On that evening, when the family were assembled at supper, Mrs. Lindsay, who had had a previous consultation with her son Harry, thought proper to introduce the subject of the projected marriage between him and Alice Goodwin.
“Harry has paid a visit to these neighbors of ours,” said she, “these Goodwins, and I think, now that he has come home, it would be only prudent on our part to renew the intimacy that was between us. Not that I like, or ever will like, a bone in one of their bodies; but it's only right that we should foil them at their own weapons, and try to get back the property into the hands of one of the family at least, if we can, and so prevent it from going to strangers. I am determined to pay them a friendly visit tomorrow.”
“A friendly visit!” exclaimed her husband, with an expression of surprise and indignation on his countenance which he could not conceal; “how can you say a friendly visit, after having just told us that you neither like them, nor ever will like them? not that it was at all necessary for you to assure us of that. It is, however, the hypocrisy of the thing on your part that startle? and disgusts me.”
“Call it prudence, if you please, Lindsay, or worldly wisdom, if you like, after all the best kind of wisdom; and I only wish you had more of it.”
“That makes no difference in life,” replied her husband, calmly, but severely; “as it is, you have enough, and more than enough for the whole family.”
“But has Harry any hopes of success with Alice Goodwin,” asked Charles, “because everything depends on that?”
“If he had not, you foolish boy, do you think I would be the first to break the ice by going to pay them a visit? The girl, I dare say, will make a very good wife, or if she does not, the property will not be a pound less in value on that account; that's one comfort.”
“And is it upon this hollow and treacherous principle that you are about to pay them a friendly visit?” asked her husband, with ill-repressed indignation.
“Lindsay,” she replied, sharply, “I perceive you are rife for a quarrel now; but I beg to tell you, sir, that I will neither seek your approbation nor regard your authority. I must manage these people after my own fashion.”
“Harry,” said his step-father, turning abruptly, and with incredulous surprise to him, “surely it is not possible that you are a party to such a shameful imposture upon this excellent family?”
His brother Charles fastened his eyes upon him as if he would read his heart.
“I am sorry, sir,” replied that gentleman, “that you should think it necessary to apply the word imposture to any' proceeding of mine. You ought to know my mother's outspoken way, and that her heart is kinder than her language. The fact is, from the first moment I saw that beautiful girl I felt a warm interest in her, and I feel that interest increasing every day. I certainly am very anxious to secure her for her own sake, whilst I candidly admit that I am not wholly indifferent to the property. I am only a common man like others, and not above the world and its influences—who can be that lives in it? My mother, besides, will come to think better of Alice, and all of them, when she shall be enabled to call Alice daughter; won't you, mother?”
The mother, who knew by the sentiments which he had expressed to her before on this subject, that he was now playing a game with the family, did not consider it prudent to contradict him; she consequently replied,—
“I don't know, Harry; I cannot get their trick about the property out of my heart; but, perhaps, if I saw it once more where it ought to be, I might change. That's all I can say at present.”
“Well, come, Harry,” said Lindsay—adverting to what he had just said—“I think you have spoken fairly enough; I do—it's candid; you are not above this world; why should you be?—come, it is candid.”
“I trust, sir, you will never find me un-candid, either on this or any other subject.”
“No; I don't think I shall, Harry. Well, be it so—setting your mother out of the question,—proceed with equal candor in your courtship. I trust you deserve her, and, if so, I hope you may get her.”
“If he does not,” said Maria, “he will never get such a wife.”
“By the way, Harry,” asked Charles, “has she given you an intimation of anything like encouragement?”
“Well, I rather think I am not exactly a fool, Charles, nor likely to undertake an enterprise without some prospect of success. I hope you deem me, at least, a candid man.”
“Yes; but there is a class of persons who frequently form too high an estimate of themselves, especially in their intercourse with women; and who very often mistake civility for encouragement.”
“Very true, Charles—exceedingly just and true; but I hope I am not one of those either; my knowledge of life and the world will prevent me from that, I trust.”
“I hope,” continued Charles, “that if the girl is adverse to such a connection she will not be harassed or annoyed about it.”
“I hope, Charles, I have too much pride to press any proposal that may be disagreeable to her; I rather think I have. But have you, Charles, any reason to suppose that she should not like me?”
“Why, from what you have already hinted, Harry, you ought to be the best judge of that yourself.”
“Well, I think so, too. I am not in the habit of walking blindfold into any adventure, especially one so important as this. Trust to my address, my dear fellow,” he added, with a confident smile, “and, believe me, you shall soon see her your sister-in-law.”
“And I shall be delighted at it, Harry,” said his sister; “so go on and prosper. If you get her you will get a treasure, setting her property out of the question.”
“Her property!” ejaculated Mrs. Lindsay; “but no matter; we shall see. I can speak sweetly enough when I wish.”
“I wish to God you would try it oftener, then,” said her husband; “but I trust that during this visit of yours you will not give way to your precious temper and insult them at the outset. Don't tie a knot with your tongue that you can't unravel with your teeth. Be quiet, now; I didn't speak to raise the devil and draw on a tempest—only let us have a glass of punch, till Charley and I drink success to Harry.”
The next day Mrs. Lindsay ordered the car, and proceeded to pay her intended visit to the Goodwins. She had arrived pretty near the house, when two of Goodwin's men, who were driving his cows to a grazing field on the other side of the road by which she was approaching, having noticed and recognized her, immediately turned them back and drove them into a paddock enclosed by trees, where they were completely out of her sight.
“Devil blow her, east and west!” said one of them. “What brings her across us now that we have the cattle wid us? and doesn't all the world know that she'd lave them sick and sore wid one glance of her unlucky eye. I hope in God she didn't see them, the thief o' the devil that she is.”
“She can't see them now, the cratures,” replied the other; “and may the devil knock the light out of her eyes at any rate,” he added, “for sure, they say it's the light of hell that's in them.”
“Well, when she goes there she'll be able to see her way, and sure that'll be one comfort,” replied his companion; “but in the mane time, if anything happens the cows—poor bastes—we'll know the rason of it.”
“She must dale wid the devil,” said the other, “and I hope she'll be burned for a witch yet; but whisht, here she comes, and may the devil roast her on his toastin' iron the first time he wants a male!”
“Troth, an' he'd find her tough feedin',” said his comrade; “and. barrin' he has strong tusks, as I suppose he has, he'd find it no every-day male wid him.”
As they spoke, the object of their animadversion appeared, and turned upon them, so naturally, a sinister and sharp look, that it seemed to the men as if she had suspected the subject of their conversation.
