CHAPTER I.
"Willy, Willy darlin'! Rise, agra, rise; day is breakin', and ye've many a long mile afore ye this mornin'—and for many a mornin' after it."
As she spoke the last words the woman's voice trembled, and she hid her face in the bed-clothes to stifle the grief that was welling up in great sobbing waves from her breaking heart. As the sound of her voice broke in upon his slumbers, a man rose from the bed where he had thrown himself, half-dressed, a couple of hours before, and, not yet quite awakened to consciousness, he looked around the room in a bewildered way.
Then he sat down on the side of the bed, and covered his eyes with his hand, vainly endeavoring to hide the tears that half-blinded him.
A chair stood near the bedside, and the wife drew it toward her and sat down, laying her head upon his knee. Very softly and tenderly he stroked the dark hair two or three times, then, while a great sob convulsed his frame, he bent his own head till his lips touched her forehead. "Willy, Willy, don't you give way," she said passionately, looking up at him with sorrowful eyes; "keep a brave heart, asthore; it's often ye'll need it where ye're goin'."
With a desperate effort he checked his emotion, and smiled sadly, still tenderly smoothing her hair.
"Shure it's dreamin' I was, Mary," he said; "and the strangest dream! I thought I was away in America, and walkin' in the purtiest greenwood your heart ever picthured. The birds were singin' and the daisies growin' as they wud be in heaven; the sky was as bright and as blue as our own. But through the middle of the land ran a great wide river, and it was between you and me. I didn't care for the beauty and greenness, Mary, when I hadn't you wid me; and although where you stood wasn't half so purty a spot as where I was, it seemed the most beautiful place in the world, because ye wur there. Ye were longin' to cross over to me, and the children pullin' at your gown and pintin' to me always. Some how, it seemed to me of a sudden that if I stretched out my hands to ye, ye might come; and I did it; and ye came without any fear of the wather, right through and across it, and I almost touched Katie with my hands, and felt her sweet breath on my cheek. But just as ye would have set your feet on the ground beside me, something came between us like a flash of fire, and ye were gone, all o' ye, and I held out my hands to the empty air. And then, thank God! I heard ye callin' 'Willy, Willy darlin',' and I saw yer own sweet face bendin' over me as I woke."
The wife put one arm around her husband's neck as he ceased speaking, and with the other smoothed back the masses of wavy brown hair that fell over his forehead, while she said in tones scarcely audible through her tears, "It's nothin', nothin', alanna; shure it's a sin to mind dreams at all; and ye know that it's often when we're throubled, we carry the throuble wid us into our sleep. It was all owin' to the talk we had before ye lay down of the weary, weary way ye were goin', and leavin' us behind. But we won't feel the time passin' till we'll be together again, and we'll all be as happy as the day is long. 'As happy as a queen;' do ye mind it, Willy, the song ye wur so fond of hearin' me sing when I was a colleen and you the blithest boy in the three parishes?"
"Do I mind it, acushla—do I mind it? Ah! well as I mind the merry voice, and the bright eye, and the light step that are gone for ever. God is good, Mary, God is good; but English tyrants are cruel, and Irish hearts are their meat and dhrink."
"God is good to us, Willie; better than we deserve. He's leadin' us to himself by hard and bitter ways; but he loves his own. He's takin' you to a land of plenty, where there'll be no hard landlords nor tithe proctors to make yer blood boil and yer eyes flash, and me and the little ones'll soon follow."
By this time two little girls had crept from a bed at the foot of the larger one; tiny things, scarcely more than babies, either of them, and they stood looking wonderingly up into the faces of their father and mother.
The elder of the two, dark-eyed and black-haired like her mother, seemed, as she nestled close to her parents, to take in some of the sorrow of the situation; but the younger, a beautiful blue-eyed, fair-haired little creature, buried her curly head in the bed-clothes, and began to play "peep" with all her heart.
"May be I'm foolish, Mary," said her husband as he watched the playful child, "and it's ashamed I ought to be, breakin' down when you're so brave; but you'll have the little ones to comfort ye, and I'll be all alone."
Then with an effort he arose, and busied himself in completing the arrangements of his dress, while his wife placed breakfast on the table. It was a very poor and scantily furnished room in which the little family sat down to take their last meal together, but it was exquisitely clean and neat. They had known comfort and prosperity, and even in their poverty could be seen the traces of better days.
When William Leyden married Mary Sullivan, "the prettiest and sweetest girl in the village," they were unanimously voted the handsomest couple that ever left the parish church as man and wife. All the world seemed bright before them; they had youth, health, and strength, and sorrow and pain seemed things afar off from them then; and they loved one another. Smile, cynic! as cynics do—but love is the elixir of life, and without it any life is poor and incomplete.
For a time—a sweet, short, happy time—all went well. Then misfortunes began to gather, one by one.
First the crops failed, the cows died, and Leyden fell ill of a fever, and lay helpless for many months. Little by little their savings dwindled into insignificance, and to crown all, the landlord gave them notice to vacate their farm, for which he had been offered a higher rent.
There was but one hope and prospect for the future. Through many a sorrowful day and weary night the husband and wife endeavored to combat the alternative, but at last they could no longer deny that the only hope for days to come lay in a present parting.
So it had come to pass that Leyden was starting for America, leaving his wife and children partly to the care of a well-to-do brother of the former, partly to the resources she might be able to draw from fine sewing and embroidery, in both of which she was very skilful. Our story opens on the morning of his departure.
It did not take the sorrowful couple many minutes to finish their morning meal. As the hour for parting approached, each strove to assume a semblance of cheerfulness before the other, while each read in the other's eyes the sad denial.
Soon kind-hearted neighbors dropped in, one by one, to wish the traveller God-speed, and to take a sorrowful leave of the friend from whom poverty and misfortune had not estranged his more prosperous neighbors. For it is in adversity that the fidelity of the Irish character manifests itself, and proves by what deep and enduring ties heart clings to heart.
It was not long before the car that was to convey Leyden to the next town came rolling along the road. As he heard the sound of the wheels, he turned from the fire-place where he had been standing, and motioned to a young fellow near him to carry out the heavily-strapped box that contained all a thoughtful though straitened love could provide for his comfort.
As though respectful of their grief, the neighbors passed from the room and the husband and wife were left alone.
Very quickly but tenderly the man lifted each of the children from the floor, and kissed them several times.
Then he turned to where his wife stood, close to him, yet not touching him, as though she felt that a nearer presence would destroy her well-assumed calmness. He looked at her for an instant yearningly, then held her away from him for another, while she buried her face in her hands; then with a convulsive sob he flung both strong arms around her, and they wept together.
"God and his blessed mother and the angels guard ye, mavourneen," he said at last; "guard ye and keep every breath of evil away till I hold you again. The great sea seems wider than ever, darlin', and the comfort and the meetin' further and further away. You wur always dear to me, always the dearest; but I never thought it wud be so hard to part wid ye till now. Mauria, Mauria, acushla machree."
No answer—no wail of anguish from her woman's lips; but her woman's heart grew cold as death, her head leaned more heavily upon his shoulder, the clasp of her arms about his neck grew tighter, then slowly relapsed; and placing her gently upon the bed, with one long, lingering look he left the house.
When Mary Leyden lifted her aching head from the pillow, kind, womanly hands and compassionate voices were near to soothe and comfort her; but her husband was far on his lonely journey.