Part 6 (1/2)

”Can we get lunch?” I inquired.

”You can,” she answered, short and sharp like the snap of a whip, and she stood in the doorway staring at us, without making any sign that we should enter.

”Is it ready?” I ventured further, for the long drive had made us very hungry.

”It is not.”

Let me say here that very rarely does any one of Irish blood say ”yes”

or ”no” in answer to a question. When you ask the man at the station, ”Is this the train for So-and-so?” he will invariably answer, ”It is,”

or ”It is not,” as the case may be. When you ask your jarvey if he thinks it will rain to-day, his invariable answer is ”It will not.” I never heard an Irishman admit unreservedly that it was going to rain.

But before I had time to ask the red-headed girl any further questions, she was hustled aside by a typical little brown Irishwoman, who asked us in and made us welcome. Lunch would be ready in fifteen minutes, she said; meanwhile, if we wished, we could walk to the waterfall.

Of course we _did_ wish, and set eagerly forth past the end of the upper lake, across a bridge, past a great empty hotel which was falling to decay, and up a little stream to the fall. It is really a series of rapids rather than a fall, and only mildly pretty; but growing abundantly in the damp ground along the margin of the stream was what Betty declared to be the true shamrock--a very beautiful trefoil, evidently a variety of oxalis, and certainly much nearer our ideal of the shamrock than the skimpy plant shown us by the gardener at Clondalkin. We gathered some of it, and then hastened back--for we didn't want to be late for lunch. As we were pa.s.sing the lake, we noticed an extremely dirty and unkempt individual, who looked like a vagabond, sitting on a stone, and as soon as he saw us, he jumped up and fell in beside us.

”Your honour will be goin' to St. Kevin's bed,” he began.

”Where is the bed?” I asked.

”In the cliff beyant there, sir,” and he pointed across the lake.

”How do we get to it?”

”Sure I'll carry your honour and your lady in me boat.”

I looked at the fellow, and at the wide lake, and at the little flat-bottomed skiff moored to a rock near by, and I had my doubts as to the wisdom of entrusting ourselves to the combination. He read the doubt in my face, and broke in with voluble protests.

”Arrah, you must go to the bed, your honour,” he cried; ”and your honour's lady, too. 'Tis the place where the blessed Saint lived for siven years, and if you sit down in his seat you will niver have the backache, and if you lie down in his bed you will niver have any ache at all, at all, and if you make three wishes they will surely come true.”

Betty and I glanced at each other. We were tempted. Then I looked at our would-be guide.

”Why don't you make three wishes yourself?” I asked.

”I have, your honour.”

”Did they come true?”

”They did, your honour,” he answered instantly. ”I asked for a light heart, a quick wit and a ready tongue. Your honour can see that I have all of them.”

My heart began to warm to him, for he was the first person we had met in Ireland who talked like this.

”Now just be lookin' at this, your honour,” he went on, and led us to the side of the road where stood a cross of stone--the terminal cross, as I afterwards learned, which marked the boundary of the old monastery.

”Do you see them marks? This large one is the mark of a horse's hoof, and this small one of a colt's; and 'twas by a miracle they came there.

In the old time, there was a man who stole a mare and her foal, but who denied it, and who was brought before St. Kevin. The Saint placed the man in front of this cross and told him if he was guilty to be sayin'

it, and if he was not guilty to be sayin' it; and the man said he was not guilty. And as he spoke the words, the shape of the hoofs appeared on the cross, and when the man saw them, he knew it was no use tryin' to deceive the Saint, so he confessed everything. And there the hoof-prints are to this day.”

They certainly bore some resemblance to hoof-prints, and I could not but admire the ingenuity of the tale which had been invented to explain them.