HOW GEOFFREY GOES TO IRELAND AND WHAT HE SEES THERE.
It is early morn. "The first low breath of waking day stirs the wide
air." On bush and tree and opening flower the dew lies heavily, like
diamonds glistening in the light of the round sun. Thin clouds of pearly
haze float slowly o'er the sky to meet its rays; and
Envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Geoffrey, with his gun upon his shoulder, trudges steadily onward
rejoicing in the freshness of the morning air.
To his right lies Bantry Bay, that now is spreading itself out in all
its glory to catch the delicate hues of the sky above. They rush to
greet it, and, sinking deep down into its watery embrace, lie there all
day rocked to and fro by the restless ocean.
From the hills the scent of the heather is wafted towards him, filling
him with a subtle keen sense of youth and gladness and the absolute joy
of living. His good dog is at his heels; a boy--procured from some
neighboring cabin, and warranted not to wear out, however long the
journey to be undertaken or how many miles to travel--carries his bag
beside him.
Game as yet is not exactly plentiful: neither yesterday nor the day
before could it be said that birds flock to his gun; there is, indeed, a
settled uncertainty as to whether one may or may not have a good day's
sport. And yet perhaps this very uncertainty gives an additional
excitement to the game.
Here and there a pack is discovered, so unexpectedly as to be doubly
welcome. And sometimes a friendly native will tell him of some quiet
corner where "his honor" will surely find some birds, "an be able in the
evenin' to show raison for his blazin'." It is a somewhat wild life, but
a pleasant one, and perhaps, on the whole, Mr. Rodney finds Ireland an
agreeable take-in, and the inhabitants of it by no means as eccentric or
as bloodthirsty as he has been led to believe. He has read innumerable
works on the Irish peasantry, calculated to raise laughter in the
breasts of those who claim the Emerald Isle as their own,--works written
by people who have never seen Ireland, or, having seen it, have thought
it a pity to destroy the glamour time has thrown over it, and so reduce
it to commonplaceness.
He is, for instance, surprised, and indeed somewhat relieved, when he
discovers that the drivers of the jaunting-cars that take him on his
shooting-expeditions are not all modern Joe Millers, and do not let off
witty remarks, like bombshells, every two minutes.
He is perhaps disappointed in that every Irish cloak does not conceal a
face beautiful as a houri's. And he learns by degrees that only one in
ten says "bedad," and that "och murther?" is an expression almost
extinct.
They appear a kindly, gentle, good-humored people,--easily led, no doubt
(which is their undoing), but generous to the heart's core; a people who
can speak English fluently (though with a rich brogue) and more
grammatically than the Sassenachs themselves (of their own class),
inasmuch as they respect their aspirates and never put an _h_ in or
leave one out in the wrong place.
The typical Irishman, in whom Lever delighted, with his knee-breeches
and long-tailed coat, his pig under one arm and his shillalah under the
other, is literally nowhere! The caubeen and the dhudheen which we are
always hearing about may indeed be seen, but they are very usual objects
in all lands, if one just alters the names, and scarcely create
astonishment in the eyes of the on-looker.
The dhudheen is an institution, no doubt, but the owner of it, as a
rule, is not to be found seated on a five-barred gate, with a shamrock
pinned in his hat and a straw in his mouth, singing "Rory O'More" or
"Paddy O'Rafferty," as the case may be. On the contrary, poor soul, he
is found by Geoffrey either digging up his potatoes or stocking his turf
for winter use.
Altogether, things are very disappointing; though perhaps there is
comfort in the thought that no one is waiting round a corner, or lying
_perdu_ in a ditch, ready to smash the first comer with a blackthorn
stick, or reduce him to submission with a pike, irrespective of cause or
reason.
Rodney, with the boy at his side, is covering ground in a state of
blissful uncertainty. He may be a mile from home, or ten miles, for all
he knows, and the boy seems none the wiser.
"Where are we now?" says Geoffrey, suddenly, stopping and facing "the
boy."
"I don't know, sir."
"But you said you knew the entire locality,--couldn't be puzzled within
a radius of thirty miles. How far are we from home?"
"I don't know, sir. I never was abroad before, an' I'm dead bate now,
an' the bag's like lead."
"You're a nice boy, you are!" says Mr. Rodney; "Here, give me the bag!
Perhaps you would like me to carry you too; but I shan't, so you needn't
ask me. Are you hungry?"
"No," says the boy valiantly; but he looks hungry, and Geoffrey's heart
smites him, the more in that he himself is starving likewise.
"Come a little farther," he says, gently, slinging the heavy bag across
his own shoulders. "There must be a farmhouse somewhere."
There is. In the distance, imbedded in trees, lies an extensive
farmstead, larger and more home-like than any he has yet seen.
