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 furnishings 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!"

"You'll have to speak to my Uncle Alan."

"Alan Campbell is a hard Northern man."

"Nevertheless, you'll have to speak to him."

"_A mhic mheirdrighe!_" Her mouth hissed. "O son of a harlot!"

Shane wheeled like a sloop coming about.

"You forget I've got the Gaelic myself, old woman."

"Oh, sure, what did I say, fine lad, but _avick machree_, son of my heart? _Avick machree_, I said. O son of my heart, that's what you are.

You wouldn't take wrong meaning from what an old woman said, and her with her teeth gone, and under the black clouds of sorrow!"

A glint in the moonlight caught Shane's eyes. He gripped her right hand.

"Is that Moyra's wedding-ring you have on? Did you--did you--take it--from her hand?"

"Oh, sure, what use would she have for it, and she in the sods of Ballymaroo? And the grand Australian gold is in it, worth a mint of money. And what use would you have for it, and you in strange parts, where a pa.s.sionate foreign woman would be giving you love, maybe? The fine lad you are, will draw the heart of many. But it's drawing back coldly they'd be, and they seeing that on your finger, or on a ribbon around your neck. Drawing back they'd be, and giving the love was yours to another fellow. A sin to waste the fine Australian gold it is. And you wouldn't begrudge me the price of a couple o' heifers would grow into grand cows? You wouldn't, fine lad--"

He flung her hand from him so savagely that she fell, and he went swiftly toward the house where the dead woman was. Back of him in the haggard came the _glug-glug_ of the naggin bottle, and from down the loaning came the rich, untrained contralto of the singing girl:

"Nor shoe nor stocking will I put on, nor comb go in my hair.

And neither coal nor candle-light shine in my chamber fair.

Nor will I wed with any young man until the day I die, Since the low lowlands of Holland are between my love and me."

-- 3

As he paused at the half-door, the laughter and the chatter in the kitchen ceased, and he was aware of the blur of faces around the room, white faces of men and women and alien eyes. Over the peat fire--there was a fire even in June--the great black kettle sang on the crane, to make tea for the mourners. Here and there were bunches of new clay pipes scattered, and long rolls of twisted tobacco, for the men to smoke, and saucers full of snuff for both men and women. A great paraffin lamp threw broad, opaque shadows, making the whole a strange blur in the kitchen, while in the bedroom opening off it, where the tense, dead woman lay, was a glare of candles as from footlights, and there gathered the old women of the neighborhood, discussing everything in hushed, vindictive whispers--the price of cows, morbid diseases, the new wife some man had, and whether such a girl was with child.... And the dead woman, who had loved talk such as this, as a drunkard loves the gla.s.s, gave no heed.... Strange!... And every hour or so they would flash to their knees, like some quick instinctive movement of birds, and now carelessly, now over-solemnly they would say a rosary for the dead woman's soul:

"_Ar n-Athair, ta ar neamh_--" they would gabble. "Our Father, Who art in Heaven--" and then a long suspiration: "'_Se do bheatha, 'Mhuire_!"

"Hail, Mary! Full of grace!"

But in the kitchen they would be laughing, chatting, playing crude forfeits, telling grotesque stories, giving riddles, and now, to the muted sound of a melodeon, a man would dance a hornpipe.... And men would sneak out to the byre in twos and threes for a surrept.i.tious gla.s.s of whisky.... And suddenly they would rush in and join in the rosary:

"_Ar n-Athair, ta ar neamh_.... _Se do bheatha, 'Mhuire!_ ..."

It was all so grotesque, so empty, so play-actor-like--so inharmonious with Death! Death was very terrible or very peaceful, thought Shane Campbell of the sea and the Antrim Glens. "Down from your horse when Death or the King goes by," went the Antrim old word. But here the house of death was a booth of Punchinello.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

More aware even than of the indignity of it all was he of the hatred about him. They hated him for his alien race, his alien faith. Not one of the men but would have killed him had they had courage, because his head was high, his step firm. The women hated him because he had chosen one from among them and given her honor and gifts. And his wife's mother hated him with the venomous, nauseous hatred that old women bear. And yet they'd have loved him if he'd given way to hysterical, unprofound grief, or become ... drunk! They'd have understood him. But all they had for him was hatred now. Even the dead woman on the bed hated him.... Ah, well, only a day or so more, and he'd come about. A leg to leeward, and he'd shake them off as a great ship leaves behind it the troublesome traders' b.u.mboats.

There came to him the shrill keening of the old woman as some one brought her toward the house: