Some time after the death of Uncle Niel, Patsy's ways began to puzzle the others. Until then they had always been quite open with each other about their comings and goings, but Patsy took to disappearing for a whole day at a time, giving no reason when he came home at night for his long absence. Mick and Jane asked him one day where he went so often by himself, but his answer only made them more curious. "If I telled ye," he said, "ye'd all come, an' that'd spoil it."
About a week after this Lull took them into town, eight miles away, on a shopping expedition. Jane and Patsy were on one side of the car. Jane noticed that several people they met, and they were people she did not know, touched their hats to Patsy, and Patsy pulled off his cap each time, but said nothing. At last, while they were waiting outside a shop for Lull, a tall man came down the street. As he passed the car he started, looked at Patsy, and then with a bow took off his hat, and walked on.
"Who's that, Patsy?" Jane asked.
"He's just a man I'm acquainted with," Patsy answered, and would say no more.
A few days later something happened that made Jane still more suspicious. They were having dinner, when Lull said: "Which of ye has touched Mick's black coat and hat?"
They all denied having seen them since the day of the funeral, except Patsy, who did not speak.
"Well, that's the quare thing," said Lull, "for I've hunted the length and breadth of the house, an' can't lay my han' on them at all."
Again they declared they had not seen them. This time Patsy spoke with the others, but Jane noticed that he put his hand on the back of a chair as he spoke. After dinner she told Mick. "It was Patsy tuk yer black coat an' hat," she said.
"An' how do ye know that?" Mick asked.
"Didn't I see him touch wood when he said he niver seen it?" she said. "I wonder what he's done with it, though," she added. The more she thought about it the more bewildered she grew. But of one thing she was sure: that if she could find out where he went, and what he did on those long days away from home, she would have a key to the other mystery. So she set herself to find out. The only thing to do was to follow him some day; but Patsy seemed to know what was in her mind, for he guarded his departures so carefully that each time it was not until he had got a good start of her that she discovered he was gone.
One morning at breakfast Jane saw by the look on Patsy's face that he meant to be off that day, and she made up her mind that this time he should not slip through her fingers.
Patsy got up from the table with a yawn. "Who's seen the wee babby rabbits?" he said. No one had.
"Well, first there gets the pick," he said, and they flew to the hutches. But when they got there no baby rabbits were to be seen, and, in a fury of disappointment, Jane realised that Patsy had got the better of her again. She was so angry that she slapped Fly and Honeybird for daring to laugh at the joke, and their cries brought Lull out into the yard. Lull dried their tears on her apron, scolding and comforting at the same time.
"There now, ye're not kilt," she said. "Shame on ye, Jane, to lift yer han' again them. If ye lay finger on them more I'll tell yer mother." This was always Lull's threat, and though she never kept her word it never failed to have the same effect on the children. The thought of making their mother unhappy was the most dreadful punishment they could imagine. Jane walked out of the yard with her nose in the air and a miserable feeling in her heart. But, once out of sight, she ran to her favourite hiding-place among the sallies at the top of the garden, and sitting down with her back to the convent wall she cried with disappointment, and with repentance too. It was wicked to have slapped Fly and Honeybird, but they had no business to laugh at her; and that little brute of a Patsy was off again all by himself, and she didn't know where he was. By-and-by she heard Mick calling her. She knew he would be sure to look in the sallies for her, so she dried her eyes, and crept along by the wall, and under the fence at the top of the garden, out into the field. No good could come of letting Mick find her; for she was still in a bad temper, and she knew it would only mean more fights if she went home before her temper had gone. She wandered through the fields in an aimless way, till she began to get bored, and not any better tempered for that.
It was all Patsy's fault; if he had not put her in a temper she might have been working at the pigeon-house with Mick; but now the whole day was spoilt, for she could not, with dignity, go home before tea-time. Soon she found herself in a lane, and had to stop to choose which way she would go.
One way led to the village and the sea, the other to the big road that ran to Castle Magee and town. It was too cold to go to the sea, and she didn't want to go through the village with red eyes. Then the thought came into her mind that the snowdrops might be out in the church-yard at Castle Magee, so she turned that way.
Castle Magee was a village of about six cottages and as many bigger houses; a damp, mouldy place, that always impressed the children with a sense of hunger and death. They rarely saw anyone about but the sexton, and he seemed to be perpetually at work digging graves in the churchyard. Then, too, there was no shop, and they had no friends in the village, and after the long walk from home all that could be hoped for was a turnip out of the fields. The church, surrounded by yew-trees, stood in the middle of the village. The whitewashed walls of the Parsonage blinked through an avenue of the same trees. Lull said the church was a Presbyterian meeting-house, and on Sundays people came from miles round, and sang psalms without any tunes, and the minister preached a sermon two hours long, and then everybody ate sandwiches in their pews, and the minister preached another sermon two hours longer.
