Chapter I

Clochranbeg, the tiny Donegal town, half of which, on the brink of its tall sea-cliff, stands overlooking its other half, set low on the shore, is a place whither we may return after a lapse of years to find not only everything but everybody very much as we left them. And though this is partly because many of the children, whose growth would have been perplexing, will unfortunately have emigrated, it is partly, too, because many of their elders wear so well and change so slowly.

Not that Clochranbeg is a Tir-na-n-og such as one lights on now and then in the soft south, where brows remain strangely unwrinkled by passing Time’s inscriptions. Here in the bleak north, face to face with the roughest weather, we seldom find, as did of yore the Northumbrian king, “beauty that blooms when youth is gone,” and the inhabitants have to be satisfied with vigour and energy continuing unusually long after visages are tanned and furrowed. What they do pride themselves on considerably is the hale old age to which they often attain, and which those of the upper town account for by the airiness of their situation, subject to every wind that blows, whether across the boundless Atlantic or the wide Meenaclochran bog-lands; whereas their neighbours in the lower town ascribe it in their case to the splendid shelter, from all save western storms, enjoyed by them at the foot of the high cliff.

“Sure now, it’s ourselves gets our plenty of the fresh air, one way or the other,” boasts Jim Doyle. “If we had everythin’ else accordin’, we’d be the very rich people entirely;” and he sticks to his opinion even while flakes of his thatch are flying all abroad upon the blast. But Hughey M‘Evoy wouldn’t take a shilling a day to live cocked up there like a windmill bewitched, and he does not abate his terms, though a wild night may bestrew his roof with sea-wrack and fling salt spray hissing upon his hearth-stone. Both, however, agree that there are few places where people are apt to be getting their health as well as at Clochranbeg.

So it is easy to understand what jealous feelings would be roused by an incident which occurred one summer not very long since at Stradrowan, a village several miles inland, away beyond the big bog. The hundredth birthday of one Mrs Julia O’Meara had there been celebrated “with every sort of grandeur you could give a name to,” including an entertainment at the schoolhouse, and a presentation of sundry garments and groceries, organised by Mr Felix Reilly of the parish shop. Highly-coloured accounts of the proceedings had been spread around at fairs and markets, but, more than that, the affair had actually got into the newspaper, being made the subject of a paragraph in the _Northern Trumpeter_, wherein to details of the ceremony were appended some remarks on the salubriousness of Stradrowan as evidenced by its possession of so hale and hearty a resident centenarian.

In these lurked a sting which moved the Clochranbegians to indignant murmurs about people who thought themselves very fine with their names on the paper; people who were mighty fond of flourishing themselves to the front, and other reprehensible members of society. Mrs Pat Doherty, being “something to” the Stradrowan Reillys, had gone so far as to purchase at Loughmore, twelve miles distant, that copy of the _Trumpeter_; and when a fortnight old it was still much in request among her acquaintances. Two of them, in fact, were busy with it one warm afternoon when the Widow Farrell looked in on her way to Geary’s.

The Widow Farrell had been living quite alone on a potato-patch in a recess of the sea-cliff ever since most people could remember, though her youth had passed before she came to Clochranbeg. She was one of the Carmodys, whose habitation had been on the townland of Moyloughlin, towards Kilanure, but of whom none now remained on that countryside. At Clochranbeg she had no one belonging to her more particularly than by the vague and intricate cousinships, the tracing and recognising of which may be regarded as a matter of kindness rather than of kindred. Undoubtedly there was nothing in the widow’s circumstances that could tempt anyone to claim affinity with her from interested motives; for her position was as precarious as humble, resting upon the success of her efforts to raise potatoes enough for herself and her few hens, while the utmost she hoped from the future was that “whenever anythin’ bad took her it might be for good and all,” by which phrase she meant to express a wish that no lingering illness should bring her ignominiously to the Union Infirmary. At this time, however, she was still a brisk and active little old woman, who could patter about the deep-sanded boreens with her piled-up creel of turf sods as nimbly as a goat, when “Pather Phelan would be buildin’ her her stack.”

