Miss Erin

Part I

— SEED-TIME CHAPTER PACE I. A LEGACY .... 4 I II. ROUND THE TURF FIRE . . 17 III. "DADDY pat" AND "mammie" . . 28 IV. UNCLE AND NIECE . . . -39 V. TRANSPLANTED . . . .48 VI. OLIVER CROMWELL . . . .58 VII. EDUCATION . . . . .68 VIII. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES . . -77 IX. DESOLATE ..... 89 X. FATHER LALOR IS PROMOTED . . 98 XI. ERIN THE MOTHER, AND ERIN THE CHILD . 107 XII. AUTHORSHIP . . . . .115 XIII. GOOD-BYE, ERIN ! . . . .126 XIV. FELLOAV-TRAVELLERS . . . 131 XV. "AN ENGLISH ARISTOCRAT" . . . CONTENTS VIII

Part II

-"HARVEST" CHAPTFR PAGE I. STRANGE NEWS . . • ■ r54 II. ERIN A LANDLORD .... l66 III. MARK W1MBOURNE . . . . 176 IV. BABYLON . . . • .187 V. A BATTLE . . . . .198 VI. BURYING THE HATCHET . . . 209 VII. PROBLEMS AND PREJUDICES . . . 221 VIII. AN ENGLISH HOME .... 236 IX. "LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM" . . . 251 X. 'TWIXT CUP AND LIP ... 265 XI. " THE TEAR AND THE SMILE " . . 282 XII. MISCHIEF ..... 297 XIII. A RESCUING PARTY . . . . 312 XIV. THE IRISH JOAN OF ARC . . .326 XV. POET OR PATRIOT? . . . -.,, XVI. ANTIGONE! . r,.e 345

Epilogue

— AFTERMATH . . . -354 A 1 MISS ERIN

PART L

— SEED-TIME

Chapter I

A LEGACY " T S this the place, I wonder ? " thought the solitary wayfarer. " God help us ! Of all the lonesome God-forsaken spots ! " He had raised his head, hitherto bent downwards in the effort to advance in the teeth of a cutting October wind, and now paused, looking about him irresolutely. It was a desolate place, certainly, this low square house, as seen from the rickety gate near which the traveller stood ; a house which had once been white, but which was now weather-stained into an indefinable hue, battered by the elements, un speakably forlorn, a pair of mock windows staring from the upper storey blankly, like wide-open eyes in a dead face. Near the gate, a few almost leafless oaks and beeches writhed in the wind, and close to the house the grass-grown slope was thickly studded with gloomy gigantic fir-trees.

The path was over grown with moss, the low wall separating the en closure from the road broken down in many places ; a lean, miserable-looking cow was cropping the rank grass languidly, but no other sign of life was apparent, not even a squirrel in the branches, not a wandering clutch of chickens. "Well— in the name o' God!" said the traveller, heaving a sigh. He wrapped his great frieze coat closer round the bundle in his arms and lifted the rusty latch, uttering an exclamation of disgust as the gate, which had been insecurely supported by broken hinges, fell flat on the ground. " There doesn't come many visitors here, I '11 be bound," he muttered, stooping awkwardly to restore it to its place ; " an' no wonder ! I '11 be glad when I 'm out of it myself." Having propped it up again, he went on his way slowly, looking cautiously to right and to left as though he expected some enemy to spring on him from the shelter of the fir-trees.

At last he stood before the porch, and once more scanned the house ; not a ray of light, no sign or sound of any living thing. " Is there anyone in it at all?" he said to himself; and then, plucking up his courage, he pulled vigorously at the bell, proceeding after a moment or two to thump the door sturdily with his heavy fist ; repeating this operation at intervals with increasing energy as he grew exasperated by the delay. At last steps were heard approaching, a variety of bolts were withdrawn, and after much rattling and fumbling, the lock shot back and the door opened. A woman's face peered out into the rapidly increasing dusk ; ghost-like, as seen thus against the background of absolutely dark passage. " Go away ! " she cried sharply. " We 've nothing for you — we never encourage tramps here."

