Little Mary, who had gone away to her playthings, whilst they had been talking of what she did not understand, left her playthings, and came back, and stood beside Frank, looking up in his face, and listening eagerly when he said that he had been most to blame in their quarrel. And when his father praised him, Mary smiled, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure. After his father had done speaking, she said, —
“Frank is very good, to tell that he was the most wrong; but I was a little wrong; I cried more than I should have done, and a great deal louder, because I was angry.”
“There is a good girl!” said Frank’s father, stroking her head. “Now that is all over, let us think of the future. You say, Frank, that you do not think it just that you should be separated, when you quarrel, because that separation is the same punishment for both, when perhaps one only is to blame, or one much more to blame than the other. Do I understand you? Do I state clearly what you mean?”
“Yes, papa — pretty well — not quite. I think the separating us is just enough, because, as you say, when we quarrel, we generally are both to blame more or less, and besides, when we are angry, we cannot have any pleasure in being together. So I give up that. But I think that, before you separate us, you or mamma should always inquire, and find out, which of us is most to blame, and exactly how much; and then the person, who has been the most wrong, will have the most shame; and that will make the punishment just as it should be.”
“Well argued, my boy! This would be strictly just, as far as you two are concerned; but you must consider, also, what is just for your mother and for me.”
“What do you mean, papa? I do not want to punish mamma or you — you do not quarrel;” said Frank, laughing. “I do not wish to separate you, or to punish mamma or you, papa — I do not understand you.”
“Listen to me, and perhaps I shall make you understand me. You say you do not want to punish me or your mother; and yet you would punish us both whenever you quarrelled, if we were obliged to give up our time, and to leave whatever we were doing; that was agreeable to us, in order to settle which of you two was most to blame, in a dispute, perhaps, about a straw, or something of as little value. Now, suppose you two were to quarrel every hour —
“O sir!” interrupted little Mary, “quarrel every hour! — O, O, that is quite impossible.”
“But my father only says, suppose. We tan suppose any thing, you know,” said Frank. “Well, suppose, papa —— —”
“And suppose, Frank, that every hour it would require a quarter of an hour of your mother’s time or mine to listen to both, and settle which was most to blame—”
“A quarter of an hour! that is a great deal too much time to allow.”
“We have been talking now, Frank, above quarter of an hour, I think.”
Indeed! I never should have guessed hat!”
“Should not you? When people are much interested about any thing, they talk on a great while, without considering how Time passes.”
“That is true. Well, allow a quarter of an hour each quarrel, and one every hour,” said Frank.
“And count twelve hours as a day. Then twelve quarters of an hour, Mary, how many whole hours will that make?”
Mary answered, after thinking a little while, “I don’t know.”
Frank answered, “Three hours.”
“So, three whole hours, Frank, your mother or I must, according to your plan, give up every day, to settling your quarrels.”
“That would be too much, really!” said Frank. “But this is only arguing on your suppose, papa.”
“Well, state that you quarrel only once a day; tell me why your mother or I should be punished by taking up our time disagreeably in settling your little disputes, provided any other manner of settling them would succeed as well. Be just to us, Frank, as well as to yourself and to Mary.”
“I will, papa — I will be just to you. I acknowledge we should not take up your time disagreeably, in settling our disputes, if they could be settled as well any other way but all depends upon that if You will acknowledge that, father.”
“I do acknowledge it, son. This question can be decided, then, only by experience — by trying whether the fact is so or not. Let us try my way, if you please, for one month; and, afterwards, if mine does not succeed, I will try yours.”
THE END
GARRY OWEN; OR, THE SNOW-WOMAN, AND OTHER STORIES
CONTENTS
GARRY OWEN; or, THE SNOW-WOMAN.
THE SPANISH WIDOW AND HER CHILDREN.
THE FISHERMAN’S FAMILY.
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
THE BEAR OF ANDERNACH.
GOING TO MARKET.
THE YOUTHFUL PARTNERS.
THE CONTENTED FAMILY.
THE TWO MAGPIES. A TRUE STORY.
PREPARATION FOR THE RACES; OR, MORE HASTE THAN GOOD SPEED.
LEASIDE COTTAGE.
SISTERS OF CHARITY.
ANECDOTE OF AN INDIAN CHIEF.
GARRY OWEN; or, THE SNOW-WOMAN.
BY MISS EDGEWORTH.
