“‘Copteeine,’ says she, ‘ye know Tim Maley of Ramore?’ ‘Troth, and I do,’ says I, ‘and I know nothing good of the same lad—an infarnal ould skin-flint, who would rob his own father if he could. Whenever I want a sheep, I always give him the preference, and choose one that has his brand upon it.’ ‘May the Lord reward ye,’ says she, ‘for so doing, Well, copteeine, for two years he has been comin’ about our place, and when the times got bad, and my father and my husband were druv’ for rent, they borrowed money at gompeein * from the miser. Well, they thought to pay it, with and with, ** but the crippawn *** seized the cattle, and the grate snow kilt the sheep, and the devil a scurrick could they make up between them for the ould sinner, when their note fell due. Well, ye know that Pat and I were promised for two years, but as the world went hard against us, we were afeard to get married. On Monday come three weeks, we were sittin’ round the fire, heavy-hearted enough, when the latch was lifted softly. I thought it was Pat, but who should it be but ould Maloy. In he comes, coughing, with his “God save all here,” and draws a stool to the fire. “Ye’r kindly weleome,” says my father. “I hope so,” says the miser, “for I am come for at laste a part of the money that you and Pat Grady, (manin’ my husband,) are due me.” My poor father turned pale as a cloth. “Mister Maley,” says he, mistering the ould ruffin, to plase him ye know; “you’ve heard of our loss—may the Lord look down upon us!” The miser gave a cough, “An’ am I,” says he, “to get nather less or more of what I lent ye?” My poor father gave a groan. “Mary,” says the ould divil to me, “put the boult in the door, and come here and sit beside me.” Well, copteeine, my heart grew cold, an’ I don’t know why the fear came over me so, but I did what he desired me, and came and sate down, but with my father betune us. “Well,” says be, “you’re asking time, Phil Connor, an’ may be, I might give it to ye—ay, an’ maybe I’ll do more—for I’ll make Mary my lawful wife, and forgive ye the debt along with it.” The light left my eyes as he said so; and when my poor father looked over at me so heart-broken, I thought I would have dropped. “What do ye say to the offer?” said ould Maley. “Och hone!” says my father, “it’s a grate honour ye do my little girl; but, Mister Maley, dear, ye’r too ould for her.” The miser bit his lip; “An’ do ye refuse me for a son-in-law?” says he, in a rage. “Let me just talk to the gentleman, father darlin’,” says I, for I knew we were in the ould villain’s power, and I thought that I might sofen him. My father left the cabin, ould Maley pulled in his stool, took me by the hand, and begun palaverin’ me, thinkin’ I would consint; “And now, Mary,” says he, “what have ye to say? Take me, or lave me, as ye like it.”
“Mister Maley,” I said, “maybe I may offind ye; but if I don’t spake the truth, I’ll be guilty before God. I love another dearly, and niver could like you; and think of the sin, and shame, and sorrow, it would cause, if I desarted him because he’s poor, and married you because ye’r rich. Look out for some woman of your own years, for ye’ll niver be happy with a girl.” He hardly waited to the end, but jumped upon his legs, and swarin’ he would lave us without a cloot, **** and beggar us root and branch, he flung out of the cabin like a madman.
“‘Well, copteeine, when Pat came afterwards, and heard the story, he cursed, and I cried, till, in sheer despair, we determined to marry at once—and, the Lord forgive us! we done it out of the face, and ran away next morning.
“‘Well, we thought that God would stand our friend, and that, bad as the ould miser was, sure he wouldn’t ruin, out and out, two poor craturs that had just got married; but a week showed that Maley—bad luck attind him!—was bent on our destruction. One night, and unknownst to us, every four-footed baste my father or my husband owned, was driven to the pound, and yesterday they were canted for anything they would bring. Poor Pat returned three hours ago almost broken-hearted, and all I had to offer my weary husband was a dry potatoe.’ Poor girl! she burst into a flood of tears, and every sob she gave, I laid it heavy on my soul, ather to right her, or revenge her.
“‘Well, copteeine,’ she went on, ‘every cloot was sould but one milch-cow that fell lame upon the road: I looked at my husband’s sorry dinner—and, for his sake, I determined to humble myself to that wicked ould man, and beg from him the lame cow. Off I set, unknownst to Pat, took the short cut across the fields, and in an hour reached Maley’s. He looked at me as I entered the cabin, and the grin of hell was on his face. Well, he spoke me fairly at first; “Come in, astore,” he said, ladin’ me into the inside room. Feaks, I thought he was going to be kind at last; but och! copteeine, it was only mockery he meant after all. “An’ so ye want the lame cow?” says he, beginnin’ the conversation. “Yis, Mister Maley,” says I, “if it’s agreeable to ye; I would ask it as a favour.”
