
 thought of her once or twice. . . . Where was she 
 now ? he wondered ; had she forgotten him, or was she 
 still waiting for him to come and fetch her ? Oh ! he 
 hoped not. Suppose she were waiting over there for him ; 
 suppose she held him to his promise ? Great Jupiter ! 
 Tommy Burke marry a lump of a country colleen ! She 
 used to be fair and sweet; half the country had been 
 jealous of him. Yes, but that was years ago. What 
 was she now ? Bah ! Absurd. She might go to Jeru- 
 
8 RING O> RUSHES 
 
 salem. He could break his promise yes, and pay for 
 breaking it. Yes, siree ! 
 
 He raised his head, and looking across the fields, tried 
 to fall again into his old, complacent, critical groove. 
 But, somehow, the effort did not succeed. His eyes 
 would wander towards the white house on the hill. The 
 name Bessie would sing in his ears. He foresaw possible 
 trouble. The glory that had shone on him for a while in 
 Bunn somehow shone no longer. No longer did he watch 
 for the effect of his presence on the yokels who met him, 
 nor half turn his head to catch a glimpse of their open- 
 eyed stare as they turned to gaze after him. He stamped 
 his foot on the stones. 
 
 4 Damn it ! ' he said. ' Why did I come back to this 
 cursed country ? ' 
 
 He crossed Thrasna River and entered the land of 
 Gorteen that land of wisdom which eternally is honoured 
 in calling Tommy son. Here things took a better and 
 more familiar aspect, and the spirits of Tommy became 
 less of a burden. Bilboa, through which he had just 
 passed Pah ! he remembered it was a nest of rebels ; 
 no wonder it was a wilderness. But Gorteen was fairer, 
 and its people were children of loyalty and worth, if not 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE 9 
 
 of wealth. The cottages, here and there, with their 
 gardens and orchards were pleasant to look upon ; the 
 hedges were often trim, the fields within them not 
 a reproach. Poverty was everywhere ; yes, poverty or 
 next thing above it ; still, it was not sluggards' poverty ; 
 there were everywhere signs of a patient struggle against 
 adversity. But Tommy Burke was fast regaining his 
 magnificence. He shook himself inside his well-filled 
 raiment, mounted a ditch, and looked across the hedge 
 at a field of young corn. 
 
 ' Good Lord ! ' he said half aloud ; ' what is it at its 
 best ? Why do people stay on and struggle in this 
 unfortunate country ? Why can't they leave it, and do 
 like me ?' 
 
 He shook his head ; it was inexplicable. Why had he 
 left it ? he thought. Brains, he answered, brains had 
 led him. Why did his mother choose to stay on in it 
 rather than come to him in America ? He had asked her 
 more than once he did not choose to remember that the 
 asking her was all he had ever done for her why had 
 she chosen to stay on there in poverty, living with his 
 brother in their hut on their bit of wilderness ? Old 
 associations love of the land ? Ah ! to glory with such 
 
io RING O J RUSHES 
 
 talk. . . . He would have to sleep in that hut to-night, eat 
 there Ah ! he would drive back and sleep in Bunn 
 
 ' Morra,' came loudly across the road behind him ; 
 4 that's a brave crop now.' 
 
 The voice was familiar. His Magnificence turned : 
 there, in a field across the road, stood big Ned Noble and 
 his son James, leaning on their shovels and gazing 
 curiously at him from the potato furrows. 
 
 'Why,' said Ned, throwing down his shovel and 
 starting forward wiping his palm on his breeches. ' No ! 
 begob it is! Arrah, how's yourself, Tommy, me boy? 
 Welcim back, me son, to the ould country ! Why, ye 
 stand it rightly begob ! the best.' He gave Tommy's 
 hand a squeeze that made him wince. ' Och, boys, oh 
 boys ! ' Ned went on, ' but you're changed ! not the 
 same man at all, at all dear a oh dear ! Hoi, James. 
 Come here, ye boy ye ! Here's Tommy Burke back from 
 the States.' 
 
 James slouched out of his furrow, bashfully took 
 Tommy's hand, and stood back, mutely admiring, whilst 
 his father roared out the country-side news for the last 
 five years and more all who had died, who married, who 
 changed farms, and so on. 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE n 
 
 'Ay, ay,' said Ned, 'powerful changes powerful. 
 But the ould mother beyant stands it rightly aw the best. 
 I needn't tell ye, av coorse,' Ned went on, looking side- 
 ways at Tommy, ' that Bessie Darlin' 's married Eh ? 
 Ye didn't know ? Well now, well now ! Aw ay ! 
 married an' doin' well. An' ye didn't know ? Sure 
 I thought ' 
 
 His Magnificence turned the talk. The news was 
 good ; he could have given Ned a dollar because of it ; 
 his heart was jumping ; the sky had cleared : still, he 
 could not allow Ned Noble to be familiar or to draw con- 
 clusions. He gave out, for quick circulation round the 
 country-side, a few facts about himself and his estate ; 
 set the mouth of Ned's son James wider agape with a few 
 observations on the glories of Chicago ; then, shook the 
 clay from his boots and took again to the road. 
 
 Ned and James went back to the potato furrows, 
 leant thoughtfully on their shovels, and watched Tommy 
 make his way up the boreen that led to his mother's 
 cottage. 
 
 ' Jist to think o' that,' said Ned, and shook his head ; 
 6 rowlin' in money, an' I mind the day ye could count the 
 ribs o' him through his tatters ! Man ! James, did ye see 
 
12 RING O' RUSHES 
 
 yon watch-chain ? Sure it's as thick as a cart tether 
 an' it's goold ! An' the rings av him ! Och, och ! ' 
 
 ' Ay,' said James ; ' th' ould mother '11 go daft over 
 him ay ! I dunno but mebbe Bessie Darlin' 'd better 
 ha' waited a while afore marryin' ay ! ' 
 
 Ned turned and winked at James. 
 
 4 You're right there, James,' said he ; ' ay an' d'ye 
 mind the liar he is, pretendin' he didn't know she was 
 married ! Couldn't I see he was cut about it, him pullin' 
 me up that short troth, ay! Well, fire away at that 
 furrow ; sure I must g' way home an' tell Mary the news.' 
 
 Meanwhile His Magnificence was picking his way 
 along the boreen ; not swearing very much at the ruts and 
 the puddles ; nor yet letting his heart beat swiftly because 
 of the surprise he was about to spring on his old mother ; 
 not even raising his head that he might look out over the 
 fields or catch a glimpse of the home of his youth there in 
 front. Why should he look ? Did he not know that 
 the lane he was stepping through, and the fields around 
 him, and the house before him, were just as they had 
 ever been and just as they would ever remain ? Yes ; 
 and, for the rest, was he not walking with his thoughts ? 
 
 Bessie s married, he kept thinking Bessie's married; 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE 13 
 
 and his little heart was glad. For the last time but one 
 that day, he was His Magnificence every inch of him. 
 Trouble had fled. He could enjoy himself now ; air his 
 splendour about the country; do something for his people; 
 betake himself to his own country when he felt so dis- 
 posed. He thanked his Maker Bessie was married. 
 
 How was it he had never heard? His brother had 
 written once or twice, without saying anything. How 
 was it ? Oh, forgot perhaps or felt that the news 
 would be of no interest. She had been married for years, 
 Ned said. For years ? Ha ! how soon she had forgotten 
 him ! Woman's constancy ! Bah ! He had not married 
 no ! He had come back single yes ! And perhaps 
 had she been single, and clean, and decent, and not 
 vulgar, and had not gone off too much, he might who 
 knew? Ah! if she only knew great Scott! only 
 knew what she had missed. Missed him ; missed 
 Chicago, and wealth, and position, and all the rest ! If 
 she only knew yes, and she should know, soon too, what 
 her hurry and promise-breaking had done for her. Yes, 
 siree ! 
 
 By this His Magnificence had steered himself safely 
 up the boreen, and had passed the gate, just then lying 
 
i 4 RING O 3 RUSHES 
 
 wrecked on the ditch against the hedge, which on rare 
 occasions had been known to keep goats and swine from 
 invading the precincts of the home of all the Burkes. 
 Was he magnificent still ? Hardly. Twenty yards off 
 was his old mother. Did his heart leap even now? 
 Perhaps so ; one thinks not. 
 
 He crossed the noisome tract which lay between the 
 unsightliness of the byre on the one hand and the 
 unsavouriness of the dunghill on the other, daintily stepped 
 through the hens and ducks over the dirty puddled yard, 
 and came to the door of his old home. 
 
 At the threshold he paused and looked round. Just 
 the same just the same dirt, slatternliness, poverty the 
 Burkes were ever good-for-nothings. He was, he reflected, 
 the only well-doer of them all. Pah ! 
 
 He lifted the latch, and poked his head into the smoke. 
 
 ' Mrs. Burke/ he shouted. * Does Mrs. Burke live 
 here ? ' 
 
 ' Who's that ? ' came back. < Who are ye ? ' 
 
 ' A strainger, ' said Tommy. Are you Mrs. Burke ? ' 
 
 * Yis yis,' said his mother as she came towards the 
 door. 'Why why why Ah God! ah God! it's 
 Tommy Ah me son, me son ! Aw aw aw ! ' 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE 15 
 
 The next moment a pair of old yellow arms were round 
 His Magnificence, and willy-nilly he was dragged by the 
 neck into the smoke and gloom of the home of his 
 ancestors. Really, it served His Magnificence right. 
 
 One can hardly say that Tommy was happy as he sat 
 one side of the hearthstone, in a straight-backed arm- 
 chair, staring gloomily at the black tea-drawer boiling on 
 the coals and the bacon frizzling on the pan Oh, what 
 a dinner ! thought he whilst his old mother held his 
 hand, crooned over him, and by the score showered on 
 him questions about himself and his welfare. 
 
 He answered dolefully, evasively ; how could he answer 
 otherwise, sitting in such a den, surrounded by such 
 poverty, choked by such smoke, all the time very well 
 aware that his splendour was down in the dirt down in 
 the dirt with his own mother, where he had been born, 
 and where, all the years of his well-doing, he had suffered 
 his mother to remain ? 
 
 How could he talk freely to her of his wealth and his 
 trade and his friends ? His moral perception was not 
 very delicate ; but it served, just then, to give him the 
 impression that to speak of these things was almost to 
 reproach himself. Besides, she would not understand : 
 
16 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 better, perhaps, unfold his tale gradually. She was old and 
 crotchety ; perhaps and God knows it was the basest 
 thought Thomas Burke's little soul ever bred she might 
 reproach him, taunt him, point at him and then at herself 
 and mutter hard things about selfishness and ingratitude. / 
 How could he answer except dolefully and evasively ? 
 
 Truly the day's passing was not bringing added 
 splendour to His Magnificence. 
 
 Presently his mother let go his hand, and rose to get 
 the dinner. Phew ! the smoke, the stuffiness, the gloom. 
 
 4 Oh, for Heaven's sake, mother,' he cried, ' open the 
 door, the window anything, and give me air. I'll 
 choke.' 
 
 'Ah aisy, me son,' said his mother, as she tottered 
 towards the door, 'aisy whisht ! it's nothin' ; it's only 
 them fools o' turf, all wet they are. Come, sit over now, 
 an' ate.' 
 
 Tommy looked at the bare, littered table in disgust, and 
 the strong coarse food thereon. His soul revolted ; his 
 manhood sickened ; he gulped down a few mouthfuls ; 
 then, declaring he had no appetite, threw down his knife 
 and fork, lit a cigar, and pulled his chair nearer the open 
 door. 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE 17 
 
 ' You never sent me word about Bessie Darling's 
 marriage, mother ? ' he said. 
 
 ( Och no. Sure James wrote seldom ; I forgot to tell 
 him. How did ye find out ? ' 
 
 4 H'm ! Reckon ye didn't forget, mother. Who's the 
 man ? Any one I know ? ' 
 
 4 Why, sure ye know ? Didn't ye hear ? Francy 
 Phillips there beyant on the hill.' 
 
 'Ah! Married long ?' 
 
 ' Och ay this, this years an' years. Sure, she's four 
 childer already. Tommy,' his mother said, as she tottered 
 forward and clutched his arm, ' ye missed her well, dear. 
 What 'd the likes o' you, wi' all that property, do wi' the likes 
 o' her ? I was rejoiced to hear av her goin' rejoiced, now. 
 But sure ye niver cared much for her? Why should I tell ye?' 
 
 True, thought Tommy, true ; why should he know ? 
 He had missed her well. Still, how soon she had for- 
 gotten him. Ah ! if she only knew what she had missed. 
 She should know ; and at once. 
 
 ' Yaas no doubt yaas,' he replied to his mother. 
 4 Well, I reckon I'll take a look round. Go and see 
 James perhaps. Find him in the fields, I suppose ? ' 
 
 Under pretence of going to see his brother, just then 
 c 
 
i8 RING O 3 RUSHES 
 
 busy at the turf, Tommy crossed the fields, made a circuit 
 of the bog, climbed a hill, and boldly opened the gate of 
 Francis Phillips' garden. 
 
 The walk was trim, the flower-beds orderly, the cottage 
 neat ; he rapped at a green door with a brass knocker. 
 He heard a sudden bustle inside, saw a face pressed for 
 an instant against the parlour window : the door opened, 
 and his old love stood before him. 
 
 Ah, thought His Magnificence, thank Heaven ! 
 
 She was every inch an Irish farmer's wife stout, bare- 
 armed, fresh-complexioned, dressed in a loose bodice, 
 a quilted petticoat, heavy boots, and wearing an old straw 
 hat over her rough black hair. 
 
 4 Good afternoon,' said His Magnificence, as he raised 
 his hat. 
 
 ' Good evenin', sir.' 
 
 4 Are you Mrs. Phillips ? ' 
 
 'Yes, sir.' 
 
 His Magnificence swelled himself. 
 
 ' Aow well, I'm Thomas Burke ; just home from 
 America, ye know.' 
 
 Mrs. Phillips bit her lip, reddened a little, made a pluck 
 at her apron ; then put out her hand. 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE 19 
 
 ' Faith, an' you're welcim, Mr. Burke/ said she. 
 ' Sorrow bit o' me knew ye at first. Sure it's good o' ye to 
 come to see me. Come in, now, come in ! ' 
 
 She led the way and as she went His Magnificence, 
 at sight of the size and shape of her hob-nailed boots 
 clattering along beneath her milk-stained petticoat, was not 
 less thankful to Heaven for his deliverance from her well- 
 worn charms through the narrow earth-floored hall, just 
 then heavy with smoke and kitchen odours, into the little 
 earth-floored parlour, where the atmosphere struck close 
 and smoky ; dragged forward a chair, and asked him to 
 sit down. 
 
 And this is Tommy, thought Bessie, as, pulling off her 
 hat and seating herself before him, she let her eyes take in 
 fully the details of his person his jewellery, fine linen, 
 fatness, grey hairs. Troth the world has used him well, 
 thought she. What has he come for ? To throw taunts 
 at one, I suppose ? Well, let him ! Why did he go and 
 leave me ? 
 
 ' Ye stand it well, Mr. Burke,' said she. ' But now 
 you're odious changed. I widn't ha' known ye.' 
 
 'Yaas,' drawled His Magnificence; 'reckon I am 
 it's a good while since you last saw me.' 
 C 2 
 
20 RING O y RUSHES 
 
 Ah ; now it's coming, thought Bessie. 
 
 'Aw, 'deed it is,' she said, ' 'deed it is years an' 
 years. Here am I an ould married woman since that 
 ay, ay ! ' 
 
 She was giving His Magnificence every chance ; better 
 get it over, thought she. 
 
 4 Yaas heard about you from some one along the road, 
 I think,' drawled His Magnificence. ' Congratulate you. 
 Yaas, reckon I am changed, some. Not married myself 
 yet; but I've done some hard work since I left this 
 country left something considerable behind me when 
 I started across the herring-pond.' 
 
 Bessie peered hard at him under her half-closed eyelids. 
 She could not follow his drift. Isn't he going to say 
 a word to me, thought she, about myself at all ? 
 
 ' Ah, yes,' said she. 
 
 His Magnificence looked slowly all round the room 
 at the old yellow engravings in their wide walnut frames 
 hanging against the damp-streaked walls ; at the woollen 
 antimacassars worked in orange and blue hanging over the 
 painted chairs ; at the flaring oleograph of King William 
 over the mantelpiece, flanked on either side by dim old 
 photographs in metal frames; at the artificial flowers on 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE 21 
 
 the big Bible on the table ; at the half-open cupboard, 
 inside which stood a whisky bottle among the best crockery- 
 ware ; at the geraniums in the window-recess Lord ! 
 what vulgarity, he thought. 
 
 He looked at Bessie ; and behind his eyes she saw 
 scornful disgust. 
 
 < You've a pretty little place here, I guess, Mrs. Phillips/ 
 he said, and waved his jewelled hand. 
 
 ' Ah, now,' said she, ' not so bad, thank God sure 
 I could ha' been worse. But it's a poor place to sit 
 the likes o' you, Mr. Burke ; sure ye can't be well used to 
 it, now ? ' 
 
 6 Naw,' replied His Magnificence, ' p'raps not. I reckon 
 in Chicago city I've a fine house and plenty in it. 
 My furniture and fixings I calc'late would work out 
 to a pretty high figure. My pictures an' statoos cost me, 
 I guess, some hundreds of dollars. Two domestics 
 I keep yaas.' 
 
 4 Do ye now ? ' quoth Bessie, whose tongue was itching 
 to mimic his affected Yankee drawl. 'Troth, that's 
 great and sure you're a great man, Mr. Burke.' 
 
 ' Yaas out there you'll find my wagons and my men 
 in the streets, and my firm is pretty well known by now, 
 
22 RING O* RUSHES 
 
 I reckon. I stand straight on my feet yaas. I guess 
 my income just now figures out to some few thousand 
 dollars. I've just come across for a little holiday trip, 
 ye know, Mrs. a Phillips just to see the old mother, 
 ye know, an' some old friends. My baggage, I guess, 
 is coming from the station just now.' 
 
 He pulled out his watch and rubbed his fat fingers 
 lovingly round its gold case ; then twisted his rings, 
 pulled his cuffs down till the links flashed, and spread 
 his hands over his knees. Words could not have said 
 plainer: Look at me, Bessie Darling; look at me, and 
 gnash your teeth. 
 
 Bessie folded her arms and sat firmly before him. 
 Ah! ye big, fat bodach, ye, she thought this is what 
 you've come for ! Trying to make little of me and show 
 me what I did for myself. Thank the Lord ! I found 
 a better man than ye. Sure I always doubted ye. Maybe 
 if ye went an' gave some o' your money to your ould 
 mother over there it wouldn't hurt her. Ye selfish, thick- 
 headed ould bull ! Sure it's throwing good words away 
 to talk to ye. But you're not going to sit there and lord 
 it over me no, not if I know it. 
 
 'Yis,' she said in her fluent, good-humoured way, 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE 23 
 
 ( I heard talk ye were doin' well, Mr. Burke not 
 that it mattered to me; but sure one can't help people 
 talkin'. Och, now, it's little time one has for talk. 
 What wi' all the pigs we have, an' all the cattle, an' the 
 ducks, art geese ; an' makin' the butter now one's little 
 time to clack about any one's affairs, much less strangers'. 
 TV other day, over rides Lord Louth an' sits down 
 there just where you're sittin', Mr. Burke, an' says he : 
 " Faith, Mrs. Phillips, you're a lucky woman, so y' are, 
 with the fine man you've got," says he, " an' the industrious. 
 You've the best farm, Mrs. Phillips," says he, "an* the 
 best stocked farm in the whole property." Ah ! troth 
 lie made me blush, so he did ; an' it was truth he said, 
 so it was. Ay ! Ivery day on me two knees I thank God 
 for all His mercies.' 
 
 4 Yaas,' said Tommy ; ' yaas.' 
 
 'Ay ! Lord Louth's the pleasantest gentleman,' Bessie 
 rattled on. c Sure, he often comes to see us. Ay ! a 
 rale gentleman he is a rale gentleman ! He comes in jist 
 dressed like one av ourselves not a ring on him or a 
 chain ; an' he sits as 'umble there before us, Mr. Burke, 
 as one's own brother. Ay ! an' he'll take tay from 
 me Mr. Burke, och ! what ails me ? Sure, I must 
 
24 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 be dreamin' ! Wid ye take a cup o' tay from me ? Sure, 
 I'll make it in no time now do ! I've the finest buttei 
 an' crame the best in Irelan'. An' I'll whip ye up a bit 
 o' flim cake in no time och, do ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Tommy ; < I must be goin'. I promised 
 mother to be back in an hour.' 
 
 He fumbled with his hat, coughed, and prepared to 
 rise. 
 
 ' Ah, wait an' see Francy ah, do ! ' pleaded Bessie. 
 ' Now he'll be vexed if he doesn't see ye. He'll want to 
 show ye the land, an' the cattle, an' i very thing. Well, 
 you'll come again now won't ye? Sure, one likes to 
 see ould friends. Whisht ! here's the childer home from 
 school.' She rapped at the window and brought two 
 boys and a little girl through the garden to the front door. 
 ' Come in, childer,' said she, ' an' see who's here a whole 
 live gentleman all the way from America. Now, aren't 
 they fine childer, Mr. Burke ? Look at the limbs on 
 them, and them that healthy ! Ay, indeed ! An' sure the 
 master spakes right well o' their doin's at school. Sam 
 here's in the third class already, an' Bob there's out o' the 
 first book.' She ran her fingers through her little daugh- 
 ter's flaxen hair, and stooped and kissed her rosy cheeks. 
 
HIS MAGNIFICENCE 25 
 
 'Bell here's the darlin' child ivery one likes her, don't 
 they, Bell ? Whisht ! me child, sure the fine gentleman 
 won't hurt ye he's only Mr. Burke from America ye 
 know his mammy, don't ye, that lives in the wee house 
 over the bog ? ' 
 
 ' Iss,' answered Bell ; ' dirty ould Mother Burke.' 
 
 Bessie put her hand tenderly over the child's mouth ; 
 then looked straight at Tommy. 
 
 ' Ye mus'n't mind childer, Mr. Burke,' said she. ' Ye 
 know they pick up all kinds o' talk at school. But 
 they're the powerful blessin', so they are och, sure, I 
 wouldn't live without them ! What's that, Sam ? Spake 
 out, me son.' 
 
 ' I say, mother,' said Sam in an awed whisper, ' what 
 makes him wear his Sunday clothes on a week-day ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, an' mother,' chimed in Bob, ' look at the big 
 stumuck av ' 
 
 ' Whisht,' cried Bessie ; ' whisht ! Where's your man- 
 ners ? I'm fair 'shamed o' ye both, so I am ! ' 
 
 Somehow Tommy felt uncomfortable ; he rose quickly, 
 and said he must be going. 
 
 ' Well, if you're goin', Mr. Burke,' said Bessie, as she 
 put out her hand, ' I suppose I mus'n't keep ye. Thank 
 
26 RING O> RUSHES 
 
 ye, all the same, for comin' to see me sure it isn't every 
 one 'd come to see an' ould friend first day home from 
 foreign parts. But you'll come again soon an' see Francy? 
 He'll be powerful glad to know all about that gran' house 
 o' yours over the water he cares to know more about 
 that kind o' thing than I do. Sure, what 'd the likes 
 o' me know about such grandeur ? Good-bye, Mr. Burke.' 
 
 His Magnificence went down the garden somewhat 
 crestfallen; somehow he felt that his visit had not been 
 a success. 
 
 He opened the gate, and whilst it was on the swing 
 the voice of Sam the irrepressible came clear from behind. 
 
 ' Mother,' said Sam, ' what in glory does the lad wear 
 at the end o' that big brass chain ? ' 
 
 His Magnificence gave the gate a vicious pull and turned 
 away in wrath. 
 
 But Bessie pulled the children into the hall, shut the 
 door, put her hands on her hips, leant back against the 
 wall, and laughed till the tears came. 
 
THEY THAT MOURN 
 
 BUNN market was over, its hurry and haggle. In 
 corners and quiet spots of the big market-yard, you 
 saw men and women carefully counting their little stores 
 of silver, testing the coins with their teeth, knotting them 
 firmly in red pocket-handkerchiefs, finally stowing them 
 away in their long wide pockets as cautiously as though 
 every sixpence were a diamond. In the streets, people 
 were leisurely moving towards the shops, where tills were 
 rattling, and counters teeming, and trade, for a few hours, 
 mightily flourishing after its whole six days of blissful 
 stagnation. 
 
 A cart laden with butter, chiefly in firkins, issued from 
 the market-yard gate, a man between the shafts, one at 
 either wheel, two pulling behind, all noisily endeavouring to 
 keep the cart from running amuck downhill into the river. 
 Close behind, like chief mourners after a hearse, one might 
 
28 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 fancy, came Tim Kerin and Nan his wife ; a battered, slow- 
 footed couple, heavily burdened with the big load of their 
 years, white haired both of them, and lean as greyhounds. 
 Heavily they shuffled along in their clumsy boots ; the 
 man with one arm across his back, the other swinging 
 limply ; the woman holding up her skirt with one hand, and 
 gripping with the other the handle of an empty basket ; 
 both looking fixedly over the tail-board of the cart at the 
 few pounds of butter for which they had slaved hard for 
 weeks, and for which, after hours of haggling, they had 
 just received a few most precious shillings. Fixedly they 
 watched it, and mournfully almost, as though they were 
 bidding it a last farewell. 
 
 They passed through the gate, straggled across the foot- 
 path, and silently watched the cart zigzag down the street, 
 run presently against the kerb, and, amid great shouting, 
 discharge its contents into the packing-house. 
 
 4 Faith,' said Tim, across his shoulder, ' 'twas cliverly 
 done. I wonder, some day, they don't break their 
 necks.' He wagged his head dubiously; Nan tucked 
 up her skirt; the two turned their faces uphill, and set 
 out to share their profits with the shops. The butter 
 was gone, and sorrow go with it: 'twas a heartbreak. 
 
THEY THAT MOURN 29 
 
 Tim Kerin's share of the profits was a shining sixpence, 
 reluctantly tendered to him by Nan his wife, who now 
 walked a couple of steps behind him, with eighteenpence 
 shut tight in her hand, and the remainder of the butter- 
 money (only a shilling or two) tied fast in a cotton bag 
 and safely stowed away in the neck of her linsey-woolsey 
 dress. Threepence of Tim's sixpence was to buy tobacco, 
 a penny might go in the purchase of a weekly newspaper, a 
 penny would buy a pair of whangs (leather laces) for his 
 boots ; the penny remaining, when all those luxuries had 
 been honestly paid for, would buy a whole tumblerful 
 of frothing porter. A whole tumblerful ! At sight of 
 it, with his mind's eye, Tim's lips dried and his feet went 
 quicker over the cobble stones. 
 
 Nan's lips were tight, her brow wrinkled. She was 
 figuring. It would take her to be powerful 'cute to fill 
 her basket with the value of eighteenpence. Och, the 
 lot o' things she wanted : tea, sugar, bacon, a herring for 
 the Sunday's dinner, a bit o' white bread and and 
 supposing there were a penny or two over (with knowing 
 bargaining there might be), was it likely, now, that 
 Mr. Murphy, the draper, would let her have cheap a yard 
 of narrow soiled lace to go round the border of her night- 
 
3 o RING 0> RUSHES 
 
 caps ? Twopence might do, threepence would be sure 
 
 to Aw, glory be to goodness, did anybody ever hear 
 
 of such romancin', such extravagance ? Sure it was runnin' 
 wild her wits were ! Threepence for lace indeed ! 
 
 A friend stepped from behind a cart and caught Nan 
 by the arm. What ! was it pass a neighbour like that 
 Mrs. Kerin would do? Pass her oddest friend, Mrs. 
 Brady, as if she were a milestone, and never pass the time 
 of day, or tell how she sold her butter, or how the world 
 was using herself? ' Och, och, Mrs. Kerin,' moaned 
 Mrs. Brady, ' what have I done to ye at all, at all ? ' 
 
 Nan stopped and put out her hand ; then volubly began 
 explaining : sure, sorrow the sight of Mrs. Brady she had 
 seen ; sure, she never passed a neighbour without speaking ; 
 sure, 'twas walking along romancin' she was, figuring in 
 her head, seeing how far she could make the few shillings 
 go. * An' how are you, ma'am ? ' asked Nan, when full 
 pardon for her oversight had been generously given and 
 gratefully received. ' How are you an' all your care ? ' 
 
 Swiftly the two old heads bobbed together ; ceaselessly 
 the tongues began to wag ; freely the full tide of their 
 softly drawling speech flowed gurgling round the little 
 nothings of their little world. 
 
THEY THAT MOURN 31 
 
 Meanwhile, Tim, his sixpence hot in his palm, had 
 taken a turn through the throng of the streets ; had 
 questioned his neighbours about sales and prices (just as 
 though his pockets bulged with banknotes) ; had spelt 
 out the time on the big market-house clock as he stood by 
 the town pump listening to the hoarse drone of a ballad 
 singer ; and now, on the sidewalk of Main Street, stood 
 dreamily looking through a shop window at a pile of news- 
 papers which stood precariously among an array of tobacco 
 pipes and sweet bottles. If he bought a paper, Tim was 
 thinking, he would have a whole week's diversion o' 
 nights ; if he didn't buy it, he would save the price of 
 
 another tumblerful o' A heavy hand fell on his 
 
 shoulder. 
 
