Part 14

“We got into an ould donkey-cart,” Minnie said deplorably, “and then we lost our ways--and an ould man’s after settin’ the police to keep an eye on us--and Baby’s one shoe is off her, so the other’s no good; and she’s run a thorn into her foot; and I’ve tore the cuff off of me sleeve; and our hats is destroyed. But we thought there wasn’t any use goin’ in, for Lizzie tould us you’d took them other ones instead.”

“A donkey-cart!” said Mrs Lawlor. “I always said those thieves of tinkers were at the bottom of it. But come in, me jewels; sure you’re drowned and perished. The polis ought to be ashamed of theirselves for not minding their business better.”

And in Mrs Lawlor’s mind, indeed, the blame was permanently shared by the tinkers and the police, which was of course convenient for her children, and probably did not in any way affect either the police or the tinkers.

As for the young Tierneys, they got home with such guilty expedition that they were all discovered innocently safe and dry by their own fireside when Mrs Tierney returned, with sugar-sticks, from the fair. And thus we must fear that the episode ended in a lamentable failure of poetical justice to all parties concerned.

THEIR NEW UMBRELLAS

One blustering March afternoon Mrs Mooney looked in at Thomas Cantillon’s to fetch a boot he was stitching for her, and there she found her neighbour, Mrs Doyle, half-way through a story. “I thought ’twas headlong into the deep gripe ’twould land me before ever it stopped,” Mrs Doyle was relating, “for the tuggin’ and pullin’ of it was more than I could contend wid.”

“You’d a right to let it go altogether sooner than that, ma’am,” said old Thomas, “considerin’ the pair of you’d be very apt to ha’ sted there once you got in.”

“’Deed now, maybe I might as well anyway,” said Mrs Doyle, “for I question will I get e’er a day’s work out of it again. Every bone in its unlucky body that isn’t broke seems to be twisted crooked, and strained like.”

“And what baste at all was it you were tryin’ to control, ma’am?” inquired Mrs Mooney. “If it was that ugly-tempered mule of Kelly’s, you’re the foolish woman to make an offer at it. Sure it’s as much as me own Tony himself can do to manage the ungovernable crathur.”

“Mules!” said Mrs Doyle. “What talk had anybody of them? Sure I was tellin’ Mr Cantillon the way me umbrella got destroyed on me yisterday, comin’ home from Mass in the storm. The win’ took a holt on it the instant I come out on the straight road, and had it next door to wranched out of me hand; and then inside out it blew itself on me wid a flap you might aisy hear in the city of Cork, and only for Dinny runnin’ up and raichin’ it down for me out of the sky, you might say, the dear knows where the either of us ’ud be this minyit. But look at the objec’ it is now. I misdoubt will it ever be fit for anythin’ again, unless scarin’ the crows.”

The umbrella did certainly appear much the worse for its recent unequal struggle. It was stuck helplessly half-open, bent ribs thrust themselves through jagged rents in its weather-stained cover, a menacing crack ran up its varnished yellow stick. Mr Cantillon, who makes boots, and mends miscellaneous property for Killymena, shook his head over this new patient long enough to emphasise the extremely skilful treatment which its case would require, and then he said: “Ah sure, ma’am, I’ll put some sort of a shape on it for you, ma’am, one way or another, though it ’ill be a ticklish job, and I wouldn’t like to promise you that it ’ill present a very handsome appairance. But just for to be usin’, I wouldn’t wonder if it was as good as new.”

“That’s more than ever it was widin my recollection then,” said Mrs Mooney; “darned it was, and the handle chipped ever since as long back as when ould Fergus Doyle did be ownin’ it.”

“Ay, did he, bedad! our family always kep’ an umbrella,” said Mrs Doyle.

As an umbrella is kept by several of the most respected families in Killymena, umbrellaless Mrs Mooney naturally surmised an innuendo in the statement, and hastened to rejoin: “Well, if it was me, I’d liefer get a drop of wet now and again than streel about houldin’ up an ould flitterjig that ’ud have people laughin’ at me behind me back, and I consaitin’ meself a great one all the while. I’d as soon put me head in a rag-bag be way of a shawl.”

