Part 3

He began for to flatter the girl and to offer her bribes, and in the latter end he got her to speak. She told him all what the mistress of the house was like; how she had a mole under her right arm and one on her left knee. Moreover she gave him a few long golden hairs she got out of the lady's comb.

The Englishman went back to M'Carthy, brought him the tokens, and demanded the payment of the bet. And that is the way the poor gentleman spent the money he had saved up for the Jew.

M'Carthy sent word to his wife that he was coming home, and for her to meet him on the ship. She put her grandest raiment upon her and started away at once. She went out to the ship and got up on the deck where she seen her husband standing. When she went over to him he never said a word at all, but he swept her aside with his arm the way she fell into the water. Then he went on shore full sure he had her drowned.

But there was another ship coming in, and a miller that was on her seen the lady struggling in the sea. He was an aged man, yet he ventured in after her and he saved the poor creature's life.

Well, the miller was a good sort of a man and he had great compassion for herself when she told him her story. She had no knowledge of the cause of her husband being vexed with her, and she thought it hard to believe the evidence of her senses that he was after striving to make away with her. The miller advised the lady M'Carthy to go on with the ship was sailing to another port, for may be if she went home after the man he would be destroying her.

When the ship came into harbour the news was going of a great lawsuit. The miller heard all, and he brought word to the lady that M'Carthy was in danger of death.

"There are three charges against him," says the miller. "Your father has him impeached for stealing you away and you not wishful to be with him: that is the first crime."

"That is a false charge," says she, "for I helped for to plan the whole elopement. My father is surely saying all in good faith, but it is a lie the whole time."

"A Jew has him accused for a sum of money was borrowed, and it due for repayment: that is the second crime," says the miller.

"The money was all gathered up for to pay the debt," says the lady. "Where can it be if M'Carthy will not produce it?"

"The law has him committed for the murder of yourself: and that is the third crime," says the miller.

"And a false charge too, seeing you saved me in that ill hour. I am thinking I'd do well to be giving evidence in court of law, for it's maybe an inglorious death they'll be giving him," says she.

"Isn't that what he laid out for yourself?" asks the miller.

"It is surely, whatever madness came to him. But I have a good wish for him the whole time."

"If that is the way of it we had best be setting out," says he.

The lady and the miller travelled overland, it being a shorter journey nor the one they were after coming by sea. When they got to the court of law wasn't the judge after condemning M'Carthy; and it was little the poor gentleman cared for the sentence of death was passed on him.

"My life is bitter and poisoned on me," says he, "maybe the grave is the best place."

With that the lady M'Carthy stood up in the court and gave out that she had not been destroyed at all, for the miller saved her from the sea.

They began the whole trial over again, and herself told how she planned the elopement, and her father had no case at all. She could not tell why M'Carthy was wishful to destroy her, and he had kept all to himself at the first trial. But by degrees all was brought to light: the villainy of the Englishman and the deceit was practised on them by him and the servant girl.

It was decreed that the money was to be restored by that villain, and the Jew was to get his payment out of it.

The lady M'Carthy's father was in such rejoicement to see his daughter and she alive, that he forgave herself and the husband for the elopement. Didn't the three of them go away home together and they the happiest people were ever heard tell of in the world.

VII

NALLAGH'S CHILD

In the ancient days there were a power of the Good People travelling the land of Breffny. It was easy knowing they were middling proud and conceity in themselves, for they rode upon what appeared to be horses and had music with them, no less! Children were changed by the fairies too, and no matter what way they were reared the like never grew to be right things.

There was once a man the name of Nallagh, lived in a tidy little place beyond the river. The wife and himself had one child, a gosoon, that could never be learned to speak, nor walk, nor stand upright, nor evenly to crawl upon the floor. The whole time the creature had all his makes and shapes natural and good only for a powerful great head was on him.

The mother had her own times minding the youngster. Evenly when he was right big she'd be lifting him out of the bed, at the morning of the day, and fixing him up in a chair. There he'd sit, watching the fire until the fall of night, seemingly contented and in the best of humour. He had great observation for all that would be doing in the place, and if the least thing went astray he'd have an odious cor on him. The fire was his whole delight, when a turf fell and the sparks flew he'd open his mouth until you'd swear he was going to let a crow out of him. But never a sound came at all.

It happened one time that Nallagh and the wife went to market, leaving the servant boy and servant girl to mind the place.

"Let you keep up a good fire for the youngster, the way he will not be lonesome, and he looking on the glowing turf is his whole delight. Let you attend to your business the same as if myself was standing by to bid you do all things particular and tasty," says the mistress, and she going out at the door.

Not a long were the two by their lone before they quit working and began for to play themselves through the kitchen.

Says the servant boy: "We'd do well to be making a little feast, considering herself is not in it, and the wee coley but a silent creature will not be clashing on us at all."

