Fly sat on the wall in the wood at the back of the garden simmering with excitement. Two wonderful things had happened to her, each of which by itself would have been enough to make her happy for a week. First, she had got a letter in the morning addressed to herself. She was so pleased that she did not think of opening it till Jane took it from her. The inside, however, was still more delightful. Somebody called Janette Black said she had a little present for Fly, and was bringing it to Rowallan that afternoon. Lull said Miss Black was Fly's godmother. She used to live at Rose Cottage years ago, but for a long time she had been away in Dublin. Fly was too much excited to eat her breakfast. The others as they watched her dancing round the room could not help being a little bit envious at her good fortune. They had never heard of anybody before, except Cinderella, who had had a visit from a godmother. Their godmothers were all dead, or away in England. Fly in her happiness had a pang of regret that she could not share this delightful relative with the others. She said she would share the gift. She had thought that morning would never pass. Lull was getting the drawing-room ready for the visitor, and once or twice she had warned Fly that she might be disappointed.
"I wouldn't marvel if she niver come near the place at all," she said. "She's a bird-witted ould lady, an' niver in the wan way a' thinkin' two minutes thegether." But Fly could not have been calm if she had tried. She had spent her time going backwards and forwards to look at the kitchen clock. Now the time had come, dinner was over, Fly had her clean pinafore on, the godmother was, perhaps, already in the house, but Fly was so busy thinking of something else that she had almost forgotten her. The second wonderful thing had happened. There were days, Fly told herself, when things took jumps—when, instead of growing up at the usual pace, so slow you could not feel it, something happened that made you older and richer and cleverer all in a minute. To-day life had taken two jumps. As she was sitting there quietly on the wall, thinking only of her godmother, a big yellow cat had come out of the wood. Everybody at Rowallan hated cats—they were deadly enemies, poachers, and destroyers. Andy had been in trouble for the past week over the wickedness of a cat who, night after night, had been at the rabbits in his traps. Rabbits were a source of income to Rowallan, and it was a serious matter when six rabbits were destroyed in one night. Fly had been in the kitchen that morning when Andy came in to tell Lull his trouble.
"I niver seen the cat that could get the better av me afore," he said dejectedly. "I'm thinkin' I'm gettin' too ould for this game." Fly remembered this as she watched the cat coming towards her through the wood. If only Andy were there now with his gun. It was a terrible pity that such a chance should be lost. She sat quite still, waiting to see what the cat would do. It never seemed to notice her, but came boldly on, with no sense of shame, straight towards her, till it was beneath her feet. The wall was high, and the cat had jumped before Fly realised that it meant to use her legs as a ladder to the top. Indignation on Andy's account now gave place to wild rage at personal injury. The cat's claws were in her leg. She kicked it off, then, quick as thought, seized a big flat stone off the top of the wall, and dropped it on the cat's neck. The yellow head bowed, and without a sound the body rolled over on the grass. Fly saw that she had killed it. Her heart jumped for joy. She could hardly believe she had really done this wonderful thing. Andy's enemy lay dead at her feet, struck down by her unerring aim. What would the others say? What would Andy say? How they would all praise her! She felt that God had helped her. It must be He who had brought the cat within her reach and given her power to kill it with one blow of a stone. Honeybird's voice called from the garden. Fly gave a little gasp—her heart was beating so quickly with excitement. To find a godmother and to kill a cat in one day!—had anybody else ever had such happiness? She got down from the wall, and took the dead cat in her arms. She must go to the godmother now, and wait till she had gone before she could tell the others. There was nobody at home to tell except Honeybird, for Jane had gone with Andy on the car to bring Mick and Patsy home from school. She would hide the cat in the stables, she thought, and when the others came home she would produce it dramatically, and see what they would do. On the way through the garden she met Honeybird coming to find her.
"She's come," said Honeybird, "in a wee donkey carriage an' a furry cloak; but I'm feared she's got nuthin' with her, 'cause I walked all round her to see."
Fly held up the cat. "I've just kilt it with wan blow av a stone," she said.
"Well done you," said Honeybird joyfully. "Bad auld divil," addressing the dead cat, "what for did ye eat the neck out a' Andy's rabbits?" Then her tone changed. "Give him to me, Fly, to play feeneral with. Sure, you've got a godmother, an' I've got nuthin' at all." Fly had not the heart to refuse. She gave Honeybird the dead cat, but explained that she must be allowed to dig it up again to show it to Andy. Then she ran quickly towards the house. A smell of pancakes came from the kitchen. Lull was getting tea ready for the visitor. Fly felt that life was richer than she had ever known it to be. At the drawing-room door she paused to mutter a little prayer of thanksgiving. She hardly knew what she had been expecting, but she was a little bit disappointed when she opened the door and went in. Her godmother was sitting on a sofa. She was a little woman, dressed in dull black; an old-fashioned fur-lined cloak fell from her shoulders; a lace veil, turned over her bonnet, hung down like a curtain behind. She wore gloves several sizes too big for her, and the ends of the fingers were twisted into spikes. But her voice pleased Fly's ear. She had been to see Mrs Darragh, she said, but had only stayed a minute. In spite of her disappointment there was something about the little lady that attracted Fly's fancy. Her eyes were just the colour of the sea on a clear, sunny day. She talked a good deal, holding Fly's hand and patting it all the time. Fly did not understand much of what she said—she mentioned so many people Fly had never heard of before.
"You know you are my only god-child," she said; "when I die you shall have all my money if you are a good girl." Fly thought this was very kind, but she begged her godmother not to think of dying for years yet. The little lady smiled. Then she began to talk again about people Fly did not know, nodding and smiling as though it were all very funny. Fly wondered when she would come to the gift.
"There now, I've talked enough," she said at last. "Tell me all about yourself and the other dear children now."
