The Ashes of Old Wishes
Page 5
So the long an' short of it was me gran'father consinted to go to Paddy Carroll's, with the undherstandin' that Tim should be waitin' for him in Anthony an' Clayopathra's stable in the evening to make known all that had happened during the course of the day.
At that, the two downcast conspyrators separated, aich to put in the longest Sunday afthernoon of his life.
Every minute of the day, his conscience was a burnin' coal in me gran'father's chest, an' to add aggrawaytion an' turpitation to his misery, the poor man couldn't cross a foot or crook an elbow but he'd feel me gran'mother's two suspicious eyes boring a hole in the middle of his back. Worse than all, he dhreaded the night bekase of an unforchunate habit he had of talkin' in his sleep, and well he knew—for she'd often done it before—that me gran'mother would lay wide awake as an owl to catch every whusper. Women haven't the laste taste of honor about such things. But go to bed he did, and at last into onaisy slumber he fell, but not for long. When he caught me gran'mother asleep and before the sun had a chanst to shake his scarlet jacket above the hill, me gran'father with Anthony an' Clayopathra wor well on their way toward Paddy Carroll's public house.
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Part V
Tim Maylowney was right in his prophesying. Bright an' early Monday morning, the bell began its divilment, and, of course, who should it commence on but Pether McCarthy, the most sinsitive man in the County Tipperary? So suspicious of intintions to insult him was Pether all his life, that one couldn't safely raymark the toime of day in his presence without danger of having the sayin' caught up as an underhanded rayflection on Pether himself or on some of his raylations. But sure, nobody ever thought of insulting the poor man, for the only thing that could be whispered against his charackther was a rumor that an uncle of his father's down in the County Cork—the McCarthy's were all ab-originally Corkonians—was thransported to Van Di'man's Land for stayling sheep.
So now, in the early mornin', as the honest man started for his worruk in the fields, the black wuzzard up in the belfry tower spies him, an' what does the ould target do but sthrike up playin' an ancient, well-known chune called "The Sheep-Stayler's Lament."
Well, at the sound, poor Pether stood pathrayfied in his thracks. Could it be that Father O'Leary himself was making game of him? He gave one wild, horrified look at the belfry up on the hill, hesitated an instant, thin turned ag'in an' hurried back to his house. The unmannerly rapscallion of a bell kept time to his steps with the beat of the chune, an' never let up till the door closed behind Pether—when it stopped suddint! McCarthy waited a little, thin cautiously opened the door, but no sooner had he stuck out his head than the maylodious sthrains of "The Sheep-Stayler's Lament" was heard in every field and cottage for two miles around. That squelched him. The poor lad ventured out no more till he spied from his windy, some two hours afther, the wedding purcession of Nellie Grogan windin' up the hill to the chapel. Bad as was the thratement Pether McCarthy rayceived, it was bread an' treacle to the outrageous welcome that awaited the poor bride.
At the head of the purcession, by course, walked Nellie and the groom, while close behind marched Tim Maylowney and his wife, Honoria. In spite of having to wear a neckerchief that was stranglin' him, Tim, the poor man, was thryin' to look happy an' unconsarned, though 'twas himself had the feeling that there was trouble enough an' to spare watching for thim all in the belfry on the top of the hill.
But if Tim was unsartin an' worried, not so with his cousin Nellie, the bride. She laned on the arm of Shamus an' smiled up at him proud an' happy as a June rose.
The neighbors stood in the doorways along the road, waving good wishes at the happy pair, never so much as mentioning to each other the two miscrayants who had run away and left the disappinted bride behind them, all for no better rayson than for the bit of temper that was born in her.
Jokin' an' cavortin' an' with ribbons fly in', the happy party arrived at the foot of the hill lading up to the churchyard, and as they did, the runny-gate in the tower broke loose. An' what chune of all paralyzin' chunes did the desparaydo sthrike up loud an' rollickin' but "The Girl I Left Behind Me"!
At first, ye'd think a piece of the sky had fallen, so great was the sudden wondher. Howandever, no one sthopped, but they marched timidly on while the bell kept playing the insult gay an' cheerful, almost spakin' the worruds:
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They dhressed me up in scarlet clothes,
They used me very ki-i-ndly,
But I'll never forget the purty little girl,
The girl 1 left behi-i-nd me.
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Maylowney stood it as long as he could, but at the churchyard gate, he halted an' shook his fist at the bell. Whether 'twas bekase the party were enterin' the churchyard or bekase of Tim's dayfiance will never be known, but, as Tim did so, the bell changed its chune into the mournfulest toll that ever was heard. Every toll'd raise the hair from yer head—'twas that fearsome.
Flesh and blood could stand no more. With wild shrieks and yells, the purcession broke an' run for their lives. Shamus didn't run, though hard he thried. Mrs. Maylowney, coolheaded woman that she was, had stepped up an' caught him by the arrum; an' while she grippin' him on one side an' Nellie on the other, what betther could he do but race up to the chapel and inside with thim? An' so the day was saved for Nellie.