With that they brought the best of butter, cream and the like from the dairy, and the girl mixed all in a meskin for to make a butter cake. They built the fire with turf enough to roast the dinner of a giant, set the pot-hooks in the ears of the pan and let down the crook for to hang it on. "With the help of the Living Powers, that'll be the luscious bit," says the servant girl, putting down the batter for to bake.

The whole time they were at their diversions Nallagh's child never quit watching the pair. Maybe it's in expectation he was of getting his taste of the feast.

The butter cake was doing nicely, turning a grand colour and a lovely smell rising off it. The two heroes were in the best of humour, chatting other and funning, when all of a sudden the servant boy chanced to look out over the half door. "I declare to man, we're destroyed entirely," says he. "Himself and the mistress are without!"

Sure enough it was Nallagh and the wife were after delaying in the market but a short space only. The girl, hearing tell of them coming in on her sooner nor they were expected, had the wit to whip the butter cake off the fire, and she slipped it in under the chair where the child was all times sitting.

"It's the queer old cor he's putting on his countenance," says she. "But what about it, considering he is unable for to clash on us!"

With that the father and mother came into the kitchen. And the four near fell dead with wonderment and fear, for when he seen the parents the wee lad cried out:

"Hot, hot under my chair!"

The servants were in odious dread, full sure they'd be found out and hunted from the place. For the butter cake was steaming mad from the fire, and the child never quit shouting:

"Hot, hot under my chair!"

He didn't let another word out of him but only the one thing, saying it maybe a hundred times after other:

"Hot, hot under my chair."

Well, if he was to say it a hundred times, or a thousand itself, Nallagh and the wife could not know what in under the shining Heaven he was striving for to tell. They were all of a tremblement with the wonder of the speech coming to him, and they never thought to consider was there sense in the words at all. It was a great miracle, surely, to hear the creature that never made a sound before, and he roaring out:

"Hot, hot under my chair!"

The old people were that put about they never thought to look round the place to see was anything astray; and I promise you the two heroes didn't ask to clash on themselves.

The whole house was left through other until the fall of night, and every person in it was weary to the world with the dread and surprise was on them. After dark the mother puts the son to bed, fixing him up right comfortable. But it was not a sweet rest was laid out for the people of that house.

In the darkness of the black midnight, a powerful great storm shook the place. It was like as if the four winds of Heaven were striving together, and they horrid vexed with one another. There were strange noises in it too, music and shouting, the way it was easy knowing the Good People were out playing themselves, or maybe disputing in a war.

Thinking the child might be scared at the commotion, herself took a light in her hand and went over to his bed.

"Is all well with you, sonny?" says she, for she had a fashion of speaking with him, evenly if it was no answers he'd give.

But the little fellow was not in it at all, he was away travelling the world with the Fairy horsemen were after coming for him.

The whole disturbance died out as speedy and sudden as it came. The music dwined in the far distance and the wind was still as the dawn of a summer's day. Sure it was no right tempest at all but an old furl blast the Good People had out for their diversion.

The child was never restored to Nallagh and the wife. The fairies left them in peace from that out; they never heard the music on the distant hills, nor the regiments of horsemen passing by. The whole time it was lonesome they'd be, and they looking on the empty chair where the strange child delighted to sit silent, watching the turf was glowing red.

VIII

THE ENCHANTED HARE

There was a strong farmer one time and he had nine beautiful cows grazing on the best of land. Surely that was a great prosperity, and you'd be thinking him the richest man in all the countryside. But it was little milk he was getting from his nine lovely cows, and no butter from the milk. They'd be churning in that house for three hours or maybe for five hours of a morning, and at the end of all a few wee grains of butter, the dead spit of spiders' eggs, would be floating on the top of the milk. Evenly that much did not remain to it, for when herself ran the strainer in under them they melted from the churn.

There were great confabulations held about the loss of the yield, but the strength of the spoken word was powerless to restore what was gone. Herself allowed that her man be to have the evil eye, and it was overlooking his own cattle he was by walking through them and he fasting at the dawn of day. The notion didn't please him too well, indeed he was horrid vexed at her for saying the like, but he went no more among the cows until after his breakfast time. Sure that done no good at all--it was less and less milk came in each day. And butter going a lovely price in the market, to leave it a worse annoyance to have none for to sell.

The man of the house kept a tongue hound that was odious wise. The two walked the cattle together, and it happened one day that they came on a hare was running with the nine cows through the field. The hound gave tongue and away with him after the hare, she making a great offer to escape.

"Maybe there is something in it," says the man to himself. "I have heard my old grandfather tell that hares be's enchanted people; let it be true or no, I doubt they're not right things in any case."

With that he set out for to follow his tongue hound, and the hunt went over the ditches and through the quick hedges and down by the lake.

