The Ashes of Old Wishes

by Herminie Templeton Kavanagh

  While thinkin' of Maurteen, another idee popped up sudden an' startlin'. Was it Maurteen that stole Blackie? No, that couldn't be, bekase the thief was a rayligious man. Was it Father Cassidy, thin? Surely no, for where was the needcessity! The clargyman might have anything Joey owned an' welcome just for the axin'. So in that way the boy wint on, casting a blot of the charackther, aich in his turn, of every man, woman, and child in the parish, except one, an' that one fillin' the soothersayer's dayscription best of all.

  I think that one man would have escaped suspicion altogether if, by a sthrange chanst, the smith hadn't spied on the road not a quarter of a mile in front, a stooped, slender figure hurrying along in the same di-rection as Joey himself was goin'.

  "Begorra, there goes Dennis Egan, the scholar. Oh, by the powers—" The smith stopped stock still in the road and began scratchin' his head with both hands. "But no," he mutthered, "it couldn't be the loikes of him any aisier than it could be the loikes of Father Cassidy. Though it's mortial proud an' big feelin' he an' his family are, sure enough. Didn't a score of the boys hear him give backtalk to the priest himself at the last illiction? Wirra, wirra," says Joey, growin' throubled, "an' he's a rayligious man an' a near neighbor, too."

  The onwelcome suspicion worried the smith greatly. Now ye know, the scholar an' his family were what ye might call rayfined people, an' hilt thimselves shuparior to most others in the parish; yet they had had great friends with the Hooligans, though in a lofty kind of way. Indade, fifteen years before that, the scholar an' his wife had condayscinded to stand sponsors for Joey's firstborn, Dan'l O'Connell Hooligan.

  "No, no, it can can't be him," Joey argyed to a blackbird that was darting back an' forth in front of him. "He never was in needcessity. Though, by tunder, come to think of it, last summer the blight did come upon their corn! He never raised many petaties," says Joey to the bird, anxious, "yet the scholar couldn't be in want for all that, for didn't he sell every hoofed an' horned baste on his place an' turned them intil money the Ayster purvious; so that he must have a hatful of goolden suverings in the house. Am n't I the dunderheaded omadhaun to accuse such a man. But the scholar is a wise man," he says ag'in, "an' I wondher if 'twould be presumin' to go an' tell him what the soothersayer dayscribed to me," Joey says. "I have no manner of doubt but what he will name the criminal imaget," says he to himself.

  Filled brimmin' up with thim thoughts, an' growin' excited at the good chanst of at last finding out the name of the mystarious thief, Joey broke intil a sharp trot an', catchin' up with the scholar, dhropped intil step at his side.

  Never before had Joey noticed how ould an' haggard the proud man's thin, shaven face was growin' an' how slow he walked; it even seemed that Dennis was hanging back a little to let the smith pass. Without even bidding the time of the day, Joey tapped the scholar on the back. "Dennis Egan," says Joey, "I've found out who stole Blackie." The proud man's face tightened so that Joey thought that the light sthroke on the showldher must have hurt him.

  "He's one," wint on Joey, savage, "who was too proud to beg, an' he's so rayligious an' so rayspectable," says the smith, sarcastic, "that no one misdoubted him."

  Egan's cheeks turned gray as ashes, an' he thried to moisten his lips with his dhry tongue. Hooligan noticed these things at the time, but he didn't put them intil their right places until long aftherward.

  "His conscience is throublin' him now," says Joey, givin' his stick an angry shake, "but wait till I'm done with him. I'll kill him first an' have him thransported afther," says he.

  Thin it was that Egan spoke, an' whin he did, astonishment at his sthrange, wild worruds knocked the big smith spacheless. Not that Joey understood rightly even then, but the scholar's look was so pathryfying.

  "O God in Hiven, Your blow has fallen!" Egan cried, standin' still in the road an' spreadin' wild an' wide his two stiff arrums. "O Father of marcy, be pittiful to me an' to me innocent childher, an' to her!" he says with a dhry sob.

  Joey stood gapin', the first thought in his mind bein' that there was a dangerous sickness among some of thim up at the scholar's. Next, Egan turned fierce an' sudden on the smith.