" Thank ye kindly, ma'am," responded the traveller warmly, "it's time enough for ye to talk that way when I ask for anything. I 've nothin' at all to say to you, ma'am, but I 'd be obliged to Mr Fitzgerald if he'd step here a minute." " Aha, that 's the usual story," retorted the woman ; " but you '11 not find it easy to take in my master, I can tell you. If you will take my advice, you '11 clear out of this before he catches ye and gets ye taken up for a vagabond." " Keep a civil tongue in your head, if you plaze," cried the other, drawing himself up with dignity, " an' tell your master that Michael Dooley, Misther Michael Dooley of Lincoln Creek, California, United States of America, 'ud be glad of a word with him. An' I guess you 'd best tell him I 've got some thing for him." " Something for him !

" echoed the housekeeper in astonishment. "What's your name, do you say ? " " Misther Michael Dooley," repeated the owner of that title with great gravity. "Ask him to be quick, if you plaze — I '11 have to be makin' tracks." After a moment's reflection, the woman apparently decided that he was not an impostor, and though she first took the precaution of closing the door in his face, she departed willingly enough to do his errand. Presently the door opened again just sufficiently wide to admit of another face being thrust through the aperture. A man's face, this time, pallid and keen-featured, with bright eyes set near together under black brows ; so much Dooley could see even in the fast-fading light. " I don't know your name," said the newcomer suspiciously. "What do you want with me?" "I've brought ye somethin' from California, sir," replied Dooley gruffly, "an' I'll thank ye to let me in to hand it over, an' not leave me coolin' my heels all night on this blasted ould doorstep— now !

" " What have you brought me ? " asked Fitzgerald, opening the door a little wider. " I 've got a letther for ye from your brother in California, that he wrote when he was dying. It's about a small leggicy he 's left ye. He asked me to see an' give it to ye with my own hands, because he knew I was comin' over for a while to the ould counthry. 'Mike,' says he, so pitiful, 'will ye pass me your word to take it safe?' ' I will,' says I, an' so here I am." " So Gerald is dead ? " said the old man, with perfect unconcern. " Only lately, too ? Ha ! I thought he died long ago. And he left me a legacy, did he ? It won't be worth much, I should think, coming from that quarter ! However, we '11 see ; hand over the letter." " Beggin' your pardon, Misther Fitzgerald, my in structions was to give ye the letther with my own hands an' see ye read it.

By your leave, then, I '11 step inside along with ye. A cat couldn't see to read here." He pushed open the door, and walked unceremoni ously past Mr Fitzgerald into the narrow hall. The latter hesitated for a moment, but presently calling for a light, pushed his visitor's burly figure on one side, and led the way into a small room on the right hand side, which was apparently his private sanctum. A battered centre-table, a few chairs, and a heavy mahogany writing-table, formed the only furniture of this retreat, unless one might include the piles of musty-smelling, dilapidated-looking books which were heaped up on the floor, and littered over chairs and tables. The plaster of the ceiling bulged out in many places and was deeply stained with damp, and here and there the sodden paper had peeled away from the wall.

Through the curtainless windows the trees without could be seen distorting themselves in the violent blast. Dooley shuddered as he looked about him ; never, he thought, had he seen such a dismal room. " The letter, please," said Fitzgerald, recalling his attention by stretching out his hand. It was a cruel hand, long-fingered, bony, icy-cold to the other's touch. The face which presently bent over the unfolded paper was a cruel face, too, yet with a certain remnant of beauty in it, even a faint re semblance to the poor dead brother who had been the traveller's friend. For a moment or two nothing was heard save the cracking of the letter and the shriek and moaning of the wind through the creaking boughs outside ; but presently, with a muttered exclamation, Fitzgerald crumpled up the paper in his hand and turned fiercely on his visitor.

