Not every one would have cared for the post. Only a misanthropic
person indeed would have been satisfied with it. The henwife's
cottage and the poultry settlement might have been many miles from a
human habitation, so lonely were they. They were in a glen of red
sandstone, and half the wood lay between them and the Hall. The great
red walls stood so high round the glen that you could not even hear
the sea calling. As for the village, it was a long way below. You had
to go down a steep path from the glen before you came to an open
space, where you could see the reek of the chimneys under you. Every
morning Margret brought the eggs and the trussed chickens to the Hall.
But no one disturbed her solitude, except when the deer, or the wild
little red cattle came gazing curiously through the netting at Margret
and her charges. There, for twenty-seven years, Margret lived with no
company but the fowl. On Sundays and holidays she went to mass to the
Island Chapel, but gave no encouragement to those who would have gone
a step of the road home with her. The Island women used to wonder how
she could bear the loneliness.--'Why, God be betune us and harm!'
they often said, 'Sure the crathur might be robbed and murdhered any
night of the year and no wan the wiser.' And so she might, if the
Island possessed robbers and murderers in its midst. But it is a
primitively innocent little community, which sleeps with open doors as
often as not, and there is nothing to tempt marauders or even beggars
to migrate there.
By and by a feeling got about that Margret must be saving money. Her
wage as a henwife was no great thing, but then, as they said, 'she
looked as if she lived on the smell of an oil-rag,' and there was
plenty of food to be had in the Hall kitchen, where Margret waited
with her eggs and fowl every morning. Certainly her clothes, though
decent, were worn well-nigh threadbare. But the feelers that the
neighbours sent out towards Margret met with no solid assurance. Grim
and taciturn, Margret kept her own counsel, and was like enough to
keep it till the day of her death.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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