  "Wait before you sthrike, Joey Hooligan. You'll never know the need I was in, man. Me petaties an' me corn runed—you know that—an' me money in the bottom of the say."

  "Why I—I—I—thought ye were rich," gasped Joey, the thrue idea beginning to bore its way intil his head.

  "An' wasn't I!" says the scholar. "I had scraped together every livin' thing I owned an' sowld them, an' it med foive hundhred pounds, an' I sint it till me cousin, Dan McTighe, in Claremorris, an' he, too, had foive hundhred pounds, an' we put the money intil cattle, an' Dan tuck them to England an' sowld them there."

  "My, oh my! That was a thousand pounds!" says Hooligan.

  Egan wint on talkin' fast an' dusperate, 'mindin' one for all the worruld of a wild baste in a thrap. "Comin' back, Dan's ship wint intil another ship in the channel, and—I've wisht a hundhred times since that I was rowling calm beside him at the bottom of the say."

  Joey hadn't time as yet to rayalize in full or get vexed consarnin' Blackie; besides, everything was swirling about in a whirlpool of astonishment. "But what of the thousand pounds?" was all he could say.

  "There was more," says Egan, "more; there was a profit. Well, the hopeless days closed in, an' little by little, we dayvoured what was left at home, till black, naked hunger came at last to sit in the chimney corner that niver before had known anything except comfort an' plenty. But a still bittherer pain crept in an' sat beside the hunger, an' that was the dhread which we all felt that some of the neighbors we'd so often lorded it over—God knows with how little rayson—might find out our sitiwation an' pity us. Father Cassidy I avoided most of all, bekase of the hot worruds we'd give aich other at the illiction."

  The two were fronting aich other now in the dusk; the scholar's arms had sunk to his side. "My, oh my, but weren't yez the foolish people!" says the smith.

  "One night," Egan wint on, not mindin', and his voice came dhry and broken, "I left home to walk down to Claremorris, hoping that me cousin's family might spare me a little, though I knew 'twas little they had left. I thramped on foot three days an' one night, only to find them as bad off as meself. Back I came without asking them, an' was four days on me journey. Ye may guess I was footsore an' heartsore, and on the last day, I was sick an' wake from the hunger. Christmas Eve, I dhragged meself past your own good house, an' I saw the bright lights in your windys an' heard the happy laughin' of your childher, an' inside with them the dog barkin' in his play—an' I goin' home to carry to me own famishing ones only disappointment an' dispair."

  "I'm ashamed of ye—" Joey started to say, but the other stopped him.

  "Yerself stood fumbling at the door of the forge, and lest ye might be a witness to me misery, I stopped behind the oak three till you wor gone."

  "Wow!" shouted Joey, hitting one fist intil the other.

  "An' as you bent over the lock, I saw what I thought was the dog run out behind ye intil the road. Sure now I know it was the sheep."

  "Tare and ages!" cried Joey again. "Of all bastes in the worruld, a sheep or a lamb have the laste reliableness," he says.

  "A little way down the road, I heard somethin' follyin' behindt, an' lookin' back, I saw it was a young sheep that was throttin' along afther. I swear to ye, by the sowls of the parents I have dishonored, that I had no thought of taking it thin. I only hurried on till I came within sight of me own house. Not a light shone out in welcome. The cottage stood there lookin' dark and huddled as me own sowl. I listened at the door, but there was no sound from within. A shuddering dhread that the wife and childher might be starved an' dead turned me faint an' sick, an' I was afeared to lift the latch. Me head was a bit dizzy, too, from the wakeness, I think. So I studied meself with a hand ag'in the house—this a-way—an' creepin' around to the windy, I looked in."

  He stopped a second, broke by the r
aymimbrance. The big smith lay a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. "Go on," says the smith. "It's a lucky hour we met the night. What ye're sayin' will lift the load off yer sowl. Go on! No livin' person'll ever get tidings from me. God help ye and fergive ye as I do with all me heart."

  "The wife an' childher lay in their beds, cuddled up together for the warmth, an' alive. Thank God! At that sight, me heart began to beat once more. I laned on the windysill prayin' to Hiven for to know what worruds to greet them with when I'd go in.

  "But worruds wouldn't come. An' as I kneeled down with me forehead hid upon the sill, there came a soft cry from behindt, an' lookin' round, I saw the black pet lamb which had followed afther.