“You are Mr. Goodwin's laborers, are you not?”
“We are, ma'am,” replied one of them, without, as usual, touching his hat however.
“You ill-mannered boor,” she said, “why do you not touch your hat to a lady, when she condescends to speak to you?”
“I always touch my hat to a lady, ma'am,” replied the man sharply.
“Come here, you other man,” said she; “perhaps you are not such an insolent ruffian as this? Can you tell me if Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin are at home?”
“Are you goin' there?” asked the man, making a low bow.
“Yes, I am, my good man,” she replied.
“Well, then, ma'am,” he added, bowing again, “you'll find that out when you go to the house;” and he made her another bow to wind up the information with all due politeness.
“Barney,” said she to the servant, her face inflamed with rage, “drive on. I only wish I had those ruffianly scoundrels to deal with; I would teach them manners to their betters at all events; and you, sirra, why did you not use your whip and chastise them?”
“Faith, ma'am,” replied our friend Barney Casey, “it's aisier said than done wid some of us. Why, ma'am, they're the two hardiest and best men in the parish; however, here's Pugshy Ruah turnin' out o' the gate, and she'll be able to tell you whether they are at home or not.”
“O, that's the woman they say is unlucky,” observed his mistress—“unlucky to meet, I mean; I have often heard of her; indeed, it may be so, for I believe there are such persons; we shall speak to her, however. My good woman,” she said, addressing Pugshy, “allow me to ask, have you been at Mr. Goodwin's?”
Now Pugshy had all the legitimate characteristics of an “unlucky” woman; red-haired, had a game eye—that is to say, she squinted with one of them; Pugshy wore a caubeen hat, like a man; had on neither shoe nor stocking; her huge, brawny arms, uncovered almost to the shoulders, were brown with freckles, as was her face; so that, altogether, she would have made a bad substitute either for the Medicean Venus or the Apollo Belvidere.
“My good woman, allow me to ask if you have been at Mr. Goodwin's.”
Pugshy, who knew her well, stood for a moment, and closing the eye with which she did not squint, kept the game one fixed upon her very steadily for half a minute, and as she wore the caubeen rather rakishly on one side of her head, her whole figure and expression were something between the frightful and the ludicrous.
“Was I at Misther Goodwin's, is it? Lord love you, ma'am, (and ye need it, sotto voce), an' maybe you'd give us a thrifle for the male's mate; it's hard times wid us this weader.”
“I have no change; I never bring change out with me.”
“You're goin' to Mr. Goodwin's, ma'am?”
“Yes; are he and Mrs. Goodwin at home, can you tell me?”
“They are, ma'am, but you may as well go back again; you'll have no luck this day.”
“Why so?”
“Why, bekaise you won't; didn't you meet me? Who ever has luck that meets me? Nobody ought to know that betther than yourself, for, by all accounts, you're tarred wid the same stick.”
“Foolish woman,” replied Mrs. Lindsay, “how is it in your power to prevent me?”
“No matther,” replied the woman; “go an; but mark my words, you'll have your journey for nuttin', whatever it is. Indeed, if I turned back three steps wid you it might be otherwise, but you refused to cross my hand, so you must take your luck,” and with a frightful glance from the eye aforesaid, she passed on.
As she drove up to Mr. Goodwin's residence she was met on the steps of the hall-door by that kind-hearted gentleman and his wife, and received with a feeling of gratification which the good people could not disguise.
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Lindsay, after they had got seated in the drawing-room, “that you are surprised to see me here?”
“We are delighted, say, Mrs. Lindsay,” replied Mr. Goodwin—“delighted. Why should ill-will come between neighbors and friends without any just cause on either side? That property—”
“O, don't talk about that,” replied Mrs. Lindsay; “I didn't come to speak about it; let everything connected with it be forgotten; and as proof that I wish it should be so, I came here to-day to renew the intimacy that should subsist between us.”
“And, indeed,” replied Mrs. Goodwin, “the interruption of that intimacy distressed us very much—more, perhaps, Mrs. Lindsay, than you might feel disposed to give us credit for.”
“Well, my dear madam,” replied the other, “I am sure you will be glad to hear that I have not only my own inclination, but the sanction and wish of my whole family, in making this friendly visit, with the hope of placing us all upon our former footing. But, to tell you the truth, this might not have been so, were it not for the anxiety of my son Henry, who has returned to us, and whom, I believe, you know.”
“We have that pleasure,” replied Goodwin; “and from what we have seen of him, we think you have a right to feel proud of such a son.”
“So I do, indeed,” replied his mother; “he is a good and most amiable young man, without either art or cunning, but truthful and honorable in the highest degree. It is to him we shall all be indebted for this reconciliation; or, perhaps, I might say,” she added, with a smile, “to your own daughter Alice.”
“Ah! poor Alice,” exclaimed her father; “none of us felt the estrangement of the families with so much regret as she did.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Lindsay,” added his wife, “I can bear witness to that; many a bitter tear it occasioned the poor girl.”
“I believe she is a most amiable creature,” replied Mrs. Lindsay; “and I believe,” she added with a smile, “that there is one particular young gentleman of that opinion as well as myself.”
We believe in our souls that the simplest woman in existence, or that ever lived, becomes a deep and thorough diplomatist when engaged in a conversation that involves in the remotest degree any matrimonial speculation for a daughter. Now, Mrs. Goodwin knew as well as the reader does, that Mrs. Lindsay made allusion to her son Harry, the new-comer; but she felt that it was contrary to the spirit of such negotiations to make a direct admission of that feeling; she, accordingly, was of opinion that in order to bring Mrs. Lindsay directly to the point, and to exonerate herself and her husband from ever having entertained the question at all, her best plan was to misunderstand her, and seem to proceed upon a false scent.
“O, indeed, Mrs. Lindsay,” she replied, “I am not surprised at that; Charles and Alice were always great favorites with each other.”
“Charles!” exclaimed Mrs. Lindsay; “Charles! What could induce you to think of associating Charles and Alice? He is unworthy of such an association.”
“Bless me,” exclaimed Mrs. Goodwin in her turn; “why, I thought you alluded to Charles.”
“No,” said her neighbor, “I alluded to my eldest son, Harry, to whose good offices in this matter both families are so much indebted. He is worthy of any girl, and indeed few girls are worthy of him; but as for Alice, you know what a favorite she was with me, and I trust now I shall like her even better than ever.”