Fly told her everything she could remember. Miss Black said "Yes, yes," "How delightful," "How pleasant," but she did not seem to be listening; her eyes were looking all round the room, and once she said "How pleasant" when Fly was telling her about the time Patsy hurt his foot. Fly was in the middle of the tale of Andy's trouble that morning when Miss Black interrupted her.
"You must come and see me, my dear, and bring the others with you, and you shall make the acquaintance of my darling Phoebus."
Here was another person Fly had never heard of. She wondered who he could be.
"Naughty darling Phoebus," Miss Black went on. "Oh, he has been so naughty since we left Dublin. Out for hours by himself, frightening me into fits. But he doesn't care how anxious I am."
He must be her son, Fly thought; rather a horrid little boy to frighten his mother like that. She asked Miss Black if he were her only child.
Miss Black laughed. "He is, indeed, my darling only one; you must come and see him. You will be sure to love him. He is not very fond of children, but I shall tell him he must love you and not scratch."
Fly thought she would not love him at all, but she was too polite to say so. She wished Miss Black would say something about her present. But Miss Black went on talking about Phoebus. She called him her golden boy, her heart's delight and only treasure. Fly was rather bewildered by this talk. It seemed to her that Phoebus must be a very nasty little boy: he ate nothing but kidney and fish, his mother said, and never a bite of bread with it.
Lull brought in tea, and when Miss Black had finished her tea she became silent. Fly did not like to speak. She thought her godmother must be thinking of something important. She waited a little while, then, as Miss Black continued silent, she cautiously introduced the subject of godmothers. It might, perhaps, remind the little lady of what her letter had promised. She told Miss Black about the other children's godmothers, and how lucky the others thought she was to have a godmother alive and in Ireland. Miss Black patted her hand absently, and gazed round the room.
"I know there is something I wanted to remember," she said at last. Fly waited eagerly. She knew what it was, though, of course, she could not say so. "I have it," said Miss Black. "I wanted to ask for a rabbit for Phoebus. He has no appetite, these days. This morning he touched nothing but his saucerful of cream. Do you think you could get me a rabbit, my dear? Phoebus adores rabbit."
"To be sure I can get ye wan," said Fly, swallowing her disappointment. "I'll get ye wan to-morra from Andy."
Miss Black got up to go. "That is kind of you," she said; "and, now that I remember, I had a little gift for you, but I forgot to bring it. Come to-morrow, and you shall have it. And don't forget the rabbit for Phoebus."
"I'll hould ye I'll not forgit," said Fly. "We've been havin' bad luck this wee while back with the rabbits. Some ould cat's been spoilin' them on us. But just a minute before you came I kilt the ould baste." Fly looked for applause, but her godmother's attention had wandered again.
"How very pleasant," she said. Then suddenly she looked at Fly. "What did you say, dear child?"
"I said I kilt an ould thief of a cat," said Fly proudly.
The godmother grasped her by the arm. "Killed a——" Her voice was almost a scream. "Merciful heavens! what do you mean?"
Fly was frightened. Her godmother seemed to have changed into another person. She looked at Fly with burning eyes.
"Wicked, wicked, cruel child!"
"I couldn't help it," Fly stammered. "I done it by accident." Had she all unconsciously done some awful thing? Surely everybody killed cats. They were like rats—a plague to be exterminated.
"What was it like?" demanded her godmother.
"The nastiest-lukin' baste I iver set eyes on," said Fly earnestly.
"If it had been Phoebus I think I should have killed you," said Miss Black.
Fly looked at her in a bewildered way.
"You are quite sure it wasn't Phoebus—not my darling cat?" said her godmother sternly.
A horrid fear seized Fly. Phoebus was not a boy, he was a cat—surely, surely not that yellow cat—such a thing would be too terrible.
"Was it a large, dignified creature with yellow fur?" her godmother questioned.
"It was not," said Fly emphatically. "It was a wee, scraggy cat, black all over, with a white spot on its tail."
"Thank God for it," said Miss Black. "If it had been Phoebus I should have died."
Fly was shaking all over; she felt like a murderess. If only her godmother knew the truth! It was, of course, hopeless to ask God to make the cat alive again. The only thing was to get her godmother safely away from Rowallan, and pray that she might never come back. Anxiously she watched the lady go down the steps. The donkey carriage was waiting. In another minute she would be gone; but, with her foot on the step of the carriage, Miss Black paused.
"I must see the garden; it was so pretty once, and I may never be back again," she said. Fly led the way. The burden on her chest lifted a little as she heard that her godmother would not be likely to come again. It would not take long to see the garden, and then she would go for ever. When they were half way down the path the garden gate opened, and Honeybird came through, wheeling a barrow. She had Lull's old crape bonnet on her head. Fly had a moment of sickening fright.
"I'm comin' home from a feeneral," Honeybird called out cheerfully. "I've just been buryin' my ould husband, an' now I'm a widdy woman."
Fly breathed again: Phoebus was safely buried.
"How very nice," said Miss Black.
"Ye wouldn't say that if ye knowed who her husband was," Fly thought.
"Would ye 'a' liked to be a mourner?" Honeybird asked, with a smile at Miss Black. "'Cause if ye would I can dig him up, an' bury him again."
Fly grimaced at her in an agony of terror. "Lull wants ye this very minute," she said hurriedly. Honeybird nodded to them, and took her barrow again, and went on round the house.
By this time the sun had set, and the garden was full of that strange, luminous twilight that comes with frost in the air.
A cluster of late roses in Patsy's garden glowed against the fuchsia hedge; a white flower stood out in almost startling distinctness. Above the pear-tree the sky was clear, cold green; a flush of red mounted from the south-west. The garden, shut in by the convent wall and high hedge, seemed to Fly like a box without a lid at the bottom of a deep well of clear sky.