  "You'll never know—God only knows how farvint I called up the last bit of strength to fight ag'in that timptation. But 'twas no use. Only this I'll tell ye, that I raymimbered in that instant, an' the raycollection was like a touch of hot iron: that never before had one of me name or breed done a mane or dishonest act. I was to be the first. So 'twas with the feelin's of a murdherer that I slipped through the back door an' from the kitchen stole out the sharp knife." The scholar glanced frightened over his showldher an' his big eyes were like the eyes of a man who is seeing a ghost. With a hand at his throat he gulped a couple times an' thin wint on.

  "The thrusting little crachure touched this hand with cowld, wet nose an' follyed where I led it out intil the middle of me own field, an' there in the darkness—" He could go no furder bekase of the sobs that were chokin' him, so dhrawing the collar of his coat up over his eyes, the poor man gave way to a perfick hurricane of crying.

  As for Joey, the smith had no feelin's at all but those of smothering pity mixed with a sort of guilty onasiness that, by some way or other, he himself had done something undherhanded. Two or three times, worruds of comfort got as far as the big man's lips, but there they lay jumbled and useless at the ind of his tongue. So for a while, he just stood in the road ferninst the other, twishting his heel restless an' givin' little coughs. Whin he did spake at last, it was to say. "Have sinse, Dennis Egan! Sure many's the dacint man before you turned sheepstayler. I may do it meself yet. We niver know what we'll do till we're thried," he says, awkward. "Come on home," says he.

  'Twasn't just what Hooligan said nor the gentle touch laid on the cryin' man's arrum that roused the scholar, but 'twas the friendly, sootherin' sound of the smith's rough voice. At any rate, whin Dennis began talkin' ag'in, he stood with hands clasped together an' his arrums twitchin' narvous, an' his head bint like a little boy that had just got a batin'.

  "Ye were ever the foine-hearted man, Joey Hooligan, dull as ye are," he says. "I'll never forget that Christmas mornin', how, whin I knelt in the chapel, you came in an' knelt down beside me, an' how I shrank from ye as though I was a leper. There was God Himself lookin' down at both of us, an' you kneelin' honest an' brave, an' I, with me pride an' me honor, an' me courage withered like a winther's reed. I couldn't stand it long, but crep' out intil the air to wandher about all day, a vagabone an' a thief, afeared of the sight of even me own childher."

  "Don't mind telling any more," says the smith, striving to save himself from the pain of listening. "Come on home, now. It's dark." He took Egan by the arm and led him down the road. But the scholar's heart must get relief from its bursting load, and he kept talking as they went.

  " 'Twas a bed med of livin' coals I slept on that night, an' just at daybreak, I arose an' wint where I should have gone at first, up to Father Cassidy. Oh, may the saints pursarve him! He helped me with money, an' he helped me a hundhred times more by the things he said. An' afther that day an' everyday he helped me ag'in. He gave me the quarther's rint, he bought me the petaties an' the corn for seed, an' whin the letther came from the lawyers sayin' that the Englishman paid poor Dan McTighe for the cattle, not in money, but in papers dhrawn ag'in a bank, an' that there was siven hundhred an' fifty pounds waitin' for me to dhraw out, 'twas Father Cassidy—"

  Joey stiffened with amazement, and wheeled the scholar to face him in the road. "Don't tell me," he gasped. "Did yez get it?" says he.

  "I did," says Egan, "an' there, ye know the whole miserable story. An' there's yer stick in yer hand an' here's the thief, an' if ye'll bate me good an' plenty, I'll feel betther than I have felt for many a day. Only I beg of yez, for the love of God, not to tell on me," he axes pitiful.

  The idee of batin' a man worth siven hundhred pounds was reediculous, not to say irrayligious, so Joey, with one hand in his pocket, an' his brow in deep ridges, answered, "As ye say, Dennis Egan, I'm a dull man, an' I can't think quick, an' I can't give raysons for what I do. Only now I have the feelin' that someway I'm in the wrong. That God borryed from me, to whom he'd allowed plinty, an' give it to you that had nothing at all, an' that I took pay an' dhrove a harrud bargain with Him, to whom I owe everything. I may be wrong, but I think I'll have nayther luck nor grace so long as I carry about with me the price of that sheep. Ye must take it back, Dennis Egan," he says, slow an' airnest.