"Now, then, cheer up, Paddy!" he says to the boy: "yonder lies an oasis
in our howling wilderness."
Whereat the boy smiles and grins consumedly, as though charmed with his
companion's metaphor, though in reality he understands it not at all.
As they draw still nearer, Geoffrey becomes aware that the farmyard
before him is rich with life. Cocks are crowing, geese are cackling, and
in the midst of all this life stands a girl with her back turned to the
weary travellers.
"Wait here," says Geoffrey to his squire, and, going forward, rests the
bag upon a low wall, and waits until the girl in question shall turn her
head. When she does move he is still silent, for, behold, _she_ has
turned _his_ head!
She is country bred, and clothed in country garments, yet her beauty is
too great to be deniable. She is not "divinely tall," but rather of
medium height, with an oval face, and eyes of "heaven's own blue." Their
color changes too, and deepens, and darkens, and grows black and purple,
as doth the dome above us. Her mouth is large, but gracious, and full of
laughter mixed with truth and firmness. There is no feature that can so
truly express character as the mouth. The eyes can shift and change, but
the mouth retains its expression always.
She is clad in a snowy gown of simple cotton, that sits loosely to her
lissom figure yet fails to disguise the beauty of it. A white kerchief
lies softly on her neck. She has pulled up her sleeves, so that her arms
are bare,--her round, soft, naked arms that in themselves are a perfect
picture. She is standing with her head well thrown back, and her
hands--full of corn--lifted high in the air, as she cries aloud, "Cooee!
Cooee!" in a clear musical voice.
Presently her cry is answered. A thick cloud of pigeons--brown and white
and bronze and gray--come wheeling into sight from behind the old house,
and tumble down upon her in a reckless fashion. They perch upon her
head, her shoulders, her white soft arms, even her hands, and one, more
adventurous than the rest, has even tried to find a slippery
resting-place upon her bosom.
"What greedy little things!" cries she aloud, with the merriest laugh in
the world. "Sure you can't eat more than enough, can you? an' do your
best! Oh, Brownie," reproachfully, "what a selfish bird you are!"
Here Geoffrey comes forward quietly, and lifts his hat to her with all
the air of a man who is doing homage to a princess. It has occurred to
him that perhaps this peerless being in the cotton gown will feel some
natural chagrin on being discovered by one of the other sex with her
sleeves tucked up. But in this instance his knowledge of human nature
receives a severe shock.
Far from being disconcerted, this farmyard goddess is not even ashamed
(as indeed how could she be?) of her naked arms, and, coming up to him,
rests them upon the upper rung of the entrance-gate and surveys him
calmly if kindly.
"What can I do for you?" she asks, gently.
"I think," says Geoffrey, slightly disconcerted by the sweet leisure of
her gaze, "I have lost my way. I have been walking since sunrise, and I
want you to tell me where I am."
"You are at Mangle Farm," returns she. Then, judging by the blank
expression on his face that her words bring him no comfort, she
continues with a smile, "That doesn't seem to help you much, does it?"
He returns her smile in full,--_very_ full. "I confess it doesn't help
me at all," he says. "Mangle Farm, I am sure, is the most attractive
spot on earth, but it tells me nothing about latitude or longitude. Give
me some further help."
"Then tell me where you come from, and perhaps I may be able." She
speaks softly, but quickly, as do all the Irish, and with a brogue
musical but unmistakable.
"I am staying at a shooting-lodge called Coolnagurtheen. Do you know
where that is."
"Oh, of course," returns she, with a sudden accession of animation. "I
have often seen it. That is where the young English gentleman is staying
for the shooting."
"Quite right. And I am the young English gentleman," says Geoffrey,
lifting his hat again by way of introduction.
"Indeed, are you?" asks she, raising her pretty brows. Then she smiles
involuntarily, and the pink flush in her rounded cheeks grows a shade
deeper. Yet she does not lower her eyes, or show the slightest touch of
confusion. "I might have guessed it," she says, after a minute's survey
of the tall gray-coated young man before her. "You are not a bit like
the others down here."
"Am I not?" says he, humbly, putting on his carefully crestfallen air
that has generally been found so highly successful. "Tell me my fault."
"I will--when I find it," returns she, with an irrepressible glance,
full of native but innocent coquetry, from her beautiful eyes.
At this moment one of the pigeons--a small, pretty thing,
bronze-tinged--flies to her, and, resting on her shoulder, makes a
tender cooing sound, and picks at her cheek reproachfully, as though
imploring more corn.
"Would you bite me?" murmurs she, fondly, as the bird flies off again
alarmed at the presence of the tall stranger, who already is busy
comparing most favorably the face of its mistress with the faces of all
the fashionable beauties London has been raving about for eighteen
months. "Every morning they torment me like this," she says, turning to
Geoffrey, with a little pleasant confidential nod.
