Part 10 (2/2)
The upshot of it all was that when some six weeks later Mr. Alfred B.
Willett sailed for New York, Nicholas...o...b..irne accompanied him, and Dan O'Beirne remained at Lisconnel. It was on a gleamful April day that they set out, with soft gusts roaming all around, as if they had come from very far off, and were eagerly exploring the strange places, and many light clouds flitting by swiftly above, as if they had a long journey before them, and were in a joyous flurry over it. Dan spent the slow-paced hours in the forge, where he hammered loud and long, and seldom looked across the threshold. The pleasantest thought in his mind was the remembrance of a short conversation which he had had with Nicholas while they were tying up Mr. Polymathers's old books at the kitchen-door just as the grey c.h.i.n.k in the east filled with rose-light, and the earliest breeze came over the bog waving the withered gra.s.ses.
Dan had said to Nicholas: ”Sure I wouldn't be grudgin' you e'er a bit of good luck, lad.” And Nicholas had replied: ”And never did.”
After Nicholas's departure many days bad and good rose on Lisconnel, but few of them brought any tidings of the absent. Letters pa.s.sed now and then, laggard and uninstructive as such letters must be, and they grew rarer and briefer as time went on. Perhaps a dozen years had gone by, when Dan one day received simultaneously an American newspaper and a parcel. The newspaper was marked with large blue chalk crosses at a paragraph which related how the degree of D.Sc. had been conferred.
_Honoris Causa_ upon Mr. Nicholas...o...b..irne by the University of Sarabraxville. And in the parcel, more astonis.h.i.+ng still, was a brown-covered book, lettered on the back: _A Treatise on Conic Sections, by Nicholas...o...b..irne_. By this time Dan had been left alone at the forge; but he was courting Mary Ryan, Mick Ryan's daughter, so he naturally conveyed to her this remarkable news. It produced a profound impression. Old Paddy her grandfather was with difficulty brought to realise the fact that ”they were after makin' a doctor of young Nicholas...o...b..irne, him that went out to the States the year before the Famine.”
And when he had got the idea into his head, it seemed to act like a swivel-joint, and set him nodding to the tune of: ”Well tub-be sure; glory be to G.o.d; young Nicholas...o...b..irne.”
”I wish to goodness he'd come over and cure Mick, poor man,” said Mick's wife. ”For he hasn't been worth pickin' up off the road ever since he was bad with the fever last year, and he might as well be dhrinkin' so much ditch-wather as the ould stuff Dr. Carson's givin' him.”
”Ah but it's not the medical doctorin' Nicholas has gone to,” said Dan, the shadow of a shadow crossing his face, ”there'd be diff'rint letters for that.” And he proceeded to read out the report of the degree conferred _honoris causa_ upon the distinguished young Irishman, Mr.
Nicholas...o...b..irne, whose recent contributions to the study of the higher mathematics had roused so much interest in scientific circles.
”Ay, true for you, Dan,” said Mary; ”you don't hear them callin' Dr.
Carson an Honory-causy.”
Dan's shred of Latin had grown rustier than the oldest iron in his stock, but was not yet utterly worn away. ”The manin' of that,” he explained, ”would be, _be raison of honour_, and I should suppose, they've gave it to him for the sake of what all he's after doin'.”
”Bedad then, Dan,” said Mrs. Mick, ”some one had a right to be givin'
you an Honory-causy yourself, considherin' the cure you're after makin'
on Mr. Finucane's ould mare, and everybody of the opinion she'd never stand on four feet again to the ages' ind.”
”Och blathers, ma'am,” Dan said, modestly, ”sure anybody wid the sight of their eyes might aisy enough ha' seen what ailed the crathur. That was no great comether. And look at what Nicholas is after doin'; he's wrote a book, no less.”
The ”Treatise on Conic Sections” created an even stronger sensation than the news of the honorary degree, especially among those who had letters enough to spell out the familiar name on the t.i.tle-page. Dan's Mary was not one of these scholars, but she found another page to admire, saying that the circles ”drew in and out of aich other like a lot of soap-bubbles, had an oncommon tasty look, and so had all them weeny corners, wid the long bames between, the moral of a chain-harrow, you couldn't mistake it. Sure it's proud of it anybody might be.”
Probably Nicholas was very proud of this first heir of his invention, diagrams, and all. Whether it ever had any successors seems doubtful; certainly none of them arrived at his old home. But his Treatise is still safely stowed away there in a corner of the dresser. Most likely it is the only copy of ”O'Beirne on Conic Sections” existing in Ireland; and who would expect to find it lodged in a smoke-stained cabin on the wild bogland between Duffclane and Lisconnel?
