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: