Never will it be given to them to understand the man of whom our friend Sweeny was no more than a type.  How can they be expected to realise that a man who is decorous in family and village life, indisputably God-fearing, kind to the poor, and reasonably honest, will enmesh himself in a tissue of sworn lies before his fellows for the sake of half a sovereign and a family feud, and that his fellows will think none the worse of him for it.

These things lie somewhere near the heart of the Irish problem.

THE DANE’S BREECHIN’

PART I

The story begins at the moment when my brother Robert and I had made our final arrangements for the expedition.  These were considerable.  Robert is a fisherman who takes himself seriously (which perhaps is fortunate, as he rarely seems to take anything else), and his paraphernalia does credit to his enthusiasm, if not to his judgment.  For my part, being an amateur artist, I had strapped together a collection of painting materials that would enable me to record my inspiration in oil, watercolour, or pastel, as the spirit might move me.  We had ordered a car from Coolahan’s public-house in the village; an early lunch was imminent.

The latter depended upon Julia; in fact it would be difficult to mention anything at Wavecrest Cottage that did not depend on Julia.  We, who were but strangers and sojourners (the cottage with the beautiful name having been lent to us, with Julia, by an Aunt), felt that our very existence hung upon her clemency.  How much more then luncheon, at the revolutionary hour of a quarter to one?  Even courageous people are afraid of other people’s servants, and Robert and I were far from being courageous.  Possibly this is why Julia treated us with compassion, even with kindness, especially Robert.

“Ah, poor Masther Robert!” I have heard her say to a friend in the kitchen, who was fortunately hard of hearing, “ye wouldn’t feel him in the house no more than a feather!  An’ indeed, as for the two o’ thim, sich gallopers never ye seen!  It’s hardly they’d come in the house to throw the wet boots off thim!  Thim’d gallop the woods all night like the deer!”

At half-past twelve, all, as I have said, being in train, I went to the window to observe the weather, and saw a covered car with a black horse plodding along the road that separated Wavecrest Cottage from the seashore.  At our modest entrance gates it drew up, and the coachman climbed from his perch with a dignity befitting his flowing grey beard and the silver band on his hat.