" What is the meaning of it ? " he cried. With curiously fumbling fingers, and a sudden flush on his bronzed cheeks, Dooley began to undo the wrappings of the bundle in his arms. First an old cloak was removed, and then a knitted shawl, and at last, drawing carefully aside sundry folds of flannel, he showed Fitzgerald — a little child's sleeping face. A fine babe about six months old, with long black lashes lying on its round cheek, and silky dusky down just visible under its shabby bonnet. "This is your leggicy, sir," said Dooley, with a quaver in his voice. " The only child of your dead brother. Its mother died just after it was born, an' poor Misther Gerald himself, I may say, only lived long enough to see it christened and give it his blessin' and bid me take it to you. It's your own flesh and blood, Misther Fitzgerald, your own darlin' little niece, an orphan child with only you to look to in the wide world — for, for the sake o' them that 's gone, ye '11 be a father to it ?

" He paused, appalled at the expression of the other's face. Poor little baby girl ! if looks could kill, it would have been all over with her there and then. But, unconscious that her fate was under discussion, she slept placidly on, the tiny bosom rising and falling, one minute hand lying open with wee fingers outspread on the flannel wrap. " To begin with," said Fitzgerald, speaking at last with studied calmness, " to begin with, I have no proof that this is my brother's child, and if it were, what have I to do with it? Who was its mother — where are her people ? What " — with gathering fury — " what the devil do you bring the bantling to me for ? " " Bedad, it is your brother's child an' no wan else's, an' isn't the raison I 'm bringin' it to yo' there in his letter plain enough? The poor little creature, if it had anywhere else to go it isn't here I 'd be lavin' it, God help it !

The mother was a poor slip of an orphan girl with ne'er a friend in the world. She came out to the States thinkin' to make her fortune, but she couldn't get on in service someway ; an' Misther Gerald came across her, and thought she'd maybe be gettin' into throuble out there, an' so he married her to keep her out of harm's way. An' afther a couple o' years the little wan was born, an' the wife died. Misther Gerald was very bad himself before she went, an' niver held up his head afther. He just lived, I may say, to take the little wan in his arms — ' Call her Erin,' he says " Here the other broke in with a sardonic laugh. " Just like his tomfoolery ! Yes, I can believe the child is his — no one but Gerald Fitzgerald would have been capable of such idiocy. To marry a servant at fifty years of age — to call his brat Erin, the fool ! — and then to try and palm it off on me\ I never was on good terms with him at the best of times, and after his doings in '48 — why, if by raising a finger I could have saved him from transportation I would not have done so !

There, take the brat away — I '11 have nothing to say to it!" " Glory be to God ! " ejaculated honest Michael Dooley, turning quite pale with alarm and disgust. " What am I to do with the poor infant, then ? Sure I have no way of keepin' it. I 'm a bachelor, so I am ; sure I was hard set to get the poor child here at all — if it wasn't for a woman coming over at the same time as myself I don't know what I 'd have done. Besides, I 'm a poor man, sir, an' " " Take it to the workhouse," interrupted Fitzgerald, " that 's the proper place for it — the child of a convict and a beggar. Be off with it ! " " 'Deed, then, I '11 do no such thing ! " shouted Dooley indignantly. " Ye ought to be ashamed o' yerself, ye black-hearted rogue. Is it send your own brother's child to the workhouse ? An' castin' up at the dead, God forgive ye, convict, indeed!

Misther Gerald was a better gentleman than you, sir. I'll not be the wan to take his child to the workhouse. Ye may do the dirty job yerself, ye mean ould villain! There's the child "—laying his burden down gently on the table — " I done my duty in givin' it into your care, an' I wash my hands o' the rest." " If you leave it here," said the other, with cold fury, " I shall fling it out of the window after you. I have nothing to say to it, I tell you, and refuse to have it in my house." He laid hold of the poor little thing's dress as he spoke so roughly as to put an end even to the heavy sleep which Dooley's fellow-passenger had, in pure kindness of heart, endeavoured to ensure by means of a certain soothing drug. The waxen lids were lifted, and a pair of large startled blue eyes looked round ; the little mouth drooped, the tiny hands clenched themselves.