 4 Hello, Tim,' said his neighbour, Shan Grogan ; 
 4 havin' a wee squint at the sugar-sticks is it, ye are ? ' 
 
 4 Aw ay,' answered Tim, turning ; 4 aw ay ! I was just 
 lookin' at the papers there, an' wonderin' what an ojus lot 
 o' news they give us nowadays for a penny. Enough to 
 keep one goin' for a week. Powerful it is.' 
 
 4 Yis,' said Shan ; 4 it's a wonderful world. But aisy, 
 Tim ; ha' ye been to the Post lately ? ' 
 
 4 Naw,' said Tim. 
 
32 RING J RUSHES 
 
 ' Well, look in there if you're passin', me son. The 
 lassie that sells the stamps asked me to tell ye. Away 
 quick ; mebbe she'll give ye news for nothinV 
 
 ' Now, now/ answered Tim. ' I'm obliged to ye, 
 Shan ; I'm obliged to ye. Now, now,' he repeated to 
 himself, as he shuffled off along the pavement ; ' now, 
 now. Is Shan havin' a wee joke, I wonder ? ' he said ; 
 and coming to the post-office doubtfully sidled in. 
 
 4 Me name is Kerin, Miss,' he said to the clerk, very 
 humbly as to one of the representatives of mighty Govern- 
 ment itself, i Tim for Christian ; an' they tell me ye 'd 
 mebbe be havin' somethin' for me ? ' 
 
 The girl handed him a letter bearing the Chicago post- 
 mark, stamped in one of the bottom corners, and carrying 
 its address thence right up to the top of the envelope. 
 Tim bore it tenderly to the door and carefully inspected 
 in ; then took it back to the counter. 
 
 4 Whose countersign might that be, Miss, if ye 
 please ? ' he asked, and placed his thumb over the post- 
 mark. Humbly he asked ; curtly he was answered. 
 
 ' Chicago ? ' said Tim. c Ay, ay ! I'm obliged to ye, 
 
 t 
 Miss ; I'm obliged to ye. May the Lord be good to ye, 
 
 an' send ye a duke for a husband. Good-day to ye, Miss,' 
 
THEY THAT MOURN 33 
 
 said he ; then, with his hand deep in his pocket and the 
 letter in his hand, stepped out into the street and went off 
 in search of Nan. 
 
 It's from Padeen, he kept thinking to himself, as he 
 walked joyfully along, his feet clattering loosely on the 
 pavement, his old face turning here and there, watching for 
 his wife ; it's from Padeen, sure as ever was. Aw ! but 
 he was glad. Aw ! but Nan would be glad. So long it 
 was, ages and ages ago, since they heard from him. 
 'Twasn't Padeen's hand-write naw ! but sure it might 
 have altered ; everything altered in the Big Country. Ay ! 
 'twas only poor ould Ireland that kept the same never 
 any worse, never any better. But where was Nan ? Sure 
 she ought to be in the shops. He was dying to find her. 
 Up and down he went; at last found her still bobbing 
 heads at the top of Bridge Street with her friend Mrs. 
 Brady. 
 
 * Aw, it's here ye are, Nan ? ' said he, coming up . 
 6 An' me huntin' the town for ye. It's yourself is well, 
 Mrs. Brady, I'm hopin' ? That's right, that's right.' 
 
 His voice came strangely broken and shrill ; his eyes 
 danced like a child's ; still his hand gripped the letter in 
 his pocket. 
 
 D 
 
34 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 1 What's the matter, Tim ? ' whispered Nan. ' Is it 
 news ye have ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, ay,' he answered. 'Come away till I tell ye ; come 
 away/ 
 
 He turned and, with Nan at his heels, set off almost at 
 a run downhill towards the river. Aw ! but his heart 
 was thumpin'. 
 
 ' Aisy, Tim,' cried Nan behind him ; ' aisy, man, or 
 me breath me breath ' 
 
 Without answering, or slackening his pace, Tim went 
 on, turned through the butter-market gate, crossed the 
 empty yard, came to the furthermost corner of one of the 
 long low sheds, and there halted, with his face to the wall. 
 Aw ! but his heart was thumpin'. Presently, Nan came to 
 him, panting and flurried. 
 
 < What is it, Tim ? ' she asked ; ' what is it ? ' 
 
 Slowly Tim brought out his letter, and, holding it by 
 both hands, let his wife look at it. 
 
 ' It's it's from Padeen ! ' cried she ; * it's from 
 Padeen ! ' 
 
 c Yis,' said Tim ; ' yis. It's not his hand- write ; 
 but but it must be from him.' 
 
 ' Aw, glory be to God ! ' cried Nan. ' Glory be to 
 
THEY THAT MOURN 35 
 
 God ! Sure it's ages since we heard from the boy, 
 ages ! ' 
 
 She put down her basket, and, with her head between 
 Tim's shoulder and the wall, looked fixedly at the envelope. 
 Aw ! but she was glad to see it. Such a time it was 
 since they had heard from Padeen ! A whole two years 
 it was, come Christmas, since the last letter came, with that 
 money order in it, an* the beautiful picture of Padeen 
 himself, dressed out in his grand clothes, with a gold chain 
 across his waistcoat, and a big gold ring on his finger. 
 A whole two years almost. And now maybe 
 
 4 Aw, Tim, open it quick,' she panted ; ' open it quick! ' 
 ' Mebbe,' said Tim, ' we'd better wait till we get home. 
 
 The light's bad, an' ' 
 
 ' No no, Tim ! No no ; it'd kill me to wait.' 
 ' Ay ? ' said Tim ; then slowly drew his knife from his 
 pocket and tenderly cut open the top of the envelope. His 
 fingers trembled greatly as he fumbled with the enclosure. 
 Nan's hand went quick to her heart. 
 
 ' Aw, quick, Tim ! ' she cried. ' Quick, quick ! ' 
 
 4 Don't don't flooster me, woman,' said Tim ; ' I can't 
 
 can't ' The next moment his shaking old fingers 
 
 held a sheet of notepaper, and a black-edged card on 
 D 2 
 
36 RING O' RUSHES 
 
 which, in large letters, beneath a long silvern cross, were 
 the words : PATRICK KERIN. 
 
 Nan fell back a step ; her fingers clutched at her dress 
 over her heart. Tim's knife clattered upon the stones, and 
 the envelope fluttered down. For a while they stood there 
 silent, dread-stricken. At last Nan spoke. 
 
 < Read, Tim/ she said. ' Read ! ' 
 < 1 I can't.' 
 
 ' Ye must, Tim ; it's better. Let us know the worst, for 
 God's sake ! Read, Tim.' 
 
 < I I ,' Tim began ; then quickly opened the sheet. 
 
 6 It's it's too dark here,' he mumbled ; 4 1 I want me 
 specs.' 
 
 * Read what ye can, Tim an' quick, for God's sake ! ' 
 So Tim, still with his face to the wall, raised the letter 
 to catch the light, and began to read : 
 
 CHICAGO CITY, U. S. A. 
 
 DEAR DEAR MISTER KERIN, // is my my sad duty 
 to in-form you that your son Patrick died ('Aw, Padeen, 
 Padeen !')#/* ty typhus here on the 2nd of this month 
 at twelve o'clock a.m. (' God's mercy ! ' cried Nan). As 
 his oldest friend, I was ivith him at the end. He died in 
 
THEY THAT MOURN 37 
 
 peace. He was buried at his request in Cemetery. 
 
 1 I send you something to to keep . . . 
 
 ' Aw, I can read no more/ said Tim, with a groan ; 
 4 it's too dark. I can read no more. Me poor ould 
 Padeen ! ' 
 
 Nan turned and looked vacantly across at the busy 
 street, dry-eyed and gray-faced. Ah ! her poor Padeen, 
 dead and buried away among the strangers, dead and 
 buried, and never, never would she see him again, never 
 hear his voice, never grip his hand ! Dead, dead ! her 
 big, handsome, noble son . . . 
 
 She turned to Tim and caught him by the sleeve. 
 
 ' Come away home, Tim/ she said. 4 Come away wi' 
 me.' Tim looked at her. 
 
 ' Ah ! Nan, Nan/ he said, as the big tears sprang to 
 his eyes. ' Nan, me girl, but it's hard ! ' 
 
 ' Ah yis/ said she, and lifted her basket ; ' but come 
 away, Tim, come away. Home's the best place for us.' 
 
 ' Yis/ said Tim, wiping his eyes with his hand. ' Yis, 
 Nan.' Then, Nan leading the way and Tim shuffling after, 
 the two old people (mourners now in real earnest) crossed 
 the yard ; and at the gate Nan halted. 
 
38 RING 0* RUSHES 
 
 1 1 think,' said she, as Tim came up, 'I think we can 
 manage this week wi'out the bits o' groceries. Sure 
 they're only luxuries anyway. I'll go an' see if Mr. 
 Murphy can find me a bit o' crape for me bonnet. Yis.' 
 
 6 Do/ said Tim. ' Do, Nan ; an' when you're about 
 it,' he said, taking his sixpence from his pocket and 
 handing it to her, ' ye may as well get me a bit for me 
 hat. Ay ! sure I can do wi'out me tabaccy for one 
 week. Aw yis ! Away quick, Nan ; an' hurry back, me 
 girl, hurry back.' 
 
 So Nan turned up towards the market-house ; but Tim 
 went downhill towards the bridge ; and when, presently, 
 Nan came to him, carrying her little packet of crape in her 
 big basket, Tim's head was bowed over the parapet and 
 he was mumbling tearfully : ' Aw, me poor Padeen, me 
 poor Padeen ! ' 
 
 Nan plucked at his sleeve. 
 
 ' Come away home, Tim,' she said; 'come away.' 
 And at the word Tim raised his head, dried his eyes, and 
 set off slowly after Nan up the long, dusty road that 
 wearily led towards home. 
 
THE RIVAL SWAINS 
 
 WE left the Bunn road, turned downhill towards 
 Curleck, passed a great stone-walled farmhouse 
 set nakedly on the hillside, whirled through a little oak 
 plantation and across a single-arched bridge ; then suddenly 
 came to a stretch of level, sandy road with broad grass 
 margins on either hand and willow hedges, and, beyond 
 these, low -lying tracts of pasture and meadow-land that ran 
 on the one side along Thrasna River, and extended on 
 the other back to the shores of Clackan Lough. 
 
 A beautiful country it is just there, halfway from the 
 Stone-gate to Curleck woods, well wooded and watered, 
 green and smiling, with white farmhouses scattered plenti- 
 fully over its face, and dark patches of crop-land here and 
 there between the hedges, and round all, dim and blue, 
 the mighty ring of the giant mountains. 
 
 But, like a true son of the soil and owner of a high- 
 
4 o RING 0' RUSHES 
 
 stepping horse, my friend, James Hicks, had more eye 
 for the road and its ruts than for the hills . and their 
 glory ; nor would he allow any words of mine in praise 
 of the natural beauties of the land to sift through his 
 mind unrebuked. No ; to blazes with beauty and colour 
 and the rest ! What cared he for such foolery ? It was 
 the soil, sir, the hard practical soil, which he valued, 
 not the useless frippery that spoiled the face of it. 
 
 'Fine, ye call it?' he said, and pointed disdainfully 
 with his whip at a big field beyond the hedge. ' I wish 
 to Heavens ye saw me stick a spade half a foot into the 
 skin o' it. Water an* clay, that's what ye'd find, an' grass 
 growin' on it that 'd cut ye like razors. Ay ! I know it. 
 An' sure there's good reason for it bein' so. Ye see 
 Thrasna River over there ? ' said he, and pointed to the 
 right with his whip. ' An' ye see Clackan Lough there 
 beyond ? ' and he wagged his head to the left. ' An' ye 
 remarked the little stream we crossed back there wi' the 
 bridge over it ? Well, sir, if ye look hard at them, 
 these '11 tell their own story. Suppose the sky opened 
 there above your head as it does often enough, God 
 knows ! an' spouted rain for six mortal days at a time, 
 what 'd happen ? Eh ? Well, I'll tell ye. The moun- 
 
THE RIVAL SWAINS 41 
 
 tains there beyond 'd send the water roarin' down upon 
 us ; the lakes above in Cavan 'd swell an* come slap 
 at us ; the hills there 'd do their duty : then up rises 
 the river, an the lake, an the stream, over comes the 
 water wi' a jump, an' when you'd be eatin' your supper 
 there's a lake spread there between the hills, an' a canal 
 three feet deep runnin' here over the road between the 
 hedges. Yes aw, I know it ! That's the time to see how 
 beautiful the country looks ! That's the time to make 
 the farmers kick their heels wi' joy, wi' their hay in 
 wisps, an' their turf in mud, an' their potatoes may be 
 swamped ! How comfortable you'd feel yourself, now, if ye 
 wanted to get to Curleck, an' ye had no friend to drive 
 ye, an' the water was as deep as your chin on the road, 
 
 an' Aw dear, oh dear ! ' James cried suddenly, and 
 
 slapped his knee ; then, in true Irish fashion, changed 
 his tune quick from dolour to laughter. ' Aw dear, oh 
 dear ! to think o' that story comin' into me head all at 
 once. Sure it's wonderful the strange tricks one's brain- 
 box plays one ! The quarest thing it was happened along 
 this veiy road, sir, one winter's night when the floods 
 were up. But maybe ye know the story o' George 
 Lunny's stilts, an' what came o' them?' 
 
42 RING O* RUSHES 
 
 I shook my head ; so James leant his elbow on the 
 cushion of the car-well, crossed his legs, and having 
 worked his horse into a steady trot, went on with his 
 story. 
 
 ' 'Twas a good many years ago that the thing happened, 
 an' 'twas in the same winter that the big wind blew 
 the roof off the hayshed above at Emo. Powerful the 
 flood was that time, an' four feet deep it lay on this 
 very road; so that if ye wanted to get to Curleck an' 
 hadn't a boat, an' hadn't time to get round the lake there, 
 ye had to take your life in your fist, tuck up your coat 
 tails, an', wi' the tops o' the hedges to guide ye, just 
 wade for it. Faith, 'twas a funny sight o' market-days 
 to see the ould women comin' along here on their asses' 
 carts, wi' their skirts over their ears, an* the water squirtin' 
 out below the tail-board, an' the unfortunate beast o' an 
 ass trudgin' unconcernedly through it all wi' its head 
 an' ears showin' above the water ; an' a funnier sight 
 'twas at times to see George Lunny an' the rest comin' 
 through it on their stilts. Like ghosts they'd seem o' 
 times, when dusk was comin' ; if a wind was blowin', ye'd 
 think they were drunk, that wobbly they'd be ; an' at 
 the deep [parts, be the king ! but it's miracles ye'd think 
 
THE RIVAL SWAINS 43 
 
 they'd be at, an* walkin* on the water. Anyway, it's 
 about George I must tell ye. 
 
 'He used to work below in the gardens at Lord 
 Louth's a middle-sized, good-natured kind o' fellow, 
 harmless enough an' powerful good to his widow mother. 
 An' o* course he has a wee girl to go a-courtin' ; an' o' 
 course there's another man that's sweet on her too; an' 
 o' course she lived that side of the flood ye'll see the 
 house in a minute when we get to the woods an' they 
 lived this. So ye'll see that what wi' crossin' the flood 
 o' nights to see her, an' the trifle o' jealousy between them- 
 selves, they had enough to keep them alive through that 
 winter. 
 
 'Well, one night when George had had his supper, an' 
 a wash an' shave, he takes his stilts across his shoulder 
 an' sets out to see the wee girl. 'Twas a fine, frosty 
 night wi' a three-quarter moon shinin', an' when George 
 gets to the edge o' the flood there behind at the bridge, 
 who should he see but th' other fellow sittin' on the 
 copin' stones. 
 
 '"Aw, good evenin', David" (that bein' the rival's 
 name), says George, restin' his stilts against the bridge- 
 wall an' pullin' out his pipe. " It's a fine night now." 
 
44 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 ' " It is so, George/' answers David, not speakin' too 
 friendly-like, still without any ill-will, for so far 'twas 
 a fair race between the two. "It is so." 
 
 6 " It's a cowld seat ye've got there this frosty night, 
 David," says George, strikin' a match. 
 
 ' " Aw, it is," answers David. " I just daundered down 
 to look at the wild ducks on the wing, an' smoke me pipe." 
 
 ' " Ye hadn't a notion to cross the flood, now, David?" 
 asks George in his sly way. 
 
 4 "Aw no," says David. "Aw, not at all." 
 
 6 "Ay?" answers George, catchin' hold o' the stilts. 
 "Well, I'm goin' that direction for an hour or so. Any- 
 thin' I can do for ye ? " 
 
 '"Ah no, George," says David; "ah no, 'cept I'm 
 sorry I couldn't Well, to tell the truth, I was thinkin' 
 o' goin' down Curleck way the night. Only Jan Farmer, 
 bad luck take him ! has gone off wi' the cot after the 
 ducks an' I can't cross." 
 
 4 "Aw," says George, that sleek an' pitiful, "that's 
 bad, that's bad. An* ye've no stilts or anythin' ? Och, 
 och, man alive ! what were ye thinkin' of ? An' sure 'twould 
 be an ojus pity to wet them new Sunday trousers o' yours. 
 But, tell ye what, David, I've a broad back on me, 
 
THE RIVAL SWAINS 45 
 
 an* a strong pair of legs, an' the stilts there 'd carry 
 a ton weight ; get on me back, an* I'll carry ye over." 
 
 'Well, at that David hummed an' ha'd a while, an' 
 objected this an* that; he didn't care whether he went 
 or not; he was bigger an' weightier than George 
 (which was true, but not over-weighty for a big lump 
 o' a man like George), an' might strain his back ; they 
 might trip over a rut or a stone. An' George just 
 listened quietly to it all, an' threw in an odd remark 
 in a careless kind o' way, knowin' well enough that David 
 was dyin' to go, an' that it was only fear o' his skin 
 that hindered him. At last up George gets on his 
 stilts, an* says he : 
 
 ' " Well, David, me son, good-bye ; I'm sorry I can't 
 stay longer wi' ye, but I'm expectin' to see some 
 one about eight o'clock. Good-night, David." An' at 
 the word up gets David from the wall an' takes a 
 grip o' George's trousers. 
 
 ' " Aisy," says he ; " aisy, I'll go ! " 
 
 ' So George gets alongside the bridge-wall, an' David 
 mounts it an' scrambles on to George's back ; an' off the 
 caravan sets through the flood. 
 
 * Well, sir, then begins the game ; for George was 
 
46 RING 0> RUSHES 
 
 a masterpiece on the stilts an' held the whip hand, an* 
 David, as the water got closer an* closer to his feet, only 
 shivered more an' more an' gripped George the tighter. 
 First, George 'd wobble this side an' David 'd shout 
 Murther ! Then, George 'd wobble that side an' David 'd 
 roar Mella murther ! Then, George 'd splash a drop o' frosty 
 water round David's ankles and set him shiverin.' Then, 
 he'd turn his face round and say: " Aw, David, David, 
 me strength's failin' me. Say yours prayers, me son ! " 
 an', lek a shaved monkey, David 'd shiver on his back 
 an' chatter wi j his teeth. At last, about halfway through, 
 George, whether from spite or pure divilment I know not, 
 for afterwards he'd never say, gives a quick lurch on 
 his stilts, jerks his shoulders, an' off David goes into 
 the water slap in he goes, wi' a roar like a bull, 
 flounders awhile, then rises splutterin', rubs his eyes, an* 
 sets off like a grampus helter-skelter after George. 
 
 ' Whirr oo ! there's where the scene v/as, an' the 
 whillaloO) an' the splashin' an' swearin' sure ye can 
 imagine it all along this very road ; but at last George gets 
 to dry land, drops the stilts, an', as hard as he could pelt, 
 makes for the girl's house. An' after him, wi' the water 
 streamin' from him like a retriever, goes David, as wet 
 
THE RIVAL SWAINS 47 
 
 as a fish, an* as mad as twenty hatters. " Aw, may the 
 divil send that I get me hands on ye/' he'd cry; "till 
 I pull the wizen out o' ye ! " An' away in front George 
 'd laugh an' shout back: " Aw, David, spare me, spare 
 me ; 'twas all an accident." So like that they went on 
 along the road here, up the Round hill there, through 
 the woods below, an' up the lane to the girl's house. 
 
 ' I happened that very night to be makin' a Haley in 
 Bredin's kitchen in troth, I may say at once that if 
 Bessie the daughter had looked kindly on meself instead 
 o' George or David, I'd ha' jumped in me boots an' 
 was sittin' in the corner holdin' discourse wi' Bredin 
 himself, when the door clatters open an' in comes George 
 pantin' an' blowin'. 
 
 4 " Aw," says he, droppin' into a chair an' tryin' to 
 laugh, " I'll be kilt ; I'll be kilt. Big Davy's after me 
 
 roarin' vengeance. I I ;" then, as well as he could, 
 
 told us what had happened. " Here he comes," says 
 George, risin' to his feet ; an' wi' that in comes Big David, 
 the wofullest object ye ever clapped eyes on, wi' his hair 
 in his eyes, an' his clothes dreepin', an' his face as blue 
 as a blue-bag. He dunders into the kitchen, looks at 
 George ; then wi' a shout makes for him. 
 
48 RING O y RUSHES 
 
 ' " Ah, ye whelp, ye ! " shouts he ; " I've got ye." But 
 at that Bredin runs, an' the wife runs, an' I run, an' between 
 us all keep the two asunder. An' all the time, David 
 keeps roarin' an' strugglin' ; an' George, standin' by the fire, 
 keeps sayin' : " Aw, David, 'twas only an accident ! " 
 
 4 Well, sir, after a while we got David calmed down 
 a bit, an' made him promise to be quiet; then away upstairs 
 he goes, an* soon comes down decked out in Bredin's 
 Sunday clothes, an' sits him down by the fireside wi' 
 Bredin an' meself between him an' George. Faith, 'twas 
 a curious sight to see the pair o' them : David glowerin' 
 across the hearthstone, wi' his hands spread out to the 
 blaze, an' George wi' his eyes fixed on the kettle, hardly 
 knowin' whether to laugh or grin. Aw, but soon the 
 laugh was th' other side o' his face ; for, what d'ye think, 
 but Bessie, though every one knew she was fondest 
 o' George, an' was nearly promised to him, gives George 
 the back o' her hand that night, an' was like honey 
 itself to David. Faith, 'twas wonderful ! Aw, but sure 
 women are the curious mortals anyhow. Ay ! any one 
 who has a wife knows it well. All the fuss she made 
 o' him! 'Twas, "David, are ye this ?" an', "David, 
 are ye that ? " an', " David, wid ye like a hot cup o' tea ? " 
 
THE RIVAL SWAINS 49 
 
 till ye'd think a'most 'twas a child o' six she was sootherin*. 
 Down she brings the big armchair from the parlour an* 
 sits him in it ; nothin' '11 do her but he must have 
 a tumbler o' hot punch at his elbow ; here she was 
 always turnin' an' twistin' his wet clothes before the 
 fire ; an' not a glance even would she give poor George, 
 sittin' mum there wi' his toes in the ashes. Och, not one! 
 An' David, seein' how things were goin', could hardly 
 keep from shoutin', he was that proud; an' every now 
 an' again he'd look slyly at George as much as to say : 
 " Ye've done for yourself, me son, this time ; an' dang your 
 eyes ! but it serves ye right." An' George 'd squirm on 
 his stool an' bite at the shank o' his pipe ; at last, up he 
 jumps, throws a dark look at Bessie, gives us a surly good- 
 night, an' bangs the door behind him. "Aw, good-bye, 
 George," shouts David after him, ' an' don't forget your 
 stilts, me son, next time ye come courtin'." At which Bre- 
 din laughs, an' the wife, an' Bessie herself; but, forme, I 
 shut me lips, for never did I like that Big David, an' 'twas 
 a wonder to me what was possessin' Bessie that night. 
 
 ' But next day 'twas much the same, an' the next ; an' 
 by the followin' Sunday 'twas round the country that 
 David was the boy for Bessie Bredin as sure as gun was 
 E 
 
50 RING O' RUSHES 
 
 iron. An* faith, it seemed so ; for if ye met David on 
 the road, he had his head as high as Napoleon ; an* if ye 
 met George, he looked like a plucked goose ; an* if ye saw 
 one pass the other, 'twas a black sneer David had on his 
 face, an* George 'd look same as if he was walkin' to the 
 gallows. Bitter enemies they were now, bitter enemies for 
 all that George said little, an' David gave out that he didn't 
 care a tinker's curse, an' niver did, for all the Georges in 
 Ireland not if he was George the Fifth himself! 
 
 ' Well, things went on like that for a while ; an' at last, 
 one fair day in Bunn, our two boys were brought together 
 by some friends, meself among them, an' over a quiet glass 
 in the Diamond Hotel we strove to make them forget 
 an' forgive. Let the girl choose for herself, said we, an' 
 let the best man win. But sorrow a bit would they shake 
 hands. No, sir. David stood there in his high an' 
 mightiness, an' George hung back glowerin' ; an' at last, 
 over a hot word that fell, George struck David. Whe<u)-<w ! 
 'twas a fair shaloo in two seconds ; ye'd think the house 
 was comin' down ; but we all got between them, an' at last 
 got them quiet on the understandin' that they were to 
 fight it out fair an' square on Cluny Island the folio win* 
 Saturday evenin'. " All right," shouts David, an' whacks 
 
THE RIVAL SWAINS 51 
 
 the table; "all right, me sons. An* bring your coffin, "he 
 says to George ; u bring your coffin ! " 
 
 4 Well, sir, Saturday evenin' came, an* over we all went 
 to Cluny Island, George an' his party in one boat, an' 
 David an' his in another. All roarin' David was wi' joy, 
 an' I'm thinkin' that maybe there was a drop o' drink some- 
 where in his neighbourhood ; but George kept quiet enough, 
 an' never said a word all the way over, an' up through the 
 woods till we came to the ould cockpit on top o' the 
 hill. An' there me two heroes strip an' face each other. 
 
 ''Twas a good fight, sir, as good as ever happened 
 these parts ; an' a pluckier battle than George fought 
 I never seen. No, nor never will. He was a light 
 man in those days, an' not over tall, an' David was 
 a bouncer, big as the side o' a house an' strong as an 
 ox ; but George faced his man as if he was only five 
 feet nothin'. An', by jing ! if we didn't think at first 
 he was goin' to win, that nimble he was an' quick, that 
 watchful an' cute, an' hard in the blow, too, sometimes. 
 Yes, he hammered David for long enough. But never tell 
 me, sir, that your race-horse '11 beat your fourteen-stone 
 hunter over a ten-mile course. Aw, not at all ! Ye may 
 practise your nimbleness on a stone wall as long as ye 
 E 2 
 
52 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 like, but isn't it the wall has the laugh in the end ? Aw, 
 of course. An* so it was wi' George ; after a while he 
 gets a bit tired, then loose in his guard, then hard in his 
 breath ; then, sir, David lets fly right an' left like a flail 
 on a barn floor, an' in ten minutes, sir, he had George 
 standin' before him as limp as a rag an' as broken a man 
 as ye ever seen. 
 
 '"Are ye done?" shouts David at that. "Are ye 
 ready for your coffin ? " 
 
 ' "No," answers George, an' tries to rally. "No, not 
 till ye kill me." 
 
 ' " Then here goes, an' be danged to ye ! " roars David ; 
 wi' that rushes in like a tornado, hits out, an' down goes 
 George like an empty sack. 
 
 ' " Now," says David again, foldin' his arms an' throwin' 
 back his shoulders ; " now, coffin or no coffin, you're done, 
 me divil ! Eh ? " says he, turnin' to his party wi' a laugh. 
 "Eh, boys, there's hope for Ireland yet?" Back comes 
 the skirl ; an' just as we were goin' to give them defiance, 
 I hears a swish o' skirts, an' there, stoopin' over George, 
 is Bessie Bredin. 
 
 ' As pale as death she was ; an' at sight o' her, David, like 
 the rest of us, stands back. Down she goes on her knees, 
 
THE RIVAL SWAINS 53 
 
 lifts George's head, tells one o' us to get water ; then bathes 
 his face an' neck wi' it, an' like that stays till he comes to 
 an' is able to stand up. Then she helps him into his coat 
 an' waistcoat, puts his cap on, an' turns to where David 
 was standin' back glowerin' from under his eyebrows. 
 
 4 " Ah," she says, u ye big, cowardly bully ! Ye daren't 
 fight your match. No ! Ye'd rather lay your dirty hands 
 where ye know they'd hurt. It's a wonder 'twasn't myself 
 ye challenged. D'ye know what he did, boys?" says 
 Bessie, turnin' to us all. " He creeps up the lane to see 
 me last night, an' comes rubbin' his big hands into the 
 kitchen, an' he whispers in my ear : ' If ye want to see 
 me fit a corpse to a coffin,' he says, 4 be in Cluny Island 
 the morrow evenin' about dusk.' Yes, that's what ye 
 said ; an' ye made sure I'd be here too late, ye big, black, 
 cowardly liar ye ! Go home," she says, pointin' her finger 
 at him, an' speakin' as one would to a tinker. " Go home 
 an' marry a beggarwoman ! " says she ; " maybe she'll teach 
 ye manners an' soften the heart in ye." 
 
 Then she turned to George. 
 
