Memories of laughter pursue us at every stage of those weeks. There was the visit to a neighbouring castle; a genuine old castle this, but irretrievably “restored” in that bygone period of history when Pugin reigned supreme.
AN IRISH CHATELAINE
It was Sunday, and we found the Châtelaine—a little lady renowned for her vivacity and charm—out in the field with her children and her lord, energetically teaching hockey to the young men and women of the village. Her little boy was running up and down after her, wringing his hands and ejaculating, “Mamma, ye’ll be kilt! Mamma, ye’ll be kilt!” to perfectly regardless ears.
In a whirl of energy we were rushed into tea; and, while drawing off her loose gloves and flinging them at random into a corner, our hostess’s tongue, which was as nimble as her little feet, never ceased wagging:
“I hope you don’t mind the smell! Oh, it’s a terrible smell. But it’s only the dogs, ye know. We’ve been washing them. They’re sick, poor things. Not infectious, ye needn’t be a bit afraid. Only mange, or something. It’s the sulphur in the soap, ye know. Come in, come in!—Oh, I do hope we have got something fit to eat! Katie, Katie! ‹Katie’s me eldest daughter› Katie, what have we got? Ah, it’s horrid!—Ah, I don’t know what’s the matter with them.—Yes, it’s a fine big room. We were dancing here last week. You wouldn’t think it to look at it now, would you? ’Pon my word! I was thinking to meself that night, ‘It’s a queer world we live in, with all those saints looking down at us with their bare legs, and we with our bare backs!’ Oh, yes, they’re very grand old paintings, I dare say! But there is a deal of bare legs about them.—Will you have any more? Ah, no, ye can’t eat it!—I don’t wonder, I can’t meself.—Will you come into the garden? I’d like to be showing you the garden. Where’s me gloves?—Where’s me yellow gloves? Katie, did ye see me yellow gloves? Ah, never mind! This way.—I’ve been making a new herbaceous border. Ah, ’pon me word, if they’ve not gone and locked the garden door! Sunday’s the mischief! Never mind, I’ll ring the bell. Green! Green, Johnny Green, are ye there? Is Mrs. Green there? Is Patsy there? Where’s young Condren? Ah, they’re all out! But I’ll not be beaten.—Maybe I’ll get it open. Will ye push, now? I’ll turn the handle. Give a good shove. It’s an old lock. Ah, devil a bit of it! Will ye give me your stick.—No, thank ye. I’d rather hit it meself.”
Even to her it was impossible to continue talking, while she was, as she herself would have expressed it, “laying on to the garden door.” Scarlet, panting, dishevelled, but still completely fascinating, she desisted at last and handed back the stick with a smile and gasp, and a resigned: “Ah, I clean forgot, I see how it is now. They’re all off to the funeral of the priest’s brother’s sister.”
THE HOLLY TREE