“And is that what you were at!” said Mickey, looking as proud as Punch; “getting the blessed water to beethe me leg. Well, sure, you can’t do worse than try it! But I was getting really unaisy in me mind, for fear of something having happened you ... and a body feels a thing of the sort worse, if they’re helpless the way I am!”
“The sorra ha’porth is wrong with me!” said Marg.
And neither there was. And, of course, there was no occasion to tell Heffernan about what had happened at the Holy Well. What could she say? If it was an Appearance, well and good! there was no more to be said. But if it was Ratigan...! and how could it be? How could he be there, trying to play off some trick on her? Wouldn’t it be best to say nothing?
How could it be Patsy? wasn’t he married in America, ay, long enough before she was herself! And never had thought it worth his while to send her one line, either to ask for news of herself, or to tell her what he was doing with himself, out there. Just by chance, she had heard of his marriage. And, in troth, only for hearing that, she might be Marg Molally yet. You never can tell what small little word here or there will get you to do a certain thing or to leave it alone.
Whatever came or went, then or at any other time, Marg never failed in anything that could be done for Mickey. She was very fearful about going to the Well, after seeing what she saw there, that first night. And it should be done after dark, too; still, she persevered.
“It must be continued on,” said Dark Moll, that had a good knowledge of such things, so that Marg thought well of consulting her, one day she met her on the road; “you must go on wid it. And the water must be got by one that has a wish for whoever has need of it; and that person must go by themselves ... if the Holy Well is to do any good, that is!”
There wasn’t really one, on the face of this earth, to care one straw about poor Mickey, only his wife. And Marg ... sure, it was more compassion than anything else she felt for him, seeing how old and lonely and helpless he was. Though, indeed, he was kind in his own way to her, and showed great confidence and respect for her and all she did, and she felt thankful to him, over and over, for that, and for the good home he put her over. That’s a thing that is generally a satisfaction to a woman, and it was to Margaret.
But with others, Mickey Heffernan was no great favourite. He had no agreeable ways with him. He would do a kind turn for another, as soon as the next one; but then again he had a fashion of taking the good out of whatever he did that-a-way; the same as the cow that fills the can, and then kicks it over. So it came about that there was no one to go for the water for his leg but Marg herself. She went to the Holy Well every evening of her life then. Sometimes it would be fairly early, just duskish, and sometimes it would be late enough before she would be ready to start off, but she never failed to go.
This was the way with Marg, and as nothing strange occurred for some time, she was beginning to think that she had only imagined to see Ratigan that Hallow Eve at the Holy Well, when she got another great fright there. Bad as the first was, this was worse, so much so, that she nigh-hand fell out of her standing.
She was making her way along by the Furry Hills, when suddenly there was the greatest stamping and rustling and big clattering as if cart-loads of stones were being thrown down the side of the Fairy Cleft, and heavy sounds of grunting and breathing and snorting. And then she thought there was something like a figure of a man, going through the dusk, towards the Cleft, with a stick in his hand.