CHAPTER IX
BOYS' WAGES
One leaden-roofed morning in the winter after his brother Nicholas had gone to the States, young Dan O'Beirne was in rather low spirits, and rather out of humour. It was not unnatural that such a mood should occasionally overtake him, since he had reached apparently a straight and monotonous tract of road, which would have looked interminable to the eyes of seventeen had not his household companions been now all declining folk, whose presence brought under his constant observation the last stages of ”a long journey in December gone.” Half a century or so of smithy work, even with some unlicensed doctoring and illicit distilling thrown in, was not by any means the future that he would have liked his oracle to predict for him. And though he forecast it accurately enough without the intervention of any soothsaying, this no more helped him to avoid it than if he had been an old-world tragical hero, whose friends were seeking by vain devices to circ.u.mvent the promulgated decrees of his destiny. Dan, indeed, took no steps of that sort. For him, as for most of us, the skirts of circ.u.mstance were as the meshes of the net in which Fate holds us, and his evil star was an object of which it seemed very hard to get a good grip. I have always wondered myself how people set about it. At any rate, Dan continued to walk under his; that is to say, if it were really bad luck that kept him at the forge. Upon this point there might be differences of opinion.
Terence Kilfoyle, for instance, who dropped in to escape from a snow-shower in the course of that morning, would not, evidently, have taken such a view. For when Dan said something grumblingly about Lisconnel being ”a slack sort of a place, where one didn't get much chance of doin' anythin' at all;” he replied, ”Bedad now, if I'd the fine business you and your grandfather have to be puttin' me hand to, I wouldn't call the Queen me aunt.”
In those times the district around our bogland was more thickly inhabited than it is at present, and the blacksmith's jobs were proportionately plentier. Nowadays the forge is liable to long spells of silence, but Dan, who as young Dan has been superseded, philosophises over them, and talks no more about chances. On this occasion his remarks were overheard by his grandfather, perhaps because the old man had begun to have thoughts of chances which made him sensitive to signs of discontent in his a.s.sistant. And by and by when Terence had gone, he said, ”Terence said a very sinsible word; a lad might aisy get a worse start in life, ay indeed he might so, if it was twyste as slack. But anyhow there's them here that 'ud be hard set to make a s.h.i.+ft for themselves if the two of us was out of it; and I'm apt to be quittin'
before Biddy at all events.” To which Dan replied, ”Why what talk was there of quittin'?” and the subject ceased out of the conversation.
During the subsequent silence Dan thought, among other things, that it was ”aisy for his grandfather to be talkin';” but in this he made a mistake. For old O'Beirne remembered vividly that he had once had his own restless ambitions, and his chances, too, of realising them, in times when he did more stirring things than merely forge pike-heads.
Therefore he guessed what lent an unnecessary vehemence to his grandson's hammering, and if he could have thought of any consolatory remark, he would have made it. But it only occurred to him to say that the days would soon be len'thenin' now, anyway; and even to himself this seemed cold comfort. Dan replied, ”Och, they're plinty long enough,” and sent a thick swarm of fiery bees flitting up the dark-throated chimney.
That evening when Dan closed the broad-leaved forge doors, he shut himself out into a world as black and white as moonlight on turf and snow could make it. Though the morning's flutter of snow had left but a meagre sprinkling on that great bogland, the moonbeams touching every scattered flake, seemed to gather it all up widely in one stark spectral gleam. Far away towards the horizon this dulled off into a shadowy zone of mist, where the wind was muttering and moaning to itself, dimly heard across the hushed floor of the night. Beyond that Dan was aware wistfully of regions unknown, with all their possibilities fascinating and mysterious. But he had small scope for speculation about what he should find when he opened the house door fast by; and in fact he discovered everything and everybody just as he could have foretold. The fire-lit room was filled with the busy weaving of the web that ruddy gleams and russet shadows never got finished, swiftly as they glanced, and overhead the black s.p.a.ces between the rafters gloomed down like inlets of a starless sky. There sat his great-grandmother smoking her dudeen in her nook by the hearth, and her big cloak--a very little of wizened old woman to a great many heavy, dark-blue folds. There, too, knitted her grey-haired daughter Bridget, who said, as she did every evening, ”Well, Dan, so you're come in,” and would have not much more to say for herself that night except the Rosary. And his grandfather, who had come in just before him, was lighting his pipe in the opposite chimney-corner. A year ago his brother Nicholas would have thrust a head, all eyes and rumpled hair, into a patch of bright flickerings, to pore over the tattered arithmetic-book; but by this time his absence had become a matter of course. The only at all unusual feature was Joe Denny, the blind fiddler, who had called in on his way home and had a drop of poteen and a farrel of wholemeal cake. Yet Joe was indeed a tolerably common incident, and his jokes altered not. He had begun his parting one, which was to the effect that sorra a man in the counthry of Connaught could see clearer than himself if the night was dark enough, when Dan's arrival interrupted him, and made him declare, taking out his fiddle, that 'twould be a poor case if the lad didn't get e'er a tune at all. Dan was not much in the humour for tunes, but he said, ”Ay, Joe, give us a one, man-alive,” and Joe struck up with tw.a.n.gle and squeak.
He was playing--
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