THE HAUNTED OVEN by W. L. Blackley

Thady Brophy an’ his wife Bridget wur well-to-do farming people, and worked hard and had good luck. Somehow or other things done well wid them; Biddy would get the butther to come in her churn the couldest day in winter, whin her neighbours would be workin’ the dash hour afther hour widout the sign of a thickening till their hearts was almost broke. And Thady’s pigs never died, an’ his fowls never roosted their breastbones crooked, and his horses never broke their knees, an’ the wireworm never got into his turnips, and all his calves was heifer calves. Everybody said they had the luck of the fairies, and ne’er a thing in the wide world to throuble thim; and so they had till they’d filled a long stockin’ with sove­reigns, and made their fortune, and thin nothin’ would contint them but they must take a bigger farm, and move into a new house. The new house was a fine ould ancient building, fifty or sixty miles from Kilcoskan, where they’d made their money. And what do ye think put it into their heads to go there and set up for gentility? Why the name of the place was Glanbrophy, and Thady made sure that some of his forefathers must have lived there, an’ Biddy thought it would sound mighty purty av’ he was to buy it, and hear people talkin’ of him as Mr. Brophy of Glanbrophy, an’ thin she wint on thinking, as we’re all apt to do, of how it might go on an’ on, from gineration to gineration, an’ that maybe in coorse ov time her great-great-grandson might be a magistrate, an’ sarve on the grand jury, an’ maybe get to be a high sheriff an’ have a hand in a fine hanging now an’ thin, an’ so have something for the family to take pride in. So Biddy set her heart on Thady buying Glanbrophy, an’ she sint him over to look at the place. So he rode over quiet an’ asy, an’ never let on to anyone he was thinking to buy it: an’ he asked the neighbours all sorts of questions and came home to Biddy. “Biddy, acushla,” he says, “we can get Glanbrophy for half the valley,’’ he says; “but I don’t think I’ll take it, all the same,” he says. “An’ why not thin?” she ses; “didn’t I send ye over there just to take it out of a face?” “Ay, but Biddy,” he ses; “the raison they have for letting it go cheap is bekase there’s a ghost there, an’ sure I thought it med be makin’ you narvous, you darlint.” But Thady’s kind tongue was spakin’ (as most of us do now an’ thin that’s got the luck to have a wife) one word for her an’ two for himself; for though he was six foot high in his stockin’ feet, the thought of a sperrit’d give him an ague as aisy as kiss your hand. “Is it make me narvous, acushla,” ses Biddy; “sure it’s funnin’ you are now! The sorra a ghost in sivin counties oud frighten me, an’ it’s kindly obleeged to thim I feel for cheapening Glanbrophy for us, so as to let us into our ould ancient family estate. So jist settle the business as soon as ye can, an’ see av’ we can’t move in three weeks afore Christmas,” she says, “an’ it’s a hearty welcome we’ll give the sperrit,” she says, “whether they be leprechauns, or fairies, or fetches, or brigaboos. Be off, Thady, hot fut to the lawyer, an’ come back to me as Misther Brophy of Glanbrophy, or by the pipers I’ll haunt you myself, worse than the biggest old ghost that ever frightened the five small senses out of a fullsized fool before.”

Well, Thady knew whin Biddy spoke that-a-way that she meant what she said, an’ so, for to save time and throuble, he writ off, like a sinsible chap, and bought Glanbrophy out an’ out. Troth, an’ if every marrid man in this very room would do like Thady, some ov’ you, I’ll be bound, would have an aisier life than ye have.

Well, the place was theirs’, an’ they had the mischief’s own lot of fuss moving. Biddy hadn’t thought of that; an’ some of the things was badly packed, an’ the breakages wint to her very heart. There was three cups out of seven of her grandmother’s tayset all to smithereens, an’ she cut the tops of two of her fingers getting the pieces out ov’ the hay, an’ in short, she had all sorts of worry. But she was a jolly kind ov’ a woman, whin she had her own way, an’ made no more fuss nor she could help. An’ by degrees things got plea­santer, an’ every day she found somethin’ new about Glanbrophy that plazed her, an’ the best part of a fortnight passed away, an’ they never heard the sound or seen the sign of a ghost, an’ they were as proud as Punch ov’ their bargain.

