Читать книгу Phelim Otoole's Courtship and Other Stories - William Carleton - Страница 7

* When a country girl is said to have a large fortune,

the peasantry, when speaking of her in reference to

matrimony, say she's a “Great Match.”

When Phelim presented himself at home, he scarcely replied to the queries put to him by his father and mother concerning his interview with the priest. He sat down, rubbed his hands, scratched his head, rose up, and walked to and fro, in a mood of mind so evidently between mirth and chagrin, that his worthy parents knew not whether to be merry or miserable.

“Phelim,” said the mother, “did you take anything while you wor away?”

“Did I take anything! is it? Arrah, be asy, ould woman! Did I take anything! Faith you may say that!”

“Let us know, anyhow, what's the matther wid you?' asked the father.

“Tare-an'-ounze!” exclaimed the son, “what is this for, at all at all? It's too killin' I am, so it is.”

“You're not lookin' at Sam Appleton's clo'es,” said the father, “that he lent you the loan of, hat an' all?”

“Do you want to put an affront upon me, ould man? To the divil wid himself an' his clo'es! When I wants clo'es I'll buy them wid my own money!'

“Larry,” observed the mother, “there's yourself all over—as proud as a payoock when the sup's in your head, an' 'ud spake as big widout the sign o' money in your pocket, as if you had the rint of an estate.”

“What do you say about the sign o' money?” exclaimed Phelim, with a swagger. “Maybe you'll call that the sign o' money!” he added, producing the ten guineas in gold. The father and mother looked at it for a considerable time, then at each other, and shook their heads.

“Phelim!” said the father, solemnly. “Phelim!” said the mother, awfully; and both shook their heads again.

“You wor never over-scrupulous,” the father proceeded, “an' you know you have many little things to answer for, in the way of pickin' up what didn't belong to yourself. I think, too, you're not the same boy you wor afore you tuck to swearin' the alibies.

“Faith, an' I doubt I'll haye to get some one to swear an alibi for myself soon,” Phelim replied.

“Why, blessed hour!” said Larry, “didn't I often tell you never to join the boys in anything that might turn out a hangin' matther?”

“If this is not a hangin' matther,” said Phelim, “it's something nearly as bad: it's a marryin' matther. Sure I deluded another since you seen me last. Divil a word o' lie in it. I was clane fell in love wid this mornin' about seven o'clock.”

“But how did you get the money, Phelim?”

“Why, from the youthful sprig that fell in love wid me. Sure we're to be 'called' in the Chapel on Sunday next.”

“Why thin now, Phelim! An' who is the young crathur? for in throth she must be young to go to give the money beforehand!”

“Murdher!” exclaimed Phelim, “what's this for! Was ever any one done as I am? Who is she! Why she's—oh, murdher, oh!—she's no other than—hem—divil a one else than Father O'Hara's housekeeper, ould Biddy Doran!”

The mirth of the old couple was excessive. The father laughed till he fell off his stool, and the mother till the tears ran down her cheeks.

“Death alive; ould man! but you're very merry,” said Phelim. “If you wor my age, an' in such an' amplush, you'd laugh on the wrong side o' your mouth. Maybe you'll tarn your tune when you hear that she has a hundhre and twenty guineas.”

“An' you'll be rich, too,” said the father. “The sprig an' you will be rich!—ha, ha, ha!”

“An' the family they'll have!” said the mother, in convulsions.

“Why, in regard o' that,” said Phelim, rather nettled, “if all fails us, sure we can do as my father and you did: kiss the Lucky Stone, an' make a Station.”

“Phelim, aroon,” said the mother, seriously, “put it out o' your head. Sure you wouldn't go to bring me a daughter-in-law oulder nor myself?”

“I'd as soon go over,” (* be transported) said Phelim; “or swing itself, before I'd marry sich a piece o' desate. Hard feelin' to her! how she did me to my face!”

Phelim then entered into a long-visaged detail of the scene at Father O'Hara's, dwelling bitterly on the alacrity with which the old housekeeper ensnared him in his own mesh.

“However,” he concluded, “she'd be a sharp one if she'd do me altogether. We're not married yet; an' I've a consate of my own, that she's done for the ten guineas, any how!”

A family council was immediately held upon Phelim's matrimonial prospects. On coming close to the speculation of Miss Patterson, it was somehow voted, notwithstanding Phelim's powers of attraction, to be rather a discouraging one. Gracey Dalton was also given up. The matter was now serious, the time short, and Phelim's bounces touching his own fascinations with the sex in general, were considerably abated. It was therefore resolved that he ought to avail himself of Sam Appleton's clothes, until his own could be made. Sam, he said, would not press him for them immediately, inasmuch as he was under obligations to Phelim's silence upon some midnight excursions that he had made.

“Not,” added Phelim, “but I'm as much, an' maybe more in his power, than he is in mine.”

When breakfast was over, Phelim and the father, after having determined to “drink a bottle” that night in the family of an humble young woman, named Donovan, who, they all agreed, would make an excellent wife for him, rested upon their oars until evening. In the meantime, Phelim sauntered about the village, as he was in the habit of doing, whilst the father kept the day as a holiday. We have never told our readers that Phelim was in love, because in fact we know not whether he was or not. Be this as it may, we simply inform them, that in a little shed in the lower end of the village, lived a person with whom Phelim was very intimate, called Foodie Flattery. He was, indeed, a man after Phelim's own heart, and Phelim was a boy after his. He maintained himself by riding country races; by handing, breeding, and feeding cocks; by fishing, poaching, and serving processes; and finally, by his knowledge as a cow-doctor and farrier—into the two last of which he had given Phelim some insight. We say the two last, for in most of the other accomplishments Phelim was fully his equal. Phelim frequently envied him his life. It was an idle, amusing, vagabond kind of existence, just such a one as he felt a relish for. This man had a daughter, rather well-looking; and it so happened, that he and Phelim had frequently spent whole nights out together, no one knew on what employment. Into Flattery's house did Phelim saunter with something like an inclination to lay the events of the day before him, and to ask his advice upon his future prospects. On entering the cabin he was much surprised to find the daughter in a very melancholy mood; a circumstance which puzzled him not a little, as he knew that they lived very harmoniously together. Sally had been very useful to her father; and, if fame did not belie her, was sometimes worthy Foodie's assistant in his nocturnal exploits. She was certainly reputed to be “light-handed;” an imputation which caused the young men of her acquaintance to avoid, in their casual conversations with her, any allusion to matrimony.

“Sally, achora,” said Phelim, when he saw her in distress, “what's the fun? Where's your father?”

“Oh, Phelim,” she replied, bursting into tears, “long runs the fox, but he's cotch at last. My father's in gaol.”

Phelim's jaw dropped. “In gaol! Chorp an diouol, no!”

“It's thruth, Phelim. Curse upon this Whiteboy business, I wish it never had come into the counthry at all.”

