The Bunsby papers Part 23

Pat's delight was perfectly indescribable, and I shrink from the responsibility of attempting it; suffice it to say, for the elucidation of our mystery, that Norah and Peter were beforehand with him at old Biddy's, when, seeing him approach, they hid themselves behind the curtain. Norah had such a convincing proof of Pat's truthful love, that she never quarrelled with him again--at least before they were married: of their further proceedings I frankly confess my ignorance.

THE FAIRY CIRCLE.

"Don't be conthrairy With an Irish fairy, Or, I declare, he Won't regard you much; But be complaisant, When that he's adjacent, And he'll use you dacent, If you merit such."

"Corney; avic?"

"Ma'm to you."

"What the mischief are you thinking so _thremendious_ hard about?"

"Me thoughts is me own, anyway, Missis O'Carrol."

"Unless, may-be, you borrowed them from some one else; an' that's most likely, Mr. O'Carrol; for the niver an original idaya did I obsarve iminatin' from your own sinsabilities, sence here I've been."

"Exceptin' once."

"An' whin was that, may I ax?"

"Whin I tuk it into me foolish head to marry you."

"An' have you the owdashious vanity to suppose that n.o.body thought that before you?"

"Not to me knowledge, Mrs. O'C."

"The saints be good to us! There's a _dale_ of ignorance in the world; but come now, tell me, what is it that makes you lave off your work, evry now an' thin, lookin', for all the world, as cute as a concaited _gandher_."

"Why, thin, Moll _machree_, I'll tell you; but you must promise not to make fun o' me, for it's your good that's iver foremost in me heart."

"The blessin's on your lovin' sowl! I know it is."

"Well, then, Moll, come an' sit near me, an' lave off polishin' up that owld copper kittle; for I want to spake mighty sarious to you. Haven't you noticed that big, slated house that's just builded up, fornenst our very nose?"

"Of coorse I have."

"Yes, but do you know who's livin' in it? Who, but young Phil Blake, that was as poor as a _thranieen_, an' as ragged as a mountain goat, in his ivry-day clothes, not more nor six months ago?"

"You don't say!"

"It's the mortial truth; didn't I see him awhile ago, struttin' up an'

down the place, as proud as any other payc.o.c.k, wid a _blew_ coat on his back, covered over wid bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, a'most as big as fryin' pans, enough to dazzle the eyes out of a Christian's head; an' he ordherin'

the min about, as importint as you plaze. Phil Blake, of all fellows in the _worrild_, that niver had the ghost of a fippenny-bit to bless himself wid, to see him now, crammin' his fists into his breeches pockets, an jinkin' the goold an' the silver about, in the most aggravatin' way."

"But where did he get it all?"

"That's the chat--where? Guess, won't you?"

"I don't know, may-be some rich ould lady fell in love wid him."

"Is it wid Phil? Small chance of that, I'm thinkin'. Guess agin."

"May-be he had a lawshuit!"

"Be my _sowkins_, you're further in the mud than iver, Moll-shee.

Lawshuits isn't the stuff goold mines is made of; if so, it's only the lawyers that's licensed to dig. I'll tell you. Last night, meself an' a few boys was takin' a jug of punch, at the "Cross Kays," whin one of them up and towld us all about it. Moll, as thrue as you're here, it was neither more nor less than a _fairy-gift_."

"No!"

"Gospel! He cotch one of the little schamers (saving their prisince, for I suppose there's a lot of thim listenin', if we knew where they were perched), an' so, he wouldn't let him go until he gave him hapes of money. Why, they say Phil's as rich as an archbishop!"

"But, Corney, darlin', don't you know that fairy money niver thrives?

let us wish Blake good luck, and think no more about it."

"Pooh! Nonsense! He has luck enough; we had better wish ourselves a slice. Money's money, Moll; a fairy groat would pay for a pot of porther just as aisily as Father Fogarty's. It isn't that I'm over covetious, but I can't help envyin' Phil."

"An' you see what harm even the first beginnin' of such a feelin' does.

All this blessed day, you've hardly done a st.i.tch of work; instead of makin' the lapstone echo with the sound of your merry voice, you've been lookin' as disthracted as a sthray pig; why, you haven't even kissed the babby sence dinner. Go to work, Corney, while I get a cup of tay ready. Thank G.o.d, we've never wanted for a male's vittles yet, and have always a plinty in the house, agin we do."

