“Ah, thin, Margaret O’Mahony,” she said, “d’ye mind in your day of good fortune that, since the hour you were born, ye’ve been the child of our prayers and the object of our ceaseless intercessions?”
Mrs. Fergus put out her rounded lower lip a little and, rising from her chair, walked slowly over to the little cracked mirror on the wall, to run a correcting finger over the escalloped line of her crimps.
“Ay,” she said at last, “I mind many things bechune me and you—not all of thim prayers either.”
While Mrs. Sullivan and Jerry were hard at work packing the scant wardrobe and meager personal belongings of the master for his journey, and the greater part of the population of Muirisc stood clustered on the little quay, watching the Hen Hawk, bemoaning their own impending bereavement, and canvassing the incredible good luck of Malachy, who was to be the companion in this voyage to unknown parts—while the wind rose outside, and the waters tumbled, and the sky grew overcast with the sullen menace of a winter storm—The O’Mahony walked slowly, hand in hand with little Kate, through the deserted churchyard.
The girl had been weeping, and the tears still blurred her eyes and stained her red cheeks with woe-begone smudges. She clung to her companion’s hand, and pressed her head ever and again against his arm, but words she had none. The man walked with his eyes bent on the ground and his lips tightly closed together. So the two strolled in silence till they had passed out from the place of tombs, and, following a path which wound its way in ascent through clumps of budding furze and miniature defiles among the rocks, had gained the summit of the cliff-wall, under whose shelter the hamlet of Muirisc had for ages nestled. Here they halted, looking down upon the gray ruins of castle, church and convent, upon thatched cottage roofs, the throng on the quay, the breakers’ line of foam against the rocks, and the darkened expanse of white-capped waters beyond.
“Don’t take on so, sis, any more; that’s a good gal,” said The O’Mahony, at last, drawing the child’s head to his side, and gently stroking her black hair. “It ain’t no good, an’ it breaks me all up. One thing I’m glad of: It’s going to be rough outside. It seems to me I couldn’t ‘a’ stood it to up an’ sail off in smooth, sunshiny weather. The higher she rolls the better I’ll like it. It’s the same as havin’ somethin’ to bite on, when you’ve got the toothache.”
Kate, for answer, rubbed her head against his sleeve, but said nothing.
After a long pause, he went on: “’Tain’t as if I was goin’ to be gone forever an’ a day. Why, I may be poppin’ in any minit, jest when you least expect it. That’s why I want you to study your lessons right along, every day, so ’t when I turn up you’ll be able to show off A number one. Maybe you’re bankin’ on my not bein’ able to tell whether your book learnin’ is ‘all wool an’ a yard wide’ or not. I didn’t get much of a show at school, I know. ’Twas ‘root hog or die’ with me when I was a boy. But I’m jest a terror at askin’ questions. Why, I’ve busted up whole schools afore now, puttin’ conundrums to ’m that even the school-ma’ams couldn’t answer. So you look out for me when I come.” The gentle effort at cheerfulness bore fruit not after its kind. Kate’s little breast began to heave, and she buried her face against his coat.
The O’Mahony looked wistfully down upon the village and the bay, patting the child’s shoulder in silent token of sympathy. Then an idea occurred to him. With his finger under her chin, he lifted Kate’s face till her glance met his.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, with animation, “have you got so you can write pritty good?”