 "Come away, George," says she, an' takes his arm; 
 " come away, me son ; an' God forgive me for bringing 
 ye to this ! " ' 
 
THEY TWAIN 
 
 i. 
 
 AT the top of the table, facing the parlour window, 
 and with his head (as he leant back in his chair) 
 right beneath the weights of a clattering Dutch clock, 
 sat Hugh Fallon, a well-aged, solemn-faced man ; on 
 his right, wedged between the best china cupboard and 
 a corner of the table, sat Maria, his wife ; on his left, 
 Hannah, his second daughter. These made the Fallon 
 party. 
 
 Facing Hugh, his feet tapping impatiently on the clay 
 floor, his chair tilted back and threatening every moment 
 to work havoc among the geraniums in the window-recess 
 behind, was Martin Hynes, well-dressed, handsome, a 
 man of about thirty years. He was the other party ; and 
 between the two, before the fireplace and below a resplendent 
 
THEY TWAIN 55 
 
 portrait of William III (hanging precariously, so it 
 seemed, over the china ornaments on the mantelpiece), 
 was that man of words and wit, Fallon's brother-in-law, 
 Big Ned Noble. Him we may call the intermediary. 
 
 4 Well,' cried Hynes all suddenly, 'what are we waitin' 
 for ? Why can't we start at once ? ' 
 
 ' True,' answered Fallon in his hard, deliberate way ; 
 ' we may as well get the thing over. There's nothin' to 
 hinder us, I suppose?' 
 
 ** AisyJ said Big Ned, and spread his hands; 'aisy 
 now. Mebbe it's o/ireg'lar, an' mebbe 't isn't ; but on me 
 left here sits A/;//self; may I ax where then's ^rself ? ' 
 
 Himself (so called) twisted impatiently in his chair, but 
 said nothing ; the father of herself turned and looked 
 inquiringly at his wife ; it was herself 's sister who spoke. 
 
 ' Ye won't see her this night,' said Hannah ; ' horses 
 wouldn't drag her here. I did me best to bring her, an* 
 'twas no use.' 
 
 4 No matter,' answered Ned, 'no matter; I only axed, 
 an' havin' me answer, an* seein' no objection, I propose 
 that we start proceedin's. Alsy now, Martin, me son ; one 
 minit, now, an* I'll let ye start. It just struck me, seein' 
 by chance the text on the wall over there, that mebbe 
 
56 RING <T RUSHES 
 
 somewan,' and Ned threw a sly look at Hugh, sitting dour 
 and solemn at the head of the table, ' somewan 'd lek to 
 start proceeding wi' a mouthful o' prayer.' 
 
 Mrs. Fallen turned her eyes and fixed them on the big 
 Bible, lying solitary in the middle of the table ; Hannah 
 mumbled a word of disgust; Fallon himself sat grave 
 and irresolute. Was the occasion fitting? thought he. 
 Yes and no. It was well always to ask a blessing on 
 man's feeble deliberations; still 
 
 ' Here,' cried Hynes, in his abruptest manner, ' no 
 more o' this foolery ; we want no prayin' to settle what's 
 to be done here. Will ye whisht ; ye big bodagh, ye ! ' he 
 shouted, as Ned spread his hands and called, ' Aisy, aisy. 9 
 ' Hugh Fallon, ye know me and the kind o' me. Your 
 father knew mine. I'm a good Protestan' and a man o' 
 me word ; an' I've lived your neighbour all me life. Well, 
 I've courted your daughter Jane off an' on these years ; 
 an' she says she'll marry me. But all that's neither here 
 nor there. Ye know what I've got for her ; there's a tidy 
 farm an' a good house an' offices ye know it all ; if your 
 daughter marries me, she'll not be the worst off in these 
 parts by a long way. She can act the lady if she likes, 
 an' for food or raiment she'll need nothin'. All this ye 
 
THEY TWAIN 57 
 
 know, Hugh Fallen, as well as I do. Come ! have I said 
 enough ? ' 
 
 'Plenty,' answered Fallon, 'plenty so far as it goes. 
 But there's one thing I'd like to have your word on. 
 What's this I hear about the money ye owe Bob Hicks 
 over there on mortgage ? ' 
 
 Big Ned brought his fist down heavily. ' Right,' said 
 he; 'right.' Mrs. Fallon tightened her lips; Hannah 
 coughed nervously. 
 
 ' Who told ye that, Fallon ? ' cried Hynes, springing to 
 his feet. ' Tell me the blaggard's name.' 
 
 ^ Aisy, alsyS said the peacemaker. 
 
 ' If I did, I'd have to name a whole townland.' 
 
 ' True,' echoed Ned. 
 
 ' Ye know it's a lie ; a damned lie.' 
 
 ^ Aisy, aisyj implored the peacemaker. 
 
 ' Well, that's as may be. It's one word against another. 
 If ye say it's a lie ; well, I believe ye.' 
 
 ' Just as ye like, Fallon. Say ye believe me, an' I say 
 no more. Say ye believe the lie (Hynes half turned to 
 the door), an' out I go.' 
 
 The Fallons stepped back. Debt or no debt (and there 
 were stories of worse than debt about which they could 
 
58 RING J RUSHES 
 
 have spoken), they had no desire to close the door on Hynes. 
 He was a man of standing in Gorteen, of good family 
 and appearance; he made, with all his faults of temper, ex- 
 travagance, and the rest, a better match for Jane than they 
 had ever hoped for. So, having shown him that, if on his side 
 there were hopes, on their side there were doubts, the Fallons 
 stepped back, asked pardon, and presently were forgiven. 
 
 And now came the other side of the transaction. 
 
 4 What, 'asked Hynes, 'was the sum total of the fortune 
 which Jane Fallon would bring with her ? ' 
 
 A hush fell in the little parlour. Big Ned drove his hands 
 into his pockets and fixed his eyes on the family Bible ; 
 Mrs. Fallon and Hannah exchanged knowing looks ; 
 Fallon looked thoughtfully for a moment at the portrait of 
 King William, then coughed, and leant back in his chair. 
 
 The opening of Fallen's speech was clever, but rather 
 tiresome. He was conscious of Martin's virtues ; he 
 would be glad to welcome him as one of the family ; he 
 hoped that everything might be amicably settled, and have 
 the blessing of the Almighty. Still, he was anxious to 
 remove misapprehension. It passed current in Gorteen 
 that he, Hugh Fallon, was a man of means ; had made 
 money in some way or other ; got more from his sons in 
 
THEY TWAIN 59 
 
 America, and had plenty in the bank. Furthermore, it 
 was said that his daughters would bring with them large 
 fortunes. Now 
 
 ' 1 say, Fallen, 5 interrupted Hynes, with that tone and 
 manner of supercilious arrogance which, perhaps, experience 
 had taught him to assume in transacting matters of busi- 
 ness, 'enough of this. I know what you're drivin' at. 
 If ye can't belittle me, you'll belittle yourself. Suppose 
 ye cut the speech short, an* make your excuses after you've 
 told me what you'll give with the girl.' 
 
 ' Young man, young man ! ' cried Big Ned, * that's a 
 foolish way to talk. You'll gain nothin' by goin' to work 
 that way. Go on wi' your speech, Hugh ; it's great .... 
 What ! You're vexed ? Troth you've need spoke to lek 
 that, an' you just gettin' your tongue free ! ' 
 
 Fallen had flushed crimson ; his jaw was set ; and 
 when, presently, he fixed his eyes on Hynes and began to 
 speak again, his voice rang hard. He would take the young 
 man at his word ; he would say at once what his daughter 
 Jane would take with her Item, her grey pony ; Item, 
 her brindled cow and calf ; Item, sundry hens and chickens 
 which she had reared ; Item, a wooden bedstead and 
 fittings ; Item, a mahogany table, armchair 
 
60 RING 0* RUSHES 
 
 4 Take all that afterwards,' said Hynes. 'What's the 
 money ? ' 
 
 ' Fifty poun' in notes/ shouted Fallen. 
 
 No wonder Mrs. Fallon and Hannah exchanged 
 wondering looks ; no wonder Big Ned smote the table. 
 Fifty pounds ! Why, rumour and their own knowledge 
 had set the dowry at not less than three times that sum. 
 Fifty pounds ! No wonder Hynes threw back his head and 
 laughed. Fifty pounds and Jane Fallon oh Lord, Lord ! 
 
 ' Fifty pound,' cried he ; ' is that what ye say ? D'ye 
 hear your husband, ma'am ? He says he'll disgrace ye all 
 before the country. D'ye hear him, Ned Noble ? ' 
 
 ' I hear,' said Noble. ' Ye've brought it on yourself, 
 young man ; ye may fight it out between ye ; ' and with 
 that answer Mrs. Fallon and Hannah, well knowing that 
 Hugh had spoken in anger, and in the end would not 
 disgrace them, agreed. 
 
 So Fallon and Hynes fought it out, pound by pound ; 
 the younger man attacking strongly and with more 
 discretion than he had hitherto used (as, indeed, became 
 one who was fighting, not so much for a wife as for 
 money wherewith to pay his debts yes, his debts) ; the 
 other retiring stubbornly, and not without a certain grim 
 
THEY TWAIN 61 
 
 satisfaction at the sight of his opponent paying so heavily 
 for his folly at last stopped dead at one hundred pounds. 
 That was still far short of Jane's dowry. No matter ; 
 he had been crossed and angered. One step further he 
 would not go. 
 
 And now ensued a battle royal ; a long, hot, nearly 
 foul struggle, in which the combatants wrangled as do 
 jobbers in a fair over the price of a horse ; in which 
 Hynes argued, persuaded, threatened, and Fallen stood 
 doggedly firm, nor scorned the voluble services of his 
 supports ; whilst ever between the two parties Big Ned 
 strove mightily for peace and terms. So, for an hour, the 
 battle waged ; then flagged somewhat ; presently, under 
 Ned's astute generalship, came near an issue. 
 
 ( Come, boys,' cried Ned, * enough talk ! Do as I tell 
 ye; don't fire the house because the door's barred. 
 Listen to me, me sons. Hynes here says he'll take 
 a hunderd an' twenty no less ; Fallon says he'll give a 
 hunderd no more. Come ! gie me your hands ; split the 
 differ, an say a hunderd an ten. Is it a bargain ? Now 
 then ! no drawin' back ; clinch the bargain quick an' be done, 
 for God knows me throat's pantin' for a drop o' sperits.' 
 
 ' It's a hunderd,' said Fallon. 
 
62 RING O> RUSHES 
 
 6 Well, curse ye/ cried Hynes, 4 for a heart o' stone ! 
 Come ! here's the last word : make it guineas, an* I take 
 the heifer. 1 
 
 The offer (which was precisely such an one as Ulster 
 men make every day in fairs) seemed reasonable. His 
 wife and daughter urged Fallen to accept it ; Big Ned 
 lent his voice on the same side. 
 
 4 Very well,' said Fallon, at last, i very well ; guineas 
 be it, an' I wish ye luck o' it.' 
 
 4 Amen an' hurroo ! ' shouted Ned. 4 An' now out wi' 
 the glasses, Maria, ye girl, ye, till we christen' the match. 
 A tough tussle it's been, the toughest in my experience, an* 
 that's not small ; but all's well that ends well. Out wi* 
 the glasses . . . Whisht ; who's this ? Be Jabers ! it's Jane. 
 Come in, Jane, come in ; we've settled ye, ye girl, ye. 
 Mrs. Hynes ye are from this forrard, as good as if the 
 parson had blessed ye.' 
 
 Jane, very pale and very calm (so it seemed), walked 
 slowly up to the table ; and as Hynes eyed her, his 
 thought was that even with a hundred guineas glimmer- 
 ing behind her she looked deuced old and ugly. 
 
 4 Come ! ' shouted Ned ; 4 come, Martin, an' kiss your 
 sweetheart. Damn it ! man, if I was your age ' 
 
THEY TWAIN 63 
 
 4 I'll ask ye to stay where ye are,' said Jane to Hynes; 
 then, ' I'm thankful to ye all for the good opinion ye have 
 of me. It's not every girl has friends ready to take such 
 trouble with her, an* I thank ye all for the way ye have 
 bought an' sold me this night it's the custom, I know ; 
 still, I thank ye.' 
 
 ' Don't be a fool, Jane,' said her mother. 
 
 ' I know I am,' answered she ; ' maybe 'twas Satan 
 tempted me to listen to all ye've said about me; but 
 I was curious. Again, I thank ye.' 
 
 ' Och, not at all,' said Big Ned ; 4 sure, we'd do as 
 much for any decent girl.' 
 
 ; For all that, I'm worth more'n a hundred guineas ; 
 an' if you, father an' mother, choose to sell me for that, 
 I don't choose to go. Money's not me price an' you, 
 Martin Hynes, should know it. Your heifer/ that 
 was the word. Ah ! I misjudged ye. The soft word 
 ye had, an' ' 
 
 4 Come, come, Jane, 1 said Hynes; 4 stop this foolishness. 
 The word meant nothing forgive it.' 
 
 ' Thank God I know ye in time. I'll never many ye.' 
 
 Then Hugh Fallon rose and took Jane by the arm and 
 sat her in a chair. 
 
64 RING s RUSHES 
 
 4 Sit ye there,' said he, 4 an' drink your own health, an' 
 hold your tongue; for you'll marry whoever I tell ye 
 to marry.' 
 
 And Jane, her lips moving in prayer for strength, sat 
 down. 
 
 II. 
 
 Next morning came Hynes, all radiant and hearty, all 
 his indiscretions forgotten, his faults hidden conveniently 
 away ; his voice now soft and pleasant, his face shining 
 with good fellowship ; Hynes, the lover, in a word ; no 
 more the man of the night before than Jane was the 
 woman who had once loved him. 
 
 4 Where's Jane ? Where's Jane ? ' he called from the 
 threshold ; presently found her hard at work in the 
 kitchen, seized her and tried for a kiss. Quickly she 
 freed herself and faced him. 
 
 'Ah,' said she bitterly, 'you'd kiss me as Judas 
 kissed the Master ! Ye may go, Martin Hynes ; you 
 and your kisses are not for me. D'ye think I forget ? 
 D'ye know me so little as to think one night would 
 change me?' 
 
 Martin's eyes fell. 
 
THEY TWAIN 65 
 
 ' Ah,' said he, ' what's the good o' this? Is it for 
 a word you'd give me the go-by ? Sure it was only a 
 slip : I meant nothing.' 
 
 * No, ' said Jane, ' maybe ye didn't ; but the word 
 can stand all the same. If I'm not what ye said, ye 
 bargained for me like one. Money, money that's what 
 ye want to marry, Martin Hynes; not me at all, but 
 my money. " Give me so much," ye said oh, I heard 
 ye- " Give me so much, an' I'll take the heifer ! " Take 
 me . . . ' 
 
 'Ah,' said Hynes; 'quit your foolishness. Isn't it 
 the custom these parts ? Isn't there a bargain in Gorteen 
 before every marriage ? An' supposin' I 'was hard. Wasn't 
 I obliged to be when I faced your father, an' Hannah, an* 
 your mother ? ' 
 
 ' I know. I don't forget it. It's all o' ye. Oh, the 
 disappointment ! An' ye lied last night, Martin ; hard ye 
 lied. Ah, I could tell it by your voice. Ye are in 
 debt, I say. It's not me ye want; it's the money, to 
 cover your disgrace. Oh, I know it! ... What about 
 the debt? What about custom and bargains? No; it's 
 not that. It's the lying ; the hard way ye have ; the poor 
 thoughts ye have of me. Ah, the disappointment ! The 
 F 
 
66 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 bitter disappointment ! And I thought ye wanted me for 
 myself. It's all over all over ! ' And fast came the 
 tears. 
 
 Now was Martin's chance. For a woman in tears is 
 at your knowing man's feet. 
 
 ' Och, there, Jane,' said he, and came closer. ' Och, 
 there, woman dear. God knows, I do care for ye. Sure, 
 ye know I do. There, dry your eyes, an' make it up. 
 Come, old girl ! ' 
 
 He laid his hand on her arm, and for a moment 
 Jane wavered Ah ! he was such a handsome man ; 
 such a bright, handsome man, and his voice was so soft 
 as he stood there pleading for a moment she wavered, 
 then suddenly found strength and drew from him. 
 
 ' No, no,' she cried ; ' don't touch me. Never, never I 
 Go away, Martin ; ye tempt me, ye tempt me ! Never, 
 never, will I marry ye ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, don't say that,' pleaded Hynes ; ' don't, woman, 
 don't. Sure, you'll break me heart. God's truth ! never 
 did I think you'd be like this.' 
 
 Jane dried her tears. 
 
 { Martin Hynes,' said she, ' this is my last word. Ye 
 may go an' get a wife to be your slave somewhere else ; 
 
THEY TWAIN 67 
 
 for in this house, God helping me, ye won't get one. 
 I did care for ye till last night. Now I don't care a 
 thraneen for ye ; the face o* ye is hateful to me, an' the 
 soft words o' ye. I know ye now oh ! I know ye now. 
 It's your slave, I'd be ; cat an' dog we'd live all our days. 
 Ah, it's well I know well I know ! ' And she hid her 
 face in her hands. 
 
 Martin stood and looked hard at her. Was she in 
 sober earnest, or only playing with him, trying him ? Was 
 all his hard bargaining to go for nothing, and the money 
 with it, and and Jane, too ? Not that he cared a deal 
 for Jane. No. A little pale-faced thing like that, with 
 her plain, smooth hair, and sober dress, and slow, dreamy 
 eyes : how could he care very much ? And to refuse 
 him him, Martin Hynes, the best match in Gorteen ! . . . 
 Still, a good wife she would make for any man, and she 
 had the money. He shook her. 
 
 4 Come, Jane,' said he. ' Come, woman dear.' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 6 Och, Jane. Och, woman dear, won't ye forgive me ? ' 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 'And ye won't marry me, Jane your own me. Eh, 
 Jane I ' He walked to the door. ' Very well, then ; so 
 F 2 
 
68 RING O* RUSHES 
 
 be it. Your mind's your own who'd try to force it ? 
 But don't be a fool, Jane, I'd advise ye ; don't try me too 
 far.' 
 
 The door closed ; Jane ran to the window and watched 
 Hynes cross the yard; then put her head down on the 
 table. <Oh, God help me/ she sobbed; 'God help 
 me!' 
 
 ' Ay, God help ye,' said her mother, as she stepped 
 from the hall (where, no doubt, her ears had not 
 been dull). ' God help ye, indeed ! Help yourself, ye 
 fool ! ' 
 
 Not dolefully, or in any bad humour (for he had no 
 thought that Jane would resist him long; nor, indeed, 
 cared exceedingly if she did. Was she the only girl in 
 Gorteen who had gold jingling in her pocket ? Jane's 
 pocket was the longest ; still ) ; not dolefully, there- 
 fore, Hynes went swinging across the fields and soon 
 came to the potato-plot, where Fallen was working. 
 
 ' It's a good day,' said he, and pulled out his pipe. 
 4 I've been above. Jane's in the tantrums. I couldn't 
 make head or tail of her. I left her roarin' yonder 
 an' shoutin' that she hates the face o' me. What in 
 glory 's come over her ? * 
 
THEY TWAIN 69 
 
 Fallen leant a moment on his shovel. 
 
 ' Foolishness,' answered he, ' that's what ails her ; some 
 sentimental whim or other about love, an* all that. It's 
 nothin'. Women are lek that ; it '11 all go. When you're 
 as ould as I am you'll know it.' 
 
 * She says she'll not marry me swears she'll not.' 
 
 Fallon laughed. 
 
 ' Ay ! that's another way they've got ; they like to be 
 forced, an' made much of. Ay ! they're all alike. Ye 
 needn't fear ; she'll marry ye.' 
 
 ' Suppose she won't ? ' 
 
 ' Suppose ! What supposin' ? Am n't I her father ? 
 Didn't I breed an' rear her ? Am n't 7 marryin' her ? 
 D'ye think childer o* mine are brought up to rebel against 
 their parents ? No ; train up a child in the way she 
 should go ' ... and so on, wearily. 
 
 f Ay,' answered Hynes. ( True. Still, Jane's powerful 
 determined, an' she might hold out.' 
 
 4 Determined ! An' what am / ? ' cried Fallon. ' Hold 
 out ? Well, no. She'll not ; never fear. She's just 
 playin' wi' ye. Some fancy or other's got into her head. 
 Just you come an' see her as if nothin' had happened ; Fll 
 talk to her. Away, now, an' get your weddin' garment 
 
yo RING O y RUSHES 
 
 ready; five weeks come the morra you'll want it. Ay, 
 ay ! Well, don't keep me ; I'm ojus busy.' 
 
 'Very good,' said Hynes, and turned away; 'very 
 good. It's in your own hands, Fallen. Good-day to ye.' 
 
 ' Ay, it's in my hands,' thought Fallon, as he stood 
 looking after his would-be son-in-law ; ' an' serve ye right, 
 me play-boy, if Jane doesn't take ye. Still .' 
 
 He drove his shovel into the ground, and for the rest of 
 the day sweetened toil by fitting to his tongue certain texts 
 and apt phrases bearing on the rights of parents and the 
 duties of children ; then, night having come, went home, led 
 Jane into the parlour, and there, from his place beneath the 
 clattering clock, glibly delivered himself. He had heard 
 that Jane was inclined to be wayward, and stiffnecked, and 
 rebellious ; was that so ? To some extent ? Indeed ! 
 And Jane was still inclined that way ? She was ? Oh, 
 just so. Well and thereupon came the parental lecture ; 
 long, rambling, authoritative, brutally frank. He would 
 stand no nonsense. It was for him to decide in these 
 matters. He was master in that house. So long as 
 she lived under his roof, Jane should do his bidding. 
 And for herself, in conclusion, let her beware of the sin 
 involved in the breach of that commandment delivered to 
 
THEY TWAIN 71 
 
 Moses on the Mount, ' Honour thy father . . .' And let 
 her take to heart that other command, ' Children, obey your 
 parents IN ALL THINGS.' 
 
 4 Father,' replied Jane, 'always have I obeyed ye, an' 
 honoured ye, as ye know, for the good ye have in your 
 heart ; now, I want to honour ye but how can I when ye 
 command me to do what is wrong ? You've quoted texts 
 for me ; don't ye mind that other passage : "And they twain 
 shall be one Jiesh ..." D'ye think that <we could be one 
 flesh ? D'ye think ? ' 
 
 c Enough of this ! ' cried her father, and rose wrathfully. 
 4 Are ye goin' to obey me ? ' 
 
 c Father, don't ask me to set myself against ye. 
 Always to this day have we agreed together. Surely 
 ye can see. I want to honour an' obey ye : why can't ye 
 let me ? ' 
 
 'Go your ways,' roared Fallen; 'go your ways an' 
 purify your rebellious heart. Don't talk to me ! Five 
 weeks hence ye marry Martin Hynes, or you're no 
 daughter o' mine. Go your ways ! ' 
 
 That was plain speaking ; what could Jane, a poor, weak 
 woman striving to do right, without friend or place of 
 refuge, with her hopes shattered and her soul weary ; what 
 
72 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 could Jane dare answer to it r In sooth, nothing. Words 
 were so vain, argument so useless ; everything was against 
 her custom, tradition, the faces of her friends, the voice 
 of authority, of her life-long training in the ways ot 
 obedience, of Nature prophesying pleasant things, doubt- 
 less ; everything was against her ; alone she stood face 
 to face with her fate. What could she do ? What could 
 she do ? Speak, and go out into the world ? Ah, no, 
 no ; her friends (except in this trial) were still her friends, 
 not unworthy, any of them ; her home was still her home. 
 Submit, and go under the yoke ? No no ! In God's 
 name ! what then ? Keep silent and endure, and hope that 
 all might come right in the end ? . . . Yes. perhaps so. 
 
 Ah, poor Jane ! 
 
 So Jane endured in silence, and her life was hard. 
 Often Hynes came, and always she received him coldly, 
 silently, nor dare trust herself to look at his face. Day 
 after day she endured her mother's hard looks, and shakes 
 of the head, and bitter murmurings about the fate of those 
 doomed to breed fools and rear them Jngrates. Day after 
 day, Hannah, her sister (of whom, had you known her, 
 you might have expected better things), upbraided her for 
 her joylessness, her foolish attempts to thwart their father, 
 
THEY TWAIN 73 
 
 and to make them all the laughing-stock of the country ; 
 above all, for her treatment of Hyncs sure an angel he 
 was to stand her nonsense, too good he was for the likes 
 of Jane, many a man would have left her and her peevish- 
 ness, and gone elsewhere. Day after day Jane heard 
 all this and endured it ; endured, moreover, her father's 
 stern high-handedness and still kept silent. 
 
 The days passed. Preparations for the wedding went 
 swiftly on. The banns were called ; presents and con- 
 gratulations came ; guests were bidden to the feast ; the 
 bride's veil and dress were ready (hanging there for the 
 admiration and envy of all Gorteen) ; Hannah's tongue 
 wearied; Mrs. Fallon had much else to think of than 
 further to trouble about a daughter's whims ; Hynes (like 
 many others), taking Jane's silence for consent, grew 
 jubilant . . . And Jane herself? 
 
 Oh, what about Jane, said her friends, and their word 
 just here may stand. A fool she was, with her head full 
 of nonsense, going about the house with a face like a corpse, 
 an' mumblin' an' mutterin' to herself. Oh, ay ! A fool 
 she was a fool ! What better match than Hynes could 
 any girl wish for ? He had faults ay, so had every man. 
 But sure Jane was always a queer sort, mad a bit on religion 
 
74 RING O 1 RUSHES 
 
 and all that ; and that strait-laced ! Ay, but wait. She'd 
 be all right soon, when Hynes had the way of her ay, 
 ay ! Never mind Jane ; no odds about her. She was 
 one who didn't know when the sun shone on her. But 
 others knew. Ah, trust Hugh Fallon for that ! 
 
 Poor Jane ! She was fallen on evil tongues and evil 
 days. And yet she was only a poor, weak woman, 
 striving feebly to do right. And these hard-tongued 
 friends of hers were her sincere well-wishers ; worthy 
 men and women all of them; good-hearted, too, and 
 cheery, but lacking just that strain of sentiment and 
 humorous sympathy which makes your true Celt such 
 a lovable, good-natured fellow. Only a poor, weak 
 woman. Ah, she knew herself to be pitiably weak. 
 Might strength, great strength be given to her. Ah, 
 how happy she had once been. Ah, the bitter, bitter 
 change a few dark hours had wrought ! 
 
 So the days passed, and at last came the wedding 
 day. The carriage (the day before it had gone dolefully 
 through Bunn town as a funeral coach) was at the door. 
 The bridegroom, arrayed gloriously, and radiant as the 
 morning, had come. In the house of the Fallons was 
 joy and laughter. 
 
THEY TWAIN 75 
 
 Time to start, was the cry. Bring forth the bride. . . . 
 Eh ? Eh ? What was that ? Not in her room ? Jane 
 not in her room ! Not dressed ! Where in glory, 
 
 then ? What the deuce ! Great bustle, great 
 
 excitement ; hands up everywhere ; bewilderment on every 
 face. No wedding ? No breakfast ? No meat ! No 
 drink ! Oh, absurd ! Jane must be found ! 
 
 High and low they searched. No Jane anywhere. 
 Out they all went ; searched up and down ; started even, 
 some of them, to peer half-heartedly into ditches and 
 bogholes. No ; Jane was lost. 
 
 ' She's drowned herself! ' cried Hannah. ' I know 
 it. She's had death in her face this week. Oh, Lord, 
 Lord ! ' she sobbed, and ran wildly into the fields ; there, 
 suddenly came on Jane, dressed in her workaday garments, 
 calmly weeding in her little garden patch. 
 
 'What's this? What's this?' cried Hannah. 'What 
 new foolishness is this ? Come in ! Come in ! ' Every 
 one was distracted. She would be late, late! The 
 wedding would be spoilt ; the table was all laid. 
 
 Jane tightened her lips, and went on weeding. 
 
 Then Hannah shook her. 
 
 'Come in, I tell ye,' cried she; c before half the town- 
 
76 RING J RUSHES 
 
 land is here to jeer at ye. Come in ; it's too late now to 
 repent. Come ! ' 
 
 Jane shook her head. 
 
 ' You're not coming ? ' cried Hannah. 
 
 'No/ 
 
 4 You'll disgrace us all ! ' cried Hannah. ' Never again 
 can we lift our heads in Gorteen. Oh, ye miserable 
 fool ! * shrieked she, and ran to spread the news. 
 
 But Jane worked on, her lips moving in prayer for 
 strength, her face very pale and plain below her shining 
 black hair. 
 
 What was this ? her mother panted. What was this ? 
 Why oh why ! was she not dressed ? She would be 
 late be late ; the breakfast would be spoilt ; all her lovely 
 cooking be lost. 
 
 Her father came, took her roughly by the arm, and 
 pointed towards the house. 
 
 4 Go in an' dress yourself/ said he. ' March ! Be 
 ready inside fifteen minutes.' 
 
 4 No, father,' said Jane. 
 
 4 Do as 1 bid ye ! ' 
 
 < No you'll kill me first.' 
 
 ' Do ye want me to raise a scene ? ' shouted Fallen. 
 
THEY TWAIN 77 
 
 4 D'ye dare to defy me ? Defy me ! Quick ! in with 
 ye ! ' With both hands he gripped her and strove to 
 pull her towards the house. ' Quick ! in with ye/ he 
 shouted. 
 
