The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

"The blessed truth," continued the wicked little tormentor. "Did you meet him?"

A very desponding "yes," was the response.

"Well," demanded Bridget, anxiously, "did he say anything – I mean, anything particular?"

"He only said the weather was pleasant, and then passed on, without ever even shaking hands with me," sadly replied Peggy.

"Mark needn't have done that; whatever happens, he ought to be civil to you," said Bridget, with a peculiar expression that made Peggy's heart flutter within her like a pigeon.

"Civil to me! what do you mean, Bridget?"

Bridget hummed an air, and, as if suddenly wishing to change the conversation, said, gaily:

"Oh! I forgot, we were to tell each other's dreams this morning. Peg, you begin, what did you dream about?"

"Nothing, Bridget, I didn't sleep."

"Then you couldn't have dreamed," sagely responded the other, "but I did."

"What?"

"I dreamed that I had a beautiful new gown given to me, and by whom do you think?"

"I don't know; Ned Riley, may-be."

"Ned Riley, indeed," replied Bridget with a sneer; "not a bit of it. By a finer man than ever stood in his shoes. Who but Mark Brady?"

Peg's heart sank within her.

"That wasn't all I dreamed," and she fixed her wild eyes full on Peg, in a way that made hers fall instantly, "I dreamed that I was married to him."

"To Mark?" whispered Peggy.

"To Mark!"

Peggy didn't utter another syllable; didn't even look up, but sat motionless and pale, very pale. Bridget couldn't understand her seeming apathy; a more acute observer would have but contrasted it with the intense emotion which she felt within – an emotion not a whit lessened as Bridget continued, with marked expression:

"I dreamed all that this blessed morning, and morning dreams, you know, always come true."

Peggy, still silent, seemed to be wholly occupied in demolishing, piece by piece, the remnant of a faded flower which she had taken from her bosom, lingering over its destruction as though a portion of her heart went with each fragment – when Bridget suddenly started up, exclaiming, "Here comes Mark, I declare."

A painful spasm shot through Peggy's frame, yet she did not stir from her seat; the only evidence that she heard Bridget's exclamation was that her lips grew as pallid as her cheek.

"But, law, what am I thinking about? I must go and tidy my hair."

And away flew Bridget up to her room, from whence she crept stealthily down, and snugly ensconced herself behind the door. Naughty girl! to listen to what transpired.

Mark, who, since his conversation with Bridget, had seriously contemplated suicide, but was puzzled about the best mode of making away with himself, had come to the conclusion that to enter the army as a common soldier would be the least criminal, although certainly the most lingering process, and it was to lacerate his feelings by a parting interview with his dearly-loved Peg, before he consummated the act of enlistment, that he now came.

Arrived at the door, he hesitated a moment, then giving one big gulp, he lifted the latch and entered. There he saw Peggy herself, looking straight into the fire, never once turning aside or raising her eyes, proof positive to Mark, if he wanted it, that she cared nothing for him. He sat down, and for several minutes there was a dead silence. Mark had fully intended to say something frightfully cutting to his sweetheart, but as he gazed upon her white, sad face, his resentment vanished, and he felt more inclined to implore than to condemn. He wanted to speak, but what to say he had not the remotest idea. At last Peg broke the silence, by murmuring softly, as though it were but a thought, to which she had given involuntary expression —

"May you be happy, Mark! May you be happy!"

"Happy!" echoed Mark, with a sharp emphasis, that thrilled painfully through Peggy, "Faith, it's well for you to be wishing me happiness."

"Indeed, indeed I do, Mark – I mean Mr. Brady," meekly replied the poor girl.

"Oh, that's right!" said Mark, bitterly. "Mr. Brady! It used to be Mark."

"But never can again."

"You're right! never!"

"Never!" and poor Peggy sighed deeply.

After another embarrassing pause, broken only by a sort of smothered sound, which might have been the wind, but wasn't, Mark started up, exclaiming:

"I see my company is displeasing to you, but I shan't trouble you long. That will be done to-morrow which will separate us for ever."

"To-morrow! so soon?" replied Peggy, with a stifled sob.

"Yes! the sooner the better. What is it now to you?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! But I thought – that is – I'm very, very foolish."

Poor Peggy's heart overflowed its bounds; burying her face in her hands, she burst into tears.

Mark didn't know what to make of it. She must have liked me a little, thought he, or why this grief? Well, it's all my own fault. Why didn't I tell her of my love, like a man? and not sneak about, afraid of the sound of my own voice. I've lost her, lost the only thing that made life to me worth enduring, and the sooner I relieve her of my presence the better.

"Miss May! Peggy!" he said, with an effort at calmness, "this is the last time we may meet on earth; won't you give me your hand at parting?"

Peggy stretched out both hands, exclaiming through her tears – "Mark! Mark! this is, indeed, cruel!"

"It is, I know it is!" said Mark, brushing away an obtrusive tear. "So, God bless you, and good angels watch over you; and if you ever cared for me" —

"If I ever cared for you! oh, Mark!"

"Why! did you?" inquired Mark.

"You were my only thought, my life, my happiness!" There was the same curious sound from the chamber door, but the innocent wind had again to bear the blame. Peggy continued – "Mark, would that you had the same feeling for me!"

"I had! I had!" frantically he replied. "And more, oh! much more than I have words to speak. Why didn't we know this sooner?"

"Ah! why, indeed?" sadly replied Peggy, "but it is too late."

"Too late!" replied Mark, "too late!"

"Not a bit of it!" exclaimed Bridget, bursting into the room, streaming with tears of suppressed laughter, "Don't look so frightened, good people; I'm not a ghost. Who lost a new cap? eh, Peg. And more, betoken, who is likely to lose a new gown? I'll have my bets, if I die for it. So, you've spoke out at last, have you? You're a pretty pair of lovers. You'd have gone on everlastingly, sighing and fretting yourselves, until there wouldn't have been enough between you to make a decent fiddlestring, if I hadn't interfered."

"You?" cried Peggy and Mark, simultaneously.

"Yes, indeed, it made me perfectly crazy to see the two of you groaning and fussing, without the courage to say what your hearts dictated. There, go and kiss each other, you pair of noodles."

It is hardly necessary to say that Bridget's explanation brought about a pleasant understanding between all parties, and it will be only needful to add that a few weeks afterwards there was a double wedding at the little parish chapel. One of the brides wore a bran new calico gown of such wonderful variety of color, and moreover a new cap of so elaborate a style of decoration, that she was the admiration and, of necessity, the envy of the entire female population.

Bridget had won both her wagers, thereby establishing, just as infallibly as all such matters can be established, the truth of the old saying:

The dream of the morning is sure to come true.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER

"Show his eyes, and grieve his heart,Come like shadows so depart."Shakspeare.

The insatiable desire to penetrate the dark veil of futurity, which pervades all classes, from the highest to the lowest, renders the occupation of the Fortune-Teller one of considerable profit. In no part of the world are there so many professors of the art, as in Ireland. The most insignificant village has its cunning person, of one sex or the other, whose province generally is to cure bewitched cattle, be well acquainted with all the scandalous gossip of the vicinity, and give advice and assistance in all delicate and difficult affairs of the heart; added to which, in some instances, a "trifle of smugglin'," and in all, the vending of interdicted drink: Potieen, that had never seen the ill-looking face of a gauger; a kind of liquid fire you might weaken with aquafortis, that would scrape the throat of an unaccustomed drinker as if he had swallowed a coarse file, but which our seasoned tipplers "toss off," glass after glass, without a grin, their indurated palates receiving it like so much water.

The class of individuals who take up, or are instructed in the mysteries of Fortune-telling, combine rather antagonistic elements. They are generally the shrewdest, cunningest, cleverest, laziest people you can find. Studying, and understanding to a charm, the most assailable points of human nature, they obtain from their applicants, by circuitous questioning, the precise nature of their expectations; then dexterously "crossing the scent," with an entirely different subject, astonish them at last by expounding their very thoughts. Nor are the old-established mysteries, the appliances and incantations omitted, although they necessarily must be of a simple and curious nature; the great oracle, the cards, is brought into requisition on all occasions, varied by a mystic examination of tea-grounds, melted lead, and indeed, sometimes in imitation of the ancient soothsayer, facilis descensus, by the sacrifice of some poor old cat.