"Begob it's odious weighty I am to be diverting myself like a little gosoon," says the man. And indeed he was a big, hearty farmer was leaving powerful gaps behind him where he burst through the hedges.

There was a small, wee house up an old laneway, and that was where the hunt headed for. The hare came in on the street not a yard in front of the tongue hound, and she made a lep for to get into the cabin by a hole on the wall convenient to the door. The hound got a grip of her and she rising from the ground. But the farmer was coming up close behind them and didn't he let a great crow out of him.

"Hold your hold, my bully boy! Hold your hold!" The tongue hound turned at the voice of the master calling, and the hare contrived for to slip from between his teeth. One spring brought her in on the hole in the wall, but she splashed it with blood as she passed, and there was blood on the mouth of the hound.

The man came up, cursing himself for spoiling the diversion, but he was well determined to follow on. He took the coat off his back and he stuffed it into the opening the way the hare had no chance to get out where she was after entering, then he walked round the house for to see was there any means of escape for what was within. There wasn't evenly a space where a fly might contrive to slip through, and himself was satisfied the hunt was shaping well.

He went to the door, and it was there the tongue hound went wild to be making an entry, but a lock and a chain were upon it. The farmer took up a stone and he broke all before him to get in after the hare they followed so far.

"The old house is empty this long time," says he, "and evenly if I be to repair the destruction I make--sure what is the price of a chain and a lock to a fine, warm man like myself!"

With that he pushed into the kitchen, and there was neither sight nor sign of a hare to be found, but an old woman lay in a corner and she bleeding.

The tongue hound gave the mournfullest whine and he juked to his master's feet, it was easy knowing the beast was in odious dread. The farmer gave a sort of a groan and he turned for to go away home.

"It's a queer old diversion I'm after enjoying," says he. "Surely there's not a many in the world do be hunting hares through the fields and catching old women are bleeding to death."

When he came to his own place the wife ran out of the house.

"Will you look at the gallons of beautiful milk the cows are after giving this day," says she, pulling him in on the door.

Sure enough from that out there was a great plenty of milk and a right yield of butter on the churn.

IX

THE BRIDGE OF THE KIST

There was once a man the name of Michael Hugh, and he was tormented with dreams of a kist was buried in under a bridge in England. For awhile he took no heed to the visions were with him in the stillness of the night, but at long last the notion grew in his mind that he be to visit that place and find out was there anything in it.

"I could make right use of a treasure," thinks he to himself. "For 'tis heart scalded I am with dwelling in poverty, and a great weariness is on me from toiling for a miserable wage." Then he bethought of the foolishness of making the journey if all turned out a deceit.

"Sure I'll be rid of belief in the dreams are driving me daft with their grandeur and perseverance," says he. "Evenly failure will bring a sort of satisfaction for I'll get fooling whatever spirit does be bringing the vision upon me."

So my brave Michael Hugh took an ash plant in his hand, and away with him oversea to England to discover the bridge of the kist.

He was a twelvemonth travelling and rambling with no success to rise his heart, and he began for to consider he had better return to his own place. But just as he was making ready to turn didn't he chance on a strong flowing river, and the sight near left his eyes when he found it was spanned by the bridge he was after dreaming of.

Well Michael Hugh went over and he looked down on the black depth of water was flowing in under the arch.

"It'll be a hard thing surely to be digging for a kist in that place," says he. "I'm thinking a man would find a sore death and no treasure at all if he lepped into the flood. But maybe it's laid out for me to gather my fortune here, and some person may come for to give me instruction."

With that he walked up and down over the bridge, hoping for further advice since he could not contrive a wisdom for his use. There was a house convenient to the river, and after awhile a man came from it.

"Are you waiting on any person in this place?" says he to Michael Hugh. "It's bitter weather to be abroad and you be to be as hardy as a wild duck to endure the cold blast on the bridge."

"I'm hardy surely," Michael Hugh makes his answer. "But 'tis no easy matter to tell if I'm waiting on any person."

"You're funning me," says the Englishman. "How would you be abroad without reason, and you having a beautiful wise countenance on you?"

With that Michael Hugh told him the story of the dreams that brought him from Ireland, and how he was expectant of a sign to instruct him to come at the kist. The Englishman let a great laugh.

"You're a simple fellow," says he. "Let you give up heeding the like of visions and ghosts, for there is madness in the same and no pure reason at all. There's few has more nor better knowledge than myself of how they be striving to entice us from our work, but I'm a reasonable man and I never gave in to them yet."

"Might I make so free as to ask," says Michael Hugh, "what sort of a vision are you after resisting?"

"I'll tell you and welcome," says the Englishman. "There isn't a night of my life but I hear a voice calling: 'Away with you to Ireland, and seek out a man the name of Michael Hugh. There is treasure buried in under a lone bush in his garden, and that is in Breffny of Connacht.'"