The children had often climbed up, and looked in at the church windows, and the cold, bare inside and the square boxes for pews had added to their dreary impressions of the place.
If it had not been for the snowdrops they would never have gone near Castle Magee; but at the right time of year the churchyard was a white drift of these flowers, and the sexton had often given them leave to pick as many as they pleased. With a big bunch of snowdrops Jane felt she could go straight home. Dinner would be over, of course, by that time, but there would still be the afternoon to give to the new pigeon-house. And how pleased her mother would be with the flowers. All Jane's bad temper disappeared at the thought, and she would tie up two little bunches with ivy leaves at the back for Fly and Honeybird. She skipped along the road, making up romances to herself to while away the three long miles. She was going to a ball in a blue satin dress trimmed with pearls; then it was a dinner, and she wore black velvet and diamonds; then a meet, and she had a green velvet habit, like the picture of Miss Flora Macdonald Lull had nailed on the kitchen wall.
Soon she got tired of these thoughts.
"'Deed, I won't wear any of them things," she muttered; "everybody wears them. I'll just go in my bare skin an' a pair of Lull's ould boots." She laughed, and began to run. As she got near the village the old feeling of hunger, native to the place, reminded her that turnips would now be stacked behind the Parsonage, and she remembered that it would be best to look for an open heap, for the last time she and Mick had broken into one they found they had opened a potato heap by mistake. She laughed as she thought of how cross the old farmer had been when he had caught them filling up the hole again. Luckily, the first heap she came to was open, so, picking out a good big turnip, she went on till she came to the churchyard wall, and sat down there to eat it. The village looked more desolate than usual. The slate roofs of the cottages were still wet with the rain that had fallen in the night, and a cold wind moaned in the yew-trees. There were only a few snowdrops out, and for once the sexton was not to be seen, but a heap of earth at the far corner of the churchyard showed a newly-dug grave. Jane had got through her first slice of turnip when she was startled by the sound of the bell in the church behind her.
One! It went with a harsh clang.
She looked round, but the bell had stopped. She was beginning to think she had imagined it when the bell clanged again. Then another moment's pause and another clang. Jane thought she had never heard anything so queer, when she suddenly remembered what it was. Of course, it was tolling for a funeral. It had tolled three already. Lull said it tolled one for every year of the dead person's life.
Four—five—six—went the bell.
"That might be our wee Honeybird," Jane said to herself, and remembered the slap she had given Honeybird that morning.
Seven—eight.
The sound grew more and more melancholy to her ears. Each clang of the bell died away like a moan.
Nine.
"Mebby it's some person's only child," she thought.
Ten—eleven.
"It'd be the awful thing to be dead," she muttered, and shivered at the thought of being buried this weather with nothing on but a white nightgown.
Twelve—thirteen—tolled the bell.
"It'd be awfuller to be goin' to Mick's feeneral," she said. The thought made her heart sick.
She jumped up to go home—she could come back when more snowdrops were out—but she caught sight of a long black line, slowly climbing up to the church by the road from town. The sight of a funeral always depressed Jane, but there was something specially gloomy about this one. The wet road looked so cold, the sky so grey, and the black hearse and six mourning carriages came heavily along, as though they were weighed down by grief.
Jane began to say her prayers. It was an awful world God had made, and He might let one of them die if she didn't pray hard to Him.
The bell went on tolling. It had got past twenty by the time her prayer was said. The funeral was so near that she could see the mourners behind the hearse. There were six tall men in black; two of them walked in front of the others. They were the chief mourners. Perhaps it was their sister who was in the hearse. The bell tolled oft till it was past thirty; the funeral came nearer and nearer.
Then all at once Jane's heart went cold with pity, for between the two chief mourners she saw a little boy. It was the little boy's mother in the hearse, of course, and one of the men was his father. Tears rolled down her face at the sight of him. He was such a little boy, in a black coat that was miles too big for him, and his head bent like his father's. This was too much for Jane's feelings; she rolled over the wall, hid her face behind a tombstone, and cried bitterly.
The bell went on tolling. The wind soughed in the yew-trees. The funeral procession came into the churchyard, the tall men carrying the coffin, and the chief mourners walking behind. The little boy walked beside his father.