She sniffed the cold air. Her happiness had gone from her, but she had been mercifully delivered from her trouble. Suddenly a hand gripped her. Her godmother pointed with the spiked finger of a black kid glove to Honeybird's garden. It was a bare patch—nothing grew there—for what Honeybird planted one day she dug up the next. To-day Honeybird evidently had made a new bed-centre, and bordered it with cockle shells. Fly's knees shook under her. In the middle of that bed, coming up through the newly-turned earth, with a ring of cockle shells round its neck, was the head of a big yellow cat. It was here Honeybird had buried her husband—buried him, unfortunately, as she always buried birds, with his head out, in case he felt lonely in the dark. Miss Black was down on her knees, clearing the earth away. Fly never thought of escape. She felt as though she were tied to the path. She stood there while her godmother lifted the dead cat in her arms and tenderly brushed the earth from its fur. Then the little lady turned round. "Now she'll kill me," Fly thought. She lifted her terrified eyes to Miss Black's face. How would she do it, she wondered. But her godmother never seemed to notice her. Without a word she turned, and walked quickly from the garden. A moment later Fly heard the gate shut. She was too bewildered to move. The sound of wheels going down the avenue roused her to the fact that her godmother had gone. She had been found out, and no awful punishment had followed, but to her surprise there was no relief in this. Fly felt as miserable as ever. She looked up at the sky. A star showed above the pear-tree. She had not meant to do anything wrong, but she had hurt somebody terribly. Whose fault was it? Almighty God's or her own? The donkey carriage was going slowly up the road; she could hear the whacking of a stick and the driver's "gone a' that." Suddenly through the frosty air her ear caught the sound of bitter weeping. Then Fly turned, and ran from the garden, dashing wildly through Patsy's flower-bed in her haste to get away from that heart-breaking sound.
Fly and Honeybird introduced Samuel Brown to Rowallan. They found him sitting at the gate one day, and mistook him for the child Samuel. For a long time they had been expecting the coming of a mysterious beggar, who would turn out to be a saint or an angel in disguise. Such things had often happened in Ireland, Lull said. But, although scores of beggars came to Rowallan, so far no saint or angel had appeared. Most of the beggars were too well known to cast off a disguise worn long and successfully and suddenly declare themselves to be celestial visitors. But now and then an unknown beggar came from nobody knew where, and disappeared again into the same silent country. These nameless ones kept the two children's faith and hope alive. Samuel was one of these. Fly had spied his likeness to the child Samuel the minute she saw him sitting at the gate tired and dejected. They went to work cautiously to find out the truth, for they had got into trouble with Lull a few days before for bringing into the house a possible St Anne, who had stolen the schoolroom tablecloth. But when they asked his name, and he said it was Samuel, they did not need much further proof.
Was he the real child Samuel out of the Bible? Honey bird asked, to make sure. The boy confessed he was. He had come straight from heaven on purpose to visit them, he said.
As they were taking him up to the house they met Patsy, and told him. Patsy jeered at their tale, and reminded them of St Anne. But, in spite of Patsy's warning, they took the beggar into the kitchen. Patsy, disgusted at their folly, left them to do as they pleased. If he had remembered that Lull was out he might have been more careful. Half-an-hour later he caught sight of the child Samuel running down the avenue wearing his best Sunday coat. Lull was very angry with Fly and Honeybird when she came home. Mick and Jane said it was the beggar who was to blame. Patsy had given chase, and did not come home till ten o'clock that night. When he did come back he brought his Sunday coat with him, as well as a black eye. He had followed the child Samuel to the town, he said, and Eli had never given the boy as good a beating. In spite of this beating and the discovery of his fraud Samuel came back a few days later. His mother was sick, he said, and he had come to borrow sixpence. Jane wanted Mick to give him a second beating.
"Nasty wee ruffan, comin' here cheatin' two wee girls," she said.
Samuel took no notice of her. He addressed his remarks to Patsy.
"Anybuddy could chate them, but I'm thinkin' it'd be the divil's own job to chate yerself," he said flatteringly.
Patsy smiled. "Don't you try it on, that's all," he said.
"Do ye think I want another batin'?" Samuel grinned. He stayed, and played with them all afternoon, in spite of Jane's plain-spoken requests for him to be off. Before he left he had a good tea in the kitchen, and got sixpence from Lull, who had a tender heart for the poor. After that he came frequently. He said his mother was dying, and wrung Lull's heart by his tales of the poor woman's sufferings. Jane noticed, and did not fail to point out, that grief never spoilt his appetite for pears. Now and then Samuel would silence her by a wild fit of weeping. Patsy got angry with Jane for her cruelty.
"Let the poor wee soul alone, an' quit yer naggin' at him," he said one day, when Jane's repeated hints had made Samuel throw himself on the grass to cry.
"I wisht I believed he was tellin' no lies," was Jane's answer.
Lull agreed with Patsy that Jane was too suspicious.
"No good iver comes to them that's hasky with the poor," she told Jane. Lull was Samuel's best friend. Every time he came she gave him something for his dying mother. There was one thing the children did not like about Samuel: he never seemed to be content with what he got. He begged for more and more, till even Patsy was ashamed of him. One evening he grumbled because Lull had only given him a penny. He had had a good tea, and his pockets were lined with apples to eat on the way home.
"It's hardly worth my while comin' if that's all I'm going to get," he said.
"Then don't be troublin' yerself to come anymore," said Jane; "we'll niver miss ye."
Samuel looked reproachfully at her. "How would ye like your own mother to be dyin'?" he asked. Jane's heart melted at once. She offered him flowers to take back. Samuel refused the flowers. "Thon half-crown ye have in yer money-box'll be more to her than yer whole garden full," he said.