“Humph!” says he, pullin’ out a big key that was fastened to his waistcoat with a string, and opening a black oak chest that was standin’ at the foot of the bed. “Do you see that bag, Mary?” says he, pointin’ to a blue one. “I do, sir,” says I. “Well, in that I brought home the price of the cattle. Do ye see that other striped one?” says he. I told him that I did. “Well, that’s the interest of what I lent the squire,” and three or four other gentlemen he named. “Now, Mary Connor,” says he, shuttin’ down the lid and lockin’ the chest again, “if sixpence would save you from starvin’, and Pat Grady from a jail, be this book,” and he kissed the key, “I wouldn’t give it if you were on the gallows.” I rushed out from the ould villain’s sight. “Stop,” he cried, shoutin’ from the windy; “as soon as the lame cow can walk, she’ll go where the others went yesterday. There’s a cake, I hear, the night at Croneeinbeg.—You’ll be dancin’ there, I think—ye know the heel’s light, where the heart’s merry—isn’t it, Mary Connor?” and till I was out of bearin’, that fiend’s laugh pierced me to the soul.’
“Well, Mark, I had made up my mind, before the poor girl had done speakin.’ ‘Mary,’ says I ‘the ould monster shall tell truth for once. Go home—dress yourself in your best—you’ll be my partner to-night at Croneeinbeg—ay, and, by Heaven! there sha’n’t be a lighter foot upon the floor, nor a merrier heart lavin’ the dance-house than your own, Mary Connor!’
“She stared—but I pressed lier to do what I wished, and she promised it. I waited till she was out of sight, and then jogged quietly on towards the place wore Maley lived.
“When I got within sight of the house, I thought it rather too early to pay a visit to the miser, and steppin’ into a quarry, sate down to let another hour pass. Maley knew me well; but as I had a crape in my pocket, I determined to disguise myself, pass for Johnny Gibbons, * and give him the credit of the job. Presently I heard footstep on the road, and up came three men. They did not see me, but I heard them talkin’. One of them was Maley’s boy, and he was tellin’ his companions how nicely he had given his master the slip, and stole away without his knowin’ it. ‘If the cows brake loose,’ says he, the ‘divil a man-body’s about the place to tie them.’ Oh, ho! thought I to myself, sorrow a better evening I could have chosen to visit ye, Mister Maley. So when the boys were out of bearin’, I rose up, and reached the miser’s without meetin’ a living soul.
“I peeped quietly through the windy, an’ there was sittin’ the ould villin two-double over a few coals upon the hearth—for he begrudged himself a dacent fire—and two women were spinnin’ in the corner. A dog that came out of the barn knew me to be strange, and set up the bark.—‘What’s that Cusdhu’s ** growlin’ at?’ said ould Maley, sharply—‘Go out, Brideeine, and see.’ I lifts the latch, and quietly steps in. ‘There’s no occasion, Mister Maley,’ says I. ‘It’s an ould friend who was passin’ the road, and dropped in to ask ye how ye were.’ The women gave a squall, and I thought the miser would have dropped out of the chair where he was sittin.’ ‘Girls,’ says I, ‘I’ll stand no nonsense. Ye have heard of Johnny Gibbons, I suppose.’ Both dropt upon their knees, and Maley began to cross himself.—‘Up with ye,’ says I. ‘Go into that room, and if ather you brathe a whisper that would waken the cat, I’ll drive a ball thro’ ach o’ye.”
“The divil a delay they made; but away they stole, and closed the door after them. Well, I laid the gun upon the dresser, drew a stool, an’ sits down fornent the miser. ‘Arrah, bad luck attend ye for an ould thief,’ says I; ‘hav’n’t ye the manners to ask a man who has come ten miles to see ye, whether he has a mouth or not?’ ‘Oh! Mister Gibbons, jewel, it was all a forget on my part. There’s a bottle of licker in the cupboard.’ ‘An’ the curse of Cromwell on ye!’ says I; ‘de ye think it’s me that’s goin’ to attend myself?—Brideeine—tell the ould woman to go to bed, an’ come out an’ wait upon your betters,—come out, I say—or maybe yeer waitin’ for me to fetch ye?’ Out she comes, shakin’ like a dog in a wet sack, brings the whisky, and fills a glass. ‘Now, light a dacent candle—keep your rush-light for other company—an’ be off with ye. Here’s yeer health, Mister Maley,’ says I; ‘the divil a better poteeine crossed my lips this twelvemonth. An’ now for bisnis. Step down to the room with me, if ye plase.’ ‘Arrah,’ says he, ‘what de ye want there?’ I niver answered him, but took out a pistol carelessly from my coat pocket, opened the pan, shook the primin’, and looked at the flint. ‘Christ stan’ between us an’ harm! what are ye about?’ says he. ‘Nothing,’ says I; ‘only that I always see if the tools are in proper order before they’r wanted.