“Sally, I must see him; you know I must. But tell me how it happened? Was it at home he was taken?”

“No; he was taken this mornin' in the market. I was wid him sellin' some chickens. What'll you and Sam Appleton do, Phelim?”

“Uz! Why, what danger is there to either Sim or me, you darlin'?”

“I'm sure, Phelim, I don't know; but he tould me, that if I was provided for, he'd be firm, an' take chance of his thrial. But, he says, poor man, that it 'ud break his heart to be thransported, lavin' me behind him wid' nobody to take care o' me.—He says, too, if anything 'ud make him stag, it's fear of the thrial goin' against himself; for, as he said to me, what 'ud become of you, Sally, if anything happened me?”

A fresh flood of tears followed this disclosure, and Phelim's face, which was certainly destined to undergo on that day many variations of aspect, became remarkably blank.

“Sally, you insinivator, I'll hould a thousand guineas you'd never guess what brought me here to-day?”

“Arrah, how could I, Phelim? To plan some thin' wid my fadher, maybe.”

“No, but to plan somethin' wid yourself, you coaxin' jewel you. Now tell me this—Would you marry a certain gay, roguish, well-built young fellow, they call Bouncin' Phelim?”

“Phelim, don't be gettin' an wid your fun now, an' me in affliction. Sure, I know well you wouldn't throw yourself away upon a poor girl like me, that has nothin' but a good pair of hands to live by.”

“Be me sowl, an' you live by them. Well, but set in case—supposin'—that same Bouncin' Phelim was willing to make you mistress of the Half Acre, what 'ud you be sayin'?”

“Phelim, if a body thought you worn't jokin' them—ah, the dickens go wid you, Phelim—this is more o' your thricks—but if it was thruth you wor spakin', Phelim?”

“It is thruth,” said Phelim; “be the vestment, it's nothin' else. Now, say yes or no; for if it's a thing that it's to be a match, you must go an' tell him that I'll marry you, an' he must be as firm as a rock. But see, Sally, by thim five crasses it's not bekase your father's in I'm marryin' you at all. Sure I'm in love wid you, acushla! Divil a lie in it. Now, yes or no?”

“Well—throth—to be sure—the sorra one, Phelim, but you have quare ways wid you. Now are you downright in airnest?”

“Be the stool I'm sittin' on!”

“Well, in the name o' Goodness, I'll go to my father, an' let him know it. Poor man, it'll take the fear out of his heart. Now can he depind on you, Phelim?”

“Why, all I can say is, that we'll get ourselves called on Sunday next. Let himself, sure, send some one to autorise the priest to call us. An' now that's all settled, don't I desarve somethin'? Oh, be gorra, surely.”

“Behave, Phelim—oh—oh—Phelim, now—there you've tuck it—och, the curse o' the crows on you, see the way you have my hair down! There now, you broke my comb, too. Troth, you're a wild slip, Phelim. I hope you won't be goin' on this way wid the girls, when you get married.”

“Is it me you coaxer? No, faith, I'll wear a pair of winkers, for fraid o' lookin' at them at all! Oh be gorra, no, bally, I'll lave that to the great people. Sure, they say, the divil a differ they make at all.”

“Go off now, Phelim, till I get ready, an' set out to my father. But, Phelim, never breathe a word about him bein' in goal. No one knows it but ourselves—that is, none o' the neighbors.”

“I'll sing dumb,” said Phelim. “Well, binaght lath, a rogarah!* Tell him the thruth—to be game, an' he'll find you an' me sweeled together whin he comes out, plase Goodness.”

* My blessing be with you, you rogue!

Phelim was but a few minutes gone, when the old military cap of Fool Art projected from the little bed-room, which a wicker wall, plastered with mud, divided from the other part of the cabin.

“Is he gone?” said Art.

“You may come out, Art,” said she, “he's gone.”

“Ha!” said Art, triumphantly, “I often tould him, when he vexed me an' pelted me wid snow-balls, that I'd come along sides wid him yet. An' it's not over aither. Fool Art can snore when he's not asleep, an' see wid his eyes shut. Wherroo for Art!”

“But, Art, maybe he intinds to marry the housekeeper afther all?”

“Hi the colic, the colic!

An' ho the colic for Phelim!”

“Then you think he won't, Art?”

“Hi the colic, the colic!

An' ho the colic for Phelim!”

“Now, Art, don't say a word about my father not bein' in gaol. He's to be back from my grandfather's in a short time, an' if we manage well, you'll see what you'll get, Art—a brave new shirt, Art.”

“Art has the lane for Phelim, but it's not the long one wid no turn in it. Wherroo for Art!”

Phelim, on his return home, felt queer; here was a second matrimonial predicament, considerably worse than the first, into which he was hooked decidedly against his will. The worst feature in this case was the danger to be apprehended from Foodie Flattery's disclosures, should he take it into his head to 'peach upon his brother Whiteboys. Indeed, Phelim began to consider it a calamity that he ever entered into their system at all; for, on running over his exploits along with them, he felt that he was liable to be taken up any morning of the week, and lodged in one of his majesty's boarding-houses. The only security he had was the honesty of his confederates; and experience took the liberty of pointing out to him many cases in which those who considered themselves quite secure, upon the same grounds, either dangled or crossed the water. He remembered, too, some prophecies that had been uttered concerning him with reference both to hanging and matrimony. Touching the former it was often said, that “he'd die where the bird flies”—between heaven and earth; on matrimony, that there seldom was a swaggerer among the girls but came to the ground at last.

Now Phelim had a memory of his own, and in turning over his situation, and the prophecies that had been so confidently pronounced concerning him, he felt, as we said, rather queer. He found his father and mother in excellent spirits when he got home. The good man had got a gallon of whiskey on credit; for it had been agreed on not to break the ten golden guineas until they should have ascertained how the matchmaking would terminate that night at Donovan's.

“Phelim,” said the father, “strip yourself, an' put on Sam's clo'es: you must send him down yours for a day or two; he says it's the least he may have the wearin' o' them, so long as you have his.”

“Right enough,” said Phelim; “Wid all my heart; I'm ready to make a fair swap wid him any day, for that matther.”

“I sent word to the Donovans that we're to go to coort there to night,” said Larry; “so that they'll be prepared for us; an' as it would be shabby not to have a friend, I asked Sam Appleton himself. He's to folly us.”

“I see,” said Phelim, “I see. Well, the best boy in Europe Sam is, for such a spree. Now, Fadher, you must lie like the ould diouol tonight. Back everything I say, an' there's no fear of us. But about what she's to get, you must hould out for that. I'm to despise it, you know. I'll abuse you for spakin' about fortune, but don't budge an inch.”

“It's not the first time I've done that for you, Phelim; but in regard o' these ten guineas, why you must put them in your pocket for fraid they be wantin' to get off wid layin' down guinea for guinea. You see, they don't think we have a rap; an' if they propose it we'll be up to them.”

