The McBrides Part 37

"I am s-safe, Bryde--safe--it is Helen." Margaret was weeping, and at these words Helen spoke to Bryde, even as we were staunching her wound.

"My Bryde," said she with a little smile, "and--I--was--almost--the bride--of Hugh. It--is--droll--poor Hugh."

Margaret would have taken the proud dark head to her breast, but Helen's voice came faintly, "J'y suis, j'y reste. Be very good to Bryde, Margaret, ma belle, while he is with you--you bring him peace and a great contentment and a so _great calm_." I wonder could she be smiling. "When he come to me he will 'ave no great calm--no great contentment--only--only--a great love."

So pa.s.sed that proud spirit.

And her serving-man, John McCook, would be with her on the journey, for his body was cold on the sh.o.r.e-head, and all the gameness out of it, for a ganger's bullet found his heart, for all that Kate Dol Beag thought she had it. But because John McCook was come of good folk, I took the dagger from Dol Beag's hand in the darkness, and wiped it clean, and put it back into the sheath, while folk were seeing to the wound on Bryde's shoulder, for a bullet had pa.s.sed through it, even as Helen robbed Dol Beag of his vengeance.

And of the folk, only those who dressed Helen for her last journey knew that her death was a dagger-wound, these and our own people.

The daylight was strong when we would be blowing out the lanterns, and the _Gull_ was away to the westward of the Craig, and the Revenue boat hard on her heels, but making little of it; and then came folk and lifted Dol Beag, and his back would not lie evenly on the board, but gave his body a cant to one side, and there was no wound on him, for I think he died of his laughing, and when he would be pa.s.sing, Dan McBride covered his face. . . .

It is after the dark wet days of winter that the sun comes again, bringing greenness to the world and joy into the voices of birds, and so came happiness to Bryde and Margaret in the old house of Nourn, for Hugh could not thole his native place for many years, and indeed did great things in America. And Margaret McBride would take her sons to the wee hill and tell them the great tales and the old stories, and her arm would be on the shoulder of her man, and her eyes resting on him.

And at night, after the reading, when the boys would be sent scampering to bed, you would see Bryde carrying a little la.s.s to her sleeping-place, and Margaret, his wife, following--and they would stand by the bedside and listen to the laughing--and you will know the name of that brave little la.s.s.