There were many from Darby’s own parish; and what was his surprise to see there Maureen McGibney, his own wife’s sister, whom he had supposed resting dacintly in her grave in holy ground these three years. She had flowers in her brown hair, a fine colour in her cheeks, a gown of white silk and goold, and her green mantle raiched to the heels of her purty red slippers.
There she was, gliding back and forth, ferninst a little gray-whuskered, round-stomached fairy man, as though there was never a care nor a sorrow in the world.
As I told you before, I tell you again, Darby was the finest reel dancer in all Ireland; and he came from a family of dancers, though I say it who shouldn’t, as he was my mother’s own cousin. Three things in the world banish sorrow—love and whisky and music. So, when the surprise of it all melted a little, Darby’s feet led him in to the thick of the throng, right under the throne of the King, where he flung care to the winds, and put his heart and mind into his two nimble feet. Darby’s dancing was such that purty soon those around stood still to admire.
There’s a saying come down in our family through generations which I still hould to be true, that the better the music the aisier the step. Sure never did mortal men dance to so fine a chune and never so supple a dancer did such a chune meet up with.
Fair and graceful he began. Backward and forward, sidestep and turn; cross over, then forward; a hand on his hip and his stick twirling free; sidestep and forward; cross over again; bow to his partner, and hammer the floor.
It wasn’t long till half the dancers crowded around admiring, clapping their hands, and shouting encouragement. The ould King grew so excited that he laid down the pipes, took up his fiddle, came down from the throne, and standing ferninst Darby began a finer chune than the first.
The dancing lasted a whole hour, no one speaking a word except to cry out, “Foot it, ye divil!” “Aisy now, he’s threading on flowers!” “Hooroo! Hooroo! Hooray!” Then the King stopped and said:
“Well, that bates Banagher, and Banagher bates the world! Who are you, and how came you here?”
Then Darby up and tould the whole story.
When he had finished, the King looked sayrious. “I’m glad you came, an’ I’m sorry you came,” he says. “If we had put our charm on you outside to bring you in, you’d never die till the end of the world, when we here must all go to hell. But,” he added quickly, “there’s no use in worrying about that now. That’s nayther here nor there! Those willing to come with us can’t come at all, at all; and here you are of your own free act and will. Howsomever, you’re here, and we daren’t let you go outside to tell others of what you have seen, and so give us a bad name about—about taking things, you know. We’ll make you as comfortable as we can; and so you won’t worry about Bridget and the childher, I’ll have a goold sovereign left with them every day of their lives. But I wish we had the comeither on you,” he says, with a sigh, “for it’s aisy to see you’re great company. Now come up to my place an’ have a noggin of punch for friendship’s sake,” says he.
That’s how Darby O’Gill began his six months’ stay with the Good People. Not a thing was left undone to make Darby contented and happy. A civiler people than the Good People he never met. At first he couldn’t get over saying, “God keep all here,” and “God save you kindly,” and things like that, which was like burning them with a hot iron.
If it weren’t for Maureen McGibney, Darby would be in Sleive-na-mon at this hour. Sure she was always the wise girl, ready with her crafty plans and warnings. On a day when they two were sitting alone together, she says to him:
“Darby, dear,” says she, “it isn’t right for a dacint man of family to be spending his days cavortin’, and idlin’, and fillin’ the hours with sport and nonsense. We must get you out of here; for what is a sovereign a day to compare with the care and protection of a father?” she says.
“Thrue for ye!” moaned Darby, “and my heart is just splittin’ for a sight of Bridget an’ the childher. Bad luck to the day I set so much store on a dirty, ongrateful, threacherous cow!”
“I know well how you feel,” says Maureen, “for I’d give the whole world to say three words to Bob Broderick, that ye tell me that out of grief for me has never kept company with any other girl till this day. But that’ll never be,” she says, “because I must stop here till the Day of Judgment, and then I must go to ⸻,” says she, beginning to cry, “but if you get out, you’n bear a message to Bob for me, maybe?” she says.
“It’s aisy to talk about going out, but how can it be done?” asked Darby.
“There’s a way,” says Maureen, wiping her big gray eyes, “but it may take years. First, you must know that the Good People can never put their charm on anyone who is willing to come with them. That’s whay you came safe. Then, agin, they can’t work harm in the daylight, and after cockcrow any mortal eye can see them plain; nor can they harm anyone who has a