“Sure, then, it’s well to be you, ma’am, that’s so contint the way you’re like to stop,” Mrs Doyle said, just a shade, perhaps, over-politely.

“See you here, Mrs Mooney, I’ve got your repairs done,” said Thomas Cantillon, preventing a repartee by the production of Mrs Mooney’s boot from behind his chair.

“You’re after patchin’ it,” she said, examining it with a lengthened face. “I thought a stitch was all it wanted. But in coorse a man must keep his trade goin’. That ’ill be a pinny more on me, I suppose now.”

“Och, keep your pinnies and tuppinnies, ma’am,” said Thomas; “me’s trade’s not so slack that I’ve any need to be stirrin’ it up wid clappin’ on extry patches. You can pay me the next pinny that tumbles down your chimney, and so can Mrs Doyle for her umbrella that I’ll have regulated again next Sunday.”

So Mrs Doyle and Mrs Mooney pointedly wished Mr Cantillon good evening, and wished one another nothing good or bad--at least not audibly--as they departed in opposite directions.

A sort of rivalry had long existed between Mrs Doyle and Mrs Mooney. It had begun when the simultaneous drowning of their fishermen husbands left each of them a young widow with one small baby; and it had gone on till now, when these infants had grown to man’s estate. They were, in fact, the central subject of the rivalry. At first, indeed, this had seemed hardly possible to anybody except Mrs Mooney herself, Mrs Doyle’s little Dinny being so obviously a much bigger and better-tempered baby than her own little Tony, who was weakly and fretful. As time went on, however, not only did Tony’s health improve, but he developed a quickness of wits and capacity for book learning which could be set against Dinny’s superior size and his prowess at all manner of athletic pursuits. Mrs Mooney, when hostilely critical, called Dinny Doyle “a big oaf,” while Mrs Doyle spoke of Tony Mooney as “that quare little shrimp.”

The two boys themselves had lived on fairly friendly terms from three years old to twenty, and now that they were to see something of the world beyond Killymena, they rejoiced at being able to do so in company. For they were just setting off to the city of Cork, a vast distance away, where Dinny had got employment on a little pleasure boat which rowed visitors to the Exhibition short lengths up and down the pretty River Lee; and Tony was to keep accounts in a restaurant near the entrance-gate. Sir Gerald Vane-Montfort had spoken for them to the Executive Committee, and hence these situations, the emoluments of which seemed splendidly liberal. So when Mrs Mooney related with indignant inaccuracy at supper-time how Mrs Doyle had been giving her impudence about not owning an old rag of an umbrella, Tony did not hesitate to promise her that he would bring her home the grandest umbrella in the parish. And on this same evening likewise, when Mrs Doyle doubted mournfully whether Mr Cantillon would ever contrive to splice the cracked handle, Dinny confidently bade her never mind, for she should have the best umbrella he could get in the city of Cork. Mrs Mooney said that Tony would find plenty of things to be spending his money on besides his ould mother, and Mrs Doyle said that Dinny had a right to be saving all he could towards the rent, and the seed-potatoes, and his suit of clothes; but notwithstanding their protests both women thought a great deal of these promises. On the grey morning of the lads’ departure, Mrs Mooney said to her son: “I wouldn’t mind bettin’ even sixpences that you’ll never have the notion of an umbrella in your head from this minyit till you’re steppin’ on to the platform here again--but, sure, ’twill be a good day whether or no.” Mrs Doyle was less outspoken; still, as they waited for the train, she could not forbear saying, “I declare to goodness, Dinny, the little shiny hole in the cloud there behind Loughlin’s house is the very moral of the shape of the biggest tear in me ould wreck of an umbrella.”