The child was not yet sufficiently awake to cry, but these mute signs touched her whilom protector's kind heart. " God help ye ! " he said ; " I 'd as soon leave ye in a wolfs den as here. Hand her over then. I '11 take her out o' this for the night anyhow, but after that we'll see if the law o' the land won't step in to make ye provide for your own flesh and blood." Mr Fitzgerald smiled without replying, and loosed his hold of the baby's robe ; and Dooley, tenderly wrapping it up again, prepared to depart ; stooping suddenly, as his host preceded him with the light, to snatch up the letter which the latter had thrown on the floor. "We'll have the child's credentials anyhow," he observed, thrusting it into his breast pocket. Fitzgerald paused, as though to expostulate, but shrugged his shoulders after a moment and went on down the passage, opening the door very politely, and standing beside it while Dooley went out shiver ing into the night air.

" I hope you '11 sleep well," he observed, " and that the infant won't disturb you." "If it wasn't for the blessed child in my arms, I 'd knock ye into smithereens," muttered Dooley, pausing to look round at the sardonic face grinning in the lamplight ; and then, controlling his rising anger with an effort, he went on down the slippery path among the fir-trees and out at the rickety gate ; the wind, which had been apparently lying in wait for him, sweeping down on him as he emerged from the shelter of the trees, and driving him before it as he retraced his steps towards the station. A cold rain began to fall, too, and the poor fellow, tired, hungry, burdened with a terrible infant, which might at any moment awake and clamour for the unattainable, was almost at his wits' end. Presently he became aware of a figure advancing towards him, also struggling with the elements, a tall figure, of which only the lower limbs, partially enveloped in a long coat were visible, the rest of the person being intrenched behind a huge open umbrella which came charging along the path at a prodigious rate, and the ferule of which came into violent contact with Dooley's arm hastily flung out to protect the baby.

"Mind out there!" he shouted. "Look where ye 're goin' ! " knocking up the umbrella so violently that the owner's hat went spinning into the road. "Oh, by the powers! I ax your pardon, yer reverence, I didn't see who was in it at all. I humbly beg your pardon." The old priest picked up his hat good-humouredly, replaced it on his thick white locks, and adjusted the Roman collar, a glance at which had caused Dooley to become aware of his mistake. " Well, my good man, you didn't quite knock me down, but you went very near it. It seems to be a word and a blow with you." " Why, then, indeed, sir, I have a way of rising my hand before I know where I am. I was afeard on account o' the child here — that was wan thing that put me about." " Oh, the child ? " repeated the old man, endeavouring to peer at him through the darkness.

" You have got a child there, have you ? Well, well, one must make allowances for a father's feelings." " Ah, yer reverence, this is no child of mine. The father, God be merciful to him, is in his grave this six months nearly, ay, an' the mother too. Over beyant in California, sir. Ay, indeed ! " " Let 's see," said the priest, coming closer to him, " I don't seem to know your voice. What is your name, and who is this poor child ? " Michael Dooley gave his name and former address with precision and pride, and introduced the infant as the only child of one Gerald Fitzgerald of Glenmor in these parts, of whom his reverence might perchance have " heard tell." " He had to — go out o' the counthry afther '48, ye know, sir. Ye '11 have heard of Fitzgerald's Band, that time? He used to have the boys up in the hills I believe, drillin' them, an' all sorts " " Gerald Fitzgerald !

" cried the other in deep emotion. "Yes, indeed, I knew him— a fine lad, a fine, brave, generous, foolish lad ! And so he is dead ! May God have mercy on his soul ! " He stood still for a moment looking upwards, heedless of the driving rain and the blustering wind in which the umbrella bobbed aimlessly about, now forwards, now sideways. " Where are you taking the child to ? " he asked presently. " Where indeed, yer reverence ? I 'm afther takin' her to that blasted — I ax yer pardon, sir — to that outrageous ould villain her uncle, sir, at Glenmor, beyant, an' he bid me take the brat away to the workhouse. Said he'd be the death of her if I left her. So what could I do but take her along with me again, and it's at my wits' ends I am to know what to do next. I 'm expectin' every minute she'll be wakin' up on me and callin' out for a drink — an' what '11 I do then ?

