Chapter IX: Part 9

Roseen had been making butter when her grandfather entered, and, turning round, displayed a face rosy with her exertions, and arms bare to the elbow.

"So here ye are," remarked Peter, his grim face relaxing as much as was possible to it; "I've been lookin' for ye everywhere. Do ye know what I am after doin' for you this fine mornin'?"

"What?" asked Roseen, a little apprehensively, while the colour deepened in her cheeks. Peter leaned against the long stone shelf that ran round the dairy wall, and smiled before replying: "I am after makin' the finest match for you that's to be had in all the country side."

The flush mounted to Roseen's very temples and then died away; she paused a moment to steady her voice before venturing on a query. "I seen Mr. Quinn goin' down the road a little while ago--is it him?"

"Ah, you little rogue! you were on the lookout, were ye?" cried Peter jocosely. "Well, you are right; it is him. You are the rale lucky girl, Roseen! You'll be the richest woman in the town-land."

Roseen glanced down, apparently wrestling with some inward emotion, and presently observed in a small, strangled voice: "Sure, he is twenty year older nor me."

"What matter?" said Peter; "he'll be all the better able to take care o' you. It's better to marry a man with sense, nor to go takin' up with some young whipper-snapper that would be thinkin' of nothin' but spendin' money and carryin' on with nonsense."

"He's an ould widower," cried Roseen, wrinkling up her little nose with an expression of disgust.

"Well," said Peter, "an' a good thing too; you'll come in for all the beautiful dresses and jewels and things the first Mrs. Quinn left behind."

"I am not goin' to take her lavin's, then," retorted Roseen with spirit. "Neither her jew'lry, her dresses, nor her husband will I have, so there! That's my answer, an' you may tell him so. He may go make up his match with somebody else for me." With a whisk of her skirts and a stamp of her foot, she returned to her butter.

"Come, come!" said Peter, knitting his brows. "Come, come, come!" he repeated, in warning tones; "this won't do, miss."

Roseen tossed her head, and gave her roll of butter two or three little pats.

"If I bid you take Mr. Quinn, you'll have to take him," said Peter angrily.

"I won't, then," retorted Roseen, and she finished off one little roll and fell to preparing another.

"You owe everything in this wide world to me, I would have you remember," cried Peter, stammering in his wrath; "if I was to turn you out o' doors this minute, ye wouldn't have a place to go to."

"I would soon find a place," said Roseen. "I told ye that before I come here."

Peter, finding the threat of no avail, changed his tactics, and assumed a wheedling tone.

"Listen, Roseen, like a good sensible girl. Sure, ye know very well it's me that holds the place of father an' mother to you now, an' it's my duty to see you are settled an' provided for. Well, now, ye might sarch the world over an' not find such a good man as Mr. Quinn, an' a real gentleman, too, mind you. Sure, it's jumping with joy you ought to be. An' lookit here, Roseen, you are all the descendants I have, an' if you do as I bid you, I'll make me will after ye are married to Mr. Quinn, an' leave the two 'o you this place an' everything in the wide world that I have. There now!"

This tempting prospect was too much for Roseen. She whisked round again so rapidly that she overturned a pan of cream; her cheeks were flaming, her eyes flashing with anger.

"I'll be thankin' ye not to talk to me that way, grandfather," she cried. "I declare it's enough to vex a saint! I won't have Mr. Quinn, an' wouldn't if he gave me a carpet of gould to walk upon. That's me answer, an' he needn't be waitin' for me, for I won't have him."

Peter Rorke shook his head sorrowfully.

"Ye'll be bringin' me white hairs with sorrow to the grave, the same as your father," he remarked, oblivious of the fact that the poor fellow in question had only succeeded in laying low his own curly black ones. "I declare me heart's broke. Ye had a right to have a bit more consideration for me, Roseen, after all I done for ye. Did I ever give ye a cross word, now, since you come here?"

Roseen opened her eyes a little blankly, stricken with sudden remorse. It was true her grandfather had ever treated her kindly since she had come to Monavoe, and indeed, after a certain queer fashion, the two had grown to be rather fond of each other.

"Haven't I always given you everything you wanted?" pursued Peter, in a querulous tone; "everything in reason, anyhow. Look at the beautiful blue tabinet dress I gave you--sure there isn't the like in the place--and the new hat ye have, an' kid gloves an' all! Sure, I never deny you anything! An' you up an' give me them disrespectful answers, an' refuse to do the only thing I ever axed ye!"

Tears were actually twinkling in the old man's narrow eyes, so much aggrieved did he feel himself to be. Roseen began to cry too. "It's me that has me heart broke," she sobbed. "How can I go marryin' Mr. Quinn wid his ugly red face, an' him an ould widower an' cross-eyed into the bargain? Sure, if it was anything else now--" A burst of woe interrupted her utterance.

"Me child," said Peter impressively, "I know more what's for your good nor you do yourself; but don't distress yourself too much, alanna: Mr. Quinn says he does not mind waitin' as long as you like, so we'll say no more about it for a while."

"O--o--o--oh!" groaned Roseen.

Peter prevented further lamentations by assuring her, with various affectionate pats on the arm, that he knew she would never go annoyin' her poor ould grandfather, but they'd say no more about it, for a bit anyhow. He withdrew, leaving Roseen still sobbing amid the fragments of a broken milk-pan, and perhaps the ruins of a castle in the air.