Spring, summer and autumn passed by; the season’s flowers had budded, blown and faded; and the Cork Exhibition, a brilliant, artificial blossom, was to vanish like the rest. Consequently Dinny Doyle and Tony Mooney were returning to Killymena. They had experienced an eventful and memorable time, but were not, on the whole, sorry to have done with it. Dinny was rather tired of watching the little boats slide up and down the water-chute and flounder into the stream amid a flurry of shrieks and splashes. The clatter of plates and glasses, mingled with the strains of a military band, had begun to pall upon Tony in his office box. And though in out-of-work hours sights and diversions were bewilderingly abundant, the homely features of quiet little Killymena seemed to both of them just then a more alluring prospect. Tony, it is true, was planning to leave it again soon for good, having heard of a situation near the city, whither he would, if possible, persuade his mother to move; but Dinny looked forward to resuming his place in Mick Devlin’s fishing-boat, and felt that it would be a pleasant thing once more to sit behind a tugging sail, in an ocean-odorous breeze, and to haul at a fishing-net. “There’s more raison and sinse in that after all,” he concluded, “than in paddlin’ about wid people that might as well be a flock of demented saygulls, accordin’ to the foolish gabbin’ they have out of them.” It was thus that, in captious moods, he characterised the conversation of his passengers. “And they holdin’ up them little frilly-flouncy affairs over their quare big hats--_sunshades_--musha cock them up, it’s the iligant wisps they’d be if there come a sup of rain,” he often added disdainfully. But then the far more effectual shelter that he was going to provide for his mother’s shawled head generally occurred to him, and always restored his good-humour. Tony also bethought him from time to time of his promise; but he found the recollection less soothing.

The two youths met on a platform of the labyrinthine-lined Cork railway terminus, and waited the tardy coming of their train seated on a bench beneath a lurid advertisement of coffee essence. They piled their baggage in a small heap between them, and kept upon it vigilant eyes, especially on two long, slender, brown-papered parcels: Dinny, indeed, felt more secure when his was in his own hand.

“I see you’re bringin’ an umbrella too,” Tony said, referring to this. “I’ve got me mother’s there. It was in a little shop on the Coal Quay; a good plain one it is. Bedad now, I might as well stop away as come back widout it, she’s that set on a one.”

“I seen this in a shop-windy in the Main Street a while ago,” said Dinny, “and I’ve been wonderin’ would I have the price of it saved in time. ’Twas only yisterday I had be good luck. There was ne’er another in it that I liked the appairance of as well. The girl sellin’ them said ’twas gintleman’s size, and I’d better take a lady’s one, that ’ud come somethin’ chaiper; but says I to her, me mother was as good as any gintleman ever stepped, and I wouldn’t put her off wid a skimpy size for the sake of a half-crown when I had it in me pocket. Rael tasty the handle is; and they say the mischief himself couldn’t blow it wrong side out; the frame’s guaranteed.”

“Gintlemen’s size might be apt to be a thrifle heavy and clumsy like for her to be carryin’,” Tony said hopefully.

“Divil a bit of it,” said Dinny; “me mother’s a strong woman yet, glory be to God. Just weigh it in your hand--or stop a minyit; I’ll sthrip the paper off of it and show you.”

Dinny unfastened the knotted twine with deft sailor’s fingers, and drew the slim, dark-green umbrella out of its shiny black case. The sleek folds were furled with wonderful symmetry about a polished cherry-wood stick, which ended in a richly-carved knob studded with burnished stars; a silver band further adorned it, and a twining shamrock spray, while a long flossy tassel floated with a finishing touch of elegance. “I won’t hoist it up,” he said; “for fear I mightn’t get it rolled again as smooth as they done it in the shop. But you can see by the feel of it that its rael strong silk; twilled it is.”

He was so absorbed in the proud pleasure of displaying and repacking his purchase that he did not observe how Tony’s countenance had fallen, and he looked up from his knot-tying with amazement at the tragical tones which burst forth.

“Silk bedad!” Tony said bitterly; “troth it is that. And the handle bates everythin’. She won’t look at mine, that’s sartin, for it’s as plain as plain, and only black alpacky it is, or some other common ould stuff. The man said it was good wear; but when she sees it alongside of silk--och, murdher! What did that one stand you in now?”