"Poor, poor wee sowl," Jane sobbed. "God pity it—it might 'a' been our wee Patsy!—Ye young divil!" she added through her teeth—for it was Patsy. Sure enough, there he was in Mick's black coat and hat, walking solemnly behind the coffin, holding that strange man's hat.
"So I've catched ye, my boy," she muttered, hiding down behind the tombstone. She could watch without being seen, by lying flat on her stomach, and she determined to see the end of it now. The burial service began. She could hear voices, but could see nothing for the crowd round the grave. Then the crowd parted, and she saw the coffin lowered. The tall man began to sob. Patsy respectfully held the man's hat and gloves while he cried into a big black-bordered pocket-handkerchief. At last it was over, and they came back along the path. As they passed by the tombstone where Jane lay she heard Patsy say:
"Well, I must be goin', so I'll be sayin' good-mornin' to ye, sir."
A man's voice answered. "Ye're the remains a' them as is in their graves, sir. Good-morning to ye, sir."
When they had all passed she crept along behind the tombstone to the far wall, and jumped over it into the field. Then she ran as fast as she could to the road, climbed up the bank, and sat down behind the hedge to wait for Patsy. He came soon, whistling, with the skirts of Mick's coat tucked up under his arm. Jane waited till he came quite near, then she jumped over the hedge, and stood in front of him.
"Think I didn't see ye," he said; "jukin' down behind a tombstone with yer flat ould face? Ye very near made me laugh."
"What were ye doin', Patsy?" she said.
"'Deed, I was a mourner at the woman's feeneral, an' a very dacent woman she was by all accounts."
Jane forgot to crow over him in her interest. "What'd she die of, Patsy?" she said.
Patsy stopped. "Ye know that wee public-house as ye go into town, just as ye turn down North Street?" he said. Jane nodded. "She kep' that, the man tould me, an' she died a' hard work.'
"I niver heerd of any person dyin' of that afore," said Jane.
"Well, she did," said Patsy, "for I heard the sexton ast the man, an' he said she died a' labour."
"I wonder if it's catchin'?" said Jane.
Patsy walked on whistling.
"But what tuk ye to the woman's feeneral at all, Patsy?" Jane asked.
"I just went for the fun a' the thing," he said.
"Sure, there's no fun in that," said Jane.
"Isn't there just?" said Patsy. "That's all you know; I tell ye it's the quare ould sport." He stopped, and counted up on his fingers: "That makes two weman's, two childers', and one man's feeneral I've been chief mourner to since Christmas."
"But ye can't be chief mourner if ye're no relation," said Jane.
"Ye can just. I walked close behind the hearse of every one of them," he said. "When I see the feeneral comin' up the road I take off my hat, an' they make room for me to walk with the best."
He bound Jane over by a promise not to tell. In return for her promise he showed her where he kept Mick's coat and hat—wrapped up in a newspaper, and covered with sods, under an old bell-glass at the top of the garden—and promised, on his part, he would tell her what the people died of whose funerals he attended in the future.
But, as it happened, that was the last one he went to. When they got home they found the secret was out. Mick met them. He knew all about it, he said; and Lull knew too, and was cross. Teressa had told. Her sister, who was in service at the Parsonage at Castle Magee, had been to see her, and told her all about the little gentleman from Rowallan who came to every funeral in the churchyard.
"She sez," Mick went on, "that ye were the thoughtful wee man, Patsy, an' it'd melt the heart of a stone to see ye standin' at the grave like an' ould judge, holdin' the mourner's black kid gloves."
"Bah!" said Patsy.
But Lull threatened awful things if Patsy ever went to a funeral again. "Mind, I'll tell yer mother if I ever hear tell of it," she said; "dear knows what disease ye'll be bringin' home to us."
The lesson was impressed more deeply on Patsy's mind by Lull being ill that evening, and going to bed early with a headache. Patsy was terrified. He sat on the mat outside the door till past ten, and refused to go to bed.
"She's just the very ould one would catch it," he said when Jane tried to persuade him to go to bed, "for she works that hard herself."
"Well, I'll go in an' ast her if it's catchin'," Jane said at last.
Lull was awake when they went in. "What's the matter?" she said, sitting up in bed.
"There's nothin' the matter," said Jane; "only Patsy wants to know if what the woman died of was catchin'."
"What did she die of?" said Lull.
"She died a' labour," said Patsy in a trembling voice. "Is it catchin', Lull?"
Lull laughed so much that she could not answer.
"Patsy was afraid ye'd catched it," said Jane, laughing too, though she did not know why.
"God be thankit I have not," said Lull, and as they went joyfully off to bed they could hear her still laughing.
