Lady Grace Stopford—Tipperary in 1870—Robbed at Punchestown
Races—I get my own back
Just after I left Eton, in 1870, I went over to Ireland to stay with my
friend Doyne, who lived in County Wexford, and had a fine estate near
the sea, about half an hour’s walk from the beach. His mother and sister
lived with him, and he and I rode about his property and amused ourselves
very well, though he had no near neighbours, except the Earl of Courtown
and his family. The eldest son, Viscount Stopford, who had been with us
at Eton, was away at the time, though his sister, Lady Grace Stopford,
was there. One day we called, and were received by Lady Grace, who was
the only one of the family at home. After shaking hands with her, Doyne
said:—
“I wanted to show my friend the fairest young lady in the county.”
At which compliment she blushed and replied:—
“I am afraid he will be much disappointed.”
“On the contrary,” I observed, “I am agreeably surprised.”
She then inquired if I knew her brother, and I told her that we were at
Eton together. Lady Grace was a girl of about sixteen, with a lovely
complexion, blue eyes and regular features. Her hair was of a reddish
tint, similar to that which one sees in certain pictures by Correggio,
and particularly in one in the Liechtenstein Gallery in Vienna, the face
of which also bore a resemblance to hers. In her manner she appeared
somewhat stiff, and more like the English than the Irish, who are
generally so free and easy. But then Lady Grace always spent the season
in London, and lived most of her time in England. Her brother, Lord
Stopford, now Earl of Courtown, was in the Grenadier Guards, and had
lately joined his regiment.
Mrs. Doyne was a charming old lady, and her daughters had delightful
manners and were exceedingly pleasant in every way. While I was with
them, Mrs. Doyne told me that she and her family had received an
invitation to Killarney, and asked me to go with them, which I did with
great pleasure. The house we stayed at was a fine one, very prettily
situated near the Lake of Killarney, and the weather being beautiful and
very hot, it was very pleasant to go on the lake and visit the different
sights in the neighbourhood. I was delighted with the scenery of the
lake and the various waterfalls in the woods, some of the views being
exquisitely lovely. One day, when Doyne and I were riding on donkeys on
the rugged hills near the lake, a bare-footed Irish girl came up and
spoke to us in Irish, showing her beautiful teeth. She had very black
eyes and black hair falling loosely over her shoulders, and her legs,
like her feet, were bare. She could not speak a word of English, but
Doyne made her understand him somehow by means of gestures.
Killarney gave me the impression that I was in Italy. There were so many
bare-legged boys and girls walking about, and the scenery was more like
that of the south of Europe than the British Isles; while the almost
tropical heat we were experiencing just then completed the illusion. One
day it rained very heavily, so Doyne and I went to the Hôtel Victoria,
where an American, who was playing billiards, said to us:—
“I guess I shall have to say that I have seen the Lake of Killarney from
this billiard-room window, as I am leaving early to-morrow morning.”
The tutor of a young fellow staying at the hôtel told me that I must
have Scottish blood in my veins, because I walked so carefully, as if
calculating every step I took, while an Irishman walked without the
least hesitation. I noticed that the good looks of the Irish people
were found more in the lower classes than in those above them. Some
of the bare-legged girls whom I saw were quite pretty, with something
of the Spanish type of beauty about them. Their hands and feet were
usually small, whereas those of some of the women of the upper classes
were of very generous proportions. Everywhere I went I met with a
“_gemüthlichkeit_,” which is not to be found in England, go where one
may; the Irish are so friendly and jolly, even if one does not know them.
On leaving Killarney, we went to Tipperary, and stayed at Cashel,
with the Dean, Dr. MacDonnell, who told me that there were sixteen
roads leading to the town, on each of which a murder had recently been
committed. These crimes had, however, been committed for political
reasons, for if a man did not meddle with politics, he might travel along
these same roads at night with his pockets bulging with gold in perfect
safety. The Dean, who afterwards became a Canon of Peterborough,[15] had
a pretty daughter, a very amiable and clever girl, who is now the wife of
Sir Shirley Salt.
I also stayed at Wells, an estate belonging to Mr. Mervyn Doyne, my
friend’s elder brother, who had married Lady Frances Fitzwilliam, the
eldest daughter of Earl Fitzwilliam. The house was a very imposing one,
built in the Elizabethan style and standing in the midst of extensive
grounds. Lady Francis Doyne was a nice-looking and extremely pleasant
woman. At dinner one evening she told me the following rather interesting
story:—
“I happened to dream one night in town, just before we were leaving for
Ireland, that I had lost my dressing-case. Therefore, before starting, I
told my maid to take particular care of it during the journey. However,
when we arrived in Dublin, I left her in charge of the dressing-case for
two or three minutes at the station, and somehow she must have put it
down for an instant, since, on my returning to her, she exclaimed: ‘Oh,
my lady, the dressing-case is gone!’ My husband had all the cars which
were leaving the station stopped, but my dressing-case was nowhere to be
found. He telegraphed to Scotland Yard, in London, but with no success
whatever, and I have never recovered it to this day. I had at the time
eight thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery in it, besides valuable stones
belonging to my ancestors, which can never be replaced.”
