Before a bright, hot fire of fine seacoals, sat the rich and powerful Lord Killgobbin, grayhaired and shaggy-browed. His lordship's right leg, bandaged and swollen, rested upon a low chair piled high with cushions. On a fur rug near him lay Fifi, her ladyship's old spaniel—the fattest, ugliest dog Darby had ever seen.
"Darby," whispered the king, "yonder is Lord Killgobbin, and remember I was to make you as comfortable and as well off as he!"
The fairy was still speaking when the nobleman let a roar out of him that rattled the fire irons. "My supper! Where's my supper? Get out of that, you red-legged omahdaun!" he bellowed to a crimson liveried servant who waited, cowering just inside the door. "Bring up my supper at once, or I'll have your heart's blood. No puling bread and milk, mind you, but a rousing supper for Christmas Eve. Be off!"
The footman disappeared like a flash, leaving the room door ajar. Sweet sounds of flute, violin, and harp, mingled with merry laughter, floated up the wide staircase. Lord Killgobbin's only son was giving a Yule party to his young friends. At the sound of the music, the old nobleman uttered a moan that would wring one's heart. "Oh dear, oh dear, will ye listen to that. Dancing an' cavorting an' enjoying themselves down there, an' me sitting up here, suffering the torments, an' nobody caring a ha'porth whether I'm living or dead. Oh my, oh my! Sitting here trussed up like an ould roosther." His lordship's eye roved around the room in a vain quest for sympathy; alas, the smug-faced Fifi was the only living thing to be seen.
"Bad scran to you! You're as hard-hearted as your misthress." Lord Killgobbin threatened the dog with his cane. But as if to show her disdain, Fifi yawned in a bored way, turned wearily over, and went to sleep again. It was the last straw. His lordship boiled with furious resentment and, leaning far over, made a savage stroke at the dog with his cane. That was the unlucky blow! Instead of hitting the placid, unconscious Fifi, the furious old lord lost his balance, missed his aim, and gave himself a terrific whack on the gouty leg. There was the row!
Never since that day at Ballinrobe Fair, when Teddy McHale cracked his poor old father over the head with a blackthorn (mistaking the old gentleman for Peter Maloney, the family foe) had Darby heard such deafening roars, and such blood-curdling maledictions. Whether by accident or in an effort to drown Lord Killgobbin's voice, the orchestra downstairs played with redoubled vigor.
In the midst of the tumult, hurrying footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and presently, three wild-eyed footmen entered the room, each bearing a silver tray. The first servant carried a bowl of thin gruel, the second a plate of dry toast and the salt, while the third footman stepped cautiously along, bearing aloft a small pot of weak tea, without cream or sugar. The quiet, grim look that Lord Killgobbin threw at his terrified servants sent a shiver down Darby's back.
With eyes half-shut, his lordship spoke slowly and deliberately, through clenched teeth: "What's that ye have in the bowl, ye divil's limb ye?"
"The dicthor, your Lordship—an' her ladyship, sir, seein' as it's Christmas Eve, thought that you'd like—that you'd like a—a little change, so instead of bread an'—an' milk, they sent ye a little thin gruel, sir."
Lord Killgobbin grew ominously quiet. "Bring it over to me, my good man. Don't be afraid," he cajoled.
The three footmen, each keeping a wary eye on his lordship's stick, advanced timidly in a row. Nothing was said or done until the gruel was within easy grip of him, and then, in one furious sweep of his left arm, his lordship sent the tray and gruel halfway up to the ceiling, while with his right hand, he managed to bring the cane down with a resounding whack on the head of the unfortunate footman who carried the toast and salt.
Instantly all was confusion. While the frightened servants were scrambling after the scattered trays and dishes, Lord Killgobbin reached quickly around for the coal-scuttle, which stood near his hand, and began a furious bombardment. Two of the footmen managed to escape unhurt from the room. The third, however, by an unlucky stumble over the rug, went to the floor on his back in the corner. There he lay, cowering and, with the tray, shielding his head from the furious rain of coal.