“Larry,” observed Sheelah, “don't make a match except they give that pig they have. Hould out for that by all means.”

“Tare-an'-ounze!” exclaimed Phelim, “am I goin' to take the counthry out o' the face? By the vestments, I'm a purty boy! Do you know the fresh news I have for yez?”

“Not ten guineas more, Phelim?” replied the father.

“Maybe you soodhered another ould woman,” said the mother.

“Be asy,” replied Phelim. “No, but the five crasses, I deluded a young one since! I went out!”

The old couple were once more disposed to be mirthful; but Phelim confirmed his assertion with such a multiplicity of oaths, that they believed him. Nothing, however, could wring the secret of her name out of him. He had reasons for concealing it which he did not wish to divulge. In fact, he could never endure ridicule, and the name of Sally Flattery, as the person whom he had “deluded,” would constitute, on his part, a triumph quite as sorry as that which he had achieved in Father O'Hara's. In Ireland no man ever thinks of marrying a female thief—which Sally was strongly suspected to be—except some worthy fellow, who happens to be gifted with the same propensity.

When the proper hour arrived, honest Phelim, after having already made arrangements to be called on the following Sunday, as the intended husband of two females, now proceeded with great coolness to make, if possible, a similar engagement with a third. There is something, however, to be said for Phelim. His conquest over the housekeeper was considerably out of the common course of love affairs. He had drawn upon his invention, only to bring himself and the old woman out of the ridiculous predicament in which the priest found them. He had, moreover, intended to prevail on her to lend him the hat, in case the priest himself had refused him. He was consequently not prepared for the vigorous manner in which Mrs. Doran fastened upon the subject of matrimony. On suspecting that she was inclined to be serious, he pleaded his want of proper apparel; but here again the liberality of the housekeeper silenced him, whilst, at the same time, it opened an excellent prospect of procuring that which he most required—a decent suit of clothes. This induced him to act a part that he did not feel. He saw the old woman was resolved to outwit him, and he resolved to overreach the old woman.

His marriage with Sally Flattery was to be merely a matter of chance. If he married her at all, he knew it must be in self-defence. He felt that her father had him in his power, and that he was anything but a man to be depended on. He also thought that his being called with her, on the Sunday following, would neutralize his call with the housekeeper; just as positive and negative quantities in algebra cancel each other. But he was quite ignorant that the story of Flattery's imprisonment was merely a plan of the daughter's to induce him to marry her.

With respect to Peggy Donovan, he intended, should he succeed in extricating himself from the meshes which the other two had thrown around him, that she should be the elected one to whom he was anxious to unite himself. As to the confusion produced by being called to three at once, he knew that, however laughable in itself, it would be precisely something like what the parish would expect from him. Bouncing Phelim was no common man, and to be called to three on the same Sunday, would be a corroboration of his influence with the sex. It certainly chagrined him not a little that one of them was an old woman, and the other of indifferent morals; but still it exhibited the claim of three women upon one man, and that satisfied him. His mode of proceeding with Peggy Donovan was regular, and according to the usages of the country. The notice had been given that he and his father would go a courting, and of course they brought the whiskey with them, that being the custom among persons in their circumstances in life. These humble courtships very much resemble the driving of a bargain between two chapmen; for, indeed, the closeness of the demands on the one side, and the reluctance of concession on the other, are almost incredible. Many a time has a match been broken up by a refusal on the one part, to give a slip of a pig, or a pair of blankets, or a year-old calf. These are small matters in themselves, but they are of importance to those who, perhaps, have nothing else on earth with which to begin the world. The house to which Phelim and his father directed themselves was, like their own, of the-humblest description. The floor of it was about sixteen feet by twelve; its furniture rude and scanty. To the right of the fire was a bed, the four posts of which ran up to the low roof; it was curtained with straw mats, with the exception of an opening about a foot and a half wide on the side next the fire, through which those who slept in it passed. A little below the foot of the bed were ranged a few shelves of deal, supported by pins of wood driven into the wall. These constituted the dresser. In the lower end of the house stood a potato-bin, made up of stakes driven into the floor, and wrought with strong wicker-work. Tied to another stake beside this bin stood a cow, whose hinder part projected so close to the door, that those who entered the cabin were compelled to push her over out of their way. This, indeed, was effected without much difficulty, for the animal became so habituated to the necessity of moving aside, that it was only necessary to lay the hand upon her. Above the door in the inside, almost touching the roof, was the hen-roost, made also of wicker-work; and opposite the bed, on the other side of the fire, stood a meal-chest.

Its lid on a level with the little pane of glass which served as a window. An old straw chair, a few stools, a couple of pots, some wooden vessels and crockery, completed the furniture of the house. The pig to which Sheolah alluded was not kept within the cabin, that filthy custom being now less common than formerly.

This catalogue of cottage furniture may appear to our English readers very miserable. We beg them to believe, however, that if every cabin in Ireland were equally comfortable, the country would be comparatively happy. Still it is to be remembered, that the dramatis personae of our story are of the humblest class.

When seven o'clock drew nigh, the inmates of this little cabin placed themselves at a clear fire; the father at one side, the mother at the other, and the daughter directly between them, knitting, for this is usually the occupation of a female on such a night. Everything in the house was clean; the floor swept; the ashes removed from the hearth; the parents in their best clothes, and the daughter also in her holiday apparel. She was a plain girl, neither remarkable for beauty, nor otherwise. Her eyes, however, were good, so were her teeth, and an anxious look, produced of course by an occasion so interesting to a female, heightened her complexion to a blush that became her. The creature had certainly made the most of her little finery. Her face shone like that of a child after a fresh scrubbing with a strong towel; her hair, carefully curled with the hot blade of a knife, had been smoothed with soap until it became lustrous by repeated polishing, and her best red ribbon was tied tightly about it in a smart knot, that stood out on the side of her head with something of a coquettish air. Old Donovan and his wife maintained a conversation upon some indifferent subject, but the daughter evidently paid little attention to what they said. It being near the hour appointed for Phelim's arrival, she sat with an appearance of watchful trepidation, occasionally listening, and starting at every sound that she thought bore any resemblance to a man's voice or footstep.

At length the approach of Phelim and his father was announced by a verse of a popular song, for singing which Phelim was famous;—

“A sailor coorted a farmer's daughter

That lived contagious to the Isle of Man,

A long time coortin', an' still discoorsin'

Of things consarnin' the ocean wide;

At linth he saize, 'My own dearest darlint,

Will you consint for to be my bride?'”

“An' so she did consint, the darlin', but what the puck would she do else? God save the family! Paddy Donovan, how is your health? Molly, avourneen, I'm glad to hear that you're thrivin'. An' Peggy—eh? Ah, be gorra, fadher, here's somethin' to look at! Give us the hand of you, you bloomer! Och, och! faith you're the daisey!”