It was a much lighter load she had now as she came blinking out of the July sunshine into Mrs Doherty’s house, perched on the rim of the cliff at the northern end of the straggling street, which forms the higher Town. “Sit ye down, ma’am; is it kilt you are wid the heat?” Mrs Doherty said, hospitably starting up from her end of the fireside form so abruptly that Nannie Phelan was all but tossed off the other.

“Sorra bit, ma’am, am I,” said Mrs Farrell, sitting down quickly, nevertheless, to restore the balance. “It’s a grand, blazin’ hot day, glory be to goodness. Just steppin’ along to Geary’s I am wid me eggs for some oatenmale.”

“Poor Mr Geary, he’s none too well plased wid the way they’re settin’ themselves up over at Stradrowan,” said Nannie Phelan. “Says I to him the other day: ‘Well, Mr Geary,’ says I, ‘Mr Faylix Reilly over yonder’s the great man altogether these times, himself and his prisentations,’ says I. And says he to me: ‘Ah sure, it’s all in the way of business, that’s what it is,’ says he, as much as to make out the same might happen himself any time at all. So he passed it off wid the form of a laugh, but if he wasn’t more than a little put out I haven’t an eye in me head. He never happint to look at the _Trumpeter_ he said. Och, Mrs Hickey, it’s yourself has the strong sight, to be readin’ that quare small little print.”

“Plain enough it is,” Mrs Hickey replied from her stool at Nannie’s elbow; “the only thing that bothers one is how at all they conthrived to reckon up the ould crathur’s age that exact; for ’twould be much if anybody had a notion of it after such a len’th of time, supposin’ ’twas ever in their knowledge. Bedad now, ma’am, if you axed me how ould I was this minyit, that haven’t the sign of a grey hair on me head, you’d ax me more than I could be tellin’ you. Why, one does be losin’ count of the childer’s ages, once they’re over three or four year. It’s somethin’ aisier wid the bastes, because one does be keepin’ them mostly a shorter while. But if you owned a pig or a heifer for fifty or sixty year, you’d be very apt to disremimber what sort of an age was on it before you got shut of it.”

“You would so,” said Mrs Doherty. “But bastes is a different thing. You can’t be countin’ up their ages conformably to what cows and pigs might have a recollection of, as if they were Christians. And that’s the way they manage wid them oncommon ould-aged people.”

“Ay do they, thrue for you,” said Mrs Hickey, “_The vener’ble re-ciperant of the prisentation retains a vy-vid remimberance of the fateful year ’98, the landin’ of the Frinch, the battle of Watherloo, and other historiogical evints, which she grapically relates to her interested audithors_,” she spelled slowly out of the smudgy column. “But sure there’s plenty here in Clochranbeg could remimber that much, and maybe more, if they gave their minds to it.”

“What ’ud ail them to not?” said Nannie Phelan. “I’ve a good few things in me own recollection, and as for Mrs Farrell, that has a heavier age on her than any of us here, ma’am, she had a right to remimber all manner. But there’s no talk of presintin’ her wid shawls and gowns and chests of tay.”

“Ah, not at all, not at all, why would they?” the widow said disclaimingly. “I’m a dale short of a hunderd yet anyway.”

“Might you happen to mind any talk of the war and the Frinch landin’, ma’am?” Mrs Hickey inquired of her.

“Sure I’m hearin’ talk of it all the days of me life, for that matter,” Mrs Farrell said. “But the war I’ve the most recollection of was an American one, for it lasted a cruel long while, and the prices there did be on everythin’ would frighten you. A shillin’ for a little weeny taste of tay you could put in a half egg-shell. Sorra a sup of it any poor person seen those times, and everybody said ’twas the American war made it so dear.”

“A drop of tay’s a woeful loss,” Mrs Doherty said. “There’s nothin’ to aquil it. But how long back might that be, Mrs Farrell?”

