Part 13
She said nothing till the men were outside; but then she gave tongue, and asked how dare they think that she wanted washing! It might do well enough for a real dead body, but she was thankful it hadn’t come to that with her yet, and if she chose to die it was no concern of theirs; and if any one attempted to lay a drop of water on her skin, she’d lay the marks of her ten nails on their face. Well, she was got some way into the coffin, and a clean cap and frill put round her face; and, as she was not pale enough, a little girl shook some flour on her cheeks. Before the men and boys were let in, she asked for a looking glass, and when she saw what a fright she looked with the flour, she got a towel and rubbed every bit of it off again.
She bid her husband be called in, and gave her sister and mother charge, in his hearing, to be kind and attentive to the poor angashore after she was gone: at any rate till he’d get a new wife, which she supposed would not be very far off; for though he was unkind and conthrāry, thank goodness she knew her duty, and she supposed he could not help his nature, and it was better as it was, before they’d grow old, and she might get peevish and lose her temper, and they might become a gazabo to the neighbours by fightin’ and scoldin’. “I’ll engage now, after all is said and done, he won’t give way an inch, nor acknowledge the three geese.” Well, the moment the geese were mentioned, he put on his hat without a word, and walked out.
So evenin’ came, and the candles were lighted, and the tobacco and pipes were all laid out, and the poor dead woman had to listen to a good deal of discourse not at all to her liking; and the talk went on in this way. “Musha, neighbour, doesn’t the corpse look mighty well? When did she die, poor woman? What ailed her, did you hear?” “Indeed I believe it was Gusopathy, as Tom K. the schoolmaster called it just now; something with ‘goose’ in it any way: you know the way the skin does be in a sudden cold, with little white risings on it, they call it a goose’s skin. May be she had it very bad, and her husband could not bear it, and so she died of grief.” “Poor man, he’ll feel her loss for a week or two, she was a careful woman.” “Ah, but hadn’t she a bitter tongue of her own?” “Troth I think Darby will bear her loss with Christian patience. He is a young man for his years; he doesn’t look forty, he’ll be getting his choice of wives. I think poor Judy was careful and laid by a few guineas; won’t the new wife feel comfortable, and may be soon put wind under the money!” “To my notion, Judy was in too great a hurry to die. From her looks there, she might bury two tailors yet, and may be get a big bodagh of a farmer for her third husband. Well, it can’t be helped, but I would not like to be warming a bed for the best woman in the townland if I was Judy. She is at peace at last, poor woman; and mighty hard she found it to keep the peace with her neighbours while she was alive. Who is that you said used to be walking with Darby of odd Sunday evenings before his marriage? If ghosts are allowed to take the air on Sunday evenings, poor Judy’s will have something to fret her in a few weeks.”
Well, all this time, the poor dead woman’s blood was rushing like mad through her veins; and something was swelling in her throat as if she was going to be choked, but still the divel was so strong in her that she never opened her eyes nor her mouth. The poor broken-hearted husband came up after some time, and leaning over her face he whispered, “Judy, acushla, isn’t it time to be done with this foolery? Say but one reasonable word, and I’ll send all these people about their business.” “Ah, you little-good-for crather, you havn’t the spirit of a man, or you would never bear all they have been saying of your poor neglected wife these two hours past. Are the three geese there?” “Not a goose but two if you were to be waked for a twelvemonth;” and off he went and sat in a dark part of the room till daylight.
He made another offer next morning, just as the led was puttin’ on the coffin, and the men were goin’ to hoise it on their shoulders; but not a foot she’d move unless he’d give in to the three geese.
So they came to the churchyard, and the coffin was let down in the grave, and just as they were preparing to fill all up, poor Darby went down, and stooping to where he had left some auger holes in the lid, he begged of her even after the holy show she made of himself and herself, to give up the point, and come home. “Is the three geese there?” was all he could get out of her, and this time his patience got so thread-bare, and he was so bothered by want of sleep, and torment of mind, that he got beside himself, and jumped up, and began to shovel the clay like mad, down on the coffin.
