Tales and Novels Volume VIII Part 21

_The High Road--A Cottage in view--Turf-stack, Hay-rick, &c._

_Catty Rooney alone, walking backwards and forwards._

_Catty._ 'Tis but a stone's throw to Ballynavogue. But I don't like to be going into the fair on foot, when I been always used to go in upon my pillion behind my husband when living, and my son Randal, after his death. Wait, who comes here?--'Tis Gerald O'Blaney's, the distiller's, young man, Pat c.o.xe: now we'll larn all--and whether O'Blaney can lend me the loan of a horse or no. A good morrow to you, kindly, Mr. Pat c.o.xe.

_Enter PAT c.o.xE._

_Pat._ And you the same, Mrs. Rooney, tinfold. Mr. O'Blaney has his _sarvices_ to you, ma'am: no, not his _sarvices_, but his compliments, that was the word--his kind compliments, that was the very word.

_Catty._ The couns.h.i.+llor's always very kind to me, and genteel.

_Pat._ And was up till past two in the morning, last night, madam, he bid me say, looking over them papers you left with him for your shuit, ma'am, with the McBrides, about the bit of Ballynascraw bog; and if you call upon the couns.h.i.+llor in the course of the morning, he'll find, or make, a minute, for a consultation, he says. But mane time, to take no step to compromise, or make it up, _for your life_, ma'am.

_Catty._ No fear, I'll not give up at law, or any way, to a McBride, while I've a drop of blood in my veins--and it's good thick Irish blood runs in these veins.

_Pat._ No doubt, ma'am--from the kings of Ireland, as all the world knows, Mrs. Rooney.

_Catty._ And the McBrides have no blood at-all-at-all.

_Pat._ Not a drop, ma'am--so they can't stand before you.

_Catty._ They _ought_ not, any way!--What are they? Cromwellians at the best. Mac Brides! Scotch!--not Irish native, at-all-at-all. People of yesterday, graziers--which tho' they've made the money, can't buy the blood. My anshestors sat on a throne, when the McBrides had only their _hunkers_[1] to sit upon; and if I walk now when they ride, they can't look down upon me--for every body knows who I am--and what they are.

[Footnote 1: Their _hunkers_, i.e. their hams.]

_Pat._ To be sure, ma'am, they do--the whole country talks of nothing else, but the shame when you'd be walking and they riding.

_Catty._ Then could the couns.h.i.+llor lend me the horse?

_Pat._ With all the pleasure in life, ma'am, only every horse he has in the world is out o' messages, and drawing turf and one thing or another to-day--and he is very sorry, ma'am.

_Catty._ So am I, then--I'm unlucky the day. But I won't be saying so, for fear of spreading ill luck on my faction. Pray now what kind of a fair is it?--Would there be any good signs of a fight, Mr. Pat c.o.xe?

_Pat._ None in life as yet, ma'am--only just buying and selling. The horse-bastes, and horned-cattle, and pigs squeaking, has it all to themselves. But it's early times yet--it won't be long so.

_Catty._ No McBrides, no Ballynavogue boys gathering yet?

_Pat._ None to signify of the McBrides, ma'am, at all.

_Catty._ Then it's plain them McBrides dare not be showing their faces, or even their backs, in Ballynavogue. But sure all our Ballynascraw boys, the Roonies, are in it as usual, I hope?

_Pat._ Oh, ma'am, there is plinty of Roonies. I marked Big Briny of Cloon, and Ulick of Eliogarty, and little Charley of Killaspugbrone.

_Catty._ All _good_ men[1]--no better. Praise be where due.

[Footnote 1: men who fight well.]

_Pat._ And scarce a McBride I noticed. But the father and son--ould Matthew, and flouris.h.i.+ng Phil, was in it, with a new pair of boots and the silver-hilted whip.

_Catty._ The spalpeen! turned into a buckeen, that would be a squireen,--but can't.

_Pat._ No, for the father pinches him.

_Catty._ That's well--and that ould Matthew is as obstinate a neger as ever famished his stomach. What's he doing in Ballynavogue the day?

_Pat._ Standing he is there, in the fair-green with his score of fat bullocks, that he has got to sell.

_Catty._ Fat bullocks! Them, I reckon, will go towards Honor McBride's portion, and a great fortin she'll be for a poor man--but I covet none of it for me or mine.

_Pat._ I'm sure of that, ma'am,--you would not demane yourself to the likes.

_Catty._ Mark me, Pat c.o.xe, now--with all them fat bullocks at her back, and with all them fresh roses in her cheeks--and I don't say but she's a likely girl, if she wa'n't a McBride; but with all that, and if she was the best spinner in the three counties--and I don't say but she's good, if she wa'n't a McBride;--but was she the best of the best, and the fairest of the fairest, and had she to boot the two stockings full of gould, Honor McBride shall never be brought home, a daughter-in-law to me! My pride's up.

_Pat._ (_aside_) And I'm instructed to keep it up.--(_Aloud_) True for ye, ma'am, and I wish that all had as much proper pride, as ought to be having it.

_Catty._ There's maning in your eye, Pat--give it tongue.

_Pat._ If you did not hear it, I suppose there's no truth in it.

_Catty._ What?--which?

_Pat._ That your son Randal, Mrs. Rooney, is not of your way of thinking about Honor McBride, may be's.

_Catty._ Tut! No matter what way of thinking he is--a young slip of a boy like him does not know what he'll think to-morrow. He's a good son to me; and in regard to a wife, one girl will do him as well as another, if he has any sinse--and I'll find him a girl that will plase him, I'll engage.

_Pat._ May be so, ma'am--no fear: only boys do like to be plasing themselves, by times--and I noticed something.

_Catty._ What did you notice?--till me, Pat, dear, quick.

_Pat._ No--'tis bad to be meddling and remarking to get myself ill-will; so I'll keep myself to myself: for Randal's ready enough with his hand as you with the tongue--no offence, Mrs. Rooney, ma'am.

_Catty._ Niver fear--only till me the truth, Pat, dear.

_Pat._ Why, then, to the best of my opinion, I seen Honor McBride just now giving Randal Rooney the meeting behind the chapel; and I seen him putting a ring on her finger.

_Catty._ (_clasping her hands_) Oh, murder!--Oh! the unnat'ral monsters that love makes of these young men; and the traitor, to use me so, when he promised he'd never make a stolen match unknown'st to me.

_Pat._ Oh, ma'am, I don't say--I wouldn't swear--it's a match yet.

_Catty._ Then I'll run down and stop it--and catch 'em.

_Pat._ You haven't your jock on, ma'am--(_she turns towards the house_)--and it's no use--for you won't catch 'em: I seen them after, turning the back way into Nick Flaherty's.

_Catty._ Nick Flaherty's, the publican's? oh, the sinners! And this is the saint that Honor McBride would be pa.s.sing herself upon us for? And all the edication she got at Mrs. Carver's Sunday school! Oh, this comes of being better than one's neighbours! A fine thing to tell Mrs. Carver, the English lady, that's so nice, and so partial to Miss Honor McBride!

Oh, I'll expose her!

_Pat._ Oh! sure, Mrs. Rooney, you promised you'd not tell, (_Standing so as to stop CATTY._)