“You are right, Mrs. Lindsay,” said Goodwin, “in saying that few women are worthy of your eldest son; he is a most gentlemanly, and evidently a most accomplished young man; his conversation at breakfast here the morning after the storm was so remarkable, both for good sense and good feeling, that I am not surprised at your friendly visit today, Mrs. Lindsay. He was sent, I hope, to introduce a spirit of peace and concord between us, and God forbid that we should repel it; on the contrary, we hail his mediation with delight, and feel deeply indebted to him for placing both families in their original position.”
“I trust in a better position,” replied his adroit mother; “I trust in a better position, Mr. Goodwin, and a still nearer and dearer connection. It is better, however, to speak out; you know me of old, my dear friends, and that I am blunt and straightforward—as the proverb has it, 'I think what I say, and I say what I think.' This visit, then, is made, as I said, not only by my own wish, but at the express entreaty of my son Harry, and the great delight of the whole family; there is therefore no use in concealing the fact—he is deeply attached to your daughter, Alice, and was from the first moment he saw her;—of course you now understand my mission—which is, in fact, to make a proposal of marriage in his name, and to entreat your favorable consideration of it, as well as your influence in his behalf with Alice herself.”
“Well, I declare, Mrs. Lindsay,” replied Mrs. Goodwin, (God forgive her!) “you have taken us quite by surprise—you have indeed;—dear me—I'm quite agitated; but he is, indeed, a fine young man—a perfect gentleman in his manners, and if he be as good as he looks—for marriage, God help us, tries us all—”
“I hope it never tried you much, Martha,” replied her husband, smiling.
“No, my dear, I don't say so. Still, when the happiness of one's child is concerned—and such a child as Alice—”
“But consider, Mrs. Goodwin,” replied the ambassadress, who, in fact, was not far from an explosion at what she considered a piece of contemptible vacillation on the part of her neighbor—“consider, Mrs. Goodwin,” said she, “that the happiness of my son is concerned.”
“I know it is,” she replied; “but speak to her father, Mrs. Lindsay—he, as such, is the proper person—O, dear me.”
“Well, Mr. Goodwin—you have heard what I have said?”
“I have, madam,” said he; “but thank God I am not so nervous as my good wife here. I like your son, Harry, very much, from what I have seen of him—and, to be plain with you, I really see no objection to such a match. On the contrary, it will promote peace and good-will between us; and, I have no doubt, will prove a happy event to the parties most concerned.”
“O, there is not a doubt of it,” exclaimed Mrs. Goodwin, now chiming in with her husband; “no, there can be no doubt of it. O, they will be very happy together, and that will be so delightful. My darling Alice!”—and here she became pathetic, and shed tears copiously—“yes,” she added, “we will lose you, my darling, and a lonely house we will have after you, for I suppose they will live in the late Mr. Hamilton's residence, on their own property.”
This allusion to the arrangements contemplated in the event of the marriage, redeemed, to a certain degree, the simple-hearted Mrs. Goodwin from the strongest possible contempt on the part of a woman who was never known to shed a tear upon any earthly subject.
“Well, then,” proceeded Mrs. Lindsay, “I am to understand that this proposal on the behalf of my son is accepted?”
“So far as I and Mrs. Goodwin are concerned,” replied Goodwin, “you are, indeed, Mrs. Lindsay, and so far all is smooth and easy; but, on the other hand, there is Alice—she, you know, is to be consulted.”
“O! as for poor Alice,” said her mother, “there will be no difficulty with her; whatever I and her father wish her to do, if it be to please us, that she will do.”
“I trust,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “she has no previous attachment; for that would be unfortunate for herself, poor girl.”
“She an attachment!” exclaimed her mother; “no, the poor, timid creature never thought of such a thing.”
“It is difficult for parents to know that,” replied Mrs. Lindsay; “but where is she?”
“She's gone out,” replied her mother, “to take a pleasant jaunt somewhere with a young friend of ours, a Mr. O'Connor; but, indeed, I'm glad she is not here, for if she was, we could not, you know, discuss this matter in her presence.”
“That is very true,” observed Mrs. Lindsay, dryly; “but perhaps she doesn't regret her absence. As it is, I think you ought to impress upon her that, in the article of marriage, a young and inexperienced girl like her ought to have no will but that of her parents, who are best qualified, from their experience and knowledge of life to form and direct her principles.”
“I do not think,” said her father, “that there is anything to be apprehended on her part. She is the most unselfish and disinterested girl that ever existed, and sooner than give her mother or me a pang, I am sure she would make any sacrifice; but at the same time,” he added, “if her own happiness were involved in the matter, I should certainly accept no such sacrifice at her hands.”
“As to that, Mr. Goodwin,” she replied, “I hope we need calculate upon nothing on her part but a willing consent and obedience. At all events, it is but natural that they should be pretty frequently in each other's society, and that my son should have an opportunity of inspiring her with good will towards him, if not a still warmer feeling. The matter being now understood, of course, that is and will be his exclusive privilege.”
“Your observations, my dear madam, are but reasonable and natural,” replied Goodwin. “Why, indeed, should it be otherwise, considering their contemplated relation to each other? Of course, we shall be delighted to see him here as often as he chooses to come, and so, I am sure, will Alice.”
They then separated upon the most cordial terms; and Mrs. Lindsay, having mounted her vehicle, proceeded on her way home. She was, however, far from satisfied at the success of her interview with the Goodwins. So far as the consent of her father and mother went, all was, to be sure, quite as she could have wished it; but then, as to Alice herself, there might exist an insurmountable difficulty. She did not at all relish the fact of that young lady's taking her amusement with Mr. O'Connor, who she knew was of a handsome person and independent circumstances, and very likely to become a formidable rival to her son. As matters stood, however, she resolved to conceal her apprehensions on this point, and to urge Harry to secure, if possible, the property, which both she herself and he had solely in view. As for the girl, each of them looked on her as a cipher in the transaction, whose only value was rated by the broad acres which they could not secure without taking her along with them.
The family were dispersed when she returned home, and she, consequently, reserved the account of her mission until she should meet them in the evening. At length the hour came, and she lost no time in opening the matter at full length, suppressing, at the same time, her own apprehensions of Alice's consent, and her dread of the rivalry on the part of O'Connor.
“Well,” said she, “I have seen these people; I have called upon them, as you all know; and, as I said, I have seen them.”
“To very little purpose, I am afraid,” said her husband; “I don't like your commencement of the report.”
“I suppose not,” she replied; “but, thank God, it is neither your liking nor disliking that we regard, Lindsay. I have seen them, Harry; and I am glad to say that they are civil people.”