“Phelim,” said the father, “will you behave yourself? Haven't you the night before you for your capers? Paddy Donovan, I'm glad to see you! Molly, give us your right hand, for, in troth, I have a regard for you! Peggy, dear, how are you? But I'm sure, I needn't be axin when I look at you! In troth, Phelim, she is somethin' to throw your eye at.”

“Larry Toole, you're welcome,” replied Donovan and his wife, “an' so is your son. Take stools both of you, an' draw near the hearth. Here, Phelim,” said the latter, “draw in an' sit beside myself.”

“Thank you kindly, Molly,” replied Phelim; “but I'll do no sich thing.. Arrah, do you think, now, that I'd begin to gosther wid an ould woman, while I have the likes o' Peggy, the darlin', beside me? I'm up to a thrick worth nine of it. No, no; this chest 'll do. Sure you know, I must help the 'duck of diamonds' here to count her stitches.”

“Paddy,” said Larry, in a friendly whisper, “put this whiskey past for a while, barrin' this bottle that we must taste for good luck. Sam Appleton's to come up afther us an', I suppose, some o' your own cleavens 'll be here afther a while.”

“Thrue for you,” said Donovan. “Jemmy Burn and Antony Devlin is to come over presently. But, Larry, this is nonsense. One bottle o' whiskey was lashins; my Goodness, what'll we be doin' wid a whole gallon?”

“Dacency or nothin', Paddy; if it was my last I'd show sperit, an' why not? Who'd be for the shabby thing?”

“Well, well, Larry, I can't say but you're right afther all! Maybe I'd do the same thing myself, for all I'm spakin' aginst it.”

The old people then passed round an introductory glass, after which they chatted away for an hour or so, somewhat like the members of a committee who talk upon indifferent topics until their brethren are all assembled.

Phelim, in the meantime, grappled with the daughter, whose knitting he spoiled by hooking the thread with his finger, jogging her elbow until he ran the needles past each other, and finally unravelling her clew; all which she bore with great good-humor. Sometimes, indeed, she ventured to give him a thwack upon the shoulder, with a laughing frown upon her countenance, in order to correct him for teasing her.

When Jemmy Burn and Antony Devlin arrived, the spirits of the party got up. The whiskey was formally produced, but as yet the subject of the courtship, though perfectly understood, was not introduced. Phelim and the father were anxious to await the presence of Sam Appleton, who was considered, by the way, a first-rate hand at match-making.

Phelim, as is the wont, on finding the din of the conversation raised to the proper pitch, stole one of the bottles and prevailed on Peggy to adjourn with him to the potato-bin. Here they ensconced themselves very snugly; but not, as might be supposed, contrary to the knowledge and consent of the seniors, who winked at each other on seeing Phelim gallantly tow her down with the bottle under his arm. It was only the common usage on such occasions, and not considered any violation whatsoever of decorum. When Phelim's prior engagements are considered, it must be admitted that there was something singularly ludicrous in the humorous look he gave over his shoulder at the company, as he went toward the bin, having the bottom of the whiskey-bottle projecting behind his elbow, winking at them in return, by way of a hint to mind their own business and allow him to plead for himself. The bin, however, turned out to be rather an uneasy seat, for as the potatoes lay in a slanting heap against the wall, Phelim and his sweetheart were perpetually sliding down from the top to the bottom. Phelim could be industrious when it suited his pleasure. In a few minutes those who sat about the fire imagined, from the noise at the bin, that the house was about to come about their ears.

“Phelim, you thief,” said the father, “what's all that noise for?”

“Chrosh orrin!” (* The cross be about us!) said Molly Donovan, “is that tundher?”

“Devil carry these piatees,” exclaimed Phelim, raking them down with both hands and all his might, “if there's any sittin' at all upon them! I'm levellin' them to prevint Peggy, the darlin', from slidderin' an' to give us time to be talkin', somethin' lovin' to one another. The curse o' Cromwell an them! One might as well dhrink a glass o' whiskey wid his sweetheart, or spake a tinder word to her, on the wings of a windmill as here. There now, they're as level as you plase, acushla! Sit down, you jewel you, an' give me the egg-shell, till we have our Sup o' the crathur in comfort. Faith, it was too soon for us to be comin' down in the world?”

Phelim and Peggy having each emptied the egg-shell, which among the poorer Irish is frequently the substitute for a glass, entered into the following sentimental dialogue, which was covered by the loud and entangled conversation of their friends about the fire; Phelim's arm lovingly about her neck, and his head laid down snugly against her cheek.

“Now, Peggy, you darlin' o' the world—bad cess to me but I'm as glad as two ten-pennies that I levelled these piatees; there was no sittin' an them. Eh, avourneen?”

“Why, we're comfortable now, anyhow, Phelim!”

“Faith, you may say that—(a loving squeeze). Now, Peggy, begin an' tell us all about your bachelors.”

“The sarra one ever I had, Phelim.”

“Oh, murdher sheery, what a bounce! Bad cess to me, if you can spake a word o' thruth afther that, you common desaver! Worn't you an' Paddy Moran pullin' a coard?”

“No, in throth; it was given out on us, but we never wor, Phelim. Nothin' ever passed betune us but common civility. He thrated my father an' mother wanst to share of half a pint in the Lammas Fair, when I was along wid them; but he never broke discoorse wid me barrin', as I sed, in civility an' friendship.”

“An' do you mane to put it down my throath that you never had a sweetheart at all?”

“The nerra one.”

“Oh, you thief! Wid two sich lips o' your own, an' two sich eyes o' your own, an' two sich cheeks o' your own! Oh—, by the tarn, that won't pass.”

“Well, an' supposin' I had—behave Phelim—supposin' I had, where's the harm? Sure it's well known all the sweethearts, you had, an' have yet, I suppose.”

“Be gorra, an' that's thruth; an' the more the merrier, you jewel you, till, one get's married. I had enough of them, in my day, but you're the flower o' them all, that I'd like to spend my life wid”—(a squeeze.)

“The sorra one word the men say a body can trust. I warrant you tould that story to every one o' them as well as to me. Stop Phelim—it's well known that what you say to the colleens is no gospel. You know what they christened you 'Bouncin' Phelim!”

“Betune you an' me, Peggy, I'll tell you a sacret; I was the boy for deludin them. It's very well known the matches I might a got; but you see, you little shaver, it was waitin' for yourself I was.”

“For me! A purty story indeed I'm sure it was! Oh, afther that! Why, Phelim, how can you——Well, well, did any one ever hear the likes?”

“Be the vestments, it's thruth. I had you in my eye these three years, but was waitin' till I'd get together as much money as ud' set us up in the world dacently. Give me that egg-shell agin. Talkin's dhruthy work. Shudorth, a rogarah! (* This to you you rogue) an' a pleasant honeymoon to us!”