Come along.’ “Well, he followed me like a spaniel—in we goes to the room—and in a moment I spied the black oak chest. ‘Where’s the key of this?’ says I. ‘God sees it’s lost since the fair of Ballyhain, and that’s a fortnight come Saturday,’ said the ould miser. ‘Bad luck to the liars,’ says I. ‘Wouldn’t it be a quare thing, now, if I could find it?’ With that I gives his waistcoat a rug, and out drops the key danglin’ to a bit of twine. The moment I put it in the chest, Maley roared ‘Murder!’ an’ threw himself across the lid. I lifted him by the neck as ye would lift a cur—flung him on the bed—tied him hand an’ foot with a hank of yarn—and stuffed an ould stockin’ in his mouth. ‘Lie quiet there,’ says I. ‘I’ll not detain ye long; for all I want here is a blue bag, an’ a striped one.’ The ould divil struv to shout, but the stockin’ smothered his voice, an’ the noise he made was so droll, that I couldn’t help laughin’ till I was tired again. Well, sure enough there were the bags, just as Mary Connor had tould me. I put them in the pockets of my cota more *—took another hank, tied Maley to the bedpost—bid him a tinder good night—desired the women on peril of their lives to lie still till mornin’—walked quietly out of the house, and locked the door after me.
“Well, off I goes straight to Croneeinbeg—steps into the dance-house, an’ salutes the company with a ‘God save all here.’ Divil a merrier set ye iver looked at, but two—an’ they were sittin’ in the corner. It was poor Grady an’ his wife—an’, pon my soul! there was such sorrow on their pale faces, that an enemy would have pitied them.
“‘I want ye, Pat, says I.’ Up he gets, an’ we stept out together, and walked five or six perches from the house. ‘Pat, what’s the matter with ye, man?’ ‘Ohone, copteeine; ye know I’m ruined,’ says he. I wouldn’t mind it for myself, but—my poor Mary’—an’ he fairly began to cry. ‘Arrah!’ says I, ‘have done, man. De ye remember the night before Garlick Sunday?’ ‘No,’ says he. ‘Then, Pat Grady, I do. Ye hid me, when the highlanmen had run me to a stan’-still—and, with an hundred pound upon my head, saved me when I thought none but God could deliver me from certain death. In that bag you’ll find some money—your debt to Maley is paid—and there’s a trifle to begin the world with. Go off. Hide it ‘till ye want it; burn the bag; an’ now, you and I, Pat, have cleared scores; an’ if ten pound will do it, the cake shall be Mary Connor’s.’ ‘Oh! copteeine, jewel, let me but whisper to Mary our good luck;’ and in the poor fellow run, to spake comfort to the prettiest girl in the province.
“In a few minutes I returned to the dance. I looked at Mary Connor. The rose had come back again to her cheek, and at her bright black eye ye could have lighted a dhudeeine. ‘The floor!’ says I—and in a minute it was clear. I flung a dollar to the fiddler. ‘Now, bad luck to ye, play yir best, an’ up with—Apples for ladies and ladin’ out Mary Connor, the divil a better jig was danced for a month of Sundays.
“‘Mary,’ says I, as I pressed her hand at partin, ‘didn’t I tell truth, my darlin’, when I said, that light as yir foot might be, the heart should be lighter still?’ The tears—but they were tears of joy—came stramin’ down her cheeks. I kissed them away—took up my gun—bid the company good night—and before morning dawned, or the ould miser was unbound, I was across the Killeries and into Connemara; an’ the best of it is, that, to this blessed day, that robbery is left on Johnny Gibbons. And now, Mark, I ask you, upon the nick of yir conscience, was there any harm in returnin’ the blue-bag to the right owner, and keepin’ the stripped one myself?’
“Under such circumstances, Shemus Rhua,” replied the fosterer, “I’m ready to turn robber when you like it. But here we are at the Four Alls; and, faith, I hope, like a singed cat, it will prove better than it looks.”
