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F YOU were to get up with the sun and
ride with the same for twenty-four hours,
it is a well-known fact that you would not
find a more curious place or a more
inquisitive people.
The cares of the world lay lightly on
them in Carney, and they would sooner that
oodness sent them a bit of gossip than a goose; any
lay. Though the sun was shining and the corn
shaking, they would stick their spade in the ridge,
or their hook in the hintin, and hurry together to
debate the latest news of the neighborhood.
Patrick Monoghan, of the Back of the Hill, said
that a solitary crow couldn’t fly over Carney but it
would aggravate the inhabitants to know where the
dickens it was going, and what the dickens was its
errand, anyhow.
But even when stripped of the fanciful trimmings
-that were tacked on to them, when the doings and
sayings of Carney were carried wide on the wings
of rumor, still the hard fact remained that the
curiosity of Carney was not to be matched, though
you screened the world from Farranfleuch to Fiddler's
Green on the hither side of Godspeed.
And this curiosity reached its climax when Terry
Connolly fetched home a new wife—and brought her
all the way front Connaught, too.
Now, if Terry didn’t live in Carney, he was—as
porringer of buttermilk ray Aunt Susy’s wee Mary
got from you last Tuesday was four weeks.” But
of all the comers and goers that thronged the cassey
to Terry’s door, PheTimy Brady was undoubtedly
the most constant. And the number of absolutely
necessary errands he felt forced to bear to Terry’s,
within those three days, marked Phelimy as a man
of no common talent. Yet, notwithstanding all their
praiseworthy endeavors, when the good people of
Carney met in conclave each night, not in the best
of humor, they were again and again compelled to
admit to themselves that Terry Connolly’s new wife,
from Connaught, was still a riddle, and aggravat-
ingly reticent; having persistently refused, not only
to rise to the occasion when Phelimy Brady had put
to her pertinent questions bearing upon her dowry,
her history, and the history of her family, but even
to be drawn into the most apparently guileless con
versation that Sally McGrath, the deepest-minded
woman in Carney, could devise.
Now, this was all the natural shyness of a blush
ing young bride who had only just left her father's
hearth, and entered a strange state and come into a
strange country among strange people; but Phelimy
Brady, with the hearty backing of Sally McGrath,
gave voice to the universal sentiment in Carney
when he said that Terry’s new wife took entirely too
much of the Connaught cuteness with her "down
“And a fine brave woman, too/ said Phelimy,' and
he watched MaUcby now very close. “A fine,
brave woman—so far as we have seen of lief.' .
“Ay!” said Malachy, "a fine, brave woman, in
troth—when one looks at her from a mile off/’ .
“Ay, ay! Malachy,” said Phelimy. "Do ye mean?
— Do ye mean ?”
“I mean,” said Malachy, confidentially lowering his
voice and looking over nis shoulder before ho went
further—“I mean,” said he, “that she would be
fine, brave woman surety, only " and Malachy
shook his head pathetically.
“Only?” said Phelimy eagerly, “only-—?
“Well,’’ said Malachy, "of course, it Is not my
place to be saying it, nor would I breathe it to a
soul but yourself, either—knowing that a secret’s
as safe with ydu as with the head of the church." 1
"Yes, yes,” said Phelimy, "it surely is. Only what,
Malachy?”
"Well, Phelimy,”, s?id he, "of course, we all have
our little peculiarities, and maybe, if I say it, Terry’s
new wife is no exception among us.”
"AM" said Phelimy, "I'm sorry to hear it,
Malachy. You mean to say that sh<
“Well,” said Malachy,’ In still, more confidential
tones, "I mean to say that”—here he tapped his fore
head with his forefinger—“You know, you know/’
cautiously around both sides of the house, and, find
ing the coast clear, dashed into the garden. Here,
to Phelimy's further amazement, she began cutting
the* most extraordinary capers and most extraordin.
ary antics that he had ever witnessed in a human
being. She hopped and sne jumped, and, skipped and
leaped, and pranced and danced, in the most out
rageous fashion. Then she attacked a stack of hay
that was in the haggard. She went up one side of
it like a cat and down the other side like a log.