“Wait till we're married first, Phelim; thin it'll be time enough to dhrink that.”

“Come, acushla, it's your turn now; taste the shell, an' you'll see how lovin' it'll make us. Mother's milk's a thrifle to it.”

“Well, if I take this, Phelim, I'll not touch another dhrop to-night. In the mane time here's whatever's best for us! Whoo! Oh, my! but that's strong! I dunna how the people can dhrink so much of it!”

“Faith, nor me; except bekase they have a regard for it, an' that it's worth havin' a regard for, jist like yourself an' me. Upon my faix, Peggy, it bates all, the love an likin' I have for you, an' ever had these three years past. I tould you about the eyes, mavourneen, an'—an'—about the lips—”

“Phelim—behave—I say—now stop wid you—well—well—but you're the tazin' Phelim!—Throth the girls may be glad when you're married,” exclaimed Peggy, adjusting her polished hair.

“Bad cess to the bit, if ever I got so sweet a one in my life—the soft end of a honeycomb's a fool to it. One thing, Peggy, I can tell you—that I'll love you in great style. Whin we're marrid it's I that'll soodher you up. I won't let the wind blow on you. You must give up workin', too. All I'll ax you to do will be to nurse the childhre; an' that same will keep you busy enough, plase Goodness.”

“Upon my faix, Phelim, you're the very sarra, so you are. Will you be asy now? I'll engage when you're married, it'll soon be another story wid you. Maybe you'd care little about us thin!”

“Be the vestments, I'm spakin' pure gospel, so I am. Sure you don't know that to be good husbands runs in our family. Every one of them was as sweet as thracle to their wives. Why, there's that ould cock, my fadher, an' if you'd see how he butthers up the ould woman to this day, it 'ud make your heart warm to any man o' the family.”

“Ould an' young was ever an' always the same to you, Phelim. Sure the ouldest woman in the parish, if she happened to be single, couldn't miss of your blarney. It's reported you're goin' to be marrid to an ould woman.'

“He—hem—ahem! Bad luck to this cowld I have! it's stickin' in my throath entirely, so it is!—hem!—to a what?”

“Why to an ould woman, wid a great deal of the hard goold!”

Phelim put his hand instinctively to his waistcoat pocket, in which he carried the housekeeper's money.

“Would you oblage one wid her name?”

“You know ould Molly Kavanagh well enough, Phelim.”

Phelim put up an inward ejaculation of thanks.

“To the sarra wid her, an' all sasoned women. God be praised that the night's line, anyhow! Hand me the shell, an' we'll take a gauliogue aich, an' afther that we'll begin an' talk over how lovin' an' fond o' one another we'll be.”

“You're takin' too much o' the whiskey, Phelim. Oh, for Goodness' sake!—oh—b—b—n—now be asy. Faix, I'll go to the fire, an' lave you altogether, so I will, if you don't give over slustherin' me, that way, an' stoppin' my breath.”

“Here's all happiness to our two selves, acushla machree! Now thry another gauliogue, an' you'll see how deludin' it'll make you.”

“Not a sup, Phelim.”

“Arrah, nonsense! Be the vestment, it's as harmless as new milk from the cow. It'll only do you good, alanna. Come now, Peggy, don't be ondacent, an' it our first night's coortin'! Blood alive! don't make little o' my father's son on sich a night, an' us at business like this, anyhow!”

“Phelim, by the crass, I won't take it; so that ends it. Do you want to make little o' me? It's not much you'd think o' me in your mind, if I'd dhrink it.”

“The shell's not half full.”

“I wouldn't brake my oath for all the whiskey in the kingdom; so don't ax me. It's neither right nor proper of you to force it an me.”

“Well, all I say is, that it's makin' little of one Phelim O'Toole, that hasn't a thought in his body but what's over head an' ears in love wid you. I must only dhrink it for you myself, thin. Here's all kinds o' good fortune to us! Now, Peggy—sit closer to me acushla!—Now, Peggy, are you fond o' me at all? Tell thruth, now.”

“Fond o' you! Sure you know all the girls is fond of you. Aren't you the boy for deludin' them?—ha, ha, ha?”

“Come, come, you shaver; that won't do. Be sarious. If you knew how my heart's warmin' to you this minute, you'd fall in love wid my shadow. Come, now, out wid it. Are you fond of a sartin boy not far from you, called Bouncin' Phelim?”

“To be sure I am. Are you satisfied now? Phelim! I say,”—

“Faith, it won't pass, avourneen. That's not the voice for it. Don't you hear me, how tendher I spake wid my mouth brathin' into your ear, acushla machree? Now turn about, like a purty entisin' girl, as you are, an' put your sweet bill to my ear the same way, an' whisper what you know into it? That's a darlin'! Will you, achora?”

“An' maybe all this time you're promised to another?”

“Be the vestments, I'm not promised to one. Now! Saize the one!”

“You'll say that, anyhow!”

“Do you see my hands acrass? Be thim five crasses, I'm not promised to a girl livin', so I'm not, nor wouldn't, bekase I had you in my eye. Now will you tell me what I'm wantin' you? The grace o' Heaven light down an you, an' be a good, coaxin darlin' for wanst. Be this an' be that, if ever you heerd or seen sich doin's an' times as we'll have when we're marrid. Now the weeny whisper, a colleen dhas.”

“It's time enough yet to let you know my mind, Phelim. If you behave yourself an' be——Why thin is it at the bottle agin you are? Now don't dhrink so much, Phelim, or it'll get into your head. I was sayin' that if you behave yourself, an' be a good boy, I may tell you somethin' soon.”

“Somethin' soon! Live horse, an' you'll get grass! Peggy, if that's the way wid you, the love's all on my side, I see clearly. Are you willin' to marry me, anyhow?”

“I'm willin' to do whatsomever my father an' mother wishes.”

“I'm for havin' the weddin' off-hand; an' of coorse, if we agree to-night, I think our best plan is to have ourselves called on Sunday. An' I'll tell you what, avourneen—be the holy vestments, if I was to be 'called' to fifty on the same Sunday, you're the darlin' I'd marry.”

“Phelim, it's time for us to go up to the fire; we're long enough here. I thought you had only three words to say to me.”

“Why, if you're tired o' me, Peggy, I don't want you to stop. I wouldn't force myself on the best girl that ever stepped.”

“Sure you have tould me all you want to say, an' there's no use in us stayin' here. You know, Phelim, there's not a girl in the Parish 'ud believe a word that 'ud come but o' your lips. Sure there's none o' them but you coorted one time or other. If you could get betther, Phelim, I dunna whether you'd be here to-night at all or not.”

“Answer me this, Peggy. What do you! think your father 'ud be willin' to give you? Not that I care a cron abaun about it, for I'd marry you wid an inch of candle.”

“You know my father's but a poor man, Phelim, an' can give little or nothing. Them that won't marry me as I am, needn't come here to look for a fortune.”