The first rattle it made, however, had like to frighten the life out of the buried woman, and she shouted out, “Oh, let me up! I’m not dead at all: let there be only two geese, Darby asthore, if you like.” “Oh, be this and be that,” said Darby, “it is too late: people have come far and near to the funeral, and we can’t let them lose their day for nothing: so for the credit of the family, don’t stir,” and down went the clay in showers, for the tailor had lost his senses. Of course the by-standers would not let the poor woman be buried against her own will; so they seized on Darby and his shovel, and when his short madness was checked, he fell in a slump on the sod. When poor Judy was brought to life, the first sight she beheld was her husband lyin’ without a kick in him, and a wag of a neighbour proposed to her to let Darby be put down in her place, and not give so many people a disappointment after coming far and near. The dead woman, by way of thanks, gave him a slap across the face that he felt for two days; and not minding the figure she cut in her grave-clothes, fell on poor Darby, and roared and bawled for him to come to life, and she’d never say a conthrāry word to him again while she lived. So, some way or other they brought the tailor round; but how her and him could bear to look each other in the face for a while, I don’t know. May be as there was a good deal of love under all the crossness, they found a way to get into their old habits again, and whenever she felt a tart answer coming to her tongue, she thought of the rattling of the clay on the coffin, and of the three geese that were only two after all; and if they didn’t live happy——but that’s the end they put to lying fairy stories, and as this one is so true and moral, it can afford to do without a tail.
When the applause and remarks occasioned by this story had somewhat subsided, our hostess spoke a few words in her husband’s ear; she might have meant to whisper, but the guest asked what she said about trouble. “That she and the rest,” replied our host, “wed beg and pray for ’e to tell them another story, but they were afraid to trouble ’e.”
“It will give me much pleasure,” said the Irish gentleman, “to tell another, of quite a different sort,” and he presently told the following story of a brave Irish boy’s luck.
THE EARL OF STAIRS’ SON.
The father was called the Earl of Stairs, because his little house was just on the side of Black Stairs, looking towards Puck’s Bridge. One eave rested on the side of the rock, and the walls were good strong stone walls (there is no scarcity of stones in them parts), and the roof was as snug as scraws and heath could make it. The Earl enclosed as much land off the common as he could till; so there was no scarcity of oaten bread, or potatoes, or eggs, or goats’ milk; and small thanks to him for keeping up a good fire, for the turf bog was within a hen’s race of his castle. Both he and his wife were of old respectable families; and so, as they had the good drop of blood, and some larning, and were mighty genteel in their manners, they were called Lady Stairs and the Earl of Stairs. One day, an ignorant omadhaun of a mountaineer came in on some business, and he sat down, and kept looking at a bunch of keys that was hanging from a table-drawer, and says he, after a long pause, “Ma’am,” says he, “do you sell kays here?”
Well, when the little boy was about fifteen years old, and knew more nor any school-master within ten miles of him, he was so eager after the learning, that he set out over the mountain, and through Carlow, and Kilkenny, and whatever lies at the back of them, till he came to Munster. He got into a capital school there, and learned all them branches I mentioned while ago, ay, and grammar along with them; I forgot the grammar. A Mr. Blundell teached in that school about twenty years ago, but I don’t know the name of the young Earl’s master who lived long before that time. He paid nothing for his knowledge, but helped the master now and then; and the farmers’ children going to the school were glad to take him home at night, as he was so ready to share his knowledge with them. No wonder he should find it so easy to pick up learning in Munster, where they say the little boys minding the cows converses with one another in Latin.
At last and at long, he returned home, a fine genteel young man; and did not his poor mother cry with joy, when she heard him talking to the priest the next Sunday, after Mass, and conversing with him in Latin, and French, and Portugee.
