Fardorougha, The Miser Part 40

Aside--"The divil's own tongue he has."

"Bad cess to you for a walkin' bonfire, an' go home," replied the Dandy; "I'm not a match for you wid the tongue, at all at all"

"No, nor wid anything else, barrin' your heels," replied the Rouser; "or your hands, if there was a horse in the way. Arrah, Dandy?"

"Well, you graceful youth, well?"

"You ought to be a good workman by this time; you first lamed your thrade, an' thin you put in your apprenticeship--ha, ha, ha!"

"Faith, an' Rouser I can promise you a merry end, my beat.i.ty; you'll be the only man that'll dance at your own funeral; an' I'll tell you what, Rouser, it'll be like an egg-hornpipe, wid your eyes covered. That's what I call an active death, avouchal!"

"Faith, an' if you wor a priest, Dandy, you'd never die with your face to the congregation. You'll be a rope-dancer yourself yet; only this, Dandy, that you'll be undher the rope instead of over it, so good night."

"Rouser," exclaimed the other. "Rousin Redhead!"

"Go home," replied the Rouser. "Good night, I say; you've thravelled a great deal too far for an ignorant man like me to stand any chance wid you. Your tongue's lighter than your hands (In Ireland, to be light--handed signifies to be a thief) even, and that's payin' it a high compliment."

"Divil sweep you, Brien," said Dandy, "you'd beat the divil an' Docthor Fosther, Good night again!"

"Oh, ma bannaght laht, I say."

And they accordingly parted.

"Now," said Ned, "what's to be done Dandy? As sure as gun's iron, this limb of h.e.l.l will take away the Bodagh's daughter, if we don't do something to prevent it."

"I'm not puttin' it past him," returned his companion, "but how to prevent it is the thing. He has the boys all on his side, barrin'

yourself and me, an' a few more."

"An' you see, Ned, the Bodagh is so much hated, that even some of thim that don't like Flanagan, won't scruple to join him in this."

"An' if we were known to let the cat out o' the bag to the Bodagh, we might as well prepare our coffins at wanst."

"Faith, sure enough--that's but gospel, Ned," replied the Dandy; still it 'ud be the _milliah_ murdher to let the double-faced villin carry off such a girl."

"I'll tell you what you'll do, thin, Dandy," rejoined Ned, "what if you'd walk down wid me as far as the Bodagh's."

"For why? Sure they're in bed now, man alive."

"I know that," said M'Cormick; "but how--an--ever, if you come down wid me that far, I'll conthrive to get in somehow, widout wakenin' them."

"The d.i.c.kens you will! How, the sarra, man?"

"No matther, I will; an' you see," he added, pulling out a flask of spirits, "I'm not goin' impty-handed."

"Phew!" exclaimed Duffy, "is it there you are?--oh, that indeed! Faith I got a whisper of it some time ago, but it wint out o' my head. Biddy Nulty, faix--a nate clane girl she is, too."

"But that's not the best of it, Dandy. Sure, blood alive, I can tell you a sacret--may dipind? Honor bright! The Bodagh's daughter, man, is to give her a portion, in regard to her bein' so thrue to Connor O'Donovan.

Bad luck to the oath she'd swear aginst him if they'd made a queen of her, but outdone the counsellors and lawyers, an' all the whole bobbery o' them, whin they wanted her to turn king's evidence. Now, it's not but I'd do anything to serve the purty Bodagh's daughter widout it; but you see, Dandy, if white-liver takes her off, I may stand a bad chance for the portion."

"Say no more; I'll go wid you; but how will you get in, Ned?"

"Never you mind that; here, take a pull out of this flask before you go any further. Blood an' flummery! what a night; divil a my finger I can see before me. Here--where's your hand?--that's it; warm your heart, my boy."

"You intind thin, Ned, to give Biddy the hard word about Flanagan?"

"Why, to bid her put them on their guard; sure there can be no harm in that."

"They say, Ned, it's not safe to trust a woman; what if you'd ax to see the Bodagh's son, the young soggarth?"

"I'd trust my life to Biddy--she that was so honest to the Donovans wouldn't be desateful to her sweetheart that--he--hem--she's far gone in consate wid--your sowl. Her brother Alick's to meet me at the Bodagh's on his way from their lodge, for they hould a meetin to-night too."

"Never say it again. I'll stick to you; so push an, for it's late.

You'll be apt to make up the match before you part, I suppose."