 4 No, father with God's help, no ! ' 
 
 The guests came hurrying up, among them the bride- 
 groom. Hynes stepped forward and took Fallen by the 
 arm. 
 
 ' Stand back/ said he, ' stand back, Fallon ; let go her 
 arms, I tell ye. Jane/ he went on, and took her hands, 
 ' look me in the face and answer the truth. Here before 
 all of us say that ye won't marry me. Say it, Jane.' 
 
 So Jane lifted her eyes, a great sob in her throat, and 
 her lips prayerless ; lifted her eyes and looked at Hynes : 
 and at sight of him, his manhood, his glory, and beauty, 
 Jane suddenly lost strength, and she went in and married 
 him. 
 
SHAN'S DIVERSION 
 
 MARKET-DAY and its glories was over; all 
 about the Grogan's home was snug for the 
 night ; Shan and Biddy sat on stools by the hearth- 
 stone silently enjoying their supper of a toasted herring 
 and white bread and tea. 
 
 Suddenly Shan slapped his knee, set his bowl on the 
 floor, and, after a deal of fumbling, brought forth a letter 
 from the inner pocket of his waistcoat. 
 
 4 Niver crossed me mind t' this mortial minute,' he 
 began apologetically; 'if it hadn't come into me head 
 about meetin' Phil the Gad in the post office, I'd 
 niver ' 
 
 4 Who's it from ? ' snapped Biddy. 
 
 Shan looked sideways at the envelope. Well, that was 
 hard to say just yet, he thought; but the lassie in the 
 office told him it came from America, so he supposed 
 
SHAN'S DIVERSION 79 
 
 ' Whisht, ye fool I ' cried his wife. ' It's from your 
 brother, Mike. Open it quick.' 
 
 Shan took out his clasp-knife, cautiously slit the 
 envelope, and pulled out half a sheet of notepaper care- 
 fully folded over a money order. 
 
 ' Give us it,' said Biddy, as she shot out her crooked 
 fingers. 'No; th' other the money. How much is 
 it?' 
 
 6 How can I tell till I read it. Aisy, till I see what 
 the ould boy says.' 
 
 Shan shifted his stool till he had brought his back 
 against the chimney-jamb ; then leant towards the fire to 
 catch its light. The letter was short and quite matter-of- 
 fact : the writer was well, requested an answer, enclosed 
 a trifle to help with the rent. 
 
 ' That's the whole av it, ivery scrape,' said Shan. 
 'Well, thank God, the ould boy's in health.' 
 
 4 Give us it,' said Biddy sharply; 'an' read this. Tell 
 us quick.' 
 
 Shan took the order, leant again towards the firelight, 
 and from the very first word began to spell out its 
 contents. Presently he came to the kernel of the matter : 
 ' " the sum of T-w-o pounds " ' 
 
8o RING J RUSHES 
 
 Like a flash came the temptation a temptation which 
 at any time might have come to Shan, as to any honest 
 man, but which just then, thanks to the malignant potency 
 of market-day whisky, he was hardly prepared to resist. 
 
 4 " T-w-0, T-w-o " ' he stammered. There were ten 
 shillings more : suppose he did not read them ? Biddy 
 would be none the wiser, and he could . . . 
 
 'Ach, what ails ye; stammerin' an' stutterin' lek 
 that ? ' said Biddy querulously. 
 
 4 Och, it's the light,' said Shan, and shifted his stool ; 
 * sure it's ojus bad.' 
 
 ; Only T<wo pounds* said Biddy. ' Give it over. I've 
 heerd enough.' 
 
 Shan reached the order to his wife. Fate had willed 
 it. Two pounds he had read ; the rest, only for Biddy, he 
 might have read : Two pounds then it must remain. 
 
 He put his head back against the jamb, closed his eyes, 
 and began to think. His mind was a little confused, his 
 moral sense a little dulled (effects, no doubt, of that potent 
 market-day whisky) ; still, certain broad facts stood clear 
 against the feeble flow of his thought. He had lied. 
 Yes ; but maybe he'd have told the truth had she let him 
 read on. The lie might pass. The two pounds were 
 
SHAN'S DIVERSION 81 
 
 Biddy's ; yes, every farthing of them. Ay, but the ten 
 shillings were his if he could get them ? Could he ? 
 Ten shillings ! Since he married, never once had he had 
 so much to call his own ; not once. Whatever he sold 
 pigs, calves, potatoes ; all the money went to Biddy 
 Biddy Biddy ! Was that how a man should be treated ? 
 Well, please God, some day he'd make a change ; bed 
 show his teeth. He didn't care a curse about money ; 
 still, he was treated hard. And now ? Yes ; be danged 
 to him ! but he'd have that ten shillings if he had to go 
 on his knees to Bunn for it. 
 
 His face flushed with a spurious courage ; he looked 
 cautiously across at Biddy. With her elbows set on 
 her knees, she sat forward, thinking hard and sometimes 
 mumbling as she looked over the top of the money order 
 into the fire. 
 
 Upstairs, in a safe place between the thatch and the 
 sidewall, was hidden the pound or two that hitherto had 
 made the whole fortune of the Grogans. This god- 
 send, so Biddy was thinking, added to that hoard more 
 than doubled it ; a powerful lot of money to be under the 
 roof with two lone people ! Ah, it was all needed 
 sore. A new pair of corduroys for Shan ; a striped 
 G 
 
82 RING O y RUSHES 
 
 shawl for herself; a a Naw, the bonnet must go. 
 They wanted a skillet, an* a gallon, an' a milking porringer. 
 Could she get that bonnet ? Och, och, her wits were 
 wandering. And the rent? Aw, the rent might go to 
 glory. She'd pay when she was made; not a foot 
 sooner. And and who knew what might turn up ? 
 Maybe another order ! 
 
 She looked at the piece of white paper between her 
 hands. To think that meant Two pounds. Two whole 
 pounds ! It looked shockingly thin and delicate. Suppose 
 she lost it, tore it ? Suppose the post office smashed and 
 couldn't pay ? A<w, a<w ! 
 
 Almost fiercely she turned to Shan. 
 
 ' We'll start for Bunn first thing in the mornin',' said 
 she. ' D'ye hear me ? ' 
 
 Shan turned on his stool and began rubbing his ear. 
 Sure the divil was in the woman ; and he thinking she'd 
 send him alone. If she came she'd see him sign for and 
 draw all the money an' an' . . . 
 
 ' D'ye hear me ? ' repeated Biddy. 
 
 ' All right,' said Shan ; 'all right. Jist as ye lek.' 
 
 It was not all right, though ; and the knowledge kept 
 Shan that night awake for hours. Where was his Dutch 
 
SHAN'S DIVERSION 83 
 
 courage now ? Gone with the snuffing of the candle. It 
 was as certain that Biddy would go to Bunn and find him 
 out as that she was lying even then in the bed beside 
 him. Oh, he wished the ten shillings in the bottom of 
 the sea ! Confess ? Naw, naw ; he dare not. Better trust 
 to luck : maybe something would turn up. 
 
 Nothing turned up in the night; nothing the next 
 morning ; nothing all that weary way to Bunn. Shan's 
 heart was heavy as his unwilling feet. Never had the 
 streets given him a colder welcome. And there was the 
 post office ; and nothing had turned up. Well, so be it. 
 
 What was that ? He must sign his name. Indeed ; and 
 where ? There ? Aw, very well. Give him grip of 
 a pen. Something flashed upon him. Yes! he'd try. 
 He squared his elbows, cocked his head, dabbed the 
 pen down viciously : and broke it. Ach, such pens. 
 Was that the best Her Majesty's Government could 
 do ? He tried another : it broke. Well, sorrow take 
 the like he ever came across ! Couldn't 'write ? Of 
 course he could. What ! they had no more ? He drew 
 a penny from his pocket, threw it on the counter, and 
 implored Biddy to do a charity and go next door for 
 a ha'porth o' nibs. Biddy hesitated ; could see no harm 
 
 G 2 
 
84 RING O } RUSHES 
 
 in going ; went, and presently returning met Shan in the 
 post office doorway with two sovereigns in his out- 
 stretched palm. 
 
 ' Ha ! ' said he, ' sure I shamed them. Ye wur hardly 
 out o' the dure when they rowled out the finest pens ye 
 iver seen ay, by the dozen. An' there's your money safe 
 as the Bank/ 
 
 So far very well. But soon for Shan arose this 
 question : What should he do with the half-sovereign, 
 which just then lay wrapped in paper at the root of 
 a great thistle in the corner of a field? He could not 
 bank it ; his fear of Biddy forbade that he should carry 
 it, or spend it, or hide it in the house. It was worth 
 less than nothing lying there fallow ; some morning, 
 stealthy as his visits were, Biddy would surely discover him 
 gloating over his treasure ; he might die and leave it to the 
 worms and the jingle of a stranger's spade. Yes, thought 
 Shan, as he stood, one fine May morning, leaning on his 
 shovel in a potato furrow ; yes, something must be done 
 with it. It haunted his sleep, puckered his brow, was 
 a load on his mind, was the sorrow's own bother entirely. 
 
 From far away, across the hills, came a shrill whistle ; 
 and, quick after it, the rumble of the first morning train 
 
SHAN'S DIVERSION 85 
 
 on its way from Clogheen to Bunn. For the hundredth 
 time, Shan wished that he could have just one jaunt by 
 steam right out into the wonders of the world. What ? 
 Yes, by thunder. There was the money waiting, lying 
 waiting at the thistle root. He hadn't had a day's 
 diversion since his wedding day twenty long years ago. 
 Biddy ? Pah ! He would be a man for once ; he'd 
 go. Yes, but perhaps, after all, it were best to go 
 peacefully and knowingly. 
 
 All day long he pondered. Five o'clock came and 
 Biddy's Hoi-i-i from the hill. He drove the point of his 
 shovel under a root, bore hard on the handle, smashed 
 the metal across, and with the broken pieces in his hand 
 went sadly up to tea. 
 
 Dear, oh dear ! such a misfortune ; broke it at the last 
 shovelful. And there was the field only half done, and 
 he hadn't another. Borrow one ? Of course not, and 
 everybody busy like himself. A spade ? Did she say 
 a spade might do ? Aw, 'deed it might, and so might a 
 wooden spoon if the nights were all days. Get a new 
 one ? Ay, he supposed so ; there was no other way out 
 of it ; that was how the money went. Och, och, all that 
 long tramp into Bunn ! Go then ? Go that night ? 
 
86 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 ' Is it walk to Bunn an' back now ye'd have me do ? ' 
 Shan asked with a world of reproach in his voice. ' Now, 
 after all that day's work ? Be the king ! but it's worse 
 nor nigger drivin'.' 
 
 Well, then, could he be back early in the morning ? 
 
 4 Mebbe/ said Shan, < mebbe ; if the shops is open 
 mebbe I cud.' 
 
 He stretched himself lazily ; put on his hat ; went out, 
 and turning into the byre there covered his mouth with 
 his hand and silently laughed. 
 
 Early next morning, Shan, with the price of a new shovel 
 in his pocket, left home and started for Bunn. He kept to 
 the road for about half a mile ; then doubled back through 
 the fields and rescued his half-sovereign from the thistle root. 
 
 Once on the road again his spirits rose with a bound. 
 From the mountains the air came fresh as dew ; the hedges 
 were alive with birds singing among the young green. 
 
 ' She dressed me up in scarlet red? 
 trolled Shan in his glee, 
 
 'An 9 treated me ve-ry kin'-ly, 
 But still I thought me heart 'd break 
 For the girl I left be-hind me.' 
 
 The girl he left behind him ? Biddy ? Biddy befooled 
 
SHAN'S DIVERSION 87 
 
 and beguiled at home ! Ho, ho ! He put his hands 
 on his knees and laughed down at the road. 
 
 Only a shop here and there in Bunn was open. The 
 air was heavy with fresh peat smoke. Slatternly women 
 came to the doors and blinked at Shan ; their husbands, 
 lounging and smoking against the walls, gave him Good- 
 day. He answered shortly, and quickened his pace. His 
 mind was quite fixed that, whatever befell, Bunn town 
 should see nothing of his diversion ; so, keeping his face 
 firmly from the public houses, he walked steadily up the 
 middle of the street, and, with the gold tight in his hand, 
 made straight for the railway station. He would take 
 the train to Clogheen and there divert himself. He would 
 have a good dinner, two bottles of stout not a drop 
 more, not one ; buy a red pocket-handkerchief for himself 
 and a new night-cap for Biddy ; take the one o'clock 
 train back, buy his shovel, go straight home and take meekly 
 whatever might come. Heavens above ! what a day he'd 
 have, the grandest for twenty long years : a whole day to 
 himself plenty of money a good dinner By the king ! 
 
 He was passing the fair green and in sight of the 
 station. A whistle sounded ; he began to run ; ivhoof, 
 whoof, went the engine. Shan had missed his train. 
 
88 RING 0> RUSHES 
 
 He sat down on the ditch and mopped his face. Och, 
 och, the poor luck he had. What could he do? The 
 next train did not start till mid-day. Och, och ! What 
 could he do ? Go home and toil all day ? He pulled his 
 hat off and with an oath dashed it on the road. The 
 morning freshness had sped ; not a bird sang in the 
 hedges ; the sky above laughed savagely down. Go back 
 home ! Leave diversion behind and drudge through a 
 whole weary day ! One minute late only one. Ah, 
 might the divil swamp the train ! 
 
 He rose, picked up his hat, and feeling almost inclined 
 to beat his disappointed head against the walls, made for 
 the town. One minute late one one. The bottles in 
 a window of the hotel parlour caught his eye and gleamed 
 comfort upon him ; he stopped, hesitated, went to the 
 door, turned back, turned again and went with a rush 
 through the doorway. 
 
 An hour went and left Shan lighter in pocket and head ; 
 the second saw him waxed fervid, shouting patriotism, 
 wisdom, treason across the table at his friend the town 
 butcher. Another friend or two joined them. Ah, he 
 was the boy knew a trifle ; he was the boy knew how to 
 treat a friend : name their drink, name their drink ! By 
 
SHAN'S DIVERSION 89 
 
 this, only for fate, Shan's diversion in Clogheen would 
 have been in full swing ; Biddy at home was expecting 
 him. Ah, sorrow cared ; more whisky there ! Another 
 hour passed. Shan's head was reeling ; his mood verging 
 on the quarrelsome. The butcher gave him the lie ; got 
 it back ; answered brutally. Shan rose to fight ; and the 
 next moment was out in the street storming at the door. 
 
 A crowd flew together. Shan opened his arms and 
 appealed for justice : he had been insulted, robbed. 
 
 4 Aw, yis/ thought Bunn town and wagged their knowing 
 heads ; ' aw, yis, an* so do lots more get insulted when they 
 take drink on an empty stomach. An* Shan Grogan of 
 all men, too; an aisy-going, harmless Whisht ! The 
 
 police. Run, Shan, run ! We're for ye, me boy ! ' 
 
 Shan stood firm. The police were the men he wanted : 
 he had been insulted, robbed. Go home, they said ; did 
 they say, Go home ? What, they refused to hear him ? 
 They refused to see justice done ? Ah, the bloodthirsty 
 renegades, the black-hearted cut-throats ! Let them dare 
 to touch him ! Phew-w-w, he defied them ! 
 
 Bunn town cheered Shan as the police closed. He 
 hit out right and left ; then broke through the roaring 
 crowd and made downhill towards the river. 
 
9 o RING J RUSHES 
 
 4 Run, Shan ; run, ye boy, ye/ cried Bunn ; and backed 
 its voice by repeated efforts to stop the career of the law. 
 No use. Reinforcements hurried out ; the handcuffs were 
 as good as on Shan's wrists. He reached the bridge, 
 panting and weary. Suddenly he reeled and fell heavily 
 against the parapet. Behind him were the police, angry 
 and remorseless : before him stood a woman, with her 
 hands raised and her face big with horror and surprise. 
 The police ran on ; Bunn town stopped dead. 
 
 ' Aw, aw, ' went up the voices. ' Aw, aw ! Be the 
 Lord, but it's Biddy ! ' 
 
 Well, when a man hits the police he pays for his 
 sport ; and Shan Grogan may thank his luck, and the 
 tearful pleading of his wife, and the eager testimony of his 
 friends and neighbours, that the price he paid for the one 
 diversion of his married life was no more than a night in 
 the cells, and all but a shilling or two of the little hoard 
 which many months of striving (and the kindness of 
 a brother) had gathered between the sidewall and the 
 thatch of his little cottage in Bilboa. 
 
TH' OULD BOY 
 
 BELOW in the kitchen, the plebeians were making 
 merry with quip and crank, pipe and glass, as they 
 sat round the walls and here and there over the floor in 
 the warmth of the great peat fire ; their laughter and chatter 
 (subdued though it was, or tried to be) was heard dis- 
 tinctly above in the little parlour, where, round a well- 
 spread table, sat a select company the elite of the wake, 
 you might say gravely stirring their tea, eating their 
 ham, discoursing on the merits and virtues (now, many of 
 them, first brought to light) of the man who ofttimes had 
 made merry at that very table, and now lay stark and 
 lonely in a room beyond the kitchen. 
 
 ' Ay, ay,' sobbed the widow from her place behind the 
 teacups ; 'it's God's truth ; he was the generous heart an' 
 the tender. Och, the heart av a child ! ' 
 
 The spoons clinked dolefully round the cups ; the men 
 
92 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 solemnly wagged their heads ; the women sniffed and, to 
 conquer emotion, tried buttered toast. 
 
 4 How often, here in this very room,' the widow went 
 on, ' did I hear him spake the word. Ay, ay ! An' 
 'twas the great gift o' prayer he had. Ah, ye all know it.' 
 
 4 Ay, ay,' went the voices ; 4 we do, we do ; 'twas 
 powerful, powerful ! ' 
 
 4 An' now he's tuk from us tuk, tuk,' cried the 
 widow ; 4 gone an' left us to struggle alone wi' Satan. 
 Ah, dear, dear ! ' 
 
 The men were bent over their plates, the women biting 
 their lips ; it was blessed relief when the hard, level voice 
 of Red John went out through the doleful assembly. 
 
 4 It's truth ye say, ma'am,' said John ; 4 an' may your 
 man be safe in glory (Amen -Amen, went the voices). But 
 for yourself, have no fear o' Satan an' all his works : next 
 time he makes bold to struggle wi' ye, just ax him if he 
 remembers Red John : that '11 settle him.' 
 
 With one accord, all eyes were raised and turned won- 
 deringly towards the bottom of the table, where, one hand 
 thrust carelessly into his waistcoat pocket, the other idly 
 playing with his knife, sat Red John : a big man, he was, 
 red-headed, and with a strong, impassive face. 
 
77/ J OULD BOY 93 
 
 i You're all wonderin' ? ' he went on, raising his eyes. 
 ' Well, ye needn't. I say to ye all once more : next time 
 Satan tries struggling just mention me : that '11 finish 
 him.' 
 
 Swiftly vanished sorrow and dole ; the men found their 
 big, coarse voices ; the women pocketed their handkerchiefs : 
 all, even the widow herself, called on John to explain. 
 
 1 Ye mean to say ye never heard ? ' asked John. ' No ? 
 Well, well. Such is life ; an' meself has told the story 
 a score o' times. No odds. Here ye are. An' mind,' 
 he added, shaking his finger, * no interruptions, an' no 
 say in' I'm a liar when I'm done. ... Of course, ma'am ; 
 of course I'll wait a minute in welcome ; an' just ax them 
 down there to keep their bulls' voices quiet. Ye know,' 
 he went on, as the widow went out for a moment (carrying 
 tobacco, or a bottle, or something, for the plebeians in the 
 kitchen), ' it '11 niver do to let the poor thing fret. Och, 
 no ; an' there's nothin' like a story to keep the heart 
 from care. . . . Back again, ma'am ? Well, then, 'twas like 
 this: 
 
 ' One day ay, years ago word came to me that Long 
 Bob was runnin' a brewin' o' poteen. Now, when Long 
 Bob brews, I'm off; for let him use treacle, or malt, or 
 
94 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 whatever he chooses, there's no man these parts (an' I've 
 interviewed a few) can make stuff to grip your tongue like 
 he can. No matter. Soon as I heard word, off I went, 
 for I wanted no dregs ; an' after a three-mile pull in the 
 cot at last came to a wee island out in the lake, and there, 
 in the middle o' the scrub an' the stones, was me darlint 
 Still firm' away ; an' round it a party o' Well, never 
 mind, there was more than one there I knew, an' all made 
 me welcome. Ah, 'twas great stuff that ; with a whirl 
 off it like the middle o' a haystack, an' not a bite in a gallon 
 of it. ... Och, och, ma'am, M there anything behind ye 
 there in the press ? Sure a toothful 'd send the words 
 flowin 9 out o' me. . . . That's right, that's right. Hurroo ! 
 Now, now, only a toothful I said, ma'am ; well, so be it. 
 I'll do me endeavours. 
 
 4 Well,' Red John went on, when the company had 
 drunk the widow's health and wished her long life, ' I 
 pass by all that happened there, just sayin' that we had 
 great times, an' that when about dusk I set out for home 
 I held a tidy sup besides the two lemonade bottles full in 
 me tail pocket. It was a cowld night, an' ye know it's 
 lonesome work draggin' a cot about a lake : so I'll not 
 deny but mebbe I did wet me lips once or twice on the 
 
TH> OULD BOY 95 
 
 way ; an' I'll acknowledge straight that when I landed it 
 took more than a drop to take the stiffness out o' me joints. 
 But mark me, ma'am, an' all o' ye, ye mus'n't run away 
 wi' the notion that I was fuddled ; I held me share, but 
 I was as steady on me pins when I stepped out home as 
 I am the night, an' as clear in the head as yourself, 
 ma'am ; long life to ye an' your very good health. . . . 
 Me smiliri little Cruiskeen lawn, lawn^ /awn,' sang John in 
 chorus with the plebeians in the kitchen, beating time with 
 his tumbler on the table ' Me smillri lit- tie Crul-skeen 
 lawn ! 
 
 ' 'Twas about eleven o'clock more or less I'll not say 
 as I'm strivin' for the truth, when I got home. Mary an' 
 the childer were all in bed, an' there was a glimmer in the 
 lamp, an' a pot o' porridge waitin' for me over a snug fire ; 
 so down I sits an' makes me supper ; then lights the pipe 
 and was goin' over (meanin' to make meself comfortable) 
 to hang me coat on the back o' the door when, badness to 
 me, if I didn't catch sight o' the neck o' a bottle sttckin' 
 out o' the tail pocket. "Och, och," says I, scratchin' me 
 head, " but it's the sore temptation, och, och ! I wonder 
 now would a wee sup hurt one ? " An' afore I could make 
 up me mind, the cork was out o' the bottle an' with some o' 
 
96 RING O 3 RUSHES 
 
 the poteen in a mug I was over by the dresser liftin' a sup 
 o' water out of a can that stood on the floor. 
 
 ' Now you'll attend to this, ma'am, an' the rest o' ye ; 
 for it's here the fun begins an' it's here I'll be truthfuller 
 than ever. Just as I was stoopin' to get the water, there 
 was a shakin' in the house, an' a blue flash that kind o' 
 dazzled me ; an' with that I turns round sharp when, lo 
 and behold ye, there, sittin' by the fire, wi' his legs crossed 
 an' him lookin' straight at me, was as fine a lookin' gentle- 
 man as ever I clapped eyes on. All dressed in black he 
 was, wi' a big cloak fallin' to the ground, an' a top hat, 
 if ye please ; an' his hair black, an' his face shaved, an' 
 sorrow a smell o' jewelry on his person. Arrah, Lord 
 save us, thinks I to meself, who are ye at all, an' where 
 did ye come from ? An', somehow, the way he sat there 
 that cool, an' the divifish way he looked at me set me 
 shakin' ; if it hadn't been for the sup in the mug I'd ha' 
 dropped on the floor. But the poteen gave me courage ; 
 an' wi' that I minded me manners an' spakes out. 
 
 '"Good evenin', Sir," says I; " it's pretty late ye'll 
 be ? " He looked straight at me, keepin' his legs crossed, 
 an' not one word he answered. Then, thinkin', maybe, 
 he was hard o' hcarin' I spakes again. 
 
TH J OULD BOY 97 
 
 ' "Good evenin', sir," says I; "is it missed your way 
 ye have the night ? " 
 
 4 But sorrow a word ; there he sat in the chair just as 
 ye are yourself, ma'am, beggin' pardon an' meanin' no com- 
 parisons ; an' never moved hand or foot or budged a lip. 
 So I scratched me head an' cast about what I was to do ; 
 for I couldn't keep standin' there like a fool, an' T was 
 afraid to move. What in glory, thinks I, am I to do ? 
 Then all of a sudden the thought struck me ; an' round 
 I turns to the coat hangin' on the back o' the door, an' 
 takes th' other lemonade bottle out o' the pocket. 
 
 4 "Axin' your pardon, sir," says I, "but if it's not 
 makin' bold, could I offer ye the least taste just to keep the 
 raw from your bones ? " 
 
 'Not a word he answered; but, thinks I, there's a 
 twinkle in your eye, me boy, that looks as if you'd be 
 partial to a drop ; an' ye all know a nod's as good as a 
 wink to a blind horse. So, keepin' an eye on him over 
 me shoulder, I turned an' got another mug off the dresser, 
 an' mixin' a tidy dose I went across the floor an' offered 
 it t' him. Like a lamb, sirs, he took it ; gulped it down 
 an' smacked his lips on the last drop. But see here, 
 ma'am ; may I never see light 1 if the draught didn't 
 
 H 
 
98 RING 0> RUSHES 
 
 turn into blue blazes in his throat. Ye laugh ? Well, 
 don't then, if it isn't at your own ignorance. Laugh ! 
 troth most o' ye'll see worse than that after ye die.' And 
 John winked over his glass at the company. 
 
 4 Well, thunder an' turf, thinks I to meself, what kind 
 of a customer is this ? Sure if he'd be sociable even it 'd 
 not be so bad. Howsomede'er, thinks I, I'll make meself 
 at home by me own fire ; an' down I plops on a stool 
 fornenst him, pulls out the cutty, fills it, an' lights up. 
 After a couple o' whiffs I wipes the shank on me coat an' 
 offers it to him. 
 
 ' " Mebbe you'd like a draw ? " says I, holdin' the cutty 
 to him across the hearth ; "people these parts say it goes 
 well wi' poteen." 
 
 ' He reached out an' tuk it, knocked the ashes off it, 
 an' put it in his mouth. May death have me, ma'am, 
 if the sight didn't parch me tongue ! Every whiff o' 
 him was a blue strame o' fire; an' ye could see blue 
 blazes dancin' over the pipe ; an' the eyes o' him glared 
 like a cat's in the dark. An' he never moved a limb ; 
 just sat there as unconcerned as ever in his black 
 suit, movin' his lips an' whiffin' out them infernal blue 
 strames. 
 
TH J OULD BOY 99 
 
 6 " Ah, great powers! " says I ; " what are ye at all, at 
 all ? Why are ye here ? Why are ye here ? " 
 
 4 An* with that, for I was frightened powerful, I tumbled 
 off the stool, an* with an odious clatter went crash among 
 the pots an' pot-hooks. An' the next thing I hears is 
 Maiy gettin' out o' bed in the room above an' liftin' the 
 latch to come an' see what was up. 
 
 4 She drew back immediately she seen someone wi' me 
 by good luck the gentleman had his back to her; an' 
 in a minute or two down she comes in her petticoats 
 savin' your presence, ladies all an' wid a shawl round 
 her shoulders. 
 
 '" What's the matter, John?" says she, kind o' 
 frightened like, an' standin' behind the boy-o, sittin' there 
 like a graven image smokin' away. 
 
 < " Nothin'," says I. 
 
 ' " But I was woke out o' me sleep wi' a shockin' 
 clatter ? " says she. 
 
 ' " Ye were," says I, " right enough. I stumbled over 
 the pot there." 
 
 4 "You're late?" says she. 
 
 ' " I am," says I. 
 
 4 " What kep' ye," says she. 
 H 2 
 
ioo RING O' RUSHES 
 
 '"Aw, nothin' particular," says I. "Just made a 
 kaky or two. The gentleman there lost his way in the 
 bog, an' he's warmin* himself before he starts out 
 again." 
 
 4 All the time we were discoorsin', I was winkin' at 
 Mary to spake to the boy-o ; for I thought it powerful 
 wwgenteel to stand there wi'out addressin' him. At last, 
 she comes round, an' drops a curtsy, an' says she, in a 
 haltin' kind o' way, not a bit like Mary's usual style o' 
 talkin', for, as ye all know, she's blessed wi' the gift 
 o' the gab : 
 
 ' " Savin' your presence, sir," says she, " for appearin' 
 in these duds afore ye; but I was loth to wait long 
 for I was a fraid somethin' bad had ha happened 
 when I heard heard " 
 
 ' Not another word could she get out ; I could see 
 her eyes openin' wide, an' her jaw droppin', an' she 
 fell a-tremblin'. For the boy-o just riz his eyes 'n 
 looked at her ; kept them hard on her, an' never moved 
 a muscle, nor spoke a word, nor stopped puffin' blue 
 blazes out o' me ould cutty. 
 
 4 All of a sudden Mary turns to me, white as a corpse, 
 an* says she : 
 

" ' It's the divil himself!' " 
 Ring o' Rushes.] [Page 101. 
 