Indeed, in its external appearance, the village inn had nothing to excite the expectations of a traveller. The windows were mostly without glass; the earthen floor broken into ruts, all of which appeared recipients for dirty water; while the ceiling was blackened with soot, and the walls curtained with cobwebs. The landlord, looked a sot—his helpmate, the epitome of every thing unclean. The ratcatcher pronounced it “a place not fit to lodge a dacent dog in,” while Mark Antony, remembering that hostelrie, where he had found “the warmest welcome,” drew a mental contrast between both, and thought with a sigh upon his rejected innamorata—the lady of the Cock and Punchbowl.
“There are certain ingredients to be mingled with matrimony, without which I may as likely change for the worse as the better.” A Bold Stroke for a Wife.
The man might have been set down a lazy wayfarer indeed who would have sojourned a second day at that pleasant hostlerie, whose sign-board displayed the spirited representation we have copied. Mark Antony avowed that “he had never closed an eye,” while his companion admitted the enjoyment of a short, but not sweet season of forgetfulness, when, according to the confessions of the captain, the insect tribe had assailed his person with such ferocity, that, had they only combined their efforts, “and pulled one way, they must have dragged him into the floor.” No wonder, then, that the journey was resumed at cockcrow. England was the destination; and the route was accordingly directed towards a neighbouring seaport, from which a passage in a trading vessel to Liverpool might be obtained.
At that period—one short to look back to—the transit of the Channel was held to be a daring exploit; and, in Irish estimation, England was indeed, a land beyond the seas. Whether business or pleasure formed the inducement, the latter must be considerable, before a votary of St. Patrick would venture upon “realms unknown and great,” therefore was the fosterer’s satisfaction, in discovering that Shemus Rhua was an accomplished traveller, and also that, in earlier life, the gallant captain had visited “the great metropolis.”
“It’s now three-and-twenty years ago,” concluded the ratcatcher, with a sigh, “and, upon my conscience, to look back, Mark dear, it appears like yesterday.”
“And what brought you to England, Shemus?” said the fosterer.
“Why, I think,” replied the captain, “a gentleman who has directed me generally from the cradle. He keeps, they say, a warm house; and, though he’s the best friend they have, the clargy are eternally abusing him.”
“Well, by your own account, copteeine, your guide was none of the best. The errand, I hope, was better?”
“Neeil an suggum,” * returned the ratcatcher, “I went to run away with an heiress.”
“Well done, captain.”
“Stop—I don’t mean myself, but my master, and ye know, that’s the same thing.”
“Who was the heiress?”
“Devil have them that knows! Any body that came in our way.”
“And did you succeed?”
“Succeed!” exclaimed the ratcatcher; “Upon my soul, only we gave leg-bail, he would have been hanged, and I left for transportation.”
“He!—who was he, Shemus?”
“Why, who but my ould master’s son, Dick Macnamara.”
“And the expedition was unfortunate?”
“Unfortunate! how could it be otherwise?” replied the captain. “Of all the unlucky devils ever born under a cross-grained star, Dick Macnamara, you were the most unlucky!”
“Is he dead?” said the fosterer.
“Dead! to be sure he is,” replied the captain. “He quarrelled with Savey Blake, at the winter fair of Athlone; and, as the morning was wet, they fought in the inn yard. What did the stupid fool his second do, but stick Dick into a corner! The rain was in his face; and at the first fire, Savey Blake, shot him like a woodcock. I was with him till he died. Indeed, I never knew him have luck but once.”
“Indeed; and what was that?”
“When he did marry, his wife ran away from him within a quarter.”
“But your English expedition, Shemus. Arrah, man, there’s where the shoe pinches; and I would like to know how ye got on.”
“Got on!” exclaimed the ratcatcher. “Be gogstay! from the very moment we left home, every thing went wrong with us. But, stop—isn’t there a well that none but a sinful man would pass? Sit down, avourneeine—there’s a drop in the cruiskeein still, and when I take a cobweb out of my throat, I’ll tell ye all the particulars of,
It was the summer after the great election—and that was in the year ninety-one—and a fine evening it was. At that time, care was far from my Heart, and I was taking a dance in the barn with Mary Regan, my lady’s maid, when out comes Sir Thomas’s own man to say that I was wanted in the parlour. “Run, bad luck to ye,” says he, “and I’ll finish the jig for ye! Arrah, make haste, man! Some etarnal villin has slipt a paper under the gate, and the ould master’s fit to be tied. I never saw him so mad since he was chased home from Galway.” Away I goes; and when I got into the parlour, there I found Sir Thomas, God rest his soul! Father Pat Butler, the parish priest—and the driver, Izzy Blake.