Well, wan mornin’ ses Biddy to Thady, “There was but the wan thing wantin’, Thady,” she says, “to make me a happy woman,” she says. “All these years at Kilcoskan we had to ate bakers’ bread, bekase there wasn’t an oven, an’ the dickens a chance ov’ barm to rise the dough. An’ sure I was always havin’ the heartburn from all the alum an’ stuff they did be puttin’ in the bread; but now,” ses she, “there’s a lovely old oven here, an’ there’s a big brewery half a mile off, jist beyant our estate, an’ I can have barm every day av I want it. An’ I’ve set in a beautiful bakin’ of bread, an’ now that we’ve got our ancesthors’ estate, an’ we’re the Brophys of Glanbrophy, wid an illigant outside kyar, an’ a beautiful oven of me own, an’ home baked bread, I feel somehow, as if I’d be quite contint for to die, so I would, Thady.”

“Well, Biddy,” ses Thady, “I don’t like much to differ wid you; but I’m not sure but I’d feel more contint to stay alive for a while; anyhow, till I tasted the home baked bread,” he says, with a laugh; an’ so they wint, the two ov’ thim, into the bakehouse.

Biddy called the girl to open the oven an’ draw the bread. For she’d got up quite airly in the mornin’ to surproize Thady wid her beautiful bakin’. An’ there was six lovely loaves, lookin’ like three dear little pairs of sweet little twin babbies, asleep in all their innocence. “Dear me, O,” she says, for she was quite touched wid her success. “What a pity to think that lovely crust’ll get soft an’ tough before Thursday! An’ they’re as light as a feather,” she says, “an’ it’s a wondherful fine oven; an’ Thady,” she ses, “it’s not very wholesome, but jist this wanst we’ll eat hot bread for breakfast,” she says, an’ she was in the hoight of good humour, an’ ses she, “You’re right after all, Thady, I don’t want to die jist yet.” An’ so down they sot to their break­fast.

Well, Thady takes up a loaf to cut a nice piece of undher crust off for Biddy, whin she says, “Stop, alanna,” ses she, “May I never, but there’s writin’ on the bread!”

“Writin’ on the bread!” cries Thady, wid a loud guffaw of a laugh, but he turned the loaf up to look, an’ sure enough there was some big letthers on it.

Well, they looked an’ looked, but they couldn’t make thim out; ould-fashioned looking, upside down, inside out; “Maybe it’s French,” ses Biddy. “No,” ses Thady, “it must be Latin,” ses he, “for there’s a big B, an’ it’s just turned right the wrong way; an’ there’s an R to the left hand ov’ it. What does it mane, at all, at all,” an’ he looked up at Biddy, an’ it’s startled she was, for all that she was so bould an’ brave, her face was as white as the bakehouse wall, an’ the teeth was chattering in her mouth. “Sure,” she ses, “if it’s writing the wrong way, it must be a spell, an’ there’s something onlooky about. Och! wirras thrice, why did I pass my little bit ov nonsense about the ghosts; there’s throuble comin to us out of that oven!”

Well, Thady didn’t feel comfortable, but ’twas daylight, an’ so he tried to carry it off like a man; so he ses, “Don’t be a big fool, Biddy, sure the letthers has no maning; it might be some sort of a rash in the whate, that breaks out on the crust of the loaf.” An’ then he tried a poor bit of a joke, “the flour was made of red whate, an’ how could it be red without letthers?”

Biddy snapped the loaf out ov his hand in a pet. “Av’ there is a ghost in it,” ses she; “I’ll spell it out backwards, and see what he’s got to say throublin dacent people.” An’ on she wint, “B-R-I Bri, B-r-i-d Brid, G-E-T get, Bridget,” she screams. “Och, Thady, alanna, I’m done for; it’s a message for me from the ghost!” Well, they wur like to faint, so they wur, an’ they tuk the other five loaves, an’ sure enough there was writin’ on thim too, an’ they turned thim all undhercrust uppermost to read the onlucky back­ward writing on thim, an’ see what was the worst of the spell the sperits was goin’ to put on thim. Well, they made it out somehow. The first loaf, as I tould yees, was Bridget —an’ that frightened the missis enough—but would ye believe it, the next loaf when they spelt it out was “Brophy of Glan,” and the third loaf “Brophy, died.” When they got this far, they looked at wan another, an’ Thady burst out in a fit o’ cryin’, and Biddy screamed “murther,” and caught him roun’ the waist, an’ tried to get her nose into his waistcoat pocket, for fear of seein’ any more of the ghost’s message. But ’twas all no use, they couldn’t help spellin’ the other loaves, an’ the long an’ the short ov it was, “Bridget Brophy of Glanbrophy, died Christmas Day, 1866, aged 44 years.” An’ it wur the very year they wur in, and it wur just ten days afore Christmas! “Oh, Thady, Thady,” cried Biddy, “I’m bespoke!—it’s all over wid me!—ten days to live!—and to die on Chrissimas Day!—an’ ’twas all your consait wantin’ to be Mister Brophy of Glanbrophy that’s brought me to this pass! Ochone, for Kilcoskan! I wish I was back! But that’s what man’s vanity does. Why couldn’t you lave me in peace where there wur no ghosts an’ warnin’ to make my last days miserable!” An’ she threw her aperon over her ’ead an’ rocked up an’ down as if her sorrow was a hungry babby she wur thryin’ to hush to slape.

