Fairies Afield Part 16

and her quiet tone impressed her hearers still more, for by this time Dirk and one of his brothers had hurried in.

Supper was an uncomfortable meal that evening. They were all anxious, for they all remembered the father's weary weeks of rheumatic fever the year before, and one or other of the "boys" kept running to the door to look out, or to listen for the sound of wheels, not easy to distinguish through the torrents of rain. And Merran was up and downstairs every few minutes to see that the fire was all right, and the clothes safely getting aired. And at last he came, poor man!

He looked very white and s.h.i.+very, and, to tell the truth, rather ashamed of himself, when he came in. For besides the miserable state of drenchedness he was in, he had to own that the discomfort was all thanks to his obstinacy, and distrust of the little "weather prophet's"

warning. Few elderly men of any cla.s.s, more especially a self-willed old farmer like Mac, would like to allow that they had been outdone in wisdom by a child, but on the whole Merran's uncle was more ready to give in than might have been expected.

"I'll listen to you next time, child," he said. "That I promise you. And to you too, dame," turning to his wife, "for it wouldn't have been so bad if I'd taken my thick coat. Where Merran gets her weather knowledge from beats me," he went on, "but there it is, and that's a fact. I'm not the only one that's been caught in the rain to-day, I can tell you. For at market all the talk was of the fine weather lasting a good bit longer."

"I daresay it'll come back again," said Merran. "But I do wish the storm had held off till you were safe home, poor uncle."

"And so do I," said Dirk, who was busy helping the farmer to throw off his streaming garments. "As it is, father," he added in a lower voice, "you'll do well to keep that promise. I tell you I've seen queerish things in my wanderings--things beyond us to explain, and there's no doubt in my mind that little Merran has got this strange power, and lucky for us that she has."

The farmer looked much impressed, for since his travels Dirk had come to be looked upon as an authority.

"You don't think," said old Mac hesitatingly, "that there's anything uncanny about it. I wouldn't like the maid to get called a witch, though the days of ill-treating such are past and gone, thank Heaven."

Dirk did not reply directly.

"There's things we can't explain," he repeated. "There's good mysteries and bad mysteries. But Merran's all right. I'd trust her to use her extra sense for kindness, so she'll earn no ill-will by it."

By this time the farmer, who was unusually meek, had been put to bed and made to drink hot possets and all the rest of it, in hopes of warding off another bad rheumatic attack. To some extent the treatment was successful, but not entirely. The poor man had to keep his room for over a fortnight, which was very trying, as harvest was by no means over.

Still, two weeks' illness is less than two months, and on the whole he bore his troubles patiently, and one thing which made this attack of his less wearisome both to himself and to his family than those that had laid him up before was the great fancy he had taken to Merran--his "weather maiden," as he had dubbed her. She proved to be an excellent little nurse, and the farmer was never as content and patient as when she was sitting by him, chatting cheerfully, as she was now able to do, since she was no longer frightened of being scolded, or reading aloud some of her favourite stories. For she was naturally far from stupid.

Every morning and evening the invalid was sure to ask her about the weather, and, as we know, she was always ready with a forecast, which never once proved mistaken. Every day, many times a day indeed, did she say to herself how different her life now was from what it had been before her wonderful visit to the old "rain-house."

The farmer recovered; the harvest proved a good one, time pa.s.sed and winter came again, and with every season Merran's fame spread. All over that corner of the country she came to be talked of as the "weather maiden," her uncle's name for her, and many a farmer, many a peasant, many a goodwife came to consult her and to hear her predictions. Her fame spread farther indeed than among her own people. The squire's lady never fixed the day for her summer parties or for the school children's feast without looking in to ask little Merran's opinion. For by long practice and delicate care in handling her magic gifts the girl came to foretell for days beforehand which of them--umbrella or parasol, "Rain-man" or "Suns.h.i.+ne fairy"--was to be in the ascendant.

