“Go away from me, Miss Christian!”
shouted Mrs. Twomey (but this was merely an ejaculation
of pleased surprise, not to be taken literally).
“Go-to-God-he-did-not!”
“He did, indeed, Mrs. Twomey!”
replied Christian, rooting at her habit pocket, and
extracting her purse. “He said that he’d
won the scholarship, and he knew you were praying
hard for him or he wouldn’t have got it, and
he said I was to give you this, with his love.”
“This” was a golden sovereign,
a coin that did not often in its beauty and entirety
come Mrs. Twomey’s way.
She curtseyed so low that since as
has been said she was but little over four
feet, Christian had to lean low over Harry’s
withers in order to drop the sovereign into her hand.
“That the sun may shine on his
soul, my lovely gentleman! That he may never
want crown, pown’, nor shi’n, nor you nayther!
The Kingdom o’ Heaven is your due, the pair
of yee, and may yee be long going there! Amin!”
A silent and prayerful moment followed
on the benedictions, and Mrs. Twomey’s bright
little eyes rolled devoutly heavenwards. This
concession to the solemnity of the occasion disposed
of, the beneficiary became normal again.
“Look!” she resumed, while
she bestowed the sovereign in an incredibly old bag-purse
with a brass rim; “tell him there’s always
one foolish in a family, and what it is with Masther
Larry, he’s too give-ish! That’s
what he is!”
“You can tell him so yourself,”
replied Christian. “He’ll be home
in a week.”
“Very good, faith! There’s
a welcome before him whatever time he’ll come!
Sure I thought he’d be kept back in England till
the Christmas?”
“He’s finished with school
now,” said Christian. “He’s
going abroad for a bit after Christmas, and then he’s
going to Oxford!”
The glory in Christian’s voice
conveyed more to Mrs. Twomey than any statement of
fact could achieve.
“Well, well! I’m
proud out of him, the poor child! But I wisht
it was home in his own house he was to be,”
she replied, raising her skirt, and stuffing the purse
into a large pocket that hung round her waist over
a red flannel petticoat; “han’t he lessons
enought learnt?”
“Oh, but he loves going
to Oxford, Mrs. Twomey,” said Christian; “he’s
looking forward to it awfully; and I’m
going to France to do lessons, too! I’ll
be talking French to you, Mrs. Twomey, when I come
back!”
Mrs. Twomey uttered a screech of well-simulated horror.
“For God’s sake, child,
do not!” she exclaimed; “didn’t I
know one o’ thim in Boyshton, a docther he was,
and a German. He had as many slishes and sloshes
as’d fill a book! Sure I thought I’d
lose me life thrying could I make off at all what
he said to me!”
“Well, I shall be slishing and
sloshing to you when I come home, Mrs. Twomey!”
said Christian, who was skilled in converse with such
as Mrs. Twomey; “but it will be in French.
I suppose you talked German to your Boston doctor?”
“H’th indeed! Little
enough I said to him! I never had anny wish for
thim docthors at all. Look at the little rakeen
that’s after gettin’ the Dispinsary at
Cunnock-a-Ceoil! Three hundred pound the father
ped for it for him! A low, hungry little fella,
that’d thravel the counthry for the sake of
a ha’penny God!”
The flow of Mrs. Twomey’s eloquence
ceased in shock, as Major Talbot-Lowry and Miss Coppinger
emerged from the dairy behind her.
“Well, Mary,” said Dick,
“who is it who’s so hard up for ha’pence?”
Mrs. Twomey’s equanimity was
not slow to re-establish itself. She and the
Major were “the one age,” and they had
grown up together.
“Why then, your Honour knows
him well, and too well!” she snapped at him,
looking up his long length to his handsome, good natured
face, much as a minute female cur-dog might look and
snap, presuming on her sex, at a Great Dane.
“It’s the new little docthor, Danny Aherne,
that your Honour is afther putting in the Dispinsary!”
“Oh, that poor little fellow?”
said Dick, laughing, but with a touch of discomposure;
“I didn’t put him there. What’s
the matter with him, any how? Why, he hasn’t
been at the job three months! Give the man time,
Mary, give him time! I’ll engage you’ll
all be in love with him by this time next year!”
Mrs. Twomey glanced at Miss Coppinger,
and replied with decorous piety:
“God grant it!”
She then, with an admirable assumption
of respect for her superiors, and zeal for her office,
moved past her visitors into the dairy.
Dick Talbot-Lowry hesitated a moment
or two, then he laughed again, and strode after her
into the dark dairy; Miss Coppinger followed him.
Mrs. Twomey, a tiny and almost imperceptible bundle,
was already on her knees in a corner, scrubbing a
glistening metal churn, and so engrossed in her task
as to be unaware of her visitors.
“Look here, Mary,” began
the Major, with a touch of severity; “what’s
all this about Doctor Aherne?”
Mrs. Twomey rose from her knees, dried
her little scarlet claws in her apron, and stood to
attention. Having opened the debate by calling
fervently upon her God to witness that she knew nothing
of the matter, she proceeded, like a solo pianist,
to run her fingers, as it were, lightly over the keys.
