“What is the matter? What has happened?” asked Aunt Lizzie. “Just open
the window and find out,” she added, with her usual brisk decision.
It was nine o’clock on a dull September evening, and we two ladies
were seated side by side in a 40 h.p. Daimler, which had suddenly come
to a full stop on a country road, in the west of Ireland. On either
hand stretched a wide expanse of dark mysterious country, to which the
white waving bog cotton gave a ghostly, weird appearance. Black water
in neighbouring bog-holes flashed back on us like phantom eyes, a
dazzling reflection of the motor’s huge lamps. Undoubtedly our outlook
was sombre and discouraging--as if the land nurtured some secret sorrow
that no stranger could properly understand. The moon had not yet risen,
but was shyly peeping at us from behind a low range of distant hills;
not a soul was in sight, nor a sound to be heard, except the cry of a
belated curlew, and the voices of our men; the car itself had ceased to
throb.
As the chauffeur came to the window, and touched his cap, my aunt said:
“Have you missed the road, Watkin? Or is it a breakdown?”
“I’m afraid it’s a bit of both, ma’am. You see, these ’ere
cross-country roads is terrible puzzling, and I’m thinking we took the
wrong turn about three mile back. Then there’s been a kind of a mishap
to the car--this extra twenty miles and bad road has done it. If we had
stopped at Mulligooley for the night I was going to overhaul her, and
have her all right for the morning.”
Watkin (an old servant) was obviously aggrieved; he had no sympathy
with his mistress’s continual craving to push on, and would have
preferred to spend the night in a poky country hotel, sup and smoke
comfortably, and brag a little about his car.
“But surely we ought to be near the station by this time. I’ll get out
and have a look round.” As she spoke, my aunt nimbly descended, and I
followed. For her fifty-five years, she was an extraordinarily active
and energetic person.
Gaze around as we might, there was no sign of lights, or station, and,
as far as one could judge by appearances, we four people, standing by
an empty motor, were alone in a world of brooding solitude.
“Do you think, Watkin, we have _any_ chance of getting on?”
“Well, ma’am, I’m afraid not. You see, if it was only a burst tyre--we
might manage--but----” he coughed behind his dogskin glove.
But he was too wise to say “I told you so.” This foolish late trip
had been made entirely against his warning and advice; and behold us
with night at hand, stranded on a desolate bog road, apparently out
of humanity’s reach. My aunt, Miss Elizabeth Barrett, and I, had been
making a tour through Ireland, and so far everything had gone smoothly;
roads, weather, motor, even the accommodation at inns was better
than we anticipated. We had visited Portrush, the Giant’s Causeway,
Dublin, Wicklow, Killarney, Connemara, and were now on our way to
Queenstown--and England.
“I expect this is _the_ adventure at last!” suggested my aunt
cheerfully; “it would be too bad to leave Ireland without one.”
“If it is the adventure,” I answered, “it is not of the description I
care for. I----”
“Of course not,” she interrupted, “but you are three and twenty--I know
_your_ kind!”
“So I suppose we shall spend the night sitting in the road?” I grumbled.
“No, no, that is not to be thought of, with your delicate chest. We
shall get a bed somewhere. Ah!” in a tone of triumph, “look over to
the left, on the rising ground--there is a light--two lights--it’s a
house!” Then, raising her voice, she said to the footman, “Jopp! I see
a cottage on that hill. Take one of the car lamps, and go and ask if
they can give us a night’s lodging.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Jopp, and presently he set off with, as it seemed to
me, considerable reluctance, in the direction of this beacon. Meanwhile
we remained in the motor--whilst Watkin grovelled beneath it--and
watched the lamp flickering over the bog, and taking a surprisingly
zig-zag course.
“I was sure there would be some house,” said my companion complacently,
“and I do hope the bed will be clean! It will be rather fun for once,
won’t it?”
Her character was optimistic, active, and restless. She gave the
impression of being determined to get all she could out of what
remained to her of life--since her youth and middle age had been
cruelly cramped and sacrificed.
