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"And I must confess," added the knobbly Mrs. Fursey, with a sigh, "it does look as though there must be some truth in the saying, after all." "Then ain't I a lucky little boy?" I asked. For hitherto it had been Mrs. Fursey's method to impress upon me my exceptional good fortune.
Even before this, it had puzzled me that everybody I knew should be going there for so I was always assured; now, connected as it appeared to be with the origin of Mrs. Fursey, much of its charm disappeared. But this was not all. Mrs. Fursey's information had suggested to me a fresh grief.
More than once we find a flagstone turned into a raft to bear a missionary band beyond the seas! St. Fursey exchanged diseases with his friend Magnentius, and, stranger still, the exchange was arranged and effected by correspondence! To the saints moreover are ascribed lives of incredible duration to Mochta, Ibar, Seachnal, and Brendan, for instance, three hundred years each; St.
Fursey's tone implied that she was stating what might possibly be but a popular fallacy, for which she individually took no responsibility. "And did you come from Heaven, Mrs. Fursey?" Mrs. Fursey's reply to this was decidedly more emphatic. "Of course I did. Where do you think I came from?" At once, I am ashamed to say, Heaven lost its exalted position in my eyes.
Patrick's cell, on the top of Croagh Patrick, the grandest mountain, perhaps, with the grandest outlook, in these British Isles, where stands still, I believe, an ancient wooden image, said to have belonged to St. Senan: such a bell as St. Fursey sent flying through the air to greet St.
Fursey, I would steal out with my supper and join him on the banks. There, hidden behind the osiers, we would play at banquets, he, it is true, doing most of the banqueting, and I the make-believe. But it was a good game; added to which it was the only game I could ever get him to play, though I tried. He was a one-ideaed rat. Later I came into the possession of a white specimen all my own.
In this moment of the crumbling from under me of all my footholds I would have clung even to that dry tuft, Mrs. Fursey herself. "Never any more. You'll go away and begin an entirely new life. And I do hope, Master Paul," added Mrs. Fursey, piously, "it may be a better one. That you will make up your mind to " But Mrs.
The next instant all was dark again, and I once more a puzzled little boy, sitting by a nursery fire, asking of a village dame questions concerning life. Suddenly a new thought came to me, or rather the recollection of an old. "Nurse, why haven't we got a husband?" Mrs. Fursey left off her sewing, and stared at me.
We had taken lodgings in the village: smaller now it seemed than previously; but wonderful its sunny calm, after the turmoil of the fierce dark streets. Mrs. Fursey was there still, but quite another than the Mrs.
Fursey, of the many promontories, waning. There were sunny mornings in the neglected garden, where the leaves played round us while we worked and read; twilight evenings in the window seat where, half hidden by the dark red curtains, we would talk in whispers, why I know not, of good men and noble women, ogres, fairies, saints and demons; they were pleasant days.
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