And when she had her fill of this, she raced over to
a rowan tree that grew both big and high in the
center of the garden and, to Phelimy’s amazement,
began spieling it like a monkey till she got into the
very topmost branches, where she called "cuckool"
till her lungs must have been sore; for, even at that
distance, Phelimy could plainly hear her. Then,
finally, she turned and, crawling or tumbling—he
couldn't tell which—or maybe both together, went
rattling, head foremost, through the branches, and
dropped in a heap on the ground. But that very
minute, as good luck would have it, out of the house
two men came rushing, jumped the garden wall,
In still, more confidential were at her side in a’jiffy. Phelimy, in his own
breathless and terribly excited state, watched them
bending ovtir her for signs of life, and then hoisting
her ,up between them and carrying her carefully
Into the house again.
And the instant his own powers and presence of
mind came back to him, he jumped up from where
he.sat. The hat fell off his head as he jumped; but
he didn’t'mind it, and hadn’t time to look after it;
for he tore off with himself over the hill,- with the
speed of a moor afire, in the opposite direction from
Terry’s running like a wild thing. And Carney and
then the* whole country was alarmed to know what was
the matter with Phelimy Brady that he went, breath
less and panting, following his nose like a madman,
over height and hollow, without time to say any
thing to them, only wave them out of his way, and
jump over those who couldn’t carry themselves out
of it quick enough. And stop, or pause or draw
breath, he didn’t till, panting and ganting, he reached
the priest’s and besought him for the Lord's sake to
go off as quick as his heels would carry him and
"ive the last rites to Terry Connolly’s new wife of
’amlaraghan-^if, he added dubiously, he had the
good Juck to overtake her alive. He waited a few
seconds. ,at the priest's to jerk this out of him, and
was off the next instant in a bee-line over the
country again, as wild and as mad-lodklng as be
fore, alarming and astonishing the natives, and
never stopping or halting till he was nt the doctor's
.and giving him, too, imperative orders to be off with
him to Terry Connolly’s nc\y wife of Camlaraghan,
to try if he could catch the breath in her and keep
it there—though lie doubted very much if he would.
"WHERE IS TI1E WOMAN WllO WENT OUT OP TUB WINDOW OF THAT ROOM, THEME?”
we say—within a kick of the shin of it Just only
over the river from it. and a hen’s race further.
Facing Terry’s, in the kingdom of Carney itself, and
half-way up the hill, just a good cuckoo's call away
lived Phelimy Brady—Phelimy Rua, as wc called
him, because of the fine head of red hair he had.
And of all the curious folks that Carney could count
there was not a lad of them all more curious than
my friend Phelimy.
Terry, poor fellow, had been married before—and
well married, too; for his wife, who had been one of
the Hannigans of Drimard, had been both mistress
and master to him; made him know his place, and
keep it, for a good seven years; and then died, leav
ing him her blessing, a prosperous farm, and a
thriving family of five, each one of them blessed
with the appetite of a hawker. And after he pulled
the green quilt over her, he gave hit curious neigh
bors of Carney the benefit of two years' match
making for him.
At tne end of that time he hoisted himself off
one Monday morning, early—whither no man knew.
Carney noticed that lie had on him the new pair of
homespun trousers he had been nagging Micky the
tailor tor during the last ten days; that he wore the
loan of Dona I a-Donel’s black frock and had bor
rowed Jimminy Haraghy’s speckled mare. But Car
ney had concluded, on good grounds, that he was
off to the fair of Belcoo to purchase a venture of
donkeys.
When Terry returned, as the day was waning, on
the Thursday after, without a venture of donkeys,
but with a much nobler investment, a black-haired,
brown-eyed Connaught wife, riding side-saddle on a
pillion behind him, the eye* of Phelimy Brady, and
through him all the eyes in Carney, opened wide
in wonderment, I assure you. And there was auch
a confusion of tongues round about the country
that night as hasn’t been heard in any other country,
before or since, saving at the building of BabeL
To make matters worse, Terry Connolly never
invited his neighbors of Carney to the drag-home.
He did the thing in a disgracefully quiet way; hav
ing only Donal a-Donel, Jimminy Haraghy, and two
or three other immediate neighbors, to whom he
absolutely owed the treat in token of favors re
ceived. And when, that night, its trusty scouts
brought back this news to Carney, it first shook its
head, and then hopefully prophesied the height of
ill-luck rising out of this unadvised and ill-omened
alliance. Then it cheerfully set itself down to watch
and wait for the certain fulfillment of the prophecy.