May was at its height; all the apple-trees were in blossom, and the crimson thorn-trees on the lawn. Through the open nursery windows a soft wind brought the smell of hawthorn and lush green grass. Bright patches of sunlight spotted the bare floor and Jane's red and white quilt. It was early, and the children were still in bed. They were wide awake—the sun had waked them an hour ago—and already they had planned how they would spend the day. It was Saturday—a whole holiday. Nobody had to do lessons to-day; the long, rich sunny hours lay before them full of happiness. They had agreed that the rocks was the place for to-day's picnic; no place would be half so beautiful. This was the weather for the sea. As they lay quiet in bed each one was thinking of the joys in store. First, there would be the walk across the soft, spongy grass—past the whins for the sake of the hot, sunny smell of the blossom. They would be tempted to stop and have the picnic there; but they would go on, towards the sea, and the sheep would move off as they came near, and rakish black crows would rise slowly, and sail away. Then the sea would come in sight: so blue this weather, how deep and full it looked, with what a soft splash it washed against the black rocks, and how it stung your naked body as you slid in for one dip and out again. Fly loved to look forward, as she called it. Pleasures were worth twice as much to her if she were able to think of them beforehand. Then there would be the long afternoon, when you lay on your face on the rocks, and watched the ships sailing far away, and now and then caught sight of a trail of smoke on the horizon, that told you a steamer was passing by. A sound of singing came from the convent garden, and in a moment all the five children were out of bed, leaning out of the window, watching the long procession of white nuns file slowly out of the convent door. The voices, low at first, grew stronger and clearer as the procession came along the cindered path. The nuns' white dresses, the black path they walked on, the delicate green of the apple-trees on each side, the blue of the banner, the shining gold of the cross, make a wonderful picture in the strong sunlight. The children watched in silence. This singing procession of white and blue was one of the things they liked best in May. It came every fine morning to remind them how happy they were now that the good weather had come. Lull said the nuns sang because May was the month of Mary.
"Ave Maris StellaDei Mater Alma!"
They were singing hymns to the Blessed Virgin now; their voices, very sweet and clear, seemed to fill the garden. They went on along the path, paused by a black cross that marked a grave, then went round the chapel, and the children could see them no longer. They listened till the singing died away, and then began to dress quickly. Fly was always last. The others teased her about it, but they could not make her hurry. Fly had a reason for being slow. She liked to say her prayers last. If she had been dressed sooner she would have had to say her prayers at the same time as the others, and then, she thought, Almighty God could not give her His undivided attention. Fly said her prayers very carefully; sometimes when she had said them once she went all through them again, in case she had forgotten anything. When the others had gone downstairs she knelt down by her cot. She said her proper prayers first, then added: "And, please, don't let any of us have anythin' the matter with our heart our liver our lungs, or any part of our insides that I don't know the name of; please don't let any of us kill or murder anybuddy, or be hanged or beheaded; an', please, remember that it's ould Mrs Bogue's turn to die first."
She rose from her knees, and ran downstairs. The hall door was open, and the sunlight streamed into the hall. There was really no need to say your prayers at all this weather, Fly thought; for, of course, nobody ever died except in winter, when the wind howled round the house and rain lashed the window-panes. Still, she liked to be on the safe side. She was very proud of her prayer: the last petition she had thought of in the winter, when Mrs Darragh had been ill. She had reminded Almighty God that they had had a father and an uncle die, while the Bogues had never had a death in their family. Therefore it must be Mrs Bogue's turn next. Honeybird, the only one to whom she had told this petition, was so pleased with it that she prayed it too. Both children chuckled over the wisdom of it; for Mrs Bogue, in spite of her eighty years, was a strong old woman—Lull had said she would see ninety—so their turn could not come for years yet.
"It's the awful thing that people has to die at all." Jane's voice came from the schoolroom. "An it's quare that God thinks anybuddy'd like to go to heaven."
"Well, I niver want to go," said Patsy. "I'd hate the ould gold street an' glass sea; I'd far rather have a nice salt-water sea, with crabs an' herrin's in it."
Fly stood in the doorway. "What's happened?" she said.
"Ould Mrs Bogue's dead," said Jane, with her mouth full of porridge. A sharp pang of fear seized Fly. A moment before she had been altogether happy, now the light seemed to have gone from the day. She looked at Honeybird, but Honeybird was taking her breakfast calmly; she did not realise what this meant. Their safeguard was gone. If Mrs Bogue had died so suddenly and unexpectedly might it not mean that Almighty God wanted their turn to come quickly? She swallowed her breakfast, and went out into the garden. She could not go to the picnic with the others; she was too miserable for that. Why, oh, why did God make people only to kill them again? Why did He want them to go to such a dull place as heaven? Honeybird's voice called her from the garden gate, and the next minute Honeybird came running down the grassy path.