Well, there was nothing to hinder him now from being a priest himself, if he chose, as the old people had some guineas laid up in the thatch in an old stocking; but though he was pious enough in his own way, he said he had no vocation; and that any one becoming a priest without a vocation, would be only endangering his own soul and the souls of his flock. Every week he used to get an invitation to some great farmers’ house for tay and hot cake, and wherever the priest had a station, he was sure to be there. The girls had an eye on him, but though he was polite enough, he paid no particular attention to any one; and then they began to find out that his parents were below their own rank in life, and that his geese were all swans in his own eyes, and that the concait of some people was astonishing. He used to ramble about the rocks with a book in his hands; and though he was ready enough to help the Earl at his work, the deuce a hand would the old fool let him lay to a single thing.
At last as they were sitting round the fire on a winter’s night, the young fellow up and told the old couple, that he was tired of doing nothing and having nothing to do, and that he would set out on his travels, and that he hoped he would have something pleasant to write home about before long.
The poor old people were sad enough at this; but after doing all they could to persuade him to stay at home, and marry, and take a farm, or open a shop in Newtownbarry (it was only Bunclody then), or Enniscorthy, or New Ross, he still held out, and one fine day he set forward to Dublin, and took ship there, and tale or tidings were not heard from him for two years, except one letter that he sent them from Paris about five months after he set sail; and in this letter he said he was well off teaching English to a merchant’s children.
A last one fine summer afternoon, a fine looking gentleman with a foreign appearance, and speaking English in a queer style, and travelling in a post-chaise, stopped at the inn at the cross of Rathduff, and put up there till next day; but said he wanted a guide to show him the way to the Earl of Stairs’ castle. The people knew the nickname well enough, and after he got some refreshment, a boy was sent to show him the way. When they came nigh the cabin which was on the open common, and near the ending of a lane that came up straight through the enclosed fields, they heard a great grunting and squeeling, and there they saw two stout two-year old pigs with their noses to the half-door, shrovellin’ at it with all their might, and only for the rings in their snouts they’d have it down in less than no time; and the squeelin’ they kept up all the time was enough to vex a saint. A puckawn [15] and eleven meenshogues [16] were surnadin’ along the ridge of the roof, and cantherin’ round the bawn, and givin’ a puck now and then to the musicianers at the door to quicken the tune a bit. Well, the gorsoon got through the goats and gave a welt or two to the pigs, and got them out of the way, and then he bawled out, “Earl of Stairs, are you within if you please, sir? Here’s a gentleman from foreign parts come to see you.” So with that the Earl came and opened the half-door, and requested the gentleman to walk in. There was as fine a dish of white eyes on their little table as you could wish to see, and a couple of noggins of boiled goats’ milk by the side of it, and a plate of butter, and the moment the gentleman entered, they pressed him to sit down and join them; and Lady Stairs filled out a mug of milk, and laid a knife and a pat of butter for the stranger.
He thought to explain his business at once, but they would not hear a word till he would first eat and drink. So he hung his hat on a peg, and taking the knife in his hand, he cut one of the potatoes in two, and watched to see how the master and mistress managed theirs. And he was so polite that he laid down his knife, and began to peel off the potato skins with his fingers. Well, he did not relish that way of going to work much, so he took up the knife again and dispatched a couple of potatoes, and took a pull at the milk which I’m sure was good enough for a queen. Well, the table was small, and the mistress thinking that the potatoes were not much to their visitor’s taste, took down a wooden bowl, filled with good home-made cakes; and laying it on her lap, as the little table was crowded, she buttered a good slice, and asked him to try it if he pleased. He done his best to seem to relish every thing, and the Earl holding a lighted dipped rush in one hand, pressed him to make a hearty supper.
When the cloth was off the table, the Earl wiped his hands on a wisp of straw in the corner: you will know by and by, why I mention this straw, and the other things. When he was done with it he threw it into the blaze, and it was burnt. Now, don’t forget the dish held on the lady’s lap, nor the rush in the Earl’s hand, nor the straw.