But Jane was not sympathetic enough for this. She said she was saving up to buy Lull a pair of boots at Christmas. After he had gone she wondered how he could have known about her money-box, and then remembered that Fly and Honeybird had told him most of the history of the house on his first visit. The very next day Samuel came to tell them that his mother was dead. His eyes were red and swollen with weeping. For half-an-hour after he came he sat in the kitchen sobbing bitterly, and refusing to be comforted. Fly and Honeybird cried in sympathy, and Jane would have cried too if she had not been so busy watching him. He cried steadily, only stopping every now and then, to wipe his nose on his sleeve. She decided she would give him the black-bordered handkerchief she had treasured away in her drawer upstairs; also, she would make a beautiful wreath for his mother's coffin. But soon the terrible truth came out that there was no coffin. Between bursts of sobs Samuel explained that his father was in gaol, and he himself had not a penny to pay for the funeral.
"An' her laid out an' all," he wept. "The neighbours done that much for her. In as nice a shroud as ye'd wish to wear. She had it by her this many's the day. But sorra a coffin has she, poor soul, an' God knows where she's goin' to get wan."
Lull was greatly distressed. "To be sure, the parish would bury the woman," she said; "but God save us from a burial like that." She took her teapot out of the cupboard, and gave Samuel five shillings.
"If I had more ye'd be welcome to it, but that's every penny piece I've got," she said. Samuel thanked her kindly, and murmured something about money-boxes. Mick responded at once.
"I'll bet ye we've got a good wee bit in them," he said joyfully. The money-boxes were opened, and found to contain nearly ten shillings. The children handed over their savings gladly to help Samuel in his need. Even Jane rejoiced that she had her half-crown to give. Samuel went away immediately after this, and not until he had been gone some time did Jane remember the black-bordered pocket handkerchief. However, she determined to take it to him, and also to take a wreath for the coffin. After dinner she made the wreath in private. Lull might have forbidden it if she had known. Then she called Mick and Patsy, and they started for Samuel's house. He lived near the town, so they had a long walk before they reached the squalid street. Some boys were playing marbles when the children turned the street corner. One of them looked up, then rose, and fled into a house. Jane thought he looked like Samuel, but she said nothing. Patsy had led the way so far; now he stopped, and said they must ask which was the house. They asked some women sitting on a doorstep.
"If it's Mrs Brown ye want, she's been in her grave this six years," one of them said.
"Why, Samuel tould us ye helped to lay her out this mornin'," said Jane indignantly. A drunken-looking woman came forward.
"To be sure we did," she said. Jane fancied she saw her wink at the others. "Samuel tould ye his poor mother was dead, didn't he, dear? I suppose ye've brought a trifle for him, the poor orphan."
"Which house does he live in?" Jane asked.
"Don't trouble yerselves to be goin' up. The place is not fit for quality. Lave yer charity with me, an' I'll give it to the childe." Jane insisted on going up. The woman said she would bring Samuel down to them. She seemed anxious to keep them back. But suddenly Samuel himself appeared at a door.
"I knowed ye'd mebby come," he said in a hushed voice as he led them up the stairs. He pushed open a door, and invited them to step in.
"The place is that dirty I hardly like to ask ye," he said. The room was very dirty, but the children hardly noticed this. All their attention was concentrated on the bed where the corpse lay, straight and stiff, covered with a sheet. They stood silently by, awed by the outlines of that rigid figure. Jane began to wish she had not insisted on coming upstairs. But it was their duty to look at the dead. Samuel would be hurt if they did not; he would think they were wanting in respect. She dreaded the moment when he would turn back the sheet, and show them the cold, unnatural face, that would haunt her eyes for days. Breathing a prayer that God would not let her be frightened she stepped forward, and put the wreath at the foot of the bed. As she did so her hand touched something hard. At once fear gave place to suspicion. Under cover of the wreath she felt again, and made sure the corpse was wearing a pair of hobnailed boots. She looked carefully, and saw that the sheet was moved as if by gentle breathing. Samuel, weeping at the head of the bed, never offered to turn back the sheet.
"I'd like to luk at her face," said Jane at last.
Samuel cried more than ever. "Don't ast me," he said. "The poor soul got that thin that I'd be feared for ye to see her."
"God rest her, anyhow," said Mick piously.
"Well, I'm thinkin' that's the quare thing," said Jane, looking hard at Samuel, "not to show a buddy the corpse. I niver heard tell a' the like." Samuel's answer was more tears. Mick and Patsy were both ashamed of their sister.
"I'm thinkin' she's not dead at all," Jane went on.
"Whisht, Jane; are ye clean mad?" Mick remonstrated. Samuel stopped crying. "Can't ye see for yerself she's dead right enough?" he said.
"I'd be surer if I seen her face," said Jane.
Mick in disgust turned to go, but Jane stood still.
"Wait a minute till I fix this flower that's fallen out," she said, noting with satisfaction that Samuel looked uneasy. She watched the figure under the sheet, and made sure it was breathing regularly then she took a pin out of her dress, and bent over to arrange the wreath. Suddenly her hand dropped on the sheet. There was a yell of pain, and the corpse sat bolt upright. Samuel's fraud was laid bare. His dead mother was a man with a black beard.
"God forgive ye, ye near tuk the leg aff me," he shouted, "jabbin' pins into a buddy like that."
"Shame on ye!"—Jane's eyes blazed; "lettin' on to be dead; I've the quare good mind to tell the polis." She turned to Samuel, but he had gone. Patsy had gone too; only Mick stood there, with a white, scared face.
"Come on ar this for a polisman," she said wrathfully, and swept Mick before her. The corpse was still rubbing his leg. Out on the street the women crowded round to know what had happened. Jane pushed her way through them.