“Arrah! Biddy,” ses Thady, presently, quite hearty-like, “cheer up, woman. It’s a thrick somewan’s put upon you.” “How do you make that out, you could-hearted spalpeen,” she ses, getting out of the apron mighty quick all the same, for she was in hopes he wed have found a chance for her. “Why,” ses he, “do you believe the sperits know whin you’ll die?” “Av’ coorse,” she says, “they know all about everybody, an’ they can’t be wrong!” “Well, but av’ I show you they must be wrong, I ’spose you won’t believe them.” “Av’ coorse not,” she says, “but there’s ne’er a chance for me, I’m bespoke,” an’ she took to the apron agin. “Yis there is a chance,” ses Thady, “don’t take on like that, woman alive; sure the message ses you wur 44 years old next Christmas, an’ you’re only 39, so it can’t be yourself they mane.” Wid that Biddy began to screech like a stuck pig. “Och, Thady jewel, its all thrue! They’ve found me out; och, it’s me an’ no mistake! Whin I saw you first throwin’ sheep’s eyes at me, whin I lived at farmer O’Donovan’s, I let on I was only 18, an’ I was three-an’-twinty, an’ I’ve done you out of five years of my life, me poor fellow, and I’ve only ten days left for meself.” An’ wid that down she wint flop, a swoon on the flure.

Thady got her to bed, an’ there she stopped; for she felt mighty wake an’ poorly, as you med suppose. They had meant to have a housewarmin’ and a dance at Christmas, an’ word had gone round to all the neighbours. But some­how the story got about one way or another, that there was to be a funeral instead of a dance, and that Mrs. Brophy of Glanbrophy had only a few more days to live. Thady sent for the docthor—he felt her pulse, an’ sent a half gallon draught, an’ a bastely powder, an’ a pill as big as a cannon ball, because they wur rich—but they didn’t do her a pin ov good, raison why, she never tuke a bit of them, she knew she would die on Christmas Day. Thady sent for the priest, an’ he talked an’ he read, an’ he sed he’d exorcise the sperits, but he didn’t do her a pin of good. Thady sint for the policeman to watch av’ there was any ghosts about the place, but he didn’t do a pin ov good, for whin Thady stumbled on the step at half-past twelve in the night, the policeman who was in the kitchen cut an’ run like a lamp­lighter, an’ was seen three miles off at saven o’clock, an’ said he’d chased the ghost that far. So people believed in the ghost all the more, though they did turn the story the other way an’ say he chased the policeman three miles in twenty-five minnits. So the long and the short of it was that Mrs. Brophy got waker an’ waker, an’ worse an’ worse, till Christmas Eve.