" " Haven't you got a boat or a bottle or whatever they call the thing to feed her with, man ? " " Not a thing, father, at all. There was a poor woman in the ship that looked after her for me comin' over, and previously to that a neighbour in the next ranch took her. I 'm a bachelor myself, and 'pon my word I couldn't for the life o' me tell how they managed — I think it's a spoon Mrs Murphy — that's the woman that had her in the steamer — used to feed her with, but I never took any particular notice. I 've never had anything to say to a child before — no, nor a woman, not sence my poor mother died — the Lord have mercy on her soul ! — an' it 's astray altogether I am now. Sure I thought as soon as I took her to her father's people she'd be off my hands for good— an' the uncle— her father's own brother serves me this dirty trick !

What in the world 'ill I do, your reverence?" The priest who, little as he understood the position of affairs, shared the honest fellow's perplexity and indignation, could not help being amused nevertheless. He was beginning some laughing rejoinder when Miss Erin, roused by the cold air and the eager voices, waked up thoroughly this time — stretched — and began to utter loud and imperative cries. " Come to my house ! " cried the old priest, for the nonce as dismayed as Erin's protector. "We'll find you some milk and a spoon there, anyhow ; and there 's my housekeeper, Moll Riddick, she 's a host in herself. She '11 know what to do ! " Off set the two men at a brisk trot, the perspira tion starting out on Dooley's forehead in the in tensity of his anxiety, and the priest endeavouring to hold the umbrella over the child, and uttering at the same time disjointed pieces of advice to her bearer, his long experience in christenings rendering him an authority on such matters.

" Hold her up, man — up against your shoulder — don't smother her, you know. Now, pat her gently on the back— gently ! Don't hammer the poor little thing as if she was a twopenny nail." " Och, be the powers ! " groaned Dooley. " If ever I let myself in for this sort of work again." Meanwhile, in spite of their united exertions, little Erin wailed, and bobbed her hapless head against Michael's rough coat, and beat the air with furious feeble hands. At last they arrived, all equally breathless, at the priest's house, and entered a warm, bright parlour ; a small boy, with a rough head and a queer freckled face hastily appearing in answer to his master's summons. " Fetch a cup of milk and a teaspoon, Patsy — run for your life ! And where 's Moll Riddick ? Tell her she 's wanted at once ! " "She's stepped down beyant to the shop," returned Patsy; "she said she'd be back soon."

" Dear, dear, everything is against us ! " groaned his master. "Well, fetch the milk anyhow, Pat. Now, Michael Dooley, my poor fellow, you must do the best you can yourself. Sit down there in that chair and take off the child's cloak ! Man alive, don't haul at the strings like that. A baby's neck, you know — there isn't much of it at the best of times, and what there is, isn't very solid. That's it — make her sit up on your knee. Now, here's the milk — hold the cup lower, Patsy — now ! " The big old white-haired man stooped, resting his hands on his knees and bending his face till it was almost on a level with that of the child, who, pacified for the moment, sat blinking at the cup in apparently pleasant anticipation. Patsy on the other side, holding the milk at a convenient angle, watched operations with equal surprise and interest.

The excitement of both onlookers indeed became breathless, when Dooley, purple in the face, and with his eyes almost starting out of his head, seized the spoon with clumsy shaking fingers and endeavoured to — "prize" the baby's mouth open much as if it had been an oyster. After one moment's pause of unutterable indignation, it is needless to say that the said little round mouth opened to its fullest extent, and that a series of piercing shrieks rewarded Dooley's well-meant endeavours. " God bless us, man ! what do you think the child 's made of?" cried the priest, hardly less disturbed. " Ton my word ! I 'd make a better hand of it myself. Give me that spoon — now, hold her steady." Michael humbly and in deep confusion surrendered the spoon, and his reverence going down on his knees once more tendered it to the baby, his own mouth tightly screwed up, and his eyes showing wide with anxiety through his big silver-mounted glasses.