"He looked as if he wanted to eat you; and I'm sure I don't wonder at
it," says Geoffrey, making the addition to his speech in a lower key.
"And have you walked from Coolnagurtheen this morning? Why, it is eight
miles from this," says she, taking no notice of his last speech. "You
could have had no breakfast!"
"Not yet; but I suppose there must be a village near here, and an inn,
and I want you to direct me how to get to it. I am giving you a great
deal of trouble," remorsefully, "but my boy knows nothing."
He points as he speaks to the ignorant Paddy, who is sitting on the
ground with his knees between his hands, crooning a melancholy ditty.
"The village is two miles farther on. I think you had better come in and
breakfast here. Uncle will be very glad to see you," she says,
hospitably. "And you must be tired."
He hesitates. He _is_ tired, and hungry too; there is no denying. Even
as he hesitates, a girl coming out to the door-step puts her hand over
her eyes, and shouts pleasantly from afar to her mistress,--
"Miss Mona, come in; the tay will be cold, an' the rashers all spoiled,
an' the masther's callin' for ye."
"Come, hurry," says Mona, turning to Geoffrey, with a light laugh that
seems to spring from her very heart. "Would you have the 'tay' get cold
while you are making up your mind? I at least must go."
She moves from him.
"Then thank you, and I shall go with you, if you will allow me," says
Geoffrey, hurriedly, as he sees her disappearing.
"Tell your boy to go to the kitchen," says Mona, thoughtfully, and,
Paddy being disposed of, she and Geoffrey go on to the house.
They walk up a little gravelled path, on either side of which trim beds
of flowers are cut, bordered with stiff box. All sorts of pretty,
sweetly-smelling old wild blossoms are blooming in them, as gayly as
though they have forgotten the fact that autumn is rejoicing in all its
matured beauty. Crimson and white and purple asters stand calmly gazing
towards the sky; here a flaming fuchsia droops its head, and there,
apart from all the rest, smiles an enchanting rose.
"That like a virgin queen salutes the sun
Dew-diadem'd."
Behind the house rises a thick wood,--a "solemn wood," such as Dickens
loved to write of, with its lights and shades and every-varying tints. A
gentle wind is rushing through it now; the faint murmur of some "hidden
brook," singing its "quiet tune," fall upon the ear; some happy birds
are warbling in the thickets. It is a day whose beauty may be felt.
"I have no card but my name is Geoffrey Rodney," says the young man,
turning to his companion.
"And mine is Mona Scully," returns she, with the smile that seems part
of her lips, and which already has engraven itself on Mr. Rodney's
heart. "Now, I suppose, we know each other."
They walk up two steps, and enter a small hall, and then he follows her
into a room opening off it, in which breakfast lies prepared.
It is in Geoffrey's eyes a very curious room, unlike anything he has
ever seen before; yet it possesses for him (perhaps for that very
reason) a certain charm. It is uncarpeted, but the boards are white as
snow, and on them lies a fine sprinkling of dry sand. In one of the
windows--whose panes are diamond-shaped--two geraniums are in full
flower; upon the deep seat belonging to the other lie some books and a
stocking half knitted.
An old man, rugged but kindly-featured, rises on his entrance, and gazes
at him expectantly. Mona, going up to him, rests her hand upon his arm,
and, indicating Geoffrey by a gesture, says, in a low tone,--
"He has lost his way. He is tired, and I have asked him to have some
breakfast. He is the English gentleman who is living at Coolnagurtheen."
"You're kindly welcome, sir," says the old man, bowing with the slow and
heavy movement that belongs to the aged. There is dignity and warmth,
however, in the salute, and Geoffrey accepts with pleasure the toil-worn
hand his host presents to him a moment later. The breakfast is good,
and, though composed of only country fare, is delicious to the young
man, who has been walking since dawn, and whose appetite just now would
have astonished those dwelling in crowded towns and living only on their
excitements.
The house, is home-like, sweet, and one which might perhaps day by day
grow dearer to the heart; and this girl, this pretty creature who every
now and then turns her eyes on Geoffrey, as though glad in a kindly
fashion to see him there, seems a necessary part of the whole,--her
gracious presence rendering it each moment sweeter and more desirable.
"My precept to all who build is," says Cicero, "that the owner should be
an ornament to the house, and not the house to the owner."
Mona pours out the tea--which is excellent--and puts in the cream--which
is a thing to dream of--with a liberal hand. She smiles at Geoffrey
across the sugar-bowl, and chatters to him over the big bowl of flowers
that lies in the centre of the table. Not a hothouse bouquet faultlessly
arranged, by any means, but a great, tender, happy, straggling bunch of
flowers that seem to have fallen into their places of their own accord,
regardless of coloring, and fill the room with their perfume.
His host going to the window when breakfast is at an end, Geoffrey
follows him; and both look out upon the little garden before them that
is so carefully and lovingly tended.
