Part 40 (1/2)

”I came to see the baby an' to get me dinner,” says the boy, with hanging head, his silence arising more from shyness than sullenness. The potatoes have just been lifted from the fire by Mrs. Moloney, and are steaming in a distant corner. Paudheen looks wistfully towards them.

”d.i.c.kens a sign or taste ye'll get, then, if only to tache ye better manners. Be off, now, an' don't let me see ye agin.”

”I'm hungry,” says the boy, tears coming into his eyes.

”Oh, Mrs. Daly!” says Monica, in a distressed tone.

”A deal o' harm it will do him to be hungry, thin!” says the culprit's mother, with an angry voice, but with visible signs of relenting in her handsome eyes. ”Be off wid ye now, I tell ye.” This is the last burst of the storm. As the urchin creeps crestfallen towards the doorway her rage dies, its death being as sudden as its birth. ”Come back here!” she cries, inconsistently. ”What d'ye mane be takin' me at me word like that? Come back, I tell ye, an' go an' ate something, ye crathur. How dare ye behave as if I was a bad mother to ye?”

The boy comes back, and, raising his bonny head, smiles at her fondly but audaciously.

”Look at him, now, the blackguard,” says the mother, returning the smile in kind. ”Was there ever the like of him? Go an' ate yer praties now, and thank yer stars Miss Monica was here to say a good word for ye.”

Paddy, glad of his rescue, casts a shy glance at Monica, and then, going over to where his grandmother and the pot of potatoes rest side by side, sits down (close cuddled up to the old dame) to fill his little empty stomach with as many of those esculent roots as he can manage, which, in truth, is the poor child's only dinner from year's end to year's end.

And yet it is a remarkable fact that, in spite of this scanty fare, the Irish peasant, when come to man's estate, is ever strong and vigorous and well grown. And who shall say he hasn't done his queen good service, too, on many a battle-field? and even in these latter days, when sad rebellion racks our land, has not his name been worthy of honorable mention on the plains of Tel-el-Kebir?

”I don't think he _looks_ like a bad boy, Mrs. Daly,” says Monica, reflectively, gazing at the liberated Paddy.

”Bad, miss, is it?” says the mother, who, having made her eldest born out a villain, is now prepared to maintain he is a veritable saint. ”You don't know him, faix. Sure there niver was the like of him yet. He is a raal jewel, that gossoon o' mine, an' the light of his father's eyes.

Signs on it, he'd die for Daly! There niver was sich a love betwixt father an' son. He's the joy o' my life, an' the greatest help to me.

'Tis he minds the pig, an' the baby, an' ould granny there, an'

everything. I'd be widout my right hand if I lost him.”

”But I thought you said----” begins Monica, mystified by this change from righteous wrath to unbounded admiration.

”Arrah, niver mind what I said, acushla,” says the younger Mrs. Daly, with an emphatic wink. ”Sure 'twas only to keep him in ordher a bit, I said it at all at all! But 'tis young he is yet, the crathur.”

”_Very_ young. Oh, Mrs. Daly, _look_ at baby! See how she is trying to get at my hair!” Monica is beginning in a delighted tone,--as though to have one's hair pulled out by the roots is the most enchanting sensation in the world,--when suddenly her voice dies away into silence, and she herself stares with great open violet eyes at something that darkens the doorway and throws a shadow upon the a.s.sembled group within.

It is Desmond!

Kit, feeling as guilty as though she were the leading character in some conspiracy, colors crimson, and retires behind Mrs. Moloney. She lowers her eyes, and is as mute as death. But Monica speaks.

”Is it you?” she says. Which, of course, is quite the silliest thing she _can_ say, as he is standing there regarding her with eyes so full of light and love that the cleverest ghost could not copy them. But then she is not sillier than her fellows, for, as a rule, all people, if you remark, say, ”Is that you?” or ”Have you come?” when they are actually looking into your face and should be able to answer the question for themselves.

”Yes, it is,” says Desmond, with such an amount of diffidence (I hope it wasn't a.s.sumed) as should have melted the heart of the hardest woman upon earth. Monica is _not_ the hardest woman upon earth.

Still, she makes him no further speech, and Desmond begins to wonder if he is yet forgiven. He is regarding her fixedly; but she, after that first swift glance, has turned her attention upon the baby on her knee, and is seemingly lost in admiration of its little snub nose. Why will she not look at him? What did he say to her last night that is so difficult to forgive? Can wrath be cherished for so long in that gentle bosom? Her face is as calm as an angel's; surely

”There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple.”

”Ah! come in, Misther Desmond,” says Mrs. Daly, hospitably. ”I'm glad 'tis company I have before you the day. Maybe 'twill coax ye to come again. Where have you been this week an' more? Faix, ye were so long in comin', I thought 'twas angry wid me ye were.”

”n.o.body is ever angry with a pretty woman like you,” says Desmond, saucily.

”Oh, now, hark to him!” says Mrs. Daly laughing heartily. ”I wonder ye aren't ashamed of yourself. An' is the ould Squire hearty?”

”He's as well as even _you_ could wish him. How d'ye do, Kit? Won't you come and speak to me?”