Читать книгу The Emigrants Of Ahadarra - William Carleton - Страница 8

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Hycy Burke was one of those persons who, under the appearance of a somewhat ardent temperament, are capable of abiding the issue of an event with more than ordinary patience. Having not the slightest suspicion of the circumstance which occasioned Bryan M'Mahon's resentment, he waited for a day of two under the expectation that his friend was providing the sum necessary to accommodate him. The third and fourth days passed, however, without his having received any reply whatsoever; and Hycy, who had set his heart upon Crazy Jane, on finding that his father—who possessed as much firmness as he did of generosity—absolutely refused to pay for her, resolved to lose no more time in putting Bryan's friendship to the test. To this, indeed, he was urged by Burton, a wealthy but knavish country horse-dealer, as we said, who wrote to him that unless he paid for her within a given period, he must be under the necessity of closing with a person who had offered him a higher price. This message was very offensive to Hycy, whose great foible, as the reader knows, was to be considered a gentleman, not merely in appearance, but in means and circumstances. He consequently had come to the determination of writing again to M'Mahon upon the same subject, when chance brought them together in the market of Ballymacan.

After the usual preliminary inquiries as to health, Hycy opened the matter:—

“I asked you to lend me five-and-thirty pounds to secure Crazy Jane,” said he, “and you didn't even answer my letter. I admit I'm pretty deeply in your debt, as it is, my dear Bryan, but you know I'm safe.”

“I'm not at this moment thinking much of money matters, Hycy; but, as you like plain speaking, I tell you candidly that I'll lend you no money.”

Hycy's manner changed all at once; he looked at M'Mahon for nearly a minute, and said in quite a different tone—

“What is the cause of this coldness, Bryan? Have I offended you?”

“Not knowingly—but you have offended me; an' that's all I'll say about it.”

“I'm not aware of it,” replied the other—“my word and honor I'm not.”

Bryan felt himself in a position of peculiar difficulty; he could not openly quarrel with Hycy, unless he made up his mind to disclose the grounds of the dispute, which, as matters then stood between him and Kathleen Cavanagh, to whom he had not actually declared his affection, would have been an act of great presumption on his part.

“Good-bye, Hycy,” said he; “I have tould you my mind, and now I've done with it.”

“With all my heart!” said the other—“that's a matter of taste on your part. You're offended, you say; yet you choose to put the offence in your pocket. It's all right, I suppose—but you know best. Good-bye to you, at all events,” he added; “be a good boy and take care of yourself.”

M'Mahon nodded with good-humored contempt in return, but spoke not.

“By all that deserves an oath,” exclaimed Hycy, looking bitterly after him, “if I should live to the day of judgment I'll never forgive you your insulting conduct this day—and that I'll soon make you feel to your cost!”

This misunderstanding between the two friends caused Hycy to feel much mortification and disappointment. After leaving M'Mahon, he went through the market evidently with some particular purpose in view, if one could judge from his manner. He first proceeded to the turf-market, and looked with searching eye among those who stood waiting to dispose of their loads. From this locality he turned his steps successively to other parts of the town, still looking keenly about him as he went along. At length he seemed disappointed or indifferent, it was difficult to say which, and stood coiling the lash of his whip in the dust, sometimes quite unconsciously, and sometimes as if a wager depended on the success with which he did it—when, on looking down the street, he observed a little broad, squat man, with a fiery red head, a face almost scaly with freckles, wide projecting cheek-bones, and a nose so thoroughly of the saddle species, that a rule laid across the base of it, immediately between the eyes, would lie close to the whole front of his face. In addition to these personal accomplishments, he had a pair of strong bow legs, terminating in two broad, flat feet, in complete keeping with his whole figure, which, though not remarkable for symmetry, was nevertheless indicative of great and extraordinary strength. He wore neither stockings nor cravat of any kind, but had a pair of strong clouted brogues upon his feet; thus disclosing to the spectator two legs and a breast that were covered over with a fell of red close hair that might have been long and strong enough for a badger. He carried in his hand a short whip, resembling a carrot in shape, and evidently of such a description as no man that had any regard for his health would wish to come in contact with, especially from the hand of such a double-jointed but misshapen Hercules as bore it.

“Ted, how goes it, my man?”

“Ghe dhe shin dirthu, a dinaousal?” replied Ted, surveying him with a stare.