Well, Thady was jist sittin’ over the fire in the dusk, an’ he was mortial low an’ onhappy, thinkin’ what ’ud he do the day afther to-morrow an’ every day afther that whin poor Biddy would be undher the sod, whin there came a knock to the doore. Thady wint an’ opened it, an’ seen a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man in the doorway. “Good evenin’ to yer honour,” ses the man. “Same to you, and save you kindly, honest man,” says Thady, “but what med you want, for the house is in throuble jist now.” “Och! Misther Brophy,” says the other, “I’m Larry Reilly, the fiddler and stonemason, an’ I thought to have fiddled for yer dance to-­morrow, but I heerd the story of how bad her ladyship was, an’ I jist come up to see av’ I couldn’t cure her!” “Is it cure her?” ses Thady, “I’ll give ye a ten pound note av’ you do. But I have had the docthor an’ the priest, an’ the policeman, an’ it’s all no good, an’ she’s goin’ off to-morrow mornin,” he ses. “Nivir mind, yer honour,” ses Larry, “I’d like to have a thry for the tin pound note.” “An’ how’ll you do it,” says Thady. “O, the best thing in the worreld, wid a case like that,” ses Larry, lookin’ as wise as if he was seven docthors at wanst, “is to show the patient her tombstone, an’ let her see it’s all in airnest about her havin’ to die. Women’s so contrairy, that that’s the very thing makes them make up their mind to live.” “Ah,” ses Thady, “you’re a stonemason, an’ so you think her tombstone would cure her. I suppose you know ’twas a shoemaker who said there was nothin’ like leather! An’ how ’ud you manage to show her her tombstone whin the poor crayture has to be off to-morrow morning?” “Well, let me thry,” ses Larry Reilly, as bould as brass; “there is a spell about it, an’ give me two hours by meself in the bake­house, to fight the ghosts out of their charrum, an’ I’ll undertake to show Mrs. Brophy the appearance of her tombstone by nine o’clock, an’ maybe she’ll be well by mornin.” “It’ll be the death of you, honest man,” ses Thady; “you’ll never bate the ghosts.” “I’ll have a thry for the tin pound note,” ses Larry, “give me a pound of candles an’ a pint of whiskey, an’ lock me in till I conquer them,” he says; an’ so Thady, as a last chance, did as he was told. Well, Larry wint in, an’ Thady listened at the doore. Presently he heard the sperits an’ Larry fightin­’ hammer an’ tongs like one o’clock: smashin’, dashin’, drivin’, noise enough to finish poor Mrs. Brophy, an’ she sint down to know what it was. Up he wint, an’ sed it was a sperit docthor thryin’ to save her life an’ fightin’ the sperits like mad. Well, this cheered thim both up a bit, an’ much sooner nor they thought all was quiet, an’ presently Larry called to be let out. There he was, all in a lather, as you med think. “I’ve vanquished the sperits,” he sed, an’ sure enough the whiskey bottle was upside down in his hand. “An’ I’ve made thim give me Mrs. Brophy’s tombstone, to cure your wife with. Here it is, we’ll bring it up stairs.” An’ sure enough there was a fine tombstone, six foot by eighteen inches, with ould writing on it. “Well, that bates all,” ses Thady, for he was dumbfoundhered to think of Larry mastherin’ the sperits, an’ they struggled up stairs with the tombstone to Mrs. Brophy’s doore. Biddy was in a blazin’ rage at first to think Thady would get her tombstone cut before she died; but thin she felt flatthered to think she’d have sich a handsome wan, an’ so she read it to see if it was right about her age, for nobody likes to be dated wrong. “Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Bridget Brophy, of Glanbrophy, who died Christmas Day, 1666.” “O ye haythin,” she cried, “ye’ve put me 200 years wrong! Get along wed ye both ye hard-hearted savages, av’ I must die, let me die in modern times anyhow,” an’ as she was wake she began to cry agin. “Mrs. Brophy,” ses Larry, wid a good-humoured laugh on his face; “I’m the best docthor in the place for your complaint, an’ I’m to have tin pounds for curin’ you, an’ I’m to fiddle at yer housewarmin’, to-morrow night. This isn’t your tombstone at all at all. It’s the stone that was over one of the ould Brophys, 200 years ago, whin the back garden was a church­yard; an’ whin the ould oven wanted a new flure afore you come in here, I was set to do it, an’ I put in this ould tomb­stone, an’ you set yer bread on it, and got the letthers off; an’ you thought the 6 was an 8, for the figures was worn down, an’ you read 1866 instead of 1666; an’ now that you know the saycret, I’ll warrant you’ll soon git well.” Well, I need hardly tell yez, she did get well, an’ Thady ped Larry Reilly ten pounds on the spot, an’ they had a tearin’ dance on Christmas night, an’ Larry fiddled, an’ Thady an’ Biddy danced as if they was a couple of kittens, an’ all the country side took to calling Larry Docthor Reilly, for the wonderful cure he made. An’ whinever any one talks of ghosts, Thady an’ Biddy swagger and scold as if they believed in nothin’ of the kind, an’ as if they never had been scared by the haunted oven of Glanbrophy.