Part 16

For quite a time Jim was occupied over way-bills in his little office; but at last his attention was distracted by the long continued howling and yelping of a dog.

"Let the baste out, can't ye?" he at length said to Kelly. "I can't stand listening to um anny longer."

"I was afeared 'twas run over he might be, agin' she came back," said Kelly, "'an so I shut um up."

"Sure, there's no danger. There won't be a thrain in for the next two hours, an' if he was run over itself, God knows he'd be no loss. 'Tisn't meself 'ud grieve for um, th' ill-favoured cur."

"King William" was accordingly released.

When O'Brien had finished his task, he stood for a time at the office door, his hands crossed behind him, supporting his coat tails, his eyes fixed abstractedly on the sky. Presently he started for his usual walk up and down the platform, when his eye was at once caught by the flare of the stately rows of orange lilies.

"Be the Holy Poker!" he exclaimed. "But I was right. 'Tis orange th' are, sure enough. What'll Mary say now? Faith, 'tis lies they do be tellin' whin they say there's no riptiles in Ireland. That ould woman bangs Banagher, an' Banagher bangs the divil."

He stopped in front of the obnoxious flowers.

"Isn't it the murthering pity there's nothing I can plant to spite her. She has the pull over me entirely. Shamerogues makes no show at all--ye'd pass them unbeknownst--while orange lilies yeh can see a mile off. Now, who but herself 'ud be up to the likes o' this?"

At the moment he became aware of an extraordinary commotion among the lilies, and, looking closer, perceived "King William" in their midst, scratching as if for bare life, scattering mould, leaves, and bulbs to the four winds, and with every stroke of his hind legs dealing destruction to the carefully-tended flowers.

The sight filled Jim with sudden gladness.

"More power to the dog!" he cried, with irrepressible glee. "More power to um! Sure, he has more sinse than his missus. 'King William,' indeed, an' he rootin' up orange lilies! Ho, ho! Tare an' ouns! but 'tis the biggest joke that iver I hard in me life. More power to ye! Good dog!"

Rubbing his hands in an ecstasy of delight, he watched "King William" at his work of devastation, and, regretfully be it confessed, when the dog paused, animated him to fresh efforts by thrilling cries of "Rats!"

"King William" sprang wildly hither and thither, running from end to end of the beds, snapping the brittle lily stems, scattering the blossoms.

"Be gum, but it's great! Look at um now. Cruel wars to the Queen o' Spain if iver I seen such shport! Go it, 'King William!' Smash thim, me boy! Good dog! Out wid them!" roared Jim, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks. "Faith, 'tis mad she'll be. I'd give sixpence to see her face. O Lord! O Lord! sure, it's the biggest joke that iver was."

At last "King William" tired of the game, but only when every lily lay low, and Mrs. Macfarlane's carefully tended flower beds were a chaos of broken stalks and trampled blossoms.

As O'Brien, in high good humour, having communicated the side-splitting joke to Mary and Finnerty, was busy over his account books, Kelly came in.

"She's back," he whispered, "an she's neither to hold nor to bind. I was watchin' out, an' sure, 'twas shtruck all of a hape she was whin she seen thim lilies; an' now I'll take me oath she's goin' to come here, for, begob, she looks as cross as nine highways."

"Letter come," chuckled O'Brien; "I'm ready forrer."

At this moment the office door was burst open with violence, and Mrs. Macfarlane, in her best Sunday costume, bonnet, black gloves, and umbrella included, her face very pale save the cheek bones, where two bright pink spots burned, entered the room.

"Misther O'Brien," she said in a high, stilted voice that trembled with rage, "will yu please to inform me the meanin' o' this dasthardly outrage?"

"Arrah, what outrage are ye talkin' ov ma'am?" asked O'Brien, innocently. "Sure, be the looks ov ye I think somethin' has upset ye entirely. Faith, ye're lookin' as angry as if you were vexed, as the sayin' is."

"Oh, to be sure. A great wonder, indeed, that I should be vexed. 'Crabbit was that cause had!'" interrupted Mrs Macfarlane with a sneer. "You're not decavin' me, sir. I'm not takin in by yur pretinces, but if there's law in the land, or justice, I'll have it of yu."

"Would ye mind, ma'am," said O'Brien, imperturbably, for his superabounding delight made him feel quite calm and superior to the angry woman--"would ye mind statin' in plain English what y're talkin' about for not a wan ov me knows?"

"Oh, yu son of Judas! Oh, yu deceivin' wretch! As if it wasn't yu that is afther desthroyin' my flower-beds!"