“I know that, Peggy, an' be the same token, I want no fortune at all wid you but yourself, darlin'. In the mane time, to show you that I could get a fortune—Dhera Lorha Heena, I could have a wife wid a hundre an' twenty guineas!”

Peggy received this intelligence much in the same manner as Larry and Sheelah had received it. Her mirth was absolutely boisterous for at least ten minutes. Indeed, so loud had it been, that Larry and her father could not help asking:—

“Arrah, what's the fun, Peggy, achora?”

“Oh, nothin',” she replied, “but one o' Phelim's bounces.”

“Now,” said Phelim, “you won't believe me? Be all the books—”

Peggy's mirth prevented his oaths from being heard. In vain he declared, protested, and swore. On this occasion, he was compelled to experience the fate peculiar to all liars. Even truth, from his lips, was looked upon as falsehood.

Phelim, on finding that he could neither extort from Peggy an acknowledgment of love, nor make himself credible upon the subject of the large fortune, saw that he had nothing for it now, in order to produce an impression, but the pathetic.

“Well,” said he, “you may lave me, Peggy achora, if you like; but out o' this I'll not budge, wid a blessing, till I cry my skinful, so I won't. Saize the toe I'll move, now, till I'm sick wid cryin'! Oh, murdher alive, this night! Isn't it a poor case entirely, that the girl I'd suffer myself to be turned inside out for, won't say that she cares about a hair o' my head! Oh, thin, but I'm the misfortunate blackguard all out! Och, oh! Peggy, achora, you'll break my heart! Hand me that shell, acushla—for I'm in the height of affliction!”

Peggy could neither withhold it, nor reply to him. Her mirth was even more intense now than before; nor, if all were known, was Phelim less affected with secret laughter than Peggy.

“It is makin' fun o' me you are, you thief, eh?—Is it laughin' at my grief you are?” exclaimed Phelim. “Be the tarn' o' wor, I'll punish you for that.”

Peggy attempted to escape, but Phelim succeeded, ere she went, in taking a salutation or two, after which both joined those who sat at the fire, and in a few minutes Sam Appleton entered.

Much serious conversation had already passed in reference to the courtship, which was finally entered into and debated, pro and con.

“Now, Paddy Donovan, that we're altogether, let me tell you one thing: there's not a betther natur'd boy, nor a stouther, claner young fellow in the parish, than my Phelim. He'll make your daughther as good, a husband as ever broke bread!”

“I'm not sayin' against that, Larry. He is a good-nathur'd boy: but I tell you, Larry Toole, that my daughter's his fill of a wife any day. An' I'll put this to the back o' that—she's a hard-workin' girl, that ates no idle bread.”

“Very right,” said Sam Appleton. “Phelim's a hairo, an' she's a beauty. Dang me, but they wor made for one another. Phelim, abouchal, why don't you—oh, I see you are. Why, I was goin' to bid you make up to her.”

“Give no gosther, Sam,” replied Phelim, “but sind round the bottle, an' don't forget to let it come this way. I hardly tasted a dhrop to-night.”

“Oh, Phelim!” exclaimed Peggy.

“Whisht!” said Phelim, “there's no use in lettin' the ould fellows be committin' sin. Why, they're hearty (* Tipsy) as it is, the sinners.”

“Come, nabors,” said Burn, “I'm the boy that's for close work. How does the match stand? You're both my friends, an' may this be poison to me, but I'll spake like an honest man, for the one as well as for the other.

“Well, then,” said Donovan, “how is Phelim to support my daughther, Larry? Sure that's a fair questin', any way.”

“Wiry, Paddy,” replied Larry, “when Phelim gets her, he'll have a patch of his own, as well as another. There's that 'half-acre,' and a betther piece o' land isn't in Europe!”

“Well, but what plenishin' are they to have, Larry? A bare half acre's but a poor look up.”

“I'd as soon you'd not make little of it, in the mane time,” replied Larry, rather warmly. “As good a couple as ever they wor lived on that half acre; along wid what they earned by hard work otherwise.”

“I'm not disparagin' it, Larry; I'd be long sorry; but about the furniture? What are they to begin the world wid?”

“Hut,” said Devlin, “go to the sarra wid yez!—What 'ud they want, no more nor other young people like them, to begin the world wid? Are you goin' to make English or Scotch of them, that never marries till they're able to buy a farm an' stock it, the nagurs. By the staff in my hand, an Irish man 'ud lash a dozen o' them, wid all then prudence! Hasn't Phelim an' Peggy health and hands, what most new-married couples in Ireland begins the world wid? Sure they're not worse nor a thousand others?”

“Success, Antony,” said Phelim. “Here's your health for that!”

“God be thanked they have health and hands,” said Donovan. “Still, Antony, I'd like that they'd have somethin' more.”

“Well, then, Paddy, spake up for yourself,” observed Larry. “What will you put to the fore for the colleen? Don't take both flesh an' bone!”

“I'll not spake up, till I know all that Phelim's to expect,” said Donovan. “I don't think he has a right to be axin' anything wid sich a girl as my Peggy.”

“Hut, tut, Paddy! She's a good colleen enough; but do you think she's above any one that carries the name of O'Toole upon him? Still, it's but raisonable for you to wish the girl well settled. My Phelim will have one half o' my worldly goods, at all evints.”

“Name them, Larry, if you plase.”

“Why, he'll have one o' the goats—the gray one, for she's the best o' the two, in throth. He'll have two stools; three hens, an' a toss-up for the cock. The biggest o' the two pots; two good crocks; three good wooden trenchers, an'—hem—he'll have his own—I say, Paddy, are you listenin' to me?—Phelim, do you hear what I'm givin' you, a veehonee?—his own bed! An' there's all I can or will do for him. Now do you spake up for Peggy.”

“I'm to have my own bedstead too,” said Phelim, “an' bad cess to the stouter one in Europe. It's as good this minute as it was eighteen years agone.”

“Paddy Donovan, spake up,” said Larry.

“Spake up!” said Paddy, contemptuously. “Is it for three crowns' worth I'd spake up? The bedstead, Phelim! Bedhu husth, (* hold your tongue) man!”

“Put round the bottle,” said Phelim, “we're dhry here.”

“Thrue enough, Phelim,” said the father. “Paddy, here's towarst you an' yours—nabors—all your healths—young couple! Paddy, give us your hand, man alive! Sure, whether we agree or not, this won't put between us.”

“Throth, it won't, Larry—an' I'm thankful to you. Your health, Larry, an' all your healths! Phelim an' Peggy, success to yez, whether or not! An' now, in regard o' your civility, I will spake up. My proposal is this:—I'll put down guinea for guinea wid you.”

Now we must observe, by the way, that this was said under the firm conviction that neither Phelim nor the father had a guinea in their possession.

“I'll do that same, Paddy,” said Larry; “but I'll lave it to the present company, if you're not bound to put down the first guinea. Nabors, amn't I right?”