“Siventeen-and-six,” said Dinny.

“And mine I gave five shillin’s for, and me wid a florin a week more than you. I might as well be slingin’ it under the next train passes; there’s the whole of it. Sorra the hap’orth of use there is bringin’ it home to her, for it’s only annoyed she’d be. But ne’er another penny I had to spend on it, what wid this thing and that.”

Tony thrust his hands into his pockets, and with his eyes fixed gloomily on the toes of his brogues, and his shoulders shrugged up to his ears, sat moodily recalling the circumstances amid which his wages had so insidiously melted away. In the retrospect his proceedings looked silly enough. The tempting side-shows of the Exhibition, the rifle ranges, bars and refreshment-rooms had accounted for many small coins; others had been swallowed, to even less profit, by the penny-in-the-slot fortune-telling machines, which were stuck like snails all over the walls of the Exhibition buildings, or had gone for slides down the switchback and water-chute. He was feeling thoroughly disgusted with himself and his investments when Dinny pulled him by the sleeve. “Look here,” he said, “aren’t you and your mother about quittin’ out of Killymena for good next week?”

“We are so, if she’ll be ruled by me,” said Tony, “but divil a bit of me knows what mislikin’ she may take against it now if she’s disappointed over the plain umbrella.”

“Well then,” said Dinny, “I’ll thry can I conthrive so that me mother won’t be usin’ hers till the Sunday after, the way your mother won’t be put out of consait wid that one. She’ll like it well, no fear, so long as she doesn’t get the notion that another’s grander. Mind you, I dunno will I be able, for me mother’ll be dead set on takin’ it to Mass to-morra; but I’ll do me endeavours. I might manage to mislay it; that wouldn’t be a bad plan.”

Yet, while he proposed it, Dinny felt that he was despoiling his return of perhaps its most triumphant moment; and Tony, not unaware of this, said, with appreciation: “Yourself’s the dacint man.”

The circumstances which attended their home-coming seemed to favour Dinny’s design, for the night was so dark when they reached Killymena that the two women waiting at the dimly-lit station could barely see their sons, let alone take stock of bundles and parcels. Dinny got his baggage into his little nook of a room and stowed away the dangerous package unseen quite successfully. All supper-time he was expecting his mother to ask some question about her promised present, but she never did, though she threw out several hints that it went to his heart to ignore. But when she had wished him good-night, and he was standing, the long parcel in his hand, considering whether he could find it a safer hiding-place, she suddenly slipped in again, just for the enjoyment of another look and word, and beholding, could not forbear an exclamation: “Glory be to goodness, so you brought it after all! I was thinkin’ you maybe forgot it, unless you was only intendin’ to not give it to me till we’re just settin’ of to Mass to-morra.”

Dinny saw, accordingly, that there was nothing for it but to explain the matter fully, and if possible secure her co-operation. He stated the case as strongly as he could, enlarging upon the immensely superior quality and cost of this umbrella, and the extreme ill-nature of making poor Mrs Mooney think badly of her one, which was the best that Tony could afford. His eulogium was judiciously vague, because he apprehended that a detailed description, much more a glimpse, of the ornate handle and sheeny green folds would render his mother’s impatience to be showing them off altogether intolerant of postponement. It was not easy, even so, to prevail upon her, for memories of taunting speeches rankled to strengthen her contention that “she had no call to be puttin’ herself about to plase Judy Mooney, set her up!” However, he at length obtained her consent to lay aside the unopened parcel until to-morrow week. And he created a temporary diversion by producing a little scarlet volume out of which trailed a long and wonderful series of highly-glazed landscapes.