"Ah, thin, it is y'r ould flower-beds y're makin' all this row about? Y'r dirty orange lilies'. Sure, 'tis clared out o' the place they ought t've been long ago for weeds. 'Tis mesel' that's glad they're gone, an' so I tell ye plump an' plain; bud as for me desthroyin' them, sorra finger iver I laid on thim; I wouldn't demane mesel'."

"An' if yu please, Misther O'Brien," said Mrs. Macfarlane with ferocious politeness, "will yu kindly mintion, if yu did not do the job, who did?"

"Faith, that's where the joke comes in," said O'Brien, pleasantly. "'Twas the very same baste that ruinated me roses, bad cess to him, y'r precious pet, 'King William'!"

"Oh! is it lavin' it on the dog y'are, yu traitorous Jesuit! The puir wee dog that never harmed yu? Sure, 'tis only a Papist would think of a mane thrick like that to shift the blame."

The colour rose to O'Brien's face.

"Mrs. Macfarlane, ma'am," he said, with laboured civility, "wid yer permission we'll lave me religion out o' this. Maybe, if ye say much more, I might be losin' me timper wid ye."

"Much I mind what yu lose," cried Mrs. Macfarlane. "It's thransported the likes o' yu should be for a set o' robbin', murderin', desthroyin', thraytors."

"Have a care, ma'am, how yer spake to yer betthers. Robbin', deceivin', murdherin', desthroyin', thraytors, indeed! I like that! What brought over the lot ov yez, Williamites an' Cromwaylians an' English an' Scotch, but to rob, an' desave, an' desthroy, an' murdher uz, an' stale our land, an' bid uz go to hell or to Connaught, an' grow fat on what was ours before iver yez came, an' thin jibe uz for bein' poor? Thraytors! Thraytor yerself, for that's what the lot ov yez is. Who wants yez here at all?"

Exasperated beyond endurance, Mrs. Macfarlane struck at the stationmaster with her neat black umbrella, and had given him a nasty cut across the brow, when Kelly interfered, as well as Finnerty and Mrs. O'Brien, who rushed in, attracted by the noise. Between them O'Brien was held back under a shower of blows, and the angry woman hustled outside, whence she retreated to her own quarters, muttering threats all the way.

"Oh, Jim, avourneen! 'tis bleedin' y'are," shrieked poor anxious Mary, wildly. "Oh, wirra, why did ye dhraw her on ye? Sure, I tould ye how 'twould be. As sure as God made little apples she'll process ye, an' she has the quality on her side."

"Letter," said Jim; "much good she'll get by it. Is it makin' a liar ov me she'd be whin I tould her I didn't touch her ould lilies? Sure, I'll process her back for assaultin' an' battherin me. Ye all saw her, an' me not touchin' her, the calliagh!"[2]

"Begorra, 'tis thrue for him," said Kelly. "She flagellated him wid her umbrelly, an' sorra blow missed bud the wan that didn't hit, and on'y I was here, an' lit on her suddent, like a bee on a posy, she'd have had his life, so she would."

Not for an instant did Mrs. Macfarlane forget her cause of offence, or believe O'Brien's story that it was the dog that had destroyed her orange lilies. After some consideration she hit on an ingenious device that satisfied her as being at once supremely annoying to her enemy and well within the law. Her lilies, emblems of the religious and political faith that were in her, were gone; but she still had means to testify to her beliefs, and protest against O'Brien and all that he represented to her mind.

Next day, when the midday train had just steamed into the station, Jim was startled by hearing a wild cheer--

"Hi, 'King William'! Hi, 'King William'! Come back, 'King William'! 'King William,' my darlin', 'King William'!"

The air rang with the shrill party cry, and when Jim rushed out he found that Mrs. Macfarlane had allowed her dog to run down the platform just as the passengers were alighting, and was now following him, under the pretence of calling him back. There was nothing to be done. The dog's name certainly was "King William," and Mrs. Macfarlane was at liberty to recall him if he strayed.

Jim stood for a moment like one transfixed.

"Faith, I b'leeve 'tis the divil's grandmother she is," he exclaimed.

Mrs. Macfarlane passed him with a deliberately unseeing eye. Had he been the gate-post, she could not have taken less notice of his presence, as, having made her way to the extreme end of the platform, cheering her "King William," she picked up her dog, and marched back in triumph.

Speedily did it become evident that Mrs. Macfarlane was pursuing a regular plan of campaign, for at the arrival of every train that entered the station that day, she went through the same performance of letting loose the dog and then pursuing him down the platform, waving her arms and yelling for "King William."

