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Updated: June 11, 2025
Heth had been induced to lend her name as a member of the Settlement Association's organization committee. But it was from her cousin Henrietta Cooney that Carlisle had got most of her facts, at a recent coming-to-supper while Hugo was away. Canning, listening, was glancing about him.
He had been thinking of the day he had seen this fellow Garland dodging down the hall with those trousers there. Then, becoming aware of the footsteps, he said: "Pond back ... Is it?" But Mr. Dayne, looking out down the corridor, said no. After a pause, he added, in a yet lower voice: "It's young Cooney, from the Works ... And a lady."
With his shoulder Long Ede pushed up the trap. They saw his head framed in a panel of moonlight, with one frosty star above it. He was wriggling through. "Pitch him up a sleeping-bag, somebody," the Gaffer ordered, and Cooney ran with one. "Thank 'ee, mate," said Long Ede, and closed the trap. They heard his feet stealthily crunching the frozen stuff across the roof.
Nicholas Cooney was also spat upon, and so was his brother, both on their clothes and in their faces. Father Woods was looking on. Matthew Brogan, who was also thought to be against clerical dictation, was refused admission to mass; and not only poor Matthew himself, but his son, daughter-in-law, her children, and two friends who were suspected of sympathy.
Cooney, the historian of the North Shore, tells us that at the time of Davidson's arrival the abandoned houses of the French had been destroyed by the Indians, and our Scotch immigrant found himself the only white man in a vast and desolate region.
Long Ede lay stretched by the fire in a bundle of skins, reading in his only book, the Bible, open now at the Song of Solomon. Cooney had finished patching a pair of trousers, and rolled himself in his hammock, whence he stared at the roof and the moonlight streaming up there through the little trap-doors and chivying the layers of smoke.
No one ever told me that I ought to justify my existence, to pay my way. Nobody ever thought of me as fit to have any share in anything useful or important fit for any responsibility.... No, life for me was to be like butterflies flying, and my part was only to make myself as ornamental as I could...." V. Vivian, who wrote articles about the Huns in newspapers, stood at the Cooney mantel.
The two ladies, however, were only gone before, not lost, and through the portières joined freely in the conversation, which rattled on incessantly in the Cooney style. Carlisle sat on the rusty sofa, listening absently to the chatter.
Yet, as the poet Burns says: "The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley," and, after all, things did not turn out exactly as was at first expected; for when the children had made their rounds to say good bye to Ellis and Myrtle, Leona, Ora and the rest, and when they were actually on the boat with Cooney safe in a big basket, Uncle Dick pulled some letters out of his pocket and began to look them over.
Miss Ainslee told Molly confidentially that it made all the difference in the world to her that she was to have one of her own little pupils with her, and Polly, who really loved Cooney more than either of the others, was so delighted at not having to give him up that she was ready to share him generously with her cousins, and always lifted him over into Mary's or Molly's lap whenever one of them said: "Now, Polly, you have had him long enough."
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