"The curse of the crows on ye all," shouted Killgobbin. "You'd starve me, would yez?"
"Yes, sir—I—I mane no, your Lordship!" roared the terrified servant.
"Christmas Eve and a bowl of gruel!" Bang, bang, bang! rattled the coals on the tray! "Christmas Eve with a sliver of toast and tay." Bang, bang, bang!
"Yes, sir." Bang! "Oh, me head, sir! Oh, me head, sir! Ow, wow! I'm kilt entirely, sir!"
"Me wife'd starve me—"
"Yes, sir, ow! Ouch! I mane no, sir."
"Me son's in conspiracy with the docthor—"
"Yes sir." Bang, bang, bang!
"Take that! Beef tay and dhry toast. I haven't had a meal fit for a dog in six weeks; six weeks, d'ye hear me, ye sniveling rapscallion?"
"No, sir—I—I mane yes, sir!"
"You're killing me by inches, so ye are! Ye murdherin' ringleaders ye."
"Yes, sir. Ouch! I mane no, sir!"
Darby turned a disappointed face to the Master of the Fairies. "Thanks be we're unwisible, King. I wouldn't have that leg of Killgobbin's for all the money in the four provinces."
"Bah! Everybody's bread is butthered with trouble to about the same thickness. This is the ashes of foine living. His lordship'd thrade his castle an' all his grandeur for your pair of legs. But you've only seen his gout. The rale, botherin' trouble is comin' up the stairs now." Even as the king spoke, Darby heard the rustle of a lady's dress upon the landing.
"Come away, come away, King," he urged excitedly. "It isn't dacint to be listening to family saycrits. I forgive ye me first two wishes, an' I'll ax only for the third: Make me happy—it's all I'll ax."
"Oh, aye, the happiness! Sure enough! Truth, I almost forgot the happiness. But never fear; it'll have ye dancin' an' jumpin' along the road before ye raich home."
One may get a good idea of how quickly the pair shifted from place to place that night when one learns that this last saying of the king was begun in Lord Killgobbin's bedchamber and finished so far away down the road that all which remained of the castle was a faint twinkle of lights on the distant hill.
And now the east wind, weary of mischief, had traveled on out over the sea, leaving behind flattened hedgerows, twisted thatches, and desolate highways.
To Darby's great surprise, he found himself and the king huddled together under the dripping eaves of a low, thatched building that crouched by the wayside.
"Be-gar, King, that was a long jump we med. I'm only half a mile from home. This is Joey Hoolighan's smithy."
"Thrue for ye, Darby, me bouchal," answered the king. "I've brought ye here to show ye the only ralely, thruly happy man in this townland. Ye may take a look at him; he's sittin' within."
Darby drew back thoughtfully. This was to be the last of the three wishes; and the fate of the other two made him hesitate.
"Tell me first, King, before I look: Is he a married man? I dunno."
"He is not," said the king.
"Of course," sighed Darby, "careless and free. Well, is he rich? But sure I naden't ax. He must be—very."
"He hasn't a penny," replied the king, "nor chick nor child. He cares for nobody, an' nobody cares for him."
"Well, now look at that! Isn't that quare! What kind of a man is he? I'm almost afeared to look at him."
"Sthop yer blatherin', man alive, an' come over to the windy and do as I bid ye."
As he was bidden, Darby took a peep through the grimy panes, and there on a pile of turf, alone before the dying forge-fire, sat an old man. His head was bare, and he swayed back and forth as he nodded and gabbled and smiled to the graying embers. With an exclamation of deep disgust, Darby jumped back.
"Why," he spluttered indignantly, "You're making game of me, King! That's only Tom, the child—the poor innocent who never had an ounce of wit since the day he was born!"
"I know it,"
said the king. "That is the rayson he's perfectly happy. He has no regret for yesterday nor no fear for tomorrow. He's had his supper, there's a fire ferninst him, a roof over his head for the night, so what more does he want?"
For a moment, Darby couldn't answer. He stood humped together, ready to cry with vexation and disappointment.