Outrageous as was all this, sure it was only the beginning of the troubles for Ballingerg. The wuzzard insulted half the parish. He played "The Rogue's Mar-rch" for Wullum Duff, the schoolmaster, keepin' time to his steps whether fast or slow—"Rum-te-tum-rum, re-tum rum-te-rumpty rum, te-tum"—an' whin at last Wullum, beside himself with mortification, broke into a mad run, it med no difference; the music kep' time with him just the same. The schaymer played "The Divil's Hornpipe" even for pious ould Mrs. Donovan as she limped slowly by on her cane, an' sthrive as she would an' thry as she could, she had to keep step to it.
The consthernaytion an' fear an' excitement that day were so great in Ballinderg that by foive o'clock in the afthernoon, there wasn't a sowl to be seen abroad. Everybody was indoors listening to find out who'd be scandalized next, when sudden the bell sthruck up, glorious an' beautiful, "Lo, the Conquering Hayro Comes".
On the minute, every door and windy flashed open, so great was the curosity to know who it was that the ould targer of a barbariyan would be showin' such honor and rayspect to. Me gran'mother stuck her head out with the rest, an' what should she see comin' bobbin' along the brow of the hill but Anthony an' Clayopathra, an' sittin' calm an' peaceful behind thim—me gran'father!
Me gran'mother waited for no more, but, throwing her shawl over her head, hurried off on her way to Mrs. Maylowney's for informaytion an' advice—there was always great sociology betwixt the two families—an' who should she meet up with in the lane, hastenin' down to see her on the same errand, but Mrs. Maylowney herself?
"It's comin' up to your own house I was, Honoria, to spake to ye about me husband, Jerry," sez me gran'mother afther the time o' day was passed betwixt thim, "an' to ink-wire whether yez have obsarved anything out of the common about yer own honest man, Tim, I dunno."
Mrs. Maylowney trew back her head an', liftin' her two hands, guv the air a hard push.
"Arrah, thin, don't be talkin'," sez she. "Wasn't I on me way to ax the same question of yerself? Isn't me heart broke worryin' over him, an' ain't me two eyes almost fallin' out of me head from watchin' him? And as for scoldin' and beratin' him, I get no comfort out of it at all, at all, for he won' answer back, and I have a fear on me that I can't express, that Sattin himself is in the bell above, an' that our brace of foine husbands have more than a little to do with it." Me gran'mother hilt her apron to her mouth an' shook her head despairing: "Oh, oh, sorra's the day! What'll we do at all, at all?"
Now that was a foolish question entirely, for what did anyone do for miles around who had a fear or a heartache or any sort of throuble but bring that sorrow up to Father O'Leary? An' there, by the same token,
did the two good women take thimsilves, though sore ashamed they were to turn informers that a-way ag'in their own husbands.
Manewhile, Tim, as good as his worrud, was scrooged, waiting in the stable ag'in me gran'father's return; an' whin at last the ponies had been fed an' dhressed down, with dhry lips Tim towld me quakin' ansisther, faithful an' complate, all the outrageous doin's of that raymarkable day, an' sittin' down on the tub beside me gran'father, his chin in his hands, he wound up his conversation by sayin', "Oh, begora, this'll be a lesson to me the remaynder of me days. I'll never touch another dhrop of dhrink ag'in so long as I live, an' I'll never look at another cyard till the day of me death, an' as for bad company—" he groaned, clinchin' his two fists.
"As for bad company," me gran'father says, thinkin' gloomy an' raysentful of Sattin, "I'll never meet—Oh, by the powers!" he says, jumpin' up, "is it me ye're callin' the bad company, Tim Maylowney?"
What answer Tim would have med will never be known, for at the instant, a shadow darkened the stable door, an' lookin' up, who should they spy standin' solemn an' savare before thim but Father O'Leary himself! The pair thried to splutther a civil greeting, but for rayply, his riverence crooked a finger, first at me gran'father, thin at Tim Maylowney, beckonin' thim to folly. An' the two culprits, like retrievers at heel, follyed the clargyman up to his house. Only oncet on that doleful journey did me gran'father spake, an' thin it was to whusper a warnin' to his comerad: "Whatever he does till yez, kape yer tongue in her head."
"No fear," whuspered Tim, an' his voice was as hoarse as the say.
Whin they arrived at the priest's house, the first thing Father O'Leary did was to put me gran'father into the study, turn the kay in the door, an thin, takin' Tim by the showlder, he led the unfortunate man into a room across the hall.
The clargyman pushed Tim into a chair, an' sitting himself in another close ferninst, with hands on knees, Father O'Leary fixed an eye on Tim that dug to the very bottom of the squarmin' wictim's overflowin' sowl.
For foive long minutes, not a sound was heard except the cracklin' of the twigs on the hearth.
Tim, perched on the edge of his chair, wondhered if this was going to last forever. He twisted his cap round and round in his finger, coughed polite into it, and looked out the windy. He put the cap on his head, quick snatched it off ag'in and dhropped it on the floor, stared despairin' at the picture of Dan'l O'Connell over the mantel, and wished that he had the courage of that great man, but all the time feelin' himself skewered by Father O'Leary's raylentless eye.