"Why didn't ye go for the picnic?" Fly asked.
"'Cause I know'd ye'd be sorry about ould Mrs Bogue," said Honeybird, sitting down beside her. "I'm thinkin' mebby Mrs Bogue wasn't as strong as we thinked. It might 'a' been better to say Mr Rannigan."
"That wouldn't 'a' been fair," said Fly; "he had a sister die. It was ould Mrs Bogue's turn right enough, only it come far sooner that I thought."
"What are ye goin' to do?" Honeybird asked.
Fly could think of nothing.
"Why don't ye pray to have ould Mrs Bogue alive again?" said Honeybird.
"That's no use wanst people's dead," said Fly.
"But couldn't God make her niver 'a' been dead at all?" Honeybird asked. "I'd try Him if I was you."
Fly thought for a moment. "We'll both pray hard, and then we'll go an' see." They knelt down under an apple-tree. Honeybird prayed first, and then Fly. Then they started for Mrs Bogue's house. Honeybird would have liked Fly to tell her a story as they went along the road, but she dare not ask, for she could tell by Fly's face that she was still praying.
The road was hot and dusty. Both the children were soon tired. Honeybird thought of the others enjoying themselves on the rocks. She wished she could have gone with them. She would have enjoyed it too, for though she pretended to Fly that she was anxious, she really was not troubled at all. She did not believe that Almighty God wanted one of them to die. Lull said their mother had not been so well for years. But she had shared Fly's prayers, and a sense of honour made her try to share Fly's trouble now that the prayer had gone wrong. Fly was still muttering. Every now and then Honeybird could hear: "For Christ's sake. Amen."
When they came to Mrs Bogue's gate Fly said they were to say a last prayer each, and then ask at the lodge. They shut their eyes.
"Make her alive an' well, Almighty God. Amen," said Honeybird.
They opened their eyes, and went up to the lodge, but while they were still knocking at the door Mrs Bogue's big yellow carriage came round the corner of the avenue. Inside the carriage was the old lady herself. Fly gave a howl of delight. The children ran forward, and the carriage pulled up.
"There ye are alive an' well," said Fly joyfully. "Och, but I'm glad to see ye."
Mrs Bogue's wizened face expressed no pleasure at seeing Fly.
"Of course I'm well; I always am," she said in a thin, high voice.
"Ye were dead this mornin', though," said Honeybird.
"Dead! who said I was dead?" Mrs Bogue demanded indignantly.
"Lull tould us that iverybuddy said ye died last night," said Fly; she was still smiling with delight.
Mrs Bogue turned to her niece. "Do you hear that, Maria? That is twice they have had me dead. I don't know what the world is coming to. They won't give people time to die nowadays."
"We'll give ye any amount a' time, Mrs Bogue," said Fly earnestly; "we want ye to live as long as iver ye can please."
"It's quare an' nice for us when ye're alive," said Honeybird. Mrs Bogue looked at them sharply. Both faces were beaming with happiness.
"You are very kind children," she said. She began to fumble in a bag by her side. "Here is a shilling each for you."
The yellow carriage went on. Fly and Honeybird looked at each other. Honeybird was thinking how glad she was that she had stayed with Fly and had not gone off with the others. Fly was thinking how good Almighty God had been to hear her prayer. They went on down the road to Johnnie M'Causland's shop, and bought lemonade and sweets, and then struck out across the fields towards the sea to find the others.
"Do ye know what?" said Fly, stopping in the middle of a field, with her arms full of lemonade bottles. "Ye're always far happier after ye're miserable. I believe He done it on purpose." She kicked up her heels. "Let's run; it's a quare good ould world, an' God's a quare good ould God, an' I'm awful happy."
Jimmie Burke's wife had not been dead a month, when one morning Teressa brought the news that he was going to be married again.
"The haythen ould Mormon!" said Lull. "God help the wemen these days."
At first the children could not believe it. The late Mrs Burke had been a friend of theirs. They had walked to the village every Sunday afternoon, for the whole long year that she had been ill, with pudding and eggs for her. And they thought Jimmie was so fond of her. He was heartbroken when she died. When they went to the cottage the day before the funeral, with a wreath of ivy leaves to put on the coffin, they found him sitting beside the corpse, crying, and wiping his eyes on a bit of newspaper. Even Jane, who, for some reason that she had not given the others, had always hated Jimmie, told Lull when they came home that she could not help thinking a pity of the man sitting there crying like a child.