“Och, woman dear, I couldn’t be tellin’ you! It was a good while bedad. Only I remimber as if it was yisterday, Mr Geary’s grandfather sayin’ to me ’twas the war in America riz up the price of the tay.”

“Mr Martin here can tell us very belike,” Mrs Hickey said, wheeling her stool half round so as to reach a small elderly man, who was sitting just behind it at the window, and reading the other sheet of the _Trumpeter_. He was the National School teacher of Clochranbeg. “Mr Martin,” Mrs Hickey shouted in his deaf ear, twitching him by the sleeve out of his leading article.

“Public opinion--troth, if that’s what all they’re trustin’ to,” Mr Martin said, as if she had jerked off what lay uppermost in his mind at the moment.

“Och, no matter for that,” she said. “I was axin’ you could you tell us what American war there might be a great while ago had somethin’ to say to the price of tay.”

“Oh, ay to be sure,” said Mr Martin, “that ’ud be at the beginnin’ end of the War of Indepindence--the time a mob of people dressed themselves up like wild Injins and stepped on board of all the ships that was lyin’ in Boston Harbour loaded wid tay, and every bit of it they slung into the water--hundreds of tons’ weight.”

“Wisha, wisha,” deplored Mrs Doherty. “Themselves was the lads to go do such a mischievous thing, and to be sure that ’ud make it terrible scarce and dear. It’s grew in them parts, I should suppose. But how long would it be since then, Mr Martin?”

“’Twould be before any of us was born or thought of,” said Mr Martin. “I couldn’t give you the very date out of me head extemporaneous, but ’twas a dozen year or so after George the Third come by the crown of England. If you called it seventeen hundred and seventy you wouldn’t be far astray.” And he hurried back to his leader.

“Siventeen hundred and siventy,” said Mrs Doherty. “Isn’t that ould ages ago?”

Nannie Phelan was adding up on her fingers under her breath. “Tin and tin is twinty, and tin is thirty,” and at the end of her calculations she said: “I declare to goodness it’s better than a hunderd year, forby whatever age she was herself at the time. Is it just a slip of a _girsheach_ you were then, ma’am?”

“’Deed no, Nannie; a widow woman I was then, the very same way I am now,” Mrs Farrell said, glancing anxiously from face to face. Her three neighbours were surveying her with a sort of awe-stricken curiosity, which was not reassuring.

“Well to be sure,” said Mrs Hickey, “she looked to be an ould woman when I come here first, and that’s over twinty year back; but I’d no notion she was that wonderful age altogether.”

“Tellin’ you the truth, I was noticin’ her failed a dale this good little bit,” said Mrs Doherty. “But that’s only to be expected, the dear knows, and she goin’ on for two hunderd.”

“What way are you feelin’ yourself at all, ma’am dear?” said Nannie.

“I do be gettin’ me health very raisonable,” Mrs Farrell said, “glory be to goodness.” But her tone was dejected enough to harmonise with the condolence expressed in Nannie’s inquiry.

“I wonder now might she happen to have e’er a line wrote down anywheres?” said Mrs Hickey. “That’s sometimes a handy way of makin’ out things.”

“There’s a little ould prayer-book I have at home this long while,” said the widow, “and I remimber me poor father sayin’ me own name was on a leaf of it. I scarce think there’s aught else. I niver got any learnin’ to spake of, for I come away from school to help in the house after me sisther--” Mrs Farrell stopped herself suddenly, for she was just stumbling on a bit of family history which she always avoided with care.

“She’s fit to drop wid draggin’ herself up the steep hill, that’s what ails her,” pronounced Mrs Doherty. “I’ll be wettin’ her a cup of tay. It’s much if the crathur overs next winter,” she added in a loud aside to Nannie Phelan.

“I met Pather Doyle and I comin’ along here, and he said I was lookin’ grand,” Mrs Farrell put in wistfully.

“Ah, sure, Pather’s a great talker. If he says a word of truth, of an odd time, it’s mostly because he consaits in his own mind it’s a lie he’s tellin’ you,” said Mrs Doherty.

