SHORT STORIES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3487, 11 January 1921, Page 58

SHORT STORIES.

[All Rights Reserved.]

NANCY MALONE’S MATTER-O’-MONEY.

By

J. J. Moran.

Professor Dustome, of Oxford, -was gratified with the success of the first volume of his great work “Marriage Customs of All Nations." This voluihe had dealt with the mating of man and maid from the darkest ages down to modern times, and from the equator as far on each side as members of tjie human ftSnily were to be found. He had left Ireland to be dealt with in his second volume. In order to gather material at first hand, he paid a visit to the Emerald Isle, and worked his way by slow stages from Dublin westwards. He had heard a good deal about mercenary marriages among the Irish peasantry, particularly in the south and west; and now, on an autumn evening, he found himself dismounting from a sidecar in a small town in Alayo and putting up at the hostelry of Mrs Margaret Coleman. As she brought his tea into the little sitting room, Airs Coleman found herself wondering what could have brought this spectacled, grey-bearded gentleman to this part of the country. His first query enlightened her, however. “Could vou direct me to some old inhabitant who would be willing to give me some information about this locality, to be used in a book which I am writing?” he asked. “Ould Darby Lacey is your man, sir,” she answered. “It’s to him all the tourists go whin they want to hear any o thim ould fairy tales.” “I am not looking for fairy tales, madam,” he corrected, “but for facts about the local customs ” “Oh, Darby is fairly good at facts, too,” she told him, though with less conviction. “He doesn’t get as much practice with the truth as he might, I admit. But if you tell him at the start that it’s truth you’re wanting, vou’ll maybe get it out of him.” “I shall call on him at once,” said the professor, “if you’ll show me where he lives.” “It’s just a few doors down from here, sir. I’ll tend my little girl with you.” She went down to fetch her little daughter; but before sending the girl upstairs to the professor she despatched a hurried message to Darby Lacey to the effect that an English gentleman was going to call on him, and would probably pay him well for any local information imparted. Darby had barely time to put on nis Sunday collar when the professor made his appearance at the door. *‘l am looking for a little information, Ml’ Lacey,” he said, when Darby had conducted him to the only chair in* the house which boasted of a rest for the sitter's back. “If you can give me what I want, it will find a place in the next volume of a book I am writing. It is in connection with the marriage customs of this neigh bourhood, particularly in the days gone by. Did the people in your youth marry for love, as it is called, or were there other motives not so romantic ? Did the girl who possessed some money fare better than the girl who had nothing but love to offer?” “Well, sir, I was married for love meself,” said Darby. '“The girl I married an’ meself put all our savings together, an’ it came to seven shillin’s an’ thruppeiice altogether. We got a ring for a shillin’ from a pedlar, we gave five shillin's to the priest who married us, an’ the one-an’-thruppence still on hands was our only support till I sold a load o’ turf off the bog a while afther. But it’s about money marriages you want to hear, I suppose? Well, then, about twinty years ago there was a lot o’ talk about a family o’ the Alalones, who lived convenient to mo. They had an uncle in the North who was just full o’ money. He used to go round the fairs an’ buy up all the young bullocks an’ heifers he could lay his hands on, an’ then take thim over to Scotland an sell them at a big profit, from Glasgow up to Inverness. Afther he got too old for thrr.veilin’, he retired, an’ lived in Dublin. An’ he used to write to his nieces, Nancy an’ Mary; ; ' at last one o them, Alary, w’int away to keep house for him, till she met a ‘fellow that fell in love with her an’ married her. Her uncle died shortly afther she left him, an the news of his death soon made its wav down here. It so mtherested every body for a while that there was scarcely any work done by anybody— people were so busy tellin’ aich other that Mary was out o’ the runnin’ for the ould ‘man’s money, an’ that of coorse it would all come to Nanev. The neighbours tried to pump Nancy herself about it, but Nancy would say nothin’ at all—only shake her head an say it would make no difference to her whether she got the ould man’s money or not. She had a sweetheart workin' for her in New York, she towid thim; an’ whin that same boy, Jack By,un, had money saved, he’d come back for her, or send the money for her to come out an’ marry him; indeed, Jack was so true a lover, she said, that 't wouldn’t matter to him whether sho had all her uncle’s money or whether she hadn’t a penny. Of coorse, whin Nancy’s back was turned the neighbours used to laugh at her, an’ call her a poor innocent, to be so sure of Jack as all this, for Jack hadn’t written to her for over a year, and by ail accounts he’d been doin' so poorly in New York that he found it hard scrapin’ to pay his lodgin’s. “Thin one day the news came to the parish that Nancy’s uncle was dead, and a telegram came to her askin’ her to go tip to the funeral. She wint off, an’ there was as big a crowd of neighbours seein’

her off at the station as if she was emigratin’ to Californy. An' while she was away, Pat Nerney—the only tailor we had hereabouts —was kept workin’ night an’ day, makin’ new suits of clothes for young fellows about the place, who were anxious to look their tiptop best when Nancy came home, an’ to start coortin’ her in their new clothes. Pat had one failin’—he used to take a drop too much, sometimes ; an’ it often happened when he d been in the middle of a suit that the customer wanted in a hurry for a funeral or a weddin’. But he was kept sober jy force that week; all the fellows that wor in such a big hurry for their clothes went round the public-houses an’ shebeens an' warned the proprietors not to supply Pat with a single dhrop umtil all the suits were delivered. Then they arranged to sit with Pat in turn, an’ keep him at the work by threatenin’ to break every bone in his skin if he didn’t keep workin’ at thim. The poor fellow scarcely got to bed all that week; whin one customer would be goin’ away, another would come in to sit beside Pat, just like army sentries v/atchin’ a prisoner. So with threats an’ bullyin’ he was kept stitch, stitchin’ for bare life, till he was nearly turned into a skeleton. He got all the suits finished with a rush; an’ the Sunday afther Nancy came home an’ wint to the chapel, she was surprised to see so many fellows wearin’ new suits. She could see with half an eye that they’d been made in a terrible hurry—Micky Hart’s new suit had burst already at the right shoulder; an’ Joe Brehan’s -trousers gave way whin he knelt down, with a screech of the cloth that was heard all round the chapel. Nancy was no fool, an’ she understood finely why thejr were all tryin’ to look such mashers. An’ whin Mass was over; an’ Nancy, afther sayin’ a few exthra prayers, came out o’ the chapel to .go home, all the chaps were there, waitin’ for her. Micky Hart kept his good shoulder turned to her; an’ Joe Brehan was standin’ like a sentry, with his legs glued together so that she wouldn’t notice the tear. But it was Jack Langton that she smiled at most. Jack had rubbed up an ould hat with some so art o’ glossy stuff he’d read about in a paper, that makes ‘old hats like new.’ The hat was shinin’ so’s you could see your face in it, but it was the smell o’ the gloss that drew everyone’s attintion. It was the awfullest smell that iver twisted a human nose—it had caused a lot o’ sneezin’ an’ coughin’ in the chapel. Whin Jack saw Nancy smilin’ at his hat, he thought it was at himself, an’ took it for a good. sign. He shook hands with her, an’ said he was glad to see her home from Dublin, an’ sorry to hear her uncle had died, and glad to hear that she had a pleasant journey, an’ sorry to hear that she was lookin’ tired whin she arrived, an’ glad to see her lookin’ well, an’—och! all the rest of it. He walked a good bit o’ the road home with her; an’ all the other fellows, mad with rage, watched the pair o’ them. Then they saw Nancy stop an’ bid good-bye to Jack, a 6 if she didn’t want him to come with her any further, an” they saw Jack shake hands with her with one hand, an’ take off his hat, very polite, with the other; an’ the glossy hat stuck to his fingers, an’ he had to walk bareheaded for a while, tuggin’ at the hat till he tore a bit o’ the leaf off it. All the rest o’ that Sunday the fellows with the new clothes were haverin’ round Nancy’s house, lookin’ rale surprised whin they’d meet aich other. Thin one o’ thim plucked up courage, an’ wint into the house, makin’ an excuse that he was thirsty an' wanted a drink o’ water. Nancy gave him .a big mugful, an’ while he was drinkin’ it as if he’d been nearly dead with the thirst, another fellow came in without any excuse except to get a light for his pipe. Then a third came in with some other excuse, an’ a fourth followed him without any excuse at all. Nancy was vexed to see so many visitors in the house without invitations, an’, what made it worse, she couldn’t get a single word o’ talk out of any of them. They sat as if they’d all been struck dumb, glowerin’ at aich other, an’ she went upstairs with some excuse—just to get away from them. When she looked out o’ the little window of her bedroom she saw one fellow, Tim Langton, walkin’ up an’ down the road, lookin’ very lonesome; an’ she soon understood why Tim hadn’t spoken to her in the chapel yqjM ; nor come into the house, like the rest o’ the boys. He hadn’t a new suit, poor fellow; an’ she knew the reason he hadn’t. Tim had only a small farm of poor land, an’ he had an ould mother who’d been bedridden for years. So he had to do all the work o’ the house himself as well as the work o’ the farm, an’ to nurse the ould woman as well, in any spare time he had. An’ it took the last penny he could earn to pay the docther who attinded her, an’ the rint o’ the farm besides. Tim had a good share o’ schoolin’, an' if he hadn't been tied at home the way he was, he might have done well for himself in some other countbry. Nancy knew all this, an’ she was sorry for him. Thin she suddintly renumbered all the callers she had downstairs in the kitchen. 11l have to go down to mv visitors,’ she says to herself. ‘Of coorse, it’s my money they’re all afther—not myself, at alb Well, I’ll put their love to a test this minit.’ ‘Well, hoys,’ eays she, whin she came down among thim, an’ found them lookin’ daggers at one another, ‘it’s thankful I am that ye’re all so glad to see me liorne again. It’s kind, of ve to Yvelcome me in such numbers—it’s like a public celebration.’ “ ‘Oh, well,’ eays Alicky Hart, ‘it’s grieved at your loss I am, for it was a sad journey you had to Dublin, puttin’ your uncle" away undher the sod. Rich as he was, he had to die like anybody else ; an’ though you’re no loser by it; still —well, he’s dead, an’ it’s only polite to say it’s a sad business.’ “It is indeed,’ says she with a sigh, an’ they all sighed to keep her company. Thin she wint on : ‘I was every bit as fond of him as my sister Alary was, an’ it wasn’t for his money I was fond of

him, but for himself. So I’m not a bit disappointed at not havin’ the money, seein’ that it’s my own sisther Alary that has it. She's a married woman, an’ I’m not. I’m sure, anyway, that she’ll take better care of it than a lone girl like me could have done.’ “There was dead silence for a minit or two. It was like as if a cannon ball had burst through the window, fillin’ the place with smoke, an’ that they wor all waitin’ for the smoke to clear away before they could see which of thim wor dead, an’ which were only mortally wounded. “ ‘Well,’ says Alicky Hart at last, ‘ I think your uncle might have divided the money at laist. But if your sisther has it all, an’ if you haven’t a penny of it—well, all I can say is, that you seem to be takin’ yer misfortune very aisy.’ “ ‘l’m much aisier in mind than if I had the money here in the house, an’ goin’ to bed in fear every night that somebody might rob nxe of it, an’ maybe murder me as well,’ says she. ‘lt’s different with my sisther —she’s married, an’ she has a- husband to protect her.’ “ ‘Oh, blow your sisther!’ says Alicky. ‘l’m sqn-y I must hurry Lome.’ An’ he got to th'e doore in such a hurry that he burst a lot more o’ stitches in his new coat. “ ‘There’s plenty o’ money in Dublin already,’ says another, ‘an’ we could have done with some of it circulatin’ down here. I think I’ll keep Alickey company a bit o’ the road. I’ve just remimbered somethin’ that I wanted to spake to him about. ’ “ 1 1 promised to go over to Dimpsey s to-night about a cock o’ hay he has for sale,' says another. ‘ Good-night.’ “The rest made excuses for goin’ away, too. They were as aisy to see through as the excuses they’d made for cornin’ in, and in ten miriits Nancy found herself alone, standin’ on the floor, with her purty upper lip in the loveliest curl. It’s a pity that it’s me sisther Alary that has all the money,’ says she to herself, ‘ else I’d have pick an’ choice of a husband to-night.’ “She wint over to close the door—the last fellow who wint out had forgot to shut it after him in his hurry—an’ she saw Tim Langton at the doorstep. “‘Can I come in, Nancy?’ says he. I met some of thim boys goin’ away in a bad timper. One of them told me it was all a lie about your gettin’ your uncle’s money; he says it’s your sister Alary who has it.’ “ ‘ Yes, my sister Mary has it,’ says she. ‘An’ Pm afraid I scared away all my friends when I told them so.’ “‘No, not all your friends, Nancy! Sure, the only thing that kept me from cornin’ in to see you was because I thought you a rich young lady now, an’ if that was the case it would put a long distance between you an’ a poor fellow like meself. But now we’re about equals in poverty, and if you’ll only let me take care of you I’ll work my fingers to the bone to make you happy an’ comfortable.’ “‘What! even though you know I haven’t a penny of my uncle’s or my own ?’ says she. “ ‘ That’s how I like you best,’ says he. ‘ Poor as a pair of church mice we are, but we can knock the two little farms into one; an’ I’ll make you so happy, every bit, as if you were rollin’ in the old man’s money. Come, take me on trust, just as I am, an’ name the happy day!” “He had his two arms round her, an she was lookin’ at the fiure, for she didn’t want him to see the big tears that were rollin’ down her face. But he coaxed her to look up at last. “ ‘l’m a sight with the cryin’, I’m afeard,’ says she. ‘But take me as I am, Tim, and I’ll try to be the best little wife in Ireland!’ ” 11. Darby paused to refill and light his pipe, and the Professor got a chance to speak. “This may be what is called romantic—the marriage of two poor young people for love,” he said. “But after years, in such cases, are more prosaic than the courtship was, and often—” “Whisht, sir!” said Darby. “It’s me that’s tellin’ this story, plaze—not you. Well, then! Whin it got known through the county that Nancy Alalone an’ Tim Langton wor goin’ to be married in a week, everyone was laughin’. Poor Nancy! they said ; done out of her uncle’s money, an’ desarted by all her sweethearts ; was goin’ to marry a man who would have to sell a couple of his pigs to buy the ring an’ pay the marriage money. An’ the boys that had bought the new suits hoped, at laist, that they’d be invited to the weddin’, as in that case their new clothes would come in handy. But there were no invites sint out. One evenin’, with just a bridesmaid an’ a groomsman, the young couple walked over to the chapel and were married. Then they got on the car an’ drove to Carrydolan railway station, two miles away, to go off to Dublin for their honeymoon. Now, a honeymoon was a new thing to hear about in this part of the counthrv, an’ so' there was great laughter intirelv about this. Fancy poor Tim Langton an’ the poor girl that lost her uncle’s money goin’ away to Dublin on a honeymoon, like me Lord an’ me Lady. “ ‘Of course they’ll stay with her sisther,’ the people said ; ‘they’ll do the thing on the chape.” “Tim himself didn’t care for this honeymoon trip at all; but Nanev wished it; an’ if Nancy had wished for the moon out o’ the sky Tim would have tried to get it down for her. An’ whin thev got to Dublin Nancy proposed they should go to a hotel first, an’ then drive on a jaunting car to her sisther’s. She got her own way, of course; an’ afther a grand diner they were soon drivin’ from Sackville sthreet to where her sisther lived. “The sisther was mighty glad to see them; and afther kissin’ Nancy an’ welcomin’ Tim, she brought them into her snug parlour, an’ put the best of aitin’ an' drinkin’ before them.

“ ‘An’ now,” says she to Nancy, ‘you'll be wantin’ that money, I suppose. Weil, I’ve minded it safely for you; it hasn’t been touched, an’ it’s been drawin’ a fine interest in the bank all the time. We ll go an’ draw it out to-morrow mornin’. Will you take charge of it,’ says she to Tim, ‘till ye both get home?’ “ ‘What money are you speakin’ about, ma’am,’ says Tim. ‘lf it’s your money, that I belie\ 7 e your uncle left you, it isn't —isn’t any concern nor affair o’ mine.’ “ ‘Aly uncle didn’t leave it to me. but to my sister Nancy, your wife there,’ says his sister-in-law. ‘You don’t mean to say, says she to Nancy, who hadn’t spoken a word at all, ‘that you’ve *ot told your husband about your legacy?’ “ ‘I told him you had it, an’ maybe he thought it was yours, an’ not mine,’ says Nancy. ‘You see, Tim,’ says she to her starin’ bridegroom, ‘my uncle’s money was left to me in his will, but my sister agreed to take charge of it, an’ to mind it for me until I had someone who could mind it better. So you’ll take charge of it, won’t you, and we’ll put it in the bank whin we go home.’ “ ‘Then you deceived me,’ says Tim. “ ‘No, but I didn’t tell the whole truth. I tested the love of all my fond, welldressed admirers at home by sayin’ that my sister had the money—an’ she has it yet, so I wasn’t tellin’ a lie. And the only one that stood the test was yourself, Tim.’ “ ‘The money?’ eays Tim laughin’. ‘Bad cess to it—it makes all the trouble in the world. ’Twas your own sweet self that I was afther, darlin’—poor or rich. But if you like I’ll mind the money till we stick it in the bank. It’ll be handy if it’s wanted, but I have a bit of capital in my right arm, that I want to find the value of first.’ “Well, whin they came home afther a rale jolly honeymoon, an’ it got abroad that the fortune the ould man left was Nancy’s all the time, there was the sorriest-lookin’ lot of boys in the parish that ever was seen at the same time on the same square mile I” “It is an interesting tale,” said the professor, who had listened to the recital with unmoved countenance, “and I shall make some uae of it in .the next volume of my ‘Marriage _ Customs.’ By the way, did that marriage turn out a happy one?” “Real happy, sir. An’ if you take my advice, you’ll put into that book you’re writin’ that there’s many a happy marriage made in Ireland where the happy couple start the world together with no other riches than two light hearts an’ a big faith in God Almighty. An’ if all the marriages all over the world W'ere as happy as those of the poor couple who start in harness in this counthry with the rain cornin’ through the roof, the rent in arrears, an’ not enough money to pay for the babby’s christenin’ when it comes —if your grand society marriages were only as happy, sir, the judges an’ lawyers o’ the divoorce coort would have to break stones in a quarry to earn their livin’; oh, thank you, sir ! I wasn’t expecting all that from you, but it’ll keep me in baccy for a while. Good-bye, sir, send me one o’ yer volumes whin it’s ofit. I’d like fine tq see what me tale reads like, an’ whether you’ll make Irish marriages a matter-’o-money or just matrimony.”