Then She Fled Me

by Sara Seale

  “We’ll ask Nonie,” Sarah said, and shouted into the kitchen.

  Nonie had been nurse to all three of them. She frequently went without her wages, and she took it as her right to be included in all family conferences. She was getting old now, but her back was still upright and she stood no nonsense from any of them. She stood by the table now in her clean white apron and her faded eyes scrutinized them all, while the corners of her mouth drew down in disapproval as she listened.

  “I never heard the like,” she observed when Sarah had finished. “The young ladies of Dun Rury soiling their hands for a lot of heathens from over the water!”

  “But heaps of people do it,” said Sarah. “Look at the Miss Kellys across the lough. I’m told they make a mint of money in the fishing season.”

  “The Miss Kellys are not quality,” said Nonie severely. “It’s well enough for the likes of them, though I’m hearing the robbery that goes on up there is shameful, and the poor craytures driven to Casey’s for food and drink because their stomachs are starved on them.”

  “Well, perhaps they’d come here instead. We wouldn’t starve them,” said Sarah, but Nonie fixed her with a stern eye. “And who, me bold girl, will cook for the craytures?”

  “You will, of course, darling Nonie,” Sarah said in the same voice which she used to employ as a little girl when she was uncertain if her request would be granted.

  “Nonie—” pleaded Kathy.

  “Don’t you fret yourself, Miss Kathy,” the old woman replied. “Never in me life have I worked for the likes of such as them, an’ I’ll not start now—no, Miss Sarah, not if you ask me on your bended knees. The shame on you for thinking it!”

  “That settles it,” said Kathy happily, but Sarah, standing straight and slim in the lamplight, the old light of battle in her green eyes, said:

  “It does not, then. The Kavanaghs are coming to supper tomorrow. We’ll ask them.”

  “Joe will be on my side,” said Kathy quickly.

  Sarah leant across the table and touched her sister’s, cheek with loving fingers.

  “Of course Joe will be on your side,” she said gently. “But it’s old Uncle B. I’m putting my money on. Didn’t he tell me only last week that we couldn’t last at Dun Rury for another year? Now I have a fine business proposition for him, and he’ll have to stop his croaking. Golly, I’m starved! Is there some Paddy’s Hat left in the kitchen, Nonie?”

  “There is that, and there’s milk, too, which you’ll get down you, me fine lady. You’re thin as a sally wand. Such talk! Such talk, indade!”

  Grumbling, Nonie went back to the kitchen, and Sarah, feeling suddenly tired, followed her.

  Every so often the Kavanaghs came over to supper. Brian Kavanagh had been a lifelong friend of Denis Riordan’s, besides being his man of affairs. They had both been left widowers at much the same time, and Joe, though older, than any of the young Riordans, had known them most of their lives. He never remembered when he had first fallen in love with Kathy, perhaps when she first came home from that smart school in Dublin, perhaps long before, when a serious child in pigtails, she had carried him off to the hay loft to read him Tennyson.

  Aunt Em was thinking vaguely of these things as she waited for the Kavanaghs to arrive for supper. She must certainly speak to Brian about this unsuitable idea of, Sarah’s to fill the house with paying guests. He could not possibly approve of such a course. It was one thing, for Sarah to tend the animals and lend a hand with the work on the farm, but quite another to wait on strangers in her own house; and that Kathy should be expected to make a bed other than her own was unthinkable. Aunt Em shared very strongly old Nonie’s conception of what was due to the quality.

  But when Brian Kavanagh, having done full justice to an excellent rabbit stew and relaxed now by a glowing turf fire with the whisky decanter at his elbow, was told of the proposition, he did not immediately frown upon it.

  “Well now, Sarah, that’s a more sensible notion than you’ve had for some time,” he said.

  “But Uncle B.—” Kathy’s cheeks were flushed. “You sound as though you’re agreeing!”

  He glanced at her kindly. She looked very lovely with her big dismayed eyes and ruffled hair. Beside her Sarah seemed almost plain.

  “Well now, I think I am,” he replied slowly. “It will all have to be worked out properly, of course, but—yes, I think I’m in favor. You can’t stop on at Dun Rury much longer without enlarging your income, you know.”