Passing swiftly from her own birth, upbringing, invincible
respectability, and remoteness from all neighbours,
or knowledge of neighbours, she coruscated in a cadenza
in which the families of Talbot-Lowry and Coppinger,
and her devotion to both, were dazzlingly blended,
and finished in a grand chord on the apparently irrelevant
fact that she would die dead before she would put down
any dirty stain before the Major’s honour.
“But Mary,” interposed
Frederica, with an inartistic directness that was
in painful contrast to the cadenza, “what has
the Major got to say to Doctor Aherne?”
The question was ignored; the artist
dashed on into a presto movement, in which, as far
as any direct theme was discernible, Dr. Mangan, his
cupidity, his riches, the riches of Dr. Aherne’s
parents were the leading motives. Also, parenthetically,
that Danny Aherne was without shoe or stocking to
his foot when he was going to school in Pribawn with
her own poor little boy. “And look at him
now!” continued Mrs. Twomey, on a high reciting
note, and still presto, “with his car and his
horse, and his coat with an owld cat skin for a collar
on it, and his Tommy-shirts without tails!”
There was an instant of pause, and
Frederica breathed the words “‘Dicky’
shirt-fronts!” to her bewildered cousin.
“Himself and the Big Docthor
walking the streets of Cluhir like two paycocks!”
went on Mrs. Twomey with ever-increasing speed and
fury. “Ha! Ha! Didn’t I
meet him back in Pribawn ere yistherday. ’How
great you are in yourself!’ says I to him.
’It done you no harm to kill a woman!’
says I. ‘Mind your own business!’
says he to me. ‘Throth then, an’
I will mind it!’ says I, ‘an’
I’ll have plenty to mind it without you!
I’ll have plenty to mind it without yourself!
Dannileen alay!’”
“What on earth are you talking
about?” Dick broke in impatiently.
Mrs. Twomey flung a glance to the
doorway. Christian was no longer there.
On a lower key, and directed to Miss Coppinger, a fresh
stream flowed. A young woman had died; a young
woman who had been privileged to marry a relative,
of a degree of relationship obscure, but still honoured,
of Mikey Twomey’s; “and she afther having
a young son, and the boy that marrit her as proud! and
a very good baby, and what misfortune came to her
no one’d know, only the Lord God Almighty, but
she died on them. And she a fine, hard, hearty,
blushy, big lump of a gerr’l. And ’tis
true what they said
The details that followed were hissed,
prestissimo, into the ear of Miss Coppinger, but that
Dr. Aherne was to be blamed, was made as clear to
Dick Talbot-Lowry as to his cousin.
The tale was concluded in tears.
“Look! I has to cry when I thinks of it!”
It is impossible with Mrs. Twomey,
and her like, to argue a point, or to attempt an appeal
to reason. A flat and dictatorial contradiction
may have some temporary effect, and Major Talbot-Lowry
adopted this method, for lack of better, in defence
of his nominee. Mrs. Twomey, however, continued
to weep.
“But Mary,” urged Frederica,
“there isn’t a doctor in the world who
doesn’t lose a patient sometimes. It may
not have been this unfortunate young man’s fault
in the least
Tisnt that Im crying for at all, sobbed Mrs. Twomey, a
deplorable little figure, her head bent down, while she wiped violently and
alternately her nose and her eyes in her sacking apron. But it is what
the people is sayin on the roads about (sob) about (sniff)
“About what?’ said Dick, who was
being bored.
“About your Honour!” returned Mrs. Twomey,
in a sort of roar.
“And what the devil are they saying about me?”
“God forbid that I’d put
down any dirty stain before your Honour,” sobbed
Mrs. Twomey, recurring to her earlier metaphor; “it’s
that big horse that ye’re afther buyin’
from Docthor Mangan; they say that he gave him to
ye too cheap on the head of it
“On the head of what, woman?”
shouted Dick, now passing, by the well-worn channel
of anxiety, from boredom to anger.
“On the head of the Dispinsary!
Sure they says ’twas your Honour gave it to
Danny Aherne!”
It is unnecessary to record Major
Talbot-Lowry’s indignation on hearing this charge.
The dairy, with its low ceiling and paven floor, echoed,
submissively, his well-justified strictures on the
lies and evil speaking of his humbler neighbours,
and Mrs. Twomey dried her eyes (much as she would
scrub out one of her milk-pans) and hearkened.
Who shall say if she believed him?
There is a standard of honour, rigid and stern, for
gentlemen, just as there is quite another standard
for those who do not, in the opinion of a people, Austrian
in their definition of what is or is not gentle birth,
merit that title. Dick Talbot-Lowry was a gentleman,
and, in her own words, no “dirty stain”
would ever be attributed to him by Mary Twomey, but
even she knew that the ethics of buying and selling
a horse apply to no other transaction, and she knew
also that in the disposal of a “place,”
more may occur than meets the eye. She resented
the slur on her chieftain, but, in spite of her wrath,
she could not feel quite certain that the accusation
was entirely unfounded.