“Is it only now you found that out?” asked her husband; “why, they never were anything else, Jenny.”
“Well, really,” said she, “I shall be forced to ask you to leave the room if you proceed at this rate. Children, will you protect me from the interruption and the studied insults of this man?”
“Father,” said Charles, “for Heaven's sake will you allow her to state the result of her visit? We are all very anxious to hear it; none more so than I.”
“Please except your elder brother,” said Harry, laughing, “whose interest you know, Charley, is most concerned.”
“Well, perhaps so,” said Charles; “of course, Harry—but proceed, mother, we shan't interrupt you.”
“O, go on,” said his mother, “go on; discuss the matter among you, I can wait; don't hesitate to interrupt me; your father there has set you that gentlemanly example.”
“It must surely be good when it comes,” said Harry,with a smile; “but do proceed, my dear mother, and never mind these queer folk; go on at once, and let us know all: we—that is, myself—are prepared for the worst; do proceed, mother.”
“Am I at liberty to speak?” said she, and she looked at them with a glance that expressed a very fierce interrogatory. They all nodded, and she resumed:
“Well, I have seen these people, I say; I have made a proposal of marriage between Harry and Alice, and that proposal is—”
She paused, and looked around her with an air of triumph; but whether that look communicated the triumph of success, or that of her inveterate enmity and contempt for them ever since the death of old Hamilton, was as great a secret to them as the Bononian enigma. There was a dead silence, much to her mortification, for she would have given a great deal that her husband had interrupted her just then, and taken her upon the wrong tack.
“Well,” she proceeded, “do you all wish to hear it?”
Lindsay put his forefinger on his lips, and nodded to all the rest to do the same.
“Ah, Lindsay,” she exclaimed, “you are an ill-minded man; but it matters not so far as you are concerned—in three words, Harry, the proposal is accepted; yes, accepted, and with gratitude and thanksgiving.”
“And you had no quarrel?” said Lindsay, with astonishment; “nor you didn't let out on them? Well, well!”
“Children, I am addressing myself to you, and especially to Harry here, who is most interested; no, I see nothing to prevent us from having back the property and the curds-and-whey along with it.”
“Faith, and the curds-and-whey are the best part of it after all,” said Lindsay; “but, in the meantime, you might be a little more particular, and give us a touch of your own eloquence and ability in bringing it about.”
“What did Alice herself say, mother?” asked Charles; “was she a party to the consent? because, if she was, your triumph, or rather Harry's here, is complete.”
“It is complete,” replied his mother, having recourse to a dishonest evasion; “the girl and her parents have but one opinion. Indeed, I always did the poor thing the credit to believe that she never was capable of entertaining an opinion of her own, and it now turns out a very fortunate thing for Harry that it is so; but of course he has made an impression upon her.”
“As to that, mamma,” said Maria, “I don't know—he may, or he may not; but of this I am satisfied, that Alice Goodwin is a girl who can form an opinion for herself, and that, whatever that opinion be, she will neither change or abandon it upon slight grounds. I know her well, but if she has consented to marry Harry she will marry him, and that is all that is to be said about it.”
“I thought she would,” said Harry; “I told you, Charley, that I didn't think I was a fool—didn't I?”
“I know you did, Harry,” replied his brother; “but I don't know how—it strikes me that I would rather have any other man's opinion on that subject than your own; however, time will tell.”
“It will tell, of course; and if it proves me a fool, I will give you leave to clap the fool's cap on me for life. And now that we have advanced so far and so well, I may go and take one of my evening strolls, in order to meditate on my approaching happiness.” And he did so.
The family were not at all surprised at this, even although the period of his walks frequently extended into a protracted hour of the night. Not so the servants, who wondered why Master Harry should walk so much abroad and remain out so late at night, especially considering the unsettled and alarming state of the country, in consequence of the outrages and robberies which were of such frequent occurrence. This, it is true, was startling enough to these simple people; but that which filled them not only with astonishment, but with something like awe, was the indifference with which he was known to traverse haunted places alone and unaccompanied, when the whole country around, except thieves and robbers, witches, and evil spirits, were sound asleep. “What,” they asked each other, “could he mean by it?”
“Barney Casey, you that knows a great deal for an unlarned man, tell us what you think of it,” said the cook; “isn't it the world's wondher, that a man that's out at such hours doesn't see somethin'? There's Lanty Bawn, and sure they say he saw the white woman beyant the end of the long boreen on Thursday night last, the Lord save us; eh, Barney?”
Barney immediately assumed the oracle.
“He did,” said he; “and what is still more fearful, it's said there was a black man along wid her. They say that Lanty seen them both, and that the black man had his arm about the white woman's waist, and was kissin' her at full trot.”
The cook crossed herself, and the whole kitchen turned up its eyes at this diabolical piece of courtship.
“Musha, the Lord be about us in the manetime; but bad luck to the ould boy, (a black man is always considered the devil, or the ould boy, as they call him,) wasn't it a daisant taste he had, to go to kiss a ghost?”
“Why,” replied Barney with a grin, “I suppose the ould chap is hard set on that point; who the devil else would kiss him, barrin' some she ghost or other? Some luckless ould maid, I'll go bail, that gather a beard while she was here, and the devil now is kissin' it off to get seein' what kind of a face she has. Well, all I can say,” he proceeded, “is, that I wish him luck of his employment, for in troth it's an honorable one and he has a right to be proud of it.”
“Well, well,” said the housemaid, “it's a wondher how any one can walk by themselves at night; wasn't it near the well at the foot of the long hill that goes up to where the Davorens live that they were seen?”
“It was,” replied Barney; “at laste they say so.”
“And didn't yourself tell me,” she proceeded, “that that same lonesome boreen is a common walk at night wid Master Harry?”
“And so it is, Nanse,” replied Barney: “but as for Misther Harry, I believe it's party well known, that by night or by day he may walk where he likes.”
“Father of heaven!” they exclaimed in a low, earnest voice; “but why, Barney?” they asked in a condensed whisper.
“Why! Why is he called Harry na Suil Balor for? Can you tell me that?”
“Why, bekaise his two eyes isn't one color.”
“And why aren't they one color? Can you tell me that?”
“O, the sorra step farther I can go in that question.”
“No,” said Barney, full of importance, “I thought not, and what is more, I didn't expect it from you. His mother could tell, though. It's in her family, and there's worse than that in her family.”
“Troth, by all accounts,” observed the girl, “there never was anything good in her family. But, Barney, achora, will you tell us, if you know, what's the rason of it?”