TH' OULD BOY 101 
 
 ' " God in Heaven ! John Graham, who's this ? An' 
 what's goin' to happen to us at all ? " 
 
 * I couldn't answer ; an' I thought Mary was goin' 
 into a fit. 
 
 ' "Look at the mouth o' him," shouts she, " blue flames 
 comin' out o' it ! An' his nose ! An' look at his eyes ! 
 Aw, God help us!" an' she lets a screech; "look 
 at his feet ! Cloots cloots ! It's the divil himself! " 
 
 ' An' with that she tears from the kitchen up into 
 her room an' bolts the door. 
 
 ' I was fair flabbergasted. What could I do ? Thinks 
 I, what brings th' ould boy to my fireside ? I rubs me 
 head an' looks hard at him ; then gets up, an' creepin' 
 to the table empties the lemonade bottle down me throat. 
 
 ' Boys, but poteen's the darlin' stuff; it put a new 
 heart in me ; an' cleared me head ; an' made me feel 
 fit to fight twenty divils. 
 
 i Off I peels me waistcoat ; tucks up me shirt-sleeves, 
 an' spits on me hands : then up I steps to Mister Divil. 
 
 4 " Ye ould ragamuffin," says I, an' whacks me fists in his 
 face, "what brings ye roamin' like a roarin' lion to decent 
 Prodestan' houses ? Did ye ever hear tell o' Red John 
 Graham," says I, "that hits man or divil like the kick 
 
102 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 o' a horse ? Look at the face o' him, then," an' I glares 
 straight at him; "look at him," says I, "ye tarnation 
 ould scarecrow ; look an' tremble, Mister Beelzebub ! Ye're 
 in the wrong house the night, ye flamin' ould tinker ye ! " 
 says I. "Your kind isn't here, Apollyon. I'm Red 
 John, me boy, that fears neither man nor divil. Let 
 me at your face," says I an' from the bedroom comes 
 Mary's voice shoutin' : " Hurroo, John ! Pelt the ould 
 vagabond. Pepper him, John." " / will, Mary" I shouts ; 
 " / will. Come out. Stand up. Give me three minutes 
 at your wizened countenance till I leave ye a laughin' 
 stock for your own angels." 
 
 'Then I made a grab, 5 shouted John, knocking his 
 chair over as he jumped up, and upsetting his tumbler as 
 he made a false clutch at his neighbour's hair. ' I made 
 a grab at the head o' him just like that. 
 
 ' "Come out /" roars I. "Come out an 9 be kilt ./" An' 
 with the word I fell on me head in the corner over an 
 empty chair.' 
 
 ' Gone ? ' cried the widow. * He was gone ? ' 
 
 ' Ay,' answered John ; ' when I came to there was no 
 one there but Mary, flingin' water over me an' roarin' 
 meila murfher. 9 
 
TH* OULD BOY 103 
 
 ' Prime/ went up the voices. ' It's prime. Bully for 
 you, John. Tight boy, John.' Then, from halfway down 
 the table, came the voice of a sceptic. 
 
 'Well,' it said, 'in me own experience I've known 
 poteen do quare things ; but never before this night did 
 I hold it responsible for makin' a man the biggest liar at 
 a wake. Is there no one else? Och, is there no one 
 else ? Can no one tell a sober lie for a change ? ' 
 
 John leant over the table towards the sceptic. 
 
 ' Young man,' he said, ' ye call me a liar, an' ye say 
 I was drunk. Your years, an' the house we're in, '11 
 excuse ye this time ; but never again, mind. An' if you, 
 or any other person here, repeats such things, I'll take ye 
 home an' prove me words by sittin' ye in the very chair 
 th' ould boy sat in : an' I'll give ye the wiggin' I meant 
 for him into the bargain.' 
 
HER SOGER BOY 
 
 IN Lismahee workhouse, there is a special ward to 
 which are assigned most of those local unfortunates 
 whose wits God has taken from them, leaving them mere 
 life, and harmless strength, and the blank innocence of 
 second childhood ; and it was there, one day, that I first 
 saw old Debbie Chance. A little wizened body she was, 
 with grey hair hanging in loose ringlets upon her shoulders, 
 large grey eyes, a smooth high forehead, and a face almost 
 ethereal in its blank delicacy. One's eye fixed her at once, 
 in the long bare room, as she sat bolt upright in her bed 
 supping thin gruel from a blue and white basin ; she was so 
 clean and neat ; she looked such a simple old child, so harm- 
 lessly fragile in face and figure, as her spoon, poised deli- 
 cately between finger and thumb, made a dainty curve from 
 bowl to mouth, that one could not forbear pausing at her 
 bed-foot the better to have pleasure in the sight of her. 
 
HER SOGER BOY 105 
 
 To nothing could I compare her but a withered flower ; 
 her old beauty attracted me strangely, and I was just about 
 to step to her side, when suddenly her spoon clattered into 
 the basin, her forefinger shot out towards me, and her 
 eyes met mine with a quick, tense stare of witless terror. 
 Like the beady eyes of a snake hers now were ; before 
 them, and the steady insistence of her levelled finger, 
 I stepped hurriedly back and clutched the arm of my 
 friend the Doctor. Almost did I expect her to spring at 
 me ; and I was turning to go, when sharply (with a noise 
 like the bursting of a toy balloon) she clicked her tongue 
 against her palate and her finger shot straight for me again. 
 I moved a step, the finger followed me ; another step, and 
 her tongue clicked again as her finger darted; another 
 step, and the spoon was once more carrying its little 
 mouthfuls of gruel, and Debbie was herself again, and 
 T found myself breathing. 
 
 ' Routed/ said the Doctor with a laugh, as we passed 
 from the ward. c Raked fore and aft.' 
 
 'Yes,' said I, 'you're right, Doctor. Mercy! how my 
 heart turned over ; just as though I had been standing 
 before a levelled gun. But but does the old lady always 
 give visitors such a reception ? ' 
 
io6 RING J RUSHES 
 
 ' Only inquisitive visitors.' 
 
 ' Ah ! And why does she do it, Doctor ? ' 
 
 ' God knows, my son ; I don't.' 
 
 4 It's her madness, of course some delusion or other 
 of her mind ? ' 
 
 ' Mind ! ' said the Doctor, and laughed again. ' My 
 dear fellow, she has none not so much as a six weeks' 
 baby. She's an empty house an empty house.' 
 
 ' But wait, Doctor,' I persisted ; ' she can't be quite 
 empty. What prompted her to see me, to shoot her finger 
 at me, to pop her tongue in that strange fashion ? Surely 
 she had some reason ? ' 
 
 'She has no reason,' said the Doctor. 'What you 
 saw her do is as purely mechanical an action as the 
 handling her porridge spoon. Both, for her, may mean 
 something or mean nothing ; for me, that particular one 
 means simply that she is a harmless lunatic.' 
 
 'And there's no story no event of her life which 
 might explain ? ' 
 
 4 Ah, now you touch bottom,' said the Doctor ; ' now 
 you're talking, my boy. Yes, there is a story, and no bad 
 one either. But look here, it's Board day, and I'm due 
 with my report ; so, if you're very anxious for information 
 
HER SOGER BOY 107 
 
 about old Debbie, just step down the lawn to the pump- 
 house ; there you'll find Solomon Gray, and if he can't 
 satisfy you no man can. Away now ; I'll give you half 
 an hour.' 
 
 William Gray was an ancient and a pauper, very withered, 
 very bald, a relic of old decency. In the long ago^ William 
 had been a man of parts and shrewdness, a kind of hillside 
 Solomon in fact (hence his nickname) ; now, wisdom had 
 justified herself, and Solomon, his old back doubled, his 
 old head bobbing, and his throat venting dismal groans, 
 was taking his weekly turn at the wheel of the workhouse 
 pump, and (so it seemed to me) knowingly allowing his 
 fellow ancient at the opposite handle to do more than his 
 rightful share. 
 
 However, that was his affair, not mine ; so I sidled 
 into the pump-house, and facing Solomon gave him the 
 time of day. Once or twice he looked at me between 
 his arms as his hands went up, once or twice he groaned 
 exceedingly ; then, ' Aisy, Thomas,' he called, and as 
 the pump stopped, ' Good-mornin' to you, sir. It's good 
 weather.' 
 
 * It is, Mr. Gray,' I answered. 
 
 ; Well, dear be thanked,' he said, and heavily sighed, 
 
io8 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 ' for the chance to stretch me back. A nice kind o' work 
 they give one these parts in his ould age ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, Mr. Gray. By the way, I've just come 
 to speak a while with you. Dr. Sharp ' 
 
 'Ay/ said he. 'But tell me, now, ha* ye a pipe o' 
 tabaccy wi' ye ? ' 
 
 'No,' said I, 'I'm afraid I haven't; but ' and I pulled 
 
 out a cigar, ' if this will serve you, you're welcome to it.' 
 
 ' It's baccy, isn't it ? ' he asked, and taking the cigar 
 in his withered claw vigorously sniffed at it. 'Ay, it'll 
 do,' said he ; and bringing forth his black clay pipe and 
 an old knife, began to whittle my havannah into his fist. 
 
 ' It's about old Deborah Chance I've come to ask 
 you, Mr. Gray,' I went on, when the pipe was filled and 
 patiently Solomon was striving to strike a match on its 
 bowl. 'Do you know her; rather, did you know her 
 before she came to her present pitiable state ? And if 
 you did, can you tell me why she lost her mind, and how, 
 and ? ' 
 
 ' And wherefore ? ' interrupted Solomon, as sitting down 
 on the wheel-handle he doubled over his knees and fell to 
 sucking at his pipe. ' Yis, an' wherefore, as the Acts o' 
 Parliament put it. Ay, I do know somethin' of her 
 
HER SOGER BOY 109 
 
 But, tell me,' said he, and looked knowingly up at me 
 (even as a sparrow cocks its eye at the sky) ; ' suppose the 
 Master comes an' finds me confabbin' wi' ye, who'll stand 
 atween us ? ' 
 
 ' You mean, Mr. Gray,' said I, ' that you can't work 
 and talk together ? ' 
 
 4 1 do. I do so. What's your opinion, Thomas, there 
 beyond ? ' 
 
 'I'm with ye, Solomon,' croaked the other ancient; 
 ' mortial man couldn t do it.' 
 
 ' Very well then,' said I, ' veiy well ; if you've anything 
 to tell me I'll answer for your safety for fifteen minutes. 
 Will that do ? ' 
 
 ' It will, maybe,' said he, and blew a pufFof smoke through 
 the doorway ; ' an' if more's wanted sure I can chance it.' 
 
 For a little while he sat pondering ; then fell a-mum- 
 bling. ' Debbie Chance, Debbie Chance, what do I know 
 o' Debbie Chance ? Aw, yis ; I know, I know. Poor 
 ould Debbie; often me heart's ached for ye. Aw, 
 yis. An' tell me, sir,' he said, and cocked his eye at 
 me again. 'What might ye be givin' for this story o' 
 mine ? Eh ? ' 
 
 Hurriedly I pulled out a shilling (how pitiful a reward 
 
no RING O' RUSHES 
 
 even for wisdom degraded and degenerate!), flashed it 
 before his eyes ; and, even as I pocketed it again, Solomon 
 straightened his back, passed his pipe to his brother 
 ancient, and throwing ten years off his shoulders, went on 
 very much after this fashion : 
 
 ' If you take across the country straight from the gate 
 below there, an* follow your nose for about six miles, 
 you'll come to a wee town called Knock a weeny bit o' 
 a town, with just one street, an' a couple o' shops, an* a 
 graveyard outside it, an* a church, an' a schoolhouse, an' 
 a forge; with the fields all round it, an' the hills at 
 the back, an' the road to Clogheen runnin' through it. 
 That's how I mind it, anyway, afore I put on my 
 uniform; an' it was like that the time Debbie Chance 
 first came to it, an' when she left it, an' they tell me 
 that every stone in it is the same to this day. 
 
 4 Well now, if you enter Knock by way o' the Lismahee 
 Road, you'll find that where it cuts the street there 
 stands a public house on the left-hand corner, an' straight 
 before you, t'other side o' the street, you'll see a wee 
 thatched house, with a square window in its front an' 
 a green door wi' one stone step leadin' up to it; an' if 
 you ax any one to this day where Debbie Chance used to 
 
HER SOGER BOY in 
 
 live they'll turn an' point straight at that very house. Yes ; 
 many's the time I've been in it myself (when I was 
 younger och, och ! an* had an eye for good looks), 
 many's the time an' often I've chatted with Debbie in 
 her wee kitchen ; an' often I've stood, since she 
 met her mishap, lookin* down at that doorstep an' 
 thinkin' to myself what happened to her there years an* 
 years ago. 
 
 'Ay; it's wonderful how the years go, sirs; wonderful. 
 Who'd think that it must be nigh forty years since 
 Debbie first came to Knock in her widdy's weeds, an' 
 rented that wee house, an' set up her huckster's shop, an' 
 there set to workin' the skin off her bones strivin' to keep 
 the breath in the bodies o' herself an' her son ? Strivin' ? 
 'Twas slavery she did, pure slavery ; but no matter ; like 
 oneself, she's restin' now, she's restin' now. 
 
 4 The first day I seen her, I mind me, I thought she 
 was as handsome a woman as God ever made yes, and 
 so I think yet. Small she was, but odious fine in the bone, 
 'mindin' you of a racehorse in its prime ; an' the hair of 
 her was black as night, an' as thick an' wavy as hearse 
 plumes ; an' to nothin' in this world could you compare the 
 skin on her but an October apple ; an' just as much the 
 
H2 RING O 3 RUSHES 
 
 lady she was in her ignorant countrified way as if 'twas 
 a coach an' four she drove to Clogheen market an' not an 
 ass's cart. Sure the men raved about her ay, I was 
 taken that way myself for a while ; an' at first the women 
 hated her ; but love or hate was all one to Debbie. A 
 widdy woman she was, with her man dead in his grave an' 
 his child to support, an' life hard for her ; an' what one or 
 another said about her mattered less nor the price o' a clay 
 pipe in her window. No ! They might talk an' talk ; 
 but words never broke a bone in her body or made life 
 the easier for her. 'Twas poverty, sirs, bitter poverty 
 that lay upon her and crushed her down. Man, dear, 
 but she must ha' known the hard times there behind her 
 bit of a counter; strivin' to turn a shillin' into thirteen- 
 pence day in day out all the year long ; servin' out her 
 bits o' tabaccy, an' ounces o' tay, an' skeins o' wool, an* 
 penn'orths o' sweets ; an' fillin' up every odd minute by 
 knittin' socks, an' workin' lace, an' mendin' the clothes o' 
 the boy ; workin' an' workin' it seemed for ever an' ever, 
 Amen. When you rose in the mornin' Debbie was at it, 
 when you went to bed her candle was still burnin'; go 
 when you would, there she sat behind her counter, as clean 
 as a new pin an* as bright, always wi' the ready word for 
 
HER SOGER BOY 113 
 
 you, an' always as cheerful as a lark. No man ever 
 heard her complain, or ax for charity ; an* man or woman 
 never seen her idle. 
 
 'Well, sirs, time went on, an* Debbie got oulder, an' 
 Jim, the son, grew up to be a fine, healthy, stirrin' chap. 
 The life o' Knock he was, him an' his curls an' blue eyes ; 
 and the darlin' surely o' his mother's heart. You could 
 see her watchin' him through the sweet bottles an' fal-lals 
 in her window, when he was playin' in the street, struttin' up 
 an' down wi' an' ould tin can for a drum, an' a little army 
 o' childer fifin' an' shoutin' at his heels ; you could see her 
 sittin' on the doorstep o' evenin's teachin' him to read ; 
 an', come weal or woe, she always had him well dressed 
 an' well shod, an' to her last penny she was ready to give 
 him all the book learnin' he could get. The light o' her 
 eye he was ; yes, the light o' her eye an' the pride o' her 
 heart ; but about him she had one dread, that he was 
 growin' too fond o' drums an' guns an' scarlet red. Ay ! 
 'twas true ; all he thought of was sogers, sogers. He'd go 
 ten miles to see one ; every youngster in Knock he'd have 
 always fightin' an' stormin' forts, an' chargin' like blazes 
 down the street ; an' when Debbie 'd see him stridin' 
 about wi' his imitation sword an' gun, she d run an' catch 
 I 
 
ii4 RING O 3 RUSHES 
 
 him, an* drag him in, an* fill his ears wi' the horrors o' war; 
 an' read to him about it from books ; an* quote the Bible to 
 him ; an* on her knees beg of him never, never to leave her 
 an' go to be shot in foreign parts. Aw, the foolishness 
 o' mothers ! For all that only made him worse ; an' in 
 the end, one day, when his girth was big enough, he 
 slopes off; an' next time Debbie seen him 'twas in 
 scarlet red. 
 
 c Then begins her real trouble, God help her. Woful 
 she was changed ; grown pale an' fidgety, an' the eyes in 
 her full o' dread. She seemed to be always prayin' ; every 
 day she'd go to the post office to see if the papers said any- 
 thing about war ; in church o' Sundays, when the Rector 
 'd say, ''from battle and murder ..." Debbie 'd cry out, 
 "Good Lord, deliver wj," as if her heart was breakin'; 
 an' now she had only one thing to live for to see the 
 day when Jim's time was up an' he was back to her safe 
 an' sound. Aw, sirs, she must ha' suffered hard those 
 days ; suffered odious wi' that dread upon her that there 
 was no knowin' when war 'd come an' a bullet for her 
 darlin'. 
 
 4 But no bullet came ; aw no ; only, one day, home 
 comes Jim in his regimentals an' tells her, wi' pride 
 
HER SOGER BOY 115 
 
 dancin' in his eyes, that his regiment was leavin' Clogheen 
 an' was ordered abroad. 
 
 4 " Abroad ? " says Debbie, an* gasps at the word. 
 " Abroad! "says she. 
 
 4 " Yes, abroad," says Jim ; an' goes on to tell her all 
 about it, about the goin' aboard a big ship, an' crossin' the 
 Bay o' Biscay, an* passin' Gibraltar, an' goin' through the 
 Red Sea, where King Pharaoh was drowned, an' on away 
 round the world till they came to where the people wore no 
 clothes, an* the sun burnt you like fire, an' there were 
 tigers to eat you, an' elephants to carry you, an' big snakes 
 crawlin' up the trees, an' all the wonders of the world. 
 " Aw, it'll be great, mother," says Jim ; " sure I'm longin' 
 to see it all." 
 
 4 " Ay," says Debbie, wi' a choke. " Ay, Jim." 
 
 4 " An' maybe, mother," says Jim, "there'll be a 
 chance o' fightin' out there wi' the darkies ; an' then we'll 
 slaughter them, an' I'll come back to ye wi' a medal on 
 
 my breast, an' I'll be made a sergeant, an' " But 
 
 Debbie stops him and rises. 
 
 4 44 Jim," says she, 44 sure you couldn't do it ? Aw, 
 you couldn't do it ! " 
 
 4 " What, mother ? " says he. 
 
 I 2 
 
n6 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 4 " Sure you couldn't do it ? You couldn't leave me 
 here alone ? Aw, I'll never see you again ; you'll be 
 shot ! Aw no, no, me son ! " 
 
 4 Then Jim laughs. 
 
 4 " Ah, whisht, woman dear," says he ; " whisht ! Sure 
 it'll only be for a year or two. I'll be back in no time at all." 
 
 4 " You won't go," cries Debbie, an' falls on her 
 knees; u you mus'n't. I'll not let you. You're all I've 
 got in the world. Ah, no, Jim ! Stay here wi' me, an' 
 I'll work night an' day for you ; I'll go wi' you wherever 
 you like. Stay wi' me, Jim, me son ! " 
 
 4 " I can't, mother," says he. " I'm a soger, mother, 
 an' must do me duty. Go I must ; an' go I will." 
 
 4 " You'll you'll leave me, Jim ? You'll go to get shot, 
 or poisoned, or stabbed in the back ! " 
 
 4 44 Ach, whisht wi' you, woman," says Jim, 44 wi' your 
 nonsense. Am n't I a soger ? D'you see the uniform on 
 me ? Would you have me not see the world, an' not 
 have a turn wi' gun an' bayonet ? Ah, whisht ! Is it 
 a coward you'd have me turn ? " 
 
 4 Well, for a while longer Debbie keeps on beggin' an' 
 prayin', an' cryin' her eyes out aw, the poor foolish 
 woman ; but, at last, seein' 'twas all no use, she rises 
 
HER SOGER BOY 117 
 
 from her knees, wipes her eyes, an' sits down before the 
 fire. " Well, Jim," says she ; " God's will be done, an' 
 God protect ye." 
 
 4 "Amen, mother," says Jim, and lights his pipe. 
 " Amen ; " then puts his elbows on his knees, an' just as 
 if he was vie win* the whole round world in the fire, goes 
 on with his boy's chatter about all he was goin' to do, an' 
 see, an' bring back wP him shawls an' bonnets for the 
 mother, an' monkeys, an' parrots, an* pictures o' foreign 
 parts, an' all the rest ; an' to all o' it Debbie gives only 
 half an ear, for her eyes were busy wi' Jim's curls an' red 
 coat, an' her heart was sore, an' all she could think o' was : 
 " He'll be shot, he'll be shot. How can I keep him ? " 
 
 ' At last she leans forward and puts her hand on the 
 lad's arm. 
 
 ' " You'll stay wi' me this one night, Jim ? " says she. 
 " You'll let your ould mother see the sun rise on you once 
 more ? " 
 
 '"I will," says Jim. "I have leave to stay, an' I 
 will," says he. 
 
 " Thank God," says Debbie, " thank God ! " An' 
 from that on she was cheerfuller an' gave full ear to the 
 boy's ramblin' tongue. 
 
n8 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 4 Well, the night passed ; an' betimes the next mornin* 
 Jim wakes up, an 5 after a yawn or two tumbles out o' bed. 
 He takes a look out o' the window at the mornin', then 
 wheels about quick for his regimentals ; but, lo an' behold 
 ye, not a dud o' them was to be seen, not a dud. 
 "Damme! what's this?" says he, scratchin' his head. 
 44 What's this ? " says he, an' high an' low searches ; then, 
 fmdin' nothin', calls out for the mother. 
 
 4 " What is it, Jim, me son ? " says she from behind the 
 door. "What is it, me son :" 
 
 4 44 Where's me regimentals ? " says he. 44 1 left them 
 on the chair here last night, an' now they're gone." 
 
 4 44 Your regimentals ? " says she. 4t Your beautiful red 
 coat wi' the shinin' buttons, and your " 
 
 4 "Co - me, mother," says Jim, 44 no foolery. Where 
 are they ? " 
 
 4 44 Ah, it's the hand o' God ! " cries she (the poor 
 foolish woman!). "Aw, Jim, me son, the Lord's sent 
 some thief to " 
 
 4 " Thief! " roars Jim, an' swears accordin'. " Thief 
 yourself ! Where's me uniform ? " 
 
 444 Aw, son Jim, son Jim," cries Debbie, " it's the 
 Lord's doin' ! But, Jim," calls she, " there's the Sunday 
 
HER SOGER BOY 119 
 
 suit you used to wear, in the press by the bed, put it on, 
 me son, an' come down, an' we'll search for the thief. 
 We'll get the police, Jim." 
 
 ' So Jim, mighty mad an' swearin' powerful (as sogers 
 will), for he guessed the turn o' things, jumps into his 
 ould tweed suit, then dunders into the kitchen an' catches 
 Debbie by the arm as she comes to kiss him. 
 
 4 " Here," says he, " none o' your foolery. Get me 
 my clothes." 
 
 4 " I give you my word, Jim " Debbie begins ; but 
 Jim only shakes her. 
 
 ' " Get them for me," says he ; " an' quick, or by the 
 Lord, I'll make you." 
 
 ' An' at that Debbie goes down on her knees an' 
 clasps her hands. 
 
 4 " Aw, son Jim," says she, "forgive me, forgive me; 
 but I can't spare you I can't spare you. I nursed you, 
 Jim, an' reared you ; you're all I've got " 
 
 ' " Where's me uniform ? " shouts he, wi' an oath. 
 
 * " I I burnt it," says Debbie ; an' at the word Jim 
 flung her from him. 
 
 ; " Burnt me uniform ! " says he. " Burnt the Queen's 
 scarlet ! " says he, and grips her arm. Then, a thought 
 
120 RING O* RUSHES 
 
 strikin' him, he turns to the hearthstone ; an' there was the 
 ashes raked over the coals just as he'd seen Debbie leave 
 it the night before. 
 
 * " You ould liar, you ! " he shouts, and grips her again. 
 " It's disgrace me you'd do ha' me arrested for a deserter 
 ha' me walk down the street in handcuffs. Where's 
 me uniform ? " he roars, an' lifts his arm. 
 
 ' " No no," says Debbie, liftin' her hands. " Aw, I 
 can't spare you, Jim. You'll be shot, you'll be shot ! " 
 
 4 Then Jim turns and lifts the tongs from the hearth. 
 
 ' " One more chance I'll give you," he says ; " an' only 
 one. Find me my uniform before I count twenty, or 
 before the Lord, I'll brain you ! " 
 
 ' Ah, sirs, to think o' what the army '11 do for a man. 
 To think Jim Chance could be brought to speak to his 
 mother like that his poor simple mother that would ha' 
 given her heart's blood for him. Ah, sirs ! 
 
 4 Debbie cowers back. Surely that wasn't Jim ? 
 
 ' " . . . Seven, eight, nine ..." 
 
 ' " Ah, Jim, me son ; Jim, me son ! " 
 
 * ". . . Fourteen, ff teen . . ." 
 ' " Your poor ould mother ! " 
 
 4 " . . . Eighteen, nineteen ..." 
 
HER SOGER BOY 121 
 
 ' Would he ha' struck her ? His own mother ? Ah, 
 no, no ; I can't think it. But there he stood, wF his arm 
 up, an HelPs fire blazin' in his eyes. 
 
 4 " Eighteen, nineteen" says he ; an' at the word Debbie, 
 not from fear for death would ha' come welcome to her 
 just then but in simple despair, threw up her hands. 
 
 < "No-no, Jim!" cries she; "I'll tell you, I'll 
 tell you." 
 
 ' So Debbie brings in the uniform from where she'd 
 hid it in the turf-stack out in the garden ; an' Jim washes 
 himself an' buttons it on, an' after his breakfast lights his 
 pipe an' prepares for the road. In the divil's own humour 
 he was still, black an' angry ; an' he stalks for the door 
 as if to go wi'out a word. But Debbie, all tremblin' an* 
 pale, runS after him an' takes his arm. 
 
 4 u Jim, Jim," she says, " is it go you would wi'out 
 forgivin' me, or sayin' good-bye ? " 
 
 ' He never turned ; but Debbie clung hard to him. 
 
 '"Jim, Jim," she calls; "my God, Jim, you may 
 never see me again ! " 
 
 4 " I don't care," says he, through his teeth, " you 
 tried to disgrace me ; " wi' that shakes his mother off an' 
 swaggers off in his scarlet red down the street.' 
 
122 RING 0' RUSHES 
 
 Solomon rose, pocketed his pipe, and spat on his hands. 
 
 'Come, Thomas,' said he, 'to work, me son, or they'll 
 have no water for the porridge come the mornin'. Come 
 on, I can see the master spraddlin' yonder in the porch.' 
 
 ' Finish your story, first,' said Thomas ; ' don't stop at 
 the Glory be.' 
 
 'Aw, yis,' said Solomon, and gripped his handle ; 'aw, 
 yis. That's easily done. Jim swaggers off, as I tell ye 
 he told the whole story to the post-boy before he was 
 halfway to Clogheen ; an' down Debbie falls wi' her arms 
 out an' her face on the doorstep ; an' when we picked her 
 up she was as limp as a rag an' as senseless. She lay ravin' 
 in Clogheen Infirmary for weeks ('twas there Jim saw her 
 before he went abroad, repentin' when 'twas too late) ; an' 
 when her brain lost the fever, she was as ye can see her 
 now above in the ward as witless as a rabbit. But some- 
 times, they say, at sight o' a stranger, she'll go like that 
 (and Solomon popped his tongue and shot out his finger), 
 an' then Well, who knows? But ye'll remember, sir, 
 that just before she was struck, her mind was full o' dread 
 that Jim was goin' off to be shot. Aw, yis ; aw, yis ! ' 
 
 I put my shilling into Solomon's palm, thanked him for 
 his story, and hurried off to find the Doctor. 
 
ROGUE HARTLEY 
 
 IT was fair day in Bunn, and the live o'clock train out 
 was, in consequence, packed from buffer to buffer. 
 Hardly could one breathe, even by the open window of 
 our long third-class compartment ; assuredly could not one 
 move a limb for the crowd and crush of foul-mouthed 
 jobbers reeking of whisky and tobacco ; of noisy farmers 
 reeking of horses and cattle ; of women laden with baskets 
 of groceries, and bags of flour, and red handkerchiefs of 
 sundries : it was wonder that the crawling train did not 
 creak its last and collapse on the line. As my neighbour 
 (a little, black man dressed decently in tweed, with 
 a shrewd face and the mouth of an orator) expressed it : 
 ' Faith, if I was this carriage I'd burst the sides in me ; 
 sure it's woful.' 
 
 For all that we reached Ballyhob junction safely ; and 
 there, such of us (not many, thank Heaven !) as were bound 
 
124 RING O* RUSHES 
 
 for Clogheen crossed the bridge, and presently took our 
 seats in the up-train from Glann. Again I had a corner- 
 seat; and again from my elbow came the voice of the 
 little, black man. 
 