Bridget Fallow, or Biddy na Dhioul, as she was most commonly designated, was an extraordinary specimen of the genus. Many a heart-breaking was averted through her agency, and numberless the strange doings ascribed to her powers of witchcraft. The love-stricken "from all parts of the country round," a comprehensive Irish phrase, signifying a circuit of some twelve or fourteen miles, consulted ould Biddy, daily. Immense was her mystic reputation, and very many the "fippenny bits," the smallest piece of coin that could be obtained to "cross her hand," did she sweep into her greasy pocket, from the credulous of either sex.

It would be difficult to describe accurately the temple of this particular dispenser of fortune. Bent nearly double, partly from age, and partly to give greater effect to her divinations (for the older a witch appears, the more credit is given to her skill), she sat, or rather crouched in a small, dimly-lighted room, surrounded by some dozen cats, of all ages and complexions, from playful kittendom to grave and reverend cat-hood; black, white, pie-ball'd, skew-ball'd, foxy, tortoise-shell, and tab. Now, those companions of Biddy's were held in especial horror by her visitors, who firmly believed them to be familiar demons, attendant on her will. But never were animals so libelled, for they were in truth, as frolicsome and mundane specimens of the feline, as ever ran after a ball of worsted. Biddy was fond of her cats, and though naturalists doubt the sincerity of cat-love, they certainly appeared to be greatly attached to her; night and day did those three generations of puss gambol about her; perhaps, indicating their preference for still life, they looked upon Biddy, as, in rigid mobility, she sat motionless and silent, inly enjoying their pranks, as merely a portion of the furniture, and so had as much right to jump on her shoulder, and hunt each other's tail, over and about her as upon anything else in the room. Certain it is they did not respect her a whit more than an old table, and Biddy, delighted with such familiarity, put no restraint on their impertinence. A dingy curtain, reaching half-way across the room, concealed a large, rudely-finished mirror-frame, which Biddy found extremely useful on several occasions. There were none of the awe-compelling accessories of the magic art, no alligator stuffed, no hissing cauldron, no expensive globes; nothing, save an old black-letter folio, Biddy's universal book of reference, and a terribly dirty pack of cards, the marks nearly effaced from constant use, being the second, which, in a long life of fortune-telling, she had ever consulted. Adapting her mode of operations to the wish of her applicant, Biddy had various ways of penetrating the clouds of futurity, enumerating them to the curious visitor as follows: "Wirra, thin, it's welcome that yez are to ould Biddy na Dhioul; may you niver know sickness, sorrow, poverty, or disthress. It's myself that can tell yer fortune, whativer it is. I can tell it be the stars, or the cards, be the tay-grounds, coffee-grounds, meltid lead, or baccy-ashes; be signs, an' moles, an' dhrames; be the witch's glass, or be yer own good-lookin' hand."

The great secret of Biddy's success was, that all her auguries presaged some amount of good, and it was observed that the larger the piece of silver with which her hand was crossed, the more extensive was the fortune predicted. A "fippenny-bit," might produce a "smart boy for a husband," but "half a crown" would insure a "jaunting car," or, hint obliquely at "the young masther," give mysterious foreshadowings of "silken gounds," and an "iligant family of childher." A cute old soul was Biddy, and extensive the knowledge experience had given her of the pregnable points of general character. Why should we not give her a call?

I'll just tell you a few secrets, known only to two or three individuals besides myself, and as some of them will be very likely to need Biddy's assistance, we shall unceremoniously accompany them on their visit.

It is Sunday; mass is just over; the sober gravity of the morning (for no people are more earnest in the performance of their religious duties during the time so allotted, than are the Irish peasantry), is beginning to change to a general aspect of enjoyment. The girls in their neat, clean dresses, are tripping along homeward; and many a bonnet and shawl, or calico dress, is descanted upon, praised or censured according to the opinion of the speaker, for the universal duty of the feminine chapel or church-goer, is to criticise at intervals the dresses of her neighbors.

"Athin, Mary," says one, "did you ever see such a pattern of a gound as Miss Machree had on her back this blessed day; if it hadn't as many colors in it as would make nigh hand half a dozen rainbows, I hope I may turn into a nagur. I declare to my goodness, I wouldn't give my ould washed-out gound for two of the likes of it."

Wouldn't she?

