Well, me gran'father, his heart in his eyes, was watchin' Tim Maylowney fumblin' and fixin' careful the cyards (for it was Tim's dale oncet more), and the juntleman, with eyes shut, was lighting his poipe with a sthraw, careless an' slow and paying not a bit of attention to the game, whin me gran'father's conscience plucked him by the sleeve, and it whispered, "Ye're playin' for more than sixpence, and ye're chatin," says it.
Me gran'father turned fierce on his conscience, and he says to it, "Blur an' ages! I'm not chaytin! Isn't it Tim Maylowney that's daleing the cyards? Lave me alone! Are ye my conscience or are ye Mr. Tim Maylowney's? That's what I'd like to know." Without another worrud, he took up the cyards which had just been dealt to him, an' raisin' his right elbow as high as his showlder (a habit he had while runnin' the cyards over betwixt his forefingers and his thumbs), sudden every dhrop of blood in his body rushed up to his head, for tare and 'ounds, there wasn't in his hand a single cyard higher nor the noine spot of clubs and—hearts were thrumps, and Tim himself, the artfulest dealer in Tipperary had dealt them to him.
He flashed a surprised and indignant glare over at Tim Malowney. But Tim sat looking at his own hand, with jaws dhroppin' and eyes bulgin,' starin' as though he were looking at a ghost.
A sickening fear pressed down on me gran'father, and he spread two fingers on the ind of his chin, which was a signal to Tim: "What is the highest cyard in yer hand?" and Tim, with the bewildered face of a man who had been trun from his horse an' is just pickin' himself up off the ground, crooked the third finger of his left hand, and that signal meant: "The highest cyard in me hand is the noine spot of spades."
But lo and behold! the sthrange jook, smiling and ca'm, led out with the ace of hearts and follyed it with the quane; an' he lathered me gran'father's noine spot of clubs with the knave, an' he murdhered Tim Malowney's noine of spades with the ten of thrumps. It wasn't a game at all—it was cowld-blooded murderous robbery, that's what it was.
An' while the juntleman was pullin' over the pile of silver, me gran'father, slow an' careful, raiched undher the table with his foot and med such a savage kick at Maylowney's shins that, if Tim hadn't guv a quick hist to his two legs, faith an' there was one carter who would have wint on crutches for the rest of his life. Before me gran'father could thry it ag'in, the sthranger spoke up jolly an' cajolin': "Oh, well, what's a few shillin's that I should beggar the loikes of you for the loikes of thim! Now listen! I'll give yez yer revenge. I'll put up every penny I've won from ye ag'inst—let's see, what have yez? Oh yes," he concluded, "ag'inst the hats on yer heads. Come, be quick, shuffle the cyards!"
It's no lie I'm tellin' ye! The sthranger won the hats on their heads; an' afther that, without losing a game, the jackets on their backs, their weskits, the brogues on their feet, and every stitch the two could afford to lose an' still go dacint.
And when the pair had put the clothes they had lost in a damp pile on the floor beside the sthranger and were sittin' miserable and shamefaced as a couple of plucked geese, aich in only his undershirt and a pair of knee breeches without stockings or brogues, what does the juntleman do but roar out laughing: "Ho! ho! ho! but yer a foine-lookin' pair!" he screamed, and the rafters shook. "Haven't yez anything else?" says he. But the carters shook their dhroopin' heads.
"Think now," cries the jook, "haven't yez any debts comin' to you? What do ye get for cartin' the bell outside?"
Me gran'father and Tim Maylowney exchanged one quick glance.
"Never mind what it is," says the sthranger ginerously. "By me sowl, I'll put everything I've won against yer wages for cartin' that bell."
In spite of his crushing misfortin', a grin spread over me gran'father's woebegone face, and without another worrud, the three hammered at it again, an' in less than a minute by the clock, the last game was played and the sthranger had won. The last cyard was barely on the table when the jook rose, lookin' very tall an' grand, and he says, "I'll not take yer clothes, though they're mine by right, nor yet yer money, but the music of the bell." (Now mind, no one had mintioned that to him, however he knew.) "The music of the bell," he says, "is mine, and that I'll keep."
As he spoke, there came the swirl and dash of horses in the road outside, and the great shining lamps of the same coach flared past the windys. With his hand on the latch, the jook turned about. "I'll see you all ag'in sometime," he says, "and whin that day comes"—he guv a most ojus smile—"by the powers, we'll have great goin's-on together."