 ' Bedad,' said he, mopping his brow, ' it's heavenly to 
 feel again that one has legs on him. Whisht ! ' whispered 
 he, and leaning forward over my knees, pushed his head 
 through the open window. 'Who's this? Be the King! 
 but it's Herself. Aw, sir, isn't she a bouncer ? ' 
 
 As well as I could, I spied over the little man's hat ; 
 and saw coming down the bridge-stairs the lady whom my 
 friend called Herself. Tall she was and sedate, well- 
 dressed and handsome, neither in appearance nor face the 
 least Irish ; to her the farmers touched their hats, and the 
 women curtsied, and the porter hastened that he might 
 have the honour of turning the handle of her first-class 
 carriage door. Who was she ? I was asking myself with 
 some curiosity; when the little man pulled his head in, 
 laid his hands on my knees, and knowingly winked 
 at me. 
 
 'Eh/ said he, 'that's the sort; that's a pattern of 
 a female for ye. Ye widn't know her, now ? ' he asked. 
 
 I answered, ' No.' 
 
ROGUE HARTLEY 125 
 
 'Aw, jist so,' said he, and much to my relief sat 
 back on his seat; 'jist so. Ye'll be a stranger here?' 
 
 I answered, 'Yes/ 
 
 ' Ay ! ' said he. ' Well, that bein' so, of course ye 
 couldn't be acquaint wi' her. But I know her, right well 
 I know her, no man better. An 5 more than that, I seen 
 her once when for fifty pounds she wouldn't ha' had me 
 see her. Yis, I did.' 
 
 'Oh,' said I. 'Indeed?' 
 
 ' Aw, it's truth. Ye're a stranger here, ye say ? ' he 
 asked again, and shifting his seat faced me. 
 
 ' I've said so.' 
 
 ' Ay ! ' said he ; then, as the manner of rustics is, leant 
 forward with his elbows on his knees, and his face as 
 close as was possible to mine. ' Ay ! An' I suppose, 
 now, in your travels ye never heard tell o' one Rogue 
 Bartley ? No ! Well, well ; such is life. But, whisht 
 now, an' I'll tell ye about Herself an' Bartley ; a mighty 
 curious story it is, an' it'll divert ye, mebbe, from here 
 to Clogheen. Off we go!' said he, as the train skirled; 
 then knocked the ashes out of his pipe, crossed his arms 
 on his knees, wet his lips, and began. 
 
 'Me name is Thomas Hurd,' said he, in his slow, 
 
126 RING O' RUSHES 
 
 matter-of-fact way. 4 Wee Thomas they call me for a 
 nickname. I live there beyond, three miles this side o' 
 Clogheen, on a farm o* me own wi' me wife and six 
 childer. Well, one day, I was standin' outside the open 
 window o' the big house above at Kilpad, waitin'. . . . 
 But wait, now ; I'm beginnin' me house at the chimneys ; 
 wait till I tell ye about Bartley. 
 
 4 Him that I call Bartley was the youngest son, then, 
 o' a family that not so very long ago held its head high 
 in this part o' the world. French was their name the 
 Frenches o' Mohill an' if, as I hear tell, their namesakes 
 across the water are pretty high in the stomachs, faith these 
 same were French by name an' French by nature. When 
 I knew them, before they came down in the world, there was 
 eight o' them : the father, mother, and four sons and two 
 daughters ; an' divil as handsome a set o' men an* women 
 ye'd see again if ye travelled from here to kingdom come. 
 Six fut ivery man o' them stood in his stockin's ; an' the 
 women folk could set their chins on the shoulder o' a 
 sixteen-hand horse as easy as they could lace their boots. 
 But, as I said, they were proud odious proud ; not passin' 
 ye by, mind ye, wi' a sniff an' a prance like a circus horse, 
 for they were as free wi' Tommy Hurd as they were wi' 
 
ROGUE BARTLEY 127 
 
 my Lord, but just carryin' themselves like five-year old 
 stallions, as much as to say : "I'm willin' to notice ye, but 
 dang your buttons ! keep your distance." An' the divil- 
 me-care set they were ; tearin' here an' there over the 
 country, niver in the house, fightin' like imps among them- 
 selves one minute, kissin' other the next, shootin' all day, 
 fishin' all night, hunting like blazes ! Aw, 'twas won- 
 derful ; an' surely a wonderful family were the Frenches, 
 in these parts their like or equal no man could find. 
 
 'Well, they say pride has a fall, an', faith, it's true 
 o' the Frenches; for after a while times get bad, an' 
 land goes down, an' money gets scarce, an' themselves, 
 wi* their fine house an* carriages an' lashin's o' the best, 
 found the curb begin to bite on them. Not that ye'd 
 notice much aw, no ; that wasn't the way wi' them 
 but bit by bit things got bad here, an' worse there, till 
 afore ye knew where ye were the father was dead, 
 an' the mother ah, Lord ! the fine woman she was 
 was dead, an' the girls an' the brothers were scattered 
 over the world, an' the house an' land were up for sale 
 by the creditors. All in a twinkle ye'd think it was : 
 and it was good-bye Frenches ! 
 
 4 But 'twas about young Bartley I was tellin' ye ay, 
 
128 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 Rogue Bartley. He was the youngest, an' the biggest, 
 an* the quarest o' them all. Ah, a fine, handsome, 
 dashin', hearty man was Bartley, wi' a voice in him 
 like the organ in the church there beyond, an' a laugh 
 like the roar of a bull, an' ivery limb on him as big an' 
 hard as an anvil. Great King ! to see Bartley on a 
 horse, the set an* size o' him; not the Duke o' Wel- 
 lin'ton himself could have filled a saddle better or boulder. 
 Ay, Bartley was a hero. All the women in the country- 
 side 'd ha' died for love o' him ay, an' some o' them 
 mebbe did worse; an' the men well, troth, the men 
 looked sideways at him. Not that he wasn't free an' 
 easy wi' us all, ready wi' his joke an' glass like another, an' 
 bubblin' over wi' good nature, as ye'd think. Ay ! But 
 somehow there was bad blood in him. Ye couldn't trust 
 him. He'd laugh at your face an' spit at your back. An' 
 when he laughed, somehow it wasn't the heart o' him that 
 laughed naw ! 'twas the proud, rotten stomach o' him. 
 
 'Well, well, let him rest; he niver did me harm, an' 
 the pride's out o' him by this. Ay ! But I'm wanderin'.' 
 
 Thomas fumbled in his pocket, brought out a bottle, 
 uncorked it, and offered it to me. ' It's good,' said he, 
 as I shook my head; 'the best in the world. Well, 
 
ROGUE BARTLEY 129 
 
 as ye like,' said he, and put the neck between his teeth ; 
 'as ye like, but it's easy seein' you're a stranger to 
 these parts. 
 
 'Well, as I was sayin',' Thomas went on, presently, 
 ' the Frenches lost all, an* got scattered, an' Bartley wi' 
 them. 'Twas to the States Bartley went, wi' another 
 o' the brothers ; an' after that, 'cept for an odd word of 
 a story that'd go flyin' from the big house all round 
 the country, for long enough sorrow a French ye'd think 
 had ever shot an Irish snipe. Good as dead they all 
 were. Ay, ay ; it's the way o' the world. 
 
 ' But one day, two years ago it was last June, if ye 
 please, I was workin' in a field I have convenient to the 
 Clogheen road, when, liftin' up me eyes at sound of a foot, 
 who should I see but Bartley. Ay, troth, himself sure 
 enough ; but changed woful. Ould an' hungry he looked ; 
 all skin an' grief, ye might say, wi' the clothes hangin' 
 loose on him like the duds on a scarecrow. " Ho, ho," 
 thinks I; " ho, ho, Bartley, me son, what's this?" An' wi' 
 that he mounts the ditch an' calls to me across the hedge, 
 just as he used to do often enough in the ould times. 
 
 ' " Hello, Thomas," calls he, free an' easy like that, 
 sir. " How's yourself, Thomas ? " 
 K 
 
130 RING O 3 RUSHES 
 
 '"Well," says I, startin' towards him, rubbin' the 
 clay from me hand on me britches, "I'm middlin', 
 thank ye, Mr. Bartley ; an' how are you, sir ? " 
 
 '"Aw, the best, Thomas," says he, shakin' hands; 
 " the best. Ye see, I'm back again in the ould country ? " 
 
 '"Yis," says I; "an' welcome ye are, Mr. Bartley; 
 but, if it's not makin' free, I can't say that the trip 
 across the water 's done much for your health." 
 
 '" Oh ! " says he mighty sharp. " How's that ? " 
 
 '"Well," I says, "I mind the day you'd turn the 
 scale at sixteen stone; an* now " 
 
 '"Oh," says he, turnin' his head, "that's nothin'. 
 I've been ill. I suppose," says he, turnin' the subject 
 quick-like, " some o' the ould friends are still alive 
 Doctor Sharp, an' Rector Hill ? " an' mentions one an' 
 another here an' there about the country. 
 
 '"Aw, 'deed they are," I answers; an' goes on to 
 tell the news : who was dead, an' who married, an all 
 the rest. An' Bartley listens mighty attentive till I'd 
 run dry ; then steps down off the ditch. 
 
 ' " I'm obliged to ye, Thomas, for all your news," 
 says he. " Good-day to ye, Thomas." 
 
 ' "Aw, good luck to you, sir," answers I ; an' off me 
 
ROGUE BARTLEY 131 
 
 hero steps down the road, wi' his head back, an* his arms 
 swinging just the same as if the whole country belonged 
 to him, an' there was still sixteen stone o' good Irish 
 flesh inside the shabby coat o' him. 
 
 'Well, I seen Bartley again; aw, troth, I did, an' 
 before long heard enough of him. Faith, afore two 
 days the country was buzzin' about him. For what 
 d'ye think me gentleman does ? Ye wouldn't guess in 
 a month o' Sundays. First of all, away he goes to 
 Dr. Sharp, an' pitches his tale about losin' his clothes 
 in a shipwreck, an' bein' robbed in London, an' all the 
 rest ; stays the night there, an' in the mornin' starts off to 
 Rector Hill's, carryin' the lend o' some o' the Doctor's 
 clothes (the Doctor bein' a big lump of a man himself) 
 in the Doctor's portmanty ; an' at the Rector's he pitches 
 his tale again, borrows five pound an' his umbrella from 
 his Reverence, an' takes himself, by this gettin' fatter 
 an' more decent lookin', to Banker Small's ; an' there too, 
 faith, makes himself agreeable, an' laves the house wi' 
 some o' the Banker's shirts an' socks, an' all that, in 
 the Doctor's portmanty. So, pickin' up a trifle here an' 
 a trifle there, a sovereign from this man an' five shillin's 
 from that sure it was easy to do, for who'd have the 
 
 K 2 
 
132 RING O> RUSHES 
 
 heart to refuse an ould friend, particularly an ould friend 
 with a way wid him like Bartley French ? an* makin' 
 himself at home everywhere ; round the country Bartley 
 goes (an* ye'll observe, sir, the foxy way that he pumped 
 me about all his friends that were alive), an* before three 
 days was snug an' comfortable, portmanty an' all, in the 
 big house over at Caroo or, if ye like it better, at the 
 house o' Sir George Townley, him, sir, that's landlord o' 
 all these parts. 
 
 'An' then the spree begins. Troth, 'twas as good as 
 a play ; though, o' course, no one had anythin' but pity 
 at the time for the poor shipwrecked crature; an' glad 
 we all were to see him in clover above at Sir George's. 
 Aw, yis, we were mighty soft; but Bartley knew what 
 he was about; he knew how to rattle down his ace o' 
 trumps. Sure, inside a week he was kickin' the roof off 
 Caroo, for the stone walls o' it couldn't stand the flings o' 
 him. Ye'd think 'twas the Lord-Lieutenant himself, all 
 the airs he had. 'Twas orderin 7 the servants here; an' 
 swearin' at the grooms there ; an' shootin' all day long ; 
 an' ridin' Sir George's horses off their legs ; an' kickin' 
 the coat-tails off the butler ; an' bangin' his skull against 
 the roof till no one knew his feet from his head; an' 
 
ROGUE HARTLEY 133 
 
 they tell me that not a female in the house but 'd ha* given 
 her immortal soul to him. 
 
 ' Anyway, that may be here or there ; all I can swear 
 to is, that the first Sunday I seen Bartley steppin' out 
 o' Sir George's carriage at the church door, he looked 
 as swarthy an' fat as a grass bull ; an' dang me, if he 
 didn't show off other people's clothes better than they 
 iver did themselves ! An' to hear the sweet voice o' him 
 singin' that beautiful behind in the big family pew, an' 
 callin' Amen twice as loud as Sir George ; an' to see the 
 sleek, pious look o' him ; an' to see all the women 
 squintin' back at him Och, och, 'twas wonderful, 
 wonderful ! 
 
 ' An ' then, lo an' behold ye ! the next thing we hear 
 is that Bartley is keepin' company wi' Miss Mary, 
 Sir George's maiden sister, her that was forty, if she 
 was a day, an' as plain as a church wall mad in love 
 wi' her, the sayin' was, an' makin' as fast as man could 
 for the ring an' weddin' bells. Day in, day out, there 
 they were, walkin' together along the road, sittin' together 
 in church, sailin' together on the lake, an' iver an' always 
 chatterin' like jackdaws, an' laughin' at times as hearty 
 as play-actors. An', sorrow take me, if we could all 
 
134 RI^O O J RUSHES 
 
 make it out ; for plain it was to be seen that Bartley 
 was only courtin' Miss Mary's money, an' hadn't returned 
 the coats, an' shirts, an' boots, an' what not to the people 
 that owned them ; an' that he hadn't a penny piece o' 
 his own jinglin' in his pocket. Howsomever, that was 
 Hartley's affair ; an' if he was clever enough to hoodwink 
 the quality an', troth, that same isn't hard to do 
 what were we to do but keep our tongues in our 
 cheeks an' laugh to ourselves ? Anyway, things went 
 on like that for about two months ; an' then, just as we 
 all were expectin' a bonfire an' a big dinner in honour 
 o' the marriage, the thing happened that I've now to tell 
 ye about.' 
 
 Thomas lit his pipe, whiffed hard for a while ; then 
 wiped its stem on his sleeve and offered it to me. 
 I thanked him, but said I did not smoke ; at which he 
 returned the pipe to his pocket, crossed his legs, and 
 went on. 
 
 c I had occasion, one day about the time I'm tellin' ye 
 of, to go on a matter o' business to see Sir George ; an', 
 as the custom is, had taken up me stand on the terrace 
 outside the open window o' Sir George's room. The 
 window was open 'twas one o' these foreign affairs that 
 
ROGUE HARTLEY 135 
 
 opens like a door an' as I stood wi' me back against 
 the wall, I could see over me shoulder, wi' the tail o' 
 me eye, into the room. A fine big room 'twas, full o' 
 beautiful pictures an' things ; an' Himself sat over in the 
 corner by the fireplace. That mornin' he happened to be 
 busy, an' I waited a tidy while before he called to me to 
 state me business. So off I takes me hat, turns round, 
 an' bobbin' me head, as the way is, begins to say me say. 
 But hardly had I cleared me throat, when the door o' the 
 room opens, an in walks one o' these play-boys in livery, 
 wi' a big bright tray, an* a bit of a card on it, that he 
 presents, as if 'twas a thousand-pound note, to Sir George. 
 Himself takes it an' looks at it ; an' quick his eyes opened 
 an' his mouth, and says he : 
 
 ' " Who brought this ? " says he. 
 
 ' " A lady, Sir George," says the boy-o. 
 
 ' " A lady ? " answers Himself. " An' where is she ? " 
 
 ' " Waitin', Sir George, in the hall for an answer, Sir 
 George," says the lad. 
 
 ' Then Himself whacks the table ; an', " Damme ! " he 
 says that fierce ; for a wrathful man is Sir George, an' at 
 times rough in his speech. " Damme ! " says he ; then 
 tells the play-boy to leave the room ; an' meself, too, 
 
136 RING 0> RUSHES 
 
 seein' I wasn't wanted just then, steps aside, an' puts me 
 back against the wall in the ould place. 
 
 ' Well, soon as the door shut, up jumps Sir George from 
 his chair an' begins to march about the room. "What's 
 this ? " he says to himself, an' looks at the bit of a card. 
 " Damme ! what's this ? " 
 
 4 Like that he kept mutterin' to himself, an' prancin' 
 up an' down like a two-year-old colt ; after a bit goes to 
 a press, takes a mouthful o' spirits from a bottle (sure it 
 made me laugh to see how much like another these quality 
 are when they're by themselves) ; then makes for the bell- 
 rope an' pulls it. In comes me play-boy again sharp and 
 quick. " Show the lady up," says Himself; and before 
 ye could say knife, Sir George was back in his chair 
 and the play-boy in livery was showin' a lady into the 
 room. 
 
 4 " Mrs. Earthy French" says he, in a big voice ; an', 
 faith, sir, at the word I could hardly keep from whistlin'. 
 " Ho, ho!" says I to meself, " here's sport;" and wi' 
 that stands as close to the wall as I could, just keepin' the 
 tail o' me eye on Sir George's end o' the room. 
 
 ' Sir George rises mighty polite, an* bobs his head, an' 
 asks the lady to take a chair; an' Herself, in her cloak 
 
ROGUE HARTLEY 137 
 
 an' feathers, thanks him an* sits down : then, all quiverin', 
 says she : 
 
 ' " Sir George Townley," says she, " what's the meanin' 
 o' all this ? Haven't ye been expectin' me ? " says she. 
 " Why didn't Bartley come to meet me ? Where is 
 Bartley ? " she says, half risin' from her chair. 
 
 ' But Sir George sits as cool as ye please, an' looks 
 hard at her, an' says : 
 
 ' " Excuse me, ma'am" or words like that "but 
 may I ax who ye are ? " 
 
 4 " Who I am ? " says Herself, an' stares at him 
 like a bull at a gate. " Who I am ! Ye don't know 
 me ? " 
 
 ' " No," says he, that cool ; u I don't know ye, ma'am ; 
 nor have I ever heard of ye before this day." 
 
 ' Then Herself rises an' looks at Sir George as if she 
 was mad. 
 
 6 " Never heard o' me ! " says she. " My God ! what 
 does this mean ? Tell me," says she ; " isn't this Caroo 
 House ? An' aren't you Sir George Townley ? " 
 
 < " Yes," says he, like that. 
 
 ' " And isn't me husband, Bartley French, stayin' here 
 as your guest ? " says she. 
 
138 RING O' RUSHES 
 
 4 But Sir George smiles an* waves his hand, an' he 
 answers polite : 
 
 ' " Excuse me, ma'am " or words like that " but 
 before I answer " 
 
 ' An' at that Herself breaks out again. 
 
 '"Oh, my God!" she says; "what is all this? 
 What is this that has happened to me ? " 
 
 6 She stood like one bewildered for a while, with Sir 
 George still lookin' hard at her; then all at once she 
 turns to him an' says : 
 
 ' " Sir George Townley," says she, " I can't tell ye 
 whether I am asleep, or awake, or mad. I believe I'm 
 mad. I can't understand where I am or what has 
 happened to me. I have travelled here all the way 
 from America, expectin' to find me husband with ye, to 
 find him waitin' for me at the station, to be welcomed 
 by you, an' an' Sir George, for God's sake ! tell me 
 if Bartley is here or has been here, h he here, Sir 
 George ? " 
 
 ' Then Himself rises, and lays his hand on her arm, 
 and asks her to sit down. 
 
 ' " Mrs. French," says he, " before I tell ye anythin' 
 about your husband, I must ask ye a question or two." 
 
ROGUE HARTLEY 139 
 
 ' An' before another word was said in comes me play- 
 boy in livery again, an' hands Sir George a telegram. 
 
 ' He excuses himself, tears it open, reads it, an' crumples 
 it up tight in his fist. " The scoundrel ! " he shouts, 
 jumpin' up with a face like a thunderstorm. u The 
 scoundrel ! " 
 
 4 " Is it from Hartley ? " asks Herself, lookin' up. 
 
 6 " Yes," says Sir George, an' looks down at her. 
 " It is from Bartley. Ye may read, Mrs. French ; " an* 
 he smoothes out the telegram an' hands it to her. But she 
 says, No ; she'd rather Sir George read it ; so Himself 
 spreads his legs before the fireplace an' reads. Wi' every 
 ear I had I listened. 
 
 '"LIVERPOOL," reads Sir George (sure, I mind the 
 words like me prayers). " To Sir George Townley, Caroo 
 House, Ireland. Arrived here safely this mornln 9 . Sail 
 this evenln 9 . Thanks for your loan an 9 hospitality. My 
 wife (will probably be with ye to-day. Be very good to her. 
 Sorry I could not wait to see her. My love to her an 9 
 Polly. Good-bye for ever. BARTLEY FRENCH." 
 
 6 " Good-bye for ever," says Sir George again. "The 
 scoundrel ! " says he ; an' then for a while ye could hear 
 
F4Q RING O' RUSHES 
 
 a pin drop in the room. HerselPs face was turned to the 
 window, an' the look that was on it was just the same as 
 I seen once on a man's face when the news came to him 
 that his bank was smashed a kind o' dazed, hopeless 
 look. An* Sir George stood lookin' down at her wi'out 
 openin' his lips. At last she kind o' choked an' turns 
 her head. 
 
 < " When did he go, Sir George ? " says she. 
 
 4 " Yesterday ; by the mail train," says he. 
 
 4 " An' an' he never told ye anythin' about me ? " 
 says she. 
 
 4 " Not one word," answers Sir George; " not one 
 word. He borrowed some money o' me ; promised when 
 his business was done he'd come back to mar The 
 ruffian ! " says Sir George; then pulls himself up. "That 
 was all, Mrs. French," says he ; " that was all." 
 
 4 44 Did he say where where he was going ? " says 
 Herself, in a broken kind o' way. 
 
 4 "To America," answers he. An' at the word I 
 hears a sob, an' then another, an' then a burst o' bitter 
 cryin'. 
 
 4 Lord, sir, it was ojus ; the sweat broke out over me 
 at the sound o' it. But Sir George sits down, puts his 
 
ROGUE BARTLEY 141 
 
 hands together, an' looks at his boots ; nor sorrow a word 
 crossed his lips till Herself wiped her eyes an' looked 
 at him. 
 
 '"Oh, Sir George," says she, "Sir George, I I 
 couldn't help it." An' Himself leans over, like he was 
 her father, an' puts his hand on her arm, an' tells her 
 that he pities her from his heart, an' that he'll help her all 
 he can, an' that meantime the best thing she can do is tell 
 him all she knows. 
 
 'Well, sir, she was loth to tell him much at first 
 (sure, I respected her all the more for it), an', I suspect, 
 she had little heart to do it ; but, after a while, what with 
 Sir George's soft manner an' his coaxin' questions, bit by 
 bit she let the whole story out a powerful long rigmarole 
 that I disremember, an' wouldn't have time to tell ye, 
 anyhow. But the long an' the short o' it was this : 
 
 6 She was a Yankee, a play-actress it seems ; an' she 
 married Bartley because, as she said, he kind o' made her ; 
 an' because, as one could see, she was powerful in love 
 wi' him. Ay, Bartley had that sootherin' way wi' the 
 women always an' ever ; an', faith, with Herself, it seems, 
 he had more ways than one; for, what d'ye think? but 
 he gives out to her that he was the son o' an Irish duke, 
 
142 RING O* RUSHES 
 
 or somebody, an' had a power o' money, an' a whole 
 county o' land over here, an' was only in America for 
 a holiday! Did ever ye hear the like, sir, in all your 
 born days ? And Herself, the crature, as women will, 
 believed him, an' thought she had married the best o' 
 men an' the richest. But, after a while, she found out 
 that, duke's son or not, Mister Bartley was little better 
 himself than another. Ay, she did so. He took to 
 drinkin', an' gamblin', an' the sorrows own diversion ; 
 an' from that, it was easy to see, though she didn't say 
 it, that he took to worse ; for the end o' it was that one 
 day Herself packs up her traps an' leaves him to his 
 devices. An' right too, say I. But och, och, the foolish- 
 ness o' women the foolishness o' them ! For, after a 
 while, back comes Bartley in his rags an' tatters, an' on 
 his knees begs her to forgive him ; sure, it was her money 
 he wanted ; but no matter, women are fools, an' so Bartley 
 gets her pardon. 
 
 ' Well, after that things went pretty smooth, I suppose ; 
 till one day Bartley gives out that he's comin' back to 
 Ireland to collect his rents, and see about the property. 
 Great king ! Bartley's rent an' property ! Sure, it's no 
 wonder, sir, that Sir George grinned at the news. Any- 
 
ROGUE BARTLEY 143 
 
 way, off me gentleman sails in his big ship, but not to 
 collect his rents. Aw, no! First thing, Herself has 
 a letter from Paris, makin' his excuses an' askin' for 
 money. Aw, yis ; I've heard o' Paris ! Then, she has 
 a letter from London, makin' more excuses an* askin' for 
 more money. Aw, yis ; I've heard o' London ! Then, 
 he comes to Ireland (I've told ye, sir, the way he came 
 to us after his divilments in Paris an' London), an' writes 
 again to her, sayin' that he found his estates in good 
 order, but the tenants wouldn't pay the rent, an' asks for 
 a trifle more to take him on. 
 
 ' " Did ye answer that letter, Mrs. French ? " asks Sir 
 George. 
 
 ' " Yes, Sir George," says she, " but I sent no money ; 
 I couldn't. Indeed, I sent very little at any time." 
 
 ' " H'm ! " says Sir George, with a kind o' smile on 
 him, as much as to say : " Aw, just so, Mrs. French ; an' 
 now Bartley is payin' ye back for that an' for all the 
 rest." I could see the words on his face. Ay ! 
 
 * Well, after that the wife gets another letter from 
 Mister Bartley, tellin' her that the family mansion was out 
 o' repair, an' that for the present he was enjoyin' the hospi- 
 tality of his old friend, Sir George Townley, at Caroo 
 
144 RING O 3 RUSHES 
 
 House ; an', on the tail o' that, comes another letter, sayin' 
 that he had decided to settle down on his estates, that 
 Herself was to come over at once, an' that, till the family 
 mansion was ready, she was to stay, at Sir George's 
 invitation, at the big house at Caroo. 
 
 6 "The scoundrel," says Sir George at this; "the 
 scoundrel ! An' I suppose," says he, thinkin' no doubt o' 
 Mary the sister, "he never mentioned particular any 
 members o' my family ? " 
 
 '"No, Sir George," answers Herself; "no, except 
 that ye were all very good an' kind, an' would be delighted 
 to see me. An' so, Sir George," she says, " of course 
 I sold up the little home an' came." 
 
 ' " H'm ! " says Sir George again ; then rises to his 
 feet. "Well, Mrs. French," says he, "this Bartley 
 French is the son of an old friend o' mine, an' you are his 
 wife, so I won't say what I think o' him ; but this I will 
 say, that a more heartless, blackguardly trick than this 
 which he has just played on you I never before heard of. 
 He came here but no matter what he did here," says 
 Sir George, pullin' himself up ; "no matter about that. 
 It's you, Mrs. French, you, brought all this way from 
 America only to find yourself the victim o' this, this 
 
ROGUE BARTLEY 145 
 
 Yes, damme ! I will say it this infernal, ruffianly 
 scoundrel. I'm a magistrate o' this county, an' " 
 
 'Well, sir, at that Sir George begins his prancin' 
 about the room again, an* his snortin' an' spoutin' ; so, 
 dreadin' that in one o' his cavalcades past the window 
 he might catch sight o' me, I just slipped away along 
 the wall an' I heard no more. 
 
 4 No. But hadn't I heard enough? Yes. An' the 
 next day I heard more ; for, would ye believe me, sir ? ' 
 said Thomas, leaning forward and tapping my knee with 
 his hand, * Bartley went off the very day that Miss Mary 
 promised to be his wife ; an' more than that, went off wi' 
 the Doctor's portmanty, an' inside it, a hundred pounds 
 he'd borrowed from Sir George, an' every stitch an' penny 
 he'd cajoled from his friends ! Now what d'ye think o' 
 that ? ' said Thomas, sitting up and looking hard at me. 4 Is 
 it any wonder we gave him the name o' Rogue Bartley?' 
 
 ' No,' said I ; ' it is no wonder. And I suppose he 
 treated his wife in that heartless fashion because of ?' 
 
 4 Because of her leavin' him/ said Thomas; ' of 
 course ; an' refusin' him money to be sure ; an' because 
 of a thousand things that were deep in the black heart 
 o' him. Ay, yes, that was the great reason the black 
 
 L 
 
146 RING O } RUSHES 
 
 blood in the black heart o' him. Whisht ! she's slowing' 
 said Thomas, as the train slackened speed near Clogheen 
 Junction. 4 An' now keep a sharp look-out for Herself 
 on the platform, for she's a bouncer ; an' if you're wide 
 awake you'll see Sir George waitin' for her in the carriage 
 outside the station door.' 
 
 < Herself?' said I. 
 
 ' Aw, ay,' said Thomas as he let down the window. 
 ' Aw, ay, it's Herself sure enough ; for Bartley got drunk 
 in Liverpool an' was drowned in the say : an' now, faith, 
 Herself is Mrs. Sir George.' 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 
 
 i. 
 