“If I know?” said Barney, rather offended; “maybe I don't know, and maybe I do, if it came to that. Any body, then, that has two eyes of different colors always has the Evil Eye, or the Suil Balor, and has the power of overlookin'; and, between ourselves, Masther Harry has it. The misthress herself can only overlook cattle, bekaise both her eyes is of the one color; but Masther Harry could overlook either man or woman if he wished. And how do you think that comes?”
“The Lord knows,” replied the cook, crossing herself; “from no good, at any rate. Troth, I'll get a gospel and a scapular, for, to tell you the truth, I observed that Masther Harry gave me a look the other day that made my flesh creep, by rason that he thought the mutton was overdone.”
“O, you needn't be afeard,” replied Barney; “he can overlook or not, as he plaises; if he does not wish to do so, you're safe enough; but when any one like him that has the power wishes to do it, they could wither you by degrees off o' the airth.”
“God be about us! But, Barney, you didn't tell us how it comes, for all that.”
“It comes from the fairies. Doesn't every one know that the fairies themselves has the power of overlookin' both cattle and Christians?”
“That's true enough,” she replied; “every one, indeed, knows that. Sure, my aunt had a child that died o' the fairies.”
“Yes, but Masther Harry can see them.”
“What! is it the fairies?”
“Ay, the fairies, but only wid one eye, that piercin' black one of his. No, no; as I said before, he may walk where he likes, both by night and by day; he's safe from everything of the kind; even a ghost daren't lay a finger on him; and as the devil and the fairies are connected, he's safe from him, too, in this world at laste; but the Lord pity him when he goes to the next; for there he'll suffer lalty.”
The truth is, that in those days of witchcraft and apparitions of all kinds, and even in the present, among the ignorant and uneducated of the lower classes, any female seen at night in a lonely place, and supposed to be a spirit, was termed a white woman, no matter what the color of her dress may have been, provided it was not black. The same superstition held good when anything in the shape of a man happened to appear under similar circumstances. Terror, and the force of an excited imagination, instantly transformed it into a black man, and that black man, of course, was the devil himself. In the case before us, however, our readers, we have no doubt, can give a better guess at the nature of the black man and white woman in question than either the cook, the housemaid, or even Barney himself.
It was late that night when Harry came in. The servants, with whose terrors and superstitions Casey had taken such liberties, now looked upon him as something awful, and, as might be naturally expected, felt a dreadful curiosity with respect to him and his movements. They lay awake on the night in question, with the express purpose of satisfying themselves as to the hour of his return, and as that was between twelve and one, they laid it down as a certain fact that there was something “not light,” and beyond the common in his remaining out so late.
The next morning our friend Harry appeared at the breakfast table rather paler than usual, and in one of his most abstracted moods; for it may be said here that the frequent occurrence of such moods had not escaped the observation of his family, especially of his step-father, in whose good grace, it so happened, that he was not improving. One cause of this was his supercilious, or, rather, his contemptuous manner towards his admirable and affectionate brother. He refused to associate with him in his sports or diversions; refused him his confidence, and seldom addressed him, except in that tone of banter which always implies an offensive impression of inferiority and want of respect towards the object of it. After breakfast the next morning, his father said to Charles, when the other members of the family had all left the room,—
“Charley, there is something behind that gloom of Harry's which I don't like. Indeed, altogether, he has not improved upon me since his return, and you are aware that I knew nothing of him before. I cannot conceive his object in returning home just now, and, it seems, with no intention of going back. His uncle was the kindest of men to him, and intended to provide for him handsomely. It is not for nothing he would leave such an uncle, and it is not for nothing that such an uncle would part with him, unless there was a screw loose somewhere. I don't wish to press him into an explanation; but he has not offered any, and refuses, of course, to place any confidence in me.”
“My dear father,” replied the generous brother, “I fear you judge him too harshly. As for these fits of gloom, they may be constitutional; you know my mother has them, and won't speak to one of us sometimes for whole days together. It is possible that some quarrel or misunderstanding may have taken place between him and his uncle; but how do you know that his silence on the subject does not proceed from delicacy towards that relative?”
“Well, it may be so; and it is a very kind and generous interpretation which you give of it, Charley. Let that part of the subject pass, then; but, again, regarding this marriage. The principle upon which he and his mother are proceeding is selfish, heartless, and perfidious in the highest degree; and d—— me if I think it would be honorable in me to stand by and see such a villainous game played against so excellent a family—against so lovely and so admirable a girl as Alice Goodwin. It is a union between the kite and the dove, Charley, and it would be base and cowardly in me to see such a union accomplished.”
“Father,” said Charles, “in this matter will you be guided by me? If Alice herself is a consenting party to the match, you have, in my opinion, no right to interfere, at least with her affections. If she marries him without stress or compulsion, she does it deliberately, and she shapes her own course and her own fate. In the meantime I advise you to hold back for the present, and wait until her own sentiments are distinctly understood. That can be effected by a private interview with yourself, which you can easily obtain. Let us not be severe on Harry. I rather think he is pressed forward in the matter by my mother, for the sake of the property If his uncle has discarded him, it is not, surely, unreasonable that a young man like him, without a profession or any fixed purpose in life, should wish to secure a wife—and such a wife—who will bring back to him the very property which was originally destined for himself in the first instance. Wait, then, at all events, until Alice's conduct in the matter is known. If there be unjustifiable force and pressure upon her, act; if not, I think, sir, that, with every respect, your interference would be an unjustifiable intrusion.”
“Very well, Charley; I believe you are right; I will be guided by you for the present; I won't interfere; but in the meantime I shall have an eye to their proceedings. I don't think the Goodwins at all mercenary or selfish, but it is quite possible that they may look upon Harry as the heir of his uncle's wealth; and, after all, Charley, nature is nature; that may influence them even unconsciously, and yet I am not in a condition to undeceive them.”
“Father,” said Charles, “all I would suggest is, as I said before, a little patience for the present; wait a while until we learn how Alice herself will act. I am sorry to say that I perceived what I believe to be an equivocation on the part of my mother in her allusion to Alice. I think it will be found by and by that her personal consent has not been given; and, what is more, that she was not present at all during their conversation on the subject. If she was, however, and became a consenting party to the proposal, then I say now, as I said before, you have no right to interfere in the business.”
“What keeps him out so late at night? I mean occasionally. He is out two or three nights every week until twelve or one o'clock. Now, you know, in the present state of the country, that it is not safe. Shawn-na-Middogue and such scoundrels are abroad, and they might put a bullet through him some night or other.