"It bates Banagher," said Teressa, sitting down by the fire with the cup of tea Lull had given her—"an' the woman not cowld in her coffin yet; sure, it's enough to make the dead walk."
"Och, but the poor critter was glad to rest," said Lull.
"An', mind ye, he's the impitent ould skut," Teressa went on, stirring her tea with her finger; "he come an' tould me last night himself. An' sez he: 'The wife she left me under no obligations,' sez he; 'but sorra a woman is there about the place I'd luk at,' sez he."
"They'd be wantin' a man that tuk him," said Lull. "The first wife's well red a' him in glory."
"When's the weddin', Teressa?" Fly asked.
"An' who's marryin' him?" said Lull.
"He's away this mornin' to be marriet. She's a lump of a girl up in Ballynahinch," said Teressa. "Troth, ay, he lost no time; he's bringing her home the night, the neighbours say."
In the stable Andy Graham was even more indignant. "It's the ondacentest thing I iver heard tell of," he told Mick; "an' the woman be to be as ondacent as himself."
But Andy's, indignation was nothing to what Jane felt. "I knowed it," she said to the others when they were together in the schoolroom; "I knowed the ould boy was the bad ould baste. Augh! he oughtn't to be let live."
"Away ar that, Jane," said Patsy; "sure, that's the fool talk. Where's the harm in him marryin' again?"
"Harm!" Jane shouted. "It's more than harm; it's a dirty insult. Ye ought always to wait a year after yer wife dies afore ye marry again; but him!—him!—he just ought to be hung."
"It's a dirty trick, sure enough," said Mick; "but ye couldn't hang him unless he done a murder."
"An' so he did," said Jane sharply. "Think I don't know? I tell ye he murdered her, as sure as I stan' on this flure."
"Whist, Jane," said Mick; "that's the awful thing to be sayin'."
"An' I can prove it, too," she went on, "for I saw him do it with my own two eyes, not wanst, but twiced, an' she let out he was always doin' it. I promised her I wouldn't come over it, but there's no harm tellin' it now she's dead. Ye know them eggs Lull sent her?" the children nodded. "Well, do ye mane to say she iver eat them? For she just didn't; he eat ivery one himself, an' he eat the puddens, an' he drunk the milk. Augh! the ould baste, he'd eat the clothes off her bed if he could 'a' chewed them."
"Who tould ye he eat them all?" said Patsy.
"Sure, I saw him doin' it myself, I tell ye. He come home drunk one day when I was there. He was that blind drunk he niver seen me. An' he began eatin' all he could lay han' on. He eat up the jelly; an' two raw eggs, an' drunk the taste a' milk she had by her in the cup, an' he even drunk the medicine out of the bottle, an' eat up the wee bunch a' flowers I'd tuk her, an', when he'd eat up ivery wee nip he could find, he lay down on the flure, an' went asleep."
"The dirty, greedy, mane ould divil," said the others.
"An' she tould me he always done it," Jane went on. "An' I seen it was the truth, for he come in another day, an' done the same, an' he was that cross that he frightened her, an' she begun to spit blood, an' if it hadn't been for me I believe he'd 'a' kilt her; but I was that mad that I hit him a big dig in the stomach; an', mind ye, I hurted him, for he went to bed like a lamb, an' I tied him in with an ould shawl afore I come away."
The others could find no words to express their disgust. They agreed that Jane was right—such a man ought not to be allowed to live.
"If we tould Sergeant M'Gee he'd hang him," said Fly.
"That'd be informin', said Mick.
"Almighty God's sure to pay him out when he dies," Honeybird said.
"I'd rather pay him out now," said Jane. At that moment there was a flash of lightning, and a crash of thunder overhead, and then a shower of hailstones rattled against the window.
"Mebby he'll be struck dead," said Fly; "Almighty God's sure to be awful mad with him."
For three hours the rain poured in torrents. The children watched it from the schoolroom window splashing up on the path, and beating down the fuchsia bushes in the border.
But by dinner-time it had cleared up, and the sky looked clean and blue, as though it had just been washed. When dinner was over they set off to the village, expecting to hear that Jimmie had been struck by lightning, or, as Fly thought would be more proper, killed by a thunderbolt.
Mrs M'Rea was standing at her door, with a ring of neighbours round her. As they came up the street they heard her say: "There's the childer, an' they were the kin' friends to her when she was alive."
"Good-mornin', Mrs M'Rea," said Jane; "has Jimmie been kilt?"