Sir Thomas was sittin’ in the big armed chair he always sate in. He wasn’t to say much the worse for liker; but it was asy to persave that he had been lookin’ at somebody that was drinkin’. The priest, och! what a head he had! was cool as a cowcumber, and only Izzy’s nose was a deeper purple than when he sate down, you wouldn’t know he had a drop in. It was quite plain the party were in trouble; for, to smother grief, the ould master had slipped a second glass of poteeine into his tumbler just as I came in.
“Asy, Sir Thomas!—Drink asy!” said the priest. “The whisky’s killin’ ye by inches!”
“Arrah, balderdash! Pat Butler, won’t ye let me take the colour of death off the water, man, and me threatened with the gout? It’s the law that’s fairly murderin’ me. Bad luck attend all consarned with the same! At the blast of the mail horn my heart bates like a bird; for within the last two years I have got as many lattitats by post, as would paper the drawin’-room. Shemus Rhua,” says he, turning to me,—“did ye see a black-lookin’ thief about the place, when ye were hunting the young setters on the moor?”
“Arrah, Sir Thomas, if I did, don’t ye think I would have been after askin’ him what he was doin’ there?”
“Sibby Byrn saw him thrust these d____d papers under the gate, and then cut over the bog as if the divil was at his heels. Well—small blame to him for runnin’—for, by all that’s beautiful, if I had gripped him, he would have gone back to the villain that employs him, lighter by both lugs. Sit down, Shemus. Izzy Blake, fill the boy a glass.” And then he began, poor ould gentleman, askin’ me about the dogs; but before I could answer him, he gave a sigh. “Arrah,” says he, “what need I be talkin’ about dogs, when, after November next, the divil a four-footed baste will be left upon Killcrogher, good nor bad!”
“Something must be done immediately,” said the priest. “If they foreclose the mortgage, and get a recaver on the estate, we’re done for.”
“If we could only raise five thousand to pay that cursed claim, we might stave off the other things till some good luck would turn up,” said the driver.
Sir Thomas sighed. Troth, an enemy would have pitied him!
“Arrah, Izzy Blake—that day will never come! Don’t talk of good luck, that’s over with me,” says he. “O Lord! to be baten by Peter Daly—and his grandmother before him, keepin’ a huxtery in Loughrea—and then to be hunted home afterwards, like a tithe-proctor! It’s enough to drive a man to drink, or make a quaker kick his own mother.”
You see, Mark, (observed the captain, in explanation,) the ould master had stood for the county. Well, from the time he came into possession of the estate, of course, Sir Thomas was like his father, a Sunday man and as he couldn’t meet the sheriff openly at the election, what the divil does he do, but he sits out in a boat, where he could hear how things were goin’ on, and give orders to the tenants. The Lord sees, the cratures did all they could for a good master as he was. Didn’t they kidnap the electors, tare down the booths, burn Peter Daly’s talley-room teetotally,—and throw a jaunting car, with six voters, clane over the bridge—horse, driver, and all! And what more; could they do? The money bate us in the long-run; and it was well Sir Thomas wasn’t taken into the bargain—for the bailiffs chased him to the very gates. No wonder then, poor ould gentleman, that the very name of the election put him always into a rage.
“Never mind,” said the priest, striving to say something pleasant, and comfort the ould master; “it’s a long lane that wants a turn—and luck will come at last. There’s yer two sisters, Sir Thomas—the best catholics in Connemara, and ready to travel any moment that they’re wanted—if the Lord would only mercifully take them to himself. Indeed, they’re too good for this wicked world—and they would be far snugger in the next.”
“Divil a chance there,” says Sir Thomas; “they’re the very counterpart of their mother—the Lord be good to her! an she lived to ninety-seven.”
“Are ye in the lottery the year?” asked the priest. “Arrah, what matter whether I am or not!” said Sir Thomas. “Hav’n’t I been in it since I was a boy, and niver won any thing beyond a blackguard twenty or two? Upon my conscience, I verily believe, if I had been bound to a hatter, people would be born without heads!”
Well, the divil a one could point out the likelihood of luck; and the poor ould gentleman seemed mighty disconsolate.
“Arrah,” says I, “hould up, Sir Thomas—who knows but we’ll get to the sunny side of the hedge yet? There’s Master Dick—and if he would only marry an heiress—”
“Be dad,” says the ould gentleman, “Father Pat, there’s sense in that.” The priest shook his head.
“And why shouldn’t he?” says Sir Thomas.
