"A wise girl," says Darby.
"A dear colleen," says Maureen.
"Well, every summer me brave Roger came home from college, and the two rode together afther the hounds, or sailed his boat or roved the woods, and the longest summer days were too short entirely to suit the both of them.
"Although she had a dozen young fellows courting her—some of them gentlemen's sons—the divil an eye she had for anyone except Roger; and although he might pick from twinty of the bluest-blooded ladies in Ireland any day he liked, Norah was his one delight.
"Every servant on the place knew how things were going, but the ould man was so blind with pride that he saw nothing at all; stranger than all, the two childher believed that ould Bob guessed the way things were with them an' was plazed with them. A worse mistake was never made. He never dhramed that his son Roger would think of any girl without a fortune or a title.
"Misthress O'Brien must have known, but, being tendher-hearted and loving and, like all women, a trifle weak-minded, hoped, in spite of rayson, that her husband would consint to let the childher marry. Knowing ould Bob as she knew him, that was a wild thought for Misthress O'Brien to have; for if ever there was a stiffer, bittherer, prouder, more unforgiving, boistherous man I haven't seen him, and I've lived five thousand years."
Darby, scowling mighty important, raised his hand. "Whist a bit," he says; "you raymind me of the ballad about Lord Skipperbeg's lovely daughter and the farmer's only son." Stretching his legs an' wagging his head, he sang:
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"Her cheeks were like the lily white,
Her neck was like the rose."
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"Oh, my! oh, my!" said the King, surprised, "was her neck as red as that?"
"By no manes," said Darby. "I med a mistake; 'twas this away:
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"Her neck was like the lily white,
Her cheeks were like the rose.
She quickly doffed her silk attire
And donned a yeoman's clothes.
" 'Rise up, rise up, my farmer's son,
Rise up thrue love,' says she,
'We'll fly acrost the ragin' main
Unto Amer-i———' "
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"Have done you're fooling, Darby," says Maureen; "you have the King bothered."
"I wisht you hadn't shtopped him, agra," says the King. "I niver heard that song before, an' it promised well. I'm fond of love songs," he says.
"But the omadhaun," coaxed the colleen.
"I forgot where I was," the King says, scratching his head. "But, spaking of ould Bob," he wint on, "no one ever thought how evil and bitther he could be, until his son, the foolish lad, a few days before the ind of his schooling, wrote to the father that he wanted to marry Norah whin he came home, and that he would be home in a few days, he thought. He was breaking the news aisy to the family, d'ye see!
" 'Whew! Hullabaloo! Out of the house with her—the sly, conniving hussy!' shouted ould Bob, whin he read the letter. 'Into the road with all we've given her! Pull the roof off Costello's house and dhrive off the place his whole brood of outraygeous villians!'
"So they packed Norah's boxes—faix, an' many a fine dhress was in them, too—and bade her begone. The Misthress slipped a bag of goold sovereigns with a letther into one of the chests. Norah took the letther, but she forbade them sending so much as a handkerchief afther her.
"She wouldn't even ride in the coach that the Misthress had waiting for her outside the grand gate; and all alone, in her brown poplin dhress, she marched down the gravel path, proud, like a queen going to be crowned. Nor did she turn her head when the servants called blessings afther her; but oh, asthore, her face was marble white; and whin she was on her way down the lonely high-road how she cried!
" 'Twas a bitther time entirely, the night young Roger came home, and, hearing of all this, rushed up the stairs to face his father. What happened betwixt them there no one knows, only they never passed aich other a friendly look nor gave one to the other a pleasant word from that good hour to this.
"To make matthers worse, that same night young Roger wint and axed Norah Costello to marry him. But all the counthry-side knows how the girl rayfused him, saying she wouldn't beggar and rune the man she loved.
"Well, he took her at her word, but disbelieved and mocked at the raysons she gave—the omadhaun!