My aunt was slim and erect, with thin clear-cut profile, keen blue
eyes, beautiful white hair, and a very strong will. And why not? A
spinster lady, with no encumbrance, no ailing relatives, and four
thousand a year, can well afford one. Aunt Liz had not long enjoyed
such easy circumstances. Most of her life had been absorbed in
assiduous attendance on a hypochondriacal old godfather; her spring and
summer had passed in housekeeping, nursing, reading aloud, listening
to continuous grumbling, scolding, and symptoms and accompanying the
invalid to endless foreign cures. Such had been her existence. For
this servitude she received sixty pounds a year, and washing; but when
her tyrant died it was found that he had not been ungrateful, and had
left her an unexpectedly large fortune, and, late as it was, she lost
no time in becoming a live woman! A cottage in the country, a flat in
town, and a motor, were soon among her possessions, but for the greater
part of the year she lived in the car. Watkin, her late godfather’s
coachman, had learnt this new job; Jopp, the footman, was his
nephew, so we were quite a little family party! My sister and I were
orphans--she, however, had a husband. Aunt Liz had always been more
than good to us; I was supposed to be her favourite of the two, because
I had her nose, was rather delicate, and not the least afraid of her
sharp tongue. For some time I was a probationer in the Children’s
Hospital in Great Ormonde Street, but my health broke down, and I was
now companion to my aunt--and she was _my_ nurse!
Although we did not admit the fact, I think there is no doubt that
we were both in the enjoyment of a comfortable little nap, when we
were disturbed by the return of Jopp--looking extraordinarily hot and
mud-stained.
“Well?” we asked in the same breath.
“I am very sorry, ma’am, but the people at the house--it’s a full mile
away--mostly talk Irish. I made out that they have no beds--they want
what there are themselves; but if you wouldn’t mind settin’ up in the
kitchen they make no objection.”
“No, I daresay not!” rejoined my relative, throwing up her chin, “and
one hears so much of Irish hospitality! I intend to sleep there, and
I shall go over and interview her myself--I suppose it’s a woman?”
appealing to Jopp.
“Yes, ma’am, quite a crowd of women--a houseful, I should say. It’s a
rough sort of place for ladies; it looked like a kind of wedding party.”
“A party--that settles it! Millie” (to me) “we will start at once--wrap
up well. I am _afraid_ we shall have rather a disagreeable walk, but it
will be something to spend a night in a real Irish cottage. Jopp will
carry our dressing-bags, and Watkin the lamp. No one will touch the
car, and anyway, they cannot carry it away, so we will all sleep out.”
Here I must draw a decent veil over our muddy excursion, our climbing
of gates, evading of bog-holes, and wading through fields. At last
we turned into a deep lane; this led up to a yard, in which stood an
enormous manure-heap, several empty turf-carts, and a long, slated
house of one story. There were lights in three windows, and my aunt
hammered vigorously on the door, which was immediately opened by a tall
woman with black hair and high cheek-bones. She stood in a sort of
little entrance, from which one could see into a kitchen with a roaring
turf fire. It appeared to be full of people.
Aunt Liz, in her high, clear English accent, made her request with
civil confidence. A bed for her niece and self, and permission for the
men to sit up in the kitchen; she promised to give no trouble, and
would pay well.
“I am terribly sorry, me lady, but I can’t take ye in nohow,” declared
the woman; “we are shockingly put about--and the house is throng as it
is.”
My aunt edged her way further and looked eagerly round the kitchen;
there were three or four men smoking, half a dozen women staring,
and one very old crone in a large white cap hunched up inside the big
chimney shook her stick at us, and gabbled in Irish.
“Have you no place you could put us into?” enquired my never-to-be-denied
relative; “our car has broken down--we really cannot remain in the road
all night; my niece has a dreadful cold. I am prepared,” and she looked
full into the woman’s eyes, and I knew she was thinking of adventure,
“to pay handsomely.”
“An’ what wud ye call handsome?” asked the other, in a high, whining
key.
“Say three pounds.”
“Is it three pounds? No, me lady. I really couldn’t upset the house for
that. What wud ye say to six?--maybe then I’ll be talkin’ to ye--and
let the two men have an air of the fire, and give you and the girleen a
good bed between yees.”
“What--six pounds--for one night! Why, it’s more than a London hotel.”