With that—an' it's the thruth I'm tellin' ye—he disappeared through the door without opening it at all, and an unconthrollable shiver an' shudder doubled up everyone in the room, for by that wondherful disappearance, it was aisy known who they had been daleing with. The rain was over, an' the moon had come out in the sky, an' nothin' was left for me gran'father an' Tim but to hitch up Anthony an' Clayopathra an' purceed on their lonesome heavy journey back home.
I'll have yez to aymagine their turror an' disthress. It was three o'clock in the mornin' whin they druve undher the belfry at Ballinderg. Leaving the car with the bell still on it undher the belfry, me gran'father led his tired ponies home. An' it was the sore an' sorrowful luck they brought to Ballinderg. It's little ayther of the two benefactors slept that night.
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Part III
Well, anyway it happened, the next day in the afthemoon was no less a day than Saturday, an' the counthryside gathered about the black, solemn-looking bell where it lay in the cart. The big clapper was wrapped thick in fold after fold of cloth, for fear that, by accident, it might give a sthroke or two, and Father O'Leary had daycided that its first sound should call the people to church Sunday morning.
Afther much histin' an' "hu'hing" an' "ho-hoing"—even a long line of women an' childher put their hands to the ropes—the bell was lifted to the crossbeam, where Joey Hooligan, the smith, hammer in hand, sat straddling the beam, ready to rivet the treasure to its place. And whin Joey's last blow was sthruck, an' the bell swung free an' clear, a proud and jovial shout roused the listening fields. Be-gar, ye'd think someone had freed poor ould Ireland!
"Me childher," says Father O'Leary, turning about, an' the glow of a dozen wax candles seemed to be shining from the inside of his head through his face, "the wish that I have carried in me heart for thirty-one years is rayalized today. Ballinderg has a bell! And I appint Jerry Murtaugh and Tim Malowney to the honor of ringing the bell to call yez all to church tomorrow morning. For," says he with a sly smile, "since they own the music of the bell, by rights they should have its first bestowin'. Don't mind yer clocks, my childher, but start when ye hear the chime."
Everybody crowded round me gran'father an' Tim Maylowney, slappin' thim on the back an' sthrivin' to shake their hands. The hayros tried to be cheerful, but, in spite of all their strained laughin' an' cajolin', a heavy, brooding fear kept scorching their hearts about the dark sthranger an' the music of the bell.
That night, me gran'mother noticed her husband Jerry's throubled face at supper an' waited for him to explain. As he gave no worrud, she misdoubted he'd lost his money gambling, so she waited till the childher were in bed, thin she says to him quite an' aisy, "Where's all yer money, Jerry, agra?" Me gran'mother was surprised an' a thrifle disappointed when the good man dhrew from his breeches pocket eleven shillings tinpence—not a shilling missing. Afther takin' every penny away from the parsecuted man, what did she do but whirl in to cross-question him like a Dublin lawyer. She accused him sarcastic of every crime on the calendar, in the hope that she'd at last hit on the right one. It's little he'd ever say to her in rayply, but from the look on his face, one might think he was under sentence for murder and, weather permittin', would be hung bright an' early in the mornin'.
Little sleep did me unfortunate gran'father get that night ayther. An' every time his eyes closed, he was back on the instant in Paddy Carroll's public house. There was the dark sthranger again, but now, d'ye mind, covered with hair like a black goat, and he had a spi
ked tail on him as long as a carter's whip. The jook was always sitting at a table, shuffling a pack of cyards an' darin' me gran'father to play another game. For answer at last, me gran'father was siddlin' over to give him a good belt, when someone grabbed hould of the poor man an' tould him to get up; it was time to be off to the chapel and ring the bell. "An' what's all this talk ye're havin' in yer sleep about Sattin, an' Paddy Carroll, an' the chapel bell?" axed me suspicious gran'mother.
Afther boultin' in spoonfuls of stirabout, me gran'father, with a face as long as your arrum, started off to the chapel, an' the wrinkled, worried visage Tim Maylowney brought along with him when the two met at the crossroads didn't elevate me gran'father's feelings in the laste.