"He wasn't much good afther that, only for galloping his horse over the counthry like a madman, so I said to meself, says I, that we might as well take him with us into the Sleive-na-mon. I gave the ordhers, and there he is."
"Oh, the poor lad!" says Maureen; "does ould Bob suspect the boy is with the fairies?"
"Not in the laste," says the King. "You know how it is with us; whinever we take a person we lave one of our own in his place, who looks and acts and talks in a way that the presner's own mother can't tell the differ. By-and-by the fairy sickens and purtends to die, and has his wake and his burial. When the funeral's over he comes back to us hale and spiling for more sport. So the lad the O'Briens put into their tomb was one of our own—Phadrig Oge be name.
"Many a time Phadrig has taken the place of the genthry and quality in every county of Ireland, and has been buried more than a hundhred times, but he swears he never before had a dacinter funeral nor a rattliner wake."
"And the girl!" cried Maureen—"Norah, where is she?"
"Faith, that's strange, too," says the King. "She was the first person ould Bob axed for afther the funeral. He begged her to come back to them and forgive him, and the poor girl went agin to live at the big house."
"He'll get her another good husband yet," said Darby.
"Oh, never!" says Maureen, crying like a child. "She'll die of a broken heart."
"I've seen in me time," says the King, "people die from being pushed off houses, from falling in wells, and every manner of death you can mention, and I saw one ould woman die from ating too much treacle," he says, "but never a person die from a broken heart."
This he said to make light of what he had been telling, because he saw by Maureen's face that she was growing sick with pity. For Maureen was thinking of the black days when she herself was a presner in Sleive-na-mon.
For an answer to the jest, the girl, with her clasped hands held up to the King, moaned, "Oh, King, King, lave the poor lad go! lave him go. Take the black spell off him and send him home. I beg you lave him go!"
"Don't bother him," says Darby; "what right have we to interfere with the Good People?" Though at the same time he took the pipe from his mouth and looked kind of wistful at the little man.
But Maureen's tears only fell faster and faster.
"I can't do what you ask, avick," says the King, very kindly. "That day I let you and Darby go from us the power to free anyone was taken away from me by my people. Now every fairy in Sleive-na-mon must give his consent before the spell can be taken away entirely from anyone; and, well, you know they'll never consent to that," he says.
"But what I can do, I will do. I can lift the spell from the omadhaun for one hour, and that hour must be just before cock-crow."
"Is that the law now?" asked Darby, curiously. Maureen was sobbing, so she couldn't spake.
"It is," says the Master of the Good People. "And to-night I'll sind our spy, Sheelah Maguire, to Norah Costello with the message that if Norah has love enough and courage enough in her heart to standalone at her thrue lover's grave in Kilmartin churchyard, to-morrow night an hour before cock-crow, she'll see him plain and talk with him. And let you two be there," he says, "to know that I keep me word."
At that he vanished and they saw him no more that night, nor until two hours afther the next midnight, whin as they were tying the ould horse and cart to the fence outside Kilmartin church, thin they heard him singing. He was sitting on the wall, chanting at the top of his woice a sthrange, wild song, and houlding in his hand a silver-covered noggin. On a fallen tombstone near by lay a white cloth, glim
mering in the moonlight, and on the cloth was spread as fine a supper as heart could wish.
So beside the white rows of silent tombs, under the elm-trees and willows, they ate their fill, and Darby would have ate more if close to them they hadn't heard a long, deep sigh, and caught a glimpse of a tall man, gliding like a shadow into the shadows that hung around the O'Briens' family vault.
At the same time, standing on the top of the stile which led into the graveyard, a woman's form was seen wavering in the moonlight.
They watched her coming down the walk betwixt the tombs, her hand on her breast, clutching tight the cloak. Now and thin she'd stand, looking about the while, and shivering in mortal terror at the cry of the owls, and thin she'd flit on and be lost in the shadows; and thin they'd see her run out into the moonlight, where she'd wait agin, gathering courage. At last she came to a strip of soft light before the tomb she knew. Her strength failed her there, and she went down on her knees.
Out of the darkness before her a low, pleading woice called, "Norah! Norah! Don't be frightened, acushla machree!"
Slowly, slowly, with its arm spread, the dim shape of a man glided out of the shadows. At the same instant the girl rose and gave one cry, as she flung herself on his breast. They could see him bending over her, thin, pouring words like rain into her ears, but what he said they couldn't hear—Darby thinks he whuspered.
"I wondher, oh, I wondher what he's telling her in this last hour!" says Maureen.
"It's aisy to know that," says Darby; "what should he be telling her but where the crocks of goold are hid."
"Don't be watching them, it ain't dacint," says the King; "uncultayvation or unpoliteness is ojus; come over here; I've a pack of cayrds, Darby," says he, "and as we have nearly an hour to wait, I challenge you to a game of forty-five."
"Sure we may as well," says Darby. "What can't be cured must be endured."
With that, me two bould hayroes sat asthride the fallen stone, and hammering the rock hard with their knuckles, played the game. Maureen went and, houlding on to the ivy, knelt at the church wall—it's praying an' cryin', too, I think she was. Small blame to her if she was. All through that hour she imagined the wild promisings of the two poor crachures over be the tomb, and this kept burning the heart out of her.
Just as the first glow of gray broke behind the hills the King stood up and said: "It's your game, Darby, more be good luck than be good shooting; 'tis time to lave. You know if I'm caught out afther cock-crow I lose all me spells for the day, and besides I'm wisible to any mortal eye. I'm helpless as a baby then. So I think I'll take the omadhaun and go. The roosthers may crow now any minute," says he.
The omadhaun, although he couldn't hear, he felt the charm dhrawing him. He trew a frightened look at the east and held the girl closer. 'Twas their last minute.
"King! King!" says Maureen, running up, "if I brought Sullivan's goat into Sleive-na-mon, would ye swear to let me out safe agin?"
"Troth, I would indade, I swear be Ould Nick!" ('Tis be him the Good People swear.) "I'll do that same."
"Then let the omadhaun go home. Get the Good People's consent and I'll bring you the goat," says Maureen.
The King thrembled all over with anxiety and excitement. "Why didn't you spake sooner? I'm afeard I haven't time to go to Sleive-na-mon and back before cock-crow," he stutthered, "and at cock-crow, if the lad was undher the say or in the stars, that spell'd bring him to us, and then he could never agin come out till the Day of Judgment. Howsumever, I'll go and thry," he says, houlding tight on to his crown with both hands; and with thim words he vanished.
Be this and be that, it wasn't two minutes till he was back and wid not a second to spare, ayther.
"Phadrig Oge wants Mrs. Nancy Clancy's nanny-goat, too. Will ye bring the both of them, Maureen?" he screamed.
"You're dhriving a hard bargain, King," cried Darby. "Don't promise him, Maureen."
"I will!" cried she.
"Then it's a bargain!" the fairy shouted, jumping to the top of a headstone. "We all consent," he says, waving the noggin.
He yelled to the omadhaun. "Go home, Roger O'Brien! Go back to your father's house and live your life out to its natural ind. The curse is lifted from you, the black spell is spint and gone. Pick up the girl, ye spalpeen; don't ye see she's fainted?"
When O'Brien looked up and saw the Master of the Fairies he staggered like a man that had been sthruck a powerful blow. Thin he caught up the girl in his arms and ran with her down the gravelled path and over the stile.
At that minute the sorest misfortune that can happen to one of the Good People came to pass. As the lad left the churchyard every cock in the parish crowed, and, tare and 'ounds! there on a tombstone, caught by the cock-crow, stood the poor, frightened little King! His goold crown was far back on his head, and his green cloak was twisted behind his back.
All the power for spells and charms was gone from him until the next sunset.