“Because,” returned the priest, “he’s never out of one scrape till he’s into another. And then he’s so captious; if he was in heaven—where the Lord send him in proper time, if possible!—why, he would pick a quarrel with St. Peter.”
“It’s all a flow of spirit,” says the ould man.
“It’s a flow of spirits that causes it generally,” says the priest; “but it’s all your own fault, Sir Thomas, and I often tould ye so. Instead of lettin’ him stick to his larnin’, ye would have him brought up yer own way, ridin’ three times a week to the Clonsallagh hounds, and shooting at chalked men on the barn door through the remainder.”
“Arrah, be quiet,” says the ould gentleman. “Though he’s my son—at laste I have his mother’s word for it—is there a nater horseman within the Shannon? Put Dick Macnamara on the pig-skin with any thing daeent anunder him, and I’ll back him over a sportin’ country for all I’m worth in the world.”
“Ay,” said the priest, in a side-whisper; “and if ye lost, the divil a much the winner would be the better.”
“He’s six feet in his stockings—sound as a bell—he’ll throw any man of his inches in the province, and dance the pater-o-pee * afterwards.”
“Arrah,” says the priest, “if there’s no way of payin’ the mortgage but by dancin’ the pater-o-pee, out we bundle at November.”
“And why shouldn’t he marry an heiress?” says the ould man.
“First,” says Father Butler, “because he has no luck; and second, because he has no larnin’. Wasn’t I returnin’ from a sick-call only yesterday, and as God’s goodness would have it, didn’t I meet my Lady French’s messenger with a note?—‘Who’s that from?’ says I. ‘Mr. Dick Macnamara,’ says he. Well, I had a misdoubtin’ about it, and so I opens the note—and—Mona-sin-dhiaoul!—Lord forgive me for sayin’ so!—if he hadn’t spelt ‘compliments’ with a K!”
“And if he spelt it with two K’s,” says the ould gentleman, “will that hinder him marryin’ a woman if she wants a husband? I tell ye what, there’s more sense in what Shemus Rhua says than any of ye seems to know. Wasn’t the family as badly off when my grandfather—God rest his soul!—ran away with Miss Kelly?”
“And where will you get a Miss Kelly now-a-days? It’s not out of every bush you’ll kick a lady, lame of a leg, and twenty thousand down upon the nail!”
“What was she the worse for that?” says Sir Thomas. “Don’t ye mind what my grandfather said to Lord Castletown the week after. ‘Didn’t I,’ says my grandfather, ‘manage the matter well, my lord?’ ‘Ye did in troth, Ulic—and ye made a grate hit of it, if ye’r amiable lady was only right upon the pins.’ ‘Well, my lord,’ says he—‘what the divil matter if she is a wee bit lame? Does your lordship suppose, that men marry wives to run races with them?’”
Well, there’s no use makin’ a long story about it. At Killcrogher things couldn’t be worse than they were; and, when we had finished a second bottle of poteeine, we all agreed that the divil a chance, good, bad, or indifferent, was left, but for Dick Macnamara to marry a wife with a fortune—and with or without a spavin—-just as the Lord would direct it.
This was all mighty well, but where was the lady to be found? Of heiresses, there was no scarcity in Galway, if their own story was but true; but then their fortunes were so well secured, that nather principal nor interest could be got at.
“England’s the place,” says the ould master. “Dick would get twenty thousand for the askin’.”
“And how is he to go there?” says the priest. “He must travel like a gentleman, or they wouldn’t touch him with a tent pole—and where’s the money for that?”
“Let Izzy drive the tenants.”
“Arrah, Sir Thomas! it’s asy talkin’—the divil a pound I could drive out of them to save yer life. Mona-sin-dhiaoul! ye might as well expect blood from a turnip, or to borrow knee-buckles off a Hielanman.”
Well, we were fairly nonplushed for a time, but we got matters right afterwards. The ould ladies, the master’s sisters, had a trifle by them, if any body could manage to get at it. Well, the priest put it to them, for the glory of God; and Sir Thomas, for the honour of the family. They came down at last, and, between them, for a hundred. Sir Thomas lent us his own pistols, and Izzy Blake passed his word in Galway for the clothes. By St. Patrick! we were in such bad credit there, that over the whole town we wouldn’t have got as much as would have made a surtout for a Lochryman. * On the strength of Izzy, however, we taught book-keeping to a tailor. His name, I mind, was Jerry Riley—and I fancy we’re in his ledger to this day.