Whin there was no more strength or courage left in his body than there is in a suckin' pig, he says in a wake voice, "It's gettin' dark, an' it's goin' to rain. I think I'll be goin' home."
Father O'Leary nodded stern an' accusing an', lanin' back in his chair, spoke slow and pinted: "I heard yer whuspered promise to that bliggard Jerry Murtaugh, as we came along, an' I'll not ask ye to break it; but tell me one thing only," says he. "Was it your fault, or was it his?"
"It was Jerry's fault, yer riverence," says Tim, givin' a great gulp of raylief at gettin' out of it so aisy. "Sure, your riverence knows well that I—"
"That's enough," says Father O'Leary, rising. "You stay in that chair, an' never lave this room till I call you."
You may aymagine the condition of me gran'father, sittin' alone in the study during all this while, sore disthracted to know what was goin' on in the room across the hall. He strained his ear to listen, but divil a sound could be heard, and he'd half med up his mind that his comerad Tim must be sthrangled dead whin the door opens and Father O'Leary pops in on him.
"Jerry Murtaugh," says the priest, lookin' sore put out, "it's surprised an' scandalized at ye I am! To think of me blamin' the poor lad across the hall whin all the while 'twas your fault."
"My fault!" yelled me gran'father, jumpin' to his feet. "Who said it was my fault?"
Father O'Leary nodded stern an' a-cusing. "I've Tim Maylowney's word for it," he said. "What have you to say ag'in it?"
Me gran'father let such a roar out of him that Tim Maylowney, concludin' thin an' there that his comerad was bein' kilt, lept out of the windy an' raced down the Kilcuney road, an' never stopped till he raiched home.
"Did the slandherin' villain say the loikes of that?" says me furious ansisther. "Now listen to my side of the story, and I'll have ye to judge."
An' what does me gran'father do but up an' tell the whole thransaction from beginning to end, just as it happened.
As Father O'Leary listhened, he passed from onbelief to inkerdulity, from inkerdulity to wondher, an' from wondher to conwiction, an' thin he put three pinances for their terrible sins on Tim Maylowney an' me gran'father. An' these punishments wor to last them for the rest of their natural lives. The first pinance was to give up cyard playin' complate an' intirely; the next was that they should taste no sthrong dhrink, save an' except one noggin of punch to be dhrunk on Saturday night, aich beside his own wife an' ferninst his own fireside. These two were hard enough, you'll agree, but the third and last was the killin' pinance entirely, and it was no less than that they must save their money and not to spend it foolish.
"Oh, thin, ye're the flinty-hearted man, Father O'Leary," cried me gran'father whin he heard the pinance. "Why don't ye turn me into a chiney image at once and have done with it! To think that I must suffer this away, an' the black schoundhrel that is to blame for it is swingin' free up in the tower, making' game of us all."
"Ha!" says Father O'Leary with a wise nod. "Lave him to me! Tomorrow morning I'll fix that lad. I'll fasten him a presner in the bell till the day of judgment, and every time the bell rings, the clapper'll pelt him betwixt the two showlders. It's a sore back the schaymer'll have on the last day, I'll warrant ye," chuckled his riverence.
Well, the worruds weren't well out of his mouth when there came a crash of tunder an' a flare of lightning. Me gran'father waited for no more. With a hurried "Good-night, yer riverence!" he took the road in his hands. There was barely time to raich his own good door whin the memor-iable Big Wind began to blow.
Sure, the worruld knows how it tore up threes by the roots, whirled houses through the air, an' druve saygoin' ships up on the Kerry shore, where it left them perched up on the rocks like so many saygulls.
You understand, of course, that all this was bekase Beelzebub, furious with the disappintment at bein' driven from the bell, was sthrivin' to daystroy the Irish Nation. An' the fear of Father O'Leary's threat was on the vagobone, too, for next mornin', the bell was gone, an' the neighbors say how, in the night, inwisible hands must have carried it through the air, an' thin dashed it down upon the great flat rock in Hagan's meadow; for there it lay broken into a thousand pieces, an' the stone itself was busted in two.
That was the last of Sattin and the bell.
But as for me gran'father an' Tim Maylowney, they kept their pinance well. Howandever, they had made special, d'ye mind, two pewther noggins which held a full quart aich, and these the two hayros'd sit an' sip, side by side, on Saturday nights. Many's the winther evening I've seen them there, an many's the toime I've heard them tell this story beside that same fire.
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The Sheep Stealer
WE HAVE no raley criminal crimes now down in this part of Tipperary. We believe that locks on dures bring bad luck. There doesn't hang a lock on a dure in the townland of Ballinderg but one, and that an ould ancient padlock half the size of one's head, with a rusty kay sticking out of it as thick as me finger, that lies in the clasp of the latch on the forge dure of Joey Hooligan, the smith. It hangs there yet as a wondher and as a curiosity.
If any art or object ever brought bad fortune to a man, that same lock dhrew down ill luck in the Hooligan family and, at the same time, spiled the repitation and siled the glory of the town of Ballinderg. Where he got it I don't rightly raymimber, but me mind some way misgives me that he took it for pay for shoeing a horse that was belonging to a thraveling tinker.