“Bedad, yes, I’m charging yees, because it’s _not_ a hotel, and for the
raison that I’ll have to square it with me Gran--for it’s _her_ bed--ye
might see her there in the corner crouched up like an old wet hen. If
ye will just stand outside the door a couple of minutes, I’ll argufy
it out wid her--but she is terribly crabbed in herself, and it’s like
enough she’ll pull the head off me!”
It was a novel and humiliating experience to be turned out of doors,
there to await a verdict--Watkin and Jopp, too--and Jopp, who was young
and foolish, stared at his uncle and winked expressively.
Meanwhile, within, a fierce discussion raged; loud sentences in an
unknown tongue actually reached the would-be guests; it sounded as if a
furious quarrel and real battle of words were taking place, with angry
shouts and stamping, but after ten minutes’ uproar the door was flung
wide and the woman of the house reappeared.
“I have it fixed up elegant! Walk in, if ye plase, and welcome,” and
she ushered our party into her kitchen. The men stood up, and shuffled
with their feet, and, with Irish courtesy, extinguished their pipes;
the women stared, the old crone chattered like an angry monkey, and
pointed significantly to the door.
Hot strong tea and hot well-buttered soda-bread were offered, and found
delicious.
“It will be extra, ye understand,” whispered the hostess behind her
hand, “two shilling--but I felt sure ye’d be the better of a mouthful,
whilst they were redding up the room, and getting yer bed made.”
In ten minutes we were established in the bedroom, which opened out
of another apartment at the opposite side of the front and only door,
and was boarded, white-washed, and looked, though bare, unexpectedly
possible. There was a wooden bed, a large green wooden press, a chest
of mahogany drawers, and looking-glass, a washstand, and numerous
religious pictures nailed on the wall--at least four of the Blessed
Virgin and the Sacred Heart--over the bed hung a large crucifix.
“We won’t take off all our clothes,” said my aunt, as the door closed,
“the sheets are sure to be damp--though they are quite clean. I see she
has left us matches. Oh, what a luxury to lie down. B-r-r-r, but the
sheets are cold!” and she gave a shiver. To me, the sheets felt as if
they had been iced, but I was too sleepy and tired to mind, and soon
passed into the land of dreams.
I think I must have been asleep three or four hours--it seemed like
three or four minutes--when I was awakened by my aunt shaking me
vigorously. She was sitting up in bed.
“Millie--how you do sleep!” she said. “There’s a noise in the press
that awoke me. Listen!”
As I could hear nothing, I naturally asked:
“What is it?”
“Hush!” she said impatiently. For a time there was no sound. It seemed
to me we were like two fools, sitting up side by side in dead silence
in the dark.
At last--yes!--certainly there was a movement in the press--a sort of
sliding and shuffling, a bump!
“There!” she exclaimed, hastily lighting the candle. “You hear! Now
I intend to see what it is. It’s my opinion there’s a man in the
wardrobe!”
As she spoke, my valiant aunt sprang out of bed, candle in hand, turned
a handle, and flung the door wide open. Then she gave a loud quavering
screech, as something in the wardrobe toppled forward, and fell upon
her bodily.
I flew out of bed, just in time to see that the corpse of a little
wizened old man, in a brown wrapper--or habit--had tumbled from the
press, and lay at my aunt’s feet; and in spite of my excellent hospital
training, for the moment I lost all self-control, and screamed too!
Our united shrieks brought the assembled household to the spot. The
hostess burst in first, demanding: “What’s this at all, at all?” Then
as she caught sight of the corpse, “Oh, Holy Fathers! there’s for ye
now!”
“An’ well served,” added another woman, thrusting herself forward, “an’
serves ye right, Maggie Behan, letting out the death-bed from under
yer old granddada for lucre--and the breath hardly out of him, sure,”
she continued in a shriller key and with impassioned gestures. “It’s
no wonder on earth the poor old man made a disturbance and annoyance,
and come out of the press ye had him put away in. Faix, never ye fear,
he’ll have it _in_ for ye yet!”
The body of the aged grandfather had, with my assistance, now been
lifted on to the bed from which we had so unceremoniously ousted him.