On that very day, as well as the day aft*r. and
the day after that again, by a most remarkable
coincidence, there was not a family in the length and
breadth of Carney that had not to despatch one or
more of its members to Terry Connolly’s, over the
river, on an errand, or errands, of various degrees
of importance, from that of "borrowing the loan of a
hay-rope to tie down the thatch on the back of
Uncle John’s,” to "paying back the loan of the
pie of the T>lack North.
"But God grant/’ Sally said with bitter piety,
"that it may turn out well for him. Everyone of us
would not wish ill to his mother’s son."
And all Carney bowed its head and said, with
pious aggravation, "Amen to that. Sally McGrath."
"We will wait," Sally said resignedly, “and see
what we will see."
And all Carney said "Ay, ay!”
So they waited, but not exactly in inaction.
It was a trying time for Carney—a trying time
indeed. So, little wonder that Phelimy Brady and
all Carney hailed with delight the advent of Malachy
Murrin, the tailor, with his journeyman. For Terry
Connolly conceived the very charitable idea of hav
ing all his household reclothed and reshod. J And
accordingly, as was the custom in those days he sent
for the tailor and the shoemaker to attend his house
for a week and fit out his five children and himself
in clothes and shoes.
"And now,” said Phelimy and all Carney, "we
will soon know the ins and outs about Terry Con
nolly’s new wife; for, not to mention Neddy Brogan,
the shoemaker, Malachy Murrin will not have bowed
his legs for many hours upon Terry’s table till
Terry’s new wife will be like a drapers window to
him. He will have seen her through and through,
and turned her inside out, and know her by heart
like a ha’penny book”—for a slyer or cuter fel
low than Malachy was pot within the barony. And
the heart of Phelimy and Carney was rejoiced.
Phelimy abused himself for his stupid mismanage
ment in allowing Malachy Murrin to escape home
from his work on the first night without having in
tercepted and interviewed him, but to make amends,
he was on the hill early next morning, watching for
Malachy; and he was rewarded, for he succeeded
in capturing him as he leaped the marsh-ditch into
Long John Meehan’s land. It is as well to say that
Malachy, for all his unconscious air. knew the very
thoughts that were stirring just at tnis time in poor
Phelimy’s heart; for Terry Connolly had, on the day
before, made him well aware of the present curiosity
of Carney.
Phelimy, who always flattered himself as the one
great diplomat of the parish, fell into casual con
versation with Malachy, and gradually worked up to
his point in a manner that he conceived to be a
triumph of adroitness.
"An’ ye tell me now, Malschy,” said he when he
had got that far, "that it’s beyond in Terry’s ye are,
making clothes for the childer. Weil, well, well, there’s
me for yel and me understanding that it was in the
UDpcr end of the parish you were, at John Pat
Hude’s. fitting out John Pat's son for the States.”
"Och,” said Malachy, "it's a week since I left
John Pat’s. I came to Terry’s yesterday morning.”
"And Terry,” Phelimy casually remarked, “has
fetched home a new wife?"
"So he has,” said Malachy,
"Ah! a wee bit off her head, poor woman?" said
Phelimy.
"At times,” said Malachy, “at times. An’ you see, j
it is now at the change of the moon. My own no
tion is, that though she is a trifle strange in her
ways these days, she’s maybe as right as you or me
or any other sane man in the parish atween timek.”
"God help the craturc," Phelimy said with genu
ine sympathy now, "and God help poor Terry."
"Amen," said Malachy. "Phelimy,” said he, "mind
you are not to breathe a word of that to man ot
mortal.”
"Is It me breathe it?” said Phelimy with high indig
nation.
"And, moreover,” said Malachy, "as you are work
ing the hill facing us, and have the house under
your eye all day long, if you happen to see any-
thing odd pass—as maybe you will; for we bad big
work confining her to her room yesterday and keep
ing her from going abroad—please put your foot
on It."
"Malachy/* said he, "trust Phelimy Brady for
that." t
Phelimy, though he was bursting with the great
news, hurried up his own hillside and took his spade
in hand with the resolve, to-day, of overtaking ail
the work he let slip him yesterday evening while
he watched in vain for Malachy Murrin. And he
was firmly determined on it that a word of the news
about Terry’s new wife he would not breathe to
man or mortal, inside the parish or outside of it,
until after he had got his good day’s work done.
