Only an Irish Boy Andy Burke's Fortunes

CHAPTER III ANDY AND HIS MOTHER

The house in which the Wid­ow Burke and her daugh­ter lived was a very hum­ble one. It had not been paint­ed for many years, and the orig­inal coat had worn off, leav­ing it dark and time-​stained. But when Mrs. Burke came to town, a short time be­fore, it was the on­ly dwelling she could hire that was held at a rent with­in her means. So she and Mary, who was now eleven years old, had moved in their scanty fur­ni­ture and made it look as much like a home as pos­si­ble.

Mrs. Burke had not al­ways been as poor as now. She was the daugh­ter of an Irish trades­man, and had re­ceived quite a good ed­uca­tion. In due time she mar­ried a small farmer, who was con­sid­ered to be in fair cir­cum­stances, but there came a bad year, and mis­for­tunes of var­ious kinds came to­geth­er. The last and heav­iest of all was fever, which pros­trat­ed her hus­band on a bed of sick­ness. Though his wife watched over him night and day with all the de­vo­tion of love, it was all of no avail. He died, and she found her­self left with about a hun­dred pounds--af­ter his debts were paid. She was ad­vised to go to Amer­ica with her two chil­dren, and did so. That was five years be­fore. They had lived in var­ious places--but the lit­tle sum she had left over, af­ter the pas­sage of the three was paid, had long since melt­ed away, and she was forced to get a liv­ing as she could.

Since she had come to Cramp­ton, leav­ing Andy at work for a farmer in the place where they had last lived, she had ob­tained what sewing she could from the fam­ilies in the vil­lage, and had be­sides ob­tained a chance to help about the iron­ing at Colonel Pre­ston's. Wash­ing was too hard for her, for her strength was not great.

At the time of our in­tro­duc­tion she was en­gaged in mak­ing a shirt, one of half a dozen which she had en­gaged to make for Dr. Plymp­ton, the vil­lage doc­tor. She had no idea that Andy was so near, hav­ing heard noth­ing of his hav­ing left his place, but it was of him she was speak­ing.

“I wish I could see Andy,” she sighed, look­ing up from her work.

“So do I, moth­er.”

“The sight of him would do my eyes good, he's such a live­ly lad, Andy is--al­ways in good spir­its.”

“Shure, he's got a good heart, moth­er dear. It wouldn't be so lone­ly like if he was here.”

“I would send for him if there was any­thing to do, Mary; but we are so poor that we must all of us stay where we can get work.”

“When do you go to Colonel Pre­ston's, moth­er? Is it to-​mor­row?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“I'm al­ways lone­ly when you are away.”

“Per­haps you would come with me, Mary, dear. Mrs. Pre­ston wouldn't ob­ject, I'm thinkin'.”

“If Andy was at home I wouldn't feel so lone­ly.”

While she was speak­ing Andy him­self had crept un­der the win­dow, and heard her words. He was plan­ning a sur­prise, but wait­ed for the last mo­ment to an­nounce him­self. He wait­ed to hear what re­ply his moth­er would say.

“I think we'll see him soon, Mary, dear.”

“What makes you say so, moth­er?”

“I don't know. I've got a feel­ing in my bones that we'll soon meet. The blessed saints grant that it may be so.”

“Your bones are right this time, moth­er,” said a mer­ry voice.

And Andy, pop­ping up from his stoop­ing po­si­tion, showed him­self at the win­dow.

There was a si­mul­ta­ne­ous scream from Mary and her moth­er.

“Is it you, Andy?” ex­claimed Mary.

“It isn't no­body else,” said Andy, rather un­gram­mat­ical­ly.

“Come in, Andy, my dar­ling--come in, and tell me if you are well,” said his moth­er, drop­ping the shirt on which she was at work, and ris­ing to her feet.

“I'll be with you in a jiffy,” said Andy.

And, with a light leap, he cleared the win­dow sill, and stood in the pres­ence of his moth­er and sis­ter, who vied with each oth­er in hug­ging the re­turned prodi­gal.

“You'll choke me, Sis­ter Mary,” said Andy, good-​hu­mored­ly. “Maybe you think I'm your beau.”

“Don't speak to her of beaux, and she on­ly eleven years old,” said his moth­er. “But you haven't told us why you came.”

“Faith, moth­er, it was be­cause the work gave out, and I thought I'd pack my trunk and come and see you and Mary. That's all.”

“We are glad to see you, Andy, dear, but,” con­tin­ued his moth­er, tak­ing a sur­vey of her son's ap­pear­ance for the first time, “you're lookin' like a beg­gar, with your clothes all in rags.”