Next morning was, rather unluckily, just the weather for a new umbrella--drizzly showers, and no wind to threaten a precious novelty with rough usage. Nevertheless, Dinny got his mother safely off to eleven o’clock Mass under her old battered gingham, her dissatisfaction with which he sought to mitigate by holding it over her himself. He hoped that they would not fall in with the Mooneys, for he dreaded the effect which the actual sight of her neighbour’s glory might have upon his mother’s tongue. But when they were near the chapel door he saw what almost startled his own into unruliness, for a few yards in front of them paced Mrs Mooney, proudly holding up the very moral of _his_ grand green silk umbrella--nay, it was the identical same one, and no other; he espied the silver shamrocks shining as she furled it in the porch. Tony must have taken the wrong parcel last night by accident in the dark, “or else he done it on purpose, the villin.” His outrageous conduct in keeping it made that seem highly probable; and he certainly had a guilty air as he followed his exultant mother to their seat. Dinny determined to have it out with the thief of the world the instant service was done, and he sat irefully longing for that instant to arrive.

The congregation at last broke up, and as they stepped out Mrs Doyle bade Dinny take a hold of the ould umbrella for her, because her two hands would be full trying to keep her skirts from the mud. She might have added truthfully that she wished to detain her handsome son at her elbow, and, having accomplished this, she said complacently,--

“Mercy on us, Dinny avic did you see the show poor Mrs Mooney’s after makin’ of herself? In such a hurry she was to be stickin’ up her gazabo of a new umbrella she’d scarce wait till she was clear of the door, but took and nearly prodded the eye out of young Barney Loughlin, whirlin’ it up in the face of him. The woman might ha’ more wit. And it not rainin’ a drop then either--it’s only beginnin’ again this minyit. And, child dear, but I’m glad it’s a diff’rint sort of a one you brought me; for I couldn’t abide the thoughts of that quare-lookin’ yoke at all. It’s twyste too big for one thing, and them outlandish cockasinas stuck on the handle has an ojis, ugly apparence--rael comical. I never seen anybody wid them. I should suppose them little gimcracks do be very chape. And tellin’ you the truth, I always had a great wish for a black umbrella.”

“Black the one at home is anyway,” said Dinny, looking somewhat disconcerted, “and as plain as plain.”

“Well now, alanna, that’s a good hearin’,” said Mrs Doyle. “Black’s the very best colour it could be, it’s that dacint at a buryin’. Frettin’ in me own mind I was, thinkin’ you might bring me a brown or a green one. But black’s iligant; I needn’t be ashamed to hould it up at any funeral on the countryside.”

By this time they had overtaken Mrs Mooney and her son, who were talking to a knot of neighbours. Tony, with dismayed visage, slipped round to Dinny’s free hand and whispered apologetically,--

“Och, Dinny, it was the wrong parcels we took in the dark, and before I knew where I was she had it opened on me, and in such an admiration of it she was that I hadn’t the heart to be tellin’ her. But I’ll get it back to-morra from the crathur by some manner of manes; I will so.”

“Ah, whisht, and no matter about it,” Dinny replied. “We’ll swap and lave them the way they are; me mother’d liefer have the other one.”

Tony’s half incredulous relief needed some further explanatory asides; and meanwhile compliments were politely passing between their mothers.

“’Deed now, Mrs Mooney, ma’am, that’s a grand umbrella you’ve come by entirely. Rael off the common it is; I never seen the likes of it at all.”

“Ah sure, ma’am, it isn’t too bad. Me son’s after bringin’ it home to me. But it’s a heavy one, let me tell you, to be liftin’ all the way, and me gown ’ill be disthroyed streelin’ through the mud. Bedad it’s the fine, tall, upstandin’ stick you’ve got there to yours, Mrs Doyle, this day, and that’s no lie.”

Mrs Doyle, smiling broadly, said merely: “Och, he’s a young slieveen;” but she suppressed a forthcoming unfavourable critique upon the silver-banded handle, which Tony, in haste to take the hint, seized, saying: “Step along wid you, mother, and I’ll studdy it over your head. Sure, it’s no great weight once you’re a bit used to carryin’ it.”

And thereupon four people, under two umbrellas, set their faces, well-satisfied, home.

A SMALL PRACTICE