“You are right, Larry,” said Burn; “it's but fair that Paddy should put down the first.”

“Molly, achora,” said Donovan to the wife, who, by the way, was engaged in preparing the little feast usual on such occasions—“Molly, achora, give me that ould glove you have in your pocket.”

She immediately handed him an old shammy glove, tied up into a hard knot, which he felt some difficulty in unloosing.

“Come, Larry,” said he, laying down a guinea-note, “cover that like a man.”

“Phelim carries my purse,” observed the father; but he had scarcely spoken when the laughter of the company rang loudly through the house—The triumph of Donovan appeared to be complete, for he thought the father's alusion to Phelim tantamount to an evasion.

“Phelim! Phelim carries it! Faix, an' I, doubt he finds it a light burdyeen.”

Phelim approached in all his glory.

“What am I to do?” he inquired, with a swagger.

“You're to cover that guinea-note wid a guinea, if you can,” said Donovan.

“Whether 'ud you prefar goold or notes,” said Phelim, looking pompously about him; “that's the talk.”

This was received with another merry peal of laughter.

“Oh, goold—goold by all manes!” replied Donovan.

“Here goes the goold, my worthy,” said Phelim, laying down his guinea with a firm slap upon the table.

Old Donovan seized it, examined it, then sent it round, to satisfy himself that it was a bona fide guinea.

On finding that it was good, he became blank a little; his laugh lost its strength, much of his jollity was instantly neutralized, and his face got at least two inches longer. Larry now had the laugh against him, and the company heartily joined in it.

“Come, Paddy,” said Larry, “go an!—ha, ha, ha!”

Paddy fished for half a minute through the glove; and, after what was apparently a hard chase, brought up another guinea, which he laid down.

“Come, Phelim!” said he, and his eye brightened again with a hope that Phelim would fail.

“Good agin!” said Phelim, thundering down another, which was instantly subjected to a similar scrutiny.

“You'll find it good,” said Larry. “I wish we had a sackful o' them. Go an, Paddy. Go an, man, who's afeard?”

“Sowl, I'm done,” said Donovan, throwing down the purse with a hearty laugh—“give me your hand, Larry. Be the goold afore us, I thought to do you. Sure these two guineas is for my rint, an' we mustn't let them come atween us at all.”

“Now,” said Larry, “to let you see that my son's not widout something to begin the world wid—Phelim, shill out the rest o' the yallow boys.”

“Faix, you ought to dhrink the ould woman's health for this,” said Phelim. “Poor ould crathur, many a long day she was savin' up these for me. It's my mother I'm speakin' about.”

“An' we will, too,” said the father; “here's Sheelah's health, neighbors! The best poor man's wife that ever threwn a gown over her shouldhers.”

This was drank with all the honors, and the negotiation proceeded.

“Now,” said Appleton, “what's to be done? Paddy, say what you'll do for the girl.”

“Money's all talk,” said Donovan; “I'll give the girl the two-year ould heifer—an' that's worth double what his father has promised Phelim; I'll give her a stone o' flax, a dacent suit o' clo'es, my blessin'—an' there's her fortune.”

“Has she neither bed nor beddin'?” inquired Larry.

“Why, don't you say that Phelim's to have his own bed?” observed Donovan. “Sure one bed 'ill be plinty for them.”

“I don't care a damn about fortune,” said Phelim, for the first time taking a part in the bargain—“so long as I get the darlin' herself. But I think there 'ud be no harm in havin' a spare pair o' blankets—an', for that matther, a bedstead, too—in case a friend came to see a body.”

“I don't much mind givin' you a brother to the bedstead you have, Phelim,” replied Donovan, winking at the company, for he was perfectly aware of the nature of Phelim's bedstead.

“I'll tell you what you must do,” said Larry, “otherwise I'll not stand it. Give the colleen a chaff bed, blankets an' all other parts complate, along wid that slip of a pig. If you don't do this, Paddy Donovan, why we'll finish the whiskey an' part friends—but it's no match.”

“I'll never do it, Larry. The bed an' beddin' I'll give; but the pig I'll by no manner o' manes part wid.”

“Put round the bottle,” said Phelim, “we're gettin' dhry agin—sayin' nothin' is dhroothy work. Ould man, will you not bother us about fortune!”

“Come, Paddy Donnovan,” wid Devlin, “dang it, let out a little, considher he has ten guineas; and I give it as my downright maxim an opinion, that he's fairly entitled to the pig.”

“You're welcome to give your opinion, Antony, an' I'm welcome not to care a rotten sthraw about it. My daughter's wife enough for him, widout a gown to her back, if he had his ten guineas doubled.”

“An' my son,” said Larry, “is husband enough for a betther girl nor ever called you father—not makin' little, at the same time, of either you or her.”

“Paddy,” said Burn, “there's no use in spakin' that way. I agree wid Antony, that you ought to throw in the 'slip.'”

“Is it what I have to pay my next gale o' rint wid? No, no! If he won't marry her widout it, she'll get as good that will.”

“Saize the 'slip,” said Phelim, “the darlin' herself here is all the slip I want.”

“But I'm not so,” said Larry, “the 'slip' must go in, or it's a brake off. Phelim can get girls that has money enough to buy us all out o' root. Did you hear that, Paddy Donovan?”

“I hear it,” said Paddy, “but I'll b'lieve as much of it as I like.”

Phelim apprehended that as his father got warm with the liquor, he might, in vindicating the truth of his own assertion, divulge the affair of the old housekeeper.

“Ould man,” said he “have sinse, an' pass that over, if you have any regard for Phelim.”

“I'd not be brow-bate into anything,” observed Donovan.

“Sowl, you would not,” said Phelim; “for my part, Paddy, I'm ready to marry your daughther (a squeeze to Peggy) widout a ha'p'orth at all, barrin' herself. It's the girl I want, an' not the slip.”

“Thin, be the book, you'll get both, Phelim, for your dacency,” said Donovan; “but, you see I wouldn't be bullied into' puttin' one foot past the other, for the best man that ever stepped on black leather.”

“Whish!” said Appleton, “that's the go! Success ould heart! Give us your hand, Paddy—here's your good health, an' may you never button an empty pocket!”

“Is all settled?” inquired Molly.

“All, but about the weddin' an' the calls,” replied her husband. “How are we to do about that, Larry?”

“Why, in the name o' Goodness, to save time,” he replied, “let them be called on Sunday next, the two Sundays afther, an thin marrid, wid a blessin'.”

“I agree wid that entirely,” observed Molly; “an' now Phelim, clear away, you an' Peggy, off o' that chist, till we have our bit o' supper in comfort.”

“Phelim,” said Larry, “when the suppers done, you must slip over to Roche's for a couple o' bottles more o' whiskey. We'll make a night of it.”

