“Nor me nayther!” cried the old crone, “except what the Captain’s sent us hisself, through the Protestant clergyman, Mr. Wynne, yer highness, an’ that was a pound a month, no more an’ no less.”
“Well, if you won’t take money from me you must at least receive my grateful thanks, and perhaps I may be able to show my gratitude in another way. Perhaps Peggy can tell me what you want most?”
But Peggy’s black lashes were lowered, and one big tear after another was dropping on the ground. She did not attempt to dry her tears, but let them roll down her soft, delicately-tinted cheeks. Her whole attitude was that of a terribly frightened and also half-savage young creature. “I’m not goin’ along ov him,” she suddenly cried, “don’t ye fear, Mammy O’Flynn darlint.”
As the child spoke she flung her pretty arms around the neck of the old woman. “I’ll stay along wid ye,” she whispered. “What ’u’d the cows an’ the little hins an’ the turkeys, an’ the lambs do widout me, I’d like to know? Oh mammy, I won’t go wid that mightiness to England, not ef ye pay me in gould. Sure! an’ that’s the gospel truth I’m after sayin’.”
But Bridget O’Flynn had different views. She looked the child all over, then she gave an earnest, comprehensive gaze at the handsome, well-spoken gentleman. After a long pause, she loosened the little arms from round her neck.
“Colleen,” she said, “ye’ll do what’s right an’ proper. Ef he can prove that the father ov ye has handed ye over to hisself, why, wid him ye must go. Oh sor, don’t I recall as well as it were yesterday when the mother of this child married with his mightiness Captain Desmond; an’ wasn’t we proud of ’em both jest? Ah, sure, the mother were tuk when the babe were born; but we had a beautiful wake over her, that we had, there wasn’t wan present that didn’t get dead drunk at it—an’ what more can ye want, yer honour?”
Wyndham gave a stiff bow.
Old Pat now came forward. “Faix, child,” he said, “ye must go wid his honour ef his honour can prove that he is takin’ ye wid yer father’s consint. Now, sure then, yer honour, it’s a Protestant we has brought her up, though her mother was a Catholic; but it wor the Captain’s wish that she should be trained in his own religion. Hadn’t ye better spake to Mr. Wynne, the Protestant clergyman, that lives jest beyant? I’ll take ye to him ef ye wish, yer honour. Ye can spake wid him, for he knows the thwist o’ yer tongue, which is more than me an’ herself can foller.”
This advice was gladly followed by poor Wyndham. The Reverend George Wynne proved himself kind and sympathetic. He accepted a ten-pound note from Wyndham for the use of the O’Flynns; and Peggy, who had been their right hand, who had practically farmed their little bit of land for them, had milked their cows, and attended to their hens, and sold their eggs and butter, and kept the tiny cabin wonderfully clean, would soon be on her way to Dublin—on her way to Dublin City, carrying with her a broken heart, for sure she hated foreign parts, and what wish had she to live “wid the quality?”