“He is not at all afraid on that score,” replied Charles; “he never goes out in the evening without a case of pistols freshly loaded.”
“Well, but it, is wrong to subject himself to danger. Where is he gone now?”
“He and Barney Casey have gone out to course; I think they went up towards the mountains.”
Such was the fact. Harry was quite enamoured of sport, and, finding dogs, guns, and fishing-rods ready to his hand, he became a regular sportsman—a pursuit in which he found Barney a very able and intelligent assistant, inasmuch as he knew the country, and every spot where game of every description was to be had. They had traversed a considerable portion of rough mountain land, and killed two or three hares, when the heat of the day became so excessive that they considered it time to rest and take refreshments.
“The sun, Masther Harry, is d—— hot,” said Barney; “and now that ould Bet Harramount hasn't been in it for many a long year, we may as well go to that desolate cabin there above, and shelter ourselves from the hate—not that I'd undhertake to go there by myself; but now that you are wid me I don't care if I take a peep into the inside of it, out of curiosity.”
“Why,” said Woodward, “what about that cabin?”
“I'll tell you that, sir, when we get into it. It's consarnin' coorsin' too; but nobody ever lived in it since she left it.”
“Since who left it?”
“Never mind, sir; I'll tell you all about it by and by.”
It was certainly a most desolate and miserable hut, and had such an air of loneliness and desertion about it as was calculated to awaken reflections every whit as deep and melancholy as the contemplation of a very palace in ruins, especially to those who, like Barney, knew the history of its last inhabitant. It was far up in the mountains, and not within miles of another human habitation. Its loneliness and desolation alone would not have made it so peculiarly striking and impressive had it been inhabited; but its want of smoke—its still and lifeless appearance—the silence and the solitude around it—the absence of all symptoms of human life—its significant aspect of destitution and poverty, even at the best—all contributed to awaken in the mind that dreamy reflection that would induce the spectator to think that, apart from the strife and bustle of life, it might have existed there for a thousand years. Humble and contemptible in appearance as it was, yet there, as it stood—smokeless, alone, and desolate, as we have said, with no exponent of existence about it—no bird singing, no animal moving, as a token of contiguous life, no tree waving in the breeze, no shrub, even, stirring, but all still as the grave—there, we say, as it stood, afar and apart from the general uproar of the world, and apparently gray with long antiquity, it was a solemn and a melancholy homily upon human life in all its aspects, from the cabin to the palace, and from the palace to the grave. Now, its position and appearance might suggest to a thinking and romantic mind all the reflections to which v& have alluded, without any additional accessories; but when the reader is informed that it was supposed to be the abode of crime, the rendezvous of evil spirits, the theatre of unholy incantations, and the temporary abode of the Great Tempter—and when all these facts are taken in connection with its desolate character, he will surely admit that it was calculated to impress the mind of all those who knew the history of its antecedents with awe and dread.
“I have never been in it,” said Barney, “and I don't think there's a man or woman in the next three parishes that would enter it alone, even by daylight; but now that you are wid me, I have a terrible curiosity to see it inside.”
A curse was thought to hang over it, but that curse, as it happened, was its preservation in the undilapidated state in which it stood.
On entering it, which Barney did not do without previously crossing himself, they were surprised to find it precisely in the same situation in which it had been abandoned. There were one small pot, two stools, an earthen pitcher, a few wooden trenchers lying upon a shelf, an old dusty salt-bag, an ash stick, broken in the middle, and doubled down so as to form a tongs; and gathered up in a corner was a truss of straw, covered with a rug and a thin old blanket, which had constituted a wretched substitute for a bed. That, however, which alarmed Barney most, was an old broomstick with a stump of worn broom attached to the end of it, as it stood in an opposite corner. This constituted the whole furniture of the hut.
“Now, Barney,” said Harry, after they had examined it, “out with the brandy and water and the slices of ham, till we refresh ourselves in the first place, and after that I will hear your history of this magnificent mansion.”
“O, it isn't the mansion, sir,” he replied, “but the woman that lived in it that I have to spake about. God guard us! There in that corner is the very broomstick she used to ride through the air upon!”
“Never mind that now, but ransack that immense shooting-pocket, and produce its contents.”
They accordingly sat down, each upon one of the stools, and helped themselves to bread and ham, together with some tolerably copious draughts of brandy and water which they had mixed before leaving home. Woodward, perceiving Barney's anxiety to deliver himself of his narrative, made him take an additional draught by way of encouragement to proceed, which, having very willingly finished the bumper offered him, he did as follows:
“Well, Masther Harry, in the first place, do you believe in the Bible?”
“In the Bible!—ahem—why—yes—certainly, Barney; do you suppose I'm not a Christian?”
“God forbid,” replied Barney; “well, the Bible itself isn't thruer than what I'm goin' to tell you—sure all the world for ten miles round knows it.”
“Well, but, Barney, I would rather you would let me know it in the first place.”
“So I will, sir. Well, then, there was a witch-woman, by name one Bet Harramount, and on the surface of God's earth, blessed be his name! there was nothin' undher a bonnet and petticoats so ugly. She was pitted wid the small-pox to that degree that you might hide half a peck of marrowfat paise (peas) in her face widout their being noticed; then the sanies (seams) that ran across it were five-foot raspers, every one of them. She had one of the purtiest gooseberry eyes in Europe; and only for the squint in the other, it would have been the ornament of her comely face entirely; but as it was, no human bein' was ever able to decide between them. She had two buck teeth in the front of her mouth that nobody could help admirin'; and, indeed, altogether I don't wondher that the devil fell in consate wid her, for, by all accounts, they say he carries a sweet tooth himself for comely ould women like Bet Harramount. Give the tasty ould chap a wrinkle any day before a dimple, when he promotes them to be witches, as he did her. Sure he was seen kissin' a ghost the other night near Crukanesker well, where the Davorens get their wather from. O, thin, bedad, but Grace Davoren is a beauty all out; and maybe 'tis herself doesn't know it.”
“Go on with your story,” said Woodward, rather dryly; “proceed.”