"There goes the last of me three grand wishes," he complained bitterly. "I'm chated out of all of them, an' all you've left me for me night's throuble is the ashes of me wishes, a cowld in my chist from me wet brogues, an' a croak in me talk, so that I wouldn't know me own voice if I was in the next room. If you've done wid me now, King, I'll thank ye to make me wisible ag'in so that I can go home to me own dacint fambly."
"Not yet awhile, Darby," answered the king. "I haven't made ye happy. And ye'll not see the inside of yer house tonight until ye'll say from the bottom of yer heart that ye're ralely and thruly happy."
"Never mind," wailed the lad, "I want no more of yer thricks and dayludherin's. Ye may take away yer jug of potteen, too. An' all I want now is a sight of me own two legs to take me home to Bridget."
There was no reply. Darby waited a moment in silence, and then the horrible realization flashed over him that he was alone. Doubtless the quick-tempered little fairy had taken offense at his words and had left him to his fate, invisible and helpless, on the highroad. The poor fellow groaned aloud: "Ochone mavrone, haven't I the misfortune!" he wailed. "I'm fairly massacreed, so I am! What'll Bridget say to have a poor, hoarse voice goin' croaking about the house instid of the foine-lookin' man I was. Oh, vo! vo!" he roared. "I wondher if I can ate me vittles! What'll do with the new shuit of clothes? What'll I say to—"
"Hould on to whatever's botherin' ye, Darby, me friend. Don't be afeared. I'm comin' to ye!" It was the king's voice high in the air above Darby's head. The next instant, our hero felt a touch upon the arm, and he and the king popped into clear visibility again.
Darby heaved a chest-splitting sigh of relief. "I thought you'd deserted me, King."
"Foolish man," piped the fairy. "I was loathe to have ye go home disappointed and empty-handed, but to save me life, I didn't know what ye naded that'd do you any good. So I flew off with meself to your house, and Malachi, the cat, tould me that ye naded something; ye didn't know exactly what it was, but whatever it was, ye'd never be happy till ye got it!"
"It's thrue for ye, thim were me very worruds."
"Well, I'll lave ye here now, Darby," the king went on, seriously but not unkindly. "And do you hurry along your way. Look nayther to the right nor to the left, an' somewhere on the road, betwixt this an' your own thrashol', the thing that'll do ye most good in the worruld'll catch up with ye. I'm off."
"Good night, King," and Darby, left alone, splashed along the slushy road toward home. The lad whistled anxiously a bit of a tune as he went, all the time keeping wary eyes and ears strained for the first glimpse or sound of the expected gift.
"I wondher what it'll be like," he said to himself over and over again. He had reached the tall hedge of Hagan's meadow and was already laughing and chuckling to himself over a sudden remembrance of Lord Killgobbin's butler roaring in the corner, when suddenly, something happened that brought him to a dead stop in the road.
Swift as lightning, there darted through the lad's jaw a pain like the twang of a fiddlestring. At first, Darby couldn't understand the agony, for never until that unhappy hour had one of the O'Gills been afflicted with the toothache. However, he was not left long in doubt as to its character, for the next twang brought him up to his tiptoes with both hands grasping the side of his face.
"Oh, murdher in Irish, what's come over me! By the powers of Moll Hagan's cat, 'tis the toothache." He danced round and round in his tracks, groan following groan; but whichever way he turned, there was neither pity nor comfort in the dark, sighing hedges, nor in the gloomy, starless canopy.
Then a fiercer twang than all the others put together took the lad up into the air. Faster and faster they came, throb, throb, throb, like the blows of a hammer.
At last, the poor man broke into a run, as if to escape from the terrible pain, but as fast as he went, the throb in his jaw kept time and tune to his flying feet.
"Oh, am n't I the foolish man to be gallivantin' around this blessed night, pryin' into other people's business. It's a punishment. I wish I had that rapscallion of a king here now." He moaned as he reached the stile leading into his own field.
"That wish is granted at any rate, Darby asthore! What's your hurry?"