"It is all her doing," says the old man,--"Mona's, I mean. She loves
those flowers more than anything on earth, I think. Her mother was the
same; but she wasn't half the lass that Mona is. Never a mornin' in the
cowld winter but she goes out there to see if the frost hasn't killed
some of 'em the night before."
"There is hardly any taste so charming or so engrossing as that for
flowers," says Geoffrey, making this trite little speech, that sounds
like a copy-book, in his most engaging style. "My mother and cousin do a
great deal of that sort of thing when at home."
"Ay, it looks pretty and gives the child something to do." There is a
regretful ring in his tone that induces Geoffrey to ask the next
question.
"Does she--does Miss Scully find country life unsatisfying? Has she not
lived here always?"
"Law, no, sir," says the old man, with a loud and hearty laugh. "I think
if ye could see the counthry girls round here, an' compare 'em with my
Mona, you'd see that for yerself. She's as fine as the queen to them.
Her mother, you see, was the parson's daughter down here; tiptop she
was, and purty as a fairy, but mighty delicate; looked as if a march
wind would blow her into heaven. Dan--he was a brother of mine, an' a
solicitor in Dublin. You've been there, belike?"
"Yes; I stopped there for two or three days on my way down here.
Well--and--your brother?" He cannot to himself explain the interest he
feels in this story.
"Dan? He was a fine man, surely; six feet in his stockin', he was, an'
eyes like a woman's. He come down here an' met her, an' she married him.
Nothing would stop her, though the parson was fit to be tied about it.
An' of course he was no match for her,--father bein' only a bricklayer
when he began life,--but still I will say Dan was a fine man, an' one to
think about; an' no two ways in him, an' _that_ soft about the heart. He
worshipped the ground she walked on; an' four years after their marriage
she told me herself she never had an ache in her heart since she married
him. That was fine tellin', sir, wasn't it? Four years, mind ye. Why,
when Mary was alive (my wife, sir) we had a shindy twice a week, reg'lar
as clockwork. We wouldn't have known ourselves without it; but, however,
that's nayther here nor there," says Mr. Scully, pulling himself up
short. "An' I ask yer pardon, sir, for pushing private matters on ye
like this."
"But you have interested me," says Geoffrey, seating himself on the
broad sill of the window, as though preparing for a long dissertation on
matters still unknown. "Pray tell me how your brother and his lovely
wife--who evidently was as wise and true as she was lovely--got on."
Mr. Rodney's face being of that rare kind that is as tender as it is
manly, and by right of its beauty demands confidence, the old man (who
dearly loves his own voice) is encouraged to proceed.
"They didn't get on for long," he says, mournfully,--and what voice is
so full of melancholy as the Irish voice when it sinks into sadness?
"When the little one--Mona--was barely five years old, they went to
ground; Mount Jerome got them. Fever it was; and it carried 'em both off
just while ye'd have time to look round ye. Poor souls, they went to the
blessed land together. Perhaps the Holy Virgin knew they would have got
on badly without each other anywhere."
"And the child,--Miss Mona?" asks Geoffrey.
"She went to live in Anthrim with her mother's sister. Later she got to
Dublin, to her aunt there,--another of the parson's daughters,--who
married the Provost in Thrinity; a proud sort he was, an' awful tiresome
with his Greeks an' his Romans, an' not the height of yer thumb," says
Mr. Scully, with ineffable contempt. "I went to Dublin one day about
cattle, and called to see me niece; an' she took to me, bless her, an'
I brought her down with me for change of air, for her cheeks were whiter
than a fleece of wool, an' she has stayed ever since. Dear soul! I hope
she'll stay forever. She is welcome."
"She must be a great comfort to you," says Geoffrey from his heart.
"She is that. More than I can say. An' keeps things together, too. She
is clever like her father, an' he was on the fair way to make a fortune.
Ay, I always say it, law is the thing that pays in Ireland. A good sound
fight sets them up. But I'm keeping you, sir, and your gun is waitin'
for ye. If you haven't had enough of me company by this," with another
jolly laugh, "I'll take ye down to a field hard by, an' show ye where I
saw a fine young covey only yesternight."
"I--I should like to say good-by to Miss Mona, and thank her for all her
goodness to me, before going," says the young man, rising somewhat
slowly.
"Nay, you can say all that on your way back, an' get a half-shot into
the bargain," says old Scully, heartily. "You'll hardly beat the potheen
I can give ye." He winks knowingly, pats Rodney kindly on the shoulder,
and leads the way out of the house. Yet I think Geoffrey would willingly
have bartered potheen, partridge, and a good deal more, for just one
last glance at Mona's beautiful face before parting. Cheered, however,
by the prospect that he may see her before night falls, he follows the
farmer into the open air.