  Tears sprang to Kathy’s eyes, and she turned quickly to Joe, quietly sucking his pipe and watching her through the haze of tobacco smoke.

  “Joe! You’ve never said a word,” she cried. “Surely you don’t agree with Sarah and Uncle B.?”

  He smiled across at her, and said in his soft voice which was as gentle as hers:

  “I see no harm in the notion, but it need not trouble you, Kathy.”

  She looked hurt and a little puzzled, but Brian’s lips twitched. His son was being subtle for once. His meaning, to the older man at least, was perfectly clear. If Kathy disliked the proposed alteration in her life sufficiently, it might hasten her decision to marry him. Well, thought Joe’s father indulgently, and not a bad thing either. She was twenty. It was time she made up her mind.

  “Well, now, Emma, let’s have your objections,” he said, pouring himself another tot of whisky. “You have experience of living in boarding houses, so your views should be valuable.”

  Aunt Em touched her fringe nervously.

  “The places I lived in were scarcely very homelike,” she began. “Little economies, you know, that made things uncomfortable. Bad food, penny-in-the-slot gas meters and landladies who were so very genteel.”

  Sarah gave her a sudden hug.

  “Poor Aunt Em, I can imagine,” she said. “But Dun Rury wouldn’t be like that. We’d feed them well and ... there’d be warm fires in all the rooms, and no one could call me genteel.”

  And no rule against cooking in your bedroom, Sarah,” said Aunt Em anxiously. “It’s such a comfort to be able to make one’s own pot of tea when one wants it.”

  “They can cook a five-course dinner if they want to,” said Sarah cheerfully.

  Brian Kavanagh cocked an eyebrow.

  “You seem to have come round to Sarah’s way of thinking, Emma,” he said slyly.

  “Oh, well, I—” Aunt Em looked from one to the other of them in confusion. She was so often overruled without realising it until it was too late. “Perhaps there is something to be said for the idea, if you approve, Brian. But what about Nonie?”

  “Nonie?”

  “Nonie says she won’t cook for heathens from over the water,” said Danny, breaking the protective silence which had descended on him for fear that someone would remember his bed time.

  Brian laughed.

  “Oh, I’ll talk Nonie round,” he said. “Nothing, I know, would induce her to leave Dun Rury until she’s carried out in her coffin.”

  “I suppose,” said Kathy in her gentle voice, “since it’s all settled, I must just give in.”

  “Nothing’s settled, dear,” her aunt said reassuringly. “You have a right to your opinions. After all, you’re the eldest.”

  “But the house is Sarah’s.”

  “Only legally,” said Sarah quickly. “It belongs to all of us. Kathy—it’s the only way. We mustn’t lose our home.”

  “What are your objections, Kathy?” asked Brian gently.

  It was unusual for the girl to be so definite.

  “I—I hate the thought of strangers,” she said, but already she sounded a little helpless and unsure.

  “But strangers sometimes mean fresh ideas, pleasant associations. You’ve had too few outside contacts, you and Sarah. You’ve so often said you feel imprisoned at Dun Rury.”

  “Y-yes,” she said uneasily. “Oh, well—I don’t like it, Uncle B., but perhaps you’re right. How does one get a lodger?”

  “You put an advertisement in the p
aper,” said Sarah promptly. “ ‘Family will receive in its bosom lonely bachelor for small consideration.’ ”

  They began to giggle and Aunt Em asked quite seriously:

  “Why are you so insistent on gentlemen, Sarah?”

  “They’re less trouble,” said Sarah, searching through the advertisement columns of the daily paper. “They won’t notice damp and a bit of dust and things like that. Here’s a specimen one. ‘Comfortable board lodging offered to single gentleman. Live as family—every comfort; attractive terms.’ I like ‘attractive terms,’ ” don’t you? It sounds sort of Christmassy. And we’ll put in fishing, rough shooting, magnificent mountain ‘scenery and lashings of eggs and whisky, because, of course, our advertisement will appear in the English papers.”

  Joe and his father were both laughing.