I’ll never forget the mornin’ we started. “We set out at six o’clock, as we had to ride to Moylough to catch the Tuam mail. Every soul in Killerogher was astir, and waitin’ at door or windy to see us off—some givin’ their blessin’, and others their good advice.
“Mind yer eye, Dick!” said the ould gentleman from the parlour.
“Don’t take any thing but what’s ready,” cried the priest from the hall door.
“Remember you’re of the Coolavins by the mother’s side,” called my lady from her bed-room; “so look to blood as well as suet, Dick.”
“The money—the money,” cried the priest.
“Dick, dear, ye’re on book-oath to me!” whispered Mary Regan, as we passed her.
“Don’t be quarrelling about trifles,” said the priest.
“Nor let any body tramp upon your corn, for all that,’ cried Sir Thomas.
“The money—the money, Dick—and that’s the last words of ye’r clargy,” roared the priest.
“Don’t miss mass, if you can,” screamed the ould ladies from the lobby. “Ara-gud-neeish!” ** and father Butler signed his blessing after us as we rode away.
“Stop! stop!” roared the ould master. “Another word, and God keep ye, Dick! Always fight with ye’r back to the sun. Drink slow—don’t mix ye’r licker, nor sit with ye’r baek to the fire—and the divil won’t put ye under the table!”
These were the last words we heard—the gatekeeper’s wife flung an ould shoe after us for luck—and away we went to make our fortune.
When we reached Moylough, the coach was standin’ before the door of the hotel, for the passengers had gone in to breakfast; and by the time we had taken the dust out of our throats with a throw at the counter, the company had come out again. Two or three of them roofed it like myself; and one lady, with blue feathers and a yalla pelisse, stepped inside. She was a clipper! and there was enough of her into the bargain. As Master Diek travelled like a raal gentleman, of coorse, he hopped in too.
Well, when we stopped to change horses, Dick and the lady were thick as inkle-wavers. “Shemus,” says he, “bring out a glass of sherry, and a drop of water in the bottom of a tumbler, with a sketch of sperits through it.” They drank genteely to each other, and away we rowled again. Indeed, at every stop the same order was repated.
The lady was comin’ from the saa, and that made her dry, I suppose; and from the time he was a boy, Dick Macnamara had an unquenchable thirst upon him.
We reached Athlone in the evening, and stopped at the Red Lion. Dick handed out the lady with the yalla pelisse; and ye would have thought they would have shaken each other’s hands off. Well, a maid-sarvant took her bandbox—Dick give her the arm—away they flourished together—and I stayed at the inn door to see the luggage safe off the coach.
Before long the young master returned.
“Shemus,” says he, shuttin’ the door behind him, “isn’t Miss Callaghan a spanker?”
“‘Pon my soul, she’s a cliver girl, with line action,” says I.
“Bad luck to ye!” said he, “ye talk of her as ye would of a horse. But, Shemus, I thought as we were all alone, I would try if I could put my comether over her by the way of practice. Och! if she was only an heiress! When I kissed her at partin’ in the hall, she tould me she could follow me over the world.”
Well, after we had supped, Master Dick sends for me to come up stairs; and as it was too soon to go to bed, down we sate over a hot tumbler to settle what was to be done when we got to London. Ye see, we knew that in England there were heiresses galore *—but the thing was, how the divil were we to find them?
Well, after we had been talkin’ half an hour, in comes the waiter. “Is there one Mister Macnamara here?” says he.
“That’s me,” Dick answers.
“Mister Callaghan’s after askin’ for ye,” says he.
“Parade him,” says Dick.
So in steps an ould gentleman, clane shaved enough, but about the clothes, he had rather a shuck appearance. He bows, and Dick bows—and down sits the ould gentleman, an’ draws over a tumbler.
“Ye had a pleasant journey of it, Mister Macnamara,” says he, commencin’ the conversation. “My daughter says that ye’re the best of company. In troth, she spakes large of ye.”
With that they drinks one another’s health—an’ from one thing they comes on to another. I had pulled my chair away to the corner, ye see, but Dick winked to me as much as to say, “Shemus, stay where ye are.”
“An’ so ye’re goin’ to better yourself with a wife?” says the ould fellow.
“There’s no denyin’ it,” says Dick.
“Well, ‘pon my conscience, it’s the best thing ivir a young man did, for it keeps him out of harm’s way. An’ are ye for soon changin’ ye’r state?”
“Divil a use tellin’ lies among friends,” says Dick. “The sooner the better.”
“Feath—an’ it has come rather sudden upon Sophy,” says Mister Callaghan. “But, God’s will be done! Her brother will be home in an hour. I wish there was only time to send for her mother to Roscrea.”
“What’s wanted with her mother?” says Dick.
“Nothin’ partikler,” says Mr. Callaghan, “only the ould lady would like to see her little girl married.”
“An’ when is she to be married?” inquired Dick. “Why, as there seems to be a hurry,” replies the ould fellow, “it may as well be done ‘out of the face.’”
“An’ if it wouldn’t be an impertinent question,” says Dick, “arrah! who’s to be the happy man?”
“An’ are ye jokin’?” says ould Callaghan. “Arrah, who should it be, but yourself?”
“Myself?” says Dick. “Shemus,” says he—“the divil an appearance of liker’s on the ould man, what does he mane at all?”
“Of coorse,” says I, “that ye’re goin’ to marry his daughter.
“Exactly,” cried ould Callaghan.
“If she’s not married till she marries me, she’ll be single for a month of Sundays,” says Dick.
Up jumps the ould fellow in a rage—and up jumps Dick Macnamara—and then such fendin’ and provin’, and such racketting through the room—till out rushed Mister Callaghan, swarin’ he would be revenged before he slept.
“When he slammed to the door, I turns round to Dick, to ask what it was all about?
“Arrah, the divil have them that knows,” says he; “I just coorted a little bit with the girl as we were alone in the coach, by the way of bringin’ my han’ in before we got to England.”
“Be my soul,” says I, “ye’ve made a nate kettle of fish of it!—Arrah, Dick, avourneeine—ar’n’t ye in the centre of a hobble—coorting’s one thing, and marryin’s another—Wouldn’t the priest be proud of ye to go back with Miss Callaghan under ye’re arm?—and with about as much money as would pay turnpike for a walking stick.” Feaks, things looked but quare the more we considered them; so we thought we would order a chaise, push on to Moate, and lave Sophy Callaghan to her own amiable family, as she was too valuable for us. But, as matters turned up, we wer’n’t allowed to set off as asy as we intended. Before the chaise could come round, we heard feet upon the stairs, and the door opens, and in comes five as loose lookin’ lads as ye would meet in a day’s walk. They were all fresh, as if they had been hard at the drinkin’,—and they were bent on mischief,—for the second fellow had a twist in the eye, and a pistol-case under his arm.
“Mister Macnamara,” says the first, “my name’s Callaghan. There’s no use for any rigmarole, as the light’s goin’ fast, so I just stepped in to ask you consarnin’ your intentions towards my sister Sophy.”
“The divil an intention have I, good or bad, about ye’r sister Sophy,” replied Dick, as stiff as a churchwarden.
“Then ye can be at no loss to guess the consequence?”
“Feaks, an’ I am,” says Dick; “as I’m no conjuror.”
“If ye don’t marry her within an hour,” says he, “I’ll be after sayin’ something disagreeable.”
“I’ll not keep ye in suspense half the time,” replied Dick.
“Then ye’ll marry her?” says he.
“You were nivir more astray,” replied Dick, “since ye were born.”
“Then I’ll trouble ye for satisfaction,” says he.
“With all my heart,” says Dick.
“What time in the mornin’,” said the other, “would fit ye’r convanience?”
“We’re rather in a hurry,” says Dick, pointin’ to the post-chay that had come round, and on which the hostler was tyin’ the traps, “to-night would be a great accommodation, if it was the same to you.”
“Ye ca’n’t do better,” says one of the others, “than step up to the ball-room. There’s good light still, and the room’s long enough.”
Be gogstay! Dick Macnamara closed with the offer like a man. I was sent for the pistols, and the gentlemen called for a bottle of sherry. You see, in case of accident, it would come well before a jury that they drank each other’s healths, and fought in perfect friendship, for that would benefit the survivor.
They slipped into the ball-room, and every body thought the thing was settled, they were so quiet and civil with each other as they went up stairs. The pistols were charged—“An’ now,” says Callaghan, “for the last time, I ask ye, will ye have my sister Sophy?”
“Arrah, don’t lose the light in talkin’—ye have my answer already,” says Dick Macnamara.
Well, they were placed in the corners of the room, and a man with a red nose asked, “if they were ready?” Both said, “Yes!”
“Fire!” says he. Slap off went both pistols like the clapping of a hand, and down dropped Mr. Callaghan with a ball clane into his calf.—Well, every body ran to lift him, when, suddenly, the cry of murder was raised from the other end of the room, and out dashed a man in a shirt and scarlet night-cap, and a fat woman close at his heels, just as they had tumbled out of bed.