“D—n you!” was about to proceed from Hycy's lips when he perceived that a very active magistrate, named Jennings, stood within hearing. The latter passed on, however, and Hycy proceeded:—“I was about to abuse you, Ted, for coming out with your Irish to me,” he said, “until I saw Jennings, and then I had you.”

“Throgs, din, Meeisther Hycy, I don't like the Bairlha (* English tongue)—'caise I can't sphake her properly, at all, at all. Come you 'out wid the Gailick fwhor me, i' you plaise, Meeisther Hycy.”

“D—n your Gaelic!” replied Hycy—“no, I won't—I don't speak it.”

“The Laud forget you for that!” replied Ted, with a grin; “my ould grandmudher might larn it from you—hach, ach, ha!”

“None of your d—d impertinence, Ted. I want to speak to you.”

“Fwhat would her be?” asked Ted, with a face in which there might be read such a compound of cunning, vacuity, and ferocity as could rarely be witnessed in the same countenance.

“Can you come down to me to-night?”

“No; I'll be busy.”

“Where are you at work now?”

“In Glendearg, above.”

“Well, then, if you can't come to me, I must only go to you. Will you be there tonight? I wish to speak to you on very particular business.”

“Shiss; you will, dhin, wanst more?” asked the other, significantly.

“I think so.”

“Shiss—ay—vary good. Fwen will she come?”

“About eleven or twelve; so don't be from about the place anywhere.”

“Shiss—dhin—vary good. Is dhat all?”

“That's all now. Are your turf dry or wet* to-day?”

* One method of selling Poteen is by bringing in kishes of

turf to the neighboring markets, when those who are up to

the secret purchase the turf, or pretend to do so; and while

in the act of discharging the load, the Keg of Poteen is

quickly passed into the house of him who purchases the

turf.—Are your turf wet or dry? was, consequently, a pass-

word.

“Not vary dhry,” replied Ted, with a grin so wide that, as was humorously said by a neighbor of his, “it would take a telescope to enable a man to see from the one end of it to the other.”

Hycy nodded and laughed, and Ted, cracking his whip, proceeded up the town to sell his turf.

Hycy now sauntered about through the market, chatting here and there among acquaintances, with the air of a man to whom neither life nor anything connected with it could occasion any earthly trouble. Indeed, it mattered little what he felt, his easiness of manner was such that not one of his acquaintances could for a moment impute to him the possibility of ever being weighed down by trouble or care of any kind; and lest his natural elasticity of spirits might fail to sustain this perpetual buoyancy, he by no means neglected to fortify himself with artificial support. Meet him when or where you might, be it at six in the morning or twelve at night, you were certain to catch from his breath the smell of liquor, either in its naked simplicity or disguised and modified in some shape.

His ride home, though a rapid, was by no means a pleasing one. M'Mahon had not only refused to lend him the money he stood in need of, but actually quarrelled with him, as far as he could judge, for no other purpose but that he might make the quarrel a plea for refusing him. This disappointment, to a person of Hycy's disposition, was, we have seen, bitterly vexatious, and it may be presumed that he reached home in anything but an agreeable humor. Having dismounted, he was about to enter the hall-door, when his attention was directed towards that of the kitchen by a rather loud hammering, and on turning his eyes to the spot he found two or three tinkers very busily engaged in soldering, clasping, and otherwise repairing certain vessels belonging to that warm and spacious establishment. The leader of these vagrants was a man named Philip Hogan, a fellow of surprising strength and desperate character, whose feats of hardihood and daring had given him a fearful notoriety over a large district of the country. Hogan was a man whom almost every one feared, being, from confidence, we presume, in his great strength, as well as by nature, both insolent, overbearing, and ruffianly in the extreme. His inseparable and appropriate companion was a fierce and powerful bull-dog of the old Irish breed, which he had so admirably trained that it was only necessary to give him a sign, and he would seize by the throat either man or beast, merely in compliance with the will of his master. On this occasion he was accompanied by two of his brothers, who were, in fact, nearly as impudent and offensive ruffians as himself. Hycy paused for a moment, seemed thoughtful, and tapped his boot with the point of his whip as he looked at them. On entering the parlor he found dinner over, and his father, as was usual, waiting to get his tumbler of punch.

“Where's my mother?” he asked—“where's Mrs. Burke?”

On uttering the last words he raised his voice so as she might distinctly hear him.

“She's above stairs gettin' the whiskey,” replied his father, “and God knows she's long enough about it.”

Hycy ran up, and meeting her on the lobby, said, in a low, anxious voice—

“Well, what news? Will he stand it?”

“No,” she replied, “you may give up the notion—he won't do it, an' there's no use in axin' him any more.”

“He won't do it!” repeated the son; “are you certain now?”

“Sure an' sartin. I done all that could be done; but it's worse an' worse he got.”

Something escaped Hycy in the shape of an ejaculation, of which we are not in possession at present; he immediately added:—

“Well, never mind. Heavens! how I pity you, ma'am—to be united to such a d—d—hem!—to such a—a—such a—gentleman!”

Mrs. Burke raised her hands as if to intimate that it was useless to indulge in any compassion of the kind.

“The thing's now past cure,” she said; “I'm a marthyr, an' that's all that's about it. Come down till I get you your dinner.”

Hycy took his seat in the parlor, and began to give a stave of the “Bay of Biscay:”—

“'Loud roar'd the dreadful thunder,

The rain a deluge pours;

The clouds were rent asunder

By light'ning's vivid—'

By the way, mother, what are those robbing ruffians, the Hogans, doing at the kitchen door there?”

“Troth, whatever they like,” she replied. “I tould that vagabond, Philip, that I had nothing for them to do, an' says he, 'I'm the best judge of that, Rosha Burke.' An, with that he walks into the kitchen, an' takes everything that he seen a flaw in, an' there he and them sat a mendin' an' sotherin' an' hammerin' away at them, without ever sayin' 'by your lave.'”

“It's perfectly well known that they're robbers,” said Hycy, “and the general opinion is that they're in connection with a Dublin gang, who are in this part of the country at present. However, I'll speak to the ruffians about such conduct.”

He then left the parlor, and proceeding to the farmyard, made a signal to one of the Hogans, who went down hammer in hand to where he stood. During a period of ten minutes, he and Hycy remained in conversation, but of what character it was, whether friendly or otherwise, the distance at which they stood rendered it impossible for any one to ascertain. Hycy then returned to dinner, whilst his father in the meantime sat smoking his pipe, and sipping from time to time at his tumbler of punch. Mrs. Burke, herself, occupied an arm-chair to the left of the fire, engaged at a stocking which was one of a pair that she contrived to knit for her husband during every twelve months; and on the score of which she pleaded strong claims to a character of most exemplary and indefatigable industry.

“Any news from the market, Hycy?” said his father.

“Yes,” replied Hycy, in that dry ironical tone which he always used to his parents—“rather interesting—Ballymacan is in the old place.”

“Bekaise,” replied his father, with more quickness than might be expected, as he whiffed away the smoke with a face of very sarcastic humor; “I hard it had gone up a bit towards the mountains—but I knew you wor the boy could tell me whether it had or not—ha!—ha!—ha!”

This rejoinder, in addition to the intelligence Hycy had just received from his mother, was not calculated to improve his temper. “You may laugh,” he replied; “but if your respectable father had treated you in a spirit so stingy and beggarly as that which I experience at your hands, I don't know how you might have borne it.”

“My father!” replied Burke; “take your time, Hycy—my hand to you, he had a different son to manage from what I have.”

“God sees that's truth,” exclaimed his wife, turning the expression to her son's account.

“I was no gentleman, Hycy,” Burke proceeded.

“Ah, is it possible?” said the son, with a sneer. “Are you sure of that, now?”

“Nor no spendthrift, Hycy.”

“No,” said the wife, “you never had the spirit; you were ever and always a molshy.” (* A womanly, contemptible fellow)

“An' yet molshy as I was,” he replied, “you wor glad to catch me. But Hycy, my good boy, I didn't cost my father at the rate of from a hundre'-an'-fifty to two-hundre'-a-year, an' get myself laughed at and snubbed by my superiors, for forcin' myself into their company.”

“Can't you let the boy ait his dinner in peace, at any rate?” said his mother. “Upon my credit I wouldn't be surprised if you drove him away from us altogether.”

“I only want to drive him into common sense, and the respectful feeling he ought to show to both you an' me, Rosha,” said Burke; “if he expects to have either luck or grace, or the blessing of God upon him, he'll change his coorses, an' not keep breakin' my heart as he's doin'.”

“Will you pay for the mare I bought, father?” asked Hycy, very seriously. “I have already told you, that I paid three guineas earnest; I hope you will regard your name and family so far as to prevent me from breaking my word—besides leading the world to suppose that you are a poor man.”