The poor Irishman was near demented with joy at the words, for he understood he was brought all that journey to learn of gold was a stone's throw from his own little cabin door.

But he was a conny sort of a person, and he never let on to the other that Michael Hugh was the name of him, nor that he came from Breffny of Connacht.

The Englishman invited him into his house for to rest there that night, and he didn't spare his advice that dreams were a folly and sin.

"You have me convinced of the meaning of my visions," says Michael Hugh. "And what's more I'll go home as you bid me."

Next morning he started out, and he made great haste with the desire was on him to get digging the gold.

When he came to his own place in Connacht he made straight for a loy and then for the lone bush. Not a long was he digging before he hoked out a precious crock full of treasure, and he carried it into the house.

There was a piece of a flag stone lying on top of the gold, and there was a writing cut into it. What might be the meaning of that Michael Hugh had no notion, for the words were not Gaelic nor English at all.

It happened one evening that a poor scholar came in for to make his cailee.

"Can you read me that inscription, mister?" asks Michael Hugh, bringing out the flag.

"Aye surely," says the poor scholar. "That is a Latin writing, and I am well learned in the same."

"What meaning is in it?" asks the other.

"'The same at the far side,'" says the scholar. "And that is a droll saying surely when it gives no information beyond."

"Maybe it will serve my turn, mister!" says Michael Hugh, in the best of humour.

After the scholar was gone on his way, didn't himself take the loy and out to the garden. He began for to dig at the far side of the lone bush, and sure enough he found a second beautiful kist the dead spit of the first.

It was great prosperity he enjoyed from that out. And he bought the grandest of raiment, the way the neighbours began for to call him Michael Hughie the Cock.

X

THE CHILD AND THE FIDDLE

There was a woman one time, and she had the fretfullest child in all Ireland. He lay in the cradle and lamented from morning to night and from dark to the dawn of day. There was no prosperity nor comfort in that house from he came to it. All things went astray within in the kitchen and without upon the farm: the cattle fell sick, the potatoes took a blight, there was not a taste of butter on the churn, and evenly the cat began for to dwine and dwine away. But of all the misfortunes that come the woefullest was the continual strife between the man and woman of the house, and they a couple that were horrid fond aforetime.

It happened when the child was about eighteen months of age that a strange man was hired to work on the farm. Surely he'd never have ventured into the place if he had heard tell of the ill luck was in it, but he was from distant parts and didn't know a heth.

One day he chanced to be in from the work a while before the master of the house, and herself was gone to the spring for water. The hired man sat down by the kitchen fire, taking no heed of the child was watching him from the cradle. The little fellow quit his lamenting; he sat up straight, with a countenance on him like a wise old man.

"I will be playing you a tune on the fiddle, for I'm thinking 'tis fond of the music you are," says he.

The man near fell into the fire with wonderment to hear the old-fashioned talk. He didn't say one word in answer, but he waited to see what would be coming next.

The small weak infant pulled a fiddle out from under the pillow of the cradle, and he began for to play the loveliest music was ever heard in this world. He had reels and jigs, songs and sets; merry tunes would rise the heart of man and mournful tunes would fill the mind with grief.

The man sat listening, and he was all put through other, thinking the child was no right thing.

After a time the little lad quit playing, he put back the fiddle where he took it from and began at his old whimpering again. Herself came in at the door with a bucket of water in her hand. Well the man walked out and he called her after him.

"That is a strange child you have, mistress," says he.

"A strange child, surely, and a sorrowful," she makes answer. "It is tormented with his roaring you are, no person could be enduring it continually."

"Did ever he play on the fiddle in your hearing?" asks the man.

"Is it raving you are?" says she.

"I am not, mistress," he answers. "He is after giving me the best of entertainment with reels and marches and jigs."

"Let you quit funning me!" says she, getting vexed.

"I see you are doubting my words," he replies. "Do you stand here without where he'll not be looking on you at all. I'll go into the kitchen, and maybe he'll bring out the fiddle again."

With that he went in, leaving herself posted convenient to the window.

Says he to the child, "I'm thinking there's not above a score of fiddlers in all Ireland having better knowledge of music nor yourself. Sure that is a great wonder and you but an innocent little thing."

"Maybe it's not that innocent I am," says the child. "And let me tell you there isn't one fiddler itself to be my equal in the land."

"You're boasting, you bold wee coley," says the man.

The child sat up in a great rage, pulled the fiddle from under the pillow and began for to play a tune was grander nor the lot he gave first.

The man went out to herself.

"Are you satisfied now?" he asks.

"My heart beats time to his reels," says she. "Run down to the field and send the master to this place that he may hear him too."

The man of the house came up in a terrible temper.

"If it's lies you are telling me, I'll brain the pair of you with the loy," says he, when he heard the news of the fiddle.

"Put your ear to the window it's soft he is playing now," says his wife.