THE IRISH MONTHLY

SEPTEMBER, 1906

TERENCE O'NEILL'S HEIRESS

A STORY

CHAPTER I

HE blinds were drawn down; the windows tightly closed;

TH

the fire almost gone out. Upon the open piano, sheets of music were flung about in careless, untidy confusion. Dust lay thick upon the chairs, tables, and mantelpiece, and the little drawing-room, usually so bright and tastefully arranged, had a wild neglected look that no one had ever seen in it before. But the people assembled there were not troubled or annoyed by the desolation that lay around them. Their hearts and thoughts were too full of more important things, and even if they had noticed the dreary disorder of the little room, it would only have seemed in keeping with the gloom and misery in which they were all plunged.

For some moments a complete silence reigned. Suddenly, a deep, long-drawn sob escaped from a dark-haired woman, who sat, her head bowed down, beside a thin old man with a long grey beard, and a worn, sad and anxious looking face. "Poor Molly," he said soothingly, laying his hand caressingly upon her shoulder. "You were fond of them both. But don't weep, dear. They were good, and the Lord is full of mercy."

"I know, I know. But, father, it was so sudden for the two happy young things! As Pat stepped into that motor-car at our door, only yesterday, he looked the picture of health and happiness. ''Tis but a short run, and it's good news I'll have VOL. XXXIV.-No. 399.

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for my darling, when I come back, Mary,' he said, tossing his fair head with that proud little way of his, that I'll never forget. 'Keep her cheery and bright,' laughing gaily as he seated himself in his American friend's car. 'She'll be glad she let me go, when I return in triumph.' And in a flash and a cloud of dust, he disappeared down the road. But he never reached his destination. Never accomplished his business, whatever it may have been. Never saw his wife again-for the next thing I heard was that he was flung upon a heap of stones upon the road-side out of that dreadful thing, right upon his head, and without a second in which to ask God's mercy he was hurried out of this world away from all he loved."

"God is good, Molly. Sudden death sudden mercy. Pat led a blameless life," stammered the old man, in a choking voice. "So did his sweet wife.”

"Yes. That is true. But, father"-Mary lifted her head and looked round the room-" this is a sad, an awful day for us everyone, though most of all for the poor unconscious little babe, that poor Mary hardly looked upon before she left her motherless. Till our two darlings were buriedlaid side by side in the churchyard, I thought nothing about her-hardly realised that she was there. But now she can be no longer passed over. She is a delicate, puny child, and will require great care. Who is to give it to her? Alas, I know not." She raised her head again, and her sad eyes overflowing with tears wandered round the room, resting with earnest entreaty upon each one of her brothers and sisters-in-law in turn.

"You are too old, father," she said, turning sadly on her chair, disappointed at the unresponsive faces of her relatives. No one wanted baby Elizabeth. That was only too evident, and Molly's heart was sore. "We ought to begin as we mean

to end."

"The child and her nurse would make little difference at Rathkeeran, Molly. As long as I live, she can have a home there."

"

'No, no. She is three days old. When you"-a sob choked her-" when you go and John succeeds and returns to the place, what would become of her? From what we know of him and his wild, rackety life in Dublin, he is not the man

to saddle himself with the bringing up of a motherless girl. Besides, the darling will want a motherly woman to love and train her, as she grows up."

"You're very eloquent," cried William O'Neill, a roughlooking man with sandy hair, and skin tanned dark red by the sun. 'Why don't you take the child yourself, Molly Dempster? You were mighty fond of poor Pat and his bit of a wife."

Molly sighed heavily, and her tears fell down like rain.

"I'm not free, Will. A married woman must do as her husband bids her. We are childless, and gladly, gladly would I welcome Pat's baby and do for her as if she were my own. But James Dempster says no. He will adopt no man's child. So my hands are tied. I cannot even pay for the little one's keep anywhere. I have no money of my own."

"No bachelor uncle could take home a child like that," Owen O'Neill remarked, his kindly, handsome face downcast, his voice full of sadness.

"A soldier like you, Owen, certainly could not, even if you were married, dear," Molly answered. "'Tis one of Pat's sisters should take the infant by right, only

The door opened and an elderly woman came in, carrying what looked like a bundle of shawls in her arms. She stood still for a moment in the middle of the room, then her eyes wandered anxiously from one face to another. She made a low curtsey to old Mr. O'Neill and said slowly :

"An' where, sir, is this blessed babe to sleep the night ? The place above is cold an' desarted, an' sure it's to her future home we ought to be goin', her an' me. So its thankful and obliged I'd be if ye would tell me where I'm to take her to. She's sleepin' now, the crathur, but she'll be frettin' and screechin' agin before long. So it's home I meant to take her, now she's quiet."

