II.
Some time afterward, in late summer, Mrs. Dunleavy stood, large and noisy, but generous-hearted, addressing some remarks from her front doorway to a goat on the sidewalk. He was pulling some of her cherished foxgloves through the picket fence, and eagerly devouring their flowery stalks.
"How well you rache through an honest fince, you black pirate!" she shouted; but finding that harsh words had no effect, she took a convenient broom, and advanced to strike a gallant blow upon the creature's back. This had the simple effect of making him step a little to one side and modestly begin to nibble at a tuft of grass.
"Well, if I ain't plagued!" said Mrs. Dunleavy sorrowfully; "if I ain't throubled with every wild baste, and me cow that was some use gone dry very unexpected, and a neighbor that's worse than none at all. I 've nobody to have an honest word with, and the morning being so fine and pleasant. Faix, I'd move away from it, if there was anny place I 'd enjoy better. I 've no heart except for me garden, me poor little crops is doing so well; thanks be to God, me cabbages is very fine. There does be those that overlooked me pumpkins for the poor cow; they 're no size at all wit' so much rain."
The two small white houses stood close together, with their little gardens behind them. The road was just in front, and led down to a stone bridge which crossed the river to the busy manufacturing village beyond. The air was fresh and cool at that early hour, the wind had changed after a season of dry, hot weather; it was just the morning for a good bit of gossip with a neighbor, but summer was almost done, and the friends were not reconciled. Their respective acquaintances had grown tired of hearing the story of the quarrel, and the novelty of such a pleasing excitement had long been over. Mrs. Connelly was thumping away at a handful of belated ironing, and Mrs. Dunleavy, estranged and solitary, sighed as she listened to the iron. She was sociable by nature, and she had an impulse to go in and sit down as she used at the end of the ironing table.
"Wisha, the poor thing is mad at me yet, I know that from the sounds of her iron; 't was a shame for her to go picking a quarrel with the likes of me," and Mrs. Dunleavy sighed heavily and stepped down into her flower-plot to pull the distressed foxgloves back into their places inside the fence. The seed had been sent her from the old country, and this was the first year they had come into full bloom. She had been hoping that the sight of them would melt Mrs. Connelly's heart into some expression of friendliness, since they had come from adjoining parishes in old County Kerry. The goat lifted his head, and gazed at his enemy with mild interest; he was pasturing now by the roadside, and the foxgloves had proved bitter in his mouth.
Mrs. Dunleavy stood looking at him over the fence, glad of even a goat's company.
"Go 'long there; see that fine little tuft ahead now," she advised him, forgetful of his depredations. "Oh, to think I 've nobody to spake to, the day!"
At that moment a woman came in sight round the turn of the road. She was a stranger, a fellow country-woman, and she carried a large newspaper bundle and a heavy handbag. Mrs. Dunleavy stepped out of the flower-bed toward the gate, and waited there until the stranger came up and stopped to ask a question.
"Ann Bogan don't live here, do she?"
"She don't," answered the mistress of the house, with dignity.
"I t'ought she did n't; you don't know where she lives, do you?"
"I don't," said Mrs. Dunleavy.
"I don't know ayther; niver mind, I 'll find her; 't is a fine day, ma'am."
Mrs. Dunleavy could hardly bear to let the stranger go away. She watched her far down the hill toward the bridge before she turned to go into the house. She seated herself by the side window next Mrs. Connelly's, and gave herself to her thoughts. The sound of the flatiron had stopped when the traveler came to the gate, and it had not begun again. Mrs. Connelly had gone to her front door; the hem of her calico dress could be plainly seen, and the bulge of her apron, and she was watching the stranger quite out of sight. She even came out to the doorstep, and for the first time in many weeks looked with friendly intent toward her neighbor's house. Then she also came and sat down at her side window. Mrs. Dunleavy's heart began to leap with excitement.
"Bad cess to her foolishness, she does be afther wanting to come round; I 'll not make it too aisy for her," said Mrs. Dunleavy, seizing a piece of sewing and forbearing to look up. "I don't know who Ann Bogan is, annyway; perhaps herself does, having lived in it five or six years longer than me. Perhaps she knew this woman by her looks, and the heart is out of her with wanting to know what she asked from me. She can sit there, then, and let her irons grow cold!