Presently, however, she dried her eyes, and, being a methodical person, set to work to repair the disorder around her. When the broken crockery was removed, the cream wiped up, and the remaining butter rolled into shape, she went out, closing the dairy door after her and, giving a hasty glance to right and to left, made her way swiftly across the "haggard" and down a grassy lane beyond, to a large field, where a man was to be seen leisurely assembling together a troop of cows.

Roseen ran quickly across the grass towards him, stopping as soon as she perceived that he had caught sight of her, and beckoning to him mysteriously.

"Come here, Mike!" she cried softly, as he hastened towards her, "I've something to be tellin' ye."

Mike quickened his pace. He was a tall young fellow, but slender, with an honest, good-humoured face. Without being handsome, there was something attractive about him--an alertness, a vigour in the well-knit limbs, a candour and kindliness in the expression of the open face, a tenderness, moreover, in the blue eyes as they rested on Roseen--which would seem to account for the fact that these former playfellows were now lovers.

Roseen looked piteously at him, as he halted beside her, gazing with alarm at the trace of tears which still remained on her face.

"Me grandfather wants me to get married to Mr. Quinn," she announced briefly.

"God bless us!" ejaculated Mike, his cheeks growing pale beneath their tan. "What did ye say, alanna?"

"I said I wouldn't," answered Roseen.

"That's me brave girl! I declare ye're afther givin' me such a fright, I don't know whether I am on me head or on me heels. Was he goin' to murther ye for that?"

"He was at first," replied the girl, "and then he began sayin'--Oh dear, oh dear, me heart's broke!" She was sobbing now violently.

"Sure, what matther what he says?" cried Mike, much concerned. "Ye have no call to be frettin' that way; let him say what he likes, bad luck to him! Sure, ye won't be havin' Mr. Quinn, Roseen, will ye?"

"N--no," said Roseen. "Me grandfather says I'm bringin' his white hairs with sorrow to the grave."

"Ah, the ould gomeril!" retorted Mike unsympathetically. "Bedad, what hairs he has isn't white at all, but red as carrots! Don't ye be listenin', Roseen, asthore. Sure, ye wouldn't marry ugly Mr. Quinn?" he repeated anxiously.

"I would not," replied Roseen; "but I don't like me grandfather to be talkin' that way. An'--an' his hair isn't that red, Mike," she added reprovingly; "ye have no call to be sayin' it is."

"If I never said worse nor you have said yourself often an' often!" retorted the lad. "Many's the time I heard ye at it."

"That was before I had sense," replied Roseen, a trifle loftily; "ye have no call to be castin' that up at me now. Me an' me grandfather has never fell out since I come here."

"Oh, that indeed," said Mike sarcastically; "ye're gettin' altogether too good an' too grand. Hothen indeed, I may as well make up my mind to it--ye'll be Mrs. Quinn before the year is out. Sure, what chanst has a poor fellow the same as meself, wid the ould wans at home to support as well as meself, when there's such a fine match as Mr. Quinn to the fore! Och bedad! when ye're sittin' along wid him on your side-car, ye'll never offer to throw so much as a look at poor Mike."

At this affecting picture Roseen wept more than ever, and brokenly assured the honest fellow that not for all the Mister Quinns in the world would she ever forget him, and that she would wait for him till she was grey, she would, an' marry nobody else, no matter what might happen.

Thus reassured, Mike could not do less than apologise for his intemperate language, and a reconciliation was in the act of taking place when Mr. Peter Rorke chanced to look over the hedge. It was past milking-time, and he had come to see why his cows had not been driven in as usual. Leaning on his stick and trembling with rage, he apostrophised the young pair in no measured terms.

"Now I understand, miss," he added, after relieving his mind by a burst of eloquence, "now I understand why you thought so bad of Mr. Quinn's kind offer. It was this young schamer ye had in your mind--him that ye should think no more of nor the dirt under your feet."

"Well then, grandfather," cried Roseen hotly, "I may as well tell ye straight out that I won't stand here an' hear Michael Clancy abused. He's all the husband ever I'll have, an' ye may make up your mind to that."

Peter spluttered with fury and brandished his stick. It was perhaps well for the girl that the hedge divided them.

"Get in wid ye into the house this minute out o' me sight," he screamed. "Him your husband! A dirty little beggar's brat that I picked up out o' the gutter for charity!"

"Charity yourself," interrupted Mike, squaring his shoulders. "I've done more work for ye nor ever ye paid me for--now! And the Clancys is as good as the Rorkes, an' an oulder family, though we are down in the world, along wid bad luck an' misfortun'."

"The Clancys is an ould ancient family," chimed in Roseen. Her grandfather turned to her, almost beside himself with exasperation.

"Get in wid ye to the house this instant, as I bid ye, miss; or it'll be the worse for ye. Be off, now, before I come over the hedge to you."

"If you dar' lay a finger," began Mike; but Roseen interrupted him with a little defiant laugh.

"Sure, I am not afeard of him, Mike. I am more afeard of his hurting himself nor me; but I'm goin' now, anyway, an' I am glad ye know the truth, grandfather, so that ye needn't be botherin' me about Mr. Quinn."

She went away, moving slowly and carrying her curly head very high.

Peter watched her till she was out of sight and hearing, and then turned to Mike.

"Now then," he cried, "we'll have this matter settled. You'll go out o' this, me lad, an' so will your father an' mother. They're owin' me a year's rent an' more."

