“ ‘You are neither judge or jury, to be questioning me,’ I answered; for it isn’t the nature of an Irish girl to put up with a policeman.
“ ‘I mark you,’ he said very stiff—but they are all that—‘and when the time comes, young woman, I’ll find a way to make you tell,’ and he walked off.
“Now, aunt dear, sure I had enough of walking on and off that night! My mistress was angry; but I did as you told me often enough—instead of making excuses, and inventions, which come mighty pleasant and natural, I just told the plain truth—quiet and easy—all except the last, for I did not wish to make her uneasy, as I was myself, having a cruel bad opinion of Mr. Henry Highley.
“It’s mighty quare how, in this wonderful city of business and bother, how your little, peaceful sayings, darling aunt! and the songs you sung to the wheel of a winter’s evening, with none but the pusheen-cat, and myself, and a cricket or two to the fore, come into my head, or one of Watts’ hymns, in the very bustle of the town: I often dust the room to ‘Aileen Mavourneen,’ and brush my lady’s hair to ‘Eveleen’s bower,’ played on the chords of my heart. Sometimes, when I draw back the curtain, and shade the light of the pale night-lamp, with my hand, for fear it might wake her—the mistress I mean—for I never lay down until she is asleep: often, when I watch her features, worn with pain, yet so still, and gentle-looking, and see her pale, pink lips, half open, and such a sweet smile on them, I think—the sleeping face differs so from the waking one—that angels must be whispering the joys that will come. When the last dull sleep is ended, aunt, I am sure I should go mad if I thought that dear innocent woman, so tortured in this world, yet so meek in herself, so thoughtful and generous to the poor, so kind in her judgments, so fond to take the sorrows of all who have sorrow into her bosom, and turn them to blessings—I should indeed break my heart, if I believed that, for reading the one book another way, we should never meet in the world that’s to come. I can’t believe it, so there’s enough about it. As I looked at her, the song of ‘The Angels’ Whisper,’ came for a second time into my head that night, and then I crooned over that ‘Savourneen delish’ you are so fond of; and that brought poor Tom and his motherless children before me! Aunt, dear—maybe I didn’t use Tom well! I couldn’t help it: though you often told me I should not cast out dirty water until I could get clean—not a grate compliment to Tom either!—yet to be obliged, after a few words, to be a mother all out to three sharp children; and if he was cold and weary, and didn’t smile and talk every day the same, to have the creeping chill steal over me like the shake,[[25]] that he was thinking of his first wife, and maybe comparing us in his own mind—that would drive me as wild as the other thing I tould you of a while ago; and yet, I own to you, I have thought more of poor Tom since I left home, than ever I did while I was there.
“The next day, and the next day, and the next passed, and no word from Mary, and my mistress was ill. Once I ran as far as the turn to the lane, and looked down at the forge. The fire was burning low, and there was no sound of the hammer on the anvil. At last, Mrs. Considine herself called; she was very full of prate: she had the dirty red book, as usual, half sticking out of her black bag: she said, that indeed Mary had demeaned herself by taking up with nothing but a smith, a great friend of her brother’s, and one she would not deny who had done him more than one good turn, and would be right well to do in the world if he had a little capital to push him on, which neither her nor her husband would give to a man of the name of Roche. Roche, indeed! Roches were as plentiful as black-berries, and as common, where she came from. Set her Mary before the priest with a Roche? No, no; Mr. Henry Highley was the man for their money, so nice a gentleman; for every sovereign her husband laid down as Mary’s fortune, he would lay down another, or could two! And such jewelery as he had; rings for every finger, and fine watches, one set with precious stones—which had belonged to his grandmother—a Talbot itself! There was all about the family printed in the peerage, and sure it wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t true—but indeed she couldn’t tell what was come over Mary: she had no pride, no spirit in her; her husband would weigh the watches in his hand, and look at the rings all day, and ask what they were worth over and over again, and take them to bed with him, if he was let, he had such delight in them. But they might be so much pinchback, for any thing Mary cared; they would have the wedding at once, and when it was over, she’d know better. Mr. Highley was so fond of her, he wouldn’t hear of delay, not even until her brother came home! She let on that Mary, when married, would be too grand company for the likes of me, but that she would not be proud. I might look in sometimes, she’d be glad to see my mistress when they got into a new lodging, which Mr. Highley said they must after the wedding—for his sake, dear, sweet, well-born, well-bred young gentleman!
“Like her impudence, it was: My mistress itself! MY MISTRESS! visit with her: och hone! What would the cards on the fine china dish say to it, if they could but speak? But, aunt dear, what do you think I did, when she, and her bag, and her book were cleared out of the house? I told my mistress every word she had said. Now it was a mercy that she was quite herself that morning, and sure enough she has a head almost as clear for business as our dear QUEEN’S! God bless it for ever, for a right, royal, noble head!—the Queen’s, I mean—She did not ponder long, but laying her spectacles in her Bible, for a mark, she set it besides the china dish.
“ ‘Ellen,’ she said, ‘have you ever seen the policeman, who spoke to you, since that night?’
“And I said I had: that very morning he was on our beat.
“ ‘Bring him to me, Ellen.’
“My heart was leping—leping up into my mouth.