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!