'Tis her ladyship up at the Castle that has the War at heart; 'tis no
laughin' matter wid her.
She came back from England wid the grandest modern notions for
conductin' the war in the home that ever ye'd see, an' a foreign
domestic maid she had hired in London.
"'Tis a poor Belgium refuge she is, Delaney," says Herself to meself.
"In the home she is afther lavin' there is nothing left standin' but
the wine-cellar, an' that full o' German Huns--she is wet wid weepin'
yet," says Herself; "so be kind to her, for we must help our brave
Allies."
So the Belgium refuge walks into the Castle an' becomes lady's maid.
A fine, upstandin' colleen it is, too, by the same token, wid notions
in dhress that turned all the counthry gurrls contemptjous wid envy,
an' a hat on the head of her that was like a conservatory for the
flowers that was in it. But did Herself's war work stop at adoptin'
our brave Alice? It did not. She gave the young ladies of the high
nobility a powerful organisin', an' they'd be in at Ballydrogeen
every day o' the week sellin' Frinch, Eyetalian, Rooshan, an' Japan
flags an' makin' a mint o' money at it. The lads that would be
comin' into Ballydrogeen Fair to do a bit of hand slappin' over a
pig, an' mebbe taste a tageen wid the luckpenny, would dishcover
themselves goin' home in the ass cart, pig an' all, sober as stones
an' plasthered thick wid flags the way you'd think they'd be the
winnin' boat at Galway Regatta. For 'tis a bould bouchal will stand
up to the young ladies of the high nobility whin they have their best
dhresses on an' do be prancin' up to ye, the smiles an' blarney
dhrippin' from them like golden syrup, wid their "Oh, Mickey, how is
your dear darlint baby? Have ye not the least little shillin' for
me, thin?" or their "Good day to ye, Terry Ryan; I'm all in love wid
that bay colt ye have, an' I will plague my Da into his grave until
he buys him for me. Will ye not have a small triflin' flag from me,
Terry Ryan?"
But did Herself's war work stop at flag selling? It did not. Wan
mornin' she comes steppin' down the garden as elegant as a champion
hackney, holdin' her skirts high out of the wet.
"Is that you, Delaney?" says she.
"It is, your ladyship," says I, crawlin' out from behindt the swate
pays.
"Listen to me," says she. "Thim flowers is nothin' but a luxury
these days. I'll have nothin' but war vigitables in my garden."
Says I, "Beggin' your pardon, but phwat may they be?" She was
puzzled for a moment, an' stands there scratchin' her ear as ye might
say.
"Oh, jist ordinary vigitables, only grown under war conditions," says
she at length. "At anny rate I'll have no flowers, so desthroy thim
entirely, an' grow vigitables in their place--d'you understand?" says
she.
"I do, your ladyship," says I.
I wint within to tell Anne Toher, the cook. "Herself is for
desthroyin' the flowers entirely, an' plantin' war vigitables," says
I.
"An' phwat may they be?" says the woman.
"The same as ordinary vigitables, only growed under war conditions,"
says I. "Ivvry spud doin' its duty, ivvry parsnip strugglin' to be
two. We will have carrots an' onions in iwry bed up to the front
door, Frinch beans trained all over the porch. Ye'll jist lane out
of the kitchen winda an' gather in the dinner yourself; 'twill be a
great savin' o' labour," says I.
"An' phwat'll ye do for the table decorations whin the gintry comes
callin'?" says Anne Toher.
"Faith," says I, "'tis aisy done; I will jist set a bookay o'
hothouse cabbages in the vases, an' if, mebbe, the Colonel would be
comin' home on lave an' should ax a nosegay to stick in his coat,
begob I'll have a fine sprig of parsley for him," says I.
"Ye poor man," says she, "'twill sour the heart within ye." Ah!
That was the true word, 'twas like pullin' me heart's blood out be
the roots to desthroy thim flowers; but it had to be done. War is
war.
By June the garden was nothin' but a say of vigitables, an' divil a
touch of colour to take your eye was there in it, no matter how long
you'd look.
Wan day I am up at the yard, seein' if, mebbe, Anne Toher would have
the taste o' tay in the pot, meself havin' a thirst on me that would
face the Shannon by dint of the hoein' I was afther doin' in the spud
plantations, whin the woman puts her head out of the kitchen winda.
"Whist, Delaney," says she, "there's gintry to lunch," says she.
"Phwat gintry?" says I.
"Sir Patrick Freebody, o' Michaelstown," says she, an' at that me
blood run cowld.
Sir Patrick Freebody had the grandest garden over at Michaelstown
that ivver you'd see in the nation of Ireland, an' a cousin to me,
John O'Callaghan, was gardener to him. There was no love betwane us
either, by the same token. I would as soon wake John O'Callaghan as
I would the Divil, an' that's the morthal truth, for all that he was
a cousin to me.
I knew how 'twould be as sure as I was alive in this worrld. Owld
Sir Pat would be into lunch before a bare board, an' whin he wint
home to Michaelstown he would be tellin' John O'Callaghan, an' I
would be skinned raw wid the jeerin' an' blaggardin' the same John
O'Callaghan would have wid me.
"Whisper, whin will they be atein'?" says I to Anne Toher.
"In ten minutes, please God, an' the spuds are soft," says she.
"Begob," says I to meself, "I'll set flowers on that table or cut my
throat across," an' I ran away, not knowin' where I'd be findin'
thim, not within five miles. But I was not half-way round the laurel
bushes whin the Blessed Saints sent me light.
In sivin minuites I had flowers in the middle bowl, an' backed away
behindt the hat-racks as Herself an' owld Sir Pat comes out of the
drawin'-room an' goes in to lunch. I set me eye to the kayhole and
watched, me heart like water betwane me teeth.
Owld Sir Pat, he mumbles an' coughs an' talks about the weather, an'
the war, an' the recruitin'.
Herself she talks about the soldiers' shest-protectors an' her war
work, an' how she was scared the Colonel was sittin' about at the
Front wid wet fate.
Presently the owld man notices the flowers in the bowl an' lanes over
the table blinkin' at thim through his spectacles in his half-blind
way.
"Lovely flowers ye have there, Lady Nugent, positive blaze o' colour.
How do you do it? Now, that scamp of a gardener of mine----" He
sits back again, tellin' Herself how John O'Callaghan had left his
chrysanthemums go to ruination wid blight. Her Ladyship takes wan
look at the flowers, her eyebrows go up, she turns as red as a
bateroot and bites her lip, but says nothin'. God bless her! I
backed away, breathin' aisy once more, but at that minuite down the
stairs comes our brave Alice, the Belgium refuge, all of a lather,
gabbing like a turkey in the foreign tongue, and runs straight for
the dinin'-room door.
'Tis a mercy I have the quick wit; I pulled down the Colonel's
dhress-sword from where it hung on the wall and headed her off,
wavin' it at her the way I'd draw the stroke of it across her
windpipe. She wint leppin' back up the stairs like a mountainy hare
among the rocks, thinkin', mebbe, the German Huns was come at her
again out of the wine-cellar.
An hour later I heard owld Sir Pat's car lavin' the front door, so I
sheathed me sword an' let her out of her bedroom where she had
herself locked in.
A strong shindy the gurrl raised, an' Herself forced me to buy her a
new hat out of me wages, seein' that her owld wan was desthroyed by
dint of the soakin' an' crushin' it had in the flower bowl; but sorra
the bit did I care, for I passed John O'Callaghan beyond in
Michaelstown on Sunday, an' divil a word said he, but scowled at me
in a way that did my heart good to see.