But the wonder, whether Terry’s new wife would
elude them to-day and get out-of-doors In spite of
them, made his eyes go wandering to Terry’s domi
cile beyond oftener than was good for the progress
of his labor. And the house had now such a fascina
tion for his eyes that the longer he continued try
ing to work the less work he found he could do,
till, after an hour’s vain endeavor, he laid down the
spade on the ridge and sat upon it, fixing his gaze
upon Terry's. lie was all the more watchful of it,
inasmuch as he had seen Terry himself quitting
the house, and going out over the hill half an hour
before. For, though the house was too far from
him to make out a man’s features, Phelimy could
recognize Terry’s half-limp as far as he could see
him. So, Terry having gone, Phelimy rightly
imagined th*} the watch upon the new wife might
relax, and she make a burst
And, before another half-hour went by, Phelimy
clapped himself on his back for his cleverness, and
had his patience well and richly rewarded. The
gable of Terry Connolly’s house faced him, and in
this gable was a window. After a time Phelimy,
whose eyes took in everything, observed the sash
of this window go suddenly up, and next instant
a woman leap out. The leap was a fairly deep one,
•}>« fell forward on her hands and knees.
And Phelimy was at once pained and astounded and
he caught his breath. But he watched for the next
COPYRIGHT, tfi
loved to sit and look at other* t
, were sitting
Won t yous have eaiti, gentlemen? Get tip out of
that, Micky Dorrian, and you, Hugh Hegarty, and
that third numbskull of yours, and give the gentle
men saits. And Piielimy Brady, too, 1 ’ says he. "I
hope you and your care are all well, Phelimy; and
where i» your hat?”
Phelimy, who was not a little stunned at such
coolness in a house of sudden death, said:
Malachy, these gintlemen have come to see Mrs.
Connolly. Let them see her at once—or, is she alivo
yet?”
"is she what? Alive)" said Malachy. "What
would ail her if she wouldn’t be alive? Certainly,
S ntlemcn, yous can see her immediately. She’s in
e room here, behind me; for, as she’a an uncom
mon shy woman, and a stranger among us yet, she
keeps close up in this room, doing her sewing and
darning whenever Terry's from home, as he is
now.” And the room Malachy indicated, be it noted,
was not the one from which Phelimy had «ecn the
woman emerge that morning. Malachy, without
moving from where he sat, simply stretched back
his arm ami tapped with his thimbled finger upon
the room door, saying, "Mrs. Connolly, if you would
be so kind as to come down here, there's Father Pat
and several other gentlemen wishful to see you.”
And immediately the room door opened, and Mrs.
Connolly, a blushing and pretty woman, and the
f deture, indeed, of life and health, stepped down
rom the room and courtesied moircstly to Father
Pat, as representative of the gathering. But show
ing through her modesty was a look oi inquiring
wonder also at seeing so many strangers suddenly,
thronging into her house.
And if there was wonder In Mrs. Connolly’s face,
|t would be no untruth to say that there was aston
ishment in the face* of Father Pat and his con
freres. From the blushing bride they turned their
eyes upon a thunderstruck Phelimy Brady; and
Phelimy Brady, on his part turned his eyes upon
Malachy Murrin. But, behold ye! Malachy, a
model among tailors, was plying his needle and
humming, all oblivious of the presence of strangers.
"Malachy,” said Phelimy: and Malachy, staying
hi* needle in its course, looked up deferentially.
"Malachy,’’said Phelimy, "where is the woman that
went out of the window of that room, there, not an
hour gone, and cut all the capers in the garden, run
up and down the hay stack, and then broke her neck
off the rowan tree?”
Malachy’s eyes were growing gradually wider «•
Phelimy proceeded. When Phelimy had finished ho
kept his eyes still on him for another minute, exam
ining him narrowly, and then, lifting them oft
Phelimy, he turned them appealingly on the band of
neighbors, who stood near the door, and ho*|ud to
them reproachfully, "Boys, isn’t it a shame for yous
to let Phelimy go abroad when he’s in this way?,
Father Pat,” he then said, turning to the priest,
"don’t put store upon poor Phelimy. He’s tho
sensiblcst man and the best-hearted aowl in Carney,
and'the most truthful—when he’s himself. Take
him home, boys,” said he, turning again to tho
’neighbors, “and look out for his hat for him wlirre-
ever he dropped it, as yous go. Don’t let Nellie
•cold him. Take off his brogues and socks, and give
his feet a good bathe, over the knees, in hot water,
and put him in bed. Now, Phelimy, don’t get rum- •
bunctious, or the boys’ll have to carry yc home.
Take my advice, moreover—and, bather Pat, I wish,
by virtue of your office, you would give him tho
good advice, too—not to have anything to do with
the drink, barrin’ of a very special occasion; for the
Lord knows it doesn't do well with ye. That’s It,
boys; that’s it, boys. Take you that foreleg, Shan
Ilaig, and John Andy take the other. Feet fore
most, boys. That's the way. Take care of the door.
Now yous Is all right. Don't leave him, boys, till
yous have him safe in bed and sound asleep. Good
morning to yourself, Father Pat, an' I’m sorry yon
let that poor fellow give you this wild-goose coalm
an’ you doctor, too—an’ you, Mr. MacLarnin. Good
mornin' to all of yous, an’ in troth I’m sorry! But I
thought everyone knew the sort of poor Phelimy If
he indulged ever so little.”
Phelimy’s many kind neighbors, notwithstanding
that he strenuously protested, not merely with his
tongue but with his hands and both his feet, carried
out Malachy's instructions to the letter—carried
them out all the more persistently because of Phe-
limy'i rumbunctiousneis. as Malachy termed it.
They bathed bis feet in hot water, and they, bathed
*'IS XT UK BREATHE IT?” SAID mELIIlYTlM HIGH
INDIGNATION
And then—for Fhclimy wa» a man who never did
things by halves—he struck a line for the magis
trate’s, and burst into that gentleman's presence
with small ceremony, nearly choking him with the
bit was in his throat—for the magistrate was just
in the middle of his dinner at the time—Phelimy
ordered him to be up and off, for that Terry Con
nolly’s new wife was killed in Camlaraghan. and it
was his duty to be there immediately and either
take her dying depositions, or, if she waa past that
then saddle the blame on the right shoulders.
And without any delay, as fast as he had told
them, the priest, and the doctor, and the magistrate
had saddled and bridled and were scurrying over the
country. And Phelimy himself was taking the
ditches and hedges and all aorta of near-cuts over
hill and hollow, to try to be there as soon as they.
And, as Phelimy returned, the alarmed people,
whom he had left thunderstruck on his forward
journey, how closed in after, and followed him fast
on the backward one; and, in bits and scraps which
Phelimy deigned to throw over his shoulder as he
flew, they, to their Increased consternation, managed
to learn what the gist of the matter was, and then
they ran harder than before.
Phelimy and his following reached the house just
as the priest and doctor and magistrate, who had
met together on the way, arrived also. With hia
natural politeness Phelimy gave them precedence-
waited for them to pass in of the door first, and then
went in himself at their heels, with a large repre
sentation of the neighbors following.
When they entered, Neddy Brogan, the shoe
maker was industriously pegging away at a pair of
brogues for Jimmy, the eldest of Terry’a children,
and Malachy Murrin, with his journeyman on the
table, was working as Intently and conscientiously as
he never worked before, and two or three of the
usual gentlemen-of-leisure of the neighborhood, who
1 ■ - •- • • • • -kfnff, *“*
ig
on • form against the wall. All of them looked
an when the invasion flowed into the house,
Malachy Murrin’s eyes spoke politely repressed in
quiry as he said:
"You are welcome, Father Pat, and gentlemen all.
Isn’t this a beautiful morning, glory be to good
ness for it, and a fine day for getting in the teed?
•waea
his head in cold, and they put him into bed, and
held him down there, notwithstanding hia struggle*,
till he slept of the very exhaustion; then besought
NelUe not to say'a bad word to him, for this time,
but to be kind and apeak to him fair, and they went
home. ....
The curiosity of Carney regarding Terry Con
nolly’s new wife did not abate, but the curiosity ol
the very much humiliated Phelimy Brady did.
The next time that he met Malachy Murrin tho
Utter proceeded to upbraid him sympathetically.
"Well, Malachy,” said Phelimy, "I’m downright
sorry; for I could have •’orn, on all the books in
Christendom, that I taw the thing happen beforo
my eyes. But do you know, the curiousest thing
of the whole lot la that, If I was put on my Biblo
oath. I couldn’t remember taking anything that
day.”
"Ah.” said Malachy, with an indulgent smile as fie
passed on, “sure that's the way with all of u*—
after.” v
Next Week! a Modern Sir Galahad
~ a ph
•*'4 '.m
By Albert Bigelow Paine