"I think ye all a pack a' rogues," was the only answer she would give to their questions. Patsy was nowhere to be seen, so they turned sorrowfully homeward, to tell Lull for what they had parted with their savings. Patsy followed them a few hours later. He had been looking for Samuel to beat him, but Samuel had got away. He never came back to Rowallan. They watched for him for weeks, but never saw him again. The thought of the first beating Patsy had given him was the only satisfaction they ever got from the memory of Samuel Brown.
The children had gone on an excursion that would have been too far for Honeybird, and had left her playing on the grassy path. It was a favourite place, especially in May, when the apple-trees, that made a thick screen on one side, were in blossom, and the grass was starred with dandelions and daisies. There was not a safer spot in the garden, the hedge was thick, the path was sunny, and it was a part ould Davy, the cross gardener, never came near. Patsy had allowed her to play with his rabbits and call them hers while he was away. He had carried out the hutches for her before he started. Honeybird was quite content to be left at home when she could play with the rabbits. She played being mother to them. Mr Beezledum, the white Angora, was her eldest son. Together, mother and son, they went to market to buy dandelions for the children at home, bathed in the potato patch that was the sea, and went to church under the hedge. It was the nature of children to hate going to church, she knew, so when Beezledum struggled and protested against having his fur torn by thorns she only gripped him closer, and sternly sang a hymn. Beezledum suffered a great deal; for Honeybird liked this part of the game best, and went to church more often than to market. When Mick looked back from the far end of the path as he started she was already under the hedge, with Beezledum struggling in her arms. He heard her shrill voice singing: "Shall we gather at the river?"
The day was warm and bright. The children tramped for miles, and it was nearly eight o'clock when they came home, tired and hungry, and clamouring for food. But the minute they saw Lull's face they saw that something had happened. Her eyes were red with crying. Teressa was in the kitchen too, wiping her eyes on the corner of her old plaid shawl. It was Honeybird, Lull said when she could speak, for the sight of the children made her cry again. Honeybird was lost; she had been missing since dinner-time. Andy Graham and ould Davy were out scouring the countryside for her. The children did not wait to hear more. They ran at once to the grassy path where they had left Honeybird in the morning. Mrs Beezledum was turning over half a ginger biscuit in her hutch, the other rabbits were nibbling at the bars for food, but all that was left of Honeybird and Mr Beezledum was a tuft of white fur in the hedge. For a minute the children looked at each other, afraid to speak. One of their terrors had come at last. Honeybird had been stolen. Either the Kidnappers or the Wee People had taken her. The children stared at each other's white faces as they realised what had happened. If the Kidnappers, those tall, thin, half men, half devils, had taken her they would carry her away behind the mountains, and there they would cut the soles off her feet, and put her in a hot bath till she bled to death. And if the Wee People had got her it would be to take her under the ground, where she would sigh for evermore to come back to earth. Mick's voice was thick when he spoke. "We'll hunt for the wee sowl till we drop down dead," he said.
The fear of the Kidnappers was the most urgent, so towards the mountains they must go first. The rest started at a run that soon left Fly behind; but they dared not wait for her, and though she did her best to keep up they were soon out of sight. But Fly never for a moment thought of going back. Left to herself she jogged along with her face to the mountains. The sun, setting behind Slieve Donard, threw an unearthly glow over the fields. The mountains looked bigger and wilder than ever, the sky farther away. Everything seemed to know what had happened, even the birds were still, and a silence like an enchantment made the whole country strange.
At last, in the middle of the field, Fly stopped, with a stitch in her side. A flaming red sky stared her in the face, a wild, unknown land stretched away on every side. Things she had been afraid of but had only half believed in crowded round her. She saw now that they had been real all the time, and had only been waiting for a chance to come out of their hiding-places. Strange faces grinned at her from the whins, cold eyes frowned at her from the stones. In another minute that ragged bramble would turn back into an old witch. And behind the mountains the Kidnappers were cutting the soles off Honeybird's feet. With a wail of anguish Fly began to run again. She was not afraid of the fiends and witches. They might grin and frown and laugh that low, shivering laugh behind her if they liked—her Honeybird, her own Honeybird, was behind the mountains, alone with those awful Kidnappers.
"Almighty God, make them ould Kidnappers drop our wee Honeybird," she wailed.
Then she stopped again. She had forgotten that Almighty God could help.
But He would not help unless He were asked properly. For a moment she doubted the wisdom of stopping to ask. She was conscious of many grudges against her. This very day she had promised she would not do one naughty thing if God would let it be fine—and then had forgotten, and played being Moses when they were bathing, and struck the sea with a tail of seaweed to make it close over Patsy, who was Pharaoh's host. But her trouble was so great that, perhaps, if she confessed her sin He would forgive her this time. So she knelt down, and folded her hands. "Almighty God," she began, "I'm sorry I didn't keep my promise about being good, I'm sorry I was Moses, I'm sorry I'm such a bad girl, but as sure as I kneel on this grass I'll be good for iver an' iver if ye'll send back our wee Honeybird."
Tears blinded and choked her for a moment. Almighty God could do everything, could help her now so easily. It wouldn't hurt Him just for once, she thought. She went on repeating her promise to be good, begging and coaxing, but no sign came from the flaring heavens. At last she got desperate. "If ye don't I'll niver believe in ye again," she shouted, then added: "Oh, please, I didn't mean to be rude, but we want our poor, poor, wee Honeybird." She laid her face down on the grass, and sobbed.
Almighty God might have helped her, she thought. It wasn't much she had done to make Him cross after all—but, then, He was just—and she had made Moses cross too. But Honeybird must be saved from the Kidnappers, and if Almighty God would not help Fly knew she must go on herself. She dried her eyes on her sleeve, and was getting up from her knees, when something white hopped out from behind a whin. It was Beezledum; and when Fly looked in under the whin there was Honeybird fast asleep. She knelt down, and folded her hands again. "Almighty God," she said, "I'll niver, niver to my dyin' day forget this on ye." Then with a yell of joy she ran to wake Honeybird.
