Part 6 (1/2)
A bent, fattish figure in a shawl came toward him through the haggard, his wife's mother. There was the sweetish, acrid odor of whisky.
”Shane _avick_, are you there all alone, mourning for the pleasant, beautiful one who's gone?”
”I was just sitting down.”
”You wouldn't like a wee drop of consolation?”
”Whisky? No, thanks.”
”Just the least taste?”
”No, thanks.”
”And I after bringing it out to you in a naggin bottle. Just the wetting of your lips, _agra_, would cheer you up, and you down to the ground.”
”No!”
The old woman sat on the stone ditch beside him and began swaying backward and forward, and the keening note came into her voice:
”Is it gone? Is it gone you are, Moyra _a sth.o.r.e_? Sure, 't was the kindly daughter you were to me, and me old and not worth my salt, a broken _cailleach_ hobbling on a stick. Never did you refuse me the cup o' tea so strong a mouse could walk on it. And the butcher's meat o'
Christmas, sure your old ma must have a taste, too. And many's the brown egg you let me have, and they bringing a high price on the Wednesday market. And the ha'porth o' snuff--sure you never came home without it, and you at Dundalk fair. Kindly you were as the rains of April, and my heart is ashes now you're gone....”
Shane paced off through the haggard. There was the _glug-glug_ of a bottle, and again the sweetish, acrid odor of whisky. He turned back.
”Only to one were you kinder nor to myself and that was to the lad here, whose heart is broken for you. Dumb with grief he is, now you're gone.
And all you did for him! You might have married a strong farmer would have a dozen cows, horses would pull a cart or plow, hens by the dozen, and flitches of bacon hanging in the kitchen. Or you might have married a man had a shop and sat at your ease in the back room, like a lady born. Or you might have married a gager and gone to Dublin and mixed with the grand quality. And your mother would have a black silk dress, and shoes with b.u.t.tons on them. But you married this young fellow goes to sea, so much was the great love on you for him. Love came to you like a thunder-storm, and left you trembling like a leaf, and now you're dead--ochanee! ochanee! ochanee o!”
Her voice changed from the shrill keen to a shrewd whine:
”You'll be leaving me something to remember her by, Shane Oge, and her a fathom deep beneath me in the cold ground. And a trinket or two, or a dress, maybe, or a bangle would keep my heart warm?”
”You can have them all.”
”All is it? Ah, sure, it's the grand big heart is in you, lad o' the North. And are they all to be mine, the silver brooch you bought her from the Dutch city, and the ring with the pearl in it, and the dresses of silk from France, and the shoes that have buckles? Are they for me, hinny?”
”Yes, yes. Take them.”
”And the wee furnis.h.i.+ngs of the house, the feather-bed is soft to lie on, and the dresser with the delft, and the creepy stool beside the fire, the n.o.ble chairs? You wouldn't be selling them to the stranger, Shane Oge?”
”No, you can have those, too.”
”And the house, too? Young n.o.ble fellow, where is your wife's mother to lay her gray hairs? Couldn't you fix the house, too?”
”The house is not mine, and I can't afford to buy it.”
”But 't is you you are the rich Protestant family. Your uncles and your mother, hinny. Rotten with gold they are, and me just a poor old _cailleach_ that gave you the white lamb o' the flock.”
”We'll look after you. My uncle Alan Campbell will be here in a day or so and fix everything. But I'm afraid the house is out of the question.”
”Oh, sure it would be a n.o.ble thing to have the house, and they around me dying with envy of my state and grandeur. At fair or at wake great respect they would pay me, and the priests of G.o.d would be always calling. The house, fine lad, give me the house!”