"True for you, Nell," replies another, "an' did you remark purty Norah, as the boys call her? Purty, indeed! it wouldn't take blind Barty, the piper, a month of Sundays to see all the purty there is about her. I wouldn't be seen with such a nose on my face; an' she comin' over us wid the pride of a sthraw bonnet, this beautiful summer's day; the hood of an ould grey cloak was good enough for the mother before her, to wear. It isn't disgracin' my mother's memory I'd be, by puttin' sthraw bonnets on my head."

"Well, it is a shame; do you know what I've heerd?"

"What?"

"Why, neither more nor less than that purty Miss Norah is setting her sthraw bonnet at Pat Kinchela."

"No!"

"It's the heaven's truth; didn't I see her to day, lookin' at him dhreadful? I wouldn't look at a man the way she did, no, not if he was made of goold."

"Whist! Nelly; look yondher! if there isn't Pat, see and that consated minx walkin' arm-in-arm; bless your sowl, there's quality manners for ye. I wonder, for my part, the road doesn't open and swally such impidence right up; now just obsarve them, sthruttin' along as if everybody else was the dirt undher their feet. Well, if that isn't owdaciousness, I wish somebody would tell me what is."

But, inasmuch as our story has more to do with Pat and Norah than with those chattering specimens of a rather numerous class, we'll attend to them, and let the others go about their business – of detraction.

Pat has just hazarded an important question, as would appear from the sudden and more brilliant flush that spread over pretty Norah's cheek, than from any significancy in her reply, which was simply:

"You're mighty impident to-day, Mr. Kinchela."

"Athin, Norieen, jewel," answered Pat, "if it comes to the rights of the thing, how the divil can I help it? Sure an' haven't you kept me danglin' afther you for nigh hand a twel'month, an' it's neither yis nor no, that I can squeeze out of your purty little mouth."

"Ah, indeed!" said Norah, with the shadow of a pout that might have been simulated, "then I suppose you'd be satisfied whichever it was."

"Faix, yis would be satisfactory enough," replied Pat, who did his wooing in rather a careless manner, philosophically.

"And if it happened to be no?"

"Why, thin, I suppose I'd have to put up wid that for the want of a betther."

"An' try your luck somewhere else, may-be?" continued Norah, with a dash of lemon.

"An' why not?" answered Pat, with apparent carelessness. "If you couldn't ketch a throut in one place, you wouldn't come back wid an empty basket, would you? unless, may-be, you had no particular appetite for fish."

"Then, sir, you have my permission to bait your hook as soon as you like, for I have no idea of nibblin'," said Norah, letting go Pat's arm, and walking very fast – not so fast, though, but that our cavalier friend could keep up with her, flinging in occasional morsels of aggravation.

"Now, don't be foolish, Norah; you're only tellin' on yourself. The boys will see that we've had a tiff, and the girls will be sure to say you're jealous."

"Jealous, indeed! I must love you first, Mr. Impidence."

"So you do."

"I ain't such a fool, sir."

"Yes, you are, ma'am; an' what's more nor that, you can't help it, ma'am."

"Can't I?"

"Not a bit of it. You've caught the sickness, an' it's the goolden ring that'll cure you, an' nothin' besides."

"It isn't you that'll be docthor, anyway."

"The divil a one else."

"High hangin' to all liars."

"I'd say that, too, only I wouldn't like to lose you, Norah, afther all. Come now, darlin'," he went on, varying his tactics, "don't let us quarrel on this blessed day; let us make it up acush; take a howld of my arm, this right arm, that would work itself up to the elbow to do you any sarvice, or smash into small pitatys the blaggard that offered you the ghost of an offince."

This blarney-flavored speech had some effect upon Norah, yet she concealed it like – a woman, sinking it down into her heart, and calling up a vast amount of anger to overwhelm it. Is it at all astonishing that the latter flew away in words, while the former nestled there for ever? Poor, foolish little Norah, her real feeling concealed by the cloud of temper she had raised, thought at that moment there was not a more unlovable being in existence than Pat, and what's more, she said so.

"Mr. Kinchela," said she, in her iciest manner, "I'm obleeged to you for your company, such as it is, but here is Cousin Pether, an' you needn't throuble yerself, or be wearin out shoe-leather any more comin' afther me."

"Norah!" said Pat, suddenly stricken into gravity, "are you in airnest?"

"I wish you the best of good mornin's, sir;" and taking Cousin Peter's arm, with a provoking smile on her lip, and triumph in her eye, off went Norah, leaving Pat gazing after her, looking rather the reverse of wise – once only did she turn as she passed the corner of the street, but that simple circumstance rekindled hope within Pat's soul.

