“Thrue for ye!” came the chorus of almost every person in the room. The unanimity was somewhat comic and caused among them a shamefaced silence, which lasted quite several seconds. The pause was not wasted, for by this time Mrs. Kelligan had brewed another jug of punch, and glasses were replenished. This interested the little crowd, and they entered afresh into the subject. As for myself, however, I felt strangely uncomfortable. I could not quite account for it in any reasonable way.
I suppose there must be an instinct in men as well as in the lower orders of animal creation — I felt as though there were a strange presence near me.
I quietly looked round. Close to where I sat, on the sheltered side of the house, was a little window built in the deep recess of the wall, and, farther, almost obliterated by the shadow of the priest as he sat close to the fire, pressed against the empty lattice, where the glass had once been, I saw the face of a man — a dark, forbidding face it seemed in the slight glimpse I caught of it. The profile was towards me, for he was evidently listening intently, and he did not see me. Old Moynahan went on with his story:
“Me father hid behind a whin bush, an’ lay as close as a hare in his forum. The min seemed suspicious of bein’ seen, and they looked carefully all round for the sign of any wan. Thin they started up the side of the Hill; an’ a cloud came over the moon, so that for a bit me father could see nothin’. But prisintly he seen the two min up on the side of the Hill at the south, near Joyce’s mearin’. Thin they disappeared agin, an’ prisintly he seen the horses an’ the gun-carriage, an’ all, up in the same place, an’ the moonlight sthruck thim as they wint out iv the shadda; and min, an’ horses, an’ gun-carriage, an’ chist, an’ all wint round to the back iv the hill at the west an’ disappeared. Me father waited a minute or two to make sure, an’ thin he run round as hard as he could an’ hid behind the projectin’ rock at the enthrance iv the Shleenanaher, an’ there foreninst him, right up the hill-side, he seen two min carryin’ the chist, an’ it nigh weighed thim down. But the horses an’ the gun-carriage was nowhere to be seen. Well, me father was stealin’ out to folly thim when he loosened a sthone, an’ it clattered down through the rocks at the Shnake’s Pass wid a noise like a dhrum, an’ the two min sot down the chist an’ they turned; an’ whin they seen me father, one of them runs at him, and he turned an’ run. An’ thin another black cloud crossed the moon; but me father knew ivery foot of the mountain-side, and he run on through the dark. He heerd the footsteps behind him for a bit, but they seemed to get fainter an’ fainter; but he niver stopped runnin’ till he got to his own cabin. And that was the last he iver see iv the men, or the horses, or the chist. Maybe they wint into the air or the say, or the mountin; but, anyhow, they vanished, and from that day to this no sight, or sound, or word iv them was ever known!”
There was a universal, “Oh!” of relief as he concluded, while he drained his glass.
I looked round again at the little window; but the dark face was gone.
Then there arose a perfect babel of sounds. All commented on the story, some in Irish, some in English, and some in a speech, English indeed, but so purely and locally idiomatic that I could only guess at what was intended to be conveyed. The comment generally took the form that two men were to be envied — one of them, the Gombeen Man, Murdock, who owned a portion of the western side of the hill; the other one, Joyce, who owned another portion of the same aspect.
In the midst of the buzz of conversation the clattering of hoofs was heard. There was a shout, and the door opened again and admitted a stalwart stranger of some fifty years of age, with a strong, determined face, with kindly eyes, well-dressed, but wringing wet and haggard, and seemingly disturbed in mind. One arm hung useless by his side.
“Here’s one of them!” said Father Peter.
Chapter 3 — The Gombeen Man
“God save all here,” said the man as he entered.
Room was made for him at the fire. He no sooner came near it and tasted the heat than a cloud of steam arose from him
“Man! but ye’re wet,” said Mrs. Kelligan. “One’d think ye’d been in the lake beyant!”
“So I have,” he answered, “worse luck! I rid all the way from Galway this blessed day to be here in time, but the mare slipped coming down Curragh Hill and threw me over the bank into the lake. I wor in the wather nigh three hours before I could get out, for I was foreninst the Curragh Rock an’ only got a foothold in a chink, an’ had to hold on wid me one arm, for I fear the other is broke.”
“Dear! dear! dear!” interrupted the woman. “Sthrip yer coat off, acushla, an’ let us see if we can do anythin’.”
He shook his head, as he answered:
“Not now; there’s not a minute to spare. I must get up the Hill at once. I should have been there be six o’clock. But I mayn’t be too late yit. The mare has broke down entirely. Can any one here lend me a horse?”
There was no answer till Andy spoke:
“Me mare is in the shtable, but this gintleman has me an’ her for the day, an’ I have to lave him at Carnaclif tonight.”
Here I struck in:
“Never mind me, Andy. If you can help this gentleman, do so. I’m better off here than driving through the storm. He wouldn’t want to go on with a broken arm if he hadn’t good reason!”
The man looked at me with grateful eagerness:
“Thank yer honor kindly. It’s a rale gintleman ye are! An’ I hope ye’ll never be sorry for helpin’ a poor fellow in sore trouble.”
“What’s wrong, Phelim?” asked the priest. “Is there anything troubling you that any one here can get rid of?”
“Nothin’, Father Pether, thank ye kindly. The trouble is me own intirely, an’ no wan here could help me. But I must see Murdock to-night.”
There was a general sigh of commiseration; all understood the situation.
“Musha!” said old Dan Moriarty, sotto voce. “An’ is that the way of it? An’ is he, too, in the clutches iv that wolf — him that we all thought was so warrum? Glory be to God! but it’s a quare wurrld it is; an’ it’s few there is in it that is what they seems. Me poor frind, is there any way I can help ye? I have a bit iv money by me that yer welkim to the lend iv av ye want it.”
The other shook his head gratefully:
“Thank ye kindly, Dan, but I have the money all right; it’s only the time I’m in trouble about!”
“Only the time, me poor chap! It’s be time that the divil helps Black Murdock an’ the likes iv him, the most iv all! God be good to ye if he has got his clutch on yer back, an’ has time on his side, for ye’ll want it!”
“Well! anyhow, I must be goin’ now. Thank ye kindly, neighbors all. When a man’s in throuble, sure the good-will of his frinds is the greatest comfort he can have.”
“All but one, remember that — all but one!” said the priest.
“Thank ye kindly, Father, I sha’n’t forget. Thank ye Andy: an’ you, too, young sir; I’m much beholden to ye. I hope some day I may have it to do a good turn for ye in return. Thank ye kindly again, and goodnight.”
He shook my hand warmly, and was going to the door, when old Dan said: “An’ as for that black-jawed ruffian, Murdock —”
He paused, for the door suddenly opened, and a harsh voice said:
“Murtagh Murdock is here to answer for himself!” It was my man at the window.
There was a sort of paralyzed silence in the room, through which