"That won't be hard to do any time, Dandy."

Both then proceeded down the same field, which we have already said was called the Black Park, in consequence of its dark and mossy soil.

Having, with some difficulty, found the stile at the lower end of it, they pa.s.sed into a short car track, which they were barely able to follow.

The night, considering that it was the month of November, was close and foggy--such as frequently follows a calm day of incessant rain. The bottoms were plashing, the drams all full, and the small rivulets and streams about the country were above their hanks, whilst the larger rivers swept along with the hoa.r.s.e continuous murmurs of an unusual flood. The sky was one sheet of blackness--for not a cloud could be seen, or anything, except the pa.s.sing gleam of a cottage taper, lessened by the haziness of the night into a mere point of faint light, and thrown by the same cause into a distance which appeared to the eye much more remote than that of reality.

After having threaded their way for nearly a mile, the water spouting almost at every step up to their knees, they at length came to an old bridle--way, deeply shaded with hedges on each side. They had not spoken much since the close of their last dialogue; for, the truth is, each had enough to do, independently of dialogue, to keep himself out of drains and quagmires. An occasional "hanamondioul, I'm into the hinches;" "holy St. Peter, I'm stuck;" "tun--dher an' turf, where are you at all?" or, "by this an' by that, I dunno where I am," were the only words that pa.s.sed between them, until they reached the little road we are speaking, of, which, in fact, was one unbroken rut, and on such a night almost impa.s.sable.

"Now," said M'Cormick, "we musn't keep this devil's gut, for conshumin'

to the shoe or stockin' ever we'd bring out of it; however, do you folly me, Dandy, and there's no danger."

"I can do nothing else," replied the other, "for I know no more where I am than the man of the moon, who, if all's thrue that's sed of him, is the biggest blockhead alive."

M'Cormick, who knew the path well, turned off the road into a pathway that ran inside the hedge and along the fields, but parallel with the muddy boreen in question. They now found themselves upon comparatively clear ground, and, with the exception of an occasional slip or two, in consequence of the heavy rain, they had little difficulty in advancing.

At this stage of their journey not a light was to be seen nor a sound of life heard, and it was evident that the whole population of the neighborhood had sunk to rest.

"Where will this bring us to, Ned?" asked the Dandy--"I hope we'll soon be at the Bodagh's."

M'Cormick stood and suddenly pressed his arm, "Whisht!" said he, in an under-tone, "I think I hard voices."

"No," replied the other in the same low tone.

"I'm sure I did," said Ned, "take my word for it, there's people before us on the boreen--whisht!"

They both listened, and very distinctly heard a confused but suppressed murmur of voices, apparently about a hundred yards before them on the little bridle--way. Without uttering a word they both proceeded as quietly and quickly as possible, and in a few minutes nothing separated them but the hedge. The party on the road were wallowing through the mire with great difficulty, many of them, at the same time, bestowing very energetic execrations upon it and upon those who suffered it to remain in such a condition. Even oaths, however, were uttered in so low and cautious a tone, that neither M'Cormick nor the Dandy could distinguish their voices so clearly as to recognize those who spoke, supposing that they had known them. Once or twice they heard the clashing of arms or of iron instruments of some sort, and it seemed to them that the noise was occasioned by the accidental jostling together of those who carried them. At length they heard one voice exclaim rather testily. "D--n your blood, Bartle Flanagan, will you have patience till I get my shoe out o' the mud--you don't expect me to lose it, do you?

We're not goin' to get a purty wife, whatever you may be."

The reply to this was short, but pithy--"May all the divils in h.e.l.l's fire pull the tongue out o' you, for nothin' but h.e.l.l itself, you villin, timpted me to bring you with me."

This was not intended to be heard, nor was it by the person against whom it was uttered, he being some distance behind--but as Ned and his companion were at that moment exactly on the other side of the hedge, they could hear the words of this precious soliloquy--for such it was--delivered as they were with a suppressed energy of malignity, worthy of the heart which suggested them.

M'Cormick immediately pulled Duffy's coat, without speaking a word, as a hint to follow him with as little noise as possible, which he did, and ere many minutes they were so far in advance of the others, as to be enabled to converse without being heard. "_Thar Bheah_ Duffy," said his companion, "there's not a minute to be lost."

"There is not," replied the other--"but what will you do with me? I'll lend a hand in any way I can--but remember that if we're seen, or if it's known that we go against them in this--"