Andy laughed.

“Faith, it's about so, moth­er. There was no one to mend 'em for me, and I'm more used to the hoe than the nee­dle.”

“I will sew up some of the holes when you're gone to bed, Andy. Are you sure you're well, lad?”

“Well, moth­er? Jist wait till you see me atin', moth­er. You'll think I've got a healthy ap­petite.”

“I nev­er thought, Andy. The poor lad must be hun­gry. Mary, see what there is in the clos­et.”

“There's noth­ing but some bread, moth­er,” said Mary.

In­deed bread and pota­toes were the main liv­ing of the moth­er and daugh­ter, adopt­ed be­cause they were cheap. They sel­dom ven­tured on the ex­trav­agance of meat, and that was one rea­son, doubt­less, for Mrs. Burke's want of strength and some­times feel­ing faint and dizzy while work­ing at her nee­dle.

“Is there no meat in the house, Mary?”

“Not a bit, moth­er.”

“Then go and see if there's an egg out­side.”

The wid­ow kept a few hens, hav­ing a hen­house in one cor­ner of the back yard. The eggs she usu­al­ly sold, but Andy was at home now, and need­ed some­thing hearty, so they must be more ex­trav­agant than usu­al.

Mary went out, and quick­ly re­turned with a cou­ple of eggs.

“Here they are, moth­er, two of them. The black hen was set­tin' on them, but I drove her away, and you can hear her cack­ling. Shure, Andy needs them more than she does.”

“Will you have them boiled or fried, Andy?” asked his moth­er.

“Any way, moth­er. I'm hun­gry enough to ate 'em raw. It's hun­gry work walkin' ten miles wid a bun­dle on your back, let alone the fight­in'.”

“Fight­ing!” ex­claimed Mrs. Burke, paus­ing in draw­ing out the ta­ble.

“Fight­in', Andy?” chimed in Mary, in cho­rus.

“Yes, moth­er,” said Andy.

“And who did you fight with?” asked the wid­ow, anx­ious­ly.

“With a boy that feels as big as a king; maybe big­ger.”

“What's his name?”

“I heard his fa­ther call him God­frey.”

“What, God­frey Pre­ston?” ex­claimed Mrs. Burke in some­thing like con­ster­na­tion.

“Yes, that's the name. He lives in a big house a mile up the road.”

“What made you fight with him, Andy?” in­quired his moth­er, anx­ious­ly.

“He be­gan it.”

“What could he have against you? He didn't know you.”

“He thought as I on­ly was an Irish boy he could in­sult me, and call me names, but I was too much for him.”

“I hope you didn't hurt him?”

“I throwed him twice, moth­er, but then his fa­ther came up and that put a stop to the fight.”

“And what did his fa­ther say?”

“He took my part, moth­er, when he found out how it was, and scold­ed his son. Shure, he's a gen­tle­man.”

“Yes, Colonel Pre­ston is a gen­tle­man.”

“And that's where he isn't like his son, I'm thinkin'.”

“No. God­frey isn't like his fa­ther. It's his moth­er he fa­vors.”

“Faith, and I don't call it fa­vor­ing,” said Andy. Is the old la­dy as ug­ly and big-​feel­in' as the son?"

“She's rather a hard wom­an, Andy. I go up to work there one day ev­ery week.”

“Do you, moth­er?” said Andy, not whol­ly pleased to hear that his moth­er was em­ployed by the moth­er of his young en­emy.

“Yes, Andy.”

“What is it you do?”

“I help about the iron­ing. To-​mor­row's my day for go­ing there.”

“I wish you could stay at home, and not go out to work, moth­er,” said Andy, sober­ly. “You don't look strong, moth­er, dear. I'm afraid you're not well.”

“Oh, yes, Andy, I am quite well. I shall be bet­ter, too, now that you are at home. I missed you very much. It seemed lone­ly with­out you.”

“I must find out some way to earn mon­ey, moth­er,” said Andy. “I'm young and strong, and I ought to sup­port you.”

“You can help me, Andy,” said Mrs. Burke, cheer­ful­ly.

She took up the shirt and re­sumed her sewing.

“I'm afraid you're too steady at the work, moth­er,” said Andy.

“I shall be iron­ing to-​mor­row. It's a change from sewing, Andy. Mary, it's time to take off the eggs.”

Andy was soon par­tak­ing of the fru­gal meal set be­fore him. He en­joyed it, sim­ple as it was, and left not a par­ti­cle of the egg or a crumb of the bread.