"Didn't I tell ye I would work it off, little by little?" said Mike, who had suddenly become very pale. "It was me poor mother bein' sick last year that thrun us back, an' you said ye would have patience wid us."

"Then ye had a right to behave better," returned Rorke. "How dar' ye go make up to my granddaughter, you young villain? I'd have ye to know that Miss Rorke is not for the likes of you."

All poor Mike's pride and valour seemed to have deserted him since Peter's threat.

"Sure, Roseen an' me was always fond of one another," he said pleadingly. "I couldn't remember a time when we wasn't. Her an' me was ould playfellows, and she used to be as much at our place as at home."

"It won't be your place much longer," retorted Peter curtly. "Out o' this ye may all go, bag an' baggage, the whole pack of yous."

"Me father hasn't stirred out o' that chimley corner for years an' years," urged Mike; "an' me mother, God help her! she's near as bad as him wid the weakness an' the terrible cough she has this while back. It 'ud be the death of her out an' out--sure, where could the cratur's go?"

"Let them go to the poor-house, unless you can make a livin' for them somewhere out o' this. I'll not have ye here, mind. Ye needn't come an' work to-morrow, an' ye may tell your father an' mother to be gettin' ready to march, for they'll be havin' the bailiff in on them as soon as I can get him."

A deep flush replaced Mike's pallor and a shiver of indignation shook him from head to foot.

"Mr. Rorke," he cried, "ye don't mane what ye are sayin'. Ye'd never have the heart to turn them two ould craturs out on the roadside to die?"

"Wouldn't I though?" retorted Peter; "ye'll soon find out for yourselves whether I would or not."

He turned and was hastening homewards, when Mike called after him. The old man faced him, still sneering.

"This will not bring you luck," cried Mike, his young voice quivering, his face working with emotion, his usually merry eyes ablaze with passion. "I tell you it'll bring a curse on you. You'll live to rue the day you turned on us that way--an' maybe it won't be long before ye are sorry."

Peter's only answer was an ironical laugh, and he once more resumed his homeward journey, leaving Mike standing pale and trembling beside the hedge.

Peter entered the house, flushed with triumph, and, calling loudly for Roseen, informed her that he was after sendin' that fine young sweetheart of hers about his business.

"Ye don't mane to say you turned him off!" cried the girl, in dismay. "The poor fellow, how is he to live at all, him that has his old father and mother to keep as well as himself?"

"His father and mother won't be costing him anything much now, I am thinkin'," explained Peter politely. "That grand ancient family of the Clancys will soon be out o' this place, an' living in the greatest aise and comfort at the country's expense in the poorhouse, me dear."

"What do ye mane at all? Indeed Mike will never let them go there. He'll work till the two hands drops off of him, but he will conthrive to keep a roof over their heads."

"Will he now?" said Rorke, still laboriously urbane. "I wonder what roof that'll be?"

Roseen looked up quickly, her parted lips suddenly turning white.

"I am thinking," resumed Peter, "he'll have to make haste an' find a place for them, for they'll be out o' the old one soon enough."

"Grandfather!" cried Roseen, "ye're not going to put them out in airnest, are ye? Sure ye'd never have the heart! The poor old couple is dying on their feet as it is. It'll be the death o' them altogether if ye go do that."

"An' a very good thing too," retorted Peter. "We'll be shut o' the whole of them out-an'-out, that way."

"Ye're a regular hard-hearted old Turk," cried Roseen, "that's what ye are! The whole countryside will cry shame on ye! It is outrageous, so it is! 'Pon me word, ye're as bad as Cromwell."

"Ah, ha," said Peter, "I'll tell ye what it is, Roseen, the more impidence ye give me, the more I'll do on the Clancys. _Now_! Ye bold little lump! How dar' ye go speak to me that way? I'll teach ye to be carryin' on wid the likes o' that. Not another word out o' ye now, or I'll walk down to the Clancys this minute an' throw them out on the road before dark."

Roseen's fury was replaced by terror.

"Och, grandfather, sure ye wouldn't do the like! I ax your pardon for spakin' disrespectful to ye. Sure ye're not in airnest? Ye won't raly put the poor old man and his wife there out o' their little place? They won't be troublin' you long. A-a-h, grandfather, me own dear grandfather, do lave them where they are an' I'll promise faithful never to give you a crass word again."

But neither the coaxing tone nor the touch of the soft clinging arms, which the girl now wound about him, moved Peter's heart.

"Out o' this them Clancys goes, bag and baggage," he asserted; "if ye'd wanted me to let them stay where they were, an' them owin' me so much rent an' all, ye ought to have behaved different. But on account of this impident young sckamer ye go tellin' me ye won't marry Mr. Quinn, the man I chose for ye, an' I catch ye sweetheartin' an' carryin' on wid that ploughboy there, demanin' yourself altogether. Sure nobody could be expected to stand that. I won't stand it anyhow. Out they go, and off the whole o' them may march."

Roseen was silent for a moment, apparently battling with herself, and at last she said in a very shaky voice:

"It's a poor case if it's me that's bringin' this throuble on them all. Grandfather, if--if I was to give ye me word that I wouldn't spake to Mike in the way of courtin' agin--"

"Wisha!" cried Peter sarcastically, "much good that would do. I know the way ye would keep your promise, me lady; no, no, I'll make sure of this job."

"Oh, grandfather! I'll promise, I promise faithful never so much as to look at Mike!"

