The Emigrants Of Ahadarra. William Carleton

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СКАЧАТЬ truth's truth, at any rate.”

      We need scarcely say that the poor mendicant was delighted at the notion of having his daughter placed in the family of so warm and independent a man as Jemmy Burke. Yet the poor little fellow did not separate from the girl without a strong manifestation of the affection he bore her. She was his only child—the humble but solitary flower that blossomed for him upon the desert of life.

      “I lave her wid you,” he said, addressing Mrs. Burke with tears in his eyes, “as the only treasure an' happiness I have in this world. She is the poor man's lamb, as I have hard read out of Scripture wanst; an' in lavin' her undher your care, I lave all my little hopes in this world wid her. I trust, ma'am, you'll guard her an' look afther her as if she was one of your own.”

      This unlucky allusion might have broken up the whole contemplated arrangement, had not Hycy stepped in to avert from Peety the offended pride of the patroness.

      “I hope, Peety,” he said, “that you are fully sensible of the honor Mrs. Burke does you and your daughter by taking the girl under her protection and patronage?”

      “I am, God knows.”

      “And of the advantage it is to get her near so respectable a woman—so highly respectable a woman?”

      “I am, in troth.”

      “And that it may be the making of your daughter's fortune?”

      “It may, indeed, Masther Hycy.”

      “And that there's no other woman of high respectability in the parish capable of elevating her to the true principles of double and simple proportion?”

      “No, in throth, sir, I don't think there is.”

      “Nor that can teach her the newest theories in dogmatic theology and metaphysics, together with the whole system of Algebraic Equations if the girl should require them?”

      “Divil another woman in the barony can match her at them by all accounts,” replied Peety, catching the earnest enthusiasm of Hycy's manner.

      “That will do, Peety; you see yourself, mother,” he added, taking her aside and speaking in a low voice, “that the little fellow knows right well the advantages of having her under your care and protection; and it's very much to his credit, and speaks very highly for his metempsychosis that he does so—hem!”

      “He was always a daicent, sinsible, poor creature of his kind,” replied his mother “besides, Hycy, between you and me, she'll be more than worth her bit.”

      “There now, Peety,” said her son, turning towards the mendicant; “it's all settled—wait now for a minute till I write a couple of notes, which you must deliver for me.”

      Peety sat accordingly, and commenced to lay down for his daughter's guidance and conduct such instructions as he deemed suitable to the situation she was about to enter and the new duties that necessarily devolved upon her.

      In due time Hycy appeared, and placing two letters in Peety's hands, said—“Go, Peety, to Gerald Cavanagh's, of Fenton's Farm, and if you can get an opportunity, slip that note into Kathleen's hands—this, mark, with the corner turned down—you won't forget that?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Very well—you're then to proceed to Tom M'Mahon's, and if you find Bryan, his son, there, give him this; and if he's at the mountain farm of Ahadarra, go to him. I don't expect an answer from Kathleen Cavanagh, but I do from Bryan M'Mahon; and mark me, Peety.”

      “I do, sir.”

      “Are you sure you do?”

      “Sartin, sir.”

      “Silent as the grave then is the word in both cases—but if I ever hear—”

      “That's enough, Masther Hycy; when the grave spakes about it so will I.”

      Peety took the letters and disappeared with an air rendered important by the trust reposed in him; whilst Mrs. Burke looked inquiringly at her son, as if her curiosity were a good deal excited.

      “One of them is to Kate or Kathleen Cavanagh, as they call her,” said Hycy, in reply to her looks; “and the other for Bryan M'Mahon, who is soft and generous—probatum est. I want to know if he'll stand for thirty-five—and as for Kate, I'm making love to her, you must know.”

      “Kathleen Cavanagh,” replied his mother; “I'll never lend my privileges to sich match.”

      “Match!” exclaimed Hycy, coolly.

      “Ah,” she replied warmly; “match or marriage will never—”

      “Marriage!” he repeated, “why, my most amiable maternal relative, do you mean to insinuate to Hycy the accomplished, that he is obliged to propose either match or marriage to every girl he makes love to? What a prosaic world you'd have of it, my dear Mrs. Burke. This, ma'am, is only an agreeable flirtation—not but that it's possible there may be something in the shape of a noose matrimonial dangling in the background. She combines, no doubt, in her unrivalled person, the qualities of Hebe, Venus, and Diana—Hebe in youth, Venus in beauty, and Diana in wisdom; so it's said, but I trust incorrectly, as respects one of them—good-bye, mother—try your influence as touching Crazy Jane, and report favorably—

      “'Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,

       'Twill chase the pensive tear. &c.'”

CHAPTER II.—Gerald Cavanagh and his Family

       Table of Contents

—Tom M'Mahon's return from Dublin.

       Table of Contents

      The house of Gerald Cavanagh, though not so large as that of our kind-hearted friend, Jemmy Burke, was a good specimen of what an Irish farmer's residence ought to be. It was distant from Burke's somewhat better than two miles, and stood almost, immediately inside the highway, upon a sloping green that was vernal through the year. It was in the cottage style, in the form of a cross, with a roof ornamentally thatched, and was flanked at a little distance by the office-houses. The grass was always so close on this green, as to have rather the appearance of a well kept lawn. The thorn-trees stood in front of it, clipped in the shape of round tables, on one of which, exposed to all weathers, might be seen a pair of large churn-staves, bleached into a white, fresh color, that caused a person to long for the butter they made. On the other stood a large cage, in which was imprisoned a blackbird, whose extraordinary melody had become proverbial in the neighborhood. Down a little to the right of the hall-door, a pretty winding gravelled pathway led to a clear spring well that was overshadowed by a spreading white-thorn; and at each gable stood a graceful elder or mountain-ash, whose red berries during the autumn had a fine effect, and contrasted well with the mass of darker and larger trees, by which the back portion of the house and the offices was almost concealed. Both the house and green were in an elevated position, and commanded a delightful СКАЧАТЬ