"Is it kilt," said Mrs M'Rea; "'deed an' it's no more than he desarves—but we don't all get what we desarve in this world, glory be to God! Troth, no; it's marriet he is, an' comin' home the night in style on a ker, all the way from Ballynahinch."
"We thought Almighty God'd 'a' kilt him with a thunderbolt," said Fly.
"Do ye hear that?" said old Mrs Clay. "The very childer's turned agin him—an' small wonder, the ould ruffan; it's the quare woman would have him."
"By all accounts she is that," said Gordie O'Rorke, joining the group; "they say she's six fut in her stockin's an' as blackavised as the ould boy himself."
"We'll be givin' her the fine welcome the night," said his granny; "she'll be thinkin' she's got to her long home."
"They say she's got the gran' clothes," said Gordie, "an' a silk dress an'a gowld watch an' chain; mebby that's what tuk his fancy."
"If she doesn't luk out he'll be eatin' it," said Patsy. There was a roar of laughter.
"There's none knows better than yous what he could ate," said Mrs M'Rea. "Any bite or sup I tuk the woman I sat and seen it in her afore I come away."
"He's stepped over his brogues this time," said Gordie, "for me uncle up in Ballynahinch is well acquainted with the woman, an' he sez she's a heeler, an' no mistake."
"Well, well," said ould Mrs Glover, "I'm sayin' she'll not have her sorras to seek."
"No; nor Jimmie either," said Mrs M'Rea. "But there, where's the good a' talkin'? It's the lamentable thing entirely; but they're marriet now, an' God help both a' them."
"'Deed yis; they're marriet," said Mrs O'Rorke, "an we'll not be forgettin' it the night. It's tar bar'ls we'll be burnin'—they'll be expectin' it, to be sure—an' a torchlight procession out to meet them forby."
"Troth, then, they'll get more than they're expectin'," said Gordie.
"What time did ye say they'd be comin' back the night, Mrs M'Rea?" Mick asked.
"Ye know we'd like' to come to the welcome," said Jane.
"Och, it'd be late for the likes a' yous," answered Mrs M'Rea. "It'll be past ten, won't it, Gordie."
"Nearer eleven that ten," said Gordie. "You lave it to us, Miss Jane; niver fear but they'll get the right good welcome."
Going home they were all very quiet. No one spoke till they came to the gates. Then Patsy said: "Lull'll niver let us out at that time a' night."
"We'll just have to dodge her," said Jane; "it'd be the wicked an' the wrong thing to let ould Jimmie off."
"It'll be the quare fun," said Patsy, dancing round.
"It won't be fun, Patsy; it'll be vengeance," said Jane severely.
"Ye'll take me with ye, won't ye?" Honeybird begged.
"'Deed, we'll take the sowl," said Mick; "but ye'll be powerful tired."
"What do I care about that?" she said. "I just want to hit that bad ould man."
Lull was surprised to see them go to bed so quietly that night. "Ye niver know the minds a' childer," they heard her say as they left their mother's room after they had said good-night. "I made sure they'd be wantin' to the village to see Jimmie Burke come home." Honeybird sniggered, but Fly nipped her into silence.
The convent bell was ringing for Compline when Lull tucked them into bed, but before the schoolroom clock struck ten they were on their way to the village. When they got to Jimmie's cottage the crowd was so great that they could see nothing.
"We'll have no han' in the welcome at all," said Mick.
"An' it's that pitch dark we'll niver see them," said Patsy.
"We'd better be goin' back a bit along the road, an give them the first welcome," Jane said. "Come on, quick," she added, "an' we can stan' on the wall, an' paste them with mud as they come by."
"Hould on a minute," said Mick. "I've got a plan: we'll stick my lantern on the wall, an' shout out they're home; they'll be that drunk they'll niver know the differs; that'll make them stop, an' we'll get a good shot at them."
"Troth, we'll do better than that," said Patsy, with a chuckle. "They'll be blind drunk, I'm tellin' ye, an' it's into the ould pond we'll be welcomin' them. Yous three can stan' on the wall out a' the wet, an' me an' Mike'll assist the man an' his wife to step off the car."
The pond was at the side of the road, not more than a hundred yards from the village, and the wall ran right through the middle of it. The children climbed on the wall, and crept along on their hands and knees till they came to the deepest part. The water was up to the the top of the wall, so they had to sit with their legs doubled up to keep them out of the wet.
Soon they heard the wheels of the car coming along the road.
"Now, mind ye all screech at onst," said Patsy as he dropped off the wall. "Auch! but the water's cowld."