When Fly looked in under the whin there was Honeybird fast asleep.When Fly looked in under the whinthere was Honeybird fast asleep.
When Fly looked in under the whin there was Honeybird fast asleep.When Fly looked in under the whinthere was Honeybird fast asleep.
There was great rejoicing when they got home. Lull hugged and kissed them both, and made Honeybird tell her story over and over again.
"It was that ould Beezledum," Honeybird said; "he didn't like goin' to church, an' he ran away through the hedge. An he run on an' on, an' I thought I'd niver catch him. An' when I catched him, an begun to come home, I was awful tired, an' I just sat down to get my breath, and Fly came and woke me up."
About ten o'clock the others came home, despairing of ever seeing Honeybird again. They had met ould Davy at the gates, who told them to run on and see what was sitting by the kitchen fire.
What was sitting by the kitchen fire when they came in was Honeybird eating hot buttered toast.
Lull pulled up their stools to the fire, and took a plate of toast that she had made for them out of the oven. The rest of the evening was spent in rejoicing. Fly began to be elated.
It was she who had found Honeybird. The others had run on and left her, but she was the best finder after all. They praised her till she was only second to Honeybird in importance. The desire to shine still more got the better of her; though her conscience hurt she would not heed it.
"Ye'll find I knowed where to look," she said; "ye'll find I know things."
Lull and the four others listened with breathless interest to her tale. Andy Graham came in from the stables to hear it. Fly got more and more excited. "When ye all left me," she said, "I just run on till I come to the quarest place, all whins an' big stones an' trees, an' I can tell ye I was brave an' scared; I was just scared out a' my skin. But I keep on shoutin': 'Where's our wee Honeybird? Give us back our wee Honeybird,' an' all the time I run on like mad, shoutin' hard, an' I lifted a big stick, an' sez I: 'If ye don't give us back our wee Honeybird I'll wreck yer ould country an' I'll burn yer ould thorn-trees,' an' I shook the big stick. 'Do ye hear me?' sez I—'for I will, as sure as I'm standin' on this green grass.' An' with that something white jumped out, an', sure enough, this was Beezledum, and Honeybird fast asleep in under a whin."
"God love ye, but ye were the brave chile," said Lull.
"An' as I was comin' away," Fly went on, "I throwed down the big stick, an' I shouted out: 'I'll thank ye all, an' I'll niver, niver to my dyin' day forget it on ye.'"
They praised her again and again. No one had ever such a triumph. But in the middle of the night yells of terror from the nursery brought Lull from her bed. Fly was sitting up in bed howling, the others were huddled round her. Mick and Honeybird were crying with her, but Jane and Patsy were dry-eyed and severe. Almighty God's eye had looked in at the window at her, Fly said. He had come to send her to hell for the awful lie she had told. Patsy said she deserved to go. "It's in the Bible," Jane said: "all liars shall have a portion of the lake of burnin' fire an' brimstone."
"Sure, she's only a wee chile, an' how could she know any better?" Mick remonstrated. "God'd be the quare old tyrant if He sent her to hell for a wee lie like thon."
"But, after Him lettin' her off one lie, He'll be clean mad with her by this time," said Patsy.
"Whist, childer dear," said Lull, as she put them all back to bed and tucked them in. "Sure, the Almighty has somethin' better to do than be puttin' the likes a' yous in hell. Just be aff to sleep, an' I'll say my beads, an' the Holy Mother'll put in a good word for the chile afore mornin'."
Mrs Kelly and her grandson Tom lived in one of the two cottages just outside the gates. Her husband, when he was alive, had worked in the garden at Rowallan. She was a sprightly little woman, rosy-cheeked and black-eyed, and always wore a black woollen hood, that had a border of grey fur, around her face. The children loved to go to tea with her, to eat potato bread just off the griddle, and hear the tales of the days when she was young: when the boys and girls would go miles for the sake of a dance, and when there was not a wake in the countryside that she did not foot it with the best, in her white muslin dress and white stockings.
Lull said Mrs Kelly hadn't her sorrows to seek. But the children thought they had never seen anyone who looked more cheerful. She herself said there were not many old women who were so well off. "Sure, I've got me wee house, that I wouldn't change for a king's palace," she said one day, "an' me grandson Tom, that niver said a wrong word to me. Wouldn't I be the quare old witch if I didn't be thankin' Almighty God for it!"
But one morning ould Davy, who lived in the next cottage, when he came to work, brought a message from Mrs Kelly to say that Tom was ill. Jane, who went down to see what was the matter, came back crying.
"He's goin' to die," she said, choking back her tears, "an' she's sittin' by the fire cryin' her heart out."
"Auch, the critter! she's had sorras enough without that," said Lull.
"What ails him?" Mick asked.
"He's got consumption, an' she says—she says—she's buried eight a' them with it."
"God help her! she was the brave wee woman," said Lull.
"Mebby he'll get better," said Patsy.
"He'll niver do that in this world," Lull said sadly.
"It's just awful," said Jane. "She says there's no cure for it. It'd break yer heart to see her sittin' there."
"I'm sure as anything Doctor Dixey could cure him," said Fly. "Didn't he mend Patsy's foot when he hurted it in the threshin' machine? An' didn't he take them ould ulsters out a' my throat?"
There was some hope in this, the children thought. And though Lull shook her head she allowed them to send Andy for Doctor Dixey. It was not until the evening that the doctor came. Lull had promised that they might stay up to hear what he thought about Tom. When he did come, and Lull took him down to Mrs Kelly's house, he stayed there nearly an hour. The children were getting very sleepy when he came back into the school-room.