At last says the Frenchman in broken English, as soon as they would let him speak, “Madame, the mistress of the house, havn’t you a son that left you about two years ago?” The poor woman got into such a tremble, that some of the cakes fell out of the bowl, and the father opened his eyes and his mouth, but couldn’t say a word. “Oh sir, dear,” says the mother, “have you seen our poor boy!” “Yes,” says he, “I have seen him, and he is alive and well, and well to do, and likely to be better.” “And when is he coming home, and why didn’t he write, and how does he look, and why didn’t he come with you?”
“As I can’t speak the English very easily, you may better let me tell my story in my own way,” says the Frenchman, for a Frenchman he was: “I am the head man of business to a merchant in Paris; and about a year and half ago, a young genteel looking Irishman was engaged by my employer to teach his children English. There was something so mild and engaging about the young fellow, that the children and the elder people got very much attached to him, and the young lady their eldest daughter began to like him better than the others. Your son, for so he was, never took any airs on himself, and the young lady seeing that he paid no particular attention to her, began to mope and be dismal, and at last took to her bed, and was sick in earnest. The mother, by some means, found out what ailed her, and let her husband know; but he was very angry, and indeed herself was not much better, but still the girl was ailing without making any complaint. The young teacher made a great many mistakes in the lessons from the first day he missed the young lady from her place; and some of the servants remarked him several nights in the street at late hours, and looking up at the light of one of the windows. At last, fearing that they would lose their daughter altogether, the mother began to question the young Irishman about his family at home. He made no boast, except that he was descended from good old Irish families on both sides; and that the lands belonging to his forefathers were taken from them, because they would not renounce their religion nor their king; and he mentioned that his own father and mother were still called in jest, Earl and Lady Stairs.
“Well they had no great occasion to ask him what he thought of their daughter, for one of her young brothers happening to call one day at his lodging, and stepping in on tiptoe, and peeping over his shoulder, he found him sobbing and kissing a little picture which he had made of his sister, unknown to any body.
“So the old gentleman at last gave his consent, on condition that a person he’d send over to Ireland, to his father’s place, would be able to give a satisfactory account of the state of things here. I think he expected that by getting time, and leaving the lady to herself, she might change her mind; especially as there is no end to the balls and entertainments going on, and as all the young gentlemen of their acquaintance are invited to the house, night after night. Miss Mary is a very lively, rattling young damsel, with dark sparkling eyes; and we all wondered how she was so taken with your son, who is very quiet in his manner, and used to say so little. My master hopes from the briskness of her character, that she will get tired of his quietness; but I am sure he will be mistaken; and now a good deal depends on the news I am to send home in a day or two.”
“Oh dear,” says the poor mother, “what will you be able to say about such humble people as we, to make your employer think well of the match?”
“At all events,” says the stranger, “I can say of you, that before you knew anything of my business, you shared the best you had with me, and what more could you do if you were a real lady? Now if you have any way for me to sleep, I’ll let my guide go back and bring up my dressing-case from the inn; and we will take to-morrow to go to the top of this mountain here, and walk about, and settle how every thing is to be; and next day I’ll write home.”
Well, then, he pulled out a letter from their son; and, between laughing and crying, they read, how at first he wrote after getting into business, and then when the trouble came, he did not wish to send any letter till he would have something pleasant to say. He put in everything to make them cheerful; and now and then something about the young lady would slip out, and her mother’s kindness, and the love he had for the little brothers, and what a charitable good young lady she was, etc. So when the evening got late, Mounseer was put to rest in a snug little room where their son had his bed long ago, and well he might sleep too, for there was a feather pallet, with a nice dry mat under it; and the fresh air of the mountain got in through chinks and crannies, and did not let the place feel too close; and the sheets were clean and well aired, and the quilt had all the beautifulest flowers in the world cut out on it in the neatest patterns.