 ' T~\ LEASE, Mr. John/ said Mary, the servant, 'master's 
 A sent me for ye. He's above in the front parlour.' 
 
 4 What does he want ? ' asked Mr. John, and raised 
 his eyes. ' Tell him I'm busy.' 
 
 ' I did, sir. I said the mower was bruk an' ye wur 
 fixin' it ; but he only roared at me. I'd go, Mr. John ; 
 'deed I wid.' 
 
 ' What the sorrow now ? ' said John, and put down 
 his wrench on the stones of the yard. ' Roared, ye say, 
 Mary ? ' 
 
 4 Ay ! Och, sir, spake him fair ; don't anger him worse. 
 I know what ails him. Her mother was here a while ago 
 it's that, Mr. John.' 
 
 4 Ay,' said John, and his face darkened. * Ay ! An' 
 what the devil brought her here ? ' He rose from his 
 L 2 
 
148 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 knees, turned down his shirt sleeves over his brown 
 arms ; then took his sleeved waistcoat from the pole of 
 the mowing machine and buttoned it on. 'Did she stay 
 long, Mary ? ' asked he. 
 
 ' No, sir, only a wee while but I heerd words.' 
 
 ' Ay,' said John, and turned towards the kitchen-door 
 of the farmhouse. ' Oh, just so.' 
 
 ' Ye'll spake him fair, Mr. John ?' said Mary, the servant, 
 and ventured to lay her hand on his arm. ' Och, ye will, 
 sir! Ye know, I'd we'd be sorry to lose ye, sir.' 
 
 John hung on his heel for a step, and looked down at 
 his little well-wisher, standing bare-headed and bare-footed 
 in her rags and tatters. 
 
 ' Oh, ay,' he said, and laughed. ' Oh, ay ! Never fear, 
 Mary ; I'll speak him fair true an' fair as a die. An' 
 I'm thankful to you, my girl, for the hint ye gave me; 
 it's as well to know.' 
 
 Then his face fell solemn again; and with his hands 
 clasped across his back, he went in through the kitchen 
 and along the red-flagged hall into the front parlour. 
 
 James Hewitt was sitting in an old leather armchair 
 reading from a newspaper. A man of about sixty-five 
 years he was, grey-headed, swarthy, large limbed, strong 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 149 
 
 of face ; a fine type of your Ulster Protestant farmer, and 
 the living image of what you would expect his son John 
 to be when time had added another forty or so to the sum 
 of his years. 
 
 'Ye wanted me?' asked John, from his place by the 
 door, where he stood fumbling with his cap. 
 
 His father lowered his newspaper and looked at him 
 over the rims of his spectacles ; then raised the sheet 
 again as if to read. 
 
 'Yes,' answered he, ' I did. You'd better sit down.' 
 
 ' I'd rather stand. I'm waitin'.' 
 
 Both the words and the manner in which they were 
 spoken were disrespectful ; very seldom did child of his 
 dare venture so to speak in the presence of James Hewitt. 
 For once, however, the words passed unrebuked. 
 
 6 Have ye mended that machine ? ' came from behind 
 the newspaper. 
 
 ' No ; nor won't. Is that all ? ' 
 
 Clearly John foresaw a storm and was for brewing it at 
 once. His father threw down his paper and sat forward 
 in his chair. 
 
 ' Won't ; won't ! ' cried he, wrathfully. ' What do ye 
 mean, sir ? Have ye come here to defy me ? ' 
 
150 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 1 That's as may be. I meant I couldn't mend it.' 
 
 ' Then why didn't ye say so ? ' 
 
 ' It's no odds. I'm waitin', I say. I know what I'm 
 here for, so ye may as well say your say at once.' 
 
 The two men eyed each other for a moment, straight 
 and steadily: along the deep lines of the father's face 
 anger was swiftly flushing ; in John's eyes obstinacy was 
 fast seated. 
 
 ' Oh, ye know, do ye ? ' the father began ; then all 
 suddenly broke out : ' How dare ye disobey me, sir ? 
 Didn't I tell ye, last time I spoke to ye about this, that 
 ye were to give up your your foolishness wi' wi' that 
 hussy over there ? Didn't I, sir ? ' 
 
 'Ye did.' 
 
 4 Well?' 
 
 * Well, I didn't choose to obey ye. Why should I ? 
 A man can do as he likes, I suppose ? ' Suddenly John 
 made a step from the door. ' Look here, father,' said 
 he, and his voice came low and solemn ; ( let's be plain 
 an' have done, for God's sake ! It goes against me to be 
 doin' what ye don't like, but that can't be helped. Ye 
 asked me to give up Rachel Hoey an' to have no more 
 to say to her. Well, I haven't given her up, because 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 151 
 
 I couldn't ; an* I won't give her up, because I can't ; so 
 help me God ! Ye may say your worst an' do it ; but 
 there's my say as plain as I can put it.' 
 
 The young man put his back against the door, folded 
 his arms, and so standing, with his eyes steadily fixed on 
 the wall before him, waited for the words of his fate. 
 Very soon they came, swiftly, wrathfully, gathering force 
 at every sentence. James Hewitt was obliged to his son 
 for his plain speaking, and dutiful conduct, and grateful 
 reward for all that had been done for him. It was always 
 pleasant for a father to find his children thwarting and 
 defying him, and insulting his grey hairs. 
 
 ' I don't want to defy ye, sir,' said John, and spoke 
 more dutifully than he had yet done ; ' an' I don't think 
 I've insulted ye.' 
 
 'But ye have, sir,' his father went on; 'ye have 
 insulted me, spoke to me like a plough-boy. By God, 
 sir, for two pins I'd flog ye ! ' 
 
 John smiled. 
 
 ' It's too late for that now,' said he; 'those days are past.' 
 
 ' Ay ! They're past, ye think,' cried the old man ; 
 ' they're past, an' so ye defy me. But they're not past, 
 I tell ye ; I'm master in my own house yet, thank God ! 
 
I 5 2 RING O* RUSHES 
 
 an' if I can't strap ye I can sack ye. Ye hear that ? 
 I told ye before what I'd do. I said if ye had any more 
 doin's wi' them Hoeys, if ye didn't keep from their house, 
 if ye didn't renounce the arts o' that little jade, I'd ' 
 
 1 She's no jade, father,' said John, quietly. ' Even from 
 you I'll not hear that.' 
 
 ' But ye will hear it, sir. Ye knew, I told ye myself, 
 that no Hoey 'd ever call himself my friend, that between 
 them an' me there was never, an' never could be, anything 
 but hatred. They're a pack o' rogues an' liars, one an' 
 all ; there never was one o' them yet fit to carry rags to 
 a beggarman. An' yet yet ye tell me ye'll marry that 
 jade ? Yes, jade ! An' ye send her mother to me here to 
 speak for ye ' 
 
 t I didn't send her,' said John ; c I knew nothing of it.' 
 
 ' She came ; that's enough. I want to hear no more. 
 An' now you come, an' forgetful o' all I've done for ye, 
 ye ungrateful scoundrel ! ye say ye'll defy me an' keep 
 on wi' your devices ; that ye will do what ye like ; that ye 
 will marry this girl ; that ye don't care for what I say. 
 Don't ye ? Look ye here, John, here's a plain word for 
 ye. Are ye or are ye not goin' to do my biddin' ? ' 
 
 4 Ye mean give Rachel up ? ' 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 153 
 
 6 1 do. 5 
 
 4 No.' 
 
 ' Then out ye go. I disown ye. From this day you're 
 no son o' mine. Ye hear ? ' 
 
 < I do.' 
 
 * I'll curse the day ye were born. I'll cut ye off wi' 
 a shillin'. Wait ! ' 
 
 The old man rose from his chair, crossed the room, 
 and opening a safe which stood in the corner, took there- 
 from a folded paper. 
 
 ' Ye see that ? ' he cried, and faced his son once more. 
 4 Ye see that? It's my will, an' in it I've left ye all 
 I possess. Well,' and he took the paper between both 
 hands, 'here's your chance. Take back your word an' 
 it stands ; say the word an' I flitter it. Come ! ' 
 
 ' Flitter,' said John ; and the will went fluttering over 
 the floor. 
 
 4 It's the last o' ye,' shouted James. ' Take yourself 
 off! I disown ye. Out o' my sight, an' this house ! ' 
 
 But John stood firm, with his back against the door, 
 and his arms still folded. 
 
 ' Very well,' said he, and the words came slowly as 
 from a tongue striving for calmness. ' Very well, I'll 
 
154 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 go. An' may neither o' us rue this day. But I'll say 
 this * 
 
 'Ye'll say nothin'. My solemn curse on ye. Out 
 ye go!' 
 
 John stepped forward. 
 
 'But I will speak, father,' said he; 'for you're unjust. 
 What have I done ? Fell in love wi' a girl. What do 
 I want? Only to marry her. It's true ye dislike her 
 an' hers. Well, can I help that? I wanted nothin' o' 
 ye, only to be left alone. An' now ye curse me, disown 
 me ! Ye might ha' kept your breath to cool your porridge. 
 I'll leave your house in welcome ; an' may your curses 
 
 come back to ' John stopped suddenly. 'No,' he 
 
 went on ; 'I'll not say it ; for cursin' is the work o' the 
 devil. But as the word comes so I take it.' He held 
 out his hand. 'Good-bye.' 
 
 His father turned away. 
 
 ' Ye won't shake hands ? Come, father ; an' may God 
 forgive us. 5 
 
 But the old man said not a word; and the next 
 moment John had turned his back on father and home. 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 155 
 
 II. 
 
 John took his coat from a peg in the hall ; and without 
 more ado (without a glance, even, through the passage door 
 into the kitchen, where, all tearful, stood a little bare-footed 
 figure) went out through the front door. He was home- 
 less now, and penniless ; the wide world was before him. 
 Where should he go ? He looked away across the hills, 
 towards the place where dwelt the maid of his heart, 
 the maid for whom he had just foregone so much. Ah, 
 over there was a friend awaiting him, a friend true as 
 steel, whose own true self was worth all else in the world. 
 All else? All else? His eyes fell on the broad acres 
 lying before him, rich in crop, fat in pasture, dotted with 
 horses and cattle; over there was the orchard, with the 
 sunlight shimmering through the bending branches ; close 
 by, just beyond that hedge, was the garden all trim and 
 gay and bountiful ; behind, was the old homestead, long, 
 white, comfortably old-fashioned. All that was his inheri- 
 tance. In sight of it all he had been born and reared ; it 
 was his, every acre, every stone of it only for Rachel. 
 
 ' Is she worth it all ? Is she worth it all ? ' he 
 asked himself, as, turning, he made straight down the 
 
156 RING O 3 RUSHES 
 
 lawn, and coming presently to a newly-mown meadow, 
 there flung himself on the fresh, cool grass. ' Is she 
 worth it all ? ' he repeated over and over. Yes, yes, his 
 heart answered, she is worth it all, worth the whole 
 world to you, John Hewitt . . . Was he doing wisely ? 
 Would it not have been better to have taken Mary the 
 servant's advice, to have spoken his father fairly, to 
 have thrown himself on his forbearance and forgiveness; 
 at least not so entirely to have ruined his chances ? He 
 had acted impulsively, obstinately. Yes, yes ; but what 
 other way was there ? Wild horses would not move his 
 father ; he hated the Hoeys like poison ; you might as 
 well ask tears from a tombstone as forgiveness from 
 James Hewitt. No, no ; there was no other way ; his 
 bed was made and he must lie on it; for weal or woe 
 the world was before him, empty of all but his own self 
 and that little girl over there beyond the hilltops. Ah, 
 but she was everything, everything ; a bonnie lass, the 
 pride of his heart. She was everything ; let him go seek 
 comfort and consolation at her hands. 
 
 With this great yearning for sympathy close at his 
 heart, John, about nightfall, set out across the Gorteen 
 country, and, in a while, came to a thatched farmhouse set 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 157 
 
 low in the hollow of the hills. A garden, enclosed by 
 a painted fence, and full (just then in the peaceful gloam- 
 ing) of the heavy odours of old-fashioned cottage flowers, 
 lay in front ; and at the gate, soberly clad in a fresh 
 print gown, stood Rachel. Her face lit up at sound of 
 his step and at sight of his wished-for face ; surely 
 a bonnie lass was she, bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, a bright 
 vision, you would have said, for any disconsolate lover 
 cast out into the hollow of an empty world. 
 
 John quickened his stride along the grass path by the 
 orchard hedge ; and, with his hands out, came soon to 
 the little gate and his sweetheart standing there waiting 
 for his greeting. Ah, how glad he was to see her, to 
 hear her voice ; never before had her face shone out more 
 winsome, or her hand clasped his with a warmer pressure 
 of welcome ! His heart was full of a great thankfulness 
 for the gift of her dear presence and love. Ah, it was 
 great, great ; worth all the world, that moment there with 
 Rachel in his arms ! 
 
 Presently he took her hand, led her into the orchard ; 
 and there, under the spreading branches of an old apple 
 tree, sat down beside her. 
 
 ' Well, Rachey,' said he, all suddenly, ' it's come at last/ 
 
158 RING 0' RUSHES 
 
 'What, John?' 
 
 ' The word to go. Father an* myself had a talk this 
 mornin'. We we 'Twas an angry scene.' 
 
 ' Oh, John ! ' 
 
 'Ay, Rachey, my girl, the world's before us. I've 
 nothin' now in the world but you, acushla ; only you, my 
 girl. But it's enough ; isn't it, Rachey ? Eh ? Isn't it ? ' 
 
 Rachel dropped her eyes, and began twisting her ring 
 round her finger. 
 
 1 Yes, John,' answered she; 'I suppose so. But you'll 
 tell me about this affair wi' your father? Who How 
 did it begin ? ' 
 
 Then John ; without referring, just then, to the unfor- 
 tunate visit Mrs. Hoey had paid to his father that day 
 (a visit which, as he well knew, Rachel had neither 
 prompted nor encouraged, but which was simply the 
 well-meant manoeuvre of an anxious mother), and without 
 much exaggeration, for John was a modest man, and 
 no artist in the science of words, told his sweetheart 
 the story of his interview with his father, its beginning, 
 progress, disastrous close. 'It was to be,' said John; 
 'it was to be. I knew surely when Mary when I 
 set foot inside the parlour and saw his face, that it was 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 159 
 
 all over wi' me. It's bein' comin' for months ; didn't 
 I tell him, months back, Rachel, that I wouldn't give ye 
 up, an' didn't he know the kind o' me ? He was only 
 waitin' to see what I'd do. What kind is he at all ? ' 
 
 'Oh, it's all a mistake,' cried Rachel; and John, not 
 heeding, went on. 
 
 ' What kind is he ? ' asked he, and spread his hands. 
 * How could he do such a thing ? His own flesh an' 
 blood ? Turn me out, disown his own son ! For what ? 
 Because I chose my own wife for myself; because I, 
 a grown man, refused to do his biddin'; because you 
 an* yours weren't to his likin.' An' to curse me curse 
 me, his own flesh an' blood ! Ah, may God repay . . . ! ' 
 
 Rachel caught his arm with both hands. 
 
 ' No, no, John,' cried she. ' No, no ! I'm not worth that.' 
 
 ' But ye are,' answered John, his wrath suddenly 
 falling, ' ye are, acushla ; worth all in the world. Never 
 heed, my lass, never heed; let the curses go an' all 
 else wi' them. I've got you, Rachey. Eh, Rachey ? 
 I've got you, an' you've got me ; an' together we'll face 
 the world. Won't we, deary ? Look at me, Rachel ; 
 look at me. Ye do care for me ? ' 
 
 Rachel looked up frankly at him. 
 
160 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 'Ye needn't ask that, John,' said she. 4 Ye know 
 I'd go to the ends o' the earth for ye. Only ' 
 
 < Only what, Rachel ? ' 
 
 Her eyes fell again. 
 
 ' Only, ye know, John, I don't like this between you 
 an' your father. It's wrong.' 
 
 ' Let that go,' said John, and took her hand in his. 
 4 Let that go ; 'twas to be. We'll manage, never fear. 
 I'll work the hands off me to serve ye. We'll manage ; 
 maybe in a year or two I'd have more land an' better 
 than what's gone.' 
 
 4 Oh, it's not that, John ; it's not that. I don't mind 
 
 the loss, or what's before us, or It's not that. It's 
 
 your being sent away, sent away wi' a curse on ye. It's 
 this between you an' your father ; it's because Pm the 
 cause of it all. Oh, it's wrong, it's wrong ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, whisht, Rachel ; whisht ! Woman dear, it's 
 nothin'. Sure ye wouldn't have me give ye up ? Eh ? 
 Would ye have me put father an' the land an' the rest 
 all before you ? Eh, Rachey ? ' 
 
 ' No, no ; but it's wrong, wrong. John, it mustn't 
 be ; it won't be ; sooner than have such a thing on my 
 soul, I'd go I'd go an' never see ye again.' 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 161 
 
 ' Never see me again ? ' repeated John. He caught 
 her face between his two hands, turned it to him and 
 looked straight into her eyes. ' What's all this, Rachel ? ' 
 he asked. 
 
 ' I mean it, John.' 
 
 4 Ye mean what ? ' 
 
 ' I won't come between you an' your father, John ; 
 I won't have ye cursed an' turned out of home. Oh, 
 can't ye see, can't ye see how foolish, an' miserable, an* 
 wicked it all is ? Can't ye see how sorry ye would be 
 before long, an' how angry ye'd be wi' me, an' the struggle 
 we'd have, the misery ? ' 
 
 John drew back his hands. 
 
 4 Ah, that's it,' he said, and, as lovers will (particularly 
 your hot-headed kind), quickly changed from sweet to 
 bitter ; ' that's it ! You're afraid to face the world wi' me, 
 afraid o' the struggle an' misery. This is what ye care 
 for me ! ' 
 
 4 John,' said the girl, * don't be angry wi' me ; try to 
 see things as I do. God knows, my heart is sore ; but 
 but there's no other way. Ye know ye know how I 
 care for ye, more than heaven an' earth. Ye know the 
 sore, sore trial it is to me to have to say this.' 
 M 
 
162 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 * No, I don't/ cried John ; ' I know no such thing. 
 I've given up all for your sake ; I come to ye for help 
 an' comfort ; an' ye turn from me turn from me.' 
 
 ' I don't, I don't. I want ye to do right an' to do 
 right myself. Oh, surely, surely, John, there's some 
 other way ? Surely in time your father would see, an' 
 forgive me, an' take the curse off ye ? ' 
 
 John jumped up, caught her hands, and pulled her to her 
 feet. 
 
 ' See here, Rachel,' said he; 'let's understand each 
 other. You've heard what I've told ye. Ye know 
 father ; ye know me ; ye know that whatever happens 
 I'll not lower myself by goin' to him now for forgiveness. 
 Are ye afraid ? Or are ye goin' to give me up ? ' 
 
 ' I won't do wrong, John.' 
 
 ' Answer ! Will ye marry me, or will ye not ? ' 
 
 'John, I can't I can't!' 
 
 John dropped her hands ; turned and looked out across 
 the hills the hills which but a few hours before had 
 shone so hopefully, and which now lay black beneath the 
 hopeless night. Just to think of it ! Over there, a lost 
 inheritance ; at his back, a faithless, heartless sweetheart ; 
 there, under the pitiless sky, himself, homeless and friend- 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 163 
 
 less ! And this was the end ? Good God ! He turned 
 and stretched out his arms. 
 
 ' I give ye one more chance,' he cried. ' Rachel 
 Hoey, as I am, will ye marry me ? ' 
 
 There came back for answer only a broken sob ; and 
 mastered by black anger, John flung the reins to his 
 tongue. This was the end of all. So much for women's 
 word and vows ! Oh, but it had long been coming. She 
 never cared for him. She had long wished to give him 
 the go-by. Did he not see it ? Who had sent her 
 mother to anger his father and bring things to a climax ? 
 Ah, ah ! Let her whisht ! 
 
 ' Ye needn't talk,' cried John, this angry, foolish John. 
 ' I know ye sent her. Ye want me to go. Well, I'll 
 oblige ye. From this night ye see my face no more. 
 Ye hear that ? An' you've done it, Rachel Hoey, mind 
 ye. Of your own will ye've done it. Ah, the fool I 
 was to trust your false, fickle face ! May God forgive 
 ye ; may God forgive ye ! ' 
 
 And with that John turned, and closing his ears to the 
 pitiful cry which came to him from the lover's seat beneath 
 the old apple-tree : * Oh, John, John, come back come 
 back ! ' went out wrathfully into the night. 
 
 M 2 
 
164 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 III. 
 
 For long, in that night of misfortune, John wandered 
 aimlessly through the silent fields ; now cursing his fate, 
 now muttering dark vows of vengeance, now, as the 
 monstrous demon of his anger tore at his breast, shouting 
 fiercely and shaking his clenched hands at the solemn 
 stars ; at last, near the time of dawn, found himself in the 
 yard of his father's house. 
 
 For a moment his anger went. How came he there ? 
 he thought. He had no right now to a stone beneath his 
 shoe in that yard ; what devil of torture had led his feet 
 thither ? With an oath, he turned and slowly went down 
 the lane towards the road ; then, at the gate, remembering 
 that at least he had a right to his own, wheeled suddenly 
 back, boldly crossed the yard, and lifted the latch of the 
 kitchen door. 
 
 Much to his surprise the door yielded. Very cautiously 
 (for all his angry boldness) John stepped on tip-toe into the 
 kitchen. Not a sound was there ; not a sound as he 
 opened the passage door and slipped up the stairs. Oh, 
 home of John Hewitt's childhood, thus to have him enter 
 you and, like a thief, go slinking for his own ! You were 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 165 
 
 born there, John ; there your mother died ; there your 
 father sleeps, whose face you have vowed nevermore to 
 see: through the long days of your youth and early 
 manhood it sheltered you : now, like a thief, you glide 
 through it, and only that little despised Mary up in her 
 bare attic has ear or care for you ! And it is all for the 
 sake of a maiden a maiden who has turned from you, my 
 poor angry outcast ! 
 
 Once in his room, John quickly changed his clothes, 
 took his little store of money from a drawer, and noise- 
 lessly (for all his anger and bravery) started downstairs. 
 On the landing he passed his father's door. It was open, 
 and he peeped in. The dawn had come, pale and ghostly; 
 there by the wall his father lay asleep. He could see the 
 old white head ; the texts on the wall ; the open Bible 
 on the dressing-table, with the spectacles lying across the 
 leaves ; the shelf above the bed, with its scanty stock of 
 books and long rows of medicine bottles. 
 
 The demon plunged in John's breast. How could his 
 father sleep there so calmly and his own son an outcast in 
 the world, a friendless, angry outcast, obliged to sneak like 
 a thief in search of his own ? Oh, it was damnable ! On 
 tip-toe John entered. Black anger was on his soul. The 
 
166 RING O* RUSHES 
 
 demon was shouting Vengeance. There, there snug and 
 asleep, lay the cause of all his trouble. Vengeance, ven- 
 geance ! cried the demon ; now, now is your time. A 
 sudden blow, a sudden swift . . . 
 
 The first ray of sunlight shot across the dark counter- 
 pane, and turned to the colour of blood there before the 
 young man's eyes. Blood 1 Murder ! The word was 
 blazoned all round the room. His hands flashed red 
 before his face. With a cry as of a stricken animal, he 
 turned swiftly, ran down, and out of the house. 
 
 And soon after, a little black figure also went out and 
 followed in his footsteps. 
 
 Hardly knowing whither he went, and not much caring, 
 John made across the fields, and before long struck the 
 Bunn road. The sun was risen ; its strong, fresh rays 
 smote him with utter weariness ; presently, he broke 
 through a hedge, stretched himself in the shade of a hay- 
 cock, and soon was fast asleep. And close by, that little 
 figure in black watched and waited. 
 
 About mid-day John woke, sat awhile in deep thought 
 (thinking, no doubt, though as yet with no veiy lively 
 horror, of that horrible temptation which but a few hours 
 before had come to him) ; at last rose, and once more took 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 167 
 
 to the road. He was hungry and weary ; the day was 
 bright and gracious, but left him spiritless ; in his breast 
 anger was already nigh dispossession before the stress 
 of a fine spirit of recklessness. An hour or two brought 
 him to Bunn town, climbing white and straggling up from 
 the tumbling river ; and there quickly he sought meat and 
 drink. 
 
 At that time a disastrous war was draining these islands 
 of its manhood ; and through most of our towns (through 
 those, at all events, which, like Bunn, boasted a barracks 
 among its public buildings) recruiting sergeants stalked 
 proudly in scarlet and ribbons. That day, the quick eye 
 of the Bunn sergeant, as he sat in the bar-parlour of the 
 Diamond Hotel, winding his silver tongue into the dull ear 
 of some hillside yokel, fell upon our outcast sitting forlorn 
 over his meal in the corner. Here was his man, thought 
 he ; soon, having hooked his innocent, was busy spreading 
 the roll of glory before the listless eyes of John. Ah, 
 the army was the place for your strong, clever fellow, your 
 well-educated, handsome, big fellow ; nowhere was pro- 
 motion quicker or surer, particularly then in times of war ; 
 the life was noble, healthy ; the girls ran wild after you. 
 
 4 1 say, sergeant,' John broke in ; ( leave the girls alone, 
 
i68 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 my son ; ye'll not tempt me wi' them. Damn them ! 
 say I.' 
 
 The sergeant looked hard at John ; then smiled know- 
 ingly to himself, called for more drink, and went on 
 with his skilful tappings on the drum of Glory. Ah, 
 the sport soldiers had, the free and easy life ; no cares, 
 no troubles, plenty of food and drink, plenty of devil- 
 ment; and, at the end, a glorious return to friends and 
 home. 
 
 ' Never mind that either, sergeant,' said John. ' There's 
 no home for me now, nor friends. Pm done wi' them, 
 damn them one an' all 1 Divil cares ! Out wi' your 
 shillin', my son, an' pass the liquor.' 
 
 So John took the shilling ; and at sight of it lying bright 
 in his palm, an idea came to him, a brilliant idea, he was 
 sure (as, indeed, it was bound to be, being born of anger 
 and recklessness and the fumes of recruiting whisky) ; one 
 which made him slap his leg, and laugh loud, and vow with 
 an oath that the army was soon to receive a thundering 
 comical dog. 
 
 'Easy a while, sergeant,' said he; 'take another glass 
 till I write a scrape. Hi, there! More drink, an' that 
 paper an' ink as fast as ye can. Now easy, my son, easy ; 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 169 
 
 I'll not be a tick, for the words are on the tip o' my 
 tongue. Whisht now, an' don't spoil sport,' said John, 
 as, spreading his elbows and calling to his face a smile of 
 supreme satisfaction, he began a letter ; presently finished 
 it, and with the shilling enclosed it in an envelope. 
 
 6 Now, sergeant,' said he, as with a great flourish he 
 finished the address on the cover; 'now, my son, I'm 
 ready. Ye see that letter? Well, that's the finest joke 
 I ever made, the veiy finest. (God forgive him, how often, 
 afterwards, when lying weary and home-sick under foreign 
 skies, did he think with wondering shame of that heartless 
 joke.) Boys, when that comes to the right place it'll make 
 the man dance wi' rage. Och, och, but Irishmen are the 
 play-boys, full o' fun they are. Look here, sergeant ; 
 this mornin' at daybreak But no matter, that's all gone. 
 I don't care a bucky now for all the fathers in Ireland ! 
 No more drink ? Come on ! Well, well, then ; off we go 
 off for death or glory.' 
 
 So the two swaggered out ; and halfway down Main 
 Street, just as John was turning into the post office, a little 
 figure in black ran from a shop door and caught John by 
 the arm. 
 
 ' Aw, sir, sir,' cried Maiy, the servant ; ' ye haven't 
 
170 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 done it ? Ye haven't 'listed ? Och, don't say it ! It'll 
 brek me me Och, no ! ' 
 
 The sergeant laughed knowingly, and turned away ; he 
 was used to scenes like that. 
 
 ' Ay, Mary,' answered John ; ' Pm off off to the wars, 
 my girl. The morrow or next day '11 see me in scarlet 
 red. But what brings you here, Mary?' 
 
 Mary's eyes fell. 
 
 'Ah,' said she, 'I I Master sent me a message. 
 Ah no, sir,' she went on hurriedly ; ' ah no ; don't leave 
 us ; don't, sir. The master '11 forgive ye. Come back, 
 sir. Ah do, for God's sake ! ' 
 
 John laughed down at the serious little face. 
 
 ' No, no,' said he ; ' there's no forgiveness for me now, 
 
 an' I want none. Good-bye, Mary, an' Look here, 
 
 take this letter to father. Just give it him, an' say nothing. 
 Good-bye, Mary ; safe home, an' God be with ye.' 
 
 4 Ah, no, no, sir ! Ah, no, no ! I can't bear it. Ah, 
 God ha' mercy ! He's gone, he's gone, an' niver, niver 
 will I see his face again. Ah, Mister John, Mister John, 
 come back to me, come back ! ' 
 
 But John went on gloriously up Barrack Hill. 
 
 Some time that same day, a tax-cart, driven by an old 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 171 
 
 man, as it turned off into the Bunn road, was met by 
 a young girl. Quickly she stepped from the side-path 
 and snatched at the reins. 
 
