THE CREAMERY
It was through my godmother that I went to learn the butter-making at
the Creamery, and since it was strange that my grandparents should have
permitted me to go, I must explain how it was that Miss Champion came to
have so much influence with them and over our affairs generally, and who
the lady was.
She was our nearest neighbour, at Castle Clody, the beautiful old house
which stands on the side of the river Clody, overlooking the falls. She
had been an orphan almost from her birth, and had grown up as
independent and able to manage her affairs as any man.
She was a great sportswoman even in our country of such, and being
exposed to all manner of wind and weathers, her face had come to have a
weather-beaten look. She had very beautiful grey eyes and a deal of
black, silken hair, and she was unusually tall. Even the weather, when
it had roughened and tanned her complexion, had but given her a new
charm to my mind, for she looked as wholesome and sweet and out-of-doors
as the weather itself. Yet people said she was plain. I could not see
it, but then she was too good to me and I loved her.
I remember that usually she wore grey tweed tailor-made gowns, in which
her beautiful figure showed to advantage, unless she happened to be
riding when she wore a dark grey habit. But I have seen her very
splendid when she went out in the evening; and I have never seen a woman
better fitted to grace splendid garments.
She had taken to herself at Castle Clody, because it was her nature to
foster and protect something, a cousin of hers, a peevish, exacting
invalid whom we always called Miss Joan, her name being Joan Standish.
If you spent only ten minutes by Miss Joan's bedside you were sure to
hear her grumble at her cousin Mary. Since everything was done for her
that could possibly be done for an invalid her lot had great
alleviations, but she seemed to take it as an offence that my godmother
should be so strong and free, should walk with such a swinging stride,
and always enjoy her food, and bring that smell of the open air with her
wherever she came.
She had an unpleasant flattering way with her at times.
"Come, my dear," she would say, "sit down and talk to me. I live in so
dreary an isolation, and my nerves get into that state that I could
scream when a harsh voice falls on my ear. Your voice is soft and sweet,
but have you ever noticed Mary's? It is as harsh as a crow's, and when
she comes in with those strong boots of hers creaking she destroys my
peace of mind for an hour."
"She has a beautiful voice," I answered her once, "and there is such
assurance in her tread. I should think it would be more trying to the
nerves to live where every one went tiptoe."
But no manner of coldness could check Miss Joan's propensity for
belittling her benefactress. And I remember that once she had been
tittle-tattling as usual, and had said something more indefensible than
usual of her benefactress, when looking up suddenly we found Miss
Champion in the room.
"Let the child love me, Joan," she said, with the nearest approach to
sharpness I ever heard in her speech; but when Miss Joan burst into
tears she stooped and shook up her pillows and soothed her in a way that
was tender without being attached, and afterwards she said something to
me which was a dark saying since I did not know the secret between her
and Miss Joan.
"One must needs be good to anything that has hurt one so much," she
said.
I had always known vaguely that there was something between Mary
Champion and my Uncle Luke, and that explained to some extent her
influence with my grandparents. She brought into their shut-up lives,
indeed, the open air and the ways of other folk, without which I think
we should have all grown too strange and odd and a century at least
behind our time. Indeed, even with her, I think we were so much out of
date.
"The child grows more and more like a plant which has lived without the
light," she said one day of me to my grandmother.
"It is Bawn's nature to look pale," my grandmother said, looking at me
in an alarmed way.
"It is her nature to look pale perhaps," my godmother said, while I
fidgeted at hearing myself discussed, "but she ought to look no paler
than this apple-blossom I am wearing, which at all events dreams of
rose-colour. You keep her too much penned. I shall have to carry her
off to Dublin for some gaiety. If the season were not nearly over----"
"We couldn't do without Bawn," said my grandmother hastily. "We are too
old to live without something young beside us. Besides, she is very
happy--aren't you, Bawn?"
"Very happy." I answered the appeal in her dear voice and eyes. And to
be sure I was happy, if it were not for the loneliness and the ghosts at
night.
"She is always reading," my godmother went on. "Young girls should not
be always reading. It bends their backs and dims their eyes and makes
them forget their walks and rides. I'll tell you what, Lady St. Leger,
you had better let Bawn come and learn butter-making with me at the
Creamery. I am going to take a course of lessons and then I can make my
own butter. I think Margaret Dwyer is getting past her work. Joan says
the butter is rancid, and for once I believe Joan has cause. Every lady
ought to at least superintend her own dairy."
"I used to visit mine often," said my grandmother, "before Lord St.
Leger needed so much of my time. It was a pretty place, with white walls
and a fountain bubbling. It is a long time since I have visited it."
"Let Bawn do it. I went to visit Lady Ardaragh the other day, and she
gave me tea in her dairy. It is coming into fashion to be housekeepers
and dairymaids once more."
"Would you like to go to the Creamery, Bawn?" asked my grandmother.
"I should love to," said I. "And to have a herd of little Kerries like
Lady Ardaragh. The dairy is as pretty as ever, but it wants washing, and
the fountain is broken. I believe Michael Friely could mend it."
My grandfather made no objection when he heard of the plan, only saying
something with a laugh about fine ladies liking to play dairymaids. So
it was settled I should go to the Creamery; and Bridget Connor made
gowns of cotton for me to wear at the Creamery, and white aprons to go
with them.
I think my grandmother looked on it as a child's play for my diversion,
and she would have Bridget make me as pretty as she could. I dare say I
did look as though I played at work, for I caught sight of myself in the
Venetian mirror on the wall of my grandmother's boudoir as she turned me
round about, her maid, Bridget Connor, who learnt dressmaking in Paris,
pinching here and letting loose there.
The walls of my grandmother's boudoir are covered with mother-of-pearl
which glows splendidly when the lamps are lit.
I glanced at the Venetian mirror and saw myself like a rose in my rosy
frock, with the apron of spotless muslin and the mushroom hat with a
wreath of pink roses. My grandmother said something about dairying at
the Petit Trianon, but indeed my intentions were of the most
business-like.
I remember that it was the month of May, and all the pastures were
richest gold and snowiest white, drifts of gold and white. The
thorn-trees were all in bloom, and the banks were covered with the white
stitchwort and blue speedwell. The birds were in full song, and the
mornings and evenings were especially delicious.
I was to attend the Creamery for three months, so as to become
proficient in dairymaid work, and then I thought I could do some good
among our own people who could not afford to send a girl to the Creamery
to learn her business. Or it might be where there was no girl, and the
vanithee-that is to say, the good woman--did her work in her own way,
not half pressing the water out of the butter, so that it became rancid
after a few hours, or letting the cream become rancid before she churned
it. I had hopes that I could persuade even the most obstinate of them to
mend their ways; and that perhaps was an indication of my youth.