  “You’d better leave the drafting of your advertisement to me, Sarah,” Brian said. “And I don’t really think you can afford to limit yourself to lonely bachelors.”

  Aunt Em’s eyes began to shine. Lonely bachelors had other possibilities besides not noticing damp or dust. A rich banker might fancy the inducements of Dun Rury for a time, or a tired business man with artistic tastes, even a tilted frequenter of London society, weary of the social whirl, and Kathy—Kathy with her unawakened freshness, her typical Irish beauty ... Aunt Em’s imagination ran away with her, and she glanced guiltily and a little apologetically at Joe sitting there so peacefully, his quiet eyes resting on the girl with such loving assurance.

  “Danny,” she said quite sharply, “it’s long past your bedtime. Run along, dear.”

  “Let’s go and look at the rooms,” Sarah suggested, when the door had closed on a reluctant Danny. “Let’s start planning right away. Kathy—you, too, Joe. Aunt Em and Uncle B. can keep each other company with the whisky.”

  She took one of the lamps, and Joe and Kathy followed her into the hall. They visited all the rooms, the drawing room with its shrouded furniture, and long, uncurtained windows, faded outlines on the walls marking where once a tallboy or cabinet had stood.

  “We needn’t use the drawing room,” Sarah said.

  The library, smelling of must, its shelves presenting many gaps in the rows of old books. “Aunt Em can find some job lots at the sales. The chairs are comfortable,” Sarah said.

  The dining room—“What a good thing I refused that offer for the table. We’ll have to eat in here. The dining room should impress them, shouldn’t it, Joe?”

  Joe smiled. Sarah’s enthusiasm was catching, and he supposed the big room with its polished mahogany, its heavy, old-fashioned silver, and dusty tapestry was impressive in a rather gloomy fashion. The decay of Dun Rury had been so gradual that he had barely noticed it, but he realized now in a measure what Sarah was trying to preserve, though he doubted if she realized it herself. He looked at her now standing there with the lamp held high above her head, the light casting unfamiliar planes and shadows on the face he had known from childhood and always considered plain. She was not plain, this half-fledged, coltish creature, she was not plain at all. Only beside her exquisite sister she was drained of beauty.

  He turned to Kathy, startled by the strange impression, and the gentle perfection of her loveliness flowed back into him, so that he involuntarily put a hand out to touch her.

  She linked her fingers with his, smiling at him.

  “I’ve always wanted to use this room,” she said softly. “I—I rather like formality.”

  Sarah put down the lamp on the silver-ladened sideboard, and blew the dust off a discolored epergne.

  “Although we’ve sold so much silver, there seems an awful lot left,” she said absently. “Yes, Kathy darling, you’d grace our board most beautifully when the time comes. The lodgers’ eyes will be popping. Shall we go upstairs and pick the bedrooms?”

  “Not tonight,” Kathy said. “I want—” She stretched her arms above her head. “I don’t know what I want.” She sighed, and Joe said softly:

  “Come and walk down to the lough. It’s a fine night and still warm.”

  “Not tonight, Joe,” she said, just as she had answered Sarah. “I think I’ll go back to the snug.”

  He did not immediately follow her, but joined Sarah who had wandered over to one of the windows and stood looking out at the moonlight.

  “She’s in a strange mood,” he said, and Sarah smiled.

  “Not really. She’s deciding whether to accept the idea of my lodgers, or remain Miss Riordan of Dun Rury prepared to be rescued with a good grace from the awkward straits of poverty.”

  He looked at her quickly, unfamiliar with her mood which seemed suddenly adult and a little disconcerting. She was wearing an old dress of Kathy’s which had been one of his favorites, he remembered, and he resented seeing it on Sarah who wore it so carelessly.

  “Kathy hasn’t the insincerity to weigh things up so patly,” he said a little sharply.

  “Of course she hasn’t—not consciously—and anyway I shouldn’t call it insincere, only sensible. All I meant was, Joe dear, that this might be your chance to get what you want sooner than you expected. Kathy’s such a child—she’s influenced by situations. You love her very much, don’t you?”

  “I’ve always loved her, as you know, but I’ve been quite content to wait,” he said simply.