“Regard my name and family!” returned the father, with a look of bitterness and sorrow; “who is bringin' them into disgrace, Hycy?”

“In the meantime,” replied the son, “I have asked a plain question, Mr. Burke, and I expect a plain answer; will you pay for the mare?”

“An' supposin' I don't?”

“Why, then, Mr. Burke, if you don't you won't, that's all.”

“I must stop some time,” replied his father, “an' that is now. I wont pay for her.”

“Well then, sir, I shall feel obliged, as your respectable wife has just said, if you will allow me to eat, and if possible, live in peace.”

“I'm speakin' only for your—”

“That will do now—hush—silence if you please.”

“Hycy dear,” said the mother; “why would you ax him another question about it? Drop the thing altogether.”

“I will, mother, but I pity you; in the meantime, I thank you, ma'am, of your advice.”

“Hycy,” she continued, with a view of changing the conversation; “did you hear that Tom M'Bride's dead?”

“No ma'am, but I expected it; when did he die?”

Before his father could reply, a fumbling was heard at the hall-door; and, the next moment, Hogan, thrust in his huge head and shoulders began to examine the lock by attempting to turn the key in it.

“Hogan, what are you about?” asked Hycy.

“I beg your pardon,” replied the ruffian; “I only wished to know if the lock wanted mendin'—that was all, Misther Hycy.”

“Begone, sirra,” said the other; “how dare you have the presumption to take such a liberty? you impudent scoundrel! Mother, you had better pay them,” he added; “give the vagabonds anything they ask, to get rid of them.”

Having dined, her worthy son mixed a tumbler of punch, and while drinking it, he amused himself, as was his custom, by singing snatches of various songs, and drumming with his fingers upon the table; whilst every now and then he could hear the tones of his mother's voice in high altercation with Hogan and his brothers. This, however, after a time, ceased, and she returned to the parlor a good deal chafed by the dispute.

“There's one thing I wonder at,” she observed, “that of all men in the neighborhood, Gerald Cavanagh would allow sich vagabonds as they an Kate Hogan is, to put in his kiln. Troth, Hycy,” she added, speaking to him in a warning and significant tone of voice, “if there wasn't something low an' mane in him, he wouldn't do it.”

“'Tis when the cup is smiling before us.

And we pledge unto our hearts—'

“Your health, mother. Mr. Burke, here's to you! Why I dare say you are right, Mrs. Burke. The Cavanagh family is but an upstart one at best; it wants antiquity, ma'am—a mere affair of yesterday, so what after all could you expect from it?”

Honest Jemmy looked at him and then groaned. “An upstart family!—that'll do—oh, murdher—well, 'tis respectable at all events; however, as to havin' the Hogans about them—they wor always about them; it was the same in their father's time. I remember ould Laghlin Hogan, an' his whole clanjamfrey, men an' women, young an' old, wor near six months out o' the year about ould Gerald Cavanagh's—the present man's father; and another thing you may build upon—that whoever ud chance to speak a hard word against one o' the Cavanagh family, before Philip Hogan or any of his brothers, would stand a strong chance of a shirtful o' sore bones. Besides, we all know how Philip's father saved Mrs. Cavanagh's life about nine or ten months after her marriage. At any rate, whatever bad qualities the vagabonds have, want of gratitude isn't among them.”

“'———That are true, boys, true,

The sky of this life opens o'er us,

And heaven—'

M'Bride, ma'am, will be a severe loss to his family.”

“Throth he will, and a sarious loss—for among ourselves, there was none o' them like him.”

“'Gives a glance of its blue—'

“I think I ought to go to the wake to-night. I know it's a bit of a descent on my part, but still it is scarcely more than is due to a decent neighbor. Yes, I shall go; it is determined on.”

“'I ga'ed a waefu' gate yestreen,

A gate I fear I'll dearly rue;

I gat my death frae twa sweet een,

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.'

“Mine are brown, Mrs. Burke—the eyes you wot of; but alas! the family is an upstart one, and that is strongly against the Protestant interest in the case. Heigho!”

Jemmy Burke, having finished his after-dinner pipe and his daily tumbler both together, went out to his men; and Hycy, with whom he had left the drinking materials, after having taken a tumbler or two, put on a strong pair of boots, and changed the rest of his dress for a coarser 'suit, bade his mother a polite good-bye, and informed her, that as he intended to be present at M'Bride's wake he would most probably not return until near morning.