As he was thus standing, utterly unconscious of the observation he attracted, he was suddenly accosted by his best friend, Jim Dermot.

"Why, tear an' nounthers," said Jim, "is it ketchin' flies, or fairy-sthruck, or dead all out you are, Pat, avic? why, you look the picther of misfortune, hung in a black frame."

"Hollo, Jim, is that you?" cried Pat, waking out of his reverie, "wasn't that too bad intirely?"

"So it was – what was it?" replied Jim.

"Why, to lave me stuck here like a post, and to go off wid that omadhaun Pether."

"Well, it was quare, sure enough," replied Jim, without the slightest idea what Pat was driving at, yet hoping to arrive at it better from an apparent knowledge than by downright questioning. "To run off," he continued, "an' wid Pether, of all fellows in the world;" adding to himself, "I wondher who the divil Pether is, and where he's run to?"

"I didn't think she could sarve me so," said Pat.

"Oh! it's a she that's in it, is it?" thought Jim, saying, with a sage shake of the head, "I nivir would have b'lieved it of her myself; but wimin is conthrary divils, an' that's the truth. When did she go, Pat?"

"Why, now, this very minute."

"You don't say? well, an' what do you mane to do?"

"Do? why, nothing; what would you do?"

"Well, I believe I'd do that same, Pat, an' nothin' else."

"It isn't very likely that I'll let her know how much her conduct has hurt me."

"It might make her consated."

"She's a shameless jilt."

"That she is, as sure as her name is – what it is," said Jim, hoping Pat would fill up the pause.

"What would you advise me to do, Jim?" inquired Pat.

"Well, I don't know," replied the other, "it's a mighty delicate point to give a man advice upon; but if you'd be ruled by me you'd go an' ax ould Biddy na Dhioul."

"By gorra, but you're right there," said Pat, "I wondher I didn't think of that afore."

"It isn't too late."

"True for you; an' it's there I'll go this blessed minute. I'd rather know my fate at onst, than be kep' like a mouse in a thrap, wondhering whether the cat'll play wid me, or ate me in the mornin'."

"So, it is thrapped you are, Pat, is it? arrah, how did you manage that?"

"Faix, an' I walked into it wid my eyes open, like any other omadhoun of a mouse."

"Bedad, it takes a sinsible mouse to walk away from the smell of cheese, anyway, Pat."

"That's a fact, Jim, but I must be off to ould Biddy's: I'll get my mind aised one way or the other, wid a blessin' afore I sleep."

"Good luck attend you," said Jim, sorely mortified that with all his cunning, he couldn't get at the rights of the matter.

Pat made the best of his way to Biddy's cabin, truly in a miserable state of mind: this, the first obstacle to his love, had so increased its strength and intensity. After he had knocked once or twice the door opened, and he found Biddy in her usual position, surrounded by her usual play-mates.

"God save you, Biddy," said he, taking a seat, and brushing the perspiration from his brow, "you're a knowledgeable woman, an' can tell me what I want to know."

"In coorse, I can, Mr. Pat Kinchela, whativer it is; not that I pretind to tell anything but what the iligant stars prognostify," replied Biddy, gravely referring to her miraculous volume, not that she had the slightest occasion to employ her shrewd plan of pumping this time; she knew all about it.

"The saints be good to us, Pat, darlin'," she suddenly exclaimed, "but here's a bitther disappointment for some one."

"Not for me, Biddy; don't say for me," cried Pat, "here, take this, an' this, pouring out all the copper, very thinly intersected with silver, which he had about him, into her apron; now, give us a good fortune if you can; long life to you."

"I didn't say it was for you, did I? just howld your whist, an' let the stars work without bein' hindhered, for they're mighty fractious now and thin," said Biddy, mumbling some unintelligible expressions and slily counting the while the extent of Pat's donation. The result was satisfactory.

"Pat, jewel," she said, "howld up your head, for there's money bid for you – you'll be a thremendious rich man yet."

"Oh! I don't care for that," he interrupted, "tell me of" —

"Norah Malone," quietly interrupted Biddy.

Pat was wonder-stricken, he gasped for breath.

"It's thrue, then, that you do know everything, Biddy."

"A'most everything," replied the old crone.