“But don’t be frettin’, ma’am,” said Nannie Phelan, “you might do finely yet a while. Buryin’ the half of us you might be. And I’ll slip over meself now wid your basket to Geary’s, and fetch you what you was wantin’, the way you needn’t be killin’ yourself trampin’ about. So just sit aisy where you are.”

Nannie would not be gainsaid, but bustled off, eager to communicate their remarkable chronological discovery, and to carry out a benevolent plan of her own. Its result appeared when she returned after half an hour’s gossip and presented to the widow a small, peaked blue paper parcel.

“’Tis just a grain, ma’am, I got you meself; and your oatenmale’s all right in the basket, wid an egg to your credit. Ah, sure, not at all, don’t say a word. ’Deed now, it’s a poor case if the ouldest ould woman in the country couldn’t make herself a cup of tay. When I tould Mr Geary he said ’twas a couple of ould-age pinsions you had a right to be gettin’.”

“Offerin’ to make her a prisint of them he’d be, if only he kep’ them in stock, he would so. Musha, long life to himself,” Mrs Hickey remarked with sarcasm.

The gift made Mrs Farrell very grateful, but failed to raise her spirits, which had sunk low as she sat perplexed, sipping out of Mrs Doherty’s ponderous blue-rimmed cup; and she soon got up, saying it was time she stepped home. Her hostess, though declaring it would be a sin to ask her to stay late, and perhaps catch her death of cold, protested against letting her go by herself and carry down the basket, which she had carried up without a thought, and Nannie Phelan, putting her head out of the door, espied a long-legged, bare-footed little niece trotting by, and bade her come to take home Mrs Farrell’s basket. So the widow set off, escorted by Katty M‘Cann.

It seemed to Mrs Farrell that the lane was unwontedly steep, and that never before had she waded so wearily through the deep sand. Twice she had to bid Katty not “be tatterin’ along at such a rate, fit to jig the breath out of a body.” As they went between the silvery banks, which took lilac and amber hues in the sunset shine and shadow, she was groping among her memories for some way of creeping out from under the huge burden of years so suddenly heaped upon her by the computations of her friends.

“I was growin’ an ould woman, I well knew,” she reflected, “but what they say’s beyond the beyonds entirely. I never heard tell of any of the Carmodys livin’ to one hundred, let alone a couple, nor yet anybody belongin’ to me poor mother aither. People ’ill be wonderin’ what’s keepin’ me in it so long. Onnathural it is.”

Yet she could find no escape from their conclusions. The years that had passed since her early widowhood lay behind her all in a dim mist of monotony, confusingly alike, without any notable events for time-marks. Whatever things she did remember distinctly and consecutively belonged, she knew, to the far-off days before the loss of her elder sister and her own short married life. In the featureless blur of shifting summers and winters it was impossible to fix dates for isolated reminiscences such as the dear tea and the American war; ten years, or twenty, or forty might have elapsed between them. That old prayer-book, the legacy of her father’s brother, alone afforded hopes of a clue, and so impatient was she to follow it up that when she reached her door she bade Katty wait a minute till she fetched out something she wanted read. Katty, tilting the damp-embrowned page to catch the slanted sunbeams, spelt off the fly-leaf, “Norah Carmody.”

“Sure enough, you’ve got it right, that’s me name,” said Mrs Farrell. “But would you try is there any figures on it, honey?”

“Sivinteen hundred and sixty-two there is,” said Katty, peering closer at the faded ink. “That’s a quare long while ago.”

“It is so, God knows,” Mrs Farrell said, relinquishing her last hope. “And it stands to raison nobody’d take and write down me name before I was born. Thank you kindly, Katty.”

As she turned indoors she felt the new, unaccustomed weight of that great old age pressing sadly on both body and mind, and she dropped her basket on the floor and sat down forlorn by the smouldering wraith of a fire. She had not the heart to think even of Nannie Phelan’s tea, which in any ordinary circumstances would have given the evening a cheerful flavour; it seemed such a lonesome fate to be the ouldest ould woman in Ireland.