"I'm runed entirely, Darby!" he says. "Trow your shawl about me, Maureen alannah, and carry me in your arms, purtending I'm an infant. What'll I do at all at all?" says he, weakly.
Taking him at his word, Maureen wrapped the King in her shawl, and carrying him in her arms to the cart, laid him in the sthraw at the bottom, where he curled up, still and frightened, till they were on their way home.
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Chapter II
The Couple Without Childher
Five miles down the road from Kilmartin churchyard, and thin two miles across, lived Barney Casey with Judy, his wife—known far and wide as the Couple without Childher.
Some foolish people whuspered that this lack of family was a punishment for an ould saycret crime. But that saying was nonsense, for an honester couple the sun didn't shine on. It was only a pinance sint from Heaven as any other pinance is sint; 'twas—like poverty, sickness, or as being born a Connaught man—just to keep them humble-hearted.
But, oh, it was the sore pinance!
Many an envious look they gave their neighbour, Tom Mulligan, the one-legged ballad-maker, who lived half a mile up the road, form twelve purty, red-haired innocents sported and fought before Tom's door. The couple took to going through the fields to avoid passing the house, for the sight of the childher gave them the heartache.
By-and-by the two began conniving how on-be-knownst they might buy a child, or beg or even steal one—they were that lonesome-hearted.
Howsumever, the plan at last they settled on was for Judy to slip away to a far part—Mayo, I think—where she would go through the alms-houses till she found a gossoon that suited her. And they had the cute plan laid by which it was to pass before the neighbours as their own—a Casey of the Caseys. "Lave it to me, Barney darling," said Judy, with tears in her eyes, "and if the neighbours wondher where I am, tell them I've gone to spind a few months with my ould mother," says she.
Well, Judy stole off sly enough, and 'twas well intil the cowld weather when Barney got word that she had found a parfect angel, that it was the picture of himself, and that she would be home in a few days.
With a mind like thistle-down he ran to Father Scanlan to arrange for the christening. On his way to the priest's house he inwited the first woman he met, Ann Mulligan, the ballad-maker's wife, to be godmother; he picked bashful Ted Murphy, the bachelor, to be godfather; and on his way home he was that excited and elayted that he also inwited big Mrs. Brophy, the proud woman, to be the boy's godmother, forgetting altogether there was sich a parson in the world as Ann Mulligan. The next day the neighbours made ready a great bonfire to celebrayte the dispositious occasion.
But ochone! Midnight before the day of the christening poor Judy came home with empty arms and a breaking heart. The little lad had died suddenly and was buried. Maybe the Good People had taken him—'twas hard to tell which.
Tare and ages, there was the throuble! For two hours the couple sat in their desolate kitchen houlding hands and crying and bawling together till Barney could
stand it no longer. Snatching his caubeen, he fled from the coming disgrace and eggsposure out into the fields, where he wandhered aimless till after dawn, stamping his feet at times and wagging his head, or shaking his fist at the stars.
At that same unlucky hour who should be joulting in their cart along the high-road, two miles across, on their way home from Kilmartin churchyard, but our three hayroes, Maureen, the King, and Darby O'Gill!
Their ould white horse bobbed up and down through the sticky morning fog, Darby and Maureen shivering on the front sate. The Ruler of the Fairies, Maureen's shawl folded about him, was lying cuddled below in the sthraw. When they saw anyone coming, the fairy-chief would climb into Maureen's lap, and she'd hould him as though he were a baby.
Small blame to him to be sour and sullen!
"Here I am," he says to himself, "his Majesty, Brian Connors, King of all the Good People in Ireland, the Master of the Night Time, and having been King for more than five thousand years, with more power after sunset than the Emperor of Greeze or the Grand Turkey of barbayrious parts—here am I," he says, "disguised as a baby, wrapped in a woman's shawl, and depending for my safety on two simple counthry people—" Then he groaned aloud, "Bad luck to the day I first saw the omadhaun!"
Darby O'Gill and the Good People Page 8