By the second challenge Jim had risen to the situation and formed his counterplot. He saw and heard her in stony silence, apparently as indifferent to her tactics as she to his presence, but he was only biding his time. No sooner did passengers alight and enter the refreshment room, than, having just given them time to be seated, he rushed up, threw open the door of his enemy's headquarters, and, putting in his cried, cried:--

"Take yer places, gintlemin immaydiately. The thrain's just off. Hurry up, will yez? She's away!"

The hungry and discomfited passengers hurried out, pell mell, and Mrs. Macfarlane was left speechless with indignation.

"I bet I've got the whip hand ov her this time," chuckled Jim, as he gave the signal to start.

Mrs. Macfarlane's spirit, however, was not broken. From morning until night, whether the day was wet or fine, she greeted the arrival of each train with loud cries for "King William," and on each occasion Jim retorted by bundling out all her customers before they could touch bite or sup.

The feud continued.

Each day Mrs. Macfarlane, gaunter, fiercer, paler, and more resolute in ignoring the stationmaster's presence, flaunted her principles up and down the platform. Each day did Jim hurry the departure of the trains and sweep off her customers. Never before had there been such punctuality known at Toomevara, which is situated on an easy-going line, where usually the guard, when indignant tourists point out that the express is some twenty minutes' late, is accustomed to reply,

"Why, so she is. 'Tis thrue for ye."

One day, however, Mrs. Macfarlane did not appear. She had come out for the first train, walking a trifle feebly, and uttering her war cry in a somewhat quavering voice. When the next came, no Mrs. Macfarlane greeted it.

Jim himself was perplexed, and a little aggrieved. He had grown used to the daily strife, and missed the excitement of retorting on his foe.

"Maybe 'tis tired of it she is," he speculated. "Time forrer. She knows now she won't have things all her own way. She's too domineerin' by half."

"What's wrong with the ould wan, sir?" asked Joe Kelly, when he met O'Brien. "She didn't shtir out whin she hard the thrain."

"Faith, I dunno," said Jim. "Hatchin' more disturbance, I'll bet. Faith, she's like Conaty's goose, nivir well but whin she's doin' mischief. Joe," he said, "maybe y'ought to look in an' see if anythin' is wrong wid th' ould wan."

A moment more, and Jim heard him shouting, "Misther O'Brien, Misther O'Brien!" He ran at the sound. There, a tumbled heap, lay Mrs. Macfarlane, no longer a defiant virago, but a weak, sickly, elderly woman, partly supported on Joe Kelly's knee, her face ghastly pale, her arms hanging limp.

"Be me sowl, but I think she's dyin'," cried Kelly. "She just raised her head whin she saw me, an' wint off in a faint."

"Lay her flat, Joe; lay her flat."

"Lave her to me," he said, "an' do you run an' tell the missus to come here at wanst. Maybe she'll know what to do."

Mary came in to find her husband gazing in a bewildered fashion at his prostrate enemy, and took command in a way that excited his admiration.

"Here," said she, "give uz a hand to move her on to the seat. Jim, run home an' get Biddy to fill two or three jars wid boilin' wather, an' bring thim along wid a blanket. She's as cowld as death. Joe, fly off wid yeh for the docther."

"What docther will I go for, ma'am?"

"The first ye can git," said Mary, promptly beginning to chafe the inanimate woman's hands and loosen her clothes.

When the doctor came he found Mrs. Macfarlane laid on an impromptu couch composed of two of the cushioned benches placed side by side. She was wrapped in blankets, had hot bottles to her feet and sides, and a mustard plaster over her heart.

"Bravo! Mrs. O'Brien," he said, "I couldn't have done better myself. I believe you have saved her life by being so quick--at least, saved it for the moment, for I think she is in for a severe illness. She will want careful nursing to pull her through."

"She looks rale bad," assented Mary.

"What are we to do with her?" said the doctor. "Is there no place where they would take her in?"

Mary glanced at Jim, but he did not speak.

"Sure, there's a room in our house," she ventured, after an awkward pause.

"The very thing," said the doctor, "if you don't mind the trouble, and if Mr. O'Brien does not object."

Jim made no answer, but walked out.

"He doesn't, docther," cried Mary. "Sure, he has the rale good heart. I'll run off now, an' get the bed ready."

As they passed Jim, who stood sulkily at the door, she contrived to squeeze his hand. "God bless yeh, me own Jim. You'll be none the worse forrit. 'Tis no time for bearin' malice, an' our Blessed Lady'll pray for yeh this day."

