Orange Lily: Chapter XX

“Dust unto dust.

To this all must:

The tenant hast resigned

The faded form

To waste and worm—

Corruption claims her kind.”

Scott.

Some two or three years past, Colonel Alexander, up at the Castle, had “got married on an English lady with an estate and fortune,” as the Ballyboly people expressed it. So more than half the year was spent by them across the water, although they regularly paid visits to their home in Ulster. But the twin sisters still kept their own rooms at the Castle at all times, owing to their younger brother’s kindness; and yearly increased in gladness and in all good works, although Miss Edith’s health had somewhat failed, and she required a donkey-chair.

One day, the Castle ladies were brought on a silver salver what seemed a begging missive, as was not unusual; dirty, and smelling of peat-reek. It ran as follows:

“Dear Madams, with respect too youre ownered ladyships and in the naime off the lord I umbly creaive the request of yez both to cum and spake a wored in private. I amm 86 yeares of aige and no more speedy att travalin and has none too seport me being a Dessolet orfant. So youre ladyships will see that theaire iss a call for a fire onn the harth too warem sum Drinks for a sickley hart and a soone Departing sperit.

“but i doo not craiv a Peneworth, onely too just say this one wurred too you afore i go. No more at pressent from youre umble tenent.

Marey Devvelin.”

The name was quite unfamiliar to the lady-sisters; but, on inquiry, they found it was that of the old crone who was generally regarded by the Ballyboly folk as Orange Lily’s tame witch, whom she alone by her goodness controlled (and that not always!) from overlooking their cattle and casting an evil eye on the children. Going down to her mud cabin, accordingly, with gifts in their hands—since they disbelieved in the pride of her letter—they were surprised to find the ancient woman as forbidding and morose as in the days when she had barred her door against them. Although she allowed them to cross her threshold, she took their alms without thanks; and neither time nor trouble seemed likely to elicit what she had really wanted, since on this point she would only grunt. At last, just as with worn-out patience they rose to go, she suddenly produced a tattered Bible; and politely remarking that she considered them the only honest people in the country, intimated that they were to be witnesses to her will, which was written, as follows, on the fly-leaf:

“I bestowe all i hae onn James Keag’s eldest dochterr barring what iss to bury mee in the tea-pot.”

“And the Lord knows, that’s little,” she added, glowering at the sisters as if fearing they might rob her. Considering that she had lived by begging and stealing, until of late Lily Keag had altogether supported her, the Misses Alexander by no means doubted the truth of that last assertion; and only wondered what miserable rags would be the reward of that poor old soul’s good human angel.

Some three months later, however, the witch was found dead in her bed. And on Orange Lily going down with her father to perform out of pure charity what they now could for the dead, they found, to their unspeakable surprise, nearly five pounds in silver in that same tea-pot. Other and far larger sums were discovered secreted up the chimney, in the thatch, and under the mattress; forty pounds in all. So, since no one disputed the will, the ladies having told of its existence, Lill, seeking heavenly treasure, got a small earthly dower, and became an example of the rewards of virtue which set all the other young women of Ballyboly for some time crazed to support aged beggar women likewise.

One day the “old ladies,” as they began to be called, came up to the farm to congratulate their young friend and former school-favorite in their gentle formal way; and the one asked,

“By the way, Lily, did you ever finish your feather-bed?”

“Just last year, Miss Edith. It was slow work picking up the feathers,” answered the young woman, with a patient, apologetic smile.

“And now that I think of it, did you ever hear what became of your little playfellow of old, Thomas Coulter,” the other twin added, being reminded of bygone days by her sister’s question.

“No, Miss Alice.”

“Och! he’s settled and married out in America—or maybe dead. Anyhow, he has clean forgotten Ballyboly,” lustily replied Mistress Keag, who never shunned answering on this subject, as if they had nothing to conceal; although, to do her justice, she had not once broached it herself for some five years back.

Clean forgotten! The words rang afterwards, in still moments, in poor Orange Lily’s ears, like a far-off knell, which earth’s noises mostly drown. Maybe, indeed, it was true; she could not tell! For now, most often, she seemed to herself waiting for one who yet she knew would never come; and yet could not but wait. If alive, she still believed—not daring to appoint times or seasons to the fulfilment of her thought—that he would return. But often another thought came that he was dead; perhaps long, weary months ago.

That was a trying autumn on old folk. They died, “verily,” said James Keag, “as the ripe horse-chestnuts drop from the trees;” and amongst the rest the old grandfather Gilhorn was laid beside his fathers’ graves in the full churchyard. Few were surprised, but most were sorry to hear that he had left all he possessed to Daniel Gilhorn, but not a halfpenny of his large savings to Big John.

“Och! it was the blarneying that done it,” was the universal opinion through the country side; and although Danny swaggeringly promised to take a farm and settle in Ballyboly, foreseeing that he would be a little king in the country, but not much of a man in town, the neighbors would have preferred his cousin of few words to be a “big man,” in both senses, among them.

Order the new paperback edition of Orange Lily which includes an introduction, footnotes and a glossary of words by Dr Philip Robinson. The book also includes the short stories The Witch of Windy Hill and An Old Maid’s Marriage.