  But the scholar, with hands lifted, shrank from him. "No," he says. "The only comfort I have is that I med amends. Don't dayprive me of it," says he.

  "Well," says Joey, "may God forgive ye as I freely do. We'll away now with the money to Father Cassidy an' ax him what we'll do with it. But have no fear of me tellin' on ye, Dennis," says he.

  An' so, they both together wint off to the priest's house, but what he did with the money I never heerd.

  An' by the same token, no one ever heerd this story that I'm afther tellin' ye, till two years ago, whin the Egans wint to live in England. Thin it leaked out some way.

  But Joey Hooligan is still throubled in his mind about his wife an' Maurteen Cavanaugh; for although he put the brown powdher in her tay faithful, an' with every eye in his head as big as the taycup watched her swally it, still he's afeared it mightn't worruk well. She med a wry mouth, to be sure, an' spluttered, "Bad cess to it, I must have put salt in me tay." But she looked and acted just the same afther takin' it as before—not a ha'porth of difference. So when he comes sudden acrass Maurteen in the road, it always gives Joey a turn. An' whin Nancy buys a purty new dish or a thing like that, Joey, sly an' as if be accident, breaks it so that be no chanst Maurteen'll get the use of it; and the smith wears his best shuit of clothes on the slightest occasion, so that they'll be well used an' spint whin he dies.'

  One resolution is set firm in Hooligan's mind: whin he will feel sure that death's comin' on, he'll call his eldest son to his bedside an' say, "Dan'l O'Connell Hooligan, I charge ye an' put it on yer conscience that if ye ever see that little sneakin' Maurteen Cavanaugh spakin' civil to any faymale member of this family, ye'll throunce him; an' if he ever crasses this thrashol' when I'm dead, ye'll bate the life out of him."

  An' 'tis a consolation for the smith to know that Dan'l never had any great fondness for the school or the schoolmaster.

  -

  Bridgeen and the Leprechaun

  "OUTSIDE of France, the month of May is not the month of May," Victor Hugo says. Surely, surely the great poet never saw the break of May in Ireland. If on the May day we are talking about, he had walked down the winding road from Ballinderg by little Bridgeen Daley's side, and with her had kept his eyes and ears awake, looking in the ditches and under the hedges for the Leprechaun, the little fairy cobbler, he would have changed that saying entirely, I'm thinking.

  On either side of the narrow lane pressed the bursting hedges, dazzling pink and white, while beyond, in the fields over every hillock and upland, surged riotous crowds of laughing, yellow buttercups and golden-hearted daisies. And the violets—every green leaf hid a purple cluster! And the perfume—but sure, one can't talk about the perfume of the Irish violets, because it gives one such a lonesome, longing heartsickness to think about them there! The linnets and the blackbirds contended desperately with one another as to who should give the heartiest, merriest welcome to the spring. And above all hovered the kindly sky, as gra
ve, as blue, and as tender as Bridgeen's own eyes.

  But back in the village of Ballinderg, it was little about blackbirds and linnets the people were thinking. Little Mickey Driscoll, who never before in all the troubled days of his short life had resented any honestly earned cuff on the ear, today leaned disconsolately against the shady side of the thatched cottage, weeping torrents of indignant tears into the short skirt of his brown linsey frock.

  A few feet away, on an upturned tub beside the open door, sat his subdued and commiserating father, too wise for any open expression of sympathy or comfort, but nodding and winking covert assurances and beckoning to the lad with coaxing, compassionate fingers.

  "Come over here, Mickey avick," he whispered. "Don't cry, ahager. Where did she slap ye? Oh my, oh my, on the two little red legs of ye! What did ye do, alannah?"

  "Naw-nawthin', Da-daddy; I—I—only dhrew wan finger down, that a-way, on sisther Eileen's white dhress to see if it would make a mark," sobbed the heartbroken child.

  "Oh, isn't that the turrible thing," soothed his hypocritical parent, "to larrup ye loike that just for wan weeney bit of a sthreek. Oh, husheen, husheen. No wondher yer heart's in tatthers!" He drew the little lad between his knees and smoothed his tumbled, yellow curls.