Time pa.s.sed, weeks became months, months years, as is the appointed way in this round old world of ours. From a plain, unnoticeable little girl Merran grew into a tall sweet-faced maiden. She was not exactly pretty, she was quiet and rather serious, but her dark eyes, though somewhat dreamy in expression, were very charming, and the tones of her voice were very musical. So she was not without admirers, you may be sure.

Many a man would have liked to marry her--some among them, no doubt, influenced by the knowledge of her wonderful gift, for of course the possession of it could not be kept a secret if she had wished, and she was far from desiring this. On the contrary, her kind heart rejoiced when she was able to use it for the advantage of her neighbours as well as for the relations whom she now loved as if they were her very own, and who on their side loved her.

But she kept her secret, faithful to the promise she had given to the lovely Suns.h.i.+ne fairy, though there were times when she longed to share it with one in whom she could safely confide. And now and then at intervals she had a strange feeling that Dirk suspected something, for she sometimes caught his eyes fixed on her with a kind of veiled enquiry, and once he said in a low voice, with a curious smile, "Little Merran, you are not like the rest of us."

"Are you, yourself, Dirk?" she replied. "There are things you know and feel that the others don't--the voices in the wind, the burden of the birds' songs, the secrets of the restless waves--oh, Dirk, if one lived a thousand years, there would still be mysteries upon mysteries of beautiful things to learn!"

Then she grew shy again, for she was always quiet and timid and wondered how she had found courage to say so much. But Dirk seemed pleased.

"Yes," he said, nodding his head gently. "Maybe we are a bit different from most of those about us. You, anyway, Merran. I've seen strange lands and beautiful places, but you--you give me the feeling that once upon a time you must have had a glimpse of real fairyland."

Merran grew red at this, but she made no reply.

Only to herself she said, "I wish--I do wish I might tell him," and then she grew still redder when the words of the Suns.h.i.+ne fairy returned to her memory that only to _one_ person might she ever reveal her secret.

"And that one will never be my fate," thought the girl sadly. "Dirk will never care for me in _that_ way, and never could I care for any one but him."

Whereas on his side, Dirk said to himself that he must never hope to win the sweet weather maiden for himself. "Why, half the young fellows in the country-side, and old ones too, are ready to woo her if she'd let them! They think she'd bring good luck to her husband, and so she would.

But it's not for that _I_'d care for her--it's that I love her for her own self, luck or no luck."

And one day--one happy day--had the Suns.h.i.+ne fairy whispered to him to take courage, I wonder?--he determined to risk it, and told the maiden his hopes and fears, and found how little reason for the latter there had been, and the two young things, who had drawn to each other from their first meeting, before long were married, carrying with them to a home of their own the magic gifts, now, to Merran's delight, her husband's as much as her own.

Good fortune was theirs. Whatever Dirk undertook, whatever Merran planned, prospered. And that it should be so, they deserved. For they remained kindly and unselfish, ever ready to help others less happy than themselves, grateful for their blessings, patient under trials, of which, as life cannot be _always_ suns.h.i.+ne, they had their share. They lived, I was told, to a good old age. What became of the fairy treasures, I cannot say. Whether they were handed down to their children, or whether they were whisked back to fairyland, I know not, not any more than I know what has become of all the toy "rain-houses"

which in our grand-parents' times were so often to be seen. The world is growing too clever for the fairies, I fear, unless perhaps, unseen and unsuspected, they are still behind the scenes in some of the marvels and inventions all around us. Who can say?

And by the bye, I have heard it whispered that in a certain out-of-the-way corner of this dear old country there lives a family whose sons and daughters have a curious gift of "weather wisdom." Maybe they are the descendants of our Dirk and his Merran?

The Enchanted Trunks

Once upon a time, on a very hot summer's day, a girl stood waiting at the door of a small old-fas.h.i.+oned inn, beside a little heap of luggage.

