Part 16 (2/2)
In a short time they reached widow Buckley's cabin, who, on understanding that it was Reilly who sought admittance, lost not a moment in opening the door and letting them in. There was no candle lit when they entered, but there was a bright turf fire ”blinkin' bonnilie”
in the fireplace, from which a mellow light emanated that danced upon the few plain plates that were neatly ranged upon her humble dresser, but which fell still more strongly upon a clean and well-swept hearth, on one side of which was an humble armchair of straw, and on the other a grave, but placid-looking cat, purring, with half-closed eyes, her usual song for the evening.
”Lord bless us! Mr. Reilly, is this you? Sure it's little I expected you, any way; but come when you will, you're welcome. And who ought to be welcome to the poor ould widow if you wouldn't?”
”Take a stool and sit down, honest man,” she said, addressing Fergus; ”and you, Mr. Reilly, take my chair; it's the one you sent me yourself, and if anybody is ent.i.tled to a sate in it, surely you are. I must light a rush.”
”No, Molly,” replied Reilly, ”I would be too heavy for your frail chair.
I will take one of those stout stools, which will answer me better.”
She then lit a rush-light, which she pressed against a small cleft of iron that was driven into a wooden shaft, about three feet long, which stood upon a bottom that resembled the head of a churn-staff. Such are the lights, and such the candlesticks, that are to be found in the cabins and cottages of Ireland. ”I suppose, Molly,” said Reilly, ”you are surprised at a visit from me just now?”
”You know, Mr. Reilly,” she replied, ”that if you came in the deadest hours of the night you'd be welcome, as I said--and this poor man is welcome too--sit over to the fire, poor man, and warm yourself. Maybe you're hungry; if you are I'll get you something to eat.”
”Many thanks to you, ma'am,” replied Fergus, ”I'm not a taste hungry, and could ait nothing now; I'm much obliged to you at the same time.”
”Mr. Reilly, maybe you'd like to ait a bit. I can give you a farrel of bread, and a sup o' nice goat's milk. G.o.d preserve him from evil that gave me the same goats, and that's your four quarthers, Mr. Reilly. But sure every thing I have either came or comes from your hand; and if I can't thank you, G.o.d will do it for me, and that's betther still.”
”No more about that, Molly--not a word more. Your long residence with my poor mother, and your affection for her in all her trials and troubles, ent.i.tle you to more than that at the hands of her son.”
”Mrs. Buckley,” observed Fergus, ”this is a quiet-looking little place you have here.”
”And it is for that I like it,” she replied. ”I have pace here, and the noise of the wicked world seldom reaches me in it. My only friend and companion here is the Almighty--praise and glory be to his name!”--and here she devoutly crossed herself--”bar-rin', indeed, when the light-hearted _girshas_ (young girls) comes _a kailyee_* wid their wheels, to keep the poor ould woman company, and rise her ould heart by their light and merry songs, the cratures.”
*This means to spend a portion of the day, or a few hours of the night, in a neighbor's house, in agreeable and amusing conversation.
”That must be a relief to you, Molly,” observed Reilly, who, however, could with difficulty take any part in this little dialogue.
”And so indeed it is,” she replied; ”and, poor things, sure if their sweethearts do come at the dusk to help them to carry home their spinning-wheels, who can be angry with them? It's the way of life, sure, and of the world.”
She then went into another little room--for the cabin was divided into two--in order to find a ball of woollen thread, her princ.i.p.al occupation being the knitting of mittens and stockings, and while bustling about Fergus observed with a smile,
”Poor Molly! little she thinks that it's the bachelors, rather than any particular love for her company, that brings the thieves here.”
”Yes, but,” said Reilly, ”you know it's the custom of the country.”
”Mrs. Buckley,” asked Fergus, ”did the sogers ever pay you a visit?”
”They did once,” she replied, ”about six months ago or more.”
”What in the name of wondher,” he repeated, ”could bring them to you?”
”They were out huntin' a priest,” she replied, ”that had done something contrary to the law.”
”What did they say, Mrs. Buckley, and how did they behave themselves?”
”Why,” she answered, ”they axed me if I had seen about the country a tight-looking fat little man, wid black twinklin' eyes and a rosy face, wid a pair o' priest's boots upon him, greased wid hog's lard? I said no, but to the reva.r.s.e. They then searched the cabin, tossed the two beds about--poor Jemmy's--G.o.d rest my boy's sowl!--an'--afterwards my own. There was one that seemed to hould authority over the rest, and he axed who was my landlord? I said I had no landlord. They then said that surely I must pay rent to some one, but I said that I paid rent to n.o.body; that Mr. Reilly here, G.o.d bless him, gave me this house and garden free.”
”And what did they say when you named Mr. Reilly?”
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