"There was Bogans living down by the brick mill when I first come here, neighbors to Flaherty's folks," continued Mrs. Dunleavy, more and more aggrieved. "Biddy Con'ly ought to know the Flahertys, they being her cousins. 'T was a fine loud-talking 'oman; sure Biddy might well enough have heard her inquiring of me, and have stepped out, and said if she knew Ann Bogan, and satisfied a poor stranger that was hunting the town over. No, I don't know anny one in the name of Ann Bogan, so I don't," said Mrs. Dunleavy aloud, "and there's nobody I can ask a civil question, with every one that ought to be me neighbors stopping their mouths, and keeping black grudges whin 't was meself got all the offince."
"Faix 't was meself got the whack on me nose," responded Mrs. Connelly quite unexpectedly. She was looking squarely at the window where Mrs. Dunleavy sat behind the screen of blue mosquito netting. They were both conscious that Mrs. Connelly made a definite overture of peace.
"That one was a very civil-spoken 'oman that passed by just now," announced Mrs. Dunleavy, handsomely waiving the subject of the quarrel and coming frankly to the subject of present interest. "Faix, 't is a poor day for Ann Bogans; she 'll find that out before she gets far in the place."
"Ann Bogans was plinty here once, then, God rest them! There was two Ann Bogans, mother and daughter, lived down by Flaherty's when I first come here. They died in the one year, too; 't is most thirty years ago," said Bridget Connelly, in her most friendly tone.
"'I 'll find her,' says the poor 'oman as if she 'd only to look; indeed, she 's got the boldness," reported Mary Dunleavy, peace being fully restored.
"'T was to Flaherty's she 'd go first, and they all moved to La'rence twelve years ago, and all she 'll get from anny one would be the address of the cimet'ry. There was plenty here knowing to Ann Bogan once. That 'oman is one I 've seen long ago, but I can't name her yet. Did she say who she was?" asked the neighbor.
"She did n't; I 'm sorry for the poor 'oman, too," continued Mrs. Dunleavy, in the same spirit of friendliness. "She 'd the expectin' look of one who came hoping to make a nice visit and find friends, and herself lugging a fine bundle. She 'd the looks as if she 'd lately come out; very decent, but old-fashioned. Her bonnet was made at home annyways, did ye mind? I 'll lay it was bought in Cork when it was new, or maybe 'twas from a good shop in Bantry or Kinmare, or some o' those old places. If she 'd seemed satisfied to wait, I 'd made her the offer of a cup of tay, but off she wint with great courage."
"I don't know but I 'll slip on me bonnet in the afthernoon and go find her," said Biddy Connelly, with hospitable warmth. "I 've seen her before, perhaps 't was long whiles ago at home."
"Indeed I thought of it myself," said Mrs. Dunleavy, with approval. "We 'd best wait, perhaps, till she 'd be coming back; there's no train now till three o'clock. She might stop here till the five, and we 'll find out all about her. She 'll have a very lonesome day, whoiver she is. Did you see that old goat 'ating the best of me fairy-fingers that all bloomed the day?" she asked eagerly, afraid that the conversation might come to an end at any moment; but Mrs. Connelly took no notice of so trivial a subject.
"Me melons is all getting ripe," she announced, with an air of satisfaction. "There 's a big one must be ate now while we can; it's down in the cellar cooling itself, an' I 'd like to be dropping it, getting down the stairs. 'Twas afther picking it I was before breakfast, itself having begun to crack open. Himself was the b'y that loved a melon, an' I ain't got the heart to look at it alone. Coom over, will ye, Mary?"
"'Deed then an' I will," said Mrs. Dunleavy, whose face was close against the mosquito netting. "Them old pumpkin vines was no good anny way; did you see how one of them had the invintion, and wint away up on the fince entirely wit' its great flowers, an' there come a rain on 'em, and so they all blighted? I 'd no call to grow such stramming great things in my piece annyway, 'ating up all the goodness from me beautiful cabbages."