She was quite young, about sixteen, or seventeen at the most. Her face was sweet in expression, and would have been pretty if she had not looked so tired and anxious. She was quite alone and seemed shy and timid, for now and then, when some of the folk belonging to the place, pa.s.sing in and out, wished her good-day, or made any friendly remark, she started and grew crimson even though she replied politely. And when after a time the landlady herself came to the door and asked the girl if she would not step inside and wait in the parlour, she answered hesitatingly that she thought she had better stay in the porch.

"I'm so afraid of missing the coach, or losing my seat in it," she said.

"No fear of that, Miss," said the comfortable-looking dame. "Your place is engaged, no doubt."

"Oh yes, I suppose so," the stranger replied. "My name is...o...b..irne--Clodagh O'Beirne."

"That's all right," said the landlady; "I remember the name. The master--that's my husband--called out to the coachman last night that he must secure a place for you to-day. You'd written for it, no doubt?"

"Yes, the friends I stayed the night with--I only came over from Ireland yesterday--did so. It was their gig that brought me here just now, to catch the coach as it pa.s.sed."

The landlady's good-humour seemed to cheer the girl a little; she began to look less frightened.

"You've come a long way," the older woman remarked. "Right across the sea, I take it?" The girl nodded, and looked as if she were going to cry. The landlady's curiosity was aroused. "And it's the first time you've left home, I daresay, and all by yourself too. It must feel strange-like."

"I wasn't alone till to-day. A friend came over with me," Clodagh replied. "And I shan't be alone long. I'm to meet a--a lady, a cousin, and we are to travel together."

"Ah indeed, that'll be much pleasanter for you," said her companion.

The young girl murmured something. But to herself she was saying that she was by no means sure of it. And after a little silence she went on, "I don't think I'd mind travelling alone--I don't mind anything very much now that I haven't any home--except," and she glanced at the heap of rather heterogeneous baggage, "except for all these things. I'm so afraid of losing half of them, and yet Biddy and I packed as neatly as ever we could. Biddy was grandmother's maid, and she stayed with me after dear granny died, till it was settled for me to go to live with my cousin and travel about with her."

"It'll be fine and amusing for you," said the landlady.

"I--I don't know," said Clodagh. "I'm not used to travelling, and I've not seen my cousin for a good while, and she may think me stupid."

"But she's a young lady, I suppose?" said her questioner.

"Not very. She's--oh, she's seven or eight years older than I, and she wants to travel all about till she finds a place to suit her. She's like me, except that she's rich. She's got no parents and can do as she likes."

Then suddenly it seemed to strike the young stranger that she was perhaps too communicative, and she grew rather pink. "I shouldn't perhaps----" she began, but the kind-hearted woman understood and interrupted. "It's me, Miss, that's in fault," she said. "I shouldn't make free to ask so many questions. But it went to my heart to see you standing there alone, so young and half-frightened like. I had a little daughter once--she'd have been not so much older than you if she'd lived----" She stopped for a moment, then she went on again: "Wouldn't you like a cup of tea now, Miss?" she said. "It's a time o' day I often has one, for we've no lie-abeds in our house, and it's a good while since we'd breakfast, and if you've come some distance you'll have been up betimes, I'd daresay."

Clodagh's face brightened.

"It's very kind of you," she said. "I would like it uncommonly. I couldn't eat any breakfast, I was so afraid of being too late.

But--please tell me how much it will cost. I mustn't spend anything I can help, you see. Once I'm with Cousin Paulina, she will pay things like that for herself and me."

"Don't trouble your pretty head about it," said the goodwife. "We're well-to-do, my man and me, and neither chick nor kin to come after us, more's the pity--and--you do make me think of what my little maid would have been by now, Missy, if you'll pardon the liberty. Now just step inside--to my own parlour--the kettle's on the hob--you'll feel quite a different young lady once you've had a bit of breakfast, better late than never."