Jim was silent.

"'Tis a cruel shame she should fall on uz," he said, when his wife had disappeared; but he offered no further resistance.

Borne on an impromptu stretcher by Jim, Joe, Finnerty, and doctor, Mrs. Macfarlane was carried to the stationmaster's house, undressed by Mary, and put to bed in the spotlessly clean, whitewashed upper room.

The cold and shivering had now passed off, and she was burning. Nervous fever, the doctor anticipated. She raved about her dog, about Jim, about the passengers, her rent, and fifty other things that made it evident her circumstances had preyed upon her mind.

Poor Mary was afraid of her at times; but there are no trained nurses at Toomevara, and, guided by Doctor Doherty's directions, she tried to do her best, and managed wonderfully well.

There could be no doubt Jim did not like having the invalid in the house. But this did not prevent him from feeling very miserable. He became desperately anxious that Mrs. Macfarlane should not die, and astonished Mary by bringing home various jellies and meat extracts, that he fancied might be good for the patient; but he did this with a shy and hang-dog air by no means natural to him, and always made some ungracious speech as to the trouble, to prevent Mary thinking he was sorry for the part he had played. He replied with a downcast expression to all enquiries from outsiders as to Mrs. Macfarlane's health, but he brought her dog into the house and fed it well.

"Not for her sake, God knows," he explained; "but bekase the poor baste was frettin' an' I cudn't see him there wid no wan to look to him."

He refused, however, to style the animal "King William," and called it "Billy" instead, a name which it soon learned to answer.

One evening, when the whitewashed room was all aglow with crimson light that flooded through the western window, Mrs. Macfarlane returned to consciousness. Mary was sitting by the bedside, sewing, having sent out the children in charge of Kitty to secure quiet in the house. For a long time, unobserved by her nurse, the sick woman lay feebly trying to understand. Suddenly she spoke--

"What is the matter?"

Mary jumped.

"To be sure," she said, laying down her needlework, "'tis very bad you were intirely, ma'am; but, thanks be to God, you're betther now."

"Where am I?" asked Mrs. Macfarlane, after a considerable pause.

"In the station house, ma'am. Sure, don't ye know me? I'm Mary O'Brien."

"Mary O'Brien--O'Brien?"

"Yis, faith! Jim O'Brien's wife."

"An' this is Jim O'Brien's house?"

"Whose else id it be? But there now, don't talk anny more. Sure, we'll tell, ye all about it whin y're betther. The docthor sez y're to be kep' quiet."

"But who brought me here?"

"Troth, 'twas carried in ye were, an' you near dyin'. Hush up now, will ye? Take a dhrop o' this, an' thry to go to shleep."

When Jim came into his supper his wife said to him, "That craythure upstairs is mad to get away. She thinks we begrudge her the bit she ates."

Jim was silent. Then he said, "Sure, annythin' that's bad she'll b'leeve ov uz."

"But ye've nivir been up to see her. Shlip into the room now, an' ax her how she's goin' on. Let bygones be bygones, in the name of God."

"I won't," said Jim.

"Oh, yes, ye will. Sure, afther all, though ye didn't mane it, ye're the cause ov it. Go to her now."

"I don't like."

"Ah, go. 'Tis yer place, an' you sinsibler than she is. Go an' tell her to shtay till she's well. Faith, I think that undher all that way of hers she's softher than she looks. I tell ye, Jim, I seen her cryin' over the dog, bekase she thought 'twas th' only thing that loved her."

Half pushed by Mary, Jim made his way up the steep stair, and knocked at the door of Mrs. Macfarlane's attic.

"Come in," said a feeble voice, and he stumbled into the room.

When Mrs. Macfarlane saw who it was, a flame lit in her hollow eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said, with grim politeness, "that yu find me here, Misther O'Brien; but it isn't my fault. I wanted tu go a while ago, an' your wife wouldn't let me."

"An' very right she was; you're not fit for it. Sure, don't be talkin' ov goin' till ye're better, ma'am," said Jim, awkwardly. "Y're heartily welcome for me. I come up to say--to say, I hope y'll be in no hurry to move."

"Yu're very good, but it's not to be expected I'd find myself easy under this roof, where, I can assure yu, I'd never have come of my own free will; an' I apologise to yu, Misther O'Brien, for givin' so much trouble--not that I could help myself."

"Sure, 'tis I that should apologise," blurted out Jim; "an' rale sorry I am--though, maybe, ye won't b'lieve me--that I ever dhruv the customers out."

For a long time Mrs. Macfarlane did not speak.