But Peter was inexorable; he had been wounded in his tenderest point, bearded by these two impudent young people--set at nought. His pride, moreover, could not brook the proximity of the audacious youth who had dared to aspire to the hand of his granddaughter, and of the parents who had, as he had been reminded that day, ventured to befriend her when he himself had cast her off.

He felt that he must be rid of them without delay. Poor Roseen crept upstairs and sat disconsolately at the window, watching the corner of the haggard where she expected before long to see Mike appear. It had been the custom of the young pair to meet for a few moments every evening, under the shadow of the big hayrick and there converse before Mike returned home. He would surely come, if only to say good-bye. Poor fellow, what would he do? Whither would he go? Big tears rolled down Roseen's cheeks as she thought of his desperate plight.

As she sat watching and waiting--for she dared not venture out too soon lest her grandfather's suspicions should be aroused--a sudden rattling and fumbling at the lock of her own door made her turn round. The door was opened for a moment, a lean hand thrust into the room, the key which had been on the inner side was withdrawn suddenly; then the door quickly closed again, and before Roseen thoroughly realised what had happened, old Peter locked her in.

"Good night, me dear!" he cried ironically through the keyhole; "I think it's as well for ye to stay quiet this evenin' an' not be takin' any more walks, or tirin' or excitin' yourself. Pleasant dreams, dear."

Down the stairs he went, chuckling to himself and leaving the girl furious. She banged at the door with all her might and main, but the lock held fast and no one came to her rescue; then she rushed to the window and threw it open; but the distance from the ground was too great for even a desperate maiden to jump, and she wrung her hands frantically. Mike would think she had given him up; he would fancy her grandfather had got round her, and that she had deserted him in his humiliation and distress. Was there nobody who would help her, no one by whom she could convey at least a message?

As if in answer to her agonised prayer, certain shuffling steps were presently heard below, and old Judy's white sunbonnet appeared round the corner of the house. Roseen clapped her hands: here was one who would do her bidding, a faithful hench-woman who could be trusted to carry out her orders in defiance of old Peter's commands.

"Judy!" cried the girl softly, bending out of the window.

Judy looked up in astonishment. "Is it there ye are?" she cried.

"Oh, Judy, my grandfather has me locked in! Listen now! I want ye to do something for me."

Judy's face clouded over. "I was just stalin' out to have me little pipe," she said. "The masther does be killin' me, when he catches me at it, an' I was makin' me way off while he had his back turned."

"Ah, ye can smoke away as much as ye like," cried Roseen impatiently. "See here, Judy, all I want ye to do is to stand over there, by the corner of the haggard, an' watch till Mike comes, an' tell him me grandfather's afther lockin' me up, an' I can't get out this evenin', but the first chanst I have to-morrow I'll run round. An' tell him"--here her voice faltered--"that no matther what any one says, I'll always be faithful to him. An' I'll never get married to anybody on'y to himself."

Judy's beady black eyes were fixed somewhat vacantly on her mistress's face during this speech, but she nodded at the end, and on being adjured not to forget, informed Roseen, somewhat tartly, that she had no notion of forgettin'. She hobbled off fingering her beloved pipe, and Roseen, sitting by the window, watched the twilight deepen and saw the world grow misty and indistinct, and heard the birds twittering as they went to roost. Then the stars came out one by one, and a pale young moon showed faintly in the sky; it was night now, but Judy had not returned. Was it possible that Mike had failed to appear at the trysting-place.

After what seemed an interminable time, Judy's uncertain footfalls were again heard, and her white bonnet showed indistinctly in the dusk, bobbing up and down as she approached. Roseen craned forward her head eagerly. "What did he say, Judy?"

"I'm afther losin' me lovely pipe," responded the old woman, halting beneath the window. "What in the world will I do? I'm afther losin' it. Oh dear! oh dear!--the on'y bit o' comfort I had."

"Whisht, whisht; ye'll find it to-morrow, when the light comes. Did ye see Mike, Judy? An' what did he say?"

"Ah, don't be botherin' me about Mike," wailed Judy, "I have other things to be thinkin' of, I'm afther losing me beautiful pipe; me heart's broke entirely!"

"Judy, Judy! I'll give ye the loveliest pipe ever ye seen, an' a beautiful roll o' twist, if on'y ye'll tell me. Wasn't Mike in it at all, Judy? Tell me that, for the love of Heaven."

Judy made a desperate effort to collect the scattered remnants of her wits, and presently said doubtfully: "Is it Mike ye are axing about? Sure what 'ud bring Mike to the haggard? I did _not_ see him--an' me pipe is lost on me!"

Roseen fairly stamped her foot. Why had she been such a fool as to count on this poor old idiotic creature? Probably while Judy was hunting for her pipe, Mike had watched and waited in vain for a sign from his love.

Judy shuffled off, lamenting, but Roseen sat still at her open casement, pondering mournfully on the misfortunes which had overwhelmed those she loved, and bewailing her impotence to help them. Soon all was absolutely still; the house was wrapt in slumber, and at last, rising, chilled and weary, the girl prepared to go to rest. As she closed the window her eye was caught by a curious appearance in the sky, immediately above the long line of the regularly shaped stacks in the haggard. The big hayrick particularly was defined with curious clearness against what seemed to be a glow in the sky. As she looked a sudden tongue of flame sprang out from the western corner, and ran leaping up the great dark mass, spreading and widening as it went; then sparks were thrown out, and Roseen suddenly realised that the great rick, composed of tons upon tons of hay, worth at this moment a fortune in itself, was on fire. Screaming she rushed frantically to the door, but owing to Peter's forethought she was locked in. In vain she hammered and shrieked; no one heeded her. Such labourers as remained on the premises at night slept over the stables; the two maid-servants whom Peter employed only came by day. If Judy heard, she had not the sense to heed; and old Peter himself, snuggling into his pillows, merely turned over when the din reached his ears, muttering to himself with righteous indignation that a body would think the girl would know better nor behave that way, but let her shout as much as she liked an' tire herself out, she'd be apt to be a bit quieter in the mornin'. Meanwhile the little flame, which Roseen had first seen, had grown apace. The slight crackling sound which had originally accompanied its progress, was replaced by a sullen roar; volumes of ruddy smoke filled the air; a pungent, peculiar smell penetrated even to Roseen's room, almost suffocating her. Would no one hear, would no one heed? Taking the poker she knocked on the floor, hoping to produce some response from her grandfather, but finding that he did not answer she fell to hammering and battering the lock of her door with such vigour and good-will that at last she succeeded in breaking it. Rushing down stairs, candle in hand, she burst in upon old Peter.

"Get up, grandfather, get up at wanst! the big rick is on fire, and will be burnt to a cinder if you don't make haste." Old Peter sat up, blinking at the light, and at first refusing to believe Roseen; but when the girl flung open the window and he saw and heard for himself that the alarm was only too well founded, he fairly burst out crying like a child.

"Me rick, me beautiful rick! I'm ruined and destroyed entirely! What'll I do at all?"

"Get up!" said Roseen sharply, "and let's get all the help we can. I'll run out an' call Jack an' Barney, an' do you put on your clothes an' fill the stable bucket."

She flew out, and after some trouble succeeded in rousing the men in question, who, however, when they arrived on the scene and saw the extent of the damage which had already been done, gave her little hope of being able to arrest its progress.

"Sure it's all wan sheet of flame, none of us could get near it," cried one, pointing to the rick. "What good would a bucket or two of wather do on that?"

"Well, do something can't yez?" cried Roseen. "There's no good in standin' there, lookin' at it. I'll run off an' fetch Mike Clancy; he has more sense nor the whole o' yez put together."

Off she sped, finding her way easily, even in the dark, along the familiar path; but when she reached the cabin, and after much knocking succeeded in arousing Mrs. Clancy, disappointment awaited her--Mike was nowhere to be found.

The news went round the country next morning, first that old Peter Rorke's famous hayrick and two of the neighbouring cornstacks were burnt to the ground, and secondly that Michael Clancy had mysteriously disappeared. By-and-by certain additional circumstances were reported which caused people to connect the one fact with the other, and to comment thereon in whispers, with divers nods and winks, and mysterious jerks of the thumb. Michael was after havin' words with the ould fellow, it was rumoured, on account of his bein' sweet on Roseen, an' him and his ould father and mother were goin' to be put out o' their little place. Sure no wonder the poor boy--Well, well, he'd have had the time to get far enough off by this, an' it was nobody's business, on'y his own, poor fellow!

It was whispered that Jack McEvoy had seen Mike on the evening before, standing in the corner of the haggard lookin' about him "rale distracted, ye'd say." "What are ye doin' there at all, this time o' night?" said Jack. "Och, nothin' much," says Mike, "just streelin' about." "Well," says Jack, "I'm afeard ye are after gettin' poor Roseen into throuble; there's the great blow-up entirely goin' on beyant there at the house. The masther's murdherin' Roseen for the way the two of yez has been goin' on. He had her crying, the poor little girl," says Jack; "I h'ard her through the windy," says he. "'Oh, grandfather,' she says, 'I'll never spake to Mike agin, I give ye me word,' she says. 'I'll never ax to look at him,' says she. Well," Jack said, "if ye'd seen the look that come over Mike's face! He staggered back, so he did. 'The ould devil,' says he, 'he's afther gettin' round her an' turnin' her agin me.'" "Och, to be sure," says Jack, "he's a rale ould villain! Is it true that he's puttin' yez all out in the road?" "He is," says Mike, "but he'll be sorry for it yet?"

"Mind that now," some one would say, and the nods and the shakings of the heads would become more mysterious than ever, and then the gossips would begin to chuckle over Peter's discomfiture; the universal verdict being that "It sarved him right, the covetious ould blackguard!" Mrs. Clancy had told Roseen, weeping, that Mike was gone off wid himself. He had come in late, very near distracted, the poor boy, an' he had said "good-bye" to his father an' mother, an' had told them he was goin' to England to try an' make a bit o' money at the potato-harvest, the way they wouldn't have to go to the workhouse when Mr. Rorke turned them out.

Gone without a word of farewell to her! Roseen betook herself homewards full of bewildered pain; but kept her own counsel.

When the whispers anent the probable cause of his disappearance reached her ears, she felt a momentary thrill of apprehension, but her faith in her old friend survived this temptation. "Mike never done the like," she said to herself, with a proud little toss of her head; even when by--and--by the lad was openly accused of having been the cause of the disaster, she took his part against all comers, making no secret of her own intention, frustrated by her grandfather, of meeting him in the haggard, and announcing boldly that it was on her account that Mike had come there.

Old Peter, who had behaved like a man distracted while his property was being consumed before his eyes, was the first to connect the disappearance of Mike with this act of destruction, and declared he would leave no stone unturned in his efforts to capture and punish him.