“A fine morning for snipe-shooting this, Master Gerald!” said Patrick Carroll, an Irish gamekeeper, to his young companion, his master’s son, who was manfully stepping along beside him on the frozen surface of a deep snow.
“A fine morning certainly, Carroll; but I have not seen a single snipe yet,” said Master Gerald.
“But if we have any luck, we won’t be long so,” replied the gamekeeper, “barring the long snow might have starved off the birds entirely. But if there’s one left in it any way, we’ll have him, dear, as sure as life.”
“There’s one!” cried Gerald.
Pop — and — miss.
“Hush’t now! — whist! ’Twas the talking — Not a word now — or ye give the birds warning.”
They walked on for some time without speaking. Gerald
“Gazed idly on the silence of the snows. —— One idiot face of white Is over all.”
Not another snipe was to be seen; and the gamekeeper, thinking that his young master was fretting inwardly, began to comfort him with a little flattery.
“Then, Master Gerald, my dear, when you come to carry the gun your own self, it’s a fine shot you’ll be, I’ll engage — as fine a shot as any in the three counties, as his honour your father (blessings on him!) was afore you. Just such another as yourself, then, I remember him, the first season’s shooting ever he got — I saw his first shot sure!”
“He was older at that time than I am now, was not he?” said Gerald.
“Not to look at; and I’m certain clear he was not over fourteen years any way.”
“I shall be fourteen next birthday; and I hope my mother will then have no objection to my carrying the gun myself.”
“Objections! Why would she? — Tut — The next bird we meet, good or bad, you shall have a shot at him yourself, master.”
A ray of joy came across Gerald’s face, but it passed away. “No,” said he, “I promised mamma I would not take the gun in my own hands.”
“Then it’s I must lay it over your shoulder, and hold it for you while you pop.”
A bird was seen. The gamekeeper placed the gun against Gerald’s shoulder, and pointed to where he should aim. It was a great temptation — but Gerald had given a promise. He stepped aside, drawing his shoulder from under the gun.
“No, Carroll,” repeated he firmly, and it was as much as he could say. “I will not fire, for I yesterday promised my mother I would not.”
“Then you are a noble young gentleman to be true to your mother any way; and I’m sure, by the same token, you’ll not tell on me, that was only wanting to please you, and did not understand rightly, or I’d sooner have cut my head off than have gone again any thing the mistress would say — in regard to you more than all. It would be as much as my life’s worth if you were to tell on me, Master Gerald; but I know you are too good.”
“Never fear,” said Gerald, “I am no tell-tale. But I’m getting terribly hungry. Turn down to that
cottage, and may be we shall find a hot potato.”
“True for you. It is time they should be boiling or boiled — and no doubt it is here we shall find ’em ready and welcome, for it is Mistress Crofton’s place, and a very snug place it is, and right good people they are. The mother nursed some of the big house formerly; that is kind-hearted old Mistress Molly I mean.”
Their steps being noiseless on the snow, they reached the cottage without being heard by any one within. Peeping in at the house door, Gerald saw that there was only kind-hearted Molly herself in the kitchen. Her back was towards them, and she was stooping down, covering up a dish that was on the hearth before a clear turf fire. Gerald, putting his finger on his lips, and making a sign to the gamekeeper to remain still at the door, went in on tiptoe softly, and snatching up from the dresser her silk handkerchief, he went close behind her without her perceiving him, quickly threw the handkerchief over her eyes, and, in a feigned gruff brogue, asked her to tell who he was?
“Ah hushlamacree! you darling rogue, I know who ye are well enough — and glad myself is you’re come — long I’ve been looking for you.”
She pulled off the bandage as she spoke.
“Oh! Master Gerald dear! and is it you? — I ask your pardon then. Sure I’m glad to see you, Master Gerald.”
It was plain, nevertheless, that he was not the person she expected to see. “But who was your darling rogue that you were looking for, Molly?”
“Oh! not your honour dear any way — sure — I could not make so free — but Georgy the gran’ child — the unlucky boy that did not get his breakfast yet — that’s what I was covering up for him.”
“And suppose I was to beg one of his hot potatoes?”