 ' Mr. Hewitt/ said she, ' is John at home ? ' 
 
 The old man looked down into the girl's pitiful face, 
 all pale and worn with weeping. So this was John's 
 sweetheart; this was the lass who had made him curse 
 John, and disown him, and turn him from home. A 
 
 bonnie lass she was, a bonnie . But John, where 
 
 was John ? 
 
 4 No, my lass,' answered he, ' he's not at home. But 
 you surely you ? ' 
 
 ' No, no,' cried Rachel ; ' he left me last night, left 
 
 me in anger. He said he'd never Oh, sir, where 
 
 is he ? ' 
 
 The old man took his eyes from Rachel's face and 
 looked slowly across the sun-lit fields. Was he too late ? 
 he asked himself. Was his repentance too late ? Was 
 God now punishing him for his hardness and anger ? 
 Was John gone ? Ah, that dream which had come to 
 him at dawn that morning ! His mind was full of it. 
 For the hundredth time that morning, he saw again that 
 pleading figure stand by his bed-foot, stretch out its hands 
 
172 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 imploringly ; then turn from him, and with a great cry hurry 
 from the room. And he had lain there in his obstinacy, 
 nor moved a finger at the bidding of a righteous God ! 
 And now ? 
 
 He looked again at Rachel. 
 
 * God knows, my lass/ said he. ' God knows where 
 John is. But come ; jump up, maybe we'd both find 
 him.' 
 
 So these two, John's father and his sweetheart, drove 
 on together towards Bunn ; and halfway there Maiy, the 
 servant, stopped them, and delivered John's letter. 
 
 Very deliberately for there was something like dread 
 on his heart the old man put down the reins and 
 tore open the envelope. A coin dropped out, jingled on 
 the bottom of the cart, rolled out upon the road, and was 
 picked up by Mary, the servant. Slowly the old man read 
 the letter ; then, without a word, handed it to Rachel. 
 
 Dear Sir, she read. before you kicked me out of 
 your house you sivore to cut me off with a shilling, ^j- 
 / am sure you 'would begrudge me even that, and as I have 
 no wish to be beholden to you for anything, I herewith 
 enclose twelve pence sterling, being the amount which you 
 
THE SPLENDID SHILLING 173 
 
 have decided to leave me under the terms of your new will. 
 I may add that the money has just been handed to me by one 
 James Brown, recruiting sergeant of one of Her Majesty s 
 Regiments of Foot. No receipt is necessary. 
 
 Tours, JOHN HEWITT. 
 PS. Tou will never see my face again. 
 
 ' Never see his face again ? ' cried Rachel. ' Never ! ' 
 
 ' Niver see him again ? J cried Mary, the servant, and 
 clutched her shilling hard. ' Is that what Mister John 
 says ? Aw, dear Lord, dear Lord ! ' 
 
 The old man picked up the reins and turned for home. 
 
 ' Never see him again ? ' said he, as if to himself. 
 ' Never see his face again ? ' 
 
 And they never did; for in the wars John's portion 
 was not glory. 
 
THE EMIGRANT 
 
 SHE leant out of the carnage window and saw the 
 van-door close ; then called to the porter if her box 
 were safe and sound. 
 
 ' Aw, ay,' said he, and slouched up, wiping the wet 
 from his hand on his corduroys ; ' aw, ay ; it'll follow 
 ye safe to Clogheen, anyhow. Good-bye ; an' God 
 speed ye ! ' 
 
 ' Good-bye,' she said, and gave him her hand. ' But 
 aren't the rest o' ye comin' ? ' she called. 
 
 The stationmaster came and gave her a parting word ; 
 then two or three town loiterers ; then the stationmaster' s 
 wife, with a shawl over her head, and picking her way 
 through the puddles ; last of all came a man the girl's 
 father, one could see running stiffly, and glancing back 
 often at the horse and cart standing forlorn outside the 
 gate. 
 
 * Good-bye, Mary,' he said; 'an' God be with ye, me 
 
THE EMIGRANT 175 
 
 girl.' He held her hand for a second or two, and his lips 
 kept moving whilst she answered bravely. 'Ye'll write 
 from New York ? ' 
 
 ' I will aw, at once.' 
 
 ' Do don't keep us waitinV he said ; then stood back 
 with the others, and blinked at the driving rain. She 
 pulled a handkerchief from a battered brown hand-bag, and 
 nervously wiped her lips. 
 
 ' Ah,' called she, ' ye all thought yes'd see me cryin'. 
 Ah, I tricked ye rightly.' 
 
 ' Ah, no,' answered the porter ; ' we knew ye'd be brave.' 
 
 'Ay, ay/ assented the rest, and shifted their legs; 
 ' ay, ay.' 
 
 ' Away ye go,' shouted the guard. The engine shrieked ; 
 Mary shook out her handkerchief and called good-bye ; 
 her friends waved an arm : she had started for the States. 
 
 'They thought I'd cry,' said she, as she sat back and 
 fell to plucking at the fingers of her woollen gloves. 
 ' They thought I'd cry och, no ! ' 
 
 She was brave ; yet her lips were quivering, and her 
 eyes were turned mournfully on the fields and hedges, 
 and the cottages here and there shining white through the 
 grey drift of the rain. 
 
176 RING O> RUSHES 
 
 fc We'll soon be at it,' she said presently. 'Ah, Lord, 
 the day it is ! An' the state I'm in ; och, och.' She 
 stooped and wrung the water from her bedraggled skirt. 
 4 An' me hair that tattered ; aw, it's shockin' ! But I 
 didn't cry,' she said, and flashed her black eyes at me. 
 4 Och, no. Whisht, we're gettin' near it. Aw, there 
 it is ; there they are ! Good-bye, muther ! Good-bye, 
 Patsey ; an' Johnny ; an' Lizzie ! Good-bye, all ! ' 
 
 I stood up, and over her hat caught a glimpse of the 
 group gathered on the street before the cottage : the 
 mother in her night-cap, the children bare-legged, all 
 waving their arms and caps, and crying their fare- 
 wells. 
 
 4 Good-bye,' cried Mary back through the rain ; ' och, 
 good-bye ! ' 
 
 That was the last of them she would see, she said, as 
 she sat down again, the last, till the Lord knew when. 
 She was for the States ? asked some one. Ah, she was ; 
 she could get work there ; she could do nothing at home. 
 Sure, it was better to go than to be a burden on them all. 
 Ah, yes ; she had been out before, an' had come home 
 to settle, but but, and her handkerchief went fast to 
 her lips well, things had turned out troublesome. She'd 
 
THE EMIGRANT 177 
 
 do better out there ; there were too many at home, 
 and her mother was poorly. Ah, an', sure, times were 
 shockin 5 bad. 
 
 ' Ay, ay, 5 the men went in chorus ; ' they are, they 
 are ; ' then looked mournfully at her red cheeks, and 
 from one to another passed the word that she was a brave 
 girl, so she was ; a brave girl, and God speed her, said 
 they, as one by one they went out clumsily at Glann 
 station, and left Mary and me together. 
 
 It was fair-day at Glann ; therefore did the train settle 
 itself by the platform for a long rest. 
 
 6 The guard mebbe's gone to see the fair,' said Mary ; 
 and I laughed, stamped vigorously (for it was cold) across 
 the carriage floor, wiped the window, and looked out. 
 
 Down the further bank of the railway, along a narrow 
 path which had started beyond the fields somewhere near 
 the town, was coming a little procession of six men, 
 bearing a coffin on a rough hurdle made of ash poles. 
 The men were bare-headed ; a single bunch of wild flowers 
 lay atop the streaming coffin ; there were no mourners, 
 nor anywhere could one see any sign of sorrow or curiosity. 
 They came on down, the men with their pitiful burden, 
 crossed a track, came to a siding, slid the coffin into 
 
 N 
 
178 RING O* RUSHES 
 
 a fish-van, shut the door, pulled their soft felt hats from 
 their pockets, mopped their faces ; then took shelter behind 
 the van and lit their pipes. There wanted only a bottle to 
 make the scene complete, and I was confidently watching 
 for it, when right at my elbow arose a great sobbing. 
 
 ' Aw, aw,' cried Mary ; ' did ye see ? Did ye see ? 
 Och, what a way to be tr'ated ! An' such a day for 
 a buryin' ! All out in the wet the wet an' the cowld. 
 Aw, poor crature ! Aw, muther, muther, ye'll die, ye'll 
 die ! I'll niver see ye again, nor father, nor no one. Aw, 
 it's cruel to lave ye. I'll go back ; I'll go back ! ' 
 
 Her sobs were pitiful. Loiterers began to gather round 
 the door. It was only a poor girl going to America, 
 I explained; they would pity her, I was sure. Ah, 
 they would, said they, and went; all but one, a big, 
 sunburnt fellow dressed in rough tweed, who came for- 
 ward and asked my leave. For what ? Ah, he knew 
 the girl ; came in, went over and laid a rough hand on 
 Mary's shoulder. 
 
 4 Ah, don't,' she said. ' I'll go home, I'll go home.' 
 
 ' What ails ye, Mary, at all ? ' said he, and shook her 
 again. 
 
 She turned. 
 
THE EMIGRANT 179 
 
 4 Ah, God A 'mighty ; James ! ' she cried ; and her tears 
 went. * It's you ? Where are ye goin' ? What brings 
 ye ? Who towld ye ? ' 
 
 James sat down heavily, and began beating his boot 
 with his stick. Ah, he'd been to the fair, had sold 
 early, was waiting for a train to take him home. 
 
 ' Where are ye goin' ? ' he said over his shoulder. 
 ' What wur ye bleartin' about ? ' 
 
 Mary hung her head and did not answer. 
 
 ' Where are ye goin' ? ' he said again. 
 
 She looked up at him quickly, almost defiantly. 
 
 'To the States.' 
 
 He nodded ; began again the tattoo on his boot ; and 
 before another word came the train had started. 
 
 ' We're goin',' said Mary. ' Hurry an' say good-bye, 
 or they'll shut ye in.' 
 
 ' No matter,' he answered ; 'I'll stay where I am.' 
 
 The maid sat apart from the man, and answered his 
 abrupt, mannerless questions as bravely as she might. 
 
 Why was she going ? Ah, he knew ; there was no 
 need to ask. 
 
 Why had she not told him ? Better not ; what was 
 the use ? All was over between them. 
 
 N 2 
 
i8o RING O* RUSHES 
 
 The man eyed her wonderingly. Over ? he repeated. 
 Over ? Did she not know he was ready to make it up, 
 and to do his best ? Ay, yes, she knew ; still 
 
 Still, what ? It was better to go, she said, and looked 
 tearfully out at the flying fields. 
 
 Yes, it was better to go ; I agreed with Mary. He 
 was a lout, for certain ; a good-for-nothing, by all 
 chance. She would lose nothing by leaving him. There, 
 there, sitting beside her, was the trouble about which 
 she had spoken. She had come home to settle down 
 with him; but things had been troublesome. Ah, yes. 
 One knew it all. He had been easy-going and lazy; 
 wanted things to turn up; felt no inclination to hurry 
 into married cares. Aw, sure, he could wait a while ; and 
 if he, then Mary. Something like that it had been ; any- 
 how, Mary had not settled. They had quarrelled, and 
 now she was leaving him for better or worse. She was 
 wise. Had the man no bowels ? Had he nothing for 
 her but hard questions and pitying looks ? Would he 
 not, before he went, say one kind word to this girl who 
 had trusted in his word and manhood, and finding them 
 wanting was now leaving him for ever? Did there not 
 some golden memory linger about his heart ? Not one. 
 
THE EMIGRANT 181 
 
 He was wooden to the core. He would sit on there, 
 tapping his boot and staring at his big freckled hands, 
 neither hurt nor sorry, but just wondering that a girl 
 could be such a fool ; the train would stop, and with 
 a nod and a flabby shake of the hand, he would take 
 himself out into the rain. And good riddance 1 
 
 The train slowed ; Mary's lips began to quiver. The 
 train stopped ; I gathered in my legs, so that the fellow 
 might pass without touching me. He raised his head 
 and looked out at the sky. 
 
 ' Ah, I may as well g'wan to the junction/ he 
 drawled ; ' it'll be all the same ; one could do nothin' 
 such a day, anyhow.' 
 
 ' Yis,' said Mary, and not cheerlessly. ' Sure, ye may 
 as well.' 
 
 We sat silent all the way to Clogheen, and there we 
 parted : Mary, so it was set down, to catch a train North, 
 James one back home, and I to do my work in the town. 
 
 Two hours afterwards I met the two in the rain-swept 
 streets, and in my surprise stopped short before them. 
 Mary looked up and laughed. 
 
 4 Ah,' said she, ' I'm here yit; that train went without 
 me.' 
 
182 RING O 1 RUSHES 
 
 'Oh,' said I; 'that's very bad; why, the next won't be 
 
 here for hours? And you're drenched? But but ' 
 
 and I looked at James as he stood, slightly flushed and 
 dripping wet, blankly staring across the street. 
 
 'Ah, yis,' Mary answered. 'James missed his, too; 
 Pm not goin 5 at all ; sure, we've made it up.' 
 
 I put my watch slowly back into my pocket and nodded. 
 
 ' James has promised me,' she went on, and her eyes 
 fell ; ' an' we're goin' to get marr'ed come harvest-time ; 
 an' he'll try hard for a place at the big house above. An' 
 an' God knows, sir, I'm not sorry, for me heart was 
 sore at lavin' home.' 
 
 They knew their own business best; but there fell 
 an awkward silence, so I asked James concerning his 
 prospects. Did he see his way clearly ? 
 
 Ah, he did ; and began tapping his boots. Sure, there 
 was always a way if one could only wait till it came. 
 ' Isn't she better here, anyway, whatever comes,' said he, 
 and gave me a moment's glimpse at his face, 'than out 
 yonder wid the strangers ? Sure, 'twas madness av her 
 to think o' it ; sure, Providence sent me to Glann fair.' 
 
 Providence ? And had Providence sent also that dismal 
 procession to the fish-van, that Mary might see it and sob 
 
THE EMIGRANT 183 
 
 for her friends, and her James, and the home of her 
 heart ? 
 
 ' And you, Mary ? ' I asked. * Are you quite satisfied ? ' 
 
 4 Ah, yis,' said she, mournfully. 'Ah, I hope so/ 
 
 I took her into a shop and bought her a little wedding 
 gift a silver brooch, shaped like a harp and set with 
 green marble ; then wished them more happiness than 
 I ever hoped they would have, and went my way. 
 
 Three hours afterwards saw me at Clogheen station 
 again ; and there was Mary, standing dejected by her 
 little yellow box. 
 
 ' Not gone home yet, Mary ? ? I asked. 
 
 Her handkerchief fluttered out. 
 
 ' No-o, sir. I was lookin' for ye. I I wanted to 
 give ye back this ; ' and she held out the brooch. ' I'll 
 niver wear it. Och, it's all over. I I'm goin' on to 
 catch the ship.' 
 
 It was well. I determined that this time neither 
 Providence nor emotion should hinder her going. 
 
 4 Ah, no,' she sobbed ; ' 'twas only foolishness. Me 
 heart was sore at lavin' them all ; an' the sight o' that 
 coffin an' James comin' like that Och, I cudn't bear it ! 
 But 'twas foolish av me ; it's better for me to go.' 
 
184 RING O 3 RUSHES 
 
 I took the brooch, pinned it on her jacket, and spoke 
 a foolish word or two by way of comfort. She would, 
 I hoped, wear it for my sake, if not for ... 
 
 ' Aw, sir,' she burst out, ' if he'd only been steady ? 
 For I liked him well. Och, och ! ' 
 
 She turned and looked down the platform ; there sat 
 James, drunk and asleep. 
 
A BEGGAR'S BENEFIT 
 
 ALL day long Phelim had piped enticingly from the 
 sidewalks and longingly from the thresholds of 
 the citizens ; and now, the fair being over and people 
 thinking of home, Phelim had pocketed his tin whistle 
 and, in the market-place before Lismahee town-hall, stood 
 within a ring of admirers preparing to give his farewell 
 performance. 
 
 'Gather up, gather up, me sons an' daughters,' he 
 shouted, and shook himself inside his rags. i Come and 
 hear ould Phelim for the last time for a whole month. 
 Come, childer, come. Gather up, gather up. Is jaynius 
 to whistle to the winds an' die for lack of bread ? Aw, 
 pity the poor blind,' he whined with a sudden change of 
 tone. ' Och, pity the poor blind. Long I've travelled, 
 hard I've wrought this day. Up to heaven I cry : Och, 
 pity the poor blind! ' 
 
186 RING O' RUSHES 
 
 The wheedling whine of him, so humorously pitiful, 
 came shrill through the street ; at sound of it, you could 
 see men's hands go quick to their pockets, and them- 
 selves press through the crowd to get a nearer look at 
 the old beggar, standing there blind and helpless within 
 the ring, crying shrilly up to heaven for pity for the poor 
 blind. 
 
 ' Pity poor ould Phelim,' he cried; and, placing his 
 hands atop his staff, waited eagerly for his appeal to bring 
 the pence rattling into the battered hat that rested before 
 him on the stones. 
 
 A fine head he had (he was a schoolmaster once in 
 the days before blindness and beggary), and strong regular 
 features; his long yellow-white hair streamed back from 
 his brow and fell curling on his drooping shoulders ; 
 a tattered frieze coat (caught at the waist with a cord) 
 hung round him almost to his feet, and part covered a dog 
 which lay on the stones, its head resting across Phelim's 
 shoes. 
 
 ' Pity poor ould Phelim,' he wailed ; then suddenly 
 found his natural voice. ' I don't hear them coppers 
 tumblin' in,' he said sharply to those around him. ' How 
 many hours longer are ye goin' to keep me, when a penny 
 
A BEGGAR'S BENEFIT 187 
 
 among six o' ye 'd start me ? Come, boys, be Irishmen. 
 Sure the blood o' ye* loathes meanness. Rattle them in, 
 me sons. That's right. Never heed the ould beaver ; like 
 meself it '11 stand a power o' batterin' from money. I 
 wish to glory it was full o' bank notes. It's meself 'd 
 scatter ribs o' beef among ye, an' stand for the county 
 next election. Did I hear a penny fallin' then ? Or was 
 it only a jingle in some miser's pocket? Come, lads, 
 come. That's right. One more? Hurroo. Another? 
 Heart o' mine, it's rainin' them now. What/ and 
 Phelim turned his face towards the sky, 'is the shower 
 over ? Well, well. Och, pity the poor blind ! 9 he 
 whined as he stooped and groped for his hat; lifted it, 
 and coin by coin counted his takings into a dirty wallet. 
 
 4 Whisht,' he would say as the coppers dropped ; 
 ' there goes another, makin' ffteen o' them all ha'pence, 
 as me father was a king ! Sixteen, as I'm a sinner ! 
 Wonders '11 niver cease. Nineteen. Will there be twenty ? 
 Och, will there be twenty ? Wait. Aw, there is, there 
 is. Twenty-three. Will there be two shillings or will 
 there not ? Two shillings did I say ? Och, I forget ; 
 an' them all ha'pence. Ah, childer dear, Irelan's gone 
 to pot. Only twenty-nine this blessed day. Twenty-nine 
 
i88 RING O' RUSHES 
 
 ha'pence from such a crowd ! Och, och. An' on such 
 a day, wi' the sun pourin' down on 'me poor ould skull. 
 Well, childer, dear forgive ye ; an* in case the stony 
 hearts o' any o' ye wid chance to melt, there's the ould 
 caubeen on the stones again ready for all it '11 get. A<w, 
 pity the poor blind ! ' he whined again as he stooped and 
 set the hat beside the dog; then straightened himself 
 and raised his face. 
 
 * Stand back from me there,' cried Phelim, and 
 swung his staff round the ring. Crowd back an' 
 give me elbow room. Where am I ? Am I in the 
 middle o' the ring ? I am. Well, am I straight under 
 the town clock ? I am. An' tell me, is the purtiest 
 girl in Lismahee right afore me ? Och, is she ? Now 
 don't laugh. Are ye there, Mavourneen ? Well, in the 
 light o' your blessed eyes, ould Phelim '11 sing ye a song 
 not av love an' beauty, aw no jist a wee trifle about 
 meself, out o' me own head. Are ye listenin', Mavour- 
 neen ? Well, now then.' And stretching his hands and 
 plucking at imaginary harp -strings, Phelim sang : 
 
 It's meself is an Irish bard, a pote wild an* free ; 
 I drive my winged Pegaysus hard, an' its flight I accompany 
 Wid my harp, tow-row, wid my harp! 
 
A BEGGAR'S BENEFIT 189 
 
 Will ye whisht till I touch the strings! Keep still as I sing 
 
 my lay! 
 Hish, hish, to the sound o' my muse's wings keepin' time to 
 
 the swing an 1 sway 
 
 Of my harp, tow-row, of my harp 
 
 I sing of trouble an* of joy ; when me spirit 's sad I moan : 
 When times are good I'm a joyous boy : in the house of the 
 dead I groan 
 
 Wid my harp, tow-row, wid my harp ! 
 
 Sometimes on a ditch I sit an* thrum to the passers-by : 
 When the coppers come I'm full o' wit, but I'm sad when 
 they don't, an' sigh 
 
 Wid my harp, tow-row, wid my harp! 
 
 Now and then to a weddin' spree, near to supper-time, I run, 
 An' sing an' play to the company an 1 pass round the hat 
 when I'm done 
 
 Wid my harp, tow-row, wid my harp! 
 
 An* then at election times I'm a patriot fierce an' true; 
 I stir men up wid fiery rhymes (Sure, I'm paid for doin' 
 it, too!) 
 
 Wid my harp, tow-row, wid my harp! 
 
 I perform at markets an' fairs, at dances, too, an' wakes; 
 I'm known by my brow an' flowin' hairs ; an' my voice is 
 grand at shakes 
 
 Wid my harp, tow-row, wid my harp ! 
 
 So here an' there I roam ; up an' down I play an' sing : 
 Wid the grass for bed an* the world my home, of the minstrel 
 boys I'm king 
 
 Wid my harp, tow-row, wid my harp! 
 
190 RING O' RUSHES 
 
 ' Good man, Phelim,' cried the ring, as the old man 
 finished, and, crossing his hands atop his staff, waited 
 for the applause. ' Good man, Phelim.' ' Bully boy.* 
 ' Well sung, me son.' ' Another,' skirled the ring ; ' give 
 us another. Give us Connie Roe. 9 
 
 Phelim raised his staff. 
 
 ' Silence,' he called. 'Silence! Don't be tellin' me 
 what I'm to give ye. Ye'll get just what ye've paid for.' 
 
 'Connie Roe,' went the voices again; 'give us Connie 
 Roe. 9 
 
 ' Will ye whisht there ? * roared Phelim. ' Another 
 cheep from ye an' I'll shake me feet at ye all. Connie 
 Roe, indeed ! Connie Roe for nine an' twenty ha'pence ! 
 Who wants Connie Roe ? ' 
 
 ' Iveryone,' came the roar. 
 
 'Then,' said Phelim, and pointed down at his old 
 beaver, 'rattle in a few more o' the brown boys; make 
 them forty all told, an' I start. Come, who's first? 
 Quick now. Ho, ho, there they go ; pepper the ould 
 caubeen, childer. Keep at it, boys one after another, 
 like Paddy's ducks. Och, pity the poor blind That's 
 the way. Hurroo. Make it fifty an' I'll shout meself 
 hoarse. What! All done? Well, well,' he moaned 
 
A BEGGAR'S BENEFIT 191 
 
 and stooped for the beaver; 'dear send I may die in 
 a ditch an 5 niver see the workhouse. Sure me jaynius 
 won't save me. Will what's there make the number, 
 I wonder ? ' he said, as he groped among the coins 
 and dropped them through his fingers. ' I misdoubt ; 
 but no odds ; I'll trust ye, childer, I'll trust ye.' 
 
 Very skilfully he poured the coins into his wallet ; then 
 drew himself up, ran his fingers through his hair, and in 
 a measured sing-song (intoning you might say) began : 
 
 ' The sorry word flew round the country side that poor 
 ould Connie Roe was dead and gone, dead and gone 
 gone home. Big wi' years was she -peace to her soul / 
 wi' years o' poverty, an' care an' woe. Light lie her 
 bones ! All through the weary years she passed as one 
 whose tongue dropped wisdom, whose life was pure, whose 
 hand was ever stretched to give, when givin' meant 
 the stintin' of herself. Her end was peace. Kind 
 willin' hands were by to soothe her passin' an' send her 
 softly on her way. Peace to her soul ! ' 
 
 The old man bowed his head for a moment in the 
 silence of the market-place; then quicker, less doleful, 
 the chant went on : 
 
 6 An 5 now her neighbours come wi' willin' feet, to sit 
 
192 RING O' RUSHES 
 
 an' smoke, an' sing sad songs; to wail, an 5 howl, an* 
 glorify the dead wi' hideous mockery of the awe of death. 
 I see them now. There in the mud-walled room its 
 rafters bright wi' smoke, the floor of clay, the single 
 window small an' dark, the gloom an' smoke blindin' as 
 sleep there on chairs, on stools, on sods of turf, sit men 
 an' women, old and young, now speakin' tender o' the 
 dead, now laughin 5 wild an' free, now hushed an* still as 
 from ould hags, wi' faces wrung wi' grief, their withered 
 arms stretched out to heaven, goes up the fearful shriekin' 
 wail a wail like spirits cryin' through the night, a wail that 
 thrills wi' dread one's very flesh an' makes the blood run 
 cold. 
 
 6 And in the middle o' the room is set a wooden bier. 
 All plain and rude it is the portion of the poor. The 
 hurdles stand ; rough wood lies loose on top, rough wood 
 below ; above, the candles feebly burn ; see how they 
 flare an' gutter in the smoke, an' throw their glimmer 
 through the flickerin' gloom on throngs of livin' ghosts ! 
 See how the weird light falls on shinin' tins all sparklin' 
 round the walls. The kettle hisses there ; the fire jumps 
 and falls, jumps an' falls ah, jumps an' shows that grue- 
 some thing stretched out between the candles an' the floor 
 
A BEGGAR'S BENEFIT 193 
 
 a thing all shrouded up, all stark an' grim. Ah, God, 
 that senseless shape, that poor ould face so calmly restin' 
 there an' peepin' up so still an' cold so cold. Whisht, 
 the fire falls. Back, back, thou gruesome thing ! Whisht, 
 comes once more the merry laugh, the sharp debate, the 
 horrid wail. See, there again, the heedless groups that 
 give no thought to life or death e'en in the haunt of Death.' 
 
 The old man paused ; the ring pressed closer ; silence 
 held the market-place : quicker the chant went on : 
 
 ' The wake was nearly done ; the pipes were out, the 
 talk grown flat an' dull, the courtin' pairs at last well sick 
 of love ; ould men were fast asleep, the young a-noddin' 
 as they sat; no more the hags gave up their wail, but 
 wagged their hairy chins in senseless talk. 
 
 ' The wake was done ; and yet none liked to go, for 
 out of doors the night was dark and wild. At last one 
 rose, and kicikng o'er his stool, cried out, " Here goes ! " 
 then started for the door ; but goin', stumbled, slipped, and 
 wi' a helpless crash fell on the bier. The candles fell ; 
 up rose the dead ; quick, like a flash, the shroud and 
 head-dress blazed blazed up, flared out, and showed to 
 all a shape that sprang like life, all wrapped in flame 
 sprang up, then fell and rolled out on the floor. And all 
 
 o 
 
194 RING O J RUSHES 
 
 were sure that Connie Roe had come to life to warn them 
 of their sins.' 
 
 Quicker, sharper, went the old man's voice : 
 4 Then came a scene. A panic seized them all. With 
 shrieks, an' yells, an' curses fierce an' loud, half blind wi' 
 fear, half mad wi' dread, the wake made for the door. 
 Look, there they go. Like beasts they go brute beasts 
 and trample other down. The door is shut, fast shut. 
 Hear now, the cries of fear turn quick to yells of pain. 
 Back, back, ye men ; ye cowards, back an' let the women 
 go ! Oh, craven hearts ; oh, coward hearts ; is this your 
 Irish blood ? See, how they fight an' moil like tigers in 
 a den. Man strives with man and man with maid ; now 
 friend is foe and strength is right. Quick, cravens, quick ; 
 that thing is there behind. Quick, cravens, quick ! One 
 frantic rush. There, there ; the wall goes down ; the 
 beasts are free. ... Let then the flames mount high and 
 give dead Connie Roe a martyr's burial. . . . Ah, God, 
 not yet ! Back, cravens, back ! The roof is down, is all 
 ablaze. Hear there that shriek. It comes from one, a 
 young fair girl, fast prisoned in that blazing tomb. Back, 
 back, ye men, and set the living free ! 
 
 < What ! Gone ? All gone ? Oh, hearts of straw 1 
 
A BEGGAR'S BENEFIT 195 
 
 4 Blow then, ye winds, blow hard and lick the flames ; 
 blow hard, and ere the morn strew far and wide the ashes 
 of those two the woman old, and her, the maiden fair, 
 whom cowards left to die. 
 
 ' Peace to their souls ! ' 
 
 O 2 
 
NOTE. Of the preceding stories and sketches, one 
 was first published in The Windsor Magazine; one in The 
 Speaker; one in Chapman's Magazine of Fiction; and the 
 remainder, with three exceptions, in the kindly pages of 
 The Sketch, The Alburn, and The English Illustrated 
 Magazine. 
 
YB 73205 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY