CHAPTER XVIII.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXI, Issue 14, 20 January 1893, Page 23

CHAPTER XVIII.

The cream-cake was a great success, and Mrs Dwyer was breathlessly happy. Strong emotions of whatever sort generally interfered with Mrs Dwyer's aspirations. Mr Armstrong, mindful of the hint he had got from Mrs Oormack, thought the opportunity a good one, while the happy woman was filling out his Becond cup of tea, to introduce the subject of the school at Ballinsoggarth. He dwelt upon the great advantage of a good education, and wondered at the carelessness of some parents in the matter. " What you say is true." said Martin Dwyer, looking at Nannie and Nellie, who seemed very grave, as if Mr Armstrong had been reading them a lecture. " So it is," their mother remarked complacently, never dreaming that her own remisscess was glanced at, cr even suspected. " I hope Nannie and Nellie attend school regularly," said Mr Armstrong. "Oh, quite regularly," Mrs Dwyer answered impressively-— " except," she added, seeing the children raise their eyes and look at her in astonishment — " except when I can't tpare them." " Spare them, Mrs Dwyer," returned Mr Armstrong. " Sorely nothing they could do for yon is of so much importance as their edu. cation. " I have no one to do anything for me," rejoined Mrs Dwyer pitifully. "No one but that Cauth Manogue ; and I believe she wouldn't stay with me if anybody else would take her. All the good girls I ever h»d left me as soon as ever they could get another placeAnd see how they stay with Mrs Cormack, though she never lets 'em be idle for a minute, and must know where they spend their time whenever they go out. Yet, except when they get married, they never leave." " And what can the children do for you ? "' Mr Armstrong aeked. '•Many little things," replied Mrs Dwyer. " And, besides, I do be so lonesome and nervous, my mind becomes quite confused, and everything goes wrong. '' "Well, Mrs Dwyer," said Mr Armstrong gravely, "if anyone filse told me that you could not afford to send your children to school I could not believe it." "Afford lo send my childien to school 1 " exclaimed Mrs Dwyer, surprised and offended. " Don't I pay for their schooling, whether they go or not ? " "Yes, but you say you can't spare them for want of a eervant. Acd it is a great loss to them. Indeed, keeping children of their age from school is an irreparable loss. It never can be made up to them. They'll feel it all the days of their lives." " I'm sure," returned Mrs Dwyer, quite frightened, " they can go to school every day of the week if they like. But the dis'acce is 60 long." " Ob, we only find it so pleasant," said Nellie ; " we don't be a bit tired." "What Mr Armstrong says is true," said Martin Dwyer. "I never looked into it bef* re." " Well they can begin on Monday," returned bis wife, " and I am sure I'll never ask them to stay at home again," she added, fixing her eyes on Nannie and Nellie, as if she thought them very inconBiderate and ungrateful children for looking so glad and happy at beiDg allowed to go to school regularly. " Well, schouls must be d ffereot from what they used to be in my time." Martin D*yer remarked, with an amused look at the two happy lit' le girls. '"Tia glad they are instead of heart-broken. I remember how sorry we all were when the schoolmaster recovered from the ague long ago. Murty Magra'h said that the recording angel kept ao account of every time he ever made the schoolboys shake, and that for every shake a shake would be taken out cf him before he got over the ague. To that some of us thought the account was bo bi g he'd never bo able to clear the score, but weren't we sorry when school was opened again ? " " Nannie and Nellie don't feel that way about school, " said Mr Armstrong, with a smile. " The nuns don't frighten people, lam Bure." "Oh, no, sir," the children answered in a breath ; Nellie adding, •• We are never so happy as while we are at school." " Murty Magrath came in yes erday morning while you were at the forge to light bis pipe," Mrs Dwyer remarked ; " I hate the sight of him. He always reminds mo of a process or a notice to quit or 6omething. See what a nice little man Simmy Sloane is. I declare when he handed me that process for the things I bought at the new shop and forgot to pay for, being so confused about everything, you'd think \was a present he was making me, he spoke bo nice and civil.