There was a short silence in the room, broken only by the clink of the spoon against the glass ; but presently Miss Erin Fitzgerald's toes were seen to kick and wriggle under her frock, and her tiny hands clenched themselves, and all at once, back went the little dark head against Dooley's supporting hand, and screams resounded through the room. There was a pause at length, and then Michael observed diffidently, " Ye 're afther spillin' a lot on her frock, yer reverence, my hand 's quite wet " — and then in a lower tone, " I think the most of the milk went that way — I — I don't think she got any of it at all ! " The dismayed silence which ensued was broken by the sound of hasty feet, and Moll Riddick, the house keeper, entered the room, starting back rigid with astonishment at the scene before her.

"In the name of Heaven! Father Lalor, will ye tell me the meaning of this ? Whose child is that, an' what's it doin' here in the best parlour?" " Oh, woman dear, this is no time for questions ! " returned her master in distracted tones. " Take the child and see if you can't get her to swallow some of that milk, or else she '11 be having a fit before our eyes." Miss Riddick, being a good-hearted woman, and not more tyrannical than the generality of priests' housekeepers, sat down with a muttered remonstrance but stretched out her arms willingly enough for the child, which Dooley almost flung into them. It was true that she had never hitherto tried to feed a baby, but she was a first-rate hand at cramming young turkeys, and therefore set about her present task with the confidence born of long experience in the management of callow things.

Obviously, when a chick of any kind is to be fed, and it is obliging enough of its own accord to open its mouth, it would be foolish indeed not to profit by such an opportunity of putting something into it. Therefore, when Erin once more renewed the ex postulations, interrupted for a few moments by want of breath, Miss Riddick proceeded to ladle in the milk with so much speed and deftness that not only were the cries immediately put an end to, but the little creature's life narrowly escaped the same fate. Dooley uttered a kind of howl, followed by a fine round oath, which Father Lalor was too much pre occupied to reprove. Indeed, his own consternation and wrath were almost equal to that of his visitor, and darting across the room he possessed himself of the choking child, announcing in indignant tones that he was not going to stay there and see it murdered.

It was at this moment, the uproar and confusion being at its height, that Patsy, always intelligent and prompt in emergencies, made a suggestion which not only called forth the gratitude of the assembled com pany, but influenced the whole of Erin Fitzgerald's subsequent career. " If yez 'ud take her down to our little place," he remarked, " my mother 'ud soon pacify her. The littlest of them at home is about as big as this wan — there's always little wans at our place, an' my mother never has them shoutin' that way." " Pat, my boy, you have more wisdom than any of us," cried the priest joyfully. " Run on and tell her we 're coming. Now, Moll Riddick, see if you can carry this child without hurting it or dropping it — where 's its cloak ? Come, Moll, distinguish yourself — Faith ! what 's the use of being a woman if you don't know how to handle a baby?"

" It 's the contrairiest little creature I ever had a hoult of," grumbled Moll ; " an' it 's enough to drive a body demented to hear it screechin'." " Never mind, Mary Nolan will put a stop to all that ! Come along, Mr Dooley ; now, Moll, lead the way." B

Chapter II Round The Turf Fire

A FTER a few minutes' brisk walking, the little procession came to a village ; the three tiny shops, which were its chief boast, brave with lights, while here and there down the irregular street an occasional gleam shone out from some cottage door or window. But Moll Riddick, closely followed by the priest and Dooley, stalked on without pausing till she came to a small cottage about a hundred yards from the rest of the hamlet. Its whitewashed walls were clearly defined in the dusk, while from the open doorway issued a stream of ruddy light, brightening even the closely-cropped hedge which seemed to enclose a tiny garden. On the threshold in the middle of this light stood the figure of a little woman, who rushed to meet her visitors as soon as she caught sight of them, and almost snatched the wailing child out of Moll's arms.