"You haven't a minute to lose," cried Father O'Leary from the chapel steps. His smile was like a May day. "Isn't it a beautiful morning?" he says, sthriving to be calm. "Now to it, me lads, an' give us a ring that'll be heard over the mountain in Father Nale's parish." Throwing down their hats, the two carters took a good clutch on the rope an' pulled with all their might. And now came the first sign of the dark sthranger's worruk. For though the great bell swung gaily enough to and fro, the sorra sound came out of it any more than if it wasn't there. "Marcy on us, but that's quare," says Father O'Leary, coming forward. "Let me thry a hand with you."
An' thry he did. An' the three swayed an' swayed an' seesawed up an' down till they were red in the face, but the glowering bell only rolled and swung above their heads, sullen and silent as one of the tombstones nearby.
"Go into me stable and bring the ladder," panted Father O'Leary. "That rapscallion Joey Hooligan has done something amiss with the clapper. 'Tis his fault," says his riverence, mopping his forehead. Only too well the pair of carters guessed whose fault it was.
Well, the ladder was brought an' put ag'in the beam; and while me gran'father stidded it with both hands, Tim Maylowney mounted it to find out what was wrong. He'd climbed about halfway up whin, crack, goes the ladder in two in the middle, an' down comes Tim on the top of me gran'father, an' the two went thumping to the ground.
"The Divil's in it!" yelled me gran'father from somewhere undherneath Tim and the ladder, and at thim worruds—tis the truth I'm tellin' ye—the bell gave one loud, jovial clang an' thin stopped short. As the two benefactors struggled to their feet you may well believe every hair on their heads stood up with fright like brustles on a brush.
"One of yez go for that bliggard Joey Hooligan," says his riverence, "and tell him to bring his tools an' a ladder. As it is, we're tunty minutes late," says he, lookin' first rueful at his watch, thin at his broken ladder.
So off me gran'father hurries to the smith's house, half a mile down the Kilcuney road, and as luck would have it—or maybe as Beelzebub had managed—Joey was away; he had gone over to doctor for a cracked heel, Cornaylia, Mrs. Regan's cow; an' she lived a half a mile across the fields. In the meantime, the whole parish of Ballinderg was sitting impatient within their doors, wondhering what was keeping the bell. A dozen of the neighbors had gathered around Mrs. Morrissey's clock to time the bell, bekase it was the most raynowned and rayputable clock in the whole parish.
Mrs. Morrissey was lookin' rayproachful at the clock, blamin' it for being fast, and the systounded clock was ticking as plain as plain could be—"Oh murdher! Oh murdher! What's the matther with the infudels? Why don' they go to church?"—whin Tim Maylowney came galloping breathless and frightened to the door.
"Out, all of yez," cried he. "The bell's broke. Scatter among the neighbors and warn them off to church. Ye're half an hour late."
'Twas in this way the bell scored its first great victory; it made everybody in Ballinderg late for church that Sunday morning.
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Part IV
You may be sure the neighbors needed no second warning. Scatter they did, an' pretty soon the whole parish came sthrealing along, one afther the other, like Darcy's cows. Winding up the hill, they came to where poor Father O'Leary stood despairing undher the belfry.
"It's a punishment, me childher," he says piteous, fumbling with his withered hands. "Take warning! It's a punishment for me sin of pride and glorification over the grandeur of the things of this worruld. Oh, what'll we do at all, at all!—Is that you, Joey Hooligan, you bliggard? What have ye done to the clapper of the bell? Ye've spiled it, that's what ye've done," he cried out to the smith, who was burring up the road with me gran'father, an' they carryin' a ladder betwixt thim.
"I haven't spiled it," says Joey stoutly. "Whin I fastened the bell up yesterday, the tongue wagged back and forth as free an' ready as the tongue of"—he looked about for a comparison—"as the tongue of Mrs. Morrissey there. Stand aside, an' let me put up the ladder till I have a look!" says he.
You may believe me or believe me not, an' I wouldn't blame yez a thimbleful if you didn't—bekase foive hundred men, women, and childher that day rayfused at first to believe their own ears—but it's the truth I'm tellin' ye. Joey Hooligan had no sooner put his foot on the first round of the ladder than the bell, without a hand to the rope, began, not ringing, mind you, but chiming. An' not exactly chimin' ayther, but playin' a chune to the open eyes an' gapin' mouths of Ballinderg.
It was the purtiest chune ever heard. Stirring an' sweet an' urgent. Some way it med one think of the beating of drums an' the clashing of swords, an' of sojers marching out to die.
"Oh!" gasped Father O'Leary. "The Marshal Aise." He covered his eyes with his hands to shut out some vision, an' his face wint gray as the stones.
"The Marshal Aise! The Marshal Aise!" The word was picked up and tossed from one person to another to the furthest varge of the crowd. Sure wasn't that the identical song Father O'Leary heard in the sthreets of Paris whin he was a student there! They played it while they were massacreein' the 'ristocrats an' the clargy.
"O God, have marcy on their sowls!" half-whuspered the good man. "I can see now the gentlest an' the bravest being dragged up to the headsman; an' two of the best an' the thruest friends I ever had smiled goodbye to me from the crowded tumbril!"
Overcome with the raycollection, the priest stopped a moment and thin, lifting to the sky his two hands, cried, "Oh, may the deep curse of Heaven"—he caught himself quick. "What am I sayin'? A minister of God! May God forgive them an' me, too."
Lookin' wistful around, he saw me gran'father's white, scared face with the big dhrops of purspuration standin' on it.
"Don't be frightened, Jerry agra," he says, thremblin'. "There's nothin' at all shupernatural about the bell. We live so far out of the worruld here that we know nothing of the wonderful invintions that are springing up among men like new grass in the meadow. I make no doubt this is one of thim; an' that there's some hidden conthrivance up above the clapper we haven't noticed, an' don't undherstand, that makes the bell ring so. I'll ask Father Murphy about it tomorrow. Oh, mush, mush, you rose-grown hedges an' vine-dhressed hills of France, how far away you've flown! God help us! Come in to yer prayers, good people," he says, broken. "Come in to yer prayers!"
'Twas a sober an' a solemn crowd that afther church wandhered home in groups together, debaytin' an' disputin' as they wint, for the mystification of the congregation led to thraymendous disputaytion.
But nayther me gran'father nor Tim Maylowney joined in the argyfyin' crowds, for well they knew that Sattin, by means of the bell, had timpted even Father O'Leary himself to the sin of hathered an' rayvenge. Off to thimselves together the two slunk, like men who had committed a saycrit crime. When the pair were well out of hearing of anyone else, me gran'father says, bitther, "Well, Maylowney, ye done it this time. What with yer love of the cyards, and yer fondness for pickin' up with sthrangers, ye've been the complate ruinaytion of my repitaytion and the repitaytion of Ballinderg."
The tongue of Malowney was so hot with indignaytion at the whole blame bein' trun on him this a-way that all he could do was to sputther, "Why, thin, bad manners to ye for a slandherous bosthoon! Weren't ye with
yer winks an' yer nods as deep in the mud as I was in the mire?"
"That's nayther here nor there," says me gran'father, coolly waving him away. "Wasn't it you that first planked yerself down at the table before I had a chanst to daycline the jook's inwitation? An' isn't it you that is always a timptation to play with sthrangers, for if ye weren't along, how could I chate thim? It's you that knows well how aisy led I am.
"But heigh-ho, cryin' over spilt milk'll do no good. We've only now to save ourselves an' our repitaytions. Tim, me dacint lad, dhrive down at break of day to Paddy Carroll's an' warn him not to breathe a blessed worrud of what's happened. He's as bad off as we are. Wasn't it himself as had Beelzebub for a customer, an' wasn't it him as let the pair of us be timpted?"
"I would go willingly," answered Tim, "for I make no doubt the bell'll begin its depredaytions foine an' airly Monday mornin', an' what we've just heard will be only a flay bite to what'll happen thin. But," he sez, rubbin' his chin rueful, "you remimber me cousin, Nellie Grogan, is to be married the morn, an' it's needful that all her relaytions should be there to give her rayspect—she's had such har-rd luck with her young men, poor girl. I needen't tell you that when, three years ago, Ned Kerrigan disappinted her and slipped off to be a sojer two days before the weddin', 'twas a cruel blow enough, but whin young McCarthy, the year afther, took the Quane's shillin' within a week of their marriage, the poor lass almost lost courage. Now, thin, thanks be, she's within a day of her weddin' to Shamus McCormick, an' it will never be said that I, the most rayspected of her ralaytions, will rayfuse to ornament the occasion. No, I couldn't think of it; besides, Mrs. Maylowney'd be sure to prevent me from goin' away, no matther how much I wanted to," he sighed.
The Ashes of Old Wishes Page 4