"Well," he said, pulling up a chair to the fire, "so you want me to cure this boy Tom?"
Mick nodded.
"I think it could be done," Doctor Dixey went on. "But it would cost a deal of money—more than any of us can afford to spend."
"How much?" Jane asked.
"Ten pounds at least, and then it's only a chance. And the old woman will be left alone in any case."
They looked inquiringly at him.
"You see, the only chance is to send him abroad. He'll die if he stays here. And when he gets there he'll have to stay there. So the grandmother would miss him just as much as if he——"
"She wouldn't care," Jane interrupted. "Sure, couldn't he write letters to her if he was alive! An' he couldn't do that if he was dead."
"But the money—where's that to come from?" said Doctor Dixey.
"We'll just have to fin' it," said Mick.
"I'm afraid that will be a hard job," said Doctor Dixey as he got up to go. "But I'll see to the boy while he's here, and if you find the money I'll find the ship."
They sat up for another hour, talking it over with Lull. She said it was hopeless to think of such a lot of money, but the children declared that they would find it somewhere. After they had gone to bed, and Lull had put out the candle, Jane heard a noise in the dark room.
"Who's that?" she said, starting up in bed.
"It's on'y me sayin' me prayers," said Honeybird.
"Ye said them wanst afore," said Jane. "Get into bed, an' be quiet."
Honeybird got into bed, but in about three minutes she was out again.
"What's the matter now?" said Jane.
"It's on'y me sayin' me prayers," Honeybird answered.
"Sure, ye said them twiced afore," said Fly crossly.
"I'm sayin' them three times for luck," said Honeybird as she got back into bed.
Next morning Mick and Jane started off together to look for the money. Soon after they had gone Honeybird came into the kitchen with her best hood on, and said she was going out to see somebody. "Don't ye be feared," she said when Lull had tied the strings of her hood. "I'll be away the quare long time, but I'll bring ye all somethin' nice when I come back."
An hour later she was knocking at the door of the big white house, two miles away, where old Mr M'Keown lived. None of the children had ever been there before; but they had heard about Mr M'Keown from Teressa, who went once a week to do his washing, and who had told them stories of how he lived all by himself, with not even a servant to look after him, and kept all his money tied up in old stockings.
Honeybird's heart was full of joy. Last night she had asked Almighty God to let her find the money for Tom Kelly, and when she got back into bed for the last time Almighty God had reminded her that old Mr M'Keown had stockings full of gold.
After rapping for a long time on the panels of the front door—she could not reach the knocker—she walked round to the back of the house, and knocked there. But still there was no answer. Then she tried the side door. By this time her knuckles were sore, and, as she found she could turn the handle, she opened the door, and walked in. A long passage led to the hall, where she stopped, and looked round. There were doors on every side, but they were all shut. The first door she opened showed another passage, the second led into a dark room. But when she opened the third door she saw an old man sitting in an arm-chair by a fire. Honeybird smiled at him. Then she shut the door carefully behind her, and went up to him, holding out her hand.
"An' how're ye, Mister M'Keown?" she said.
A bony hand closed over hers for a second, but Mr M'Keown did not speak. Honeybird pulled up a chair to the fire. "I hurted me han' rappin' on thon dours," she said, "so I just come in at last."
"May I ask who you are?" said Mr M'Keown in a thin voice.
"I'm Honeybird Darragh," she said.
"Darragh!" he repeated. "Ah, yes."
Honeybird's eyes wandered round the room. Cupboards with glass doors lined the walls, and the cupboards were full of china. "Can I look at them things?" she asked.
"Certainly, certainly," said Mr M'Keown.
She got off her chair, and went round the room. In one cupboard there were china ladies and gentlemen in beautiful clothes. She sighed before it. "Auch, I wisht I was a lady," she said, coming back to the fire. "Wouldn't ye like to have long hair, Mister M'Keown?"
"I am afraid it would not afford me much pleasure," he said.
Honeybird looked at him again. He was very thin, and his long back was bent. "Aren't you feared to live here all by yer lone?" she said.
"Afraid? What should I be afraid of?" he asked.
"I'm feared," she said, "an' there's me an' Fly an' Patsy an' Mick an' Jane an' Lull an' mother—all them—an' I'm feared to death sometimes."
"What are you afraid off?" he asked.
"I'm feared a' ghosts an' Kidnappers, an' Skyan the Bugler, an' the buggy boo an' the banshee, an' when I'm a bad girl I'm awful feared a' the divil."
"Surely that is a rare occurrence?" said Mr M'Keown.
Honeybird did not understand. "Aren't ye feared a' them things?" she asked.
"Not in the least," he replied.
"I'll hould ye ye're feared robbers'll come an' steal all yer stockin's full of gold," she said.
"My stockings full of gold!" he repeated, looking puzzled.
"Teressa sez ye've got hapes an' hapes a' them," she said.
"I am afraid they only exist in Theresa's imagination," he said. "I have not got one stocking full of gold."
Honeybird stared. "Then ye haven't got one to give away?" she faltered.
Mr M'Keown sat up in his chair, and made a crackling noise in his throat, that grew more distinct, till at last Honeybird realised that he was laughing.
"I have not laughed for ten years," he said, smiling at her.
She tried to smile back, but her eyes were full of tears.
"Did you expect me to give you a stocking full of gold?" he said.
"'Deed, I did," she said sadly. "I was tould to come an' ast ye for it."
Mr M'Keown frowned. "Ah," he said; "so it was not simplicity?"
"No; it was a hape a' money," she said.
"Perhaps you can tell me the exact sum?"
"'Deed, I can," she said; "it was just ten pounds."
"Ten pounds! What madness!" he exclaimed. "And, pray, is it to build a new chapel or to convert the Jews that you have been sent to beg such a sum?"