Speaking of London, Lady Fanny said:—
“We had a house in Mount Street for the season, and one evening, when we
were giving a dinner-party, a band began playing outside our house. It
played rather well, so I sent my footman out to the conductor to ask him
to continue playing all the time we were at dinner, and to give him a
sovereign if he would do so. But the footman brought back the sovereign,
and told me that the conductor refused to play under five pounds.”
Lady Fanny also said:—
“People soon forget one in London. As a young girl, I lived with my
father in Grosvenor Square, but after my marriage I was not in London for
two years. When I returned to town, I found that everyone had forgotten
me entirely.”
Earl Fitzwilliam, Lady Fanny’s father, used to give two big dinners in
town to his tenants, to each of which fifty guests were invited. At
one of these dinners the service was entirely of silver; at the other
entirely of gold.
I was invited with Jim Doyne to stay at the Shelbourne Hotel, as the
guest of Earl Fitzwilliam, for the Punchestown Races. The first day of
the races it poured with rain, and Jim and I went to the course on an
Irish car. On the way he chaffed a man and a girl on our car whom he had
never seen before, who were engaged in a flirtation, and said to the girl
aloud:—
“Don’t listen to the tales he is telling you; they are all lies.”
The girl blushed, and the man, looking very much annoyed, answered:—
“She knows I am telling her the truth.”
There was a great rush to get into the stand, and Jim and I got
separated. I tendered an English five-pound note for admission, but the
man issuing the tickets said:—
“I don’t take English notes, only Irish ones.”
I told him I had a ticket for the Marquis of Drogheda’s private stand,
but he said that I must first pay the sovereign entrance to the other.
Suddenly, a man came forward and said:—
“I will change your note, if you will give it me or come with me.”
I followed him through the pouring rain to a tent, where he showed me
three cards, which he threw on a table, saying:—
“I’ll bet you a fiver you don’t name the court card.”
“But I don’t wish to bet,” I replied.
“You must play,” rejoined he, “or I’ll keep your money.”
I looked round for a policeman, but there was not one anywhere near, and,
while my eyes were off him, the man disappeared. I tried to find him all
day, but without success.
In the evening, when I returned to the Shelbourne Hotel, Lord
Fitzwilliam’s sons, Thomas[16] and Charles Fitzwilliam, Lord Aberdour,
Jim and myself dined together in a private room. Lord Aberdour, who is
now Earl of Morton, said:—“I was making a bet with a man when someone
nearly knocked me down and took away my watch and chain, and in the
confusion of the moment I could not discover who it was.”
“I did not come off any better,” remarked Charles Fitzwilliam, who had
been at Eton and was now in the “Blues,” “for I was paid a bet with half
a five-pound and half a ten-pound note pinned together.”
The next day, when it rained again, I went to the races, and walked
about, keeping a sharp look-out for the man who had stolen my “fiver.”
Presently I caught sight of him, and going up to a constable, inquired
if he could arrest a man on suspicion, which he said he could. The
fellow was performing the three-card trick at the time, and was promptly
arrested. He, of course, loudly protested his innocence, saying:—
“It was not me, but the Scotsman who did it, and he ain’t here to-day. I
don’t know the young gentleman at all.”
The constable asked me if I were quite sure that this was the man, to
which I replied in the affirmative. He was then marched off, and a
head constable came and took down my affirmation, which I signed. The
three-card gentleman called out to me:—
“I’ll give you twenty pounds if you’ll let me off,” and the constable,
overhearing this, said:—
“Now he has confessed to taking the note; I see it’s all right.”
During dinner at the “Shelbourne” that night I told my friends of my
adventure, when they all said:—
“You must prosecute the man for the good of the public.”
I decided to follow their advice, and, about a month later, I went with
Jim to Naas, where the fellow was to be tried, and where, as Jim happened
to know the county court judge, Baron de Robeck, we were given seats on
the Bench. When the prisoner was brought in, he at once pleaded guilty,
upon which the judge sentenced him to repay the five pounds, which he
did, and to three months’ hard labour. He was also ordered to pay the
costs of the prosecution, which came to as much as five pounds, but these
I refused to accept.
At Naas we lunched with the Duke of Leinster, who had been at Eton with
us, and was then with his militia regiment. He was much interested in my
adventure, and glad to hear of the result. At the station a man came up
to me, and telling me he was the prisoner’s solicitor, asked me to give
him some money for persuading his client to plead guilty. But when I
spoke to Jim about it, he answered:—“Tell him to go to the devil.”
And the man of law, overhearing the remark, took himself off without more
ado.
I stayed some weeks longer with Jim Doyne,[17] when I went to London for
my “exam.” for the Army.