“There's two bottles in the house,” said Donovan; “an', be the saikerment, the first man that talks of bringin' in more, till these is dhrunk, is ondacent.”

This was decisive. In the meantime, the chest was turned into a table, the supper laid, and the attack commenced. All was pleasure, fun, and friendship. The reader may be assured that Phelim, during the negotiation, had not misspent the time with Peggy, Their conversation, however, was in a tone too low to be heard by those who were themselves talking loudly.

One thing, however, Phelim understood from his friend Sam Appleton, which was, that some clue had been discovered to an outrage in which he (Appleton) had been concerned. Above all other subjects, that was one on which Phelim was but a poor comforter. He himself found circumspection necessary; and he told Appleton, that if ever danger approached him, he had resolved either to enlist, or go to America, if he could command the money.

“You ought to do that immediately,” added Phelim.

“Where's the money?” replied the other. “I don't know,” said Phelim; “but if I was bent on goin', the want of money wouldn't stop me as long as it could be found in the counthry. We had to do as bad for others, an' it can't be a greater sin to do that much for ourselves.”

“I'll think of it,” said Appleton. “Any rate, it's in for a penny, in for a pound, wid me.”

When supper was over, they resumed their drinking, sang songs, and told anecdotes with great glee and hilarity. Phelim and Peggy danced jigs and reels, whilst Appleton sang for them, and the bottle also did its duty.

On separating about two o'clock, there was not a sober man among them but Appleton. He declined drinking, and was backed in his abstemiousness by Phelim, who knew that sobriety on the part of Sam would leave himself more liquor. Phelim, therefore, drank for them both, and that to such excess, that Larry, by Appleton's advice, left him at his father's in consequence of his inability to proceed homewards. It was not, however, without serious trouble that Appleton could get Phelim and the father separated; and when he did, Larry's grief was bitter in the extreme. By much entreaty, joined to some vigorous shoves towards the door, he was prevailed upon to depart without him; but the old man compensated for the son's absence, by indulging in the most vociferous sorrow as he went along, about “Ma Phelim.” When he reached home, his grief burst out afresh; he slapped the palms of his hands together, and indulged in a continuous howl, that one on hearing it would imagine to be the very echo of misery, When he had fatigued himself, he fell asleep on the bed, without having undressed, where he lay until near nine o'clock the next morning. Having got up and breakfasted, he related to his wife, with an aching head, the result of the last night's proceedings. Everything he assured her was settled: Phelim and Peggy were to be called the following Sunday, as Phelim, he supposed, had already informed her.

“Where's Phelim?” said the wife; “an' why didn't he come home wid you last night?”

“Where is Phelim? Why, Sheelah, woman sure he did come home wid me last night.”

“Ghrush orrin, Larry, no! What could happen him? Why, man, I thought you knew where he was; an' in regard of his bein' abroad so often at night, myself didn't think it sthrange.”

Phelim's absence astounded them both, particularly the father, who had altogether forgotten everything that had happened on the preceding night, after the period of his intoxication. He proposed to go back to Donovan's to inquire for him, and was about to proceed there when Phelim made his appearance, dressed in his own tender apparel only. His face was three inches longer than usual, and the droop in his eye remarkably conspicuous.

“No fear of him,” said the father, “here's himself. Arrah, Phelim, what became of you last night? Where wor you?”

Phelim sat down very deliberately and calmly, looked dismally at his mother, and then looked more dismally at his father.

“I suppose you're sick too, Phelim,” said the father. “My head's goin' round like a top.”

“Ate your breakfast,” said his mother; it's the best thing for you.”

“Where wor you last night, Phelim?” inquired the father.

“What are you sayin', ould man?”

“Who wor you wid last night?”

“Do, Phelim,” said the mother, “tell us, aroon. I hope it wasn't out you wor. Tell us, avourneen?”

“Ould woman, what are you talking about?”

Phelim whistled “ulican dim oh,” or, “the song of sorrow.” At length he bounced to his feet, and exclaimed in a loud, rapid voice:—“Ma chuirp an diouol! ould couple, but I'm robbed of my ten guineas by Sam Appleton!”

“Robbed by Sam Appleton! Heavens above!” exclaimed the father.

“Robbed by Sam Appleton! Gra machree, Phelim! no, you aren't!” exclaimed the mother.

“Gra machree yourself! but I say I am,” replied Phelim; “robbed clane of every penny of it!”

Phelim then sat down to breakfast—for he was one of those happy mortals whose appetite is rather sharpened by affliction—and immediately related to his father and mother the necessity which Appleton's connection had imposed on him of leaving the country; adding, that while he was in a state of intoxication, he had been stripped of Appleton's clothes; that his own were left beside him; that when he awoke the next morning, he found his borrowed suit gone; that on searching for his own, he found, to his misery, that the ten guineas had disappeared along with Appleton, who, he understood from his father, had “left the neighborhood for a while, till the throuble he was in 'ud pass over.”

“But I know where he's gone,” said Phelim, “an' may the divil's luck go wid him, an' God's curse on the day I ever had anything to do wid that hell-fire Ribbon business! 'Twas he first brought me into it, the villain; an' now I'd give the town land we're in to be fairly out of it.”

“Hanim an diouol!” said the father, “is the ten guineas gone? The curse of hell upon him, for a black desaver! Where's the villain, Phelim?”

“He's gone to America,” replied the son* “The divil tare the tongue out o' myself,' too! I should be puttin' him up to go there, an' to get money, if it was to be had. The villain bit me fairly.”

“Well, but how are we to manage?” inquired Larry. “What's to be done?”

“Why,” said the other, “to bear it an say nothin'. Even if he was in his father's house, the double-faced villain has me so much in his power, that I couldn't say a word about it. My curse on the Ribbon business, I say, from my heart out!”

That day was a very miserable one to Phelim and the father. The loss of the ten guineas, and the feverish sickness produced from their debauch, rendered their situation not enviable. Some other small matters, too, in which Phelim was especially concerned, independent of the awkward situation in which he felt himself respecting the three calls on the following day, which was Sunday, added greater weight to his anxiety. He knew not how to manage, especially upon the subject of his habiliments, which certainly were in a very dilapidated state. An Irishman, however, never despairs. If he has not apparel of his own sufficiently decent to wear on his wedding-day, he borrows from a friend. Phelim and his father remembered that there were several neighbors in the village, who would oblige him with a suit for the wedding; and as to the other necessary expenses, they did what their countrymen are famous for—they trusted to chance.

“We'll work ourselves out of it some way,” said Larry. “Sure, if all fails us, we can sell the goats for the weddin' expenses. It's one comfort that Paddy Donovan must find the dinner; an' all we have to get is the whiskey, the marriage money, an' some other thrifies.”

“They say,” observed Phelim, “that people have more luck whin they're married than whin they're single. I'll have a bout at the marriage, so I will; for worse luck I can't have, if I had half a dozen wives, than I always met wid.”