"I could forgive that easier than your rootin' up my lilies," she said, in a strained voice.

"But that I never did. God knows an' sees me this night, an' He knows that I never laid a finger on thim. I kem out, an' foun' the dog there scrattin' at thim, an' if this was me last dyin' worrd, 'tis thrue."

"An' 'twas really the wee dog?"

"It was, though I done wrong in laughin' at him, an' cheerin' him on; but, sure, ye wouldn't mind me whin I told ye he was at me roses, an' I thought it sarved ye right, an' that ye called him 'King William' to spite me."

"So I did," said Mrs. Macfarlane, and, she added, more gently, "I'm sorry now."

"Are ye so?" said Jim, brightening. "Faith, I'm glad to hear ye say it. We was both in the wrong, ye see, an' if you bear no malice, I don't."

"Yu have been very good to me, seein' how I misjudged you," said Mrs. Macfarlane.

"Not a bit ov it; an' 'twas the wife anyhow, for, begorra, I was hardened against ye, so I was."

"An' yu've spent yer money on me, an' I----"

"Sure, don't say a worrd about id. I owed it to you, so I did, but, begorra, ye won't have to complain ov wantin' custom wanst yer well."

Mrs. Macfarlane smiled wanly.

"No chance o' that, I'm afraid. What with my illness an' all that went before it, business is gone. Look at the place shut up this three weeks an' more."

"Not it," said Jim. "Sure, sence y've been sick I put our little Kitty, the shlip, in charge of the place, an' she's made a power o' money for ye, an' she on'y risin' sixteen, an' havin' to help her mother an' all. She's a clever girl, so she is, though I sez it, an' she ruz the prices all round. She couldn't manage with the cakes, not knowin' how to bake thim like yerself; but sure I bought her plenty ov biscuits at Connolly's; and her mother cut her sandwidges, an' made tay, an' the dhrinks was all there as you left them, an' Kitty kep' count ov all she sould."

Mrs. Macfarlane looked at him for a moment queerly then she drew the sheet over her face, and began to sob.

Jim, feeling wretchedly uncomfortable, crept downstairs.

"Go to the craythure, Mary," he said. "Sure, she's cryin'. We've made it up--an' see here, let her want for nothin'."

Mary ran upstairs, took grim Mrs. Macfarlane in her arms, and actually kissed her; and Mrs. Macfarlane's grimness melted away, and the two women cried together for sympathy.

* * * * *

Now, as the trains come into Toomevara station, Jim goes from carriage to carriage making himself a perfect nuisance to passengers with well-filled luncheon baskets. "Won't ye have a cup o' tay, me lady? There's plinty ov time, an' sure, we've the finest tay here that you'll get on the line. There's nothin' like it this side o' Dublin; A glass o' whiskey, sir? 'Tis on'y the best John Jameson that's kep', or sherry wine? Ye won't be shtoppin' agin annywheres that you'll like it as well. Sure, if ye don't want to get out--though there's plinty o' time--I'll give the ordher an' have it sent over to yez. Cakes, ma'am, for the little ladies? 'Tis a long journey, an' maybe they'll be hungry--an apples? Apples is mighty good for childher. She keeps fine apples if ye like thim."

Mrs. Macfarlane has grown quite fat, is at peace with all mankind, takes the deepest interest in the O'Brien family, and calls her dog "Billy."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A blade of grass.

[2] Hag

Quin's Rick.

_From "Doings and Dealings."_

BY JANE BARLOW.

Clear skies and gentle breezes had so favoured Hugh Lennon's harvesting that his threshing was all safely done by the first week in October, and as the fine weather still continued, he took his wife, according to promise, for a ten days' stay at the seaside. Mrs. Hugh was rather young and rather pretty, and much more than rather short-tempered. The neighbours often remarked that they would not be in Hugh Lennon's coat for a great deal--at times specifying very considerable sums.

From her visit to Warrenpoint, however, she returned home in high good humour, and ran gaily upstairs to remove her flowery hat, announcing that she would do some fried eggs, Hugh's favourite dish, for their tea. Hence, he was all the more disconcerted when, as he followed her along the little passage, she suddenly wheeled round upon him, and confronted him with a countenance full of wrath. She had merely been looking for a moment out of the small end window, and why, in the name of fortune, marvelled Hugh, should that have put her in one of her tantrums? But it evidently had done so. "Saw you ever the like of that?" she demanded furiously, pointing through the window.

"The like of what at all?" said Hugh.

"Look at it," said Mrs. Hugh, and drummed with the point of her umbrella on a pane.