Part 12 (1/2)
”Did any of yous be chance see an ould man goin' this road to-day? An ould ancient man, somethin' lame; be the name of Christie Dermody?”
”Ay, sure enough, himself was in it not so long ago,” said old O'Beirne.
”If it hadn't been you, 'twas very apt to ha' been him come back.”
In the man's face one trouble seemed to be relieved by another at the tidings.
”Glory be to goodness, then, that I've heard tell of him at last,” he said. ”But G.o.d help the crathur, what's to become of him streelin' about this freezin' night? The snow's as dhry as mail-dust. Perished he'll be.
Och, he's the terrible man to go do such a thing on us. What way did he quit? It's me ould father, sir, that's over eighty years of age.”
”And is he after strayin' away on you?” said old O'Beirne.
”Follyin' him since yisterday mornin' I am,” said the other, ”when it's in me bed I should be be rights, for I'm that distroyed wid the could on me chest I've scare a bit of breath in me body. But sure what matter if I can come be the crathur agin. Is it that a-way he went, did you notice?”
”You're bound to wait till the flurry of the win's gone by,” said old O'Beirne, for his visitor pointed out into a shrieking whirl, shrilling higher and fiercer. ”Sorra a minyit you'll lose, for you couldn't stir a step in that or see a stim. Sit you down a while. What was it set him rovin'?”
”Did he say anythin' agin us? Anythin' of bein' thrated bad?”
”Well, I wouldn't say he seemed altogether satisfied in himself,” said old O'Beirne, remembering his suspicions. ”Somethin' he said of bein'
made a fool of, and tould lies to----”
”And gettin' boys' wages,” said Dan.
”Ay, ay, wirrasthrew, that was the very notion he had, goodness help us.
What will we do at all wid him? You see, sir, me father's a won'erful proud-minded man; he is that. And a great big man, and as strong as ten he was, ontil he got rael ould entirely. So it's cruel bad he thinks of not bein' able for everythin' the way he used to be; and he won't let on but he is, be no manner of manes he won't. 'Deed no, he sez he's as good a man as ever he was in his life.”
”Belike now he's of the opinion the sun doesn't dhrop down out of the sky of an evenin',” said little old Mrs. O'Beirne, with sarcasm. ”What does the ould body expec'?”
”I dunno, ma'am, I dunno. Sure it's agin nathur and raison. There's meself gettin' as grey as a badger, and noways that supple as I was. But me father's a terrible cliver man. You'd niver get the better of an argufyment wid him, for he wouldn't listen to a word you'd be sayin'. So you see the way of it was, the two of us is workin' this great while on Mr. Blake's lan', that's a dacint man enough; and it might be three year ago, he sez to me one Sat.u.r.day night--for be good luck 'twas me and not me father he'd mostly be payin'--sez he to me, 'Look it here, Ned, it's the last time I'll be givin' man's wages to your father, for bedad an infant child 'ud do as much as he any day of the week. So I'll put him on boys' wages,' he sez, 'that'ill be three s.h.i.+llin's, and every penny as much as he's worth,' sez he. And sure I knew it was the truth he was sayin', but 'twould break me father's heart.
”So nought better could I do on'y to make out 'twas he would be gettin'
the man's wages, and meself the boy's. Diff'rint raisons I conthrived,”
he said, with some natural pride in the details of his strategy, ”but mostly I let on 'twas because of me bein' such a fool about the horses they couldn't trust me wid any except the ould ones. Anyway me father was contint enough; faix, some whiles he seemed a bit set up like, considherin' he had the pull over me, and he'd be sayin' what at all 'ud we do without him, and I such an omadhawn. Niver a cross word we had until last week I got laid up wid this mischancy could and the pain in me chest, so sorra a fut could I go to me work; and I well knew the whole thing 'ud come out, if he went when I didn't. Bedad I dhramed it all the night asleep and awake, till I was fairly moidhered in me head.”
”Tub-be sure,” said old O'Beirne, ”that's the worst of lettin' on. If anythin' goes crooked, it's like the bottom bursted out of a sack of mail; you're carryin' about nothin' at all before you know what's happint you.”
”Well, we done the best we could, me wife and me, to dispersuade him off of goin' on Sat.u.r.day. Bad wid the could too, we said he was; but och not a fut of him but would go. So Barney McAuliffe was tellin' me wife, when the men was payin' in the yard, me father he ups and says to Mr. Blake:
”'Beg pardon, sir, but you're after givin' me no more than me son's money, and it's meself was workin' this week, not him.'
”And Mr. Blake sez, just goin' off in a hurry, 'What are you talkin'
about, man? Whethen now, you don't suppose I've been payin' you full wages, that hasn't done a stroke of work worth namin' this half-dozen year? That'ill have to contint you till Ned's back agin.'
”And Barney sez my father had ne'er a word out of him, but just went home dazed like. And me wife sez when he come in, he sits down on the form be the door, and niver opens his lips. So she knew right well what ailed him, and she said iverythin' she could think of--how it's disthroyed we'd be on'y for him now I was laid up, and the won'erful man he was, and this way and that way. But niver a word he heeded, nor near the fire he wouldn't come, and had her heart-scalded seein' him sittin'
there in the draught of the door. And I meself was tired callin' him to come in and spake to me, and I lyin' in bed, but next or nigh me he niver come, not even for little Maggie that he always thought a hape of. And the next mornin' if he wasn't quit out of it early, afore anybody knew, in the bitter black frost, and a quare threatinin' of snow. So then as soon as I heard tell, I up wid me and come after him.
Troth, I left the wife frettin' wild, the crathur, thinkin' I'd get me death; but what else could I do? And now I must be steppin' on again.
Och no, thank you, lad, if I took a dhrop of spirits, I'd be choked wid coughin'. But you might just set me on the right road.”
”I'll go along wid him,” said Dan, aside to his grandfather, ”and if I can bring him, or the both of them, back here, I will. It's my belief he's as bad as he can stick together.”
So Dan and old Dermody's son went out into the night. A lull in the wind had come, and the light of the moon, hung near the horizon's rim, flickered out dimly ever and anon as the edge of the drifting mist lapped up wave-like and touched her. It was piercingly cold. Ned Dermody leaned heavily on Dan as they walked, only till he fetched back his breath, he said, but it was slow in coming. They had not gone many hundred yards, yet vast tracts of solitude seemed to have folded round them, before Dan caught sight of something that somehow startled and shocked him--a group of boulders by the road, with a shadow under one of them strangely like a human form. A few paces further on he became aware that it really was a man--the old man--sitting huddled up under the big glimmering stone. Thus far had he carried his forlorn quest after Fortune, and mutiny against Fate. His snaggy stick lay at a little distance, a black line on the snow, and the sight of that made Dan's heart stumble. But Ned Dermody shouted out hoa.r.s.ely and loud: ”Be the Lord it's himself,” and, as Dan afterwards used to tell, ”took a flyin'