“Welcome as life, dear!” said she, uncovering them; “and shame take me that didn’t think of offering them. But my ould stupid head was just astray. Sit ye down, Master Gerald, by the fire this raw morning, till I fetch you the salt, and a bit o’ butter, and a drop of the new milk. — And who would that be? — Somebody at the door without? — Oh! Mr. Carroll, the gamekeeper, it is you! — But won’t you step in, and get an air of the fire, and take something too? I should have a bottle somewhere.”
In Molly’s hospitality there was a degree of hurry and confusion, and not her usual hearty gladness to see her friends. Gerald asked what was the matter, and why her head was astray?
“It’s after the boy George my head is,” she answered; “that unlucky slip of a boy — though it’s no fault of his — but of them that left the stable door open after he had shut it last night. I don’t know who it was, but, weary on them! for this morning George missed one of them sheep of his father’s that he got in charge, and was at my bedside by peep o’ day, telling me about it afore I was right awake. In great fear he was that this sheep, straying out in the deep snow, might be lost, and that his father, when he’d find it out, would be mad with him. Then don’t be bothering me, child! said I, and I dreaming. Take yourself out, and look for the sheep, can’t ye? — Bad luck to myself that said that cross word out o’ my sleep, for straight the boy went out in the first grey light o’ the morning, and never has been in since, good or bad. There’s the two bowls of stirabout I made for him got as hard and colder than the stones; I was fain to throw them out to the chickens both. And now I have boiled these potatoes for him. But what I’m in dread of,” continued Molly, after a pause, and as if afraid to speak her whole thoughts, “what I am most in dread of is them snow drifts there below, in case George might have come across one of them. — You mind, Master Gerald, the boy that once was lost entirely — and the snow so deep on the ground now” — She sighed ——
Gerald swallowed hastily the bit of hot potato he had in his mouth, and asked which road the boy had taken?
“Across the Curragh path, she believed, and down by the boreen” (the lane).
Gerald, beckoning to the gamekeeper, ran out immediately, bidding Molly keep up her spirits, and keep the potatoes hot for her boy, whom he hoped soon to bring back to her, with, perhaps, the lost sheep into the bargain.
Thousands of blessings she poured upon Gerald and Mr. Carroll, and from her door she shouted after them to beg they would “bid George never to mind the sheep, but come home only with himself. Tell him I’ll make it up out o’ my calves to the father. I’d sell the cow — I’d sell the dresser — any thing — all, tell him, if he’ll but come home to me safe again — acushla!”
Gerald and the gamekeeper, no longer thinking of snipes, took the way over the curragh as well as they could make it out, for path there was none on that unbeaten snow. The surface was still hard enough in many places; but, during the last hour, it had begun to thaw, and some of the drifts were softened. They looked for the boy’s footsteps, and saw traces for some distance, but then lost sight of them when they came to a lane leading to the village. In this lane horses, and cars, and many footsteps had been. They stood still and listened, for the sportsman thought he heard a shout. Gerald had the sense to think of firing off the gun, which the gamekeeper, by his order, immediately did, to give notice of where they were. Afterwards they heard the voice certainly, they thought, and followed the direction of the sound. Presently they saw a black spot on the snow at a distance; it was, as they guessed, a boy’s hat, and, making up towards it, they saw the boy running to meet them, barefooted, barelegged, barebreasted, coat and waistcoat off, as little as could be on, and that little as wet as possible, his face and head as red as fire, perspiring all over. He gasped, and could not speak; but, catching hold of Gerald’s arm, and pointing in the direction from whence he came, pulled him on.
“Your sheep, I suppose?” said Gerald.
“Ay, in the snow,” said the gamekeeper, “that can’t get out. Is that it, Georgy? Speak now.”
“My sheep — och!” said the boy, “an’ I wish to my life it was only that same.”
“What, then, can’t you speak, you born natural?” said the impatient gamekeeper.
“Come on, come on! I can’t be staying to tell you,” said the boy, trotting on before them, in one even fast trot, with which Gerald’s run and Carroll’s strides could scarcely keep pace.
“Manners then, you running dripping-pan!” cried Carroll; “can’t you stop and turn, and tell Master Gerald about it — Oh! if I could reach you!” —
Gerald, without questioning more, ran on, till the boy stopped and spoke —
“See here, master,” said he, pointing to a place where he had been digging in the snow, “below here is a cabin of some kind, and a living cratur in it — I heard the cry. Stoop down yourselves here at the top of the bank, and through the hole here you may catch the sound of the moaning. I was walking on the hard snow, sir, on the top of the ditch here, as I know by the trees on the hedge, thinking of nothing at all but my sheep, and prodding about with my shovel, which by great luck I had with me on account of the sheep; when I started to see smoke coming up a yard from me, and when I went up close to the hole, that proved a chimney, and darkening it over, I suppose, by looking down to see whether I could see any thing that was in it, whoever was within knew by the stopping of the light that I was there above, for there was a great cry raised to me, ‘for God’s sake to help!’ So I gave up all thought of my sheep, and fell to work to get out the poor cratur, and I have been at it ever since; but, see, the door can’t be got open yet, nor won’t for a long while; see, sir, how it is.”
Where the boy had been digging in the snow, part of a thatched roof was visible. It seemed to belong to a hut or shed made in a deep ditch, or quarry hole, by the side of a hill. Gerald called loudly, as he leaned over the opening at top, and was answered by a feeble voice, which he thought was that of a woman. He stood still to consider what should be done first. The gamekeeper, unable to think, went on talking and wondering who the woman could be. Gerald saw that, as there was but one shovel, but one person could work at a time in clearing away the snow; and, as the man was the strongest, he yielded the shovel to him, but directed
him not to go on where the boy had been working, because he saw that it would take a long time to clear away the snow to the bottom, and to open space enough in the hard snow-drift, so that the house door could be got open, and that it would be easier and quicker to clear the snow from part of the roof, and pull off the thatch. He bid Carroll shovel away as fast as he could, while he considered what he should do with the woman if he got her out. He must have some means of carrying her out of the cold directly, to where she could have assistance and food. The nearest house which was within reach was Mrs. Crofton’s. He bid George go home to his grandmother, and send his father, or any man he could find about the house, with a hand-barrow, and dry straw, and a blanket. If the hand-barrow could not be had directly, the men should bring a door, which George knew could be readily taken off its hinges. — The sending George home he saw too was necessary for him, for he was almost exhausted; he could walk, but could scarcely have used his arms any more. George was very unwilling to quit, but Gerald told him that, by so doing, he would do the best for the poor people he had worked so hard to save — the only chance it would give of saving them. The boy gave up to their reason, and Gerald wrote with a pencil on the back of a letter a few lines to his mother, to tell what had happened, and to beg she would send directions and assistance (the good housekeeper herself if she could) to Mrs. Crofton’s cottage, to be ready, and wait till he should come. Off went George, putting the pencil note in the crown of his hat, the only dry spot about him.
The corner of the roof being soon cleared of snow, Gerald helped to tear away the thatch, and soon got open a hole in the roof, through which they could see down into the house. Gerald saw the haggard face and skeleton figure of the woman. She was kneeling just under them, looking up, her hands uplifted towards them — something in her arms pressed close to her — it was her infant, but it made no cry — nor did she speak, or utter any sound. Her other children were on the ground before her — one stretched out face downwards, motionless — the other, with its arms clasped round its mother as she knelt, its head leaning against her — it never looked up. Gerald tore the hole open larger; and, bidding Carroll tell him the moment any one from Crofton’s was in sight, jumped down into this den of misery — of famine. The woman’s eyes turned to the child on the floor — a boy — her eldest — who was dead. The girl, kneeling, never moved till her mother lifted up her head, and Gerald saw her starved face. Her eyes blinked and closed from the light. She showed no emotion at sight of Gerald; but in the woman’s wild stare at him there was a sort of agony of hope. He recollected what he had till this moment forgotten, that he had had the day before, when he went out, a biscuit in his pocket. He felt, and found some fragments; he moistened a bit in his mouth, and then put the least morsel possible into the mouth of the girl, and then gave a bit to the woman, who instantly put a crumb of it between the infant’s lips, and then she looked ravenously for more. Luckily he had very little more left. Gerald had heard that famished persons must be allowed food only with great caution; but he did not know how very small a quantity the stomach can bear, and how extremely dangerous it is to yield to the cravings of the appetite. When he saw the magical revival produced by this little, he regretted that he had not more, especially when the mother looked upon him with ravenous eagerness. He emptied his pockets, and she snatched the least crumb, and crammed it into her baby’s mouth. Well for her and her children it was that he had no more. Some of the snow from the roof hung down; she stretched out her hand for it with anxiety, and when he reached it for her, swallowed as much as he would let her, but he was afraid, and stopped her. She submitted without speaking.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 598