  She moved her head a little impatiently, and a shaft of moonlight fell across her face, accentuating the hollows beneath the fine bone structure.

  “I don’t understand people who are content to wait,” she said. “When I know what I want, I want it at once.”

  “But you, my child, have never been in love,” he said with a smile.

  She made a face at him.

  “Now you’re being elder brotherly, and you haven’t attained that status yet.” She smiled at him suddenly. “I have your interests very much at heart, Joe—dear Joe. I would like to have you for a brother.”

  He was touched and surprised as he often was when he remembered that she was two years younger than her sister.

  “And what you want you must have at once, I think you said,” he replied teasingly.

  “Well, perhaps not quite at once,” she said sedately. “Let’s go back to the snug.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sarah’s project was forgotten, or shelved in the last gracious benison of summer. It was true Nonie had been talked round by Brian Kavanagh who had also sent off a suitable advertisement to several English papers, and Nolan had been set to distemper over the damp patches in the bedrooms, but the whole idea was still unreal and a little absurd, like one of Danny’s games. No one really believed in Sarah’s lodgers until the first letter came.

  They had been for a picnic to St. Patrick’s Well, a favorite haunt in the heart of the hills, and Kathy was already lagging when they reached the south road which ran beside the lough.

  “It’s too far,” she said. “We need the donkey to carry the food. What did you let Timsy borrow him for?”

  “His own is lame and he’s cutting turf,” Sarah replied absently. “Look! There’s Willie-the-Post. Hi, Willie! Have you anything for Dun Rury? It’ll save you a mile.”

  Willie-the Post got off his bicycle, grinned at them, dourly as he handed over a bundle of letters and rode away without a word. He seldom spoke unless he had gossip or ill tidings to impart, and it was no use asking him questions for he would not reply.

  The Riordans sat down in the heather beside the road to sort through the post.

  “Sales catalogues ... bills ... lottery tickets ... bills ... I wish we could win a lottery. Here’s one for you from Joe.” Sarah handed a letter to her sister with a smile, and Danny remarked with mild astonishment:

  “You only saw him on Sunday. Who’s that spidery writing from, Sarah?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She opened it, frowning over the signature first, then over the strange address. She had forgotten all about Brian Kavanagh’s advertisement. But as she read, her eyes grew bright and he
r mouth curved in a wide grin.

  “It’s an applicant!” she cried. “Someone who wants to live with a typical Irish family and study the folk-lore of the people. Golly! Listen, Kathy...”

  “Um?” Kathy looked up vaguely from her own letter.

  “ ‘You may or may not have heard of my name, but I write stories for little people—’ ” Sarah read. She was interrupted by Danny who enquired if she meant fairies and continued: “ ‘—I have always wanted to stay with a typical Irish family in the wild west of Ireland and study the folklore of the people. You will find me most adaptable and eager to enter into all your pursuits. You, Miss Riordan, I feel sure, are, like myself, ready to share your life with another lonely stranger, and I am sure could teach me so much that would enrich my work. I should be glad to know your terms and whether there is indoor or outdoor sanitation.’ ”

  “Cripes!” said Danny, awed.

  “Heavens!” said Kathy.

  They all three stared at each other with round eyes, then burst into fits of helpless laughter.

  “Who is she?” asked Kathy, wiping her eyes.

  Sarah consulted the signature. “Daisy Dearlove, Miss. And every second word is underlined.”

  “She must think you’re an elderly-spinster like herself.”

  “She may not be an elderly spinster. Perhaps she’s young and earnest.”

  “I should think” said Danny, “she’s loopy.”

  “Do you know any folklore, Sarah?”

  “No, do you?”

  “I know the story about the Civil Guard and the publican’s wife,” began Danny, but Sarah frowned on him.

  “That’s not at all the same thing,” she said severely. “The wild west of Ireland, indeed! She must think we’re very primitive.”

  “Well, we are,” said Kathy and sighed.

  “We are not, then! The sanitation is indoors and we don’t keep pigs in the kitchen.”

  “But there’s no light, no telephone, and not always hot baths and no one ever visits us.”