The old man uttered a deep groan, and looked helplessly round at his sons and daughters. His face was white and drawn, his lips tremulous, and as Molly's eyes met his, she told herself with a throb of pain, that he was suffering terribly.

"The tragedy has been too much for him-at his age. He'll never get over it, poor dear," she thought. "Soon, very soon, he'll be lying by his beloved son, I fear, in the old churchyard.

Oh! if I were but free, I'd take baby and go home with her and father to Rathkeeran for the present. But I'm not. My first duty is to my husband."

She looked up imploringly, at a young, fair-haired woman, who had darted forward to look at the baby, as the nurse brought it in. "Nesta!" she cried. "You? Ah! dear, it would bring a blessing on you"

"I would if I could," Nesta whispered low. 'But oh! we couldn't-just now, that we have to leave the country, Jim and

I."

"I forgot. Of course, you couldn't. Poor little waif, what will become of her? 'Tis hard to think that she must be rejected by us all. Everyone has refused her now, except Magdalen and Terence. Magdalen with five of her own, is not likely to want her in her house-and Terence is but a boy, penniless and in sore straits for money, I feel sure."

"We'll have all to subscribe a small sum each, yearly, and let Bridget Gallagher take the baby home," Nesta said, wellpleased with what she thought a brilliant idea. "She would care for her well, and be glad to have her for the money we'd give."

Molly flushed to her hair, and her eyes were full of indignation. "Your brother's child-brought up amongst the Gallaghers! For shame, Nesta, even to think of such a thing. Oh, I must talk to Magdalen. She, at least, has a mother's heart, and Michael is a man of kindly feeling. He will let her do what she likes, I

am sure."

Magdalen Tiernan was standing a little away from the others talking to her husband. He had his hand upon her shoulder, and was looking down at her tear-stained face, with tenderness and emotion.

One more wouldn't matter, Mike," she was saying, in a voice of supplication. "We'd never notice that there was another one in the nursery."

"You've work and plenty, Mag. It's you I'm thinking of, dear," he said, lovingly. "Not the bit the baby 'll eat. And if it wasn't too much for you, I'd welcome her in amongst our own little ones in the name of our Lord, Who loved little children. But "

His wife's face lit up with a sudden gleam of joy. "God

bless you, Mike," she whispered; "I never loved you better than I do this minute. The child will be no trouble, and she'll bring a blessing on us all. Molly, Molly!"-starting round to her sister, with outstretched hands-" Mike is willing, and so am I, to take little Elizabeth back to Dowcra, to-night. We'll take her now on the car, with Biddy, and keep her and love her as one of our own."

Molly uttered a cry of delight, and threw herself sobbing into her sister's arms.

"God bless you and Mike-and-and the children—little and big," she cried. "Oh! Magdalen, yours is the home for the wee thing. Though it's hard on you with so many"

"Hard! Not a bit." Magdalen patted her sister's shoulders and smiled softly, though her eyes were full of tears. "Pat's child will be like one of my own. She'll be brought up simply— but she'll have love and affection, and companionship that will be good for her. Decidedly our's is the home for her." And she took the baby from Biddy's arms and covered the little red face with kisses.

Magdalen Tiernan was about thirty-five. She had a comely, pleasant face, with brown eyes and soft, dark hair. She was not handsome, but there was something very sweet and winning in her kindly smile and bright, happy manner. All children took to her at once, and no one, old or young, could ever know her well, without loving her dearly.

As she stood now, the poor motherless baby clasped to her breast, her sisters and brothers looked at her with feelings of strong admiration, not unmixed with shame.

"She is a plucky one. With her small means and such a lot of her own, 'tis heroic to undertake the bringing up of another child like that," William O'Neill muttered under his breath, his red face growing redder. "We're all a set of selfish, take-care of-ourselves sort of creatures. But Mag must have help. A few pounds a year will be useful. So I'll guarantee twenty." And he strode across to Magdalen's side, and told her of his intentions.

"Oh! Will, that's good of you," she said gratefully. "It will be a help, indeed."

The next moment Magdalen and the baby were surrounded. One after the other, the uncles and aunts now pressed forward