The police were soon on poor Mike's track, and before long he was discovered in the act of embarking for Liverpool, and ignominiously dragged back to the scene of his supposed exploit. In vain he denied all knowledge of the deed, putting forward the same motive for his absence as his mother had done; circumstances were adverse to him, and the evidence against him sufficiently strong to justify the magistrate in committing him for trial at the approaching assizes. In the meantime the unfortunate fellow was despatched to the county gaol.

Peter Rorke remained in a condition of mind bordering upon frenzy; some of his neighbours opined that he was goin' out of his wits altogether, and there were moments when Roseen herself was in terror of him. The old man's excitement took a most unpleasant form, his hatred of Mike and his unfortunate parents being little less than rabid.

Not only were the poor old couple evicted with the least possible delay, but their few "sticks of furniture," precious to themselves and worth absolutely nothing to anybody else, were seized and carried off to Monavoe--there being no bidders at the sale which Peter held in "distraint for rent."

Poor old Pat was helped out of the cabin and insisted on seating himself by the roadside to watch proceedings, though his wife tried anxiously to persuade him to accept at once the hospitality pressed upon them by sympathetic neighbours.

"Lave me alone," he growled, "I'll see this out, so I will. Och, bedad, they are afther liftin' out the bed now--mind it doesn't fall to pieces on yez before yez get it into the cart. Troth, ould Peter himself ought to sleep in that iligant bed; it's the pleasant dhrames he'd have!"

"It doesn't become ye to be talkin' that way, Pat," cried "Herself," flushed and weeping; "that was me mother's bed, so it was. Oh dear, oh dear! that I should live to see it taken off of us that way! And there's me pot that I biled mornin' an' evenin' these years an' years!"

"Och, musha, lave the pot," retorted Pat; "sure what good is the pot to us when we haven't a bit to put in it? Troth, now the ould sckamer beyant has Mike in prison, we may give up altogether. Yourself an' me will soon be undher the Daisy-quilt, never fear. There they have me ould chair, now," he added sardonically; "troth it looks well cocked up there. Mind the china now, Jack McEvoy; herself here thinks there isn't the like in the country,--have ye all now, the two mugs an' the three plates, an' the cups an' saucers, an' the little taypot with the cracked spout? Ah, don't be forgettin' the little jug though, the little weeny jug with a rose on it. Sure, what are ye crying for, woman! Isn't it great grandeur for the little jug to be goin' up to Monavoe? Bedad, ould Peter'll be apt to be puttin' it undher a glass case on the chimley-piece!"

Their friends and neighbours gathering round gazed with puzzled looks at the old man as he sat enthroned on his heap of stones, his knotted trembling hands leaning on a blackthorn stick, his face flushed, and his eyes blazing under their shaggy white brows. They could scarcely understand his stoicism; Mrs. Clancy's lamentations were far more comprehensible to them.

"I won't be in it long," she wailed, "throublin' anybody. Sure, what matther if it's in the poorhouse the two of us ends our days, now poor Mike has been sent to gaol on us! Ah! God bless us! I could never hould up me head agin afther that."

"God help ye!" commented a bystander. "Don't be frettin' that a-way, ma'am; sure even if he's in gaol itself, he'll be out agin before ye know where yez are an' maybe they wouldn't keep him in it at all."

"'Deed then they had a right to let him out at wanst," groaned Mrs. Clancy from beneath her apron. "The Lord knows he never done what they're afther sayin' he done."

"Hothen, indeed, I wouldn't make too sure of that," put in Pat. "Why wouldn't he do it? Bedad, he'ud have done well if he done twice as much. No, but he had a right to have burnt the ould villain in his bed an' got shut of him out-an'-out--the on'y mistake the poor fellow made, was lettin' him off so aisy."

"Whisht, whisht! in the name of goodness! God bless us! what is it ye're sayin' at all? Sure, poor Mike's as innocent as a lamb."

"Heth, he's the fine lamb!" retorted the father sarcastically. "Well, I believe they have everything now, down to the little creepy. Good luck to ye, Jack McEvoy; mind how ye go takin' it up the road--don't be dhroppin' any of it out o' the cart. Give me compliments to Mr. Rorke, and tell him I hope he'll enjoy my iligant furnitur, an' much good may it do him!"

Jack McEvoy, one of Peter's men, climbed into the cart sheepishly enough and drove off. Once more the neighbours pressed round the homeless old pair, quarrelling for the honour of harbouring them.

"It's coming along wid me they are," cried one, "aren't yez now? sure of course they are. Isn't mine the biggest house anywhere in Donoughmor?"

"Ah, but it's that far off," argued another. "Look at the length of time it 'ud take them to be gettin' there, an' the two of them so wake on their legs, God help them! No, but it'll be betther for them step down to my little place that's handy. An' it ud' take them no time at all to get there."

"Good gracious, woman, where would ye put them in that little shebeen--sure there isn't room in it for your own childer. God bless them! the fine childer they are too--but where in the world would you find a corner for Misther and Mrs. Clancy?"

"Troth, I'll find a corner aisy enough; and it wouldn't do a ha'porth of harm to the two little fellows if they were to sleep for a few nights undher the turf stack outside. It's grand warm weather we are havin', Glory be to Goodness, an' they'd sleep as sound as a bell by the side of it."

"Oh, not at all, ma'am," put in Mrs. Clancy, "we wouldn't dhrame to be puttin' ye about that much; the poor little fellows might be gettin' their deaths o' cold on ye. Indeed it doesn't matther where we go; we are a throuble to every wan. I wisht the Lord 'ud take us out of it altogether," she added dismally; "I'd sooner be in the old gully-hole at wanst nor be goin' to the poorhouse, and, dear knows, that's where we'll have to go."

"Not wan bit, then," cried Pat resolutely, "not wan fut will ye iver put in the poorhouse, woman, nor me neither. We'll be back in the ould place here yit, see if we aren't. Nobody 'ud go in it on'y ourselves, an' it'll be there waitin' for us till the poor boy comes out an' puts us back in it."

The neighbours glanced from one to the other, and by common accord decided to humour the old man.

"To be sure ye will, Misther Clancy. The two of yez will be back there before we can turn round, an' Mike will be apt to be gettin' your bits o' things back for yez too. Sure the old rogue up there will have no call to keep them wanst the boy has paid up the bit yez owe him."

"Troth, it'll be no time at all before you're back, Pat, an' ye had a right to lave talkin' that way about the poorhouse, ma'am. There isn't a wan of us that 'ud ever let yez go there, bad luck to it! No, indeed, ma'am."

"Aye, we'll be back yet in the ould little place," repeated Pat with conviction, "we will so; come on out o' that, Mary, an' make up your mind where it is we're goin' this night. Sure the craturs here is fightin' for the honour of havin' us. Stop turnin' your head round now; the place won't run away on ye till we're back in it."

All the neighbours were indeed vying with each other in their anxiety to entertain and comfort the helpless old pair, and prove at once their sympathy with them in their trouble and their indignation with Peter Rorke.

"He done it just out of spite, mind ye," they said one to the other. "Wasn't he afther promisin' Mike to let him work out the thrifle o' rent they were owin?"

"Aye! he is the outrageousest ould villain that ever stepped," was the general verdict. Nevertheless, as in all communities there is generally one ill-conditioned person, even in the little village of Donoughmor there was to be found a time-server who, wishing for reasons of his own to ingratiate himself with Peter Rorke, was base enough to report to him old Pat Clancy's hasty words.

"He's saying he wished Mike had burnt ye in your bed, an' more by token," added Peter's informant, "he's tellin' every wan that it'll be no time at all before he's back in his own place again the same as ever he was, an' that you may do what ye like on him, he doesn't care."

"He says that, does he?" cried Peter, crimson with fury; "I'll soon show him he's makin' a bit of a mistake. 'Pon me word, did ever anybody hear the like o' that?"

"Well, that's what he says," repeated the other. "'I wisht,' he says, 'that Mike had burnt the ould villain in his bed,' says he. That's the very word he said, 'the ould villain' he says; 'an' got shut of him,' says he, 'but it'll be no time at all before herself an' me is back in the ould place,' he says. He did so--it's the truth I'm tellin' ye, that's the very way he said it."

"I'll show him different then," repeated Peter. "I wisht I'd thought of it first off--the way he'd have seen it."

"An' what's that, sir?"

"You'll soon see. 'Pon me word, I wisht I had him there now in his bed, the ould raskil, the way I could do on him what he's wishin' his spalpeen of a son had done on me. Are ye there, Pat?" he cried, raising his voice.

"I am, sir," returned some one from the region of the stables.

"Is Barney there?"

"He is."

"Bring him along wid ye then; an' call Jack McEvoy and a couple more of the boys. Bring a pick wid ye, an' a couple of them hatchets--an' Pat!"

"Sir?" replied Pat, suddenly appearing from behind the stable-wall.

"Run round to the kitchen an' fetch the big bottle of paraffin off o' the long shelf there."

"I will, sir. Where will we be goin' to, sir?"

"I have a little job for yous to do down at Donoughmor," said Peter. "Hurry up now the whole of yous; I don't want to be losin' more time over it nor I can help."

The officious visitor, finding that matters were likely to become more unpleasant than he had anticipated, disappeared while preparations were going forward, and it was only at the head of his own startled and unwilling band of followers that Peter at length sallied forth. Not a word said Peter Rorke until he reached the Clancys' deserted cabin, and with his own hands set fire to the thatch; then falling back a step or two he rubbed his hands and chuckled.

"There, now," he cried, "let us see if I can't make near as good a bonfire as Mike Clancy himself! Throw a sup more paraffin on, you, Pat; now stand back all of yous, an' look at the fine blaze. As soon as we have the roof off of it, you can all set to work an' pull the whole place down. Then we'll see if the Clancys will come to their own again, as the ould blackguard Pat keeps tellin' every one. I don't think it'll be worth his while to step back in it when I've done with it."

The poor little rotten roof, mossgrown as it was, did not burn as rapidly as Peter could have wished, but by dint of much coaxing and a plentiful sprinkling of paraffin, the fire at last gained ground, and a dense smoke began to issue from the smouldering thatch. Peter coughed and choked, and at last calling out to his men that he would be with them again as soon as that part of the job was over, climbed up the rocky hillside, pausing only when he had reached the summit, and turning round with a long gasping breath. The air was clearer there, and it pleased him to look down from this eminence on his destructive work. The smoke of the burning roof hung over the little dwelling as though to hide its degradation; jets of flame leaped through it now and then; from time to time one of his men approached with the bottle of paraffin, but the rest stood together looking on, somewhat sullenly. Farther down the lane a few women and old folks had gathered together; from his altitude Peter watched them, marking their eager gestures and imagining the horror and disgust in their faces. "Let them say what they like," he muttered to himself grimly, "I'll not leave a bit o' the place standin'. Aye! they may curse an' swear as much as they like, it doesn't hurt me."

