Part 39 (1/2)

”Francis Bacon never meant it in that sense,” says Kit, indignantly. ”I really _wonder_ at you Monica.” And, having so scolded her idol, she relapses into silence for a considerable time.

”Oh! what lovely dog-roses!” says Monica, presently, pointing to a hanging spray of pink blossoms, satisfying as a happy dream. ”I _must_ get them.”

She springs up a mossy bank as she speaks, regardless of the blackberry branches that cross her path, barring her way, and catching viciously at her skirts, as though to hinder her progress.

”Oh, take care!” cries Kit, forgetting all about Lord Bacon in her terror lest her pretty sister shall not show to the best advantage in her lover's eyes. ”Your gown will be torn. Wait, wait, until I set you free from these dreadful thorns.”

”'Alas! how full of briers is this working-day-world,'” quotes Monica, gayly. ”There, now I am all right, and I have got my pretty roses into the bargain. Are they not sweet?--_sweet?_” holding them right under Kit's nose.

”They are, indeed. And, by the by, here we are,” pointing to a low farmhouse in the distance.

Reaching it, and finding the door as usual open, they enter what might be the hall in another house, but is here the kitchen. There is no leading up to it. From the moment you cross the threshold the kitchen lies before you.

It is a large room, if it may so be called, with a huge fireplace in which a dozen fires might be stowed away and forgotten. Just now there is a flame somewhere in its blackmost depths that cannot possibly annoy these June visitors, as one has to search for it to find it.

An old woman, infirm and toothless, yet with all the remains of great beauty, sits cowering over this hidden turf fire, mumbling to herself, it may be, of golden days now past and gone, when she had been the fairest colleen at ma.s.s or pattern, and had counted her lovers by the score. Yea, those were good old times, when the sky was ever blue and all the earth was young.

Two young women, sitting near her, but farther from the chimney-nook, are gossiping idly, but persistently, in the soft, mellifluous brogue that distinguishes the county Cork.

As the Beresford girls enter, these two latter women rise simultaneously and courtesy with deep respect. The youngest of them, who is so like the handsome old woman in the corner of the fireplace as to be unmistakably of kin to her, comes quickly forward to greet her visitors with the kindly grace and the absence of consciousness that distinguish the Irish peasantry when doing the honors of their own homes. This lack of _mauvaise honte_ arises perhaps from the fact that they are so honestly glad to welcome a guest beneath their roof that they forget to be shy or backward.

She makes a slight effort to pull down her tucked-up sleeves, and then desists, for which any one with a mind artistic should be devoutly grateful, as her arms, brown as they are from exposure to the sun, are at least shaped to perfection. She is dressed in a maroon-colored skirt and body, the skirt so turned up in fishwife fas.h.i.+on (as _we_ wore it some seasons ago) that a dark-blue petticoat beneath, of some coa.r.s.e description, can be distinctly seen.

Her throat is a little bare, arms, as I have said, quite so, far up above the elbows. She is stout and comely, with a beautiful laughing mouth, and eyes of deepest gray, merry as her lips. Outside, lying about, half naked in the warm suns.h.i.+ne, are three or four boys with the same eyes and mouth, undeniably her children.

”Wisha! 'tis meself's glad to see ye,” she says, with a beaming smile.

”Good luck to yer faces. 'Tis a long time now, Miss Beresford, since ye came, or Miss Kit there.”

”I promised your mother a pudding, and I have brought it,” says Kit.

”Look at that, now! 'Tis a trouble we are to ye entirely. Mother, wake up a bit, an' thank Miss Kit for what she's brought ye.”

”Ye're too kind, asth.o.r.e, too kind,” mumbles the old woman in the corner, turning eyes that are still full of light upon the child, ”to think of an ould 'ooman now in the grave as it might be. Ay, faix! An'

the bells a-ringin' too. I can hear 'em sometimes, when the wind's down----”

”Nonsense, mother! the yard (churchyard) will be lonely for ye yet awhile,” says Mrs. Daly, junior, cheerfully. ”See, now! taste this: 'twill do ye good. An' you'll sit down, Miss Monica, I hope. Take care, honey, till I dust the chair for ye.” This is dexterously done with the corner of her ap.r.o.n. ”An' ye'll take a dhrop o' tay too, may be; oh, ye will now, if only to plase me, afther yer long walk, an' all to honor the ould woman.”

”Ah, there is Mrs. Moloney!” says Kit, addressing the second younger woman, who is a thin little peasant with a somewhat discontented expression. ”The sun blinded my eyes so that I could not see you at first. Have you heard from your boy at sea?”

”Yes, miss. Praises be above! He's doin' well, he says; but it's belike I'll never see a sight of his handsome face again.”

”Oh, nonsense, now, Mrs. Moloney, me dear! What are ye talkin' like that for?” says young Mrs. Daly, who seems to be the parish consoler. ”Sure it's back he'll be wid ye before the new year.”

”Oh, yes, I _hope_ so,” says Monica, softly.

”'Tis hard to hope, miss, wid the rowling wind o' nights, an' the waves das.h.i.+n' up on the beach.”

”Ye're an ould croaker,” says Mrs. Daly, giving her a good-humored shake, ”An' now sit down, Miss Monica an' Miss Kit, do, till I get ye the sup o' tay. Mrs. Moloney, me dear, jist give the fire a poke, an'

make the kittle sing us a song. 'Tis the music we want most now.”

It would have been considered not only a rudeness, but an act _hauteur_, to refuse this simple hospitality: so the girls seat themselves, and, indeed, to tell the truth, are rather glad than otherwise of this chance of securing their afternoon tea.