The car came nearer. Jane held up the lantern. "Hurrah, hurrah!" they shouted; "here ye are at last. Hurrah!"
"This way, this way," Mick shouted; "drive up to the man's own dour."
A stone from Patsy smashed the lamp on the car.
"Begorra, I can't see where I'm goin'," said the driver.
"Ye're all right," Mick shouted; "there's the lamp in the man's windy."
"Home, shweet home," said Jimmie; "no plache like home."
"Hurrah, hurrah!" they shouted as the horse splashed into the pond.
"Jump off, Mister Burke, there's a bit of a puddle by the step," said Mick.
"Home, shweet home, me darlinsh," said Jimmie; "lemme shisht ye off kersh."
"Come on, we'll help the wife off," said Mick.
But Jimmie had taken his wife's arm, and as he jumped she jumped too. Splash they went into the pond, and at the same time a shower of stones came from the wall. The horse took fright, and started off, the driver shouting "Murder!" as they raced down the road.
"In the name a' God, where am I?" shouted Mrs Burke.
But she got no answer, for Jimmie, with the help of Mick and Patsy, was taking back ducks in the pond. Mrs Burke splashed towards the light, going deeper every step.
"Ye ould villain, will ye come an' help me out?" she screamed. "Sure, it's ruinin' me dress an' me new boots I am."
Then the light went out, and a moment later there was a gurgling cry, followed by shrieks and cries of murder. In the middle of it all voices were heard coming along the road from the village, and the sound of the car coming back.
"Hist!" said Mick. "Home."
"Och, I'm wet to the skin," said Patsy as they ran along the road, "but ould Jimmie's far wetter."
"He's as dry as the wife," said Jane, "for I ducked her three times; she went down awful easy."
"It was me helpin' ye," said Fly; "I had her by the leg."
"Wasn't it quare an' good a' God to make the pond that deep?" said Honeybird. "It must 'a' been Him put it into Patsy's head to duck them."
"That's why He made it rain so hard this mornin'," said Jane, "an' me thought there was no manin' in it."
"It was the finest bit of vengeance I iver seen," said Patsy. "Ould Jimmie was as light as a cork, an' we soused him up an' down till there wasn't a breath left in him."
"I wonder what Lull'll say when she sees our clothes," said Jane; "me very shimmy's wet." But, to their surprise, when they woke next morning clean clothes had been put out for them, and when they came downstairs Lull only said: "Has any of ye tuk a cold?"
"No, we haven't," said Jane.
"Well, then, don't name it to yer mother," Lull said, and left them wondering how she had found out.
Andy Graham called them into the stable after breakfast.
"Did ye hear the news?" he said.
"What news?" said Mick.
"The news about the weddin'," Andy said. "Didn't Lull tell ye about it? Sure, the whole place is ringin' with it. Poor ould Jimmie Burke an' the wife were near kilt last night. A pack of ruffians stopped the ker at the ould pond, an' ducked both him an' the wife. He was that full a' waiter they had to hould him up by the heels an' let it run out; an' the wife covered with black mud from head to fut."
"Who done it?" said Patsy, looking Andy in the face.
"Who done it, do ye say?" said Andy—"sure, that's what I'd like to know myself. There wasn't wan out a' the village but what was waitin' at the man's own dour when the ker come up, an ne'ery a wan on it but the driver, shoutin' murder, an' when the neighbours went back along the road there was Jimmie an' the wife in the middle a' the pond, and niver a sowl else to be seen."
Mick laughed. "Ye're the fly ould boy, Andy," he said; "an' I must say ye done it right well, but didn't ye get awful wet when ye were duckin' them?"
Andy stared at him.
"It's all right, Andy; we'll niver name it," said Patsy. "An' I wouldn't 'a' blamed ye if ye'd 'a' drownded the both a' them."
Andy whistled. "Ye've as much brass as would make a dour knocker," he said. "But, see here, the next time yous are on the war pad don't be lavin' circumstantial evidence behind ye." He brought out from behind the door an old rag doll, soaking wet.
"Och a nee!" wailed Honeybird, "it was me done that. I hadn't the heart to lave her at home," she explained. "She's Bloody Mary, an' I thought she'd enjoy the vengeance."
"I thought I knowed her when I seen her lyin' at the side a' the pond this mornin," said Andy. "An', mind ye, I'm not blamin' ye, an' I'm not sayin' but what Jimmie an' the wife disarved it, but ye'd better keep a quiet tongue in yer heads. There's nobuddy but meself an' Lull knows who done it, and nobuddy'll iver know. It's all very well for a wheen a' neighbours to do the like, but it's no work for quality to be doin'."