"Yes, I know that; but haven't I to work for it, day afther day! No rest; nothing but slave, slave, slave, from year's end to year's end, while gintlefolks, like Phil, bad 'cess to him, can sthroll up an' down the sunny-side of the street, smoke as many pipes of tibbacky as they plaze; have roast beef ev'ry Sunday, an' wear top-boots. Murdher alive!

It's a great thing to be one of the _quality_."

"Well, the mischief has got into you, I b'lieve. Corney, you niver tuk such a fit as this, afore."

"Niver mind, Moll, I know what I know; luck's like a fox; you have to hunt it hard before you ketch it; the divil a toe will it come to you.

There's plinty of fairies about, an' who knows but there may be as lucky chaps as Phil Blake in the _worrild_."

At the conclusion of the above conversation, Corney silently resumed his work, endeavoring to add another piece to a wonderfully patched brogue, while Mary busied herself at the little bright turf-fire, boiling the water for _tea_--a few scanty grains of some apochryphal herb, representing that indispensable delicacy. She holds a rasher of exceedingly fat bacon on the end of a fork, which screws and twists itself about like some living thing enduring fierce agony, while a sleepy-looking puss, with her tail twisted comfortably around her paws like a m.u.f.f, sits intently watching the operation, evidently wondering in her own mind what it can possibly be that spits so cat-like and so spitefully into the fire. The walls of the little room are comfortably whitewashed; only one broken pane of gla.s.s in the window, and that neatly mended with a piece of old newspaper; the dresser is as white as soap and sand applied by tidy hands can make it, while the few household utensils that adorn it, shine to the utmost extent of their capability. It's hardly necessary to say, that a good, cleanly, homely and sensible wife, was Mary O'Carrol; and our friend Corney was an ungrateful rascal to be dissatisfied with his condition. The mistake he made was this (and it is by no means confined to Corney), he contrasted his situation in life with the _few_ who were better off than himself, instead of the _many_ who were infinitely worse.

And now, dear, domestic, tidy Mary spreads her little cloth, coa.r.s.e 'tis true, but scrupulously clean and ironed, every fold showing like a printed line; she opens a little cupboard and produces an enormous home-baked loaf, so close and dense that a dyspeptic individual would feel an oppression by merely looking at it, but which our toil-hungered friends can dispose of by the pound, without the a.s.sistance of tonics; then, the small, black teapot, having _stood_ the conventional time, is carefully wiped, and placed on the table, and the whole frugal but comfortable meal arrayed with that appetizing neatness without which it becomes a mere matter of feeding and not of enjoyment.

"Now, Corney, dear," said Mary, "tay's ready."

"Faix, an' there's a pair of us," replied Corney, "I'm just about as hungry as a dragin."

And no gourmet, even after he had lashed his appet.i.te with stimulants, which would otherwise have sneaked away from the laborious work it had to undergo, ever sat down with so keen a palate, or rose from table with so capital a sense of satisfaction as did Corney on this particular occasion.

"Well, Molly machree," he cried, "I don't know that I iver had a greater thrate nor that same rasher; if the fat of it wasn't, for all the _worrild_, like double-distilled _marra_, may I niver use another tooth; an' that _tay_! _Gogs bleakey_, Moll, if you haven't a recait for squeezin' the parliaminthary flaviour out of the _herrib_! regard the color of it!"

"An' afther three wathers," replied Mary, with pardonable vanity.

"Thrue for you, darlin'; why, the bread seems lighter, an' the b.u.t.ther sweeter, an' the crame thicker. I'll be judged by the cat--look at the baste; if she hasn't been thryin' to lick the last dhrop off of her _hushkers_, for as good as a quarther of an hour, an' it's stickin'

there still, as tight as a carbuncle to a Christian's nose; an' may-be I ain't goin' to enjoy this," he continued, as drawing his chair close to the fire, out came his use-blackened pipe. He took just as much time in preparation, cutting his tobacco and rolling it about in his hand, as Mary did to clear away the tea-things, in order that nothing should interfere with that great source of comfort--his smoke. Having placed a small piece of lighted turf on top of his pipe he threw himself back in his chair. With eyes half closed, and an expression of the most profound gratification creeping over his features, he sent forth several voluminous whiffs--what he called "saysonin' his mouth;" but very soon, as though the sensation was too delicious to be hurried over, he subsided into a slow, dignified, and lazy smoke, saying, between puffs:

"Blessin's on the fellow that first invented 'baccy; it's mate an'

dhrink to the poor man; I'd be on me oath, if I wouldn't rather lose me dinner nor me pipe, any day in the week."