“What does it all mean?” demanded my aunt, speaking with as much
dignity as was compatible with a pair of black satin knickers; then
snatching up a skirt, she wound it hastily about her and boldly met the
eyes of half a dozen men, including her own servants.
“Faix, then I’ll tell yer ladyship, and no lie about it,” volunteered a
little swarthy man; “him that’s dead was me granddada--there’s herself
in the kitchen. He was mortial old; we were going to wake him--just a
small bit of a wake--when ye come, first yer man, then yerself, and
wouldn’t take no. Me wife felt bad to be denying the two nice English
ladies a bed, and the bog air so cold--so--so--and seeing the money
was good, and wanted, we laid our heads together and settled to turn
out the old chap for the night--and have our wake without him. Sure,
don’t I know well enough he’d be glad to accommodate any lady for six
sovereigns. We had a notion of puttin’ him up the chimney, but for his
new habit, and we made him all right and tight in the press--but”--and
he looked round--“his legs give way. Ye see, he hasn’t the use of them,
this while back. Well, it’s all wan to him, and I hope yer ladyship
will take the bed at half-price--ye had half a night, ye see. I give ye
me honour ’twas the best we could do for ye, and the money will bury
him elegant, and as for him disturbin’ ye, I’m sorry he didn’t let ye
sleep it out.”
“If you will be so good as to withdraw, we will dress,” said my aunt,
who had recovered her self-possession; “and if it is all the same to
you, we’ll sit in the kitchen till daybreak, and then perhaps you can
send us on a car to the junction.”
The remainder of that night we did sit in the kitchen, drawn up within
a large and hospitable circle. Our hostess had not realised that there
was a social line of demarcation between our companions and ourselves;
my aunt and Watkin shared a form, and I sat on a reversed turf-creel,
squeezed in between Jopp and Maggie Behan. Tea, whisky, and porter were
in steady circulation; a combination of porter and whisky struck me
as a novelty, but was evidently well known to and highly appreciated
by some of the company. I am sure that but for my own embarrassing
proximity, Jopp would have liked to sample it.
As we sat there in the light of a huge turf-fire, I learnt more of
Ireland and listened to more wit and good stories than I had ever done
in my life. A tall, red-haired man, called “Foxy Pat”--who seldom
smiled--kept, without the least apparent effort, and with but two or
three exceptions, the kitchen in a roar. A couple who never laughed
interested me greatly: a girl of my own age, but quite beautiful, the
true Irish type, with black hair and wonderful blue-black eyes; the
other, a young man, equally handsome, with some resemblance to the
girl, straight and broad-shouldered, with a nobly-set-on head, and
dark as a Spaniard. I noticed that they rarely spoke, but gazed at
one another from time to time; their expression was so grave as to be
almost tragic. In answer to a whispered question, Maggie Behan replied,
also in a whisper:
“Them’s the two McCarthys--Norah and Dermot; ye see, they can’t marry,
being second cousins. He is going to Ameriky on Monday--and sure, ye’ve
only to look at them to tell yerself as their two hearts is broke.”
I must confess that this piece of information had the effect of
depressing my spirits to such an extent that even the brilliance of
Foxy Pat’s best story failed to raise them.
As soon as the light began to creep in at the window the gathering
broke up, the wake--that was not a wake; the wake where the corpse had
been shut in a press and its bed given to two ladies--was over. Aunt
Lizzie paid up the full price agreed upon, and we partook of a parting
cup of tea before we set out for the station--a distance of eight
miles. Thither we were ignominiously conveyed on a turf-cart drawn by
a young irresponsible long-tail, and after a most exciting drive, and
several hairbreadth escapes, arrived at the railway hotel in time for
an early breakfast. We had brought our bags with us, and mention that
we had had a breakdown on the way--but not a word of our experience.
Subsequently we retired to bed, where we enjoyed several hours of
undisturbed repose. Late in the same afternoon the motor turned up in
good order, none the worse for its night out--and the following day we
started for Queenstown, and home.
This was our only adventure in Ireland! Aunt Lizzie--who thinks the
whole incident too shocking for words--has requested me never to
mention it to a soul; but I sometimes wonder if Watkin and Jopp have
been equally discreet.