Suddenly he bethought him how Mike had threatened him before setting fire to his rick; his hard-heartedness would bring a curse upon him, the boy had said. Peter asked himself now, with a dry chuckle, upon whom the curse had fallen most heavily. It was certainly a piece of bad luck to lose his splendid rick, but he had paid the villains well out for it. There was Mike in gaol, the old people living on the charity of their neighbours, with no prospect before them but to end their days in the workhouse; their goods scattered, their cabin razed to the ground--who was the most accursed?

Ha! one of those women down there had fallen on her knees and was raising her hands to heaven; another crone was shaking her fist in his direction. Let them pray and let them threaten--Peter was not afraid of anything or anybody, neither God nor man--not of the devil himself!

A sudden sound of stones falling just behind him made him turn round quickly. He could see nothing, but a curious scraping and rustling were still to be heard. He was standing almost beneath a low stone wall which traversed the summit. The sound appeared to him to come from a spot immediately above his head; he looked up and could see through a fissure in the wall what seemed to be a moving form. His gaze remaining fixed and fascinated on this object, distinguished at last a dark face with two gleaming eyes surmounted by _horns_. All Peter Rorke's vaunted courage deserted him; conscience-stricken and smitten by sudden agonising fears, he uttered a shrill quavering scream and began to totter down the hill with all the speed he could muster.

The steep path had been rendered more slippery than usual by recent rain, and afforded very insecure footing. Peter, rushing blindly forward, soon lost all control over his limbs, and fell at last, rolling over and over until he dropped on the rocks below.

His men, hastening to his assistance, hardly dared to raise him from the ground, and when they had at last mustered courage to do so, they were under the firm belief that it was the corpse of their master which they were carrying home. But Peter Rorke was not dead yet, and to the surprise of all who had known him, soon demonstrated that he was going to cheat a certain Old Gentleman--who had been considered his intimate friend during his long life--of his company at the close of it. His end in fact was most edifying. He made his peace with both God and man before he departed. To the last he remained persuaded that the horned face, which had peered at him through the ruins of Donoughmor, was that of the devil himself.

The explanation that the McEvoys' goat, which had been tethered on the hill, had broken loose and clambered up the ruined wall did not seem to him to have any bearing on the case. It was his belief that the "Ould Boy" had somewhat prematurely appeared to claim him; and his most anxious endeavour was to cheat him of his due. So Peter accomplished deeds which, under other circumstances, would have been impossible to him. He made his will to begin with, leaving a good deal of money in charity, and the bulk of his fortune to Roseen; he left directions that the Clancys were to be reinstated in their cabin and emphatically announced that he forgave Mike. When this last item, by the way, was reported to Pat, the old man's indignation knew no bounds.

Peter's last hours were not, however, disturbed by any hint as to the Clancys' attitude, and it was with the most peaceful and resigned disposition that he, at last, betook himself to another world, with the full assurance that it would prove a better one.

When Roseen had in some measure recovered from the shock of her grandfather's death, her thoughts turned at once to the Clancys. One of the family indeed had never been absent from them, and it was with surprise and indignation that she learnt that old Peter's forgiveness would in no manner affect Mike's actual position. The crime of which he was accused was so serious in character that he would have to await his trial at the approaching Sessions.

For his parents, however, something could be done, and Roseen, now finding herself mistress of Monavoe and all who dwelt there, proceeded to give orders right and left with an assurance which surprised those who had formerly known her. Injunctions were issued that the Clancys' cottage should be re-roofed and made habitable without delay, and, meanwhile, she announced her intention of taking the old couple to live with her at Monavoe. Many were the jokes and comments made upon this act of hers; a few people of what had now become her own standing in the neighbourhood offered her sage pieces of advice; some of her former cronies laughed and inquired if she were going to set up a home for incurables, as what between ould Judy that had no sense to speak of, an' Pat Clancy with ne'er a sound limb in his body, and his wife, God help her! hardly able to crawl with rheumatics, she would have her hands full up there. Roseen thanked her advisers kindly and laughed with the jokers, and went her own way.

One fine morning, her smart outside car drove up to the hospitable cabin which had sheltered the Clancys, and Pat and his wife were with some difficulty hoisted on to it. Some twenty or thirty neighbours kindly escorted them, "to hould them on for fear they might fall, the craturs!" With a deal of shouting and huzzahing, the little procession halted at length at Monavoe, where Roseen's health was drunk in due form, and then Mike's, and then Pat's, and then Mrs. Clancy's, and then Roseen's again; and at last the escort went reluctantly homewards, and Roseen conveyed her charges to the apartment she destined for them. It was a comfortable room on the ground floor, larger than the whole of the Clancys' former dwelling, which, nevertheless, it resembled oddly in many particulars. For, lo and behold! there in the corner stood their own venerable four-poster, and drawn up by the hearth was Pat's particular elbow-chair; all their possessions were there in fact, Roseen having carefully collected them previous to installing their owners--not even the little creepy-stool was absent.

Pat Clancy, who had maintained a certain dignified reserve all day, not quite liking the notion of being regarded as Roseen's pensioner, and not being certain whether this new move did not involve a sacrifice of independence, was now fairly overcome. "God bless you, me child!" he said brokenly, "ye were always the good little girl, Roseen. Herself and me will be quite at home here."