couldn't help asking him into the parlour and giving him a glus. Bat that other long gomeral, with his neck like a gander, I declare he always frightens me." " I wonder what brought Murty over in this direction," aaid her husband, looking grave. " I didn't hear of anything going on about here." " He Eaid he was going over to Glenmoynan," returned Mn Dwyer, " and that he had the devil of a job before him." " It must be only a civil bill decree, I suppose," Martin Dwyer remarked, after a minuted thought. "He seemed disappointed ," eaid Mrs Dwyer, " when I told him you were gone from home. Iwa s afraid of my life he wanted to serve yon with something. But when he was going away he said the man of this house once did him a good turn, and if he ever had the opportunity he wouldn't forget it. " Did be mean that as a threat?" Mr Armstrong asked, looking earnestly at bis old friend. " No," answered Martin Dwyer, smiling. " Con Oooney's father and I saved him from a terrible whacking one night, nearly thirty years ago, and we coming home from the fair of Oarrigmore. He was waylaid by a party from the slate quarry, that were oa the watch for him for a long time. We knew be deserved it ; bnt we were afraid they'd kill him ; and as he was an old uchool-fellow of ours, we took his part, and they said they'd let him pass that time in compliment to us. When he was parting us at the cross-roads after, he Baid 'twas the first time in his life he ever met a man to stand bii friend, and that if it ever cime to bis turn he'd prove to us that a bailiff could be grateful." "He's a very clever man," Mr Armstrong remarked, "and yet he's always in poverty." "He was always a terrible schemer," returned Martin Dwyer, " He was a first-rate workman, but everyone got tired of him, he took such delight in humbugging people. My father had him reaping one time, and when the men were going out one day after their dinner Murty began to tell my fatner a story. The story was so interesting they all stopped to listen to it before they commenced to work, think* ing every minute he was coming to the end of it. My father sat down against tte ditch and told him to finish the story. "Twaen't long Jtill all the reapers— fifteen of 'em, I think — were sitting down listening to the Btoiy. Anyway, my father didn't feel the time passing till Murty stood up and said, ' Good evening, sir ; I believe 'tis time to go home.' So it wae, for the sun was just setting, and the half day was lost. ' Good evening, sir,' said Murty again, looking very innocent. ' Gooi evening,' said my father, ' but I won't want you to-morrow.' He never gave Murty a day's work after." •'When that unfortunate Paddy Fitzsimmons, the bailiff, was shot," said Mr Armstrong, " I went with the crowd to see what had happened. I could not believe the report that he was shot from the window of a Protestant gentleman's house — a landlord himself— whose cattle he was diiving. " Yes," interrupted Martin Dwyer, " 'twas for the head rent, and the property was in Chancery." " Well," conticiu^d Mr Armstrong, " there was the unfortunate bailiff lying stone dead on his back in the avenue. Twas a horrible sight, and the people looked awe-struck when they saw him — even some who shouted for joy when they heard of it first. The bullet passed through his eyebrow, quite close to the eye. But when Marty Magrath was seen approaching, the crowd, which was every moment becoming larger, drew aside and made way for him. They seemed to thiDk that he must have a brotherly feeling for the dead bftiliff, and sympathised with him accordingly as he stood over the corpse with his bands under his coat tails. " Glory be to God 1 " was Murfcy's pioua exclamation as he gazed on the dead man's face. •• Didn't his eye escape wonderful ? " " I never thought he was pious," said Mrs Dwyer. " I have koowa Murty Magrath to do kind acts," continued Mr Armstrong, putting his handkerchief to his mouth. " He's not so hardened as he pretends to be." " He is not," returned Martin Dwyer, throwing back his head aad laughing more at his wife's literal construction of the word •' pious," as applied to Murty Ma^rath, than at the cynical humour which prompted the ejaculation concerning the eye of his unlucky confrere. " The fact is," added Mr Armstrong, " the fellow has a sort of humour, and he can't resist the opportunity to exercise it," " Did you find tha greyhound, Tom !"Mi Armstrong asked, as Tom Dwyer took his place at the table, looking flushed and out of breath, as if he had had a fast run to be in time for breakfast, " Not a sign of him." wag the reply. " Alice told me he went through the grove ; so I suppose he followed Pjnsonby, who crossed over Poul-na-copel. Rover doesn't like water, and the river is too wide for a spring ; and that explains the way he ran round by the bridge." " He would never do so for me," said Martin Dwyer, rising briskly from his chair. " I suppose you'll stay to dinner, Amby t "