“Well, sir, there is Bet Harramount's face for you, and the rest of her figure wasn't sich as to disgrace it. She was half bent wid age, wore an ould black bonnet, an ould red cloak, and walked wid a staff that was bent at the top, as it seems every witch must do. Where she came from nobody could ever tell, for she was a black stranger in this part of the country. At all events, she lived in the town below, but how she lived nobody could tell either. Everything about her was a riddle; no wondher, considherin' she hardly was ever known to spake to any one, from the lark to the lamb. At length she began to be subjected by many sensible people to be something not right; which you know, sir, was only natural. Peter O'Figgins, that was cracked—but then it was only wid dhrink and larnin'—said it; and Katty McTrollop, Lord Bilberry's henwife, was of the same opinion, and from them and others the thing grew and spread until it became right well known that she was nothin' else than a witch, and that the big wart on her neck was nothin' more nor less than the mark the devil had set upon her, to suckle his babies by. From this out, them that had Christian hearts and loved their religion trated the thief as she desarved to be trated. She was hissed and hooted, thank God, wherever she showed her face; but still nobody had courage to lay a hand upon her by rason of her blasphaimin' and cursin', which, they say, used to make the hair stand like wattles upon the heads of them that heard her.”
“Had she not a black cat?” asked Woodward; “surely, she ought to have had a familiar.”
“No,” replied Barney; “the cat she had was a white cat, and the mainin' of its color will appear to you by and by; at any rate, out came the truth. You have heard of the Black Spectre—the Shan-dhinne-dhuv?”
“I have,” replied the other; “proceed.”
“Well, sir, as I said, the truth came out at last; in the coorse of a short time she was watched at night, and seen goin' to the haunted house, where the Spectre lives.”
“Did she walk there, or fly upon her broomstick?” asked Woodward, gravely.
“I believe she walked, sir,” replied Barney; “but afther that every eye was upon her, and many a time she was seen goin' to the haunted house when she thought no eye was upon her. Afther this, of coorse, she disappeared, for, to tell you the truth, the town became too hot for her; and, indeed, this is not surprisin'. Two or three of the neighborin' women miscarried, and several people lost their cattle after she came to the town; and to make a long story short, just as it was made up to throw her into the parson's pond, she disappeared, as I said, exactly as if she had known their intention: and becoorse she did.”
“And did they ever find out where she went to?”
“Have patience, sir, for patience, they say, is a virtue. About a month afterwards some of the townspeople came up to the mountains here, to hunt hares, just as we did. Several of them before this had seen a white hare near the very spot we're sittin' in, but sorra dog of any description, either hound, greyhound, or lurcher could blow wind in her tail; even a pair of the Irish bloodhounds were brought, and when they came on her, she flew from them like the wind, I and laughed at them, becoorse. Well, sir, the whole country was in a terrible state of alarm about the white hare, for every one knew, of coorse, that she was a witch; and as the cows began, here and there, to fail in their milk, why, it was a clear case that she sucked them in ordher to supply some imp of the devil that sucked herself. At that time there was a priest in this parish, a very pious man by name Father McFeen; and as he liked, now and then, to have a dish of hare soup, he kept a famous greyhound, called Koolawn, that was never said to miss a hare by any chance. As I said, some of the townspeople came up here to have a hunt, and as they wished, above all things, to bring the priest's greyhound and the white hare together, they asked the loan of him from his reverence, telling him, at the same time, what they wanted him for. Father McFeen was very proud of his dog, and good right he had, and tould them they should have him with pleasure.
“'But, as he's goin' to try his speed against a witch,' said he, 'I'll venture to say that you'll have as pretty a run as ever was seen on the hills.'
“Well, sir, at all events, off they set to the mountains; and sure enough, they weren't long there when they had the best of sport, but no white hare came in their way. Koolawn, however, was kept in the slip the whole day, in the hope of their startin' her, for they didn't wish to have him tired if they should come across her. At last, it was gettin' late, and when they were just on the point of givin' her up, and, goin' home, begad she started, and before you'd say Jack Kobinson, Koolawn and she were at it. Sich a chase, they say, was never seen. They flew at sich a rate that the people could hardly keep their eyes upon them. The hare went like the wind; but, begad, it was not every evening she had sich a dog as famous Koolawn at her scut. He turned her, and turned her, and every one thought he had her above a dozen of times, but still she turned, and was off from him again. At this rate they went on for long enough, until both began to fail, and to appear nearly run down. At length the gallaut Koolawn had her; she gave a squeal that was heard, they say, for miles. He had her, I say, hard and fast by the hip, but it was only for a moment; how she escaped; from him nobody knows; but it was thought that he wasn't able, from want of breath, to keep his hoult. To make a long story short, she got off from him, turned up towards the; cabin we're sittin' in, Koolawn, game as ever, still close to her; at last she got in, and as the dog was about to spring in afther her, he found the door shut in his face. There now was the proof of it; but wait till you hear what's comin'. The men all ran up here and opened the door, for there was only a latch upon it, and if the hare was in existence, surely they'd find her now. Well, they closed the door at wanst for fraid she'd escape them; but afther sarchin' to no purpose, what do you think they found? No hare, at any rate, but ould Bet Harramount pantin' in the straw there, and covered wid a rug, for she hadn't time to get on the blanket—just as if the life was lavin' her. The sweat, savin' your presence, was pourin' from her; and upon examinin' her more closely, which they did, they found the marks of the dog's teeth in one of her ould hips, which was freshly bleedin'. They were now satisfied, I think, and—”
“But why did they not seize and carry her before a magistrate?”
“Aisy, Masther Harry; the white cat, all this time, was sittin' at the fireside there, lookin' on very quietly, when the thought struck the men that they'd set the dogs upon it, and so they did, or rather, so they tried to do, but the minute the cat was pointed out to them, they dropped their ears and tails, and made out o' the house, and all the art o' man couldn't get them to come in again. When the men looked at it agin it was four times the size it had been at the beginin', and, what was still more frightful, it was gettin' bigger and bigger, and fiercer and fiercer lookin', every minute. Begad, the men seein' this took to their heels for the present, wid an intention of comin' the next momin', wid the priest and the magisthrate, and a strong force to seize upon her, and have her tried and convicted, in ordher that she might be burned.”
“And did they come?”
“They did; but of all the storms that ever fell from the heavens, none o' them could aquil the one that come on that night. Thundher, and wind, and lightnin', and hail, and rain, were all at work together, and every one knew at wanst that the devil was riz for somethin'. Well, I'm near the end of it. The next mornin' the priest and the magisthrate, and a large body of people from all quarthers, came to make a prisoner of her; but, indeed, wherever she might be herself, they didn't expect to find this light, flimsy hut standin', nor stick nor stone of it together afther such a storm. What was their surprise, then, to see wid their own eyes that not a straw on the roof of it was disturbed any more than if it had been the calmest night that ever came on the earth!”