There on the top of the stile, quizzical, cheery, and expectant, waited the little fairy.
"Ow-um! Is this pain in the tooth the bliggard present you promised me, Brian Connors?"
"It is. I came to the conclusion that you wor actually blue-molded for want of a little rale throuble, so I gave it to ye. Ye naded a joult or two to make ye appreciate how well off ye wor before."
Friend or no friend, if Brian Connors had been a mortal man instead of the king of all the fairies in Ireland, there would have flared a ruction out in the night-covered road that both of them afterwards could not well forget. But what good to lift hand or foot to one who could paralyze them both with a flash of a wish. All the bothered man could do was to hold his cheek in both hands and grumble.
"Well, small thanks to ye for your present, King. If a man nades throuble, he don't have to go thrampin' around all night lookin' for it with the loikes of you."
"Tonight ye wanted for a Christmas present three handfuls of ould ashes; before an hour is over, you'll rayelize that no lord in Ireland ground got a finer Christmas present. You are like all the rest of the worruld, Darby O'Gill. You never appreciate what you have till you lose it. A man spinds his happiest days grunting and groaning, but tin years afther they're over an' gone, he says to himself, 'Gob , wer'n't thim the happy, happy times?' If I take away the toothache, will ye be raysonably happy, Darby? I dunno."
The persecuted man's spirit rose in unreasoning rebellion. "No, I won't," he shouted.
"Thin kape it. Please yerself. Good night." And the place where the friendly little king had been sitting was empty. He had vanished utterly.
"Come back, come back, King!" howled Darby. "I was a fool. Ouch! Oh, the top of me head went that time. If you'll only take away this murdherin' pain, King, I'll be the happiest man in Ireland ground, so I will."
The appeal was no sooner uttered than the pain left him, and a soft, friendly laugh floated down through the darkness.
"You'll find the jug of potteen snug by the dure, avick, and all the happiness any mortal man's entitled to waiting for ye beyant the thrashol'—an' that's nothing more nor less than peace and plenty, and a warm-hearted, clear-headed woman for a wife and eight of the purtiest childher in the county of Tipperary. Go in to thim. Don't be fretting yourself anymore over amayaginary throubles; for as sure as ye do, the toothache'll take a hammer or two at your gooms just to kape ye swate-minded an' cheerful. The complyments of the sayson to you an' yours. I'm off."
The king's voice, lifted in a song, floated farther and farther away:
-
If you've mate whin you're hungry,
And dhrink whin you're dhry,
Not too young whin you're married,
Nor too ould whin you die
Thin go happy, go lucky;
Go lucky, go happy;
Poor happy go lucky,
Goodbye, goodbye,
Bould happy go lucky
Goodbye.
-
The song died away like a sigh of the wind in the hedges. Then clear and sweet broke the chapel bell across the listening field, calling the parish, young and old, to midnight Mass. As Darby turned, he saw every window in his cottage ablaze with cheerful light, and his own face glowed in warm response. With his hand on the door, he paused and murmured, 'Why thin, afther this night, I'll always say that the man who can't find happiness in his own home naden't look for it elsewhere.
"
-
The Haunted Bell
Part I
I SUPPOSE yer honor, like all the rest of the world, has heard of the terrible night of the Big Wind, but I have my doubt whether yer honor ever has been tould how that unnatural storm arose from a certain wild thransaction betwixt Beelzebub and a gran'father of me own. The fact is that Sattin, on that memorable night, in rage and turpitation ag'in me laynial ansister, let loose the iliments of rain and wind and thunder in a furious endayvor to disthroy the whole Irish nation.
Faith so it was, and it's meself that'll be proud to relate the sarcumstances as we dhrive along.
Me gran'father Jerry Murtaugh—the heavens be his bed!—was a carman by thrade, an' barrin' one unsignificant fault, was as good a man as ever put feet into brogues. An' that same failing was no more nor less than a daycided parshality for a game of cyards; he'd gamble the coat off his back and—this is a part of me story—he's done it.
The Ashes of Old Wishes Page 2