"Oh, no;" Mr Armstrong replied. "I'll pnsh slowly, backwards, and get home at my leisure. I'll only ask Tom to come as far ag the bridge first to pat my line through the rings." An hoar later as Mr Armstrong, rod in hand, and basket on back, was bidding Nannie and Nellie good-bye over the gate of their little flower garden, Nellie exclaimed in surprise : — " Oh, there is Alice in our meadow." So it was ; and waring her bat to attract their attention. "| And here is Ponsonby coming up the meadow, backwards, and blowing his whistle," said Nannie. " Yes," Tom remarked, " I guessed the greyhound followed him. There he is in the lawn ; he doesn't know what to do to get across the river. 'Tia too wide for a jump, and he doesa't like the water." The white greyhound stood upon the bank, looking wildly after the retreating figure in the green shooting jacket, and hare-skin cap, seeming too fascinated by the sound of the whistle to think of availing himself a second time of the bridge. He went aB if to make the Spring at all hazards, as Ponsonby, still moving backwards up the meadow, blew a longer and clearer note, but again straightened his limbs, erectiDg his graceful neck, and gazing wildly towards the whistler, but remaining as motionless) as a white marble statue. Another piercing note, and poor Rover became quite distracted. He looked all around, as if seeking for assistance, ran frantically abont the lawn, turning and twisting as if in pursuit of an imaginary hare, finally coming back to the river bank, and standing erect and motionless as before. He then crouched upon the bank, and letting his forepaws slowly into the river — deeper, deeper, but scarcely with a shiver, as a little wavelet splashed against his proud chest. " Ob, she's back again," said Nellie, on seeing Alice Cormack by the side of the white greyhound, with her hand against the side of his head. "Look at that, Tom," exclaimed Mr Armstrong, delightedly. " There's a picture ! There's a group 1 She s one of Diana's loveliest nymphs I And the snow-white greyhound ! No artist can imagine anything more perfectly beautifa'. I'm very thankful to you, Ponaonby for giving me that dog " " I don't knew how he got across tho river," returned George Ponsonby, who by this time hal crossed the meadow and got out upon the road — looking very earnestly as he spoke at tho crows in the tall elm trees. " I blew the whistle after getting over Poul-na-copel, the way Tom showed me last night. I was never thinking of him ; but to my surprise when I got thiough the grove, and went up a leap into the rushy field, who shoull be by my side but Rjver. I came back again with him , but you Bee he won't face the river. That's what surprises me — how did he get across after me ? Miss Alice is very proud of Rover, and he's very fond of her. See how he leans his head against her arm ." " I'll tie him up till he gets used to the place," said Tom Dwyer. "Tie him up." returned Ponsonby. "Not at all. He'd never stir only for the whistle. Don't I leave him at Mick Shea's 1 I only have to say ' Stay here, Rover, till I come for you,' and he'll Btay as quiet as a lamb. But nothing could stop him when I blow the whis ( le. She how he looks up into her face. That'd because he's in misery and wants her to comfort him. Surp there's not a bone in hia body that I don't know. 'Tis surprising," added Ponsonby, turning his lustrous brown eyes towards the bridge, and raking his black beard with his long thin fingers. " Tis surprising how like the Christians dogs are — only the dogs are better natured, except a few. There's some Christians, I know," added Ponsonby, but with considerable hesitation and oncertain'y, " that would not let it go with any dog, but not many." " Come on to tho bridge," said Mr Armstrong, laughing at PonBonby's concession in favour of " the Christians," " and Rover will come to us." " I am wondering why he never thought of the bridge," returned Ponsonby. " But Miss Alice bothered him. She made me show her how to get over Poul-na-cupel ; 'tis quite safe and easy when you'd know how to find the crooked bough But you see there's something bothering about Miss Alice. I'd feel it myself when she'd be talking to me. She looks straight into your face, aud — (here's something I can't describe in it," added Ponsonby quite Folemnly, us hia wandering eyes retted for a moment upon Alice Cormack, who seemed to be directing the greyhound's attention on the bridge — " I can't describe ft; but some girls are bothering, and Miss Alice is Ono of them. That's why Rover couldn't think of the bridge."

" Didn't I tell yoa not to tell anybody how to crow over Poul«fl«copel?" Tom asked. 11 My God," exslaimed Ponsonby, taming quickly round, and looking in indignant astonishment at Tom Dwyer ; " Tom, bow could I help it T I couldn't think of anything bnt just to do whatever she'd ask me. I hope she'll never ask me to throw myself into Poul-na-copel," he went on dreamily, " as I don't know how to swim." " I suppose it was all Rover's fault," returned Tom Dwyer, laughing. " Only for being obliged to come back with him you would not have met Miss Alice." 11 Of course I wouldn't," said Ponsonby. " These things turn out very queer. So many things happen that wouldn't happen only that something else happened, that it puzzles my brain to explain it. I do be thinking of these things while the world in asleep, and Bob Dee snoring like Tom Quinn'a bellows. But I can't come at it at all to my satisfaction. And things that you'd think the unkindest things that could happen to you might turn out to be the kindest." Ambrose Armstrong remembered these words in after yean, and asked himself what this poor crazy fellow gifted with a sort of second sight ? Many a time was the remark made in Mr Armstrong's hear* ing thet George Ponsooby's white greyhound " was an unlucky dog to Tom Dwyer." But had it not been for the whita greyhound Alice Oormack might never have learned the secret of crossing over the «' Pool of the Horse," and . . . But it is better to wait till the occurrence we were on the point of blurting out before its time, comes to pass in the regular and natural course of events. 11 You sold the pass on me," said Tom Dwyer, shaking his head. " For heaven's sake, don't say that," returned Ponsonby, twisting his fingers in his flowing beard. "Do you want to compare me to Bob Dee ? I tell you her voice and her eyes put everything out of my head, except just to do what she asked me." (To be continued.)