“But about the witch herself?”
“She was gone; neither hilt nor hair of her was there; nor from that day to this was she ever seen by mortal. It's not hard to guess, however, what became of her. Every one knows that the devil carried her and her imp off in the tempest, either to some safer place, or else to give her a warm corner below stairs.”
“Why, Barney, it must be an awful little house, this.”
“You may say that, sir; there's not a man, woman, or child in the barony would come into it by themselves. Every one keeps from it; the very rapparees, and robbers of every description, would take the shelter of a cleft or cave rather than come into it. Here it is, then, as you see, just as she and the devil and his imp left it; no one has laid a hand on it since, nor ever will.”
“But why was it not pulled down and levelled at the time?”
“Why, Masther Harry? Dear me, I wondher you ask that. Do you think the people would be mad enough to bring down her vengeance upon themselves or their property, or maybe upon both? and for that matther she may be alive yet.”
“Well, then, if she is,” replied Woodward, “here goes to set her at defiance;” and as he spoke he tossed bed, straw, rug, blanket, and every miserable article of furniture that the house contained, out at the door.
Barney's hair stood erect upon his head, and he looked aghast.
“Well, Masther Harry,” said he, “I'm but a poor man, and I wouldn't take the wealth of the parish and do that. Come away, sir; let us lave it; as I tould you, they say there's a curse upon it, and upon every one that makes or meddles wid it. Some people say it's to stand there till the day of judgment.”
Having now refreshed themselves, they left Bet Harramont's cabin, with all its awful associations, behind them, and resumed their sport, which they continued until evening, when, having killed as many hares as they could readily carry, they took a short cut home through the lower fields. By this way they came upon a long, green hill, covered in some places with short furze, and commanding a full view of the haunted house, which lay some four or five hundred yards below them, with its back door lying, as usual, open.
“Let us beat these furze,” said Woodward, “and have one run more, if we can, before getting home; it is just the place for a hare.”
“With all my heart,” replied Barney; “another will complete the half dozen.”
They accordingly commenced searching the cover, which they did to no purpose, and were upon the point of giving up all hope of I success, when, from the centre of a low, broad clump of furze, out starts a hare, as white almost as snow. Barney for a moment was struck dumb; but at length exerting his voice, for he was some distance from Woodward, he shouted out—
“O, for goodness' sake, hould in the dogs, Masther Harry!”
It was too late, however; the gallant, animals, though fatigued by their previous exertions, immediately gave noble chase, and by far the most beautiful and interesting course they had had that day took place upon the broad, clear plain that stretched before them. It was, indeed, to the eye of a sportsman, one of intense and surpassing interest—an interest which, even to Woodward, who only laughed at Barney's story of the witch, was, nevertheless, deepened tenfold by the coincidence between the two circumstances. The swift and mettlesome dogs pushed her hard, and succeeded in turning her several times, when it was observed that she made a point to manage her running so as to approximate to the haunted house—a fact which was not unobserved by Barney, who now, having joined Woodward, exclaimed—
“Mark it, Masther Harry, mark my words, she's alive still, and will be wid the Shan-dhinne-dhuv in spite o' them! Bravo, Sambo! Well done, Snail; ay, Snail, indeed—hillo! by the sweets o' rosin they have her—no, no—but it was a beautiful turn, though; and poor Snail, so tired afther his day's work. Now, Masther Harry, thunder and turf! how beautiful Sambo takes her up. Bravo, Sambo! stretch out, my darlin' that you are!—O, blood, Masther Harry, isn't that beautiful? See how they go neck and neck wid their two noses not six inches from her scut; and dang my buttons but, witch or no witch, she's a thorough bit o' game, too. Come, Bet, don't be asleep, my ould lady; move along, my darlin'—do you feel the breath of your sweetheart at your bottom? Take to your broomstick; you want it.”
As he uttered these words the hare turned,—indeed it was time for her—and both dogs shot forward, by the impetus of their flight, so far beyond the point of her turn, that she started off towards the haunted house. She had little time to spare, however, for they were once more gaining on her; but still she approached the house, the dogs nearing her fast. She approached the house, we say; she entered the open door, the dogs within a few yards of her, when, almost in an instant, they came to a standstill, looked into it, but did not enter; and when whistled back to where Woodward and Barney stood, they looked in Barney's eye, not only panting and exhausted, as indeed they were, but terrified also.
“Well, Masther Harry,” said he, assuming the air of a man who spoke with authority, “what do you think of that?”
“I think you are right,” replied Woodward; assuming on his part, for reasons which will be subsequently understood, an impression of sudden conviction. “I think you are right, Barney, and that the Black Spectre and the witch are acquaintances.”
“Try her wid a silver bullet,” said Barney; “there is nothing else for it. No dog can kill her—that's a clear case; but souple as she is, a silver bullet is the only messenger that can overtake her. Bad luck to her, the thief! sure, if she'd turn to God and repint, it isn't codgerin' wid sich company she'd be, and often in danger, besides, of havin' a greyhound's nose at her flank. I hope you're satisfied, Masther Harry?”
“Perfectly, Barney; there can be no doubt about it now. As for my part, I know not what temptation could induce me to enter that haunted house. I see that I was on dangerous ground when I defied the witch in the hut; but I shall take care to be more cautious in future.”
They then bent their steps homewards, each sufficiently fatigued and exhausted after the sports of the day to require both food and rest. Woodward went early to bed, but Barney, who was better accustomed to exercise, having dined heartily in the kitchen, could not, for the soul of him, contain within his own bosom the awful and supernatural adventure which had just occurred. He assumed, as before, a very solemn and oracular air; spoke little, however, but that little was deeply abstracted and mysterious. It was evident to the whole kitchen that he was brimful of something, and that that something was of more than ordinary importance.
“Well, Barney, had you and Masther Harry a pleasant day's sport? I see you have brought home five hares,” said the cook.
“Hum!” groaned Barney; “but no matther; it's a quare world, Mrs. Malony, and there's strange things in it. Heaven bless me! Heaven bless me, and Heaven bless us all, if it comes to that! Masther Harry said he'd send me down a couple o' glasses of———O, here comes Biddy wid them; that's a girl, Bid—divil sich a kitchen-maid in Europe!”
Biddy handed him a decanter with about half a pint of stout whiskey in it, a portion of which passed into a goblet, was diluted with water, and drunk off, after which he smacked his lips, but with a melancholy air, and then, looking solemnly and meditatively into the fire, relapsed into silence.