"It's just to make Tom Kelly better," she said, the tears running down her cheeks. "He's goin' to die, and Mrs Kelly's buried eight a' them, and Jane sez she's heart bruk, and Doctor Dixey sez ten pounds'll cure him."
Mr M'Keown coughed. "Did Doctor Dixey send you to beg for the money?" she said.
She shook her head.
"Perhaps it was Father Ryan or Mr Rannigan?"
Again she shook her head.
"Was it your sister?"
"'Deed, it wasn't Jane, for she just hates ye; she always says ye're an ould miser, an' ye'd skin a flint."
"I am sorry that my conduct does not meet with her approval," Mr M'Keown said. "But I shall be glad if you will tell me to whom I am indebted for the honour of your visit."
Honeybird looked at him. She did not understand what he meant.
"Who sent you here?" he said.
"Almighty God tould me to come," she said.
"Almighty God?" he said. "I do not understand."
"I ast Him to let me fin' the money to cure Tom Kelly. An' I said me prayers three times for luck. An' when I was gettin' into bed the last time Almighty God just said in a wee whisper: 'Ould Mister M'Keown's the boy.'" Her disappointment was so bitter that she could not stop crying.
"Did you tell this to anyone?" Mr M'Keown asked.
"I didn't tell a sowl. I got Lull to tie on me Sunday hood, 'an' came here as quick as quick." For some time neither spoke. Mr M'Keown was walking up and down the room. Honeybird was sniffing, and wiping her eyes on her pinafore. At last Mr M'Keown came back to his chair. "Will you tell it to me all over again?" he said.
"I'll tell ye all from the start," she said. "Jane said Tom Kelly was goin' to die, and Fly said Doctor Dixey could cure him, 'cause he took the ulsters out a' her throat. An' Doctor Dixey come, an' sez he: 'I can make him better with ten pounds,' sez he, 'an' if yous can fin' the money I'll fin' the ship.":
"What is the matter with this Tom?" Mr M'Keown interrupted.
"He's got consumption. An' we thought an' thought, an' Jane ast Lull to pawn our Sunday clothes. An' Lull said they weren't worth more'n a pound. An' when we went to bed I prayed like anythin', an' Almighty God tould me to come here." She got up, and held out her hand. "I may as well be sayin' good-mornin' to ye, Mister M'Keown," she said.
Mr M'Keown took her hand, but did not let it go again. "Perhaps Almighty God did not tell you to come to me," he said.
"'Deed, He did," she said, trying to swallow a sob; "but mebby He was just makin' fun a' me."
"Certainly I have not got stockings full of gold," Mr M'Keown said.
"Well, I was thinkin' ye had," she said.
"Ten pounds!" he murmured, looking into the fire. Then he got up from his chair.
"Will you wait here by the fire till I come back?" he said, and went out of the room.
Honeybird-sat down again. Her heart was heavy. She had pictured to herself how she would go home with the stocking full of gold, and how glad the others would be when they saw the money, and knew that Tom Kelly could be cured. But now she must go back empty-handed. Mr M'Keown was gone such a long time that she grew tired of waiting, and got up to go home. But before she reached the door it opened, and he came in. He had something in his hand.
"Come here," he said, and, to her astonishment, he laid on the table a handful of glittering gold pieces.
"That is ten pounds," he said.
Honeybird looked bewildered.
"It is for you if you will accept it," he said.
She answered by throwing her arms round his legs and hugging them tight. Mr M'Keown took her hand, and went back to his chair.
"An' what made ye say ye had none, ye ould ruffan?" she said, hugging him round the neck this time, till he had to beg to be allowed to breathe.
"I think you must ask Doctor Dixey to call here for it," he said.
Honeybird's face fell. "Auch, sure I can take it home myself," she said.
"I'm afraid you might lose it," he said.
"How could I lose it?" she said. "Are ye feared I'd drop it? 'Cause I tell ye what: I couldn't drop it if ye'd put it in an ould stockin' for me to carry."
Mr M'Keown smiled. "Perhaps a sock would do," he said. He went out of the room again, and came back with a sock. "But it will not be full," he said, as he tied the money in the toe. Then he said he would walk back with her. Honeybird went with him to get his coat, and brushed his top-hat for him with her arm, as Andy Graham had taught her. They set out, hand-in-hand, Honeybird carrying the sock. Mr M'Keown walked very slowly, and Honeybird talked all the way. She told him about her mother and Lull and Andy Graham, what she played, and what the others did, till they came to the gates of Rowallan.
"Now I shall leave you," Mr M'Keown said.
She kissed him good-bye, and when, half way up the avenue, she turned to look back he was gone. The others were having dinner. Jane and Mick had come back. Honeybird ran into the schoolroom, waving the sock.
"Ye were quare and cross with me for gettin' out a' bed last night, weren't ye, Janie? But luk what it got me." She shook the gold out of the sock on to the table.
They all danced round her while she told her tale. And when they ran down and told Mrs Kelly she was so bewildered by the news that she could not believe it till they brought her up and showed her the little heap of gold on the table. Honeybird was the least excited of them all; not even when Doctor Dixey came and made her tell her adventures twice over did she lose her head.
"Sure, Almighty God always does anythin' I ast Him," she said. "Mind ye, He's quare an' obliging; if I loss anythin' He fin's it for me as quick as quick."
"Well, He worked a miracle for you this time," said Doctor Dixey.
A fortnight later Honeybird wrote, or rather Jane held her hand while she wrote, to Mr M'Keown.
"I write to tell you that Tom Kelly is away to Africa," the letter ran. "And Mrs Kelly cried and old Davy said he would be her grandson now and that would make you laugh again if you knowed Davy for he is the cross old man